august

8/29/99
Oh boy. I don't know how I get myself into situations sometimes. Last night I went to this rooftop/loft party in Brooklyn. While I was waiting in line for the bathroom I heard this vaguely familiar voice and noticed that the guy at the front of the line looked like my all-time worst one-night-stand, Bertold. Of course it was him. I was horrified. I wasn't very nice to him the last time I saw him. He caught my eye later when he was dancing like some fool and looked scared. What can you do. Well, I was in high spirits on the subway home, drinking rum and orange juice from the glass I'd taken with me. I started ranting on about my bloody stump feet (I don't know what's gotten into me lately, but I'll catch myself scratching the tops of my feet so hard that they'll start bleeding. It's disgusting--they're all wet and scabby. It's like a dog who can't stop biting itself. I saw a special on how they give animals prozac to counter this obsessive compulsive behavior, but I don't think that would do me any good) and showed them to Jessica for the third time that evening. which I'm sure she appreciated greatly. This guy across from me started laughing and I took this as encouragement, yapping to him all loud I'm sure since I had my walkman on. I hate it when people do that. There's nothing worse than a loud obnoxious drunk prattling on to strangers. Jessica got off. I asked this guy if his wife was alright, as there was this person fully passed out on the seat next to him. It turned out this was a man, which made me laugh even more. They were two Polish guys who also lived in Ridgewood. They were supposed to get off at Forest Ave. but the one guy couldn't get his friend to stand up and they missed their stop and got off with me at Fresh Pond Rd. We got to talking about pizza and the coherent guy was saying how he'd moved here from Vancouver B.C. and what he really misses is HAWAIIAN PIZZA!! I have been going off on the lack of canadian bacon and pineapple pizza in n.y for the past year. I was shocked to hear it coming out of someone else's mouth. It put an idea in my head. Perhaps not the wisest one. I told them they could stay at my apt. Well, you know how things go...I still can't quite believe I humped a guy 'cause he likes hawaiian pizza. It was cracking me up even at the time. I never in a million years thought I'd ever end up with some crazy Polish guy from the neighborhood. He was actually pretty nice and funny, but I can't really see myself hanging out with him. I mean he's all into techno music. He asked if he could call me and if I'd like to go to clubs with him some time and I didn't know what to say. He plays piano for ballet classes and is also obsessed with the fact that there are no Dairy Queens here (hence no Blizzards--I love Blizzards) and that's pretty amusing to me. I don't know what I'll do if he calls. Now I'm trying to figure out why I always end up with foreigners. So far it's been Polish, Morrocan, and a handful of British. What's up with the good ol' fashioned American boys? Oh that's right, Bertold was American. Enough said.
8/28/99
I had my first lobster experience last night. A coworker had a cheap lobster connection in Maine so we got a bunch shipped down and threw a party last night. It was very exciting. Then someone swore there was one left and it was accidentally thrown in the trash and in my tipsy state went digging through a bunch of garbage and pulled it out. For my bravery the reward was the garbage lobster. I carried it around with me all night in a plastic bag, toted it to a bar, dragged it along with me on the subway where I had yet another mishap/mix up. This one was not my fault. I don't know why they just can't run properly. I took the G to the M as I do every day to and from work no problem. When the train that should've been the M showed up it said S (shuttle) instead, but was going the right way so I got on. I fell asleep and we stopped at Myrtle ave. (3 stops later) for a bit but it always rests there so I thought nothing of it. I went back to sleep, it started moving and then I realized it was going back the way I'd just come. For some random reason it was just going back and forth between 4 stops. I got alarmed, jumped up and noticed I was all wet. My lobster's claws had poked through the plastic bag and I was covered in watery seafood juice. Not pretty. Now that I'm at home and the lobster is safe in my refrigerator I'm wondering how wise it is to actually attempt eating it. You would think it would be rancid. I may test it out tomorrow. Now that's living on the edge alright. Today was all about ebay. I woke up at 1 not feeling so hot, managed to get to the post office before it closed at 3 to pick up that New Order cd that they'd lost in July and a copy of Raymond Carver's What We Talk About When We Talk About Love--my two latest ebay wins. Then I got some hot and sour soup, put on the cd and checked the three auctions I'd bookmarked. 1. Vanishing Americana a book about disappearing things like rotary phones and drive-ins. 2. This 1964 issue of "Girl," this British hardcover teen magazine. 3. A press kit for "Billy Liar." I spazzed out when I noticed the press kit had only 4 minutes left and that someone had actually bid on it. I was hoping to wait til the last minute and get it for cheap. The bid was $5. I typed as fast I could and bid $6. I was outbid. Time was ticking and I rebid $10. Once again I was outbid. My heart was racing, there couldn't have been more than a minute left and I really wanted this since it's one of my favorite movies in the whole world, but I didn't want to spend a lot of money on it (to me $20 is a lot of money) so I threw caution to the wind and bid $25 hoping that this other person I was competing with's maximum would be lower. It worked. I was the high bidder at $16.50. I clicked back to the main page and there was only 24 seconds left. There was no way this guy could get his outbid notification email and rebid within 24 seconds. So I was very happy. I finally got my cd that I thought was a lost cause and bought a press kit I would've killed to have. Good omens, both.
8/26/99
I saw a guy in a Harley Davidson Long Island t shirt with my name tattooed on his arm. It was the usual black cursive writing, but a touch more creative. Krista sort of had a blue shaded circle around it and was in this blobby form that I think may have been a cloud. Underneath it was the name Summer in a cloud thing with red shading. I'm guessing these are his children? Pets? Who's to say.
8/25/99
This evening I was trying to conjure up a call from a foreign country and within like 10 minute the phone rang, and it was from the right country, but it was the wrong person. Maybe I need to concentrate harder. So, three cripples today. Three seems to be the lucky number. As I came down the subway station ramp, I immediately noticed this ground beef nosed guy with blurry, blobby green-blue tattoos on his forearms. I've seen him around before. The first time I saw him in The Bagel Factory I almost lost it. I would not be exaggerating one bit if I said it looked like he had a hunk of meatloaf the size of a golfball attached to the bridge of his nose. Like a cartoon rendition of a drunk, sort of W.C. Fields style, but more so. How does that happen to a nose? Then I saw the "Village Idiot" with the crutches who from here on out will not be counted as he's obviously a permanent fixture on Fresh Pond Road. But I did notice that he doesn't need his crutches to walk. He was sort of hobbling along and carrying them under his arms. It makes you wonder. After this, I was immediately faced with an early 30's Hispanic male with a cane and a child. He too seemed to walk fine without his apparatus. Nothing seemed to be terribly wrong with him other than his having an immense pot belly. You may be getting the impression that I am negative and that I do not like anything or anyone. This couldn't be further from the truth. Today the diner I get iced coffee from near work gave me a bendy straw instead of a normal one and that made me happy. I like that commercial for Quaker chewy granola bars where the kids say innappropriate things about their parents like, "My dad cries" and "My mom says you shouldn't be wearing white [to a bride]" with the tagline, "Chewy stops the chatter." That's the spirit--shut kids up with faux health food. And I was pleased to receive one of my boxes of books from Oregon (in a year I've reclaimed 3 of 20 boxes--at this rate I'll be 50 before I ever see all my books again and by then I'll probably have lost interest in half of them) with my copy of Young People's Prayers. I'd forgotten how much I like that book. I'll leave you with a choice prayer:

Save Me from Over-Attention to Myself
Save me, my Lord, from petty and foolish tinkering with myself.
Allow me to let myself go in some cause, some purpose greater than my own small self.
Spare me the weakening sickness of self-love.
Purge me, O God, of too much concern about what is going to happen to me.
Grant me the cleansing grace of being able to lose myself in absorbing and joyous work.
Turn the mirrors of my self-contemplation into windows opening upon the wide vistas of thy world.
Save me from being a fuss-budget about small slights and petty personal offenses. Make me too great to bear a grudge, too interested in large things to harp constantly upon what is trivial, too wisely and humbly sure of myself to take offense.
Thus, teach me the meaning of the ancient wisdom that only he who is willing to lose his life in interests larger than himself can find and nurture his true self. In His name, Amen.

8/24/99
I've begun a new wholesome pastime that I like to call "counting cripples." I decided that I needed to start keeping track of how many ambulatory impaired individuals I see on the 3 block walk to and from my apt. and the subway each day. I may have to add a side category for the maimed and/or disfigured. This neighborhood is a regular freak show. I can't quite figure out why. But there is seriously a disproportionate amount of people with things wrong with them. Even their faces aren't right. It's like they've stepped out of some Breugel painting. Peasanty large features, afflictions, plagues. I wouldn't be surprised if there were lepers still in existence in these parts. All the women over 40 seem to have elephantitis, ankles thick as old tree stumps. That Jack Robinson character I met a few weeks ago accurately referred to them as "gyro legs." Yes, like giant slabs of lamb waiting to be carved off in strips for a tasty pita sandwich. Well, I got sidetracked on the way home and only remembered my new duty one block from my home. But even so I still counted three cripples! An old woman with a cane propped up against the Rite Aid window, another old woman who stumbled and dropped her cane so her husband had to bend over and pick it up for her, and this guy that I don't know should really count as he's a permanent fixture in the 'hood. In the old days he'd be the village idiot, I suppose. He's got crutches and a lame foot and is usually seen sleeping on the M platform or asking for change in front of this real estate office. The weird thing is he only seems to talk when he's in front of the real estate office. If you ever see him leaning against a building on a different block, he'll ignore you. But that was three today without even trying very hard. Lord only knows what I'll find when I actually keep my eyes peeled. And speaking of cripples--what do you think of that Montel Williams and his newly disclosed Multiple Sclerosis? I think it's a ploy for attention.
8/22/99
I've seen the Danielson Famile play the past two fridays. Some say they're creepy, some say they're gimmicky. I don't care, I just love them. Jessica had never seen them and her reaction was, "I couldn't stop smiling during the show." It's true. Friday night was "Christ a Go Go," a nice little event thrown in a public school. The bands played in the auditorium, there was an intermission/art show in the cafeteria with punch, popcorn balls, and carmel apples. The crowd went a little wild with the beach balls provided. Even the mouse I spied scurrying beneath the seats seemed to be enjoying himself. I'm not sure who was there for Jesus and who was there out of curiousity, but it was all good. I love Daniel. It's a shame he's married. His wife (who's also in the band) appeared to be about five months pregnant. On the way home I saw this pile of gummy worms sitting on the sidewalk. It reminded me of my dream the other night. I realized that the neon colored "intestines" that were coming out of my mouth looked just like these rainbow gummy worms. I was pleased to make that connection. Ew, last night wasn't so hot. I went to see a friend's band play, drank too much and fell asleep at the bar (it just dawned on me after falling asleep in public twice in the past couple of weeks that I'm not supposed to be mixing my medication with alcohol). I was mad because there were two parties I'd planned on going to later. I barely made it to the subway, as I didn't know the area I was in very well, and when I finally got to the the 6th Ave. L platform I proceeded to vomit all over the place. Puking in public is one of my big fears. I mean doing it on the street is bad enough, but in the subway station is not so good. At least I made it home in one piece and was tucked into bed all before 2 AM.
8/19/99
Bugs. I do not like them. This is really foul, but I've been very bad about taking my garbage out. It's a mental block. The other day I lifted the bag up out of the plastic container and noticed a couple small cockroaches running around in the bottom. Now, I should've thrown out the trash and killed them, but instead I was so disgusted that I just put the trash back in and ignored it. I kept putting more trash on top and shoving it down, jumping back in case bugs decided to pop out. To go to the bathroom or leave the apt. I have to walk past this garbage bin and I've taken to quickly running past as I don't want to see any cockroaches. Horrible. I finally decided to deal with it last night and yanked the bag back out. It was terrifying. There was a handful of cockroaches milling around the bottom of the bin. It's creepy because I never see them in my bedroom, living room, or bathroom, only near the refrigerator. But who's to say they're just staying in that vicinity. Lord only knows where they migrate when I'm not looking. I'm not a sloppy slob of a person so I don't know why I always let my garbage get so out of hand. Speaking of bugs, I had this insane vivid dream the other night, the kind you can't get out of your mind all day. I was in a kitchen and there was this giant, neon orange, crawly centipede-like bug running away from me. The type where the legs are really long and wispy and the body is tiny and long. Ick. It's making me sick just typing this. I was disgusted and scared and sprayed and killed it. Then I got the urge to take a photo so I ran to my room and grabbed a camera, but it was the one that was used up so I ran back into my room and when I came back it was gone and my dad had thrown it in the trash . I became very upset and opened the cabinent under the sink (families always keep their trash in cabinets under the sink) and there the bug was all covered in chili con carne. I don't know why. I guess we had just finished dinner and it wouldn't be unlike my family to serve canned chili. I started coughing. My mom was sitting quietly in the corner observing everything. I was gagging and this piece/segment of a an orange centipede came out of my mouth. I spit and then another part came out. I couldn't breathe and then the entire thing started coming up and my dad started pulling and it was this endlessly long centipede. I thought to myself, "is this a tapeworm?" and then I thought I was dying. More and more kept coming out and finally my dad pulled out this mass of intestines that were neon rainbow colors. I'm not sure if they were mine. It was all on the floor. I started to leave my body as if I didn't physically exist anymore. Like I was becoming this floating entity and I got panicky and was thinking how I was 27 and there were still all these mortal experiences I wanted to have on earth. Everything was pitch black and there were bubbles everywhere. I realized that each bubble was a life waiting to be born and that from now until the end of time I would be their keepers. I'd never be reborn back into a body and that my duty was to choose what happened to these bubbles and this seemed o.k. all of a sudden. I woke up feeling extremely alarmed. You'd think I was some drugged-out hippy having dreams like that. I think I should figure out what it means. Are there any Jungians in the house?
8/17/99
I know I always say that I'm not obsessed with feces and urine and then proceed to talk on and on about it so I won't even disclaim it anymore. My laundry had been piling up and I had no choice but to wash it. It's my least favorite chore next to vacuuming. But I hung a bunch of stuff up around the house that I didn't want to subject to the dryer and for some reason I decided to smell the clothes, which I never usually do and they were just rancid smelling like piss mixed with sour milk. Now, why would fresh laundry smell so rotten? It's really baffling me. I mean, I leave wet towels out all the time and they don't smell bad so it's not like some overnight mildew thing. Why do my clean clothes smell like pee?!!! Other disturbing things: Today I was reading this article about the concept of "teenagers" in "American Heritage" and it mentioned how the first generation of European settlers were shocked at how large their children were. Due to better nutrition their kids reached physical and sexual maturation much earlier than they did. That really creeps me out. I also heard some statistic about how if everyone in Manhattan were to step outside at the same time, there wouldn't be enough room. Ick. That kind of stuff freaks me out.
8/12/99
It's starting to seem that urine and feces are the new theme in my life. I didn't ask for this. Last night I was talking to my English friend and said how I couldn't believe I peed on someone's roof (I can't even pee with people in the stall next to me in bathrooms) and he was all, "That's nothing. I took a shit behind a parked car fri. night." I thought that was mildly impressive, if not a touch disturbing. I've always had this prank I've wanted to pull involving a bad first date, a catbox, and my human sized turd. It would be so good. At some point this guy would have to clean out the box and be flabbergasted. He wouldn't think a cat could make such a mess, but he wouldn't want to believe that some girl could do such a thing. It would bother him. But I was warned by this friend, "Don't do the catbox thing--it's too big and smelly." Isn't that the point? I was also told, "Please don't tell anyone about my bathroom habits." Yeah, right. Well, this morning I was minding my business getting off the subway to go to work and as I approached the stairs I noticed this huge turd just sitting on the bottom step. There was an empty bottle of beer (more disturbing was the other day when I saw a large emtpy bottle of Mr. Boston's Creamy Egg Nog sitting in this grassy patch. What kind of freaky drunk gets hopped up on egg nog, and in the middle of summer no less) and a bunch of flies hovering around the offending object. I took this as a sign. Bad or good, I'm not sure.
8/11/99
The girl behind the counter of the convenience store near work was joking with a customer about marriage and kids. She said, 'the seagulls don't just drop them off." We made eye contact and I smiled in polite agreement. Then I genuinely started laughing because I realized she meant storks not seagulls. Somehow storks carrying around little bundles of joy seems acceptable, but the idea of a seagull carting around a newborn is damn funny.
8/8/99
I didn't go to bed til 8 this morning and now it's 8 at night, but feels like noon. I'm all off now. I like having the occasional stay-out-all-night weekends. Last night I ended up running into coworkers at a bar and they told Jessica and I about a rooftop party in Chinatown. It was 2, I was already verging on falling asleep, but then we decided we needed to branch out. We've been worrying lately about the lack of fun in our lives. I said we needed to create our own fun. You can't rely on others to do it for you. Fun isn't about where you go or who you hang out with necessarily. I've pinpointed that the funnest experiences always revolve around something unexpected involving strangers. Meeting freaks on the street and the like. But those episodes just have to happen, you can't create them. So, we hung out at the party til it died down, I ended up peeing in a corner (do you get the sense that I'm urine obsessed or something?) and getting it all over my shoes and purse, then we walked out with some random friendly guy who I'd overheard that his name was Jack Robinson. J. ROB, o.k.?! You may already know about my weird connections with the plain first named guys with the Rob prefixes to their surnames. This is the third J. Rob... since I've been in N.Y. so I figured it'd be o.k. to hang out with him and that he wasn't a killer. We ended up at some park unti it started raining and then we needed to pee again so we went to his place and drank Pabst til 7. I'm not sure what it was about, if anything. You know, if a guy asks you over and it's late and you're drinking and says you can sleep in his bed and you're alone you would have a pretty good inkling what he was up to. But when it's you and a friend, it's hard to say. Not that people can't just hang out and have a nice time talking. I like that. But it's rare.
8/7/99
Cruising for a bruising? I think I may be in trouble over things I've written here. Old things possibly. Things I'd half forgotten I even wrote. But it's not as if I'm telling lies. The truth shouldn't get you into trouble. I can't change or take back things I felt or said at the time. And I shouldn't have to. We'll see.
8/5/99
I'm mildly disturbed. I figured I should go to the doctor since this is the first time I've had insurance in a while, and well, I'm a hypochondriac of course. I went in fearing news of heart disease, diabetes, AIDS, who knows. Then the doctor says, "Do you stay out of the sun?" I'm obsessive about staying out of the sun. I was a teenage goth for crying out loud. I haven't even worn a swimsuit in over 10 years, a total stay in the shade freak. Well, it appears that I have a suspicious spot on my back that should be checked out. Dear lord, I was worrying about all the wrong things and now I'm going to have a malignant mole. And skin cancer is the worst of all cancers. I thought for sure my lungs would be the first thing to go. I know it's not sensible to get worked up over this until I actually go to a dermatologist, but jeez. On an up note--I've now got my prescriptions for birth control pills and anti-depressants--so watch out, world (Never mind that I only have a year left. I'm so paranoid. I got the anti-depressants because I said I was feeling ran-down, sluggish, and couldn't concentrate, but now I'm thinking that it has nothing to do with my mental state, but with my internal organs being ravaged by cancerous growths). There's this subway ad that I'm starting to think I hallucinated since I only saw it three times (and all on the same day). There's this black woman large in the foreground and tiny in the corner are two youths with tank tops and tattoos. The text reads, "I know my son messes around with other men. We never talk about it, but I want to support him." Then there was a hotline, "Soul Food" to call and a number. I couldn't stop staring at it. I don't why I thought it was so funny, but I haven't seen it since. My new favorite ad is put out by the Metropolitan Transit Authority. You know a safety tip thing. "Keep Your Jewelry in a Safe Place" followed by suggestions. Number one: Keep your chains tucked inside your clothing. Now that cracks me up. They just assume the average rider will be wearing a bunch of gold chains (they're right). Also, turn your rings upside down so the stones don't show. I've also noticed that the only style of tattoos you ever see on the subway are black cursive names on arms. That's not very exciting. That's why the other day I couldn't figure this guy out. His arm was a mass of garish who knows what. I got closer and was like, "What the heck is that about?!" One tattoo was this huge colorful woman on a riding lawnmower. There were some maracas and bongos. But the one that made me smile was this 60's cartoonish boy with a mean looking face holding a balloon over a sleeping kitten's head like he was going to pop it. It makes you wonder what gets into people. That decisive moment when they're all, "yes, I really must get a tattoo of a boy harassing a small cat." At least it beats those ubiquitous cursive names.
8/4/99
Guys calling you by your last name is the kiss of death. That is, if you have any romantic interest in them. I'd like to think otherwise, but in my experience that's been the case. Once they start calling me "Garcia," I know it's done for. It's fine for pals, chums, buddies and the like. It shows a comradery and certain comfort level. There's something casual and endearing about your last name coming from guy FRIENDS, but oh, it just makes me cringe from others. I've gotten the Garcia treatment (via the written word--is that worse or better?) from two separate guys in the past three months. One already went sour and now I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop. I know all rules have exceptions, but still. Please say it isn't so. Yuck. I don't have time to be friends with any more guys.
8/2/99
My suburban roots are showing once again. A couple months ago when I still went into Manhattan on a daily basis, I'd see these office ladies with plain black tote bags that were unremarkable except that they had 9 clear plastic pouches on one side where you could put photos. I didn't see them all that often--maybe only a handful of times, but I decided that I wanted one. It seemed like a good idea. I mean, you wouldn't have to put photos in there, you could use any sort of cut out picture and you could change it whenever and it seemed very versatile and full of potential despite the fact that only women who looked like they lived in N.J. or Long Island carried them. Well, I haven't had any luck tracking one down. And I have just known that a good old fashioned chain store like Target would have them, and for no more than $15 (I hate paying more than $20 for anything except shoes, which I still sort of hate, but it's necessary). So, I mentioned it to my mom and Jessica as far as a birthday present suggestion. I did not receive one. But then yesterday my mom called to say she'd seen them at The Emporium (does that chain even exist outside of the N.W.?) at the Beaverton Mall (walking distance to her trailer park) and you can not even imagine my joy. Malls rule! (This same mall also has the best Sanrio store in all of Oregon, "Small World Surprise" where my mom always picks me up the latest Chococat goods.) I'm starting to have these fantasies involving a mobile home of my own and working in a prison library (you see ads all the time). Who says I don't dream big dreams? I just did my laundry, ran to Rite Aid and picked up some foot scrub, nail polish ("Green With Envy" a pale pearlescent green), and a box of gross Russel Stover's assorted chocolates. Now I'm going to sit here and listen to the cds my sister sent me for my birthday (they're not quite as exciting as the tote bag that's on its way to me, but almost), Belle and Sebastian "Tigermilk," and some good oldies, Jesus and Mary Chain "Psychocandy," The Housemartins "London 0 Hull 4" and Fleetwood Mac "Rumors" and read some Raymond Carver short stories. It's going to be quite the evening, I tell you.
8/1/99
I'm not sure why, but of all genres of commercials it's the ads for cars that really get under my skin (getting under your skin is bad, right? I always get cliches wrong like I'm ESL or something). They really irritate me so I watch them closely, but they're not really doing their job well because I can never remember which car they're advertising, just the storyline, gimmick, etc. I just saw one I'd never seen for a Nissan Maxima (I made of point of noticing the brand this time) that flashes the car and some text I didn't read and plays the opening bit from The Smiths' "How Soon is Now." What's that about? How does that work? The closing slogan (which I just saw on a billboard and that's why I remember it) is "Cars like it: 0." That's not particularly catchy or imaginative, but maybe it doesn't have to be. The freaky trend I've been seeing is all the targeting of late 20-somethings (me, I guess--I'm still coming to terms with now being "late 20's") who feel like they're aging (me). There are those ones with "hip" couples with kids showing that you it's possible to have a family and still have a cool car. The one that bothers me is with the driving dad in a cowboy hat and the mom and kid in the backseat. Is he under some sort of illusion that he's alone in his new car? And that one with the young mom with the voiceover at the end saying, "do not go gently into that PTA meeting." Are they intentionally trying to make me retch? And that one with lines flashing about still having some youth to misspend. Yuck. I really hate that one that came out last year with the 3 girls and the guy with blonde hair ("Charlie works in cyberspace/backslash, dot com all day long") driving through Manhattan. Now, there's a new one where they're in Las Vegas, which isn't much better. My first recollection of having such strong feelings conjured up by car commericals was a few years ago when a VW Passat one made me cry. I mentioned it in s.c.s. #6 and no one would probably even remember the one I'm referring to so I won't repeat the story. But it's not good at all to get so worked up over TV.

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