august

2000
july
june
may
april
march
february
january

1999
december
november
october
september
august
july
june
may
april
march
february
january

1998
december
november
october
september

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

phone home

8/31/00
I keep forgetting that I'm supposed to be looking for a job. It wasn't until I just got a rejection email (the second this week) that I was reminded. Considering that I have six months to look and with the same pay I was getting working 45+ hours a week, I'm not terribly bothered nor motivated to pound the pavement all that hard. I did have an interview tues. for which I feel 87% positive about, but I don't want to jinx it by talking about it. I really don't understand job searches. Like the first 3 weeks that I was off, I sent out a billion resumes and got no response (the rejection email I just got was for something I applied for over a month ago). Well, that's not wholly true, I got a response and offer from Barnes and Noble.com, but turned it down. Then there are the random companies (like Barnes and Noble) that call and interview all within a matter of days of receiving the resume, which is the case with this tues. thing. It's usually not a bad sign, but still, there doesn't seem to be much rhyme or reason to who responds promptly and who never gets back to you at all. Ah, who needs all this job seeking fuss. A new candy bar I found today got me more excited than any silly job lead ever could. It's all about priorities, you know?

8/29/00
I'm starting to get excited about my upcoming Portland trip. I mean, it was good enough with just prospect of a suburban trashy high school reunion, but it's getting better and better. The friend I'm staying with will be out of town the first two nights (sat and sun--I forgot that everyone goes out of town on Labor Day weekend), but this worked out o.k. because my mom will also be out of town that weekend and offered her home to me. Now that home is mobile, mind you. Last week she was telling me about her neighbors who are all missing teeth and let strangers sleep in their yard. This is going to be hot! And James was already all scared to go because he's dumb and has never been to the Northwest and thinks everyone are hippes, stoners or hillbillies and this will be a brilliant introduction to the Oregon lifestyle. I was racking my brain, coming up with all sorts of places we needed to visit and Izzy's Buffet immediately came to mind. One, because they have all you can eat Hawaiian pizza, which you'd never find around these parts. And two, because it's a creepy paradise where only the finest social misfits dine. The second to the last time I visited Izzy's there was a woman in a wheelchair wearing shorts with just stumps poking out. These were no ordinary stumps. It looked like the legs from the knees down had been recently removed and the stumpy part was all wet and covered in chapped, flaky skin. Probably not the most appetizing sight, but hey, the wheelchair bound need their jello salad and jo jo (I never realized that "jo jo" potatoes were such a regional thing until recently) fix as much as the next guy. Then me and my mom sat at a booth next to this family with a girl who wouldn't stop yelping and shrieking, and my mom who's much more forward and hot-tempered than me asked the family if she was going to be doing that all night and they were all offended because I guess she was deaf. And once again, deaf Asian kids are entitled to their all you can eat children's meal too, but you don't necessarily want to sit right next to them. My last day of freshman year in high school was a rare treat. Me and a bunch of friends headed over to the Izzy's across the street to get the $5.95 all you can eat lunch special and share the same plate. We were enjoying our semi-scammed meal when Izzy Covalt (the founder of this fine chain), in all her scarecrow-looking emaciated glory came over to our table to ask us about our summer vacation plans. It was too much. See, I've had a lot of touching experiences involving Izzy's. Now this is unbelievable, but the very day after I was reminiscing about Izzy's, my mom emailed me about birthday plans. Her birthday is Sept. 4 and I thought it'd be kind to take her out somewhere "nice". I suppose nice is a relative term because you can only guess what establishment she suggested...that's right, Izzy's Buffet!! It was like she'd been reading my white trash mind. There's no guarantee that any deformed or disfigured folks will be dining with us on that evening, but one can dream, right? Ooh, I can't wait. Jeez, I'd just uploaded this page and was all wound up about Oregon and had to visit my favorite site, "The Gresham Outlook" Police Log. I always forget how good it is. Now I'm getting really antsy for the Gresham High reunion, but anyway, I haven't figured out how to link to the page since it changes every wed and sat, but in the mean time I had to list the cream of this week's crop:

Public indecency cases
Joel D. Hanken, 20, of Boring was cited and released for public indecency after allegedly masturbating in a backyard on the 1400 block of Southwest 31st Street at 3:45 p.m. Wednesday, Aug. 16, according to a police report. He told police he was embarrassed by the incident, adding that he was turned on after watching "Basic Instinct" on cable. When an officer proved he hadn't ordered the pay-per-view-movie as he had claimed, Hanken said he was turned on just by watching TV.

Yes, there is a town bordering Gresham, OR called Boring.

8/24/00
For a little over a week now, I've been walking pretty much the same 15 min. route (I just looked at a map and figured out that it's only 9 blocks. Those must be some big, curving blocks because walking fast as I can, it's never less than 15 min.) twice a day to and from that freaky gym that I still can't believe I go to every (week) day. Today I started getting bored with the same repetitive stroll. This became apparent when I cracked up at a car window sticker that said, "I suffer from a case of C.R.S. (can't remember shit)." I mean, that's the most interesting thing I saw all morning, (well, technically afternoon-I spent the morning at that horrible H&M store that I was bitching about when it first opened because it was cheap and cool in England but here it's a pushing, shoving madhouse with no clothes in my size. Of course nobody twisted my arm and forced me to go, but I bought these clothes on my birthday and two items didn't fit and today was the last day I could go return them and stay in the 30 day return policy period) which is kind of sad. I was chuckling at the inanity of it when I heard this huge boom behind me. I looked back and half way down the block this car had struck a wooden power pole (I don't know what they're called exactly) so hard it completely ripped out of the cement sidewalk and smashed the front end of the car and was pinning it down at a 45 degree angle. I was on my way to the grocery store and normally would keep walking (it's not as if the passengers would be neglected-there were like a million kids on scooters, chain-smoking stay at home moms, and general lazy bums making an obstacle course out of the sidewalk), but I got the urge to gawk at the scene of the accident. It was really nuts, some Eastern European woman was wailing and screaming and running around the street and people were holding her up and she didn't appear to be the driver so I figured whoever was the driver must be badly injured or dead for her to be carrying on like that, but when I got closer there was some late teens/early 20's guy just sitting in the driver's seat looking o.k. I gathered the overly-hysterical woman was his mom. Maybe he was learning to drive, who knows? I didn't feel so bad about ogling the scene since no one seemed to be seriously injured. But I was bothered by the fact that there were power lines touching the sidewalk and sagging down across the middle of the intersection so large trucks and busses had to back up and create all sorts of traffic havoc and that no one seemed to have any concept of what electrocution may do to a person. I kept thinking of that scene in "The Ice Storm" where Elijah Wood gets killed by a down power line, but of course the scene was all dreamy and he was all girly-boy angelic looking and if any of these nosy, loud-mouthed Queens kids got shocked it would just be ugly and nothing nice to witness at all. Definitely not arty movie fodder. Of course I was glued to the corner as well, but I felt above it all. Like it would totally be my luck to be finally getting my act together career-wise (I've been very positive about jobs lately) and health-wise (seriously considering quitting smoking after my trip in a week and working out like some fool five times a week) and then to get killed by something so stupid as a power line because I couldn't just keep walking and mind my own business. I'm always waiting for something bad and unexpected to zap me when things go too well. Like when after 10 months of stalking and pining away for that retard James Robb and he called me out of the blue and wanted to go on a date and then that same week I had bad test results and had to get a biopsy, I feared it was one of those good must be tempered with bad situations that I'm talking about. But so far, I haven't developed cancer and of course I didn't get struck by a power line today so I guess that means things are A-O.K. for now.

8/20/00
Something weird is in the air. I thought it was just me, but it seems like all of a sudden, everyone I talk to seems to be feeling completely bored and old. Like nothing is fun as it used to be. The tendency is to blame external forces, this is a lame bar, these aren't my type of people, this neighborhood sucks, dancing feels stupid, there aren't any good shows, parties aren't what they used to be, etc. I hate to admit it, but I suppose that if nothing is fun, maybe you should look inward rather than expect to be entertained by the world. I was talking with my friend Jessica yesterday and we both were trying to figure out why we don't have a "crowd" and where do you find a one anyway. It's not like we don't have friends, but this city beats you up and no one has time for anyone, barely enough for themselves really (well, not me as of late--I'm full of me time). Now that I think about it, this isn't the first time I've worried about the lack of fun in my life. Back in '98 before I moved here, I was racking my brain with coworkers, we were all trying to come up with the last time we truly had fun and it was difficult for all. I think we agreed that it has something to do with getting older, like I was the only one in my 20's and the only one who still thought it was fun to go out and get trashed several nights a week. They all told me that I'd get sick of that sort of thing, and though I didn't believe it at the time, maybe they were right. Last night I went out with Jessica, we went from cool bar to cool bar, and you know what? It wasn't very much fun. Every place seemed to be full of people younger than us, people who didn't seem particularly interesting, people who were definitely not fun. I didn't even see a single vaguely cute guy. Not that I'm looking, it struck me that the appeal of drinking and gallivanting around town til all hours is the off chance that you'll make that connection, hit it off with that guy you've been waiting for, the flirting, the sexual tension, the misery when it never works out...good stuff like that. But what do you do when one day it does work out? You get what you want and then what? Comfort and complacency scares me. This is how people end up unhappily married with children. They've got nothing better to do, they've given up, they get all insulated and creepy. Yet for as much as I've always been so down on "couplehood" (as that crazy mad about you Paul Reiser would say) and all the trappings of domestic bliss, my opinions have started to soften. Not too long ago me and my sister came up with criteria for marriage (she got married at 20 to some guy she only knew for a couple weeks and moved to England with him. This was 5 years ago and they're still together).

1). You want to touch them.
2). They make you laugh.
3). You have something in common.

That's all there is to it. Deceptively simple, yet tragically difficult to achieve. Maybe it's just me and the people I know, but it's nearly impossible to fulfill all three of these qualities with guys we meet. And you know why? Because guys aren't very fun. A love at first sight thing usually takes care of the wanting to touch them aspect, this is the easiest part. Whether or not they make you laugh (and vice versa) is the true test. You wouldn't believe the amount of guys who may be cute on the outside, but dull as an episode of "Everyone Loves Raymond" once they open their mouth. Jessica always ends up going out with these horrible stoner/player/dudes, as I like to call them, and things never work out and I'd always ask her if they made her laugh and if they actually had fun together. The answer was always no. We decided that this is the most seriously lacking component of all. Who needs a hot stick in the mud? Now having something in common, just one thing, may sound too easy, but it's the final glue that cements the deal once the first two standards have been met. I don't care what it is, maybe you both like Sally Jessy Raphael or eating soft pretzels with mustard. This is fine. Of course in a perfect world, you'd both enjoy poetry readings and stay up late nights writing verse together or be fanatical about badminton and start a team, but let's not make things more impossible than they already are. Oops, I've gotten off track here and please don't misinterpret, I'm not getting any silly notions about marriage for myself. I'm just saying that it's a freakin' miracle that people can get together and maintain a real connection at all these days. This became acutely apparent last night. After hopping here and there, seeking out fun and adventure and observing crowds I wanted absolutely nothing to do with, we ended up at the bar we usually go to anyway. It was mellow, there were seats (very important for an aging 20-something), the drinks were a buck or two cheaper and the bartender gave us free ones anyway. I can't say it was the ultimate fun, that still needs to be worked on, but I didn't feel wholly rotten either. After leaving, I started walking the five blocks to James' apt. (he was out of town and it was more convenient than attempting a journey to Queen) and it felt weird being out late by myself. I hadn't done it in ages. And to be perfectly honest, I don't really miss falling asleep/passing out on long subway rides and being hit on by strangers. I got a block from the apt. when I saw a guy heading towards me. It suddenly struck me odd how desolate this block was for being slightly after 4 am. The bars were all closing and everywhere else there were crowds of people milling around. I got nervous for no good reason and I just knew he was going to pull something when we passed. I was walking slow because I was wearing new sandals and my big toes were all cut and bloody, he approached me and asked what I was doing. I said "nothing" and tried to pick up the pace. He asked if I was going home to which I said yes. Then he asked me if I was a whore!! I found this slightly amusing, but it pissed me off nonetheless. After my answering in the negative, he still asked me if I wanted to go have a beer with him. What's that about?! Like if I was a whore, we could just get down to business, but since I wasn't maybe we could still spend some time together. I don't know, it was just so wrong. Slightly off the subject, but it made me think about how the only movie that features my street is "Jerky Boys" and the film that showcases the street I was walking down is "Taxi Driver." Jodie Foster's teen prostitute character lived on 13th st. between 3rd and 2nd avenues and that's right where I was. This was a little funny to me. And wasn't the whole point of my sat. night supposed to be about fun? Of course. No one can say I don't have any fun.

8/18/00
After two years and three months in the place, I've finally made the decision to make a visit back to Portland. I'd wanted to for a while, but I never had the time or the money. I still don't really have the money, but if you wait around for things to be perfect, you'll end up waiting half your life. I think it'll be fun and it gives me more time to be unemployed. I mean, you can't go seriously pursuing jobs and then take off your first week or two of work. So now I can say to myself that I'll get a job after sept. 10 when I come back. I'll get to see old friends, my mom's new mobile home, go to my 10 year reunion, see some nature, visit my poor neglected little cat, and look at my 15 boxes of records, housewares and books that I doubt will ever be shipped to me here since it's too freakin' expensive. Oh god, I can't believe I actually went to that gym yesterday. Really, it wasn't so bad, but it's so not my thing, I feel like a freak. The only good thing to keep in mind is that this is a Ridgewood, Queens gym. It's not as if I have to fear a room full of beautiful people giving me the evil eye (not that they would anyway, but I have issues with people who think they're hot shit. My friend Jane just got a job at Razorfish ["cool," cutting edge internet co. that puts quotes on their website like, "It is better to be an ordinary man working for a living than to play the part of a great man but go hungry," and the founder owns a hip lounge in the lower east side where they throw foofy parties that get written up] and made some comment along the lines of, "yeah, it's full of beautiful people, but it's a good job if you want to pay your student loans off." I don't know why I even care about stuff like this, but it made me feel icky). Of course there were some fit, hardbodied types, but it was about a 50/50 mix with very large women. And I do mean large, I hate to pump myself up at the expense of other's shortcomings (well, not really), but at this orientation thing they weighed and measured us and people had like 50+ inch hips and more than a few were over 200 pounds so I didn't feel all that bad. Yesterday there was this gruesome mother and daughter twosome who didn't seem to be doing much of anything except going really, really slow on the bikes. They were a total freak show, like the daughter had super thick glasses and seemed sort of "slow" and talked in this demented high pitched squeal like deaf people do and kept looking at me all weird. Part of me was like, I can't deal with this, then the other part was like, I'm on a treadmill in Queens at noon on a thurs. listening to Rick James and Chaka Khan (not by choice) and this is really freakin' hilarious. Nobody can tell me I'm not living the good life.

8/15/00
As could be gathered from the previous entry, I've got a fixation with Chinatown. I didn't even get into the whole ordeal of trying to track down soft-shell crabs while lugging around a newly purchased printer (not for me, and I didn't buy it. Computers are so disturbing. I bought a printer in '96 for $289, which was pretty expensive at the time and I'm still paying it off on credit I bet and it's all beat up and I can't use it anymore because it's for Mac and now I have a PC and now you can get comparable printers for under $100. I can't keep up) through mobs of tourists and the usual slew of really, really slow elderly (and not so elderly) Chinese folks, or the demented gumball machine selling some toy called GOOK. I never thought I'd be grossed out by unusual food items, but I got really freaked out by the live frogs piled feet high in plastic garbage cans. People were buying them and they were just shoving them in baggies and smooshing them all around and I know they were for eating anyway, but it's still traumatizing seeing them getting manhandled so roughly. I should've been more freaked out by the sea turtles in tubs, but no one seemed to be buying those. There were these giant shrimp who kept jumping up and landing out on the sidewalk where people would step on them. The ones that didn't get smashed would get thrown back into their tub by the woman selling them. I couldn't help but worry a little about the state of my soft-shell crabs (which were already dead, I couldn't deal with chopping off their faces and killing them like you're supposed to). It got me to wondering where does this seafood (and frogs) come from? The fish, eels and assorted crustaceans are alive and sitting in water. Someone must catch them locally or within a reasonable shipping distance. I don't know where you can catch eels in the n.y. vicinity. It's sort of baffling. God, then last night my dad called and I haven't spoken to the man in maybe 6 months. I don't really have anything against him, but he's so absent minded and doesn't keep in contact with me or my sister and never remembers birthdays until months later and doesn't send anything half the time. But anyway, his wife who visited N.Y. once in 1977, got on the phone and was asking me about places I'd visited and was appalled that I'd never been to the Statue of Liberty, then out of the blue said, "You should stay out of Chinatown" and proceeded to tell me how dangerous it is and how she knows because she was shown around town (23 years ago, don't forget) by a distant relative who was a retired nyc police detective and he put the fear of God in her regarding that horrible, crime infested Chinese neighborhood. I can't deal with these people. I really can't. At least I can rest assured knowing there's no way in hell they will every come visit me. I mean, they think Portland is scary and the place is like 99% white. To them non-white=danger and taking public transportation is a fate worse than death so a mere subway ride around town would be enough to send them packing. But the less said about them, the better. O.k., I did something so incredibly fucked-up today that I'm still not 100% sure I even really did it. I don't mean the kind of fucked-up that involves large quantities of alcohol and/or drugs and complete strangers in compromising situations. I didn't say or do anything harmful or innappropriate. I did something so uncharacteristically disturbing that I almost can't talk about it. All I can say is that too much free time can put strange ideas in a girl's head. O.k...I joined a gym. I don't think I've touched a weight or moved my legs faster than a brisk walk during rush hour in more than 10 years. Somehow the idea go in my head and it seemed like a good idea and I went and signed up and gave them my credit card number before I came to my senses. I hate exercising, drink like a fish, smoke like a chimney and lay in bed til noon every day. This ought to be interesting. And it's not like there's a lot of gyms in Ridgewood and none in my immediate neighborhood so I picked this chain that caters to women in "lower Ridgewood." Lower pretty much means Latin. I figured it would be a Latina kind of place where I'd stick out like a sore thumb and I was right. They offer classes like "salsa aerobics" and the girl who signed me up questioned me about my last name and asked suspiciously if I was really Spanish and said that people must always think I'm white. Well yes, they do. I'm all into it. Now that I'm getting paid to sit around on my ass, I might as well do some self-improving while I have the chance. Tomorrow I get to go to orientation, get the equipment explained to me and figure out my fitness/weight loss goals. I feel like I'm being a different person. Next thing you know I'll be starting a family and driving an SUV. O.k., that's not going to happen. Not ever. I'm just sick of being a lazy-ass and I love eating like a pig. I'm not going to stop eating like a pig so the only remedy is doing something about the lazy-ass part and reaching some sort of middle ground.

8/14/00
Last week I got motivated to put away all my winter clothes, and now it's cold enough to wear them. It's been rainy and in the 60's all week (all week? It's only mon., but it seems like a week) and it's the best thing that's happened. However, I'm still feeling lazy. I was blaming not cleaning the house, not sitting down and writing "real" stuff and watching lots of TV on being too hot, but now there's no excuse. I've got all these ideas for things to write, but I've never been able to market myself and then I get mad because I see things I've thought of being used. Most of the stuff I'd been considering lately were food related items since that was my job and it's one of my interests. Like I thought it'd be cool to do something on desserts/pastries in Chinatown and then some bastard just did it for IndiePlanet.com. I thought it would be interesting to write about this new crazy Chinese restaurant Funky Broome (it's on Broome St., I don't think it actually has anything to do with brooms) and then they profiled it in "The New York Times." I also thought there should be something done about sundaes and how you never see them much outside of chain restaurants and then "The New York Times" had all these famous chefs take on the sundae and put their personal twists and touches on them. I need to get my act together. It's not like I'm being obnoxious and talking about that amazing screenplay that I'm going to make millions off of. Just a couple short articles peddled here and there. It's pretty sad if someone has a handful of decent ideas, oodles of free time and perfectly damp, stay-inside weather, and they still can't get motivated. Fri, night I went to this restaurant that I'd been hearing about, Pakistani Tea House, that's a cabbie hangout. It's this little 24 hour, three table, paper plates kind of place with pretty good food and a case of adorable desserts. (Before leaving I wanted to get some sweets, but it was hard to choose between the bright pink blobs and the wet, drippy brown chunks with specks of green. I settled on three choices and I think the woman behind the counter who seemed to be Scandinavian or something, which was really weird, thought I was a pig. She handed me two forks, as if I was going to share my sweets with my dining companion [James, who hates coconut and is highly suspicious of Asian desserts]. Not a chance). The clientele were all non-American cabdrivers getting things to go. For a brief period there was even a line out the door. All in all, it was a successful cap to a Friday night. Just for the record, in last week's food section of "The New York Times" there was a bit on cabbies knowing where the good, cheap Indian food is and listed three restaurants (Pakistani Tea House wasn't one of them) and I'm not claiming that was one of my brilliant ideas that was somehow stolen. Sometimes things are just coincidence. I went on a wild goose chase through the furthest reaches of Chinatown on sat. trying to track down a Vietnamese Sandwich place I'd heard about. I never did find it, but ended up in this little pocket that I vaguely remember stumbling upon during my first trip to n.y. in 1994. I love it when you think you know an area pretty well and then one day get surprised by taking a weird turn and discover all sorts of new fun (when I was a teen, me and my sister used to try getting lost on purpose and it just never worked. We'd make up patterns in the car like at every green light go right, then right at the next, then left, and do the right, right, left thing in hopes of finding something new, but I swear that every time we'd end up on McGloughlin Blvd, which is like a minor highway and once you get on, it's miles before you can exit. It was very frustrating). I found a little circular mall sort of like one in Toronto, but dingier (I take that back, the bathroom in the Toronto mall was possibly the filthiest I've ever seen and I have a high tolerance for bad smells. I was amazed by these two Chinese women just hanging out having a conversation in there) and with barely any shoppers. There was a store with good Sanrio stuff like Hello Kitty shower curtains, fluffy toilet seat covers and a Chococat bulletin board. I'm always happy to see stores carrying housewares on top of the usual stickers and stationery. Up the street was a great storefront with the best name I've seen in ages, Beef Jerky. All they sell is jerky. How is that possible? How can you stay afloat selling nothing but homemade Asian-style jerky in a relatively isolated neighborhood next to the East River? Nevertheless, it was very cool and quite a boon since James is obsessive about jerky like I am about candy and sugary treats. He got 1/4 pound of "spicy beef jerky" that he insists wasn't real meat. I don't know what it would be if it wasn't meat, but it was pretty tasty. After the yummy mystery meat we went to Saint's Alp Teahouse and got trendy Taiwanese tea. Everything's frothy or bubbly, neon green or pastel pink and excruciatingly sweet. I was tempted by the Toast section of the small menu. It's literally toast with toppings like peanut butter, condensed milk or coconut cream. I guess there is business to be had with simple things like toast and jerky. I think I need to become some sort of egg entrepreneur. Imagine an entire menu centered around the humble egg! Or maybe...breadsticks! Top Ramen? Bologna? Oh, I'm going to strike it rich one of these days.

8/13/00
Lord, that unemployment orientation was all that I'd hoped for, and then some. I thought we'd have to be subjected to a lame video since there was a TV and VCR in the corner, but no. It was better. We got to listen to a 9 min. audio recording about the rules and regulations, on some rickety '70's cassette player sitting on a chair. I was disgruntled about all the hassle, especially since the whole thing took like 20 min and I spent 7 times that in travel time, but my tune changed a bit when I got my first check fri. and realized that not counting taxes, I'm making $80 more a month on unemployment than I was working. That doesn't seem right somehow. Not that I'm complaining, it certainly allows me to be pretty picky and choosy about what I decide to do next job-wise. But what that is, I'm not too sure.

8/8/00
"Idle hands are the devil's playground." I used to think that was pretty true, but I haven't been getting into too much trouble these days. The worst things I've done are spend too much money on food and sleep more than my fair share. Troubling, but not trouble. Not one of the many jobs I applied for last week have gotten back to me so I've decided to goof off for a while instead of getting all crazy with resume revamping like I should be. Today I went to Chinatown to get ingredients for a recipe. I was going to write a book review of an upcoming S.E. Asian cookbook, "Hot Sour Salty Sweet" for my previous job and part of that involved testing a recipe. But I would've been reimbursed for ingredients so I had a fancy duck curry recipe picked out. I had to change my plans a bit and chose a Jungle Curry (that means without coconut milk) instead. I didn't end up finding everything I needed--kra chai, some obscure rhizome and wild lime leaves--but it turned out pretty well. At least I was able to finally use the food processor I got for my birthday. I don't think I've mentioned this yet, partly because I'm trying not to be a nasty complainer and it's good to avoid subject that will rile me up unnecessarily (like this weekend there was some "game" being played by coworkers of James in Williamsburg called Ghost in the Graveyard where you go to bars hunting for clues and wear glow sticks and shit and we didn't play, but met some of the participants for drinks later and one guy who's reasonably nice, but sometimes rubs me the wrong way because he's elitist and Cambridge-educated, was going on about the loft he just applied for in Williamsburg and how it's near the J/M train and how after the first stop it gets "sketchy" and I got all indignant because that's my train, of course, and I didn't appreciate his condemning the entire subway line after his stop for being low-class. My hot temper and aptness to fly off the handle at the most seemingly innocent comments is the main reason James didn't want to play the game--I'm sure that if he was alone, he would've taken part in the lame festivities), but tomorrow I have to go out to freakin' Jamaica, Queens for an "Unemployment Orientation." This is a bunch of shit. In order to get unemployment I must go to a mandatory meeting about how to look for jobs, write resumes, and how to use the goddamn internet. If this is not bad enough, they picked the time, date and location for me. I'm really mad that because of my zipcode I have to go to Jamaica. I live nowhere near Jamaica. This will be like a two hour subway ride, one way. And the best part is their telling me to come dressed and prepared to go on an immediate interview. My ass. The rest of the country just sends their unemployed a check every week. But, oh no, not in New York...they'll do everything in their power to make things as difficult and unpleasant as possible. Uh oh, now I'm getting all steamed and I was supposed to writing something nice and brief before going to bed. "Never go to bed angry" there's another useles adage for you.

8/7/00
Though not necessarily by choice, I've been spending more time in my neighborhood than I have in over a year. I rediscovered the sidewalk full of crappy baby strollers, weights, and ratty lamps for sale next to the M/L train junction. From up on the M platform, you can peek down and see if there's anything good for sale (which there usually isn't). Once I saw a cool table that looked like it had two abstract fish on it, but it was gone the next day, and I almost got sucked in by this tapestry thing with a Himalayan cat on it, but resisted. But last week I noticed this couch, it wasn't anything special, but it wasn't the usual 80's overstuffed, earth-toned muck that's usually piled up. It was sort of suburban late 60's with a simple wood frame and chartreuse and yellow plaid cushions. Now I've never had a couch and this wouldn't be my #1 choice in the whole world, but it was pretty cute and didn't appear to have anything wrong with it except for its $99 price tag. All the other couches sell for about $45 and there's this one sitting there for twice as much. I can't figure it out. This is the sort of area where older doesn't mean antique, it means yucky and undesirable. People want modern things, even if they're ugly and made of particleboard. Well, Saturday I looked again and it was still there, but had been "reduced for quick sale" to $75. To me, this is still too expensive for a used couch, but I'm waffling a bit. I mean, furniture is expensive. Even a low-end basic Ikea couch is like $499 and this is the kind of place where you could offer $50 and get all obnoxious, it's a sidewalk flea market, for crying out loud. Today it was still there and I could even see one of the workers sitting on it, he appeared to be rubbing his face near his nose (I can't say for sure if he picked it) and then rubbed the arm of the sofa. I wanted to yell down and make him knock it off, but that would've been a little out of line. I think that if it's still there tomorrow and I muster the energy to walk down in the heat, I'll get it. This is one of those kinds of things where you hem and haw and then finally make up your mind and then the day you go, the thing you want is no longer there. That would really suck, but I guess it would be my own fault for being indecisive. Speaking of the neighborhood, I saw a movie the other night that showed my block. I got excited for like 10 seconds, never mind that it was "The Jerky Boys." I don't know much about them and don't really care all that much either, but they were supposed to live in Ridgewood and all this comedy ensued when they fooled some mobsters into sending a limo over to Fresh Pond Rd. to pick them up. And speaking of the neighborhood again, a couple weeks ago I noticed a new store around the corner with this banner, "Ice Cream Parlor and Entertainment Center" and I felt sort of bad because there weren't any customers inside. I did wonder what they meant by entertainment center and when I peeked in I saw a back room with shelves of cds and Metallica posters on the wall. Entertaining, indeed. But then when I lost my job I got disgruntled and mean-spirited and thought that maybe the guy should go out of business to teach him a lesson about...oh my god, I started writing this around 4 pm and next thing I knew it was almost 7--I must've fallen asleep out of pure disgust and heat exhaustion. So...I thought this guy should learn a lesson about following his dreams putting time and money into something he loves just to have it all dashed, but I realized how fucking mean that is. I just decided that I want his ice cream parlor to be a success after all--I may even throw on some clothes and head down there this evening. Big doings in Ridgewood, Queens!

8/3/00
All this time off is making me ansty. Free time isn't so much fun when you don't have anyone to do things with and no money to spend. I won't even get into the recent heat wave because being hot, miserable and sweaty is old hat at this point. At least I've had the chance to revamp my goodies page. It takes like an hour to load, but then, nothing's perfect.

8/1/00
Ah...August. Well, I've been doing a little of this and that with all my new found free time. Thurs. I had a mini birthday party complete with a cake made to look like a giant Hostess Snowball. I love those things, especially during the holidays when they make bright colored ones. My mom always sends me new colors since they don't sell them much in n.y. and I think I may have mentioned the creepy purple Easter shade before. The yellow was all bright, cheery and festive, but the purple/lavender one was all muddy greyish-brown. I took a photo, but it didn't turn out well enough to show its true unappetizing nature. Sat. I went to my first ever sporting event, a Mets game! I've never followed baseball, but since Shea Stadium is in Queens I sort of feel like they're my team. It was good for the experience, but those games are damn long. I don't know, baseball isn't quite lively enough for me, but at least the Mets beat the Cardinals and Shea is one stop from Flushing so I got to poke around their Chinatown and eat glutinous goodies made from bean paste and coconut. I also finally got to see that Unisphere from the 1964 world's fair up close and personal. You can see it from the Long Island Expressway, but it's much cooler face to face. Now kids with those newfangled scooters use it as a playground. God, jobs make me crazy. I interviewed at Barnes and Noble.com and totally didn't want the job. I know it sounds nuts for an unemployed person to be picky, but taking the first available crappy job is what's gotten me into trouble my entire life. The whole idea with moving here was to get out of library work and then I got waylaid with Pratt. This Database Category Editor position is a total library job. Most of the people I saw seemed o.k., then I met with two guys who run the dept. and I knew I was in trouble. Classic library fuck-ups with no social skills. All formal and quiet and reserved and unable to hold a vaguely interesting conversation. Like the one guy, Cliff that would be my superior kept twitching and couldn't make eye contact with me and not to get suddenly cocky, but I could do his freakin' job and the thought of my having to report to him just wasn't sitting well with me. I'm not going to be bossed around by lumpy retards anymore. I'll sit on my fat ass collecting unemployment and watching real-life courtroom dramas before I take another low-paying, demeaning job working with misfits. Like the head of the dept. who had a Snoopy cursor on his computer was telling me how I could "surf the net" on my breaks and that ruffled my feathers instantly because any reasonably responsible person can budget their time and surf the goddamn net whenever they please during the workday. It was just all corporate and condescending and completely went against my grain. So of course they called me yesterday to give me the job and are Fed Exing a formal offer tomorrow. I will turn it down. Don't you think that if the first half-assed job you apply for calls, interviews and offers so quickly that it's a good idea to aim higher? So anyway, I knew that my health insurance would run out yesterday and I was still not feeling better from my urinary tract infection so I went back and this time I got another young dr. who didn't know what he was doing, but he wasn't hot like Louis Lit, he was a prick who insisted I have a gynelogical exam (even though I've already had like 80 this year) because I might have chlamydia, and I was like fuck-off. Not because he was implying I was full of STD's, I'm not so above VD, let me tell you, but I think I know when my bladder is the problem and I didn't want him poking around all incompetently (which he did). Now I just have to wait for results, but my antibiotics are all gone, my insurance is up and it still hurts to pee and there's blood in my urine. This is alarming. He didn't seem to think so. Peeing blood is a total bladder cancer symptom and while urinary tract infections can cause this, it shouldn't be continuing after 7 days of antibiotics so it's not making me very happy. Actually, I just looked up conditions that cause blood in the urine and gonorrhea came up, not chlamydia, so if that little know it all resident wanted to go swab crazy with VD tests he should've at least been checking for the proper diseases. God, now I'll have to go to some "free clinic" where all the other unemployed, disease-ridden rif-raff get penicillin injections and treatments circa WWII. I don't know if August is starting off so hot.