What a tangled wwweb we weave...

Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Guilty Pleasures

1. Beyonce (I cannot t figure out how to accent the e!)

What's not to love about this unbelivably talented, top-o-the charts soul queen? She's stupidly beautiful and she can sing the pants off any of the stick figure teenage microphone lolitas or even the veteran divas (Lindsay Lohan, Hilary Duff, Britney, Madonna, Celine, even Ms. Houston et.al). She's like Diana Ross meets Ann Margaret -- kittenish for sure but she can also do vocal gymnastics. Plus, she dates Jay-Z who is, basically, like a Hip-Hop Great Gatsby... Granted the endless P.R. of the music industry and general sycophantic culture surronding celebrity make her charms slightly too packaged and slick at times but Ms. Beyonce's talents still shine through the crap put out by the music industry.

Say my name, say my name (sigh).

2. Anything on the WB.

Everwood, One Tree Hill, Summertime, Jack and Bobby, Gilmore Girls, the OC (whoops, wrong channel) or, put more succinctly: Rich White Kids and their troubled but glamorous and sexy lives. Oh dear god who hasn't found themselves sucked in to one of these vapid dramas? You try to resist but you are too weak: the beatiful people on the screen are so...empty and so...fascinating and so...utterly unlike anyone I know. No one ever seems to ever work or really eat, they never have homework and there are no teachers (unless they are having an illicit affair with one of the oversexed teenage characters) they exist in a world of tears and make-out sessions, they all live in Colorado or Malibu. Yes, yes, they are the ultimate escape and even their crisis seem enviable.

3. Starbucks.

Consitutionally I should be against Starbucks because it goes against all my principles. Frankly, it's a corporate monolith that promotes uniformity and it has NO CHARACTER plus the coffee is truly mediocre and outrageously overpriced. However, it is the king of Convenience. You might even want to patronize another coffee shop (and on the weekends: I do) but during my 9-5 work week when I breeze down to Corporate Town it's, practically, the only thing around and I enter it's doors almost as if compelled, like I want to be stamped with the Starbucks Sun Logo. Besides, for all my bitching they actually treat their employees semi-decently and pay them relatively well and give out health benefits - as I sip from my Venti cup this knowledge lessens my guilt somewhat and the coffee goes down without too much hypocrisey.


And so I walk

I walk to try and get rid of you

Who sliced through me with your

Blunt talk and, now, your absence

I take to these city blocks

Galloping past 6th, 7th, 8th,9th and 10th

Each street presenting another concrete hundred

Feet of opportunity to forget about you

I stride the length of the Island

Washing my brain clean

of the short films starring you

That run through my head.


Why I love advertising?

Why not? Why not love advertising? Advertising which, intrinsically, capitilizes on the human need for status. I know I love opening magazines when I feel especially awfully and seeing Aryan looking beauties, eyes vacant, glassy and wide open, mouths akimbo in a semi-open desirable pout, staring out at me in some scene of Waspish perfection. Quick! Somebody point me to the nearest Banana Republic so that I, too, might be wearing a purple chiffon halter dress in a Safari scene with my husband/lover/he-man travel companion (in this case probably a model named Jack born in Idaho, discovered in Chicago, and living fat in New York) who will also exist in a world of glossy perfection where there is no pain, no poverty, no conflicts, no worries, no needs, no diversity, no feelings, no dirt, and, well, nothing recognizably human; it's life in a zip-lock bag of good looks and narcissm.

Why not? Why not love advertising? I, too, as Heather Locklear is whispering to me, need a new lip color from Maybelline. "All day fuschia" which will never leave my mouth and keep them stained until I go to bed. If I could get my hands on that "24-hour cherry coke lipstick" which will only come off my lips if, say, I take a blow-torch to them (and, even then, my lips might be singed but the lipstick could remain)I would feel marginally better about whatever is bothering me. I could feel closer to Heather Locklear or look more like a Desperate Housewife.

I love advertising which is why my closests burst with fabrics, each purchase an homage to my consumer fantasies -- urban safari, ironic housewife, androgynous sex nymph, shabby chic punk rocker, I walk down the street advertising the advertising my mouth a dyed "cherry coke/sex on the beach/ 24 hour color" semi-pout of desire I've copied from a model in a magazine.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Loo

So I'm pretty busy right now, but here is a great email I got from my friend Michael the other day. He sent it in hopes of getting a bunch of phone numbers back from people. He lost all his numbers since his cell phone...well...read on...


I was at a party at Opaline last Wednesday night.  It was the eve of my good friend Hana's birthday and I'd promised her a birthday drink...she however didn't know if she wanted to come to the party so I met her next door at 85A for a celebratory drink or three.  I excused myself to use the loo (lew, lue?  you know what I mean), and as I stood there about to flush, what should happen but my trusty old cell phone, whom many friends had referred to as the smallest cell phone in the world ("...oh my god!  That has got to be the smallest cell phone in the world!"), decides that it has had enough of this world and being tucked into my pants pocket.

With the grace of a leaden swan, Celli (I will refer to him as "Celli" from here on out...one needs to speak respectfully of the deceased and it seems respectful to refer to them by name at very least)...Celli lept three feet straight up into the air, did a triple backwards axle somersault-thing and landed right in the golden-hued water.

Now, perhaps it was the three drinks I'd shared with Hana in 45 minutes, and perhaps not.  I think back on that fateful day and like to think that I would have made the same decision stone cold sober.  At least that's the position I've taken.  I looked at the floundering device named Celli thrashing about in the bowl as any cell phone in his predicament would and thought, "I can't put my hands in there, it's unsanitary."  BUT, if I were to flush right at this moment, Celli would be too big and heavy to go down the pipes and the rush of clean water would make the concept of fishing him out a bit more bearable.

Now friends, I tell you that nothing prepared me for what came next.  It still haunts me light a nightmare, a ghoulish vision.  I did it.  I pressed the chrome plated lever and watched in horror as Celli, whom you will recall is the smallest phone in the world, was washed away into the nether regions of the NYC sewer system in a torrent of water, urine and tears.


His time had come.  In this my hour of grief you can understand that I need the love and support of my friends.  The healing has already begun.  My replacement phone provided by Cingular's mobile device insurance has already arrived, but the address book therein is sadly devoid of contact information.  Please don't let it remain so.

If for some reason we're not THAT close and you don't feel comfortable with me having your # or you gave me an email address purposely instead of a phone #, of course I can only respect your wishes and won't in any way take it personally.  I hope the story of my foolhardiness made you smile.  For all others, your support in this my time of need is greatly appreciated.  At no other time does the old addage ring so true:  "If it's yellow, let it mellow.  If it's brown, flush it down."

My friends, Celli was not brown.  Thank you for listening and for caring.


Monday, May 30, 2005

Cracked Jewels

Small, white, lies
escape from my tongue
like pearls falling from these lips
they come bouncing down to the floor.

Rolling Around on the ground
these meaningless fabrications
slide around my feet
making shinier my love life or career or age -
whatever particular insecurity manifests itself that day.

Though I'll try not to slip
on one of these small cracked jewels
I know eventually one will get caught under my shoe
and I will end up on the floor looking the fool:
My dress torn, my heel broken, scrambling to get up
my mouth wide open.

walking stick

I know a gripping follow up to my reality TV post was promised, but unfortunately I’ve forgotten what my point was. That tends to happen to me more often than I’d like to admit. So instead you’re getting a recap of a day I took full advantage of, which is not a typical day in my life, (reality update to came eventually, though. No fear):
Yesterday was quite a beautiful day out, and likely the only day I will have completely off for quite a while. So I decided to take advantage of the gorgeous weather. And by this I usually mean roll out of bed, skip the shower, even by-pass the hair tossle, and simply put on a comfy pair of pants, whichever shirt I found first and stumble my way down to the river for a lay on the grass. I made the conscious effort to eat a banana on the way, as I seem to have been forgetting lately that eating is something humans need to do. I went down to my second favorite location by the river, a place I call Pier Astroturf. Deemed so for reasons you can probably guess. My usual favorite is a place I call Pier Homosexual. Now, please don’t get me wrong, Pier Homosexual is not my favorite place by the river for its clientele (which seems to be the case for everyone else that’s there). No, I prefer this spot because it’s wider than Pier Astroturf, has a longer pier that has benches in the shade at the end, and is about 20 feet closer to my apartment than Pier Astroturf (an important factor on lazy days like the one in question.) I know that on especially fine days out (especially weekends) there is no point in going to Pier Homosexual because it will be too crowded and annoying. It will be packed down with overly gay couples with their little gay dogs. A virtual sea of International Male. Oiled up muscle studs wandering around in Speedos. This is another thing about this pier. It seems also a competition for who can wear the smallest and tightest suit. A parade through a sausage factory. Now you might be thinking, ‘sounds good to me’, but you wouldn’t want to stay there. Not for long, anyways. Not on a day like today where you just want to lay in the “grass” and be left alone. I did take a stroll down to the end of Homo-Pier, though, just to say ‘hi’ to Lady Liberty quickly. She still had her back turned. (She’ll come around one of these days.) I quickly planted myself in a tiny patch of shade on the Astroturf and began to doze off….

The phone rings. Did I really bring that piece of shit with me? (Of course I did, I can spout all I want, but I know and the phone knows that I am the phone’s bitch.) It’s my friend Sheila calling to wonder what I’m doing on a wonderful day like today. Though I had intended to spend the day doing absolutely nothing, I figure I could still meet up with someone and not ruin anything, or we could sit and do absolutely nothing together, which would also be fine by me. She says she’ll be an hour to meet me, (ended up more 1.5, but who’s counting) especially since this allowed me to get my ‘me’ time in. We have a nice little Astroturf picnic. (sitting on the Astroturf, not dining on it.) We dined on tuna salad, with green olives (specialty of mine).

Then she gets the urge to do a little walkin’. Sounds good to me, it’s nice out. We’re by the water, let’s do it. There is this building in Tribeca she wants to move into, so we decide to take a walk down to give it a look. It’s much closer than I think by foot and we pass by Pier 25. This cool little park-ish thing with mini golf and a sand volleyball pit and the ‘Sweet Love Snack Bar’, which is, without question, the best name for any place I’ve ever heard. We get down to the building and it’s incredible. A full on park in front. Just off the river. Downtown!!! (I can’t help it, I do have this fascination with downtown.) She had told me the downside to this building was that there was nothing around it, but upon taking a different route there and a different route back, we discovered there’s plenty down there. Except affordable places to eat. Tribeca is expensive, y’all! I also inform her that if she does move in I will be squatting there. She says she’s not sure how her husband will feel about that.

Upon mention that we could both use new sunglasses, we decide to walk up to Canal St., my favorite place to get new sunglasses that will last for a week before breaking. By this point it’s getting a bit late for these stores to be open, so we cut through part of Chinatown and find some open booths. No sunglasses we want. (What is this trend with sunglasses that are basically clear, or so lightly tinted they might as well be? The point, if I’m not mistaken, is to make things darker, no?) We hope that cutting up Broadway thru SoHo will take us to stores that might still be open, but we are fools, as it is Sunday, and a holiday weekend to boot, so we are, as the kids say, S.O.L.

Now we wander, (one of my favorite pastimes), and she discovers an area she’s never experienced. (Bleeker/MacDougal). I tell her she’s a lying whore because we used to go a bar and an Ethiopian restaurant right across the street from it that we are standing in front of at the present all the time. (Does that sentence read as awkwardly as it seems to me it does? Fight through it a couple of times and you’ll get what I’m trying to say I’m sure.) She tells me I’m thinking of someone else and I’m officially an asshole. This leg of the journey ends up at Cassava for bubble tea where we contemplate where we can score some free drinks. We proceed to go to every bar in the West Village where we know bartenders, and NONE of them are working. Damn you Holiday weekend!!! We decide to just head back to her house where we indulge in a little wine and watch that movie ‘Saved’. It’s actually OK. Well, after you’re delirious from walking around for entire day, anyways.

I’ve just this minute received a phone call from another friend saying, ‘It’s a beautiful day, let’s take advantage of it!’ God help me.

Beach bum

Alright... Memorial Day weekend. Such a strange holiday. A weekend meant for commemorating the Americans that gave their lives for their country (don't even get me started on politics...), and what do we do? Why, we all go to the beach, of course. Oh... and there are also lots of fabulous Memorial weekend sales, let's not forget those. What a twisted holiday.

So, I joined the masses today - as it was the second day of the year that finally went above 72 degrees - and hit the beach. Not for pleasure, but to work. That's right - to get paid crazy amounts of money to hand out bottles of water to the dehydrated families with their screaming children in tow, and to cover their already sunburned heads with beach umbrellas sporting my current favorite celebrity's face. Yup. AND I got to spend a gorgeous day on the beach! It's actually the first time I've EVER been to a New York beach. I've kind of driven by them before but never actually stopped and relaxed. It was Jones Beach - a popular destination for city dwellers. Jones Beach was also having their annual Air Show today. A day where fighter jets and planes of all sorts fly around and do tricks and scare the crap out of you with their loud engines and daredevil dives. I'll admit... I actually ducked a few times, I thought they were going to slam into the ground. Kinda scary...

Anyway, after jumping around in the sand and making sure that everyone had their water and beach umbrellas... I headed back to the city, where I promptly headed off to my favorite yoga center. Before heading in to the studio, I stopped at a local deli to get my daily fix of bubble tea. Yum. While I was patiently waiting for my bubble tea to shake, this forty-something khaki-shorts-wearing sandal man approaches me and just randomly starts talking to me. "Great," I think to myself, "I'm tired, I'm a little sun-burned, I've been on my feet all day... just what I need." But, I politely smile and nod - as I've been so well-trained to do in situations like these and I just don't have the energy to tell him to stuff it. While he's rambling away about some nonsense, he is sketching something on what appears to be a drawing pad. As the deli man hands me my lychee green with tapioca bubble tea, the khaki man hands me a caricature drawing of myself. A little odd, but very sweet, thank you. I've had strange people sketch me before in random places... yes, this is New York and that sort of stuff happens, but this guy wants to "chat" and I'm in no mood for this sort of business. As kind as your drawing is and as nice as I'm sure you are... I DON'T WANT TO FREAKIN' MAKE NEW FRIENDS RIGHT NOW, THANK YOU VERY MUCH! These are the days when you wish you had an insta-boyfriend... someone who just suddenly walks up to you and says "Hello, dear. I was waiting for you." and instantly wisks you away from the whole situation or you wish to god that you could press a button to make your cell phone ring. It always seems to ring at the most inopportune moments in life - why not now when you need to be saved?

Anyway, this man rambles on about how he knows THIS model and how he knows THAT actress and I'm like yeah, okay, whatev and how he's a photographer and has traveled all across America and how now he's back in New York and wow, I should check out his website because he'd love to take my photograph some time.... yeah, okay, I'm about to PUKE now... little tapioca bubbles all over the steaming hot concrete. I was really looking forward to this bubble tea - don't spoil it for me! Finally, when he gets it that I'm just not that into him, he tells me to check out his website (oh, I will at some point and I'm sure I'll post about it) and how I should 'shoot him an email when I check it out' and I bid him farewell.

Finally, I can now enjoy my bubble tea and head to yoga. I sincerely hope a little 'oooooohm' will help me find balance and tranquility and perhaps teach me patience in situations like these. Argh. I breathe - inhale, 1...2....3...exhale, 1...2...3. Or maybe I should be more forward and honest and tell him to go away? I mean, really, he was spouting such crap, it was annoying. Why is it that in situations like these my face is always smiling and nodding while inside I'm screaming 'why, oh, why are you driving me crazy???' Inhale, 1...2....3...exhale, 1...2...3...I try to let my mind go blank and seek clarity as I sink deeper into my eagle pose, but I keep thinking about my caricature. In the picture, I'm smiling and nodding... and I keep thinking about that girl inside who won't say what she really means....

Sunday, May 29, 2005

This is New York Right Now.

This is New York Right now

On the eve of summer of 2005
Not hot enough yet for
twenty-four hour air-conditioning
The sun blaring but still it’s dry outside
That swampy heat, that Vietnamese jungle weather
will stalk these boulevards in no time.

This is New York Right now

With the parades of girls in their $150.00 ass tight jeans
teetering on the stillettos that point out from beneath
the expense of their well maintained bodies
And on the same street are the orthodox ladies with their
shaved heads masked by oh-so carefully placed wigs
All of them dressed so piously, so non-descript,
the better to hide from their God’s watchful eye,
reciting some Hebrew prayer as they pass by
the young hotties who talk into their cell phones and
laugh unprompted waiting for some call of approval
an acknowledgment that the make-up and the blow-dry was
worth all that time.

This is New York Right now

Walking across the Williamsburg bridge
The anarchist punk on his bicycle passing me by
The black couple entwined walking to my right
The Mexican family on my left taking a summer stroll
The white chick jogging so single-mindedly
The Asian looking guy striding in front of me
The Hasidic men strolling by.
The City looming
The sun bouncing off its chrome sides
My eyes squint just to take it in.

Let Go

Been feeling kinda worn down. Like I want to shut my eyes and open them up to a picture of cool blue. The kind of feeling you get when the fresh cool autumn air touches your skin. Its so clear and good. You feel alive and want to suck it all in and fall asleep in its wind.

Saturday, May 28, 2005

Quarter Life Crisis...

Okay, so today (the 27th) was my birthday and I'm a whole year older. And, I have to admit, I'm starting to struggle with it a little bit. I know that I'm "young" and that ones age really is all about ones perception, and you should always be young at heart, blah, blah. But honestly, I'm very much pushing the big 3-0 now and it sucks. Today I will pretend that I'm turning 23 and will very gladly blow out the 23 candles on my cake - ta-daaaah!

Alright, so I'm 29 and in severe denial. So, in a vain attempt to make myself feel better, yesterday I was out doing some marketing work in the West Village for a certain celebrity's brand new tv show and stopped in at my favorite bubble tea place Cassava for a little hot ginger milk tea with tapioca to warm me up. It had been raining and I needed bubble tea to get me through my day. Anyway, I noticed this cute little Russian-owned nail spa place next door and remembered that I was in great need of some waxing. So, I decided Brazilian was definitely the way to go. I have never ever had such a THOROUGH waxing. This big Russian lady had no problems with dealing with my business. She had my legs up on the wall and waxed EVERYTHING. She plucked, tweezed, waxed and snipped as if it were the Vidal Sassoon Salon for pubic styling. I was amazed. Anyway, painful as it was, it was fabulous and I'm now going back for regular legs and bikinis. I was very impressed.

Then, today.... aaaaaah, today. So, it's official and I decided to take the day off and enjoy my birthday. So, I figure I should start my year off on the right foot - kind of like a New Year's resolution but for birthdays. I should start to get my booty in shape and go for a nice outdoor jog along the East River. Now, I haven't done a lick of exercise in the past month and my waistline is proving it, so I throw on my tennies, pop in my earphones and head out. I plan on a short 3-mile run - it's a beautiful day out, I'll enjoy the sunshine. I stopped not once, not twice, but FIVE times throughout my run to catch my breath and walk at a more 'moderate' pace. I thought I was going to puke. Does this get any better? Well, at least it was a start... Hopefully I'll get better with time. Will it boost my metabolism? I hope so, because as long as my love affair with Ben and Jerry continues, I need all of the help that I can get.

I then go home and shower and scrub my skin squeaky clean and then apply a lovely self-tanner to my ol' bod. Whatever part of me is feeling flabby at this moment... well, has got to look better with a tan, right? This is my theory, so I cover myself from head to toe with some sort of Decleor product. I'm told that the French know what they're doing when it comes to self-tanners and I pray that that's the truth - my last self-tanner experience was with some other product that left me with orange hands and feet and I felt like a giant carrot.

So, now I'm feeling pretty good.... waxed poonani, sore but tanned bod, I had a mani/pedi a few days ago - I'm feeling nice and girlish. I then, of course, go to my favorite spot - DSW - and pick up three new pairs of shoes, all very practical this time, to balance out my purchase of four-inch heels from last time. Some cute loafers, some sweet caramel leather boots, and some adorable little chocolate brown bejeweled mocassins. Mmmmmm.... shoes make me very happy.

Then I was invited out by some girlfriends to have a joint celebration with my friend Bernadette who is also celebrating her birthday today. Bern, however, actually is turning 23 today - how depressing. They're all headed out clubbing at this great little lounge in the Meatpacking District Level V. I flake out. After running a freakin' marathon along the river and then shopping my toes off, I just have no energy to deal with sloppy guys buying me martinis and then a vodka hangover the next day. What is WRONG with me? No dancing, no partying, no late night out. Am I getting old? I want to get to bed at a decent hour so that I can get to the gym tomorrow morning and drop off my laundry and all of that crap. Sigh. I'm choosing responsibility over a fun night out with girlfriends? What's wrong with me?

Maybe my priorities are changing as I'm getting older, that's all. Or maybe I'm just PMS-ing. Who knows... whatever. I think I'm just sleepy. The martinis and the sloppy guys will always be there. For now, I'm just happy getting my tanned waxed manicured 29-year-old bod into my flannel pjs and getting a good night's sleep. That's my birthday present to myself.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

(dental) damn!

Is it a bad sign when your toothbrush starts to taste like bourbon?

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

My Top 4.


So, I’ve gone on and on, hippie and “up with people”-like, about what I love right now but I think it’s high time I spew on what is making my blood boil, my stomach churn with black bile, and my teeth grit set on edge with irritation. Get ready for a list of people/places/and things that make me shake and scratch my head and wonder if there’s any hope for the future.

1. Paris Hilton: Okay, Okay, admittedly this is an “easy” (more like sleazy) target but this woman is a fucking idiot and further proof that maybe we are living in the end times. I know, I know there are some disaffected, post-irony, po-mo hipsters that would argue that she is, in fact, “funny” and it’s actually “cool” to like her because it shows just how jaded you are but… No, there’s nothing funny or cool about this high-paid, “ho”-ish moron. I don’t usually like to diss my fellow wom(y)ns in print but this woman’s synapses are definitely not firing and it’s distressing that the press, and by extension the public, has decided to legitimize her venal narcissicm and put her stupidity on a pedestal. I can’t wait for her Michael Jackson like descent into freakishness and obscurity. Unlike Michael Jackson however, who was-at one point-brilliantly talented, her eventual public insignificance will be wholeheartedly welcome. In the words of another idiot who got everything because of his last name: BRING IT ON!

2. Bill Frist and the entire Republican Christian Right Wing Theocracy:
Lots of ink has been spilled over these demi-fascistic Christian crusaders but they never cease to make the hair on the back of my neck stand on edge with their well-crafted, Orwellian, bigotry campaign to turn this country into a Christian Iran. Bill Frist might be the most repugnant among them for his cynical bid to insert himself into the Terry Schiavo case or, more recently, to throw away 200 years of senatorial procedure (i.e. the filibuster and the tradition of debate) in order to cram a bunch of right wing judges down the throats of the court. The man doesn’t have an honest bone in his body so blinded is he by presidential ambition and the lust for absolute power.

3. Nips Candies: I can’t get enough of these rock-hard caramels but I have just come out of a year and a half of serious, intense, dental care. I think I have a semi-maschochistic relationship with my teeth which is why I keep subjecting them to these sugar bombs. It would be, perhaps, more accurate to say that I have a love/hate relationship with these caramel temptations: the brown, sugary, bon-bon helps me whittle away the hours in this corporate cage but I know, eventually, I’ll pay for my flirtation with my (not-so secret) candy distraction.

4. Florida: Elian Gonazelez, Election 2000, Terry Schiavo, Humidity, Hurricanes and The Magic Kingdom. Need I say more?

Tuesday, May 24, 2005


I don't drink gin and tonics. I used to. About five years ago I did, whilst under the influence of someone not so savory, I would suck 'em back like water and wonder why I never felt myself GET drunk, but just WAS drunk.

I don't choose gin and tonics. I am a sensible girl and stick to my favorite beer. However last night, I was amongst dear friends, dear Southern friends who can drink my weight in gin and live to tell, and it was an open bar, and I had already consumed half a bottle of a really good pinot noir (yeah, my man knows wine. It's a perk) at Bistro du Vent, so I said fuck it. Gin and tonic please. Another gin and tonic please. Um, another gin and, um, yeah. Could I jusht pleash have another...

Because I live with someone very responsible, I made it out of the Xth Avenue Lounge before any damage was done. I cannot say the same for my Southern friends who, at 12:45, were still chasing tail and throwing drinks down. At least that's the rumor today. I wish I could party like them. And I realize I might have to go into training for this summer in Edinburgh. Sort of like people who start going to tanning beds before their trips to Barbados, I feel I should start working my blood alcohol level up to a good fighting weight. If I want to win the championships. Which I do.More so than I want to live another day like today, head-achy, bitchy, and cursing every whisper of lime flavored gin that passed my lips last night.

A few of My Favorite Things

What I love right now:


The Documentary: Enron, the Smartest Guys in the Room.

A great, paint-by-numbers expose and explanation, really, of how those Corporate Pirates (i.e. Texas rat-bastards) stole all that filthy lucre. The film looks at the top players at Enron: Ken Lay (the Big Pappa and, no surprise, a great friend of Baby Bush), Jeff Skilling (CEO and self proclaimed Bad-Boy corporate superstar) and Andy Fastow (the ultimate Frat boy and Chief Eunuch). The film follows the skyrocketing success of Enron’s stock during the heady 90’s to its immoral tactics to keep its stock high by any means necessary i.e. creating fake companies, projecting profits that didn’t exist and last but not least FUCKING CALIFORNIA out of millions of dollars through a fake energy crisis. A chilling and fascinating look at the culture of human/corporate (American) greed and how hubris is the ultimate Achilles heel.

What I love right now: Canada Dry Seltzer water (raspberry flavored).

Bubbly goodness, the perfect summer drink, soda for grown-ups. My favorite flavor is, of course, “Refreshingly Raspberry” and, they make good on their promise – no false advertising for the Canadian bottling company. However, this water is bottled in Plano, Texas. Curious.

What I love right now: The Elephant Vanishes (The Play by Complicite).

I saw this play Complicite and director, Simon McBurney adapted from the a book of short stories by Haruki Murakami last summer but, like Kylie Minogue sings, I just can’t get it out of my head. Simply stated it was one of the most beautiful and sublime pieces of theater I have…ever seen. Incredibly skillful, and visually arresting not to mention completely moving it was, not unlike, raspberry seltzer water: completely refreshing. So much theater, so much contemporary art for that matter, errs on the side of ugly, empty, shock or gross sentimentality or didacticism and this did none of the above. When was the last time you felt delight (pure unforced delight) in the theater? I did watching “The Elephant Vanishes” and I still can’t get over it.

Sunday, May 22, 2005

reality shrugged

OK, I have now made my warm fuzzy puppies and rainbows IheartNY post. I also realize just how close it teeters to resembling one of those disgusting trite-ass Carrie Bradshaw (my own personal anti-christ) entries. And if there's anything I do not want to resemble in any way shape or form, it's anything related to 'Sex and the City', but that's a rant for another day.

Today I would like to tell a story about what was, for me, the most painful part of being away from home, and more importantly, out of the country for the period of time I was gone. But you need a little backstory first.

Now, I do understand that what I am about to disclose is potentially credibility killing, and certainly (to one less secure with oneself than yours truly, of course) somewhat embarassing. But I have accepted and now fully embrace my unhealthy appetite for... reality television.

Now I know a lot of folks have their shows that they "can't miss", but I don't think most of these folks understand the level of "can't miss" that I experience with a shocking number of shows. I will watch any unscripted show. Really, anything that shows "spontaneous" "human" behavior and I'm in. The problem is that I get really attached to these "stories" and these "people" very quickly and I find that they take over my life. I become a sort of crackhead slash rabid animal looking for another hit slash taste of blood. It got to the point where I was nearly equal parts 1)reality junkie and 2)human being. That's right, half and half. So, this season I sat down and had a strict talkin'-to with myself and decided things had to change. I would no longer be a slave to the tube, I would not let reality television interfere with my ability to remain a social creature.

So I took a pen and paper and pared down my selections to what I would call 'the big 5'. These I believed to be the best, most entertaining, most exciting, most gripping, and easiest to emotionally attach to. By nature these are the ones for big prizes (the bachelor/ette just never did it for me), and ones that have 1 set cast that we follow for the whole season. And by nature these are also the most popular. (Now this is important remember this point. This will become my undoing by the end of this tale.) I also allowed myself a sixth show that did not follow this criteria, but was great and was new, so I didn't totally lose track of what the kids are listenin' to these days. My choices were:

1. Survivor- duh! This show was my gateway drug. From the first episode of the first season of this masterpiece, I have been absloutely hooked. I have never missed one episode in all 10 seasons of this show and I don't intend to start now.
2. The Amazing Race- arguably the very best of the reality shows, with Emmys to prove it.
3. America's Next Top Model- I got sucked into this one by accident. A girl from my hometown was on the 2nd season, so I had to watch. She ended up winning and I've been hooked ever since. Plus, Janice Dickinson!!!
4. The Apprentice- This show almost lost me. Donald Trump is maybe the worst host EVER, but Martha Stewart takes over next season, so I'll stick with it to see how that goes.
5. American Idol- it's pretty much unaviodable anyways, so I might as well be informed as to what everyone else is talking about. Though this show does make us stare directly into the face of red state America. I think this show is pretty telling as to where we are as a country. Look at what we embrace. I mean, Clay Aiken!?!?! Good God, what are we becoming? This show is a good piece of evidence to support taking the vote away from the people. This show and the last presidential election.

and the sixth, the runt of the litter:
6. Super Nanny- I'm not even going to try to defend it, just watch it once and you'll understand.

Now I know I promised a story as to how vacationing out of the country relates to reality TV, and that story you shall get, fear not, but I needed to get the exposition out of the way and so this post is getting very long and uncle danny's fingers (and brain) are getting tired. So you just sit tight and if you're real good, the shocking conclusion will come sooner than you think. Now go to sleep, and remember, don't open your eyes or the Vap-o-rub will seep in and will burn, burn, burn.

Nighty night!

Feeding Frenzy

Ok, so, Martin is home. For anyone who doesn't know, Martin is my gorgeous, brilliant, funny, and sexy Scottish boyfriend, who was just away in Scotland for three weeks. I have a pretty short attention span though and three weeks was just enough time to leave me utterly confused and lonely and a bit forgetful about what I was waiting for. I'm a complete idiot like that. But when he came through the door Friday morning, I remembered.

And the gift of Alexander McQueen perfume from Duty Free didn't hurt either.

So, after being apart for three weeks, what is the first thing Martin and I did? What any sensible couple would do...we went out to eat. M. and I are big foodies and we had to go see our friends' show that evening, so upon finding ourselves in the crappiest part of midtown, we went to this Italian restaurant where I used to waitress. That is, until they figured out that I didn't know how to open a bottle of wine and I got canned... The food was much better than I remember...I mean, spending a summer seeing meals pushed around on plates by food runners' hands, re-using bread from table to table, and flirting aimlessly with a married executive chefreally tainted the place for me. But we had a great meal there. Really lovely beef carpaccio, and then some tasty pasta dishes. It was great, but we had to run out of there really quickly since it had taken us AN HOUR to get there...Lincoln Tunnel traffic. If you live in New Jersey, you shouldn't be allowed to come into the city at all. Upon signing a lease, we take away your car keys. Get to know public transportation please.

After the little sketch shows we saw at chashama, we went to the Upper West Side in a sad attempt to have dessert at Cafe Lalo. Ok, I have never liked this place. It'sall Eurotrash and hype, but for some reason, Martin really loves it. (Dear God! Is my boyfriend Eurotrash and I don't know it?) The line was out onto the street, and even Martin had to concede that is was ridiculous, so we went around the corner to Good Enough to Eat. M had pecan pie, I had homemade ice cream, we went home pretty satisfied.

Yesterday was a lazy day too, with brunch at 107 West, and then a nap. We got this kickin' feather mattress and bed cover and pillows before Martin left and we finally put them on the bed yesterday afternoon, turning our humble Ikea piece into the softest fluffiest bed you've ever seen. I fell asleep in twenty seconds, as I am famous for (at school, watching theater, on the train), and had the best nap of my life. When I got up, we went downtown and ate at Sumile, which I have wanted to try since it opened. We had these amazing oysters, eel hand rolls, Japanese snapper, and this amazing buttery salmon with crispy duck salad. It was so good. The dishes are all really tiny, but so filling. He had some sort of hazelnut thing for dessert, I had a waffle with bay leaf ice cream...such a great meal.

But not such a great meal when I got home an hour later and threw it all up. Splayed out on the bathroom floor, watching my meal swirl around in the toilet, I wondered what went wrong? Martin didn't get sick at all, so I don't know if it was last night's meal. Maybe a combination of all the food I ate ALL WEEKEND LONG combined with the fact that in Martin's absence I haven't eaten much more than an apple and a sandwich every day. All I can assume is that my system went into shock. So much food! So much good food! Bleeeeeah!

I'm not sure what the lesson to be learned is here. Moderation? Something like that. But who has time for lessons? We're running late for brunch....

Saturday, May 21, 2005

6 Eazy Peace(s)

Have you ever been to H&M on a Saturday afternoon when a busload of tourists from Ohio has just been let loose in its environs? Shrieks of pleasure being emitted from every corner over how “cute” and “adorable” and, most importantly, how “cheap” it all is?!? Yes, you can snarl and feel superior to tourists from Ohio (a state for which I am hard-pressed post-election ‘04 to have much sympathy for) but the fact is...you’re there too. You are at H&M pawing, and, mauling your way through the cheap shit, too. Your eyes scanning the sheer tops that would look so cute with those black pants you have or the chunky brown belt that would dangle oh-so-alluringly over that flowing white skirt you bought last week completing your vision of boho-city-chic.

The music soothingly pumping out and numbing any worries over whether you should, in fact, really charge this “made in tawain/romania/turkey/latvia/estonia/or the perennial favorite: china” crochet tank top. In the midst of picking and choosing, making your way through elbows and arms and coos of “oh that looks good” you forget about whatever was bothering you earlier that day: the recent break up, the fact that you miss him, the energy its taking not to call him, the job that demeans and drains you, the realization that your parents are, now, senior citizens, the knowledge that this world you inhabit is just getting uglier and more complicated and that the leaders in charge of safeguarding it are too craven and ill-equipped to lead it, all of it fades into the background when you are trying to decide between floral or leopard print.

After you’ve picked out your six items you take your place with the rest of the seething masses, standing behind the gum chewing teenager in her jeans a la Britney and her eager to please Mother (who is trying to give her daughter everything that was denied to her in her own adolescence). Like Catholics taking the eucharist (or the “wafer” as my own mother called it) you inch your way to the fitting room - one step at a time. Finally, after shifting from leg to leg and glaring at the tourists from Ohio you get a fitting room; a small mirrored sanctuary where you can model those chosen wares for your own discerning eye.

The world falls away and all that’s left is you, the mirror, and the decision over what looks better/sexier/more sophisticated/the most flattering/the most desirable on you, on your body. The blinkers are finally on and you have a goal - the rest of your worries are just white noise. Now, isn’t this what you came here for? To H&M on a Saturday? Admit it: you came here because it’s an oasis, you came here to forget, you came here for a little peace.

What NOT to talk about...

Here a few of my (un)favorite things to have someone/anyone/friends/family/aquintances/one night stands/passerbys/whoever and whomever/ talk to me about. Here is a guide, a list if you will, of banal conversation topics that, really, no one wants to hear you (the collective-societal- "you") talk about... There are so many interesting topics to expound on so why you gotta choose these?

1. Your diet. NO ONE cares if you had x amount of protein today or if you cut refined sugar out and won't touch white flour and will only eat organically grown macribiotic edamame right now. There are no small number of people out there in the world who are, literally, starving so there's something downright unseemly about long conversations on what you are choosing NOT to eat. Keep your "body for life" chats to the mirror.

2. Money. Yes, mama was right about this one: you either fall into one of two categories -- broke or full of filthy lucre. I am broke but don't, necessarily, want to commune with fellow debtors on the state of our/my finacances or, in this case, the lack thereof. However, neither do I want to hear about your high-paying job at MTV or the trustfund that just bought you that brand spankin'new, pink, i-pod (you know the trustfund you pretend NOT to have in keeping with williamsburg slumming chicness). Which leads me to...

3. I-Pods. Please don't talk about your new i-pod: the thrill is gone. For those of us who don't have one (see # 2 of what not to talk about and you'll understand why I don't, in fact, have the accessory du jour) it is ennerving to hear you gas on about the portable soundtrack to your life and how much you love it; some of us still log around a cd-walkman which is fastly becoming today's 8-track. Plus, why do Steve Jobs job (!) for him? Let the marketing department at APPLE take care of the publicity, okay? Besides, do you really want to come off as such a victim to marketing?

4. Politics. I am through with my tolerance for the victimized right winger. Oh, yes, we can be friends even if you don't think Bush is the anti-christ and the worst thing to happen to the American people since...polio (but, at least, there was a cure for that). Lets not talk about the state of the nation, okay? I am through with pretending to try and understand and tolerate your party's right wing fascistic tendencies. You Republicans are the ruling party now so stop acting like a beleagured minority and crying "foul" everytime Tim Robbins opens his mouth (or me for that matter). Why don't we just agree not to talk politics if you in any way support those Republican Rats because...it'll just get ugly and, besides, I want to like you.

Friday, May 20, 2005


Skin on my lips. Almost elastic. Smooth. Close to me always. Feels good. Quiet shiver. Goosebumps growing? Stupid. Taste it. I love it. Always remember it. Never forget it. Mind always on it. Smile.
Since I am so crazy about poetry (see blog post below) I thought I'd try my hand at this fine wordy art. Please, do not laugh at my sad attempt and if you do...know that you are heartless and cruel (and please contac me because I have a thing for sadists).

Temping (Woe is Me) or Why –O-Why Did I get my Liberal Arts Degree?

“Coffee or Tea?” I ask the man in the corporate monkey suit
“Milk or Sugar?” I say expertly
Glazed eyes look over
A wash of suits and ties
“Just black for me” says Mr. Handshake
As I hand him his coffee smiling wanly
This thought occurs to me:

Why-O-Why did I get my liberal arts degree?

I studied Foucault and read Thoreau
Tried to make my way through Ulysses
Women Studies opened my mind to years of repression.
Medieval Philosopy was my freshman obsession
The knowledge I gleaned when I was traversing the quad
Surrounded by academia’s hallowed halls
cannot be used when I write a business letters for my
business man boss to some other business man boss
saying how much he enjoyed lunch and wouldn’t it be nice
if they got together again soon with
their wives over golf and brunch?
Licking the envelope, the sour chemicals brush my teeth
Again I think:

Why-O-Why did I get my liberal arts degree?

Running errands and faxing the day away
I didn’t need to read Simone de Bouvoir’s Second Sex for this
In depth knowledge of the Renaissance
Is not what my temp assignment depends on
No one in HR cares if I know about the history of Russia
(from the Czars to Stalin To Khrushchev and Glasnost's Gorbachev)
They just want to make sure I mind my manners and follow protocol
Critical Thinking is not a requirement
for catering orders or account reconciliation.
At the end of day, after a paper cut,
with my eyes blood shot and stinging
from gazing endlessly into my computer screen,
I think about what I know of poetry, art, philosophy
the western cannon, and world history
I ride the subway home and can’t help but think a little bitterly:

Why-O’-Why did I get my liberal arts degree?

Many (un)happy returns

Now I am not one to generally bitch about being in this city I love so much, but this particular return was especially painful. After spending nearly 2 weeks in Southern California and Mexico, my body was beginning to thaw, and my skin crisp up accordingly. That first cancer-inciting epidermis bake-off of the year always leaves me feeling quite refreshed. Sea air in my lungs and sand in my butt crack also satisfy fully. Needless to say, getting out of here was a treat indeed. What was diffrent about this escape, however, was that I usually start itching to get back to the fast life as soon as I'm gone. Not the case on this adventure. I rarely gave thought to the fact that I could not stroll down Christopher Street and fill my nostrils with the scents of leather and lube. Or that I couldn't grab a slice and walk the couple of blocks to the river where I could gaze at Lady Liberty (her back turned to me, as always, but I am convinced she'll turn around and throw me a wink one of these days). No, I barely even gave thought to the excitement that occurs here every single day that I was not a part of for that period of time. And then, as my vacation was drawing to a close, and it was time to pack up and return to the land I love, a most unusual thing happened... I felt ill. Actually, physically, ill! To the point where I could not even eat my incredibly delicious bowl of world famous crab and corn chowder. The anxiety of getting on that plane and leaving my newfound paradise was so overwhelming I felt as if I literally had the last digits of my sunburnt fingers curled around the west coast itself and was being pulled by my feet into the depths of nausea. I spent a hideous 7 hours in the airport cursing the vessel that would rip me from tranquility, and curled up miserably as I listened to screaming babies for the next 12 hours of flight/layover.
Then, crusty eyes opened to see the sights of Manhattan as we prepared to land in LaGuardia...and it all fell away. All the ridiculous apprehension, all the bratty self pity, it all fell away. As the taxi crossed the Williamsburg bridge and we drove along Houston toward home, the old feelings of I heart NY returned and I remembered that I do love this city and no sun soaked paradise could ever take its place.

Now that I've gotten the sap and cheese out of my system, I can assure that it will not return in a post here.


Thursday, May 19, 2005


1. Are Angelina and Brad really getting it on?  And, how can two people be so freakishly beautiful?

2.  Is there life on other planets?

3. If I/you could exhile one of these men to an indefinite period of time in a penal colony who would you choose: Dick Cheney,  Bill Frist,  George W. Bush, Tom Delay,or  Dr. Phil?

4.  What really happens at the Neverland Ranch at night?

5.  What cult  would I/you join just out of curiousity: The Church of Scientology, The Masons, The Falun Gong or Weight Watchers?  And, whatever happenned to The Moonies? 

6.  Why should some have so much and others so little?

7.  Would I/you rather get it on with Brad or Angelina?  (I'm honestly not sure who I'd choose).

8.  Will China be the next super -power?

9.  What part of my/your body do you, secretly, fantasize about having unnecessary, vanity based surgery on?

10.  What will happen when we run out of oil?

on repeat

I have to admit I am sorry I missed this . There's always next week.

I had a shockingly relaxing day. After spending too much time at work, I made it to Discount Shoe Warehouse and got some polka dot heels that I really did not need. I then got a pedicure. Yes I'm a goddamn girly girl. And then, I went out for dessert with my new friend Steven, who is adorable and fun and has a brilliant Australian accent. Of course we may not be friends for much longer if I continue to force him to say things like, "wallabee" and "the dingo ate my baby."

It was lovely to see him and he cheered me up to no end.

They need to make IPODS with repeat buttons, because I have been listening to the same song over and over this week. "Everything Will Be Alright" by The Killers is, well, killing me these days. It's simple and sad, and I must be a little weepy about something, because I cannot ride the subway without shedding a couple of tears. Sad song? Missing Martin? A combination of the two...

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

RAVES or what I love Right Now: Poetry (Literature’s Crazy Aunt in the Attic)

I picked up, randomly, at a used book store in Minneapolis a copy of some Edna St. Vincent Millay poems. I am on a poetry kick of sorts having now been obsessed with Elizabeth Bishop for the past year.

But what’s not to love or what’s not to delight in prose like this (Bishop’s poem One Art)

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my
last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like

Now, the Edna St. Vincent Millay poems are good, too, very temperamental, and, passionate, and, they kind of remind me of the William Blake school of romantic poetry i.e. underneath the discipline of the language is a wild, bohemian, spirit. Check out this poem by Millay which is short and brilliant and to-the-point:

Grown Up

Was it for this I uttered prayers
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past-eight?

There is some fantastic, truly lovely and funny, and, and, and, poignant poetry (like contemporary art, modern poetry tends to be just boring, self-referential, didactic, ugly crap) but, still why is it relegated to the some dusty corner of every bookstore like some crazy, alchoholic Aunt who is allowed out once a year for, like, Thanksgiving?

So, my advice to you all the next time you go into Barnes and Nobles** (or, rather the SMALL INDEPENDENT MOM AND POP BOOKSTORE YOU PATRONIZE IF YOU HAVE SOME SEMBLANCE OF A CONCSCIENCE) you should hop over to the poetry section and pick up a book or two.

Even your alchoholic Auntie deserves some respect and so do e.e. cummings, and Blake, and Keats, and Yeats, and Plath and Rich. Plus, poetry is perfect for subway rides: just ask the MTA.

** Despite my self-righteous plea for indie bookstores, I, too, succumb to the lure of convenience and, uh, often find myself trolling the corporate library a.k.a. the cavernous, monolith and Cotsco of Bookstores, the dreaded Barnes and Nobles…however, there’s no better place to read Vanity Fair or People for nothing (yes, gossip mags or, as I like to call them "the contemporary bible" and chain stores are some of my disgusting guilty pleasures).

What can I say: Prick me, I bleed (just like Shylock) or Prick me, I read (crap, too).

Gadget Rejection

I am waiting for cell phone companies to come out with a free, virtual therapy option which will come with an upgraded calling plan. I jest, of course, but what doesn’t a cell phone do now? This is a laughably trite observation (or the premise of a Ray Romano/Ellen De Generes/ Seinfeld joke) but, of course, it’s not that far fetched: the cell phone takes pictures, text messages, and, generally, acts as a virtual friend, the portable barometer of how popular you are in any single day.

In fact, my cell phone is a kind of head cheerleader I carry around with me in my-so-called-life. When I, feverishly, check it (more often than I care to admit-- just like a highschool’s reigning clique -- I pretend not to care about it) to see if I have any messages and I am told by the coldly seductive computer voice that “there are no new messages” I feel wholly rejected. I look and see the screen on my Sony Erickson reveal that there is no new miniscule envelope staring warmly at me and there is something singularly (or “cingularly” as it were) humbling about the realization that NO ONE WANTED TO CALL ME. And, if I am being honest, which, thus far I am, the fact that NO ONE WANTED TO CALL can’t help but make me think that NO ONE WAS THINKING ABOUT ME …… NO ONE.

In that Waiting for Godot with a cell phone moment when you know there is no rambling, incoherent, oftentimes, banal or annoying message stored in a satellite somewhere for you to listen to and you wonder if anyone will ever call you ever AGAIN; there is a particular sting of rejection you feel like not being asked out to Homecoming or Prom – the pain of being ignored, passed over, overlooked, or (and this is the worst!) forgotten about. Your own personal Welcome to the Dollhouse starring you as Weiner Dog only, now, Dawn Weiner is a late twenty-something and she's temping in New York and, besides, this is your real life not her reel life.

The cell phone, the blackberry, really, what are they but electronic buffers protecting us from loneliness? Try as we might with all our attempts to “reach out and touch someone”, to commune, to connect, to be wired, to be hooked up, to be able to communicate “more effectively”…we can’t and we don’t, we’ve just overdosed on communication. If anything these gadgets are just an ever more vivid reminder that as “hooked up” as “in touch” as “wired” as we are…the, "boo-hoo-hoo" fuck you -- it's true, the lonelier we are.

In the end the machine wins just like the Prom Queen : my Sony Ericsson is the ultimate Mean Girl.

Lunch Break

I had my own sonambulistic/cabinet of Dr. Caligarish moment today -- admittedly brought on, not by existential dread or circumstances beyond my control, but by too little oxygen in the brain; the result of too little sleep after a night of making mixed cds, punctuated by silly midnight talk with my roommate. So, today, I pay the price of too little sleep and I drag and feel the full weight of my bones; I move a little slower; my self-awareness blurred by the fatigue so all my interactions have taken on a slightly unreal quality.
When I walked outside my corporate cage for lunch I felt, vaguely, like a ghost drifting through the mid-town noon crowd, the hot-dog vendors, the delivery men, the ladies in their jimmy-choo shoes clicking by, the handbag sellers, the temps grabbing an ill-advised smoke, the fellow photosynthesis/freedom seekers.
Even the breeze and the spring sun seemed fictional, products of a Hollywood backlot, and it's in those moments you realize how fleeting life is! , how temporary you are, the numbness brought on by the fatigue acts as a seductive elixir because, for once, you are too tired to get upset by the finite amount of time you've been allotted.

Monday, May 16, 2005


Check out this hottie I hung out with the other day.

a beautiful day

whats up everyone! i just wanted to comment on what a beautiful day it is here in the city! Its so sunny and gorgeous. Unfortunately I am stuck inside cleaning and rearranging my studio on the upper east side, but i hope you all get a chance to get out today! Take care!

Sunday, May 15, 2005

An introduction and Basquiat

Hey everyone! My name is Erica and I am a personal friend to all of the Stirring hipsters. Especially Shoni, thats my girl. So anyway, I just wanted to let everyone know how much I totally love living in the city! Yesterday, I went to the Brooklyn Museum and explored the Basquiat exhibit which was like....unexplainably incredible! Then, I went and had Jamaican food at this incredible resturant called Island Paradise. The food was amazing! I mean, they have things like ox tail and curried goat! ONLY IN THE CITY!!!! Take care everyone!

Friday, May 13, 2005

parlez-vous francaise?

Or the ever popular "voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?"

Either way, I just finished my French final, which means all that remains is a fifteen page paper on Beckett and then my semester is finished. I don't know how I did on this test. It felt easy, but as I was just telling Eric, at this stage of French knowledge, my vocabulary is really limited to phrases like, "The dog is barking at my bird." Actually I don't even know the word for "bark". I think I put that the dog was TALKING to my bird. I hope this class doesn't bring down my GPA, which teeters on the edge of genius.

I want to nail the French because hopefully after Edinburgh, Martin and I are going to go on vacation for a week...hopefully to gay Paree. Iceland is out of the picture right now because I have to come home by the second week in September for school and I feel like Iceland merits more than a week. Right? Too bad because from Scotland, flights are cheap. Martin wants to go to Paris, I want to go to the south of France, either way, one of us needs to be able to ask where the bathroom is and how much is that bottle of wine (though not necessarily in that order)?

I'm off to yoga and possibly some serious caffeine consumption. I've only had two lattes today and I still have a headache. Looks like I have a habit...

Thursday, May 12, 2005

Wandering the town...

So, today was an incredibly beautiful day... It was pretty goddamn perfect - well, it WOULD have been perfect if it weren't for my fucking allergies (thank you, Claritin and every other antihistamine in existence for making it somewhat bearable.) Anyway, I chose to suffer because I prefer sunshine and sneezing over being indoors and Central Park is just too inviting during this time of year. New York only gets perfect spring weather like this for maybe a week and a half before changing from winter slush to summer hot box. So, I hit the park for a while and sucked back a bubble tea from Lili's for lunch. Oh my God, bubble tea. It's the best. I'm convinced that those little balls of tapioca are more addictive than crack cocaine and are better than anything ever offered at Starbucks and somehow one almond milk tea with tapioca has enough sugar, caffeine and starchy fun to keep me going all afternoon.

Upon sucking back my bubble tea, I decided to head down to Soho for a little impromptu shopping. The sweet little cobblestone streets of Soho are always so beautiful - I think it's one of my favorite areas in the city - and the cute little designer boutiques mixed with high-end retail stores, adorable cafes and knock-off street vendors are just all too much fun. I am SO glad that I don't live in the neighborhood because I just don't have the paycheck or the willpower to walk past those stores every day. Anyway, I bought this fabulous black sequined scarf (which can be worn as a belt, scarf, in my hair, whatever - it's multi-purpose, so I had to have it) from a street vendor. Originally $10 - using my clever bartering techniques, I talked him down to 8 bucks. Score. I then lazily window-shopped for the rest of the afternoon - Rampage, Miss Sixty, Nanette Lepore, Apple, Agent Provocateur, and finally BCBG. I decided to try on some stuff in BCBG - I love their clothes, so I knew I was entering dangerous territory. I found a fantastically versatile black crochet cardi-wrap. Definition of cardi-wrap: it's both a cardigan AND a wrap, if you can imagine that. I looooove cardi-wraps. They can be worn, like, six different ways and always look great with jeans, a dress, everything. So, I was very satisfied with my purchase and, of course, became such good friends with the sales lady there that she's now going to phone me every time BCBG has a private sale or event. Right.... so that I can be reminded to spend more money that I don't have. Sigh. Well - it was a treat and we all deserve treats once in a while, right?

I then met up with a dear friend of mine for an iced chai at a cafe appropriately called cafe cafe. Seriously. Mmmmm - injected more caffeine into my body and chatted with him until dusk. My friend's a wonderful actor and photographer and he snapped a few shots of me while we talked (I'm sure I looked goofy - I always do!) Due to my overly-mellow mood, he kept asking me if I was stoned, and I let him know that I was only hopped up on antihistamines and tapioca. After chai and chatter, I jumped on a train, headed home and took more Claritin, before passing out mid-sneeze. Wonderful mellow day off. Days off are great.


So I had this wierd dream last night. I was with JOY actually and a bunch of other people and we were in some large institutional building...or maybe it was just a college dorm? Everyone was running around and getting extremely drunk, but there was something wrong. Not sure what, but something bad was happening. And Joy's very cute lawyer friend kept running up to me and he looked really freaked out, but they all just kept drinking. So to get away from the madness and the drinking (I actually wasn't drinking because I was so scared), I ran away from everyone. There were all these hills and I ended up near another dorm really close by and Jessica Simpson showed up. She was nervous too, so she was chain-smoking Parliaments. And even though I haven't smoked since November, i bummed one from her, and Jessica and I had a smoke to relax and talked about her kid.

Any guesses on what this means? Anyone?


Sunday, May 08, 2005

Join me on Friendster!

Join me on Friendster!

Hey there - I just joined this great site called Friendster - a place where I can keep in touch with all of my friends - and also meet my friends' friends! It's AWESOME. I've posted pics and hope to meet everyone there. There's even a link spot for our blog - I love it! Join me and be my friend. :-)
this is an audio post - click to play

Joy Posted by Hello

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