12/30/98
This isn't good at all, but I figure that if you’re going to get busted you may as well go out in a blaze of glory, and I think I’ve got mental problems because I can’t control this kind of thing like I should, but maybe if I write this crap here I will get it out of my system and appear normal to this guy when we're face to face again (if we ever are).
Why I'm ridiculously obsessed with James Robb:
because he uses handkerchiefs instead of Kleenex
because he has a cat named Alexander that he’s supposed to give injections to in the neck and he showed me the needles
because he owns kitchen utensils and a metal colander
because he visited his family in Virginia for both Thanksgiving and Christmas
because he has a king-size "sleigh bed"--guys never have real beds
because he owns an iron and ironing board
because he cooks things like steak, fried chicken, and chili
because buried somewhere between his math books and Wired magazines I saw some erotica.
because he got so excited watching CNN that he jumped around and knocked his lampshade all crooked (it was this incident that pushed me to the point of no return)
because he wore an Atomic Books t-shirt with his pajama pants and they sell "The Scaredy-cat Stalker" there
because he owns an Enya cd and isn't embarrassed
because he claims to have owned an '83 Chevy Chevette and considered going to culinary school (me too)
because the first couple times I saw him he was smoking Parliaments and I started noticing how everyone in New York smokes them and considered switching just for the heck of it and then the next time I saw him he was smoking my brand, Camel Lights
because he says, "bless you" when you sneeze.
because he joked about being so self-conscious that he showers with the lights out
because he apologized to me for being so boring
because he wears cologne
because he uses Noxema like a girl and has TWO pumps
because he knew the address (50 Broad St.) of the company I used to temp at in the financial district and filled me in on their corporate culture (very conservative, no casual Fridays, and a cafeteria built to look like the floor of the stock exchange)
because he's such pent-up, damaged goods
because he would never dream of writing something like this about me
12/29/98
I'm at work (I usually write this at home, but I have absolutely no desire to work and my boss is never here anyway. I'm one of those people who if they're left unsupervised will squander their time) and I just got another call from this guy in England. I don't know, it makes me nervous. Someone that attaches themself to a near stranger can be nothing but trouble (listen to me--I thrive on attaching myself to people I don't know--but I can't deal when someone does it to me). Something must be wrong with this guy. But anyway, I was just thinking about names and how such a weird pattern is developing. I know I had identified that I end up liking guys with simple and/or anglo names, but it's gotten even more specific than that. O.k., I said that I was dating this guy in Portland named, "Tom Robinson" and that this summer I had a crush on a guy here named, "John Robertson". Now I'm completely obsessed with someone named, "James Robb". That ROB business with a common, one syllable first name is freaking me out. Maybe by stripping the name of the "inson" and "ertson" suffixes I'm going straight to the core of what is true and right. Plain and simple with no artifice. Well, they do say that three's a charm. Unfortunately, there's a creepy slant to this. A few years ago I got mixed-up with a creepy, legally blind Henry Thomas fan off the internet who called himself, "The Egg". He would call me at all hours (I NEVER gave him my number) and barrage me with dirty stories about what he wanted to do with me and Henry and tell me his problems with his friends, "Snake" and "Crusher" and how Crusher was sort of slow and how he'd have to babysit him when Snake was out of town (Snake and Crusher were boyfriends) and how Crusher would cry if you didn't have sex with him. Oh "crushing" was their euphemism for sex. I'm totally going to get caught by The Egg now, but the point of this was that his real name was "Scott Robb". Plain, one-syllable first name plus the ROB surname. Now, I NEVER had a thing for this freak, but it just shows how nuts ROB's can be. Plus there's that two first name thing going on.
12/28/98
"There is a gradual improvement. Feelings are sweet and tender." That was my fortune tonight and I like it. Last night I got, "Serious trouble will bypass you." Though positive ultimately, that one gave me the creeps. Yeah, I ate Chinese take-out two nights in a row.
12/27/98
Sometimes it's hard to explain something funny in print--you just have to hear it for yourself--and even then it still might not seem so funny. But I was at this party a couple weeks ago and me and a friend, Jane, started this thing where we were telling these annoying guys that we were "Princeton graduates" and kept starting off every sentence, "As a Princeton graduate, I..." O.k. that doesn't make sense, but you'd use it to confuse and irritate someone. Like I could call up Henry Thomas and say, "Henry, as a Princeton graduate, I find your casual dismissal of me to be completely unacceptable. And being a Princeton graduate, I demand an apology." See, that doesn't seem very funny, but it can be hilarious, take my word for it. So, last night I'm hanging out with friends at the bar we usually go to and this guy comes over and decides to befriend me and Jessica (another friend, I've decided that it's o.k. to start using names, it's just easier) and he's a dork, but not the good kind of dork, yet for some reason we (I) let him sit with us. I don't know, he seemed harmless and a little amusing. His name was Bertold, but our friend Marti said she was going to call him "Mike" and the name stuck. I was joking about a threesome and I think he thought it was really going to happen and was talking about getting a hotel room at The Plaza and he kept subtly groping me and touching my hair and I should've known what trouble he was then and there, but I didn't nip it in the bud. He decided that I was "the fun one" and Jessica was "the girlfriend type", which actually is pretty accurate, but he had to be out of his mind if he thought he was really going to get it on with the both of us. I should've been much more creeped out than I was, but I let him ramble on about how he used to live in Portland and play frisbee at Reed College (barf) and Rimsky's (I can never spell this full name. It's that coffee house in Portland and if you're not from there then who cares, right?) and I felt like pulling my "As a Princeton graduate" bit and then all of a sudden he started talking about his master's degree from PRINCETON. Now that's funny. I don't understand how these situations develop, but I ended up going home with the freak (sometimes I could really use a kick to the head). Who knows what I was thinking. This guy was too much. He was all sappy, and tender and it made me sick to my stomach. I know women are supposed to love sensitive guys, but they make me want to hit them (I kept telling him earlier that I wanted to punch him). Why can't I find a good old-fashioned love 'em and leave 'em guy? Don't worry, I'm not going to get graphic or anything, but he decided that he was tired and then just fell asleep and he had me in this vice grip so I could barely move and everytime I fidgeted he'd squeeze me harder. It was pure hell. He had this horrible classical/baroque something or another playing all loud and didn't bother to turn it off. So there I am, bad music blaring, his meat-hooks squishing me, plotting my escape and then to top it off he starts snoring super loud in my ear. I had to stay til morning and then tried to sneakily get up and dressed like they do in the movies, but it didn't work. He woke up and said, "are you planning a stealth exit?" Hell, yes, I was. Then came the words that made me cringe through and through. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not cold or heartless or even unsentimental, but I have a hard time with lovey-dovey talk. Coworkers used to torment me by using terms like "cuddle" "lover" and "hug" (but I don't mind hugs from James Robb [my secret crush--we're using names now, remember?]. It's o.k. when you actually like someone) in sentences like, "Krista, are you going to go home and cuddle-up with you lover? Give him a hug for me." Yuck. But back to Bertold. I was getting my things together and he says, "I thought we could SNUGGLE." Oh my fucking God, I almost started crying (but then I started chuckling to myself because I knew what a good story this would be for friends). So I barely escaped with my life and now I'm worried because he knows what bar I hang out at (Bar On A--that's on Avenue A between 10th and 11th--if anyone reading this is ever in the neighborhood on a Sat. or Fri. night stop by for a cuddle, would you?) But I think I'm probably safe and at least I knew this guy's name (actually I just got a nice letter from that nameless British fling from a few months back. His name is Mauro). The sad thing is that Jessica took photos of us together. I don't want any photographic evidence. I hung out twice with that rotten Henry Thomas and have nothing to show for it! But now I'll have Bertold captured on film forever. Life is so unfair. I would've never been emotionally scarred like this if my secret crush had been there. Why do skittish sissies have to visit their parents during the holidays.
12/24/98
It's Christmas Eve and I haven't done much of anything other than watch TV and drink hot buttered rums. I'm wondering if I should get a crush on the nice, faceless boy in England who e-mails me every day, sent me a Christmas package, and called me at work. It couldn't be any more hopeless than liking the icy, completely-oblivious-to-me, gentleman who lives a mere subway ride away. And no, I'm not one of those fuck-ups who meets guys off the internet, this sort of just happened by accident. I've seen enough talk shows to know better about these sorts of things. My friend has a friend who hooked up with this guy via the internet and he flew out to Portland from the east coast and was 300 pounds, had a beard full of food and three tits. I really don't need that right now (or ever). Lord, 1999 has got to be a better year.
12/19/98
"Did You Know? Litter on tracks catches fire and fires cause delays." I always thought this subway sign was funny and a little dubious (New Yorkers are direct. Why couldn't the transit authority just say not to litter?). But I never realized that a track fire could be a blessing in disguise (more on that in a minute). I'd really better start watching what I say here 'cause I'm getting more and more afraid of being caught. But if worse comes to worse I can always chicken out and delete select entries. O.k. I'll try not to be too obsessive and detailed because I've been trying to control that aspect of my personality. It used to be fun to like freaks and emotional cripples, but the older I get the more it worries me. It's obviously not a phase and I'm not growing out of it. I feel like I should start pursuing nice, well-adjusted guys that I'd have some sort of future with, but I just can't make myself do it. Let's see, fri. I got to see my doomed secret crush and we spent the evening coming up with ideas for a porn website to make money and tried to out-do each other with lewd and racist talk (see what I mean about unhealthy bonds with guys--this could lead to nothing but trouble). He walked me to the subway and...he asked for my number(!) Um, yeah, but it wasn't sweet. He said he wanted it so we could get together and go to porn shops and figure out how to get cheap, bulk sex photos for our website. I like to believe that he was simply too shy (I know it sounds like he's some crazy lout, but he's actually very well-mannered and gentlemanly [and asexual, dammit], that's why this sudden interest in the sex industry has thrown me for a loop) to just ask me for my number in a straightforward way and had to come up with a guise. But anyway, I go to catch my train and it's all roped off and there's some sign about there being a track fire and there's no train running until further notice. I immediately felt my temper rising, but then I got a good idea and hot-footed it out of the station. I chased down this guy who was a block away by now and pulled a sob-story about the fire and how now I'd have to walk a million blocks to a different line. He said I should take a cab and I was like, "I can't afford that, it'd be like 20 bucks." He offered to pay, but I wouldn't let him because that wasn't the solution I was looking for. He then said, "well, you could stay at my place." Now that's what I wanted to hear. I said I wasn't going to get detailed, but here I am spouting off. O.k., nothing happened and I found out this guy is even dorkier than my wildest dreams. He made tea for me and he drank Theraflu (I love illness) and we sat on his fucking couch and watched CNN til after 4 AM. I was thinking, "this is so wrong (but oh, so right)" He put on his pajamas and was just sitting there like 6 inches from me being a total geek and getting off on naming all the congressmen, which state they were from, and whether they were democrat or republican, before they'd show their names and other info. Every so often he'd turn the channel to "The People vs. Larry Flynt" (had to keep up the porn theme). It was pure torture. His calendar was of war planes (just a few days earlier there was a video category on "Jeopardy" where they'd show a photo of a plane and you'd have to guess it. I did terribly and thought, "Who the fuck knows this shit?!" Now I know). 70% of his books were about calculus and things like "topology" (something to do with surfaces, as I learned). The most demented thing he said all evening (and there was a lot to choose from) was when 
Dee Dee Myers (Clinton's former press secretary--if you didn't know. I didn't) was on Larry King. He started going on about how hot she was. Then he said, "I wish she was my mom." I was like, "Don't you mean a friend's mom. You know, like that teenage thing where one of your friends always has a foxy mom." And no, he meant his mom. Oh boy, talk about issues. I don't know what to think about this whole situation. He's so not my type (and vice versa) and completely wrong for me in all ways (he immediately turned on CNN again the next morning and was getting excited for the Jets game later in the day. Sports and politics are my two least favorite topics. But I decided that if we were to put our trivia knowledge into one body we'd be the leanest, meanest "Jeopardy" contestant ever) and there wasn't really any sort of crushy vibe in the air. I saw him again the next night and brought along a couple friends. They had one word to describe him...GAY. No, I refuse to believe it. I won't. We're meant to be, goddammit. They finally agreed that he's straight, but definitely odd. The only thing I have to keep my hopes up was some comment from his good friend. I was asking this guy if he had a computer at home (I didn't see one, but it turns out he has four) and she said, "That's right, you've never been over to blank blank's apt." and I was about to say that I had, but he seemed all weird and got silent so I said "no". If my staying there was innocent then why did he not want his best friend to know about it? O.k., he's a freak of nature so there's no telling what his logic was. Later I went out for burritos with this guy and this girl and the two of us were being all potty-mouthed and she said, "You and blank blank should live together and be pervs all day." If she only knew what sort of ideas that put in my head. She was going home and I was going back to the bar we'd been at earlier and "my guy" started walking along with me and she totally ruined it by yelling, "blankblank, let's go this way" I realize that they both had to go that direction to get home, but my heart sank a little. I'm just pleased that for a split second his natural instinct was to go the way I was going. I wish I wouldn't go so overboard on this. It's only going to end in misery. The scary thing is that I figured out that his personality type is ISTJ--that's the exact same type as Henry Thomas. Why?! I honestly don't try to get crazy about these ill-suited, linear, rational, sticks-in-the-mud, but I can't resist them (I've never dated a guy who wasn't a serious fuddy-duddy). I think I need electroshock therapy to set me straight. Jeez, it's sure easy to type a lot when you're stupid, obsessed, and don't have a houseguest.
12/16/98
(there's a lot of "he's" in this paragraph, but I'm afraid to use names) Why me? Oh, everything's a shambles. I just don't know why things have to happen like this. Last night I was practically forced to go out for drinks with a group of friends who want me to get together with their stupid friend from London. I've been polite, but have never indicated that I'm interested in him. He's absolutely NOT my type and I don't understand what these people are thinking. I'm starting to come to the conclusion that I'm one of the only people in the world with any sort of taste. But anyway, I've been suffering from a waning crush/obsession for a bit now. Waning simply because I never get the chance to see this guy. I just had the feeling that this little gem would make an appearance at this meet-up and I was right. It was painful to be forced to sit next to and make conversation with a guy you have no interest in when your true honey is accross the table and completely oblivious to your desires. It made my heart hurt. It's still aching at this very moment. I can't stand it. Originally, I thought this guy was asexual and femmey, but last night he was being a foul-mouthed perv and it was just too much for me to take. Not only is he filthy (which just makes me want him more) he blows his nose into those bandana/handkerchiefs that only old men use. He's making me crazy. Even his wearing a pinky ring is hot. I brought a friend who's new in town and she was freaking out on this guy too. We both agreed that he was the sexiest thing at our table (which wasn't really saying much, I'm afraid). Oh, but it's so hopeless. He kept saying dirty things about me, which would normally be fine since I'm an attention hound, but he was doing it to rile up my er, suitor and it was working. I was made to show my (lack of a) butt to the group and then my unwelcome courter (I know that's not a word) kept pinching it throughout the night like he was given the go ahead or something. Then he kept putting his hand on my knee, which was not o.k. with me. Urgh, and people kept taking photos so it was an excuse for him to put his arms around me, kiss me on the cheek etc. He tried to get one on my mouth, but I was fidgeting too much for his mouth to make contact. Why?! Why, when the hottest freak in the world is sitting on the other side of me talking about Prince William and royal cock and Henry Thomas using escort services and Wil Wheaton's two appearances on "The Outer Limits" and getting me all hot and bothered. This is so unfair. Yuck. I don't get why everyone's so gung-ho on hooking me up with this other lad (who I call Patch Adams--change three letters in the first name and you've got it). I'm so mad. I was hoping for a progession here. First I got the hug, then the cheek-kiss...all I got last night was a freakin' pat on the back. Well, it's girl's night out (plus my sweetheart who's always invited) on Friday and that Patch Adams is just going to ruin it for me again, I can feel it. Ah, but at least my friend snapped a photo of my true love. When I get a scanner there's going to be some trouble a-brewing for sure.
12/15/98
I don't know why I thought this was strange, but I don't think I've ever been asked for a light like this. Sometimes you'll be at a party or a bar or whatever and someone will ask for a light, but today I was walking down the street smoking a cigarette and it was almost gone like I could get 2 more drags off it and some guy comes bounding over and wants a light off my cigarette. He just seemed so jovial and I was like sure, but thought it was sort of presumptuous and very un-New York-like (it's hard to explain). I get about half way down the block and some other guy asks the same exact thing. Not "do you have a match" or "do you have a light", but "can IÊget a light off your cigarette", which at this point was pretty much a smoldering butt. I said yes again (what else can you say). I felt baffled for no good reason.
12/13/98
The past couple of days I've been in one of those rotten moods like I'm seriously going to kill someone, anyone. I could easily punch a stranger just for having a face I don't like or for walking too slow in front of me. I'm wondering if I have a chemical imbalance or what. I mean, seeing women younger than me with 5 kids and no man in sight or looking at people whose hair color clashes with their eyeshadow shouldn't make me physically violent. I'm afraid that I'm going to snap and then get the shit beat out of me or something. I got some Kava on the way home from work. Maybe herbal tranquilizers are the answer. I'm not sure if being a menace on the subway or if taking new age/hippy supplements is the bigger crime.
12/12/98
I'm a little bit worried about myself because the other day I actually thought these babies on the subway were cute. I don't want this baby magazine job permeating my life like this. But they really were the best-natured babies I've ever seen on the subway. They were Russian twins and smiley as can be. A loud, obnoxious panhandler was making the rounds and they didn't even bat an eye. I know it wasn't just me because as they were getting off these guys got on and one said to the other, "those seem like some mellow kids." I'm very happy to have finally found an advent calendar (I couldn't find one anywhere in this town and was at my wit's end) at a Polish market. Sure, the month's half over, but better late than never they say.
12/9/98
It's been decided that my neighborhood is all about Tommy Hilfiger. You can't turn your head without seeing that horrible red, white, and blue. From here on out it will be referred to as T.H. (not to be confused with D.H.--Dad Humor i.e. anything involving Chevy Chase). To keep myself awake and entertained while riding the subway I've started counting the T.H. appearances. Today I got 12, which was disappointingly low. I need to try harder.
12/8/98
Both those print and tv ads for Levi's are making me crazy. I guess this is the downside to being closer to 30 than 20. Tastemakers and media types are now my age and everything tries so hard to be detached and cool and I don't know what to make of it. The funny thing is that those Levi ads that are plastered all over the subways and billboards bear what I consider to be a striking resemblance to those Nagel prints from my youth. I don't think that's the look they were going for.
12/6/98
I was really trying to turn over a new leaf with Henry Thomas. Laying off the ribbing, treating him kindly, but he's in trouble again. He didn't return my calls from yesterday and now he' going to pay. The thing is that all day little H.T. reminders kept popping up to agitate me. 1). I know it's not unusual to see a commercial for Thomas's English Muffins, but this was how I started out the day and it set a trend. 2). A friend and I were waiting for a bus to go to a mall and right behind me was a THOMAS ice machine. 3). The bus came and the route that was lit up on the front and side was ELIOT AVE (I know "E.T.'s" Elliott has double T's and L's, but that's pretty damn close). 4). Later me and a couple friends were watching "The Outer Limits" and it was this stupid episode about this guy called Josh who everyone thought was god, but Jessica said, "I think he's trying to act like Christopher Walken." That is an H.T. co-star from "Suicide Kings." 5). Minutes later that Josh character started making a joke and repeated the phrase, "phone home"
I'm mad. For some reason the rest of this page got messed-up and I can't remember what I wrote so I guess I'll leave it as it is.
phone home