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++++++++++++

Stalking
Lone Star Thomas
Goodies

phone home

11/27/04
Whenever I’m left alone for more than a couple days (that sounds more pathetic than intended), at least in the past six months or so I’m reminded how ambivalent I am about this neighborhood (and how reliant I’ve become on a car). I don’t do anything or go anywhere. I could’ve gone out tonight, but didn’t see the point of spending the time, money and effort to waste a few hours at lame bars 45 minutes away by subway (though 8 minutes by car), especially when I would be the only one even being put out. Yeah, I’m immature that way, it’s a perpetual pet peeve that the only way I can have a social life is if I accommodate everyone else who lives walking distance to said lame bars when there are a kajillion not any less lame bars walking distance to my own apt. that I never go to because no one will go to them with me. I mean, I went to a friend’s on Thanksgiving, but yesterday I sat around, today I sat around, tomorrow I’ll probably sit around some more (I have to say sat because I just got sucked in by one of those lame quizzes that teases you on the main MSN page when you’re trying to log into your Hotmail. It said to test your grammar, so I did and I totally blew the lies, lays, laid bit. I’m still not sure if I lie around the house, so I’ll stick with sitting around the apt.). Maybe that’s why people get married and have children, every minute becomes so crammed with others that they have to watch shows like Oprah to tell them to find some “me time.” I’ve got me time coming out my ears. And I’m certainly not ashamed or guilty (after reading Redbook at the gym today I’ve learned that women feel guilty when not doing for others), just a little dismayed at my lack of ambition. If I were (or is that was? Oh, the bad grammar) even like 5% genius I probably could’ve come up with at least two or three article ideas to pitch (that would probably be turned down, but you know). Back to the neighborhood, when I’m feeling blah I like walking far distances to shop at bad stores. I’ve mentioned this before, that my former two NYC places of residences were scuzzy but at least there were 99-cent stores, Rainbow Shops and New York & Companies to while away the time. I guess I live walking distance to the Fulton Mall strip, but it’s not quite my thing, you know, it’s um, a bit “urban,” as they say. Ha, well, they do have a Rainbow and a new Forever 21, which is totally useless size-wise, but the outdoor shopping district mostly consists of a busted Macy’s, sneaker stores, gold chain places and those black Muslim guys who dress up in biblical (?) I-don’t-know-what outfits and yell about white people. The last time I went up there I had to hide from my freaky upstairs neighbor (I really don’t care for my neighbors, not for any particular reason), which got me to thinking how people know where they’re “supposed to” shop, kind of how I can’t figure out how my cat knows she’s mine and prefers me and James’s cat really only likes him. The neighbor is this middle aged freckly biracial woman, who I’m pretty positive is new to NYC (based upon the yellow forwarding address stickers on her mail, not that I’m nosy, of course) has no accent and is very fussy and complains a lot, but her teenage daughter is this large, very black girl who seems quintessentially Brooklyn, I can’t figure it out. But my point was, how does Stella decide that she would like to shop at the Fulton Mall? The other nearest lowbrow strip is South Slope, exactly equidistant to this apt. building, I checked on mapquest, but that’s predominantly Caribbean Hispanic and white people who can’t afford Park Slope proper (frighteningly I just saw an ad for new condos on 21st St. ten blocks north of my old apt. and the realtor wasn’t even fudging by calling it South Slope, it was listed as Greenwood Heights, which is the creepy no-man’s land next to the cemetery between the Slope and Sunset Park that’s not really a neighborhood at all. But some of the condos were going for over $900,000, which is kind of obscene.) Eh, and Fulton Mall only has fast food (and Junior’s which is cool, but it’s not really take-out and I can’t eat alone). That’s the other criteria besides good discount stores, having things to eat from stands like tamales or empanadas or storefronts with Vietnamese sandwiches or Chinese bakeries, something other than BK or KFC or whatever acronym. Anyway, I’m starting to feel like I’ve been in NYC forever and still can’t get a handle on any place that feels like my own. Meanwhile, the recent transplant upstairs seems to be fitting in just fine.

11/25/04
Ooh, Thanksgiving. I can’t say I’m ecstatic, though it’s nice to have the extra two days off work. But it’s one of those holidays like New Year’s Eve or Fourth of July that are really kind of so-so. Or maybe I’m not in the proper spirit because I already did the big dinner thing last weekend. Thanksgiving is really about eating, right? And I’m still having weirdo stomach ailments, though milder than last week, but I’m constantly on the verge of crapping myself, which can’t be good. My new phobia has become what if I shit myself on the subway? Would it be better to be standing or sitting when and if uncontrollable travesty strikes? I rarely get a seat, so hopefully standing is a sufficient enough way to poop one’s pants. I couldn’t even eat my own cooking, after only a few bites my gut was in knots. And I’m starting to get illness-induced aversions to things. Everyone has them, like as a child I got sick on root beer floats and I’ve never been able to stomach them since. Out of the blue, I’ve started feeling that way about curry powder. Anything with that blend of spices makes me want to hurl, and I have this giant Rubbermaid container of spiced nuts I made that are completely laced with curry powder. I can’t even look at them. Anyway, I wish I had more exciting things to report but it’s been a dull week (now that I think about it 2004 has been pretty dull all around). Later today I’m heading over to a friend’s apt. for a Thanksgiving meal with a few friends and her parents visiting from Wisconsin. Since I already made two pies on Saturday, I opted for a cake this time around. I chose something totally random and not necessarily seasonal, a dessert called Lane Cake (I used a Food & Wine recipe, not the one I’ve linked to, but you can’t access the F&W recipes if you’re not a subscriber, and I just wanted to show a picture really). It seems to be a light fluffy three-layered affair filled and topped with that gooey German chocolate cake type frosting (I had no idea it used a whole dozen egg yolks) but with a shitload of coconut, pecans, raisins, bourbon and butter. I basically needed something that used a lot of unsweetened coconut because Sat. I realized last minute that the coconut I had was grated too finely and had to run out looking for shredded unsweetened coconut mere hours before guests arrived. It’s hard to find stuff that’s not sugary and in plastic bags in the baking section. Most Asian or Hispanic stores will have the version I was looking for in the freezer, but it’s not like Carroll Gardens is brimming with these minority groups. And after tracking some down in my old favorite neighborhood Sunset Park, for my prawn pomelo salad, I got frenzied by all the simultaneous dishes being prepared and totally forgot my cookie sheet full of toasted coconut I’d shoved on top of the refrigerator. Now, there’s no way I’m going to let that pain in the ass coconut go to waste, so this cake fit the bill. Nothing to do with the holidays: I don’t think I’m an idiot, but the word bespoke has never been in my vocabulary. And a couple months ago I started seeing it used everywhere, mostly in British publications, and in reference to all these trendy patterned wallpapers that are becoming popular along with carpets, chandeliers and other non-minimalist design elements. I could glean that bespoke meant custom, it’s just not a word I’ve heard used much. Now I’m seeing the term bespoke used freaking everywhere, I just saw it in Time Out NY in reference to suits (I think) and minutes ago read it in Budget Living about handmade bags using your father’s old ties (like my dad ever owned a tie). The whole world is bespoke crazy.

11/19/04
Oh, this is not good. I think I’m getting ill, either the flu for making fun of flu shot fanatics, irritable bowel syndrome or who knows, maybe stomach cancer. I’ve been sweaty and nauseous for the past two days and crazy starving when I wake up (though insanely full feeling at night so I can’t eat). The problem is that whenever I think about food or see a photo I feel like I’m going to hurl. And this is very bad because I’m having a pre-Thanksgiving dinner party tomorrow night and have serious cooking to do this evening and most of my near future. What if I puke in the stuffing? Or crap in the cranberries? Ok, ok, I can control my bodily functions better than that. But I’m dying here at work, and can only hope I perk up by day’s end. I’m supposed to be picking up a fresh turkey tonight at a butcher in my neighborhood. I’ve always done frozen, so I’m hoping it’s worth the expense (though fresh turkeys are nothing compared to this year’s darling, the heritage turkey. I actually considered these, but the $7/lb price scared me a bit and they are only delivered on Nov. 24, which doesn’t do me any good for my purposes, and as I’ve just discovered, are already sold out anyway). I’m sort of going Asian with the menu this year, which could either be really good or go haywire. (So far, the list looks like this: Scallion Popovers, Prawn Pomelo Salad, Sweet Potato Sambal Puree, Chinese Cabbage with Chestnuts, Eight Treasure Turkey with Sticky Rice Stuffing, Orange Bourbon Pecan Pie, Walnut Toffee Pumpkin Pie, plus hors d’oeuvres. Yes, I always go very American, and very sweet with the desserts. I just can’t do that sparse basil, balsamic, granita stuff that’s still popular even though the first article I found about herby, savory ingredient desserts is from over five years ago.) I’m no purist—letting the bird’s natural flavors shine through? Feh, I’m going all overboard on seasonings: Sichuan peppercorns, sambal, oyster sauce, wasabi. Let’s just hope I’ll be able to eat any of this. What’s that drug they advertise with a claymation stomach who uses a treadmill? Maybe I need that, though that might be acid reflux, which totally isn’t me. I always thought that faceless yet animated stomach was a little creepy (and let’s not even think about “Digger the Dermatophyte” who crawls under toenails in ads) but he can’t even hold a candle to that super brand new Mr. Mucus character. It gives me full body phlegm just thinking about him. I won’t even ask why he’s decked out like some fat wiseacre Ralph Kramden. Just make him go away.

11/17/04
I’m becoming very wary skin products. A few years ago I had a Biore self-heating (creepy) mask sample (there’s another one still in the bathroom cabinet but I’m scared of it) and I swear to god it gave me a permanent diagonal crease between my eyebrows. More likely, I’d just never noticed the little line until the day I used the mask, but who knows. Last week I started trying some anti-wrinkle night cream. Maybe I’m thwarting fine lines, but meanwhile my face is now speckled with pink splotches. What’s worse—wrinkles or colorful blemishes? If I keep using this lotion I’m afraid I’ll end up looking like I have a port wine birthmark. Oddly, I’ve been seeing a lot of those lately. Port wine stain birthmarks must be the new vitiligo. It used to be that I’d see one of these splotchy skinned people at least weekly (and always African-American and always in Brooklyn. I don’t know if there’s something weird going on in the borough or with the black community or what. Though the condition is probably just more noticeable on darker skin and tons of white folks have it too. But that doesn’t really explain why I only see it in Brooklyn.). When I’m not fixated on dermatological issues in Brooklyn, I’m confronted by celebrity look-alikes on the way to the subway station. I’ve mentioned the Rod Stewart guy who I know full well isn’t really the ol’ semen gulper. (Don’t tell me you don’t remember that ‘80s urban legend. My sister swears to this day that she heard it on the news as a kid, which I strongly doubt. I like how the settings: collapsed on stage, found in the woods, discovered passed out on the beach; quantity and unit of measure of jizz: quarts, gallons, cups; and bodily fluid origin: human, antelope [as in the version I was most familiar with] all vary with who’s telling the tale.) But this morning I saw a guy who honest to goodness looked like David Duchovny, bearded like I’ve seen him in photos recently, and with two kids. He does have two children (I’m not a Fox Mulder nut who knows this off the top of her head—I was just scouring fansites for this tidbit, really), one grossly named Kyd. It’s not like Rod Stewart where anyone with that distinctly crazy hair, sunglasses and look could resemble him. This guy was plainly dressed, it was his face that matched. But once again, I don’t know why anyone with a lot of money and options would be taking the subway to Carroll Gardens to school their children or have them babysat. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll see a John Cougar double soon (hey, not any less random than Duchovny or Stewart). Oh my goodness, what fate, I’ve been typing this nonsense while leafing through Rolling Stone at work and came upon this mere seconds after uploading this post. I don’t normally add to an entry after it’s already up, but this gem warrants it.

11/11/04
This pillow really bothers me. Maybe I live in a completely different universe, one where grandparents have better things to do than constantly crave hugs from distant grandkids. Get a life, or a puppy, grandma, you’re creeping me out. Speaking of disturbingly needy people solving emotional problems with stuffed blobs of fabric, it’s not just for lame Americans. Not surprisingly, the Japanese beat us to the punch a few years back with the Boyfriend's Arm Pillow. Now lonely ladies can feel that reassuring, sexy sensation of laying your head down on a massive (or maybe the woman in the picture is peculiarly tiny—you know Asians) puffy fake limb while sleeping single. Cuddling inanimate objects is all the rage. Maybe someone right now is working on a life-size pillow that tenderly spoons you as you’re trying to doze off. Even better if it could make occasional snoring and farting sound effects. Eh, what do I know—I don’t even sleep in the same room as my boyfriend. Even better, we could live together and still feign intimacy with icky torso pillows. The ultimate in disconnect.

11/9/04
Ooh, I love the youngsters, but I don’t know about this. And people thought Mary Kay LeTourneau was pushing boundaries. At least her young paramour had actually hit puberty. Eight year olds? I just can’t get turned on by that, you know I’m no fan of little children. And I guess I’m naïve because I didn’t realize eight year old boys were capable of intercourse. That’s so not hot. Though I can see the upside of unlimited baby humping with no new babies as an unsexy consequence. Whenever I have the rare visit from an old zine era penpal-ish person I’m reminded of how weird and small the world can be. The last time Layla, who started corresponding with me when she was 15 in Tuscon and I was early twenties in Portland, was in NYC I was amazed by how many Brooklyn-Berkeley people we knew in common (there’s like some pipeline between the Bay Area and Brooklyn [not Manhattan so much] with offshoots to the Northwest). This time it was odd because now she was acquainted with this whole Portland punk crew that my sister was hooked up with in the early ’90s. She was dating the singer from Exploding Hearts when most of the band was killed in a car crash a year or so ago, though she never lived in Portland herself. It’s weird because my sister moved to England nine years ago, and I haven’t seen any of these people since then. They were all like late teens, early twenties, me too, now they’re all close to thirty and beyond and still doing all the same things, working at the same telemarketing firm, wearing pegged pants and creepers, drinking and doing drugs (actually, I think a lot of these folks have quit all that) and playing in bands. Portland is totally the land of the lost, frozen in time, even one of these former-friends-of-my-sister-new-friends-of-Layla’s referred to part of NE Portland (the neighborhood they always lived in that used to be all ghetto, but is now a charming ghetto/boutique mix) as “a wrinkle in time.” Uh yeah, scary. But in a strange way comforting. Though I hate it, there’s something appealing in not needing to prove anything, get head--don’t get me wrong NW people do have bands that are actually successful (and then they die), they open bars, cafes, boutiques, book stores, it can all be done. They couldn’t do it here, no one could without being somebody to start with. I totally get the inertia of Portland, it’s in me, especially since I didn’t move there out of choice like lots of people do these days in search of some idyllic affordable, cutting edge scene that doesn’t really exist. I was there nearly 25 years because I didn’t have a choice, and that NW malaise will seriously keep you in place. It’s a dormant virus, the urge to mope and underachieve. Probably anyone who didn’t grow up cosmopolitan or urban can identify with it. Maybe that’s why I feel so disconnected from the whole “blogging” thing. I mean the hyper aware NYC version. It’s gross, these aren’t my people. There’s no happenstance, random intertwining, I don’t have any degrees of connection to this disaffected yet attention-starved East Coast sensibility that’s rampant. Sometimes I forget how I am, how I was, whatever, but I know I’m not like that. There’s a serious lack of simple fun here, ambition and aspiration can really be a buzz kill. This site that’s supposed to be making fun of many of this genre of bloggers, while mildly amusing in its bile and vitriol, is mostly lost on me since I don’t know, care to know or read most of the sites being skewered. Really, all this insidery, while trying not to be website succeeded in doing was getting me hot and bothered. I got waylaid by an image of that ridiculously named, smug, WASPy, sandy-haired, spotty mole-skinned little dork Lockhart Steele that totally made me want to sock him in the stomach then hump him. I will admit to reading Curbed daily, it’s not annoying because it’s about buildings and the city, not himself (yeah, yeah, I write about myself all the time, whatever, I don’t get written about relentlessly, quoted in the news, author books, show up at parties/openings/events etc. So far, I’m incapable of making people sick with my omnipresence). But the magic was only in one photo, he was totally blah and unsexy everywhere else I looked (and believe me I looked). I guess that’s why internet trolling is so dangerous and misleading, one teaser photo doesn’t equal stalkable. I mean, even an eight-year-old might look hot photographed in the right light and angle.

11/4/04
I just stumbled upon this online auction for various children’s charities, somehow affiliated with Target, and using Hello Kitty’s 30th anniversary as the focus. I know Hello Kitty is played, but I would get a kick out of this chandelier. But the real point of even looking at this site is for all the hideous H.K. things created by so-called celebrities. Ok, there are legitimate things like the Betsey Johnson dress, she is a clothing designer. But then for stars who don’t have a particular talent, they have them fill in a Hello Kitty template coloring book style, and that’s where it gets icky. All your favorite famous folks like Dakota Fanning, Ted Danson, and Reba McEntire (with a “punk” version of the little cat) are represented. Not related, but is Jennifer Garner supposed to be hot? If so, I totally don’t get it. She’s like some mousey Holly Hobby. I don’t always agree with everyone’s idea of sexy, like say, Lindsay Lohan or Jennifer Lopez, but at least I can usually get where it’s coming from. Long hair, boobs, butts, tight clothes, etc. but Ben Affleck’s new sweetheart is even duller than he is (I’m looking at a photo of them together this very second [hey, it’s my job to read “People”] and they actually resemble each other) and he’s pretty darn yawn-inducing.