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2005
january  february march april

5/25/05
I’m not as angry today (though I’m seriously steaming over the pathetic excuse for mail service in my neighborhood. I haven’t received a Time Out NY in over two months. I ordered a new digital camera online [not through Amazon, which I use 99% of the time and have never had a problem—why did I stray?] and it is now officially lost since it’s been 13 days since shipping, the post office insists they never received it. James’s new driver’s license has been sent back to the DMV twice because the p.o. declared it undeliverable, never mind that the address on the envelope was 100% accurate both times it was sent. Stella, the mildly crazy woman [I think she’s 311’s best customer, she’s always complaining about something] on the top floor whom I’ve heard will be the new tenant above us once the eviction thing is done and official, has complained so many times about the shit ass mail service that a friend of hers who works at a different post office told her to quit calling or else the building’s mail would be sure to end up in the trash out of spite. I guess I now know how it feels to get ghetto treatment, as our zip code is shared by Red Hook where the post office is. And while those luxury lofts, Ikea and Fairway are threatening to spruce up the ‘hood, presently it’s busted beyond repair.) It’s hard to be when I know that in less than five hours Ken Jennings is going to be pounded into oblivion. At least I hope so, he’s $12,000 behind Brad. 24 didn’t really end with a bang (ha, the opening sentence of the Salon review “The fourth season of ‘24’ ended with something less than a bang”) it was an ok finale, I guess, but it was the final few minutes that got me excited. CTU fake kills Jack Bauer to prevent him being assassinated by a secret service agent (who thinks he succeeded in killing him). So now effectively Jack no longer exists. Not even his stupid girlfriend whose almost ex-husband (I’m still not clear if they were divorced or not) Jack murdered (after saving Jack’s life, no less) knows he’s alive and well. This worn but not unwelcome premise leaves so much room for future seasons. I love it. The show ended with Jack in aviator glasses walking haggardly into the sunrise (it’d been 24 hours since the morning began) down railroad tracks to…who knows? That’s the beauty. Where will Jack’s path take him? Maybe he will travel the country having adventures and solving crime. He’ll be like Jonathan in Highway to Heaven or David Banner in The Hulk. Maybe even like Grizzly Adams, guilty of a crime he didn’t commit. He could even adopt a small child or friendly wild animal as a sidekick (monkeys and bears have been over done—how about a pot bellied pig with a jazzy name?) This is one of my favorite motifs (or is that archetype, or tableau) from television. The loner on the lam with nothing to lose. He, and it’s always a he, is on a mission to, I don’t know, save humanity. Often seen with little more than maybe a bag or a pair of sunglasses on the shoulder of a desolate highway or railroad tracks, frequently at sundown. Ostracized renegades with hearts of gold. Hot, and not Paris Hilton approved hot. They are so misunderstood, except by maybe down on their luck ladies who could show them loving along the way. Though only temporarily easing the pain of their great burdens. Part of me finds the possibility of being this woman strangely attractive. In reality she might be VD riddled, cracked out and a little long in the tooth. In Hollywood she would be prettied up and played by Jennifer Jason Leigh, Linda Fiorentino, Melanie Griffith, Frances McDormand, possibly even Jessica Lange, not Juliette Lewis, though you might think so. How am I possibly going to be able to wait until 2006 for my Jack Bauer as fugitive fix?

5/24/05
I’m on a lot of library mailing lists and in past week I keep getting this Mt. Hood Community College ad in my inbox and it’s freaking me out. Maybe I’m just all wound up from reading the education installment of the NY Times’s class series earlier this morning. From nothing I can pinpoint, I’ve been needlessly angry the past few days. Not that I’m normally un-angry, but I’m starting to feel irrationally so. (The one time I ever saw a therapist—I really don’t “get” therapy, it must be my low class perceptions—they were talking about behavior, perceptions, something, I forget coming from two emotions: anger and I think fear. The therapist had me pegged as a fear person, saying I didn’t seem to have anger issues at all. But that’s so not true. I didn’t feel like going back anyway, but if they couldn’t see that I was a vitriolic volatile person then I don’t think they were very perceptive. I could do a better job than that. Bizarrely, I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I’d make a good therapist, I’m insightful and good at listening [I am actually]. Me helping others would be as peculiar as Brenda on Six Feet Under studying psychology. Yes, I know that’s a character and not reality.) I’ve hate being a jealous have-not, that’s the worst. I’m not mucking around in self-pity, I’m just trying to clarify my pointless resentment. I don’t care so much about expensive possessions, but I’ve started feeling irked that alone I will never be able to buy a home (at least not in NYC, or maybe anywhere). I’m not even super gung ho on home ownership, NYC real estate is kind of laughable, it’s just the principle. Shouldn’t an educated, independent 32 year old with a full time job be able accomplish certain things? I’m in this phase where I’m obsessed with moving, even though my apt. is perfectly nice, nicer than anyplace I’ve ever rented. I got all irritated with James because he’s in no hurry to buy and has this idea that he can’t afford to. Then I got all irritated with myself for having to rely on someone else to get what I want. Then I got irritated with James again because how could someone who makes close to $200k not afford to buy (granted, due to high taxing and serious obligations he doesn’t see a large chunk of that number. But still.) He further pissed me off by saying how couples looking at the condos I’m talking about probably make at least $300k combined (the tone of it was to shoot me down and shut me up, then followed by a suggestion to stop wasting time looking at real estate and try looking for ways to make more money instead. Yeah right. He was only half-serious, and pissed because bringing up things I think he should easily be capable of doing implies he’s not a responsible adult, like at his stage in life he should have his shit more together). That’s likely true and there’s no way I’ll be making that kind of money maybe ever, and that just doesn’t seem fair, and who should I be angry at other than myself? It’s my life, after all. But I’m still angry. How does therapy help with stupid misdirected anger? I hate those women’s magazines that tell you to make lists of goals and then wuss out by making light of the ones they doubt will happen. At the gym I was reading some new offshoot of Woman’s Day, I can’t remember the name, it’s supposed to be geared towards younger women, likely not married. And there was the ubiquitous what do you want in life, let’s set goals article and the author focused on realistic ones, I can’t even remember what, probably shit like volunteering, saying I love you more often and eating more vegetables. But I do recall that buying a Victorian home to fix up was one that was nixed, as it would never happen. I could give a rat’s ass about Victorian fixer uppers, but it bothered me that this was seen as undoable. Why shouldn’t the author, or anyone else, be able to fulfill this sort of goal. It wasn’t like she said she wanted to become the first female president or cure AIDS. It made me hate that magazine even more than I already did. I was set off yesterday by two articles from two different publications that were about buying homes. The NY Times profiles a 24 year old with the seemingly impossible idea of finding a Manhattan one-bedroom apt. to buy for under $280,000. Of course, she succeeds. Ok, I’ve got a decade on this girl and I couldn’t even muster a studio in Queens. So, how does this female (oops, I almost said cunt) pull it off? Here’s an inkling “She offered to help with the down payment, as her own mother had done for her.” Well, duh, it comes down to class, never mind that this article was not a part of the Times’s series. Really, most of their articles are schooling in the nuances of class. The lower brow NY Post also recently ran an eye opening profile. Let’s see, what do these women have in common? Well, they both went to Harvard, they both have charming books coming out in Sept. (a Help, It's Broken! : A Fix-It Bible for the Repair-Impaired and Seasons of Thanks : Graces and Blessings for Every Home) and they both have jobs in low paying fields (publishing, and part-time at that, and non-profit, though as a director, but this woman has seven years on the other, give the other girl time). These are paths that women with good educations who don’t worry about money take. Their upbringings would never even allow them to consider that maybe their thoughts aren’t interesting enough to warrant a book or that they might have to rent in NYC like most people their age. Ok, how else do relatively young people procure property or the means to purchase it themselves? Inheritance. I’ve known twenty-somethings who’ve acquired houses this way. That’s not happening either, and yes, it’s making me angry. I don’t like the concept of generations perpetually screwing other generations, whether intentionally or not. It seems like traditional American thought wants children to do better than their parents (and if the Times data is correct, this is no longer happening, it’s all stagnant). I’m sure my dad got nothing but headache when his parents died, and they did so when he was young, somewhere in his late teens or early twenties, I’m guessing. My mom got nothing when her dad died (as I love to retell, I got the peach schnapps and Sharpie pens). I wouldn’t expect millions or even thousands, but zero is nothing but lameness. It’s like no one even tries. And getting back to my original point about education, it’s the same thing. In my experience, people with little education do not promote the value of obtaining one (though I often have my own doubts) even though you’d believe from realistic sources like TV that lower class families or immigrants (eh, I think immigrants might be different) sacrifice so their children can have a better future. I don’t think this is the norm. From the NY Times “children seem to be following the paths of their parents more than they once did. Grades and test scores, rather than privilege, determine success today, but that success is largely being passed down from one generation to the next. A nation that believes that everyone should have a fair shake finds itself with a kind of inherited meritocracy.” I think that’s what I’m saying. My parents would certainly have a fit if I got bad grades (and I didn’t) but when it came down to it college was sort of an abstract concept. It’s what you’re supposed to do, but it’s not like any provisions were made to ensure that I’d actually be able to attend anyplace in particular. No one in my family has a college degree (yet, I do have a cousin in college somewhere in Eastern Oregon). And by family I mean aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, step-siblings, half-siblings, grandparents, parents, pets, everyone. College wasn’t emphasized in high school. It wasn’t an issue among friends either. It was assumed that most kids would go someplace, maybe a state school, maybe community college. Which brings me to Mt. Hood Community College. That’s where my mom would have me go (though if she’s reading this she’d probably say I’m full of shit. And to be fair, she did fund the NYU summer publishing course I took when I first moved here. Learning that publishing is a piece of shit profession was priceless, I suppose.). Maybe I’m remembering history in a hazy way, but I don’t recall state schools even being an option, how would I afford to live away from home? I still don’t know how students afford tuition, housing, food, all of that without having some sort of help. Maybe that’s my problem I don’t get how people do basic things, givens. I do it all backwards. Even my creepy aging hippy high school English teacher described Mt. Hood Community College as “Gresham High with ashtrays.” I remember repeating this kernel of wisdom to my mom who exasperatedly poo poohed it. See, I’m angry about something from 15 years ago. Dwelling has made me mad that community college would even be an option. Why should I be presented with a shit choice like that? One could’ve countered “so, you think you’re better than those students?” Uh, yeah, I did and I do. I have horrible self-confidence, but even I recognize the need for touting your talents even if it’s bluffing. Maybe NYC--where everyone thinks they’re fucking amazing--has done that to me, or watching blowhards on shows like The Apprentice. Anyway, I began speculating on what would become of me if I took a different path at this point in life. What if I became a Mt. Hood Community College librarian (never mind that I don’t meet the minimum requirements—I have three years academic library experience, but not post degree) and moved back to my hometown. My financial standard of living would raise (though the emotional toll would certainly balance that out), the Gresham job pays a good chunk more than I’m making now and I could live in the lovely Fir Haven complex for only $460/month (one month free). I could save shitloads. Heck, I could buy a Victorian fixer upper (though I don’t recall Gresham being rife with charming older homes. More like this). I’m not sure what I’d do socially. I do know a couple people who live in Gresham, one with her parents. Realistically, you’d live in Portland (look at this cute house, and for the price of a stupid Upper East Side studio) and reverse commute, it’s like 45 min. maybe, the same as my travel time now. It’s not like a rural isolated community, it’s just a suburb. That’s as far ahead as I can think. Would I get married and have kids? Eventually retire in town? I have heard that a majority of Americans live within 50 miles from where they were born (I’m still digging around for this number). But who wants to be a statistic? Besides, I wasn’t born in Oregon anyway.

(5/21/05)
Urgh, I could’ve slept in an extra hour this morning. I got a block from work and Madison between 40th and 41st is taped off and there were police everywhere. I got all New York and pushed under the tape with a few other pushy people, but then we got yelled at sent back to Fifth Ave. It was funny, the cop was screaming “don’t you understand English?! at the crowd because everyone was being told to disperse (well, they didn’t say disperse) and no one would back away from the yellow tape. I guess it was bomb scare, someone left a briefcase in front of a building. It was also funny because I was parked on the corner next to a Starbucks with a lone customer inside and the staff sitting around reading the paper. Every so often an employee would bring out a coffee to someone. I couldn’t figure out how they were putting in orders. Maybe that’s the magic of the cell phone. I was screwed because I didn’t have a single dollar bill on me, just loose change and my atm card has been changed and I don’t know the new PIN and haven’t activated it yet. No coffee for me. It lasted about an hour, until almost 10am. And you knew it couldn’t be that serious or why wouldn’t they evacuate the buildings on the block? Of course all my coworkers were upstairs in the office because they’re insane and early birds and I get to work on time, 9am practically on the dot. And I heard this thing went down around 8:50am. I was fine on the ground, early birds don’t get the worm, they get squished. Doesn’t anyone remember the World Trade Center attacks? Only grunt workers get into the office before 9am. James has always theorized that the later you take the subway, the better looking the passengers become. I do think there’s a correlation between income and time you’re expected at work. The really good looking people don’t go to work at all, duh. Look who’s on the train at 6am—it’s not pretty. Like I was outside this morning long enough to have to hang with the 9am hordes until the 10am workers began adding to the chaos. For the most part the original bunch was good natured, like they were getting to play hooky. But then the 10am folks began getting turned away at the yellow tape and pulled attitude, like they shouldn’t have to wait on the street, not like there weren’t already hundreds that had been doing it for an hour. Were they better looking? I don’t know, it’s midtown, they’re all kind of grotesque to me. It’s not even summer yet and I’m already tired of all the grilling features in like every single magazine . I do actually have a cheapie grill, despite not having much of an outdoor space, just a brick courtyard out front. But I’m not crazy gung ho to fire it up. We might’ve used it 2-3 times last year. A couple years ago I heard some staggering statistic about Americans grilling like 200 times a year, though I can’t find any proof at the moment. I swear it equaled out to more than three times a week. Who are these people? Are they the same freaks who open the refrigerator 55 times a day (another American average)? No matter, this is a busy week. Who has time for grilling when there are so many season finales to be watched on TV. Last night was Deadwood, but I’m not fanatical about that show. Tonight is the two-hour 24 and I totally can’t wait. Maybe they’ll bring Lukas Haas back even though he was beaten within an inch of his life way back in the beginning of the series (Mary Lynn Rajskub, Chloe on 24, who I have a minor fixation with is in the new Greg Araki movie as a small town alien abductee. I saw Mysterious Skin a couple weekends ago, not realizing it was a gay movie. Really, I don’t think it’s a gay movie, but 98% of the audience was clearly not heterosexual. The best part of the evening was being able to walk straight into the bathroom after the film ended while there was a line out the door of the men’s room. Pretty rare, and so refreshing. So, the Third Rock From the Sun boy becomes a teenage hustler in the film, but the other kid who was molested ends up an asexual UFO nut, and I didn’t see any obvious alien aficionados on the audience.) My interest in Lost waxes and wanes, but that will be my Wed. night highlight. But lord, it’s Jeopardy that I’m totally stoked (yeah, I just said stoked) about. Ken Jennings must have his ass beat to a bloody pulp. They’ve been doing that ultimate tournament of champions since like Feb. It’s a long time coming. I’m just bummed that the 23-year-old woman (females never win Jeopardy, and young attractive ones are even rarer) and the MTA worker from Queens got eliminated last week. They were a little more interesting than the rest of the schlubs who were competing. Ah, Salon has finale recaps. Good stuff.

5/20/05
While researching baby boomers and dog ownership I got stuck on this dog hair dye site. Or is that fur dye? Um, of course it’s Japanese. They also like dressing up their cats. I’m really not a Japanophile, I’m way more into other Asian cultures, but I am on a similar wave length regarding pets and gussying them up in ways that are unnecessary. (In fact, this morning I was thinking how utterly un-Japanese my personality is. Yes, this is the kind of thing I ponder at work. It’s because it seems like every day the NY Times has an article speaking to Japanese culture. Today’s was about how they’re trying to convince men to not wear suits and ties to conserve on air conditioning at the office and they totally can’t deal. I was amused by the campaign’s name “Cool Biz.” There were quotes from young guys freaking out because they don’t know how to dress themselves casually. Then there was that story last week about Japanese recycling sorting rules, I think there was something like 44 kinds of trash, and you have to wash and dry clothing before throwing it out and how you can get evicted for not following protocol. So insane.) I was trying forever to find cat clothes (they totally don’t exist). Everything is so relentlessly dog oriented. Pet sites are like 85% devoted to canines it seems. I also am not wholly opposed to the idea of coloring cats either (though the dye site is all dogs). I think Sukey would look totally good pale pastel blue. My mom used to food color my sister’s dog Max blue and pink (not at the same time). I thought it was fun, though I’m not really sure what possessed her to do such a thing. I’m sure it would be construed as animal cruelty in my neighborhood. I’d probably do jail time, maybe I’d end up on Animal Precinct. Ok, I’m going to go get some chicken udon soup for lunch now. For real, this Japanese talk has worked up an appetite. Yagura, only a half block away (good when it’s raining) has the best stuff for only $4.50, cheap deal for midtown.

5/18/05
Uh oh, I played hooky today. I just woke up feeling out of sorts, nothing major. Everyone’s entitled to a random sick day every now and then. I feel like I’m covered in paper cuts. Once again, nothing major, but it’s more than a minor irritation. Last night I managed to slice my finger with a serrated bread knife. It’s a tiny thing, but painful. Then this morning after I decided to go back to bed my cat got in (every night I end up having to put her out of my room and shut the door because she needles my neck doing that kneading thing cats do, and then she starts nibbling on my face. I guess that could be cute, but when you’re tired and you can see it’s like 6:45 and you only have 45 min. left to sleep, the feline must be booted out of bed). My feet were sticking out of the covers, pointing downward, I was laying face down, then Sukey mauled my left foot, getting her claw stuck in the bottom of my toe. This also wasn’t major, but hurt and has continued to hurt all day, especially when I walk. I kept poking my head out the door because I was convinced my new digital camera was going to arrive today (according to tracking it arrived at a Brooklyn post office yesterday at 9:27am. It’s now 6:24pm, a day and a half later. Let me guess it’s still sitting somewhere in the Red Hook p.o. I never get magazines, as I’ve complained about countless times. Though interestingly, today mid-afternoon there were lots of magazines on the communal table, which only furthers my theory that the stay-at-home bitch is the culprit. Also, mid-afternoon I was struck my how many fucking couples with their dogs and babies [you think I exaggerate—I so don’t] are out doing nothing but strolling and enjoying each other’s company at 2:45 pm. No one works in this neighborhood either?) and Sukey got out. It’s usually Caesar who makes a run for it, I usually keep my eye on him not her. And I wasn’t really dressed and was barefoot and didn’t want to get seen by neighbors looking like the sick day hag that I truly am. So, I at least put socks on and tried to quietly coax Sukey back downstairs without going upstairs. Of course she decided to hover right in front of the third floor apt. and wouldn’t come down any further, which forced me to walk up there, worried I’d have to witness the hideousness of the baby mommy. I grabbed Sukey, but she managed to scratch and jump out of my arms twice on the way down. My arm was totally bleeding. No, not major, but the combination of arm, finger and toe slashes, all achieved in under 24-hours is unsettling and also sting intermittently. Do you know how hard it is to find a picture of a female with large eyebrows? Almost as hard as trying to find a photo of a female with short hair. I’m not joking, thumb through a women’s, fashion, celebrity, whatever magazine, and no one, not the subjects of articles or models in ads will have short hair. I don’t mean boy short, just not long. This is relevant when I’m looking for haircut ideas (I don’t actually troll periodicals looking for short hair on a regular basis). I get why you won’t see fat people, fat is gross, bad for sales, but what’s so offensive about hair that’s above the chin? Good look finding any short hair here, home of classy publications like Celebrity Hairstyles. Off the top of my head I can only think of a few famous women who currently have short hair: Keira Knightley and, um, that’s all I can think of. I was going to say Mariska Hargitay, but she’s grown her hair out. Mandy Moore? She sometimes has short hair. Jeez, it’s tough trying to find these ladies. Back to the eyebrows, I’ve been minorly obsessed with the bushy ugliness I’ve been growing in above my eyes. I’m resolute in letting all the hair grow back, even though it’s taking its sweet time and is frightening to behold. I was trying to find a photo of someone who looked at least semi-attractive with large eyebrows. While skimming the couple week’s old most beautiful people People I saw someone in the famous kids section, Andy Garcia’s daughter (of course, a Garcia, right?) Dominik (this isn’t the photo, but it’s all I could find online). The weird part was they ask her what her best feature is, and she says her butt, which grosses me out, but she then goes on about her eyebrows and liking them “thick and natural,” and it ends up being a major portion of the mini profile. Like she couldn’t just have big eyebrows, it has to be commented on like it’s an anomaly. Actually, I’m still stuck on the butt part. When someone asks you about your best feature is that a typical response?

5/16/05
Maybe it’s typical of spring, but there seem to be a lot of dead birds on my neighborhood sidewalks. Ok, only three since Sat. night when I first started noticing, but still. Being no ornithological expert, I can’t tell if they’re fallen babies or misfortunate grown-ups. They seem big for babies. I hope it’s not a bad omen. Last night on Deadwood there was mention of finding a dead bird before a funeral. I’m not terribly superstitious, it’s probably all a bunch of nothing. I wouldn’t doubt that someone in the neighborhood is poisoning the birds. It’s just the sort of educated backwardness I’ve come to expect, like some nut probably thinks birds are harmful to babies or something. (Don’t they harbor giardia or something? I'm always seeing big jugs of giardiniera at Western Beef and think it's the same thing as that bird disease, possibly mixed with gonorrhea, very unappetizing.)My friend Jessica’s stepdad once spazzed out when bubbles got blown on her much younger brother, Jefferson (he was one of those later in life babies, 23-year gap between kids kinds). He was all concerned about the estrogen in the bubbles causing harm. I’ve never heard about estrogen in what is pretty much liquid detergent, but everyone has their irrational issues. He also freaks on cat food in the refrigerator because it’s a meat product and the family shuns animal derived goods. So, you wouldn’t suspect a vegetarian of killing defenseless birds, and I’m not saying this guy would, but it’s the kind of behavior that would spring from the same kind of twisted logic. There’s a new commercial (no, not the freaky Burger King vs. Darth Vader bit) for I think Nivea where a little boy is playing with a toy car on his mom’s legs (she’s lying down) and when he gets to the back of her thighs he starts jumping the tiny vehicle around like it’s on rough terrain, i.e. cellulite. She looks back at him, kind of shocked and exasperated. Very strange. They don’t actually show the woman’s legs, most likely because her appendages are taut and smooth, besides you don’t want to disturb the intended audience despite their familiarity with dimpled flesh. This so wouldn’t make me want to buy their product (though embarrassingly, I actually own it. [I certainly would’ve thought twice if I’d seen the ad first.] I was on drugstore.com and it’s weird how you can get sucked into purchasing products you’d never give a second glance to in a physical store. And I’m not talking about incontinence skin cleansers. I don’t even know why. I don’t rationally believe that lotion can improve skin’s appearance. Cellulite has to do with fat distribution and muscle striation and I don’t see how surface cream is going to change anything.) Hmm, which reminds me that there’s yet another French diet book on the market. There are actually way more than I was aware of—check out all this goodness. (I swear I’m going to turn into one of those opposite nuts in my neighborhood, the kind who put “Boycott France” bumper stickers with X’ed out French flags on beat up sedans, like I saw on the way to the subway this morning. Insular, close minded (possibly bird hating) upper middle class whites or insular, close minded (possibly bird hating) lower middle class whites? Vive le difference. Which reminds me, the NY Times has started a series on class, a topic I’m always fascinated by. I had fun playing with the interactive graphic that plots your position in society . You can find where you fall based upon occupation, education, salary and wealth. I felt so special being among the 97th percentile in education (I had no idea that high school only is the norm) but was rapidly shot back down to earth by my possession of zero wealth. Librarian prestige and earning are a hair above middle, landing me in the 58 percentile overall. I guess slightly above average is Ok, it’s actually higher than I’d expected. I do think geography should be taken into account somehow—obviously 50K per year goes much further in say Omaha than in NYC (interestingly, James’s company has an office in Norman, OK and HR just realized that they’ve been way overpaying the smaller town employees. There are lots of online cost of living calculators that are also kind of fun to play with. It turned out that very junior level personnel were being hired around $70,000 which in NYC money would be $165,000, more than many of the senior staff at the Wall St. office.) For contrast, James got in the 83 percentile, but that was all attributed to wealth and salary, his education isn’t any higher than mine (it’s not like they account for which universities you attended either, likely to the chagrin of Ivy Leaguers) and his job isn’t considered any more prestigious. I don’t know why I get such a kick out of it, it’s fun to mess around seeing where you’d fall if you were a pest control worker with a 4th grade education, but made $100,000/year.

5/11/05
My Red Hook story is in today’s NY Post. I would’ve preferred a punchier headline (Soccer and Tacos? Eh.) but it’s fun seeing your stuff in print. I noticed the NY Daily News had a story on the ballfields Sat. I think I prefer mine and not just because I wrote it (truth be told, mine is pretty dull—you can’t be as pun-filled and smart-assy in the Tempo section as in the rest of the paper, at least I don’t get that vibe, it’s more earnest and about pride, heritage, blah blah.) They use the term foodie and describe the park as looking like a “shanty town” which gives bad connotations (even though they counter that in the next paragraph). There’s this phenomena on the F train (ew, yesterday I was reading last week’s New York at the gym and there was a gossip bit about Juliette Lewis and I forget being spotted on the “love train.” They actually referred to it as such.) where I always try to avoid waiting near couples, so as not to have to look at them once on the train, but then at least one twosome always ends up right next to me anyway, and then two stops up at Jay St. where lots of people transfer to and from the A train I don’t get a seat during the reshuffling, but somehow that day’s offending duo nabs side-by-seats right near me. It’s not easy scoring a seat during rush hour, yet these lovebirds always seem to manage finding two empty spots right next to each other. It’s so wrong. This morning was a rare one where James and I caught the subway at the same time. About half way to the station, this Asian guy/white girl couple (a refreshing reversal) started paralleling us on the other side of the street. I was determined to beat them, even after stopping to buy the NY Post we somehow got ahead of them on the platform and then at the last second they appeared at the same door as it opened, the girl trying to barge in front of me. That move cemented their irksomeness, prior to that I was indifferent, just trying to beat them into the station for pointless competition. They were hovering at the pole up from ours, and I informed James of the couple seat deal and predicted that it would happen with them. He got off at Jay St., the ebb and flow ensued, and sure enough once the sea of bodies subsided this inseparable unit was sitting and grinning right next to each other. What a bunch of cocksuckers. I stealthily scrutinized the girl the rest of the ride, we had similar styles, coloring and hair, and amusingly similar legs, which I took great comfort in. Despite being probably four sizes smaller than me her legs were thick, unshapely and tubular just like mine (she probably has a hard time getting boots over her calves—she was wearing black ballet flats). I was even more pleased to glimpse her whole inner thigh dimpled with cellulite as she unwittingly crossed her right leg over her left, exposing a bit too much flesh. She was becoming my nemesis for absolutely no good reason, loathing started rising inside. I really wanted to her to get off first, I didn’t want to be exposed in front of her. But of course she stayed on until my stop (her boyfriend/husband two stops earlier) and once again managed to get right in front of me as the doors opened. I checked out her ass, not large at all, weirdly out of sync with her calves and thighs. Thankfully, she went right/north and I quickly headed left/south and up the stairs. I didn’t want her on the same path as me on the walk to work. But as I got to the final flight of stairs she appeared directly on my left side (total no-no in my book. I’m a freak about staying to the right on stairs, especially when they’re narrow like in this case. I mean, people have to go down too, it causes traffic jams). I accelerated rapidly as possible (not easy for me, I’m not mobile and confident on stairs) and made certain to head her off at the top, fast walked as fast as humanly possible in a throng of office ladies in suits and flip flops (when did the flip flop replace the power sneaker as commuter footwear?) and didn’t look back until I’d reached Madison Ave., my destination two blocks later. She wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I swear to god she was following me on purpose. And I just know that I’m now going to see her all over the neighborhood like a the seat hog specter she is.

5/10/05
A couple weekends ago in the checkout line at the only ok grocery store that’s sort of in the neighborhood (not the heinous Key Food that’s walking distance) and became greatly amused by the straight-out-of-Oregon looking mom in line ahead of us. She had one of those manly haircuts, graying, Columbia sportswear type jacket, maybe hiking boots, probably rugged tennis shoes, no make up, and was with two small boys, an equally graying though not totally unhandsome husband and two shopping carts (which almost gave me a conniption. This store always has massive lines, in an annoying fashion that weave and block all access to the aisles in the front of the store. This is one of the few stores in the area with self check out, but it’s a joke because it’s never working and the customers can’t handle it anyway and only slows down the process. I recently read dreamily about Albertson’s shop ‘n’ scan thing. I would kill for some less social contact solution like that, but it would so not work in NYC. It would completely break and fall prey to scammers and ruin all the fun for law abiding efficiency freaks like myself.). I’m irked and antsy because there’s nowhere to stand without being in the way and I’m getting bumped right and left and irritated for being in line behind someone with way, way too many groceries (like a whole case of gross jarred pasta sauce). Of course, androgynous mom is totally mellow and unaware of her surroundings. She’s thumbing through that million best looking, beautiful, whatever people issue of People (Matthew McConaghey? So not beautiful) and marveling at how young and good looking everyone is.

Mom to uninterested squirmy boys: “You know, I used to be young and cool.”
Me to myself, literally biting my tongue: “In what universe?!”
Small boy in exasperated tone: “But mom, you’re only 36!”
Me to myself: “Oh fuck, that’s what 36 looks like?” then “huh, the kid seems to have a better grip on reality than his mom” then “would they fucking move along, it shouldn’t take 20 minutes to load food on conveyer belt” then…

I was jarred out of my scrutiny by a very large, very loud black woman causing a ruckus on the other side of the cash registers. I love it because no one pays attention, despite being an extremely loud, profanity laden, and potentially violent scene. No one does anything, but what are you supposed to do? I'm a big fan of ignoring attention seekers. The formerly young and cool mom was the only one who seemed nervous. I’m still not sure what caused the upset. The best I could gather was that the woman had bought groceries, was seated at this table in the common area (the grocery store is in this busted indoor court with an empty 99-cent store, a liquor store and a Baskin-Robbins/Dunkin Donuts. There are some seats, kiddy toys and a perpetually broken Coinstar machine) and had been asked to show her receipt by a security guard. Apparently, this offended her sensibilities and was insulting, resulting in her tirade. To be honest, I don’t know that she paid for her groceries or not, I’m always suspicious of people who get overly worked up and make scenes like they must be hiding something and are trying to divert attention from the truth. This happened the other day on the subway with a big black girl and a small white girl, someone bumped someone and didn’t apologize, and it’s probably snap judgment, but I immediately assumed the black girl was at fault because she was being disproportionately rude and confrontational. In this case, 99% of the staff and security guard who prompted the scene were also black, so it wasn’t a race thing, just a bad manners thing. And by the time we finally got our groceries checked and bagged the guard and the freaker outer were both sitting at the same table, not friendly but without animosity. Kind of how my cats tolerate each other without actually getting along. Did I mention we have a third cat now? The Gray Cat, he has no name. It’s an old big cat of James’s that his parents have had for maybe the last ten years. All I need now is to retrieve my cat that my mom has had for the past seven years and it’ll be a bona fide scary cat lady apartment.

5/6/05
Somehow I was recently tracked down by my alma mater and have started receiving alumni bulletins and crap. It’s freaky because ten years out of high school came so quick, and I just realized that I’m now almost 11 beyond college. I’ve been tossing most of the postcards and newsletters and such, but for some reason I was compelled to read this glossy PNCA thing I got in the mail a couple weeks ago, I guess to see if I recognized any names and maybe to see if my senior year obsession was mentioned. He wasn’t, but my eye was drawn to this guy Pete who I guess is faculty now. He was all doughy and used to gross Jessica and I out. I remember playing basketball with him and a few other people in some loft/garage on the outskirts of Old Town before it was The Pearl. He had his shirt off and was all sweaty and would knock into you. It was unwelcome and inspired Jessica and I to decide that his genitals must be all misshapen, like his dick would be short and stubby like a tuna can and his testicles dark and shriveled like two raisins. This grotesque image gets frequently mentioned to this day. At the time he was dating a girl Hawthorne (we could never figure out the attraction, meaning her to him) that I didn’t really know well, despite being a fellow PNCA student (she was maybe a freshman while we were seniors even though we were all the same age). She was a high school friend of my sister’s that I always kind of envied because she was pretty and cute in that not trying at all skinny, indie, kind of way that to me seems very late ‘80s-early ‘90s but still prevails. Like housedresses with Converse, tattoos, probably a strong smelling essential oil as perfume, hung out with bands, maybe would be in one. I think she got more Maggie Gyllenhaal-ish with age. But in this alumni publication there was a bit on how Pete (ok, I was going to be mature and respectful and not link to him or use his last name, but this photo is just too much to hold inside) had done some art installation using melting blocks of ice, and I was like “oh lord” but then it went on to say how it was a tribute to Hawthorne who had died in 2002 of ovarian cancer and it completely upset me. I hadn’t seen her in over ten years, I don’t know why it freaked me out so much. That night Jessica called me, seriously bothered after reading the same thing. I emailed my sister and got the same extreme reaction. It just seemed so unreasonably sad, and none of us were close to her or had kept in touch for over a decade. I found a memorial website and it’s hard to look at, especially the chronically arranged photos with the final one of her outside, super skinny, not cute skinny and with a breathing tube in her nose. It’s so cliché, but it’s one of those “but they were so full of life” kind of deals. Like you truly wouldn’t think that this kind of person would die of cancer in their twenties, you know, because only old, horrible, nasty people get struck down like that, not happy go lucky, genuine types. I think it’s Portland. I’m serious. There’s something very wrong with NW. I was trying to think of anyone I’ve known in NYC getting cancer and I couldn’t (but then, I don’t know anyone). I mean, young people, not like my dad or my grandpa or whoever else, that’s practically to be expected. This zine guy (whose website I recently found and am super tempted to link to. There’s a woman in photos that I think must be his girlfriend and she’s like this middle aged Jewish looking creature. So bizarre.) I was nuts about in the mid’90s got Hodgkin’s Disease. It didn’t kill him though, in fact it had quite the opposite effect. After getting better, he changed from this self-deprecating dork into a cocky dork who started getting action left and right. He’d even email me about it, cancer sex, like terror sex (remember that 9/11 supposed phenomena?). Chicks totally dig guys with cancer in remission. We haven’t corresponded in years, so who knows what his deal is health-wise. My cousin had leukemia as a toddler, she didn’t die either, though she’s a little oddball now as a teenager, but that’s probably just genetic. Another high school friend of my sister’s Walter (whose dad also named Walter used to by my boss at Pizza Hut in the summer between high school and college) got leukemia in the mid ‘90s and did die. He always seemed thoroughly unhealthy and was abnormally small for his age, his parents let him do whatever he wanted like buy stun guns and billy clubs from mail order (this was pre-internet) and eat only 7-11 food and dress in expensive rock and roll clothes, color his hair purple, and wear dog collars and crap. He used to be called “Pocket Punk” because he was so tiny, and even though he was like 13 when my sister was 15 strangers would think it was her son and freak out on her for dressing him like that. This isn’t cancer, but a friend of Jessica’s husband has already had three heart attacks and he’s our age. My theory is that Portland cells are so bored and unstimulated that they have nothing better to do than metastasize. You’d think NYC would stress and shock a body into illness, for sure, but it’s quite the opposite. NYC cells are just too busy to mutate. As long as I am irritated and pushed to my limits on a daily basis I predict I will stay cancer free.

5/5/05
I forgot to mention yesterday that I’m a winner. Is there any better feeling than winning? Even if it merely involves winning a free Coke product. I just got excited because I buy soda maybe once every four-to-five months, if that (and technically it was a Minute Maid Lemonade, not a soda). So with my rate of purchase, the 1 in 12 odds would be against me. I think I forgot and just threw the bottle and cap into a recycling bin. No redemption, but it’s ok because just knowing I’m a winner was reward enough. And it’s not like any stores in Brooklyn would actually honor the coupon/plastic cap (I was amused by this random guy’s experience of trying to get his free 20 oz. Soda in midtown). Some people can’t be natural winners and are forced to cheat. No taking the easy way out for me. Oh, if you find the time, check out my silly Cinco de Mayo piece on today’s Black Table. Today I continued my winning streak by helping a tourist (actually, I don’t know that she was from out of town, but she seemed confused and out of place during the midtown lunch rush) find Jack’s, a nearby 99-cent store. (Maybe she wasn’t a tourist because how would she know there even was a 99-cent store in the vicinity? Is that the kind of thing concierges help with? Dented canned food cravings.) Now that I think about it--why did she ask me? Do I exude 99-cent store expertise? It is because I am so kind and blessed with luck that I feel compelled to help those in need of cheap candles and candy (last time I found a glass jar of strawberry marshmallow fluff, which I haven’t eaten because frankly it doesn’t sound that appetizing, plus it looks so pretty and pristine in its pinkness that I hate to open it).

5/4/05
It doesn’t get much more unsettling than being woken up by the Star Wars Cantina music (though midi versions are probably more unsettling). Don’t clock radios seem so ‘70s? I mean, no one still carries around transistor radios (though I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before some sort of iPod contraption is developed to mimic them) It doesn’t seem right that I rely on decades old technology to get myself up in the morning. But current innovations can be kind of creepy, like that clocky creature. Somehow my radio got tuned into a Christian station, but I was too lazy to mess with it. It’s not a big deal since the radio is only on for a few seconds before I get up (I’m so not one of those snooze and listen folks. James lets sports talk radio blare on and on for eternity, which is painful to listen to any time of day, but especially first thing in the morning. And people ask why we have separate rooms…) But somehow the dial must’ve been bumped a notch, which would be the only explanation for Cantina yesterday and Patti La Belle today. New Attitude, my ass. It seems like more and more I write about external things, urgh, maybe NYC has finally consumed me. I think it’s because my life isn’t terribly exciting at the moment. Maybe that’s what 30s are like. 20s are imbalanced and high-low, 30s are grounded and semi-wise, 40s…maybe you swing back manic. Let’s see, what have I done in the past week: I saw The Organ, who I really like, I guess they sort of fit the female Smiths comparisons, kind of droning and gloomy, but it’s not the same really. I was most baffled as to why only one girl in the band has boobs. I’ve never understood how women get sinewy boy bodies, not just thin or tiny but like no hips or boobs and really bony. Is it genetic? I know the band is young, but I assume they’re post-puberty. I saw “Palindromes,” which was likeable, but I think I wanted to like it more. The Mama Sunshine band bit is pure gold, however. It was worth it just to see the song and dance routines (I swear there were video clips somewhere and now I can’t find them for the life of me). I started growing in my eyebrows, which is difficult and traumatizing. I don’t think I’ll leave them enormous, I just wanted to see what they looked like natural because I’ve forgotten. Totally Frida Kahlo, but I draw the line at female moustaches, I’m not going that far. Plus, I think larger eyebrows are coming into fashion. I found ’95 photos of myself and that was during the pencil thin era, everyone had smidgen brows a decade ago, like when Drew Barrymore was doing all those naked pictures. Weird how facial hair waxes and wanes with trends. Sunday I didn’t get to watch much of “Riding the Bus with My Sister” because I had an article due Monday morning and I stupidly put it off till the last minute. Bah. Monday I made beef rending, it’s a kind of frightening dish if you’re health conscious because you basically cook beef cubes in a large quantity of coconut milk (with aromatics and spices) until the liquid has all been absorbed/evaporated, about three hours. There’s some serious fat concentration in the highly tasty end product. Saturday I went to Sripraphai, my favorite Thai restaurant, and the food was as good as usual, but it hasn’t been the same since expanding and getting written up in the NY Times. And I’m not just saying that to sound like an in-the-know old timer. It was raining, and there was a line out the door, a total mob scene. They have a liquor license now, too, and everyone was using chopsticks, which is so wrong. We did get a good seat, space-wise, but unfortunately it was next to large party of what had to be two Carroll Gardens (or possibly Park Slope, definitely not Queens) families with what seemed like fifty 10-12 year old boys. The kinds of adults who ignore and indulge their children, like letting them act loud and rambunctiously and grow white people afros to express themselves and swear and not sit still in their seats and to complain about what they don’t want to eat and leave huge messes for staff to clean up. Ick. Ok, I need to wrap up all this blandness because I have actual work to do and I have to leave early for a haircut appt. I’m just scared that when they see my half assed eyebrows (I swear one is growing in faster than the other) that they’re going to think I’m beauty incompetent or something.

5/2/05
Do I have my finger on the pulse of NYC or what? The second I realize Brooklyn is so very wrong, articles echoing this sentiment start showing up all over the place (or is a case of not noticing things until taking a personal interest?). Without even trying I keep stumbling on these pieces. Last week it was the NY Times, today it was the quaintly titled, ”I Hate Brooklyn” in New York (I realize I only sporadically italicize titles because it’s extra hassle. I do this by hand and typing all those tags gets old). Being anti-Brooklyn is apparently trendy. Cool. And I love how my neighborhood (there are like fifty Brooklyn neighborhoods) is specifically mentioned as a prime offender in these stories: “The first time I felt my hackles go up about Brooklyn was last summer at a backyard barbecue in Carroll Gardens.” Where else would hackles be so raised? It makes me feel good that I’m not just a lone intolerant wench, plenty of New Yorkers feel the same way. Though not necessarily for the same reasons. I agree with this sentiment from the New York Magazine author “my Manhattan friend had begun exhibiting all the telltale signs of susceptibility to Brooklyn brainwashing: mid-thirties, recently married, with a new baby.” And I get his point about how it’s the adults who’ve come from working class neighborhoods or upbringings are the most opposed to living in Brooklyn, that’s not making it in NYC like Manhattan is (people I’ve known who are the most fixated on designer labels, “good neighborhoods” etc. tended to have trashy upbringings) . It is the privileged, no worries upper middle class types who have nothing to prove that revel in Brooklyn. But not all Brooklyn bashers are created alike. I’m coming from a way different place than the author. I didn’t arrive here in the ‘80s and land a fabulous magazine job and hang out with underground celebrities. And I can’t fathom how $2000 downtown lofts were considered affordable 15 years ago (or that $550 for a studio was a bargain either). The author’s tongue in cheek conclusion was that Queens was the new it spot. I think he was being ironic, but I’d totally avoid both Brooklyn and Manhattan if it were possible. Queens is totally kick ass, I would live there in a second (well, certain neighborhoods) but I fear it’s only a matter of time before it too becomes overrun by the precious and precocious who fancy themselves as trailblazers. The NY Times wrote about it almost six months ago and used gross words like “foodie” and icky quotes like ''we will know that we have arrived when we have a Starbucks.''