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Stalking
Lone Star Thomas
Goodies

phone home

8/30/02
Well, I have to leave for the airport in about 3 hours. A shuttle is picking me up at 4:10 am, and I don't know if I trust that. Usually I'll take a car service or catch a shuttle from Penn Station, but it's too early in the morning for that. I'm feeling all nervous and I'm not sure why. I'm not usually scared of flying, I mean I flew a month after Spt. 11 and it wasn't a big deal, but it's almost Sept. again and who knows what creepiness is out there. Oh, so I called up that freaky haircut guy who put up all those flyers for "free short haircuts for young women" and he sort of weirded me out on the phone. He was sort of defensive when I asked something along the lines of "how does this work?" I guess that's an odd question, I always phrase things poorly, it's one of the reasons I have phone phobia. I just meant like do you need to make an appt. and does it actually cost something, I wanted to know if there was a catch without blatantly asking. So, against my better judgement I went anyway. The main reason being that I forgot to leave food for James's cat Caesar, yesterday so I'd have to go back to his apt. anyway, and he only lives five blocks from this salon. I still can't figure the guy out, like what his deal is with the short and the young, if he's into girls or not, what his motivations are. He has this nervous quality, and at times seemed sort of simple like when you've done too many drugs, but harmless. He would be the coworker that I'd talk to at lunch and might take in teenage runaways and buy them beer and do lord knows what with them. He had this big pile of VHS tapes on a bottom shelf, blank ones like you'd record on. They didn't seem to have labels and I was dying to know what was on them. He also had a photo album of magazine pictures with starts like Winona Ryder and ads of models with short haircuts, of course. I asked about the short hair thing and he made it sound like he didn't want to deal with long hair because it takes too much styling, but then contradicted himself and went on some tangent about girls wanting to go to big name salons and girls who cut their own hair and girls who have friends who cut their hair and seemed annoyed because the do-it-yourself girls were just in there taking advantage of the free haircut. He also seemed very bitter that he was being fined for putting flyers all over the place. That was also a big tangent. But his main focus of conversation was about American Idol and how he thought the red-haired girl got gypped. So, I got a short haircut. A very short haircut. Probably about one inch shorter than would've been preferable, it'll look good in about 3-4 weeks, but for now I'm dealing with it. Like I said, I'm not so fussy about the hair. Now the funny thing is that last night my friend Jane called and told me she used to go to this guy Michael (the short, young fetishist) before she started going to Brian (the guy that everyone I know to goes to, and that I used to when I still had income) and she always thought he was fine. I had a vague flashback of her telling me about some hairdresser when I first moved here who wouldn't cut old people's hair. Weird. What's even weirder is that when I did an internet search this morning I found a CNN story from '99 about an age discrimination battle (unfortunately, the video doesn't seem to work) because he was said not to cut anyone's hair over 25 (he did ask if I was a student, and I wasn't sure if I should lie or not) . Around that same period, he also apparently appeared on Howard Stern, and possibly "The View." It didn't even occur to me to ask about the age thing when I was there, I was more disturbed by the short haircut only specialty. The whole thing's very odd, I'm not sure what to make of it. All I know is that I've got a short free haircut and that I have to leave soon and can't decide if I should take a quick nap or stay up and be tired.

8/28/02
I think I just totally ruined my hair. I mean, it was already a mess, and I'm not one of those girls who's freaky about their hair (I've had friends who would cry over what they perceived to be bad haircuts or who are obsessed with minute detail, like when you're finished and the stylist politely says, "if you see anything that needs to be fixed in the next week, feel free to come in" and you always wonder who would actually come in a couple days later and want extra snips...well, I know people who do, and will return more than one time offered). I haven't had a professional haircut since last Oct. and the guy I, and everyone I know, goes to raised his price to $65, I think, so that's totally out of the question for someone with zero income (I have yet to receive a single unemployment check and I haven't worked in two weeks). I shamefully snuck into Supercuts a couple months ago. I figured how wrong can you go for $15? Like I said, I'm not picky about my hair, I just wanted it shorter and less scraggly, especially since now I have to color my hair to keep up with the gray and it looks damaged. Who needs fancy three figure cuts? Well, you get what you pay for. The guy took forever, and it was clear he didn't know when to stop. I have this cowlick and he kept chopping at it trying to fix it, essentially making it worse. What I ended up with looked nothing like the photo I brought in, it was more like a middle aged woman's cut right before it was going to be permed. I dealt with it. So, tonight I decided to trim up all the split ends, nothing major, fix my bangs and after I got out of the shower, and my hair dried, it was like a puffy black mushroom had taken over my head. I barely trimmed anything and now I have all these weird, heavy layers. Urgh. I've been trying to get all my shit together for this scary Santa Cruz wedding this weekend. James left this morning at 4am, and I'll follow at the same time Sat. It's this big stressful deal with meeting his family. He's so worried that he offered to pay for a haircut before he left, but that just seemed too sugar daddy-ish, and he'd already paid for the airfare, hotel and rental car, so I couldn't say yes, even though I wanted to. That's why I took matters into my own hands this evening. He'll shit if I show up with a lopsided puffball 'do. Out of curiosity, I searched Google with "free haircut new york" and almost shit (I seem to be obsessed with people shitting themselves tonight) when I saw the first result Crops for Girls. This is so fucked up. For like the last four months there have been neon flyers all over James's neighborhood advertising FREE SHORT HAIRCUTS, and they've always caught my attention, well, sort of because I'd like a free haircut and I like short hair, but mostly because they seem so creepy and fetishy. I wish I had one here for accuracy, but it makes such a big deal about the haircuts being short, how he specializes in very short haircuts and that they're for youngwomen (I joked after my birthday that I'd have to lie about being 30 in order to get a free haircut). Why not medium-length hair? Or middle-aged clients? And why free? Michael Giovan is the guy's name, maybe it's the English as a second language making him sound freakier than he is, but I don't think so. According to his website, he's been around since 1985. I've been wanting to call this guy for ages, just to see what his deal is, but I've never had the nerve. The address on the flyer is only five blocks from James's so I've been tempted to just show up, but I thought it was an apt. and that made me hesitant, where from the site it appears to be a legit salon. I seriously almost called this guy when I was waffling over going to Supercuts. And you know what? I'm calling him first thing tomorrow. I do have to admit the example photos on his site are kind of scary, what he's given these girls are pretty manly styles and he really seems to relish decribing their transformation from long-haired to short. Oh well, I don't care if he is a perv or totally fucks my hair up, because being able to show up in California Saturday and tell James that Michael Giovan cut my hair will be satisfaction enough.

8/23/02
I don't know what's going on with fashion, but it's bleak. I don't mean all the urban peasant/gypsy crap or weird faded, creased, ass-blasted denim. I mean how everything in the stores is so freakin' bland. I rely on crappy chain stores like Old Navy and NY & Co. (formerly Lerner) for low-priced, wide size selection staples (plus, I've got a credit card at each), and they've got nothing for me at the moment. It's like the '80s all over, which isn't surprising given the political and economical climate. I remember in college (early '90s) discussing with friends how it was totally impossible to find anything even remotely hip or cool in high school. No one shopped at malls or mainstream stores, not so much because we were so cutting edge or above it (though this was the era of grungy thrift store scores) but because you couldn't find anything remotely interesting at run-of-the-mill shopping centers. In the '90s it seemed like there was a boom where you could find cute stuff anywhere and everywhere, interesting colors, cuts, variety, etc. and by the millennium, even at formerly scoffed at places like Target and Kmart. Just as all the jobs, money and hope have dried up, I think those clothing days are gone too. I've been trying to find a dress, nothing crazy fancy, buy stylish and not prairie-ish or acid-washed tight denim because I'm going to James's sister's wedding next weekend in Santa Cruz and I suppose I should be presentable. It's not a big deal to me so much, but his family is insanely traditional and uptight and I've only met his mother once, never any other relatives, so I guess I should look semi-presentable. Anyway, last year Old Navy had real dressy dresses, now they just have long rugby polo shirts posing as dresses and linen strappy things in khaki. Everything's khaki. I don't wear jeans, I don't wear khaki, I don't wear fleece and I don't wear sweat pants (at least not outside the gym). I'm screwed. So, current styles are a problem. But even more restrictive and depressing is size. Being a 16, there are only a handful of stores I can shop at (and Banana Republic and Gap online, as they go to 16 and 20, respectively. Unfortunately, they're owned by the same company as Old Navy and are equally boring at the moment). I don't really mind being a 16, though 14 would be preferable (even though most women [particularly in NYC] would slit their wrists if they were a 14), 12 I could wear designer, but that's not stuff I'm terribly interested in or can afford anyway, and besides the last time I could fit into a 12 I was about the same age. Stores that carry "plus sizes" are totally heinous. To wit, Ashley Stewart (for black women), Avenue (for hefty office ladies. They go to a 32, where most of these stores stop at 24--pretty impressive really), Dress Barn (for women as big as...well, a barn). Actually, the websites don't make the clothes look as horrible as they appear in stores. Every time I step foot into one of these places I end up feeling like I'm going to cry. Not because I'm fat, but because the choices are so unbelievably repellent. The models are all size 12, the clothes on the racks are all size 24, and godawful to boot (I won't wear elastic waistbands), the clientele averages around 45 years of age (nothing against 40-somethings, but I'm just not there yet. It's hard enough adjusting to 30) and hovers around 5'2, 200 pounds. The disparity between the models in the ads and the frumpy patrons is acute, but then, that's true for fashion in general. Lord knows I'm not small, but jeez, I don't look like someone took a rubber mallet and pounded me down into a weeble wobble. I find most of Lane Bryant's clothes equally grotesque, but I do appreciate their recent advertising blitz. They've been targeting the sides of buses here, and placing in ads in "Vogue" (even though they got total hate mail when they used a size 12 model in their recent issue celebrating size diversity [please, the thing was a total joke]) showing round butts and stomachs and scantily clad women next to handsome men with absolutely no mention of the word "plus" anywhere. I've also heard they won't advertise in "Grace," the new plus-size magazine that's completely yuck, that they are going for regular women's magazines. And considering the average American woman is 5'4, 152 pounds, that's pretty wise. I stumbled onto a creepy corner of Macy's today, "Macy's Woman" on the sixth floor, west of all the kids' clothes, in its own separate wing. At first, I was like, "hmm, maybe this is promising" but I'd entered at the Tommy Hilfiger Woman line and Fubu (I think it was Fubu) stuff so the styles were a little younger, not my taste, but alright enough. As I pushed on, the sadder it became. There was no one under 50 in the entire section. At one point a non-decrepit chubby Asian woman who appeared to be in her 30s came in, chatting on a cell phone. All I could hear was the emphatic word, "ugly" and saw the disdainful look on her face as she got an eyeful of the offerings. "No shit" was all I could think to myself. The whole room was totally foul, filled with tunics, giant blousey things, stretch pants, animal prints (why are so many large sizes leopard and zebra? I hate to say it, but I think they're trying to appeal to black women, who seem to disproportionately shop at these stores. Didn't you know, minorities love bright colors and animal prints? It's no secret why Tommy Hilfiger and Fubu decided to extend their sizes. Who are those brands popular with?) and no dresses, which was the point of my browsing. I guess I'm supposed to be wearing some shiny lime green smock thing with baggy clown pants. It's like the part of Macy's where women take their fat, fashion-impaired mothers and grand-mothers to shop. The best is when people stumble off the elevators, which open onto this section and they don't know what to make of it, "oh...this is for big people." But it's even better at H&M's BIB (big is beautiful--barf) Collection. That store is so over-the-top manic, girls grabbing every little flimsy top, pushing, lines around the store. No one looks or takes a second to orient, they just maul. It's priceless when some trend-crazy 19-year-old barges like gang-busters into the BIB section pulling things off the rack...until she realizes where she is. The horror. It's not terribly hard to realize you're in a different section. BIB vs. the rest of the store is like night and day. I guess the styles aren't offensive, just incredibly boring compared to the rest of the store and its "club fashion." OK, I'm rambling. Maybe it's my Cipro mixed with beer. I had my millionth urinary tract infection today. Luckily, I've been able to weasel my way onto James's insurance as a spouse and no one's questioned it yet. I should probably just go to bed since I'm feeling sort of sickly and hostile. And no, I never found a dress. Er, I must be drunk, I just ended up ordering a purple leather skirt and fuzzy lavender jacket from Newport News. I don't know, that just seems weird. I hope I don't regret it when they show up at my door. And it still leaves me dress-less.

8/21/02
Jobs...jobs can be frustrating. Looking for them, I mean. Monday I had two interviews, one for a job I wasn't super hot on and one that I was. I guess it's a good thing I wasn't keen on the one job because I've already been informed I didn't get it. The world is so weird right now. It was for a part-time library assistant job at the New York School of Interior Design. A total no-brain, night job where you'd run the circulation desk. I guess they got 75 resumes, interviewed ten people (including myself) and went with someone who'd been working in the same capacity at a design library for the last five years. It's gotten so in order to get a job you need to have done the exact same job for a long period of time, which is stupid because most people want to move up or change or whatever, not do the exact thing someplace else (at least I don't). So, the job I really want is a librarian position at "Entertainment Weekly." I totally jumped on the ad when I saw it on a news library listserv last week and got the first interview. This is always frustrating because you're all gung ho and then weeks can pass while they meet other qualified candidates, by which time they've forgotten about you. (I have not heard a peep from "Food & Wine" even though I was told they'd be in touch last Thurs. Another job where I got the first interview.) I've since seen the job on a library job site (no big deal) and on the AOL Time Warner job page (which is a little more worrying). I don't think it pays well or anything, but I think I'd totally kick ass at the job and the environment and people seemed copacetic. It's very rare that I go on an interview and feel comfortable and at ease like you could see yourself fitting in no problem. This is my job. Now it's just a matter of convincing them. My right arm is a total lobster claw. Red, not hard. I went against my better judgement to Brighton Beach. I really don't like beaches or water or sand or any of that crap. And it's like people don't believe you when you say you don't like beaches, like I'm being contrary for effect or something. I'm not. But Jessica asked if I wanted to go and the weather was actually reasonable today and all I do is sit at home anyway and I'm always envious of all the unemployed people who seem to go out all the time, shopping, movies and yes, go to the beach. Brighton Beach is kind of fun because of all the Russian stores. I usually choose Asian stores to get confused and point and pick unknown things from deli cases in, but sometimes you have to branch out. I got all sorts of fried things like dough covered peas, dough covered meat and dough covered cabbage. I don't know what these are called, but it's a long oval bready, slightly sweet pastry filled with whatever and fried. I also picked an egg shaped breaded thing that turned out to be a mini chicken Kiev, pounded meat around a pool of melted butter. These snacks were all I've eaten today, which is probably a good thing considering the butter and fried factor they all share. I was way more into the food than the beach. I can take maybe an hour, I brought the new "Time Out NY" the July/August "Saveur" which I'd already bought and read, but found in my mailbox this morning because I'd recently subscribed and felt compelled to bring along for browsing since I'd paid for it, today's "New York Times" and a writing book, "Bird by Bird" and I was bored by all them after 60 minutes. I was the only one on the entire beach not wearing a swimsuit and possibly the only one who didn't go into the water. But I felt like it was my duty to go. It's the kind of thing you must do once a summer. And now the under part of my arm is bright red even though I put on sunscreen. Brighton Beach makes me think of "Requiem for a Dream" which I saw for the first time last week. That's a serious downer of a movie, and I like downtrodden, miserable fare. I really liked "The Good Girl" which I saw Sat. And that was sort of a non-uplifting flick, but it was funny, too. And jeez, humor is really important with potentially depressing subject matter. It occurred to me during the trailer for "The Secretary" that the girl in it must be Jake Gyllenhall's, sister, since it's doubtful there are two unrelated actors with the same uncommon last name running around in Hollywood. During the trailer it also occurred to me that I find James Spader semi-hot, when I always found him repugnant in my teens. That James Spader seems hotter to me than sad-eyed, master of May-December pup who I have slightly more than a passing interest in, Jake Gyllenhall, is a sure sign that I'm getting old.

8/15/02
Last weekend, I accidentally left my refrigerator door open a crack so when I got home Monday there was water everywhere from the giant block of ice that is my freezer beginning to melt. I have one of those horrible fridge/freezer combos where the freezer isn't a separate component. It's just a tiny space within the fridge with a plastic door that never shuts. I had one in Portland too, and had the same problem I do now. The thing grows ice like at a rate of two inches per month. After half a year, there's only room in the thing for maybe one ice tray. It's impossible to keep up with the ice growth. I was annoyed when I first moved in because I had that ice cream maker I'd only used once and could just squeeze it into the new freezer. But after a month, it couldn't be wedged between the glacier anymore. One year later, I decided it was time to defrost, especially since it had started melting over the weekend anyway. All my food (not much of it) was ruined anyway. After 24 hours I had an un-iced freezer. Yesterday I got excited that I might be able to use my ice cream maker, pulled it out of its box that's been in my cupboard all year, and it was busted. A seam had cracked open and all the gel that's supposed to cool it down had oozed everywhere, turned to warm liquid and smelled disturbingly chemical-like. What a waste. I don't know why I had the bright idea to buy the thing in the first place. The first one I bought at Target was broken with the gel oozing out. This was the replacement model. I'll never get my money back a year later, but I feel like being one of those consumer watch dog ladies who throws a fit till I get my money back or something. Yesterday I saw an obituary for the editor I had been working with on my paltry little neighborhood profiles. I guess he died. You know, that's really fucked up. Not because now I have no contact at the paper and he seemed to like me despite his being a intimidating, old-school news guy curmudgeon type (he actually struck me as the kind of guy who'd work in the technical services dept. of a library [this will only mean anything to anyone who's spent time working in libraries]. It's always old ladies and middle aged gay men in a basement or back room. The men chain smoke, look craggy beyond their real age [the photo the Voice used must be from at least ten years ago], aren't terribly socialized, live alone and are often difficult to joke with). It's just fucked up because it is. On this journalism message board I look at people often complain about not getting paid, or how editors don't return their calls, etc. and often others suggest that the editor could have gone on vacation, taken maternity leave, even changed jobs, not to fret. But no one has ever had the problem of a message going unanswered because the editor was dead. Well, other than me, of course. I have the feeling I'm not going to get that "Food & Wine" job I've been dealing with for the past few weeks. It illustrates the insanity of the NYC job market. I sent a blind resume looking for freelance research work, they respond two weeks later saying they actually have a staff opening for an Assistant Research Editor but that I seem overqualified. The next day the job is advertised. They get hundreds of resumes. HR narrows it down to 90. People from even the financial industry and marketing professions apply. The guy I interviewed with harshly narrowed those resumes down to 35, only super specific qualifications count, people from Food TV are eliminated because that's not publishing, book people are removed because that's not a magazine. Insane. I would never have even gotten an interview if I hadn't sent my resume earlier than the ad appeared. In not so many words, I was told that the job is more entry level than they'd originally planned, I think the pay is even lower than I'd possibly imagined (no specific numbers have been mentioned) which is hard to believe and I have the feeling they're leaning towards college graduates with good internships and no work experience. However, I was asked if would be interested in freelancing, which I guess would be alright, though sporadic. I was told I would be updated Thurs., today, on the status of the position. So taxing, and for a job that probably pays what I made like three years ago. I really, really wonder sometimes.

8/12/02
Ah, my first day of freedom. No job, and no unemployment check (yet). All I an say is that they'd better start coughing them up. It doesn't make sense to be penalized for working during your "benefit year." They should be glad I didn't claim for 6 weeks, but now that I need the money again, it shouldn't be a huge rigamarole. Whatever. I had a job interview today that I blew off. Well, I didn't actually blow it off. I'm not a flagrant flake, I decided today I would turn over a new leaf. I'm not dealing with stupid crap anymore. No one else I know has to, I'm not either. I was supposed to have an interview this afternoon for a 3-month reporter/fact checking position with a German watch magazine. I don't want to work for a German watch magazine, but when you only get one call for like every 50 resumes you send out, standards lower. I made the effort, put on my stupid outfit, which took forever to even figure out, did my hair and make up (despite profuse sweating even with my air conditioner on. In fact, I'm still sticky and it's been on for the last nine hours. It takes the edge off the room, but it doesn't make the apt. cold) printed out my references and left over an hour early. I wanted the W express to 57th St. I saw the R, the N, the M, then finally, the W, but for some inexplicable reason it was the end of the line. By this point, it'd already been about 25 minutes, which is totally inexcusable. Apparently, I'd just missed the W when I got down there. Initially, I was the only one on the platform, by the time the second W came that wasn't running, the platform was jammed wall-to-wall. My entire face was bright red, my makeup was running (at least it felt like it) and I was now going to be late to a job I did not want. I decided to wait for one more train, if it was the N or R I would take it since they go where I needed to go, slower, but no, it was the M, the train that does me no good whatsoever. So, I left. 30 minutes is enough to stand in an ugly suit jacket in a 100 degree station waiting for a subway to take you to a job interview for something you don't even want to do. The only amusing part of the wait was seeing some guy accidentally spray his over-carbonated Blue Pepsi all over the place. Baby blue puddles were everywhere, and the artificial smell of berries filled the air. My initial reaction was to be irked at the retard's careless opening of the bottle so close to me, but then I went into my let's relax and find the humor personality, and lightened up. I still can't figure out how nobody in my class had heard of Blue Pepsi. I don't even drink soda, and I was aware of it (I even tried some in Philly Sat. It's pretty, but it tastes like Pepsi mixed with fake, super sweet, candy-ish berry flavor. I just don't like drinking sugar. I also noticed Blue Fanta (they have a hideous ad campaign right now with The Fantanas, a manufactured Latin-ish, girl-group, each member representing a color/flavor like purple/grape. But there is not a blue one) at a NJ rest stop. I'm seriously digging the blue food trend. When are mainstream cola manufacturers to start making emerald, M&M-green sodas?) Instead of going to my job interview, I picked up a six-pack of Rolling Rock and called it a day. Sure, 3:30pm may be a bit early to pack it in, but such is the unemployed life. So, I went to Philadelphia Saturday. James wanted cigarettes for less than $7 or whatever exorbitant amount they recently were raised to (see, I'm so good, I haven't bought a pack since Christmas Eve, though I've started smoking like a chimney on weekends) and it seemed like a good day trip. But we always get such a late start, and punctuality is a huge issue with me (like I'd rather not even go to an interview at all, rather than go late. And I'll totally spazz if I have to go to a restaurant or store right before it's closing). Traffic was horrible and we didn't end up getting into the city till 4pm. I had a list of thrift stores I wanted to check out, and those places never stay open past 5-6pm so I was annoyed. We went looking for them anyway, and ended up in the most busted part of town I'd ever seen. Wasn't there some fucked up story about a six year old getting raped and killed in Philly Thursday? (Hasn't it seemed like there's been an abducted child like every day for the past few months? I think it's some hyped-up hysteria). I would not doubt that crime took place in N. Philadelphia. I guess we'd only ever been downtown and south of the city. It seemed like we were driving for quite a while, and within blocks of leaving the city center, the scenery turns ghetto. I don't want to equate all-black neighborhoods with ghetto, but this seemed the case. I take back anything disparaging I've said about Brooklyn, there are some crappy areas, but nothing like in Philly where it felt like danger was lurking at every corner. In New York, a neighborhood may seem sketchy (and may be) but it'll change in like eight blocks. You'll be the only non-black person for a while, then go a few blocks and everyone's speaking Spanish, then there's the upper middle class white couple with strollers a few blocks from there. At first, I was like there's no need to worry, I'm minding my business. We drove miles in Philadelphia and the tone never changed. The thrift stores were closed, like I'd predicted, so we drove around, and passed a convenience store with a sign out front for Marlboro cartons for $36, which seemed cheap. I waited in the car, and James seriously wouldn't leave the car running, with the keys in the ignition while I waited. I was like "quit being so suspicious" like we're going to get jumped or something. But after asking the clerk for a carton of cigarettes and having him say, "not for you" and refusing to sell them, I got a little more hesitant about my surroundings. I haven't been the only white person in a grocery store since shopping at the Safeway on MLK in Portland in the mid 90s and last I heard, that neighborhood was totally gentrifying. In Philadelphia, it was block after block of shanty looking apartments, boarded up buildings, even the White Castle was abandoned. To further racially charge the afternoon, we were on a hunt for a cheesesteak place called Chink's. I knew it was on Torresdale Ave. but I had no idea where that street was, and it appeared that no one in N. Philly sells maps. First, we couldn't even find stores, though every block had at least one bar. The Rite Aid didn't have maps, the one grocery store we finally found, Cousin's, didn't have maps, it was totally insane. Everyone had handicapped plates, too (not that that has anything to do with maps--I'm just an incoherent storyteller). I wasn't about to ask anyone in this neighborhood about a place called Chink's. Just existing seemed to be asking for trouble. By the time we went to a second Rite Aid and found a map, then headed to Chink's, it was 8pm, and they had a handwritten Sold Out of Food sign on the front door. First, my thrift store plan was thwarted, then my dream of eating cheesesteaks at Chink's. We opted for plan B, the second most offensive name on my cheesesteak list, Chubby's. (We'd already done the traditional Geno's and Pat's steaks on our previous 3-4 visits, and wanted to branch out.) Chubby's was good, a sit-down place with everyone drinking Yuengling and smoking up a storm (though not the gentleman with the nose tubes and respirator sitting behind me). Philadelphia still has that 60s cocktail lounge feel, lots of unremodled, wood-paneled restaurants with signs advertising Steaks and Chops. Afterward, we went to some slightly arty-ish neighborhood and got drinks at a bar 700 where I couldn't figure out the crowd (the last time we went to a bar in Philly, we ventured to this white trash/art student dive, the kind that kids always seem to love in small-to-mid size towns. You know, toothless drunks propping up stools next to tattooed writers/singers/songwriters/painters who think they're so real and full-on. We couldn't get served. The bartender was intentionally ignoring us because we weren't regulars, and once again I was reminded that maybe NYC wasn't so bad, after all. I've never had an urban-hick, locals-only experience here) Like a block away was this scary strip of Irish pubs filled to the brim with frat kids, there was even a school bus out front unloading them. The bar we were at had very mildly hip 20-somethings mixed with bearded middle-aged men. You don't see much age mixing at NYC bars. Like everywhere we go, the average age seems to be around 24, which has prompted the question, where are you supposed to go in your 30s, and God forbid, your 40s? We think you're meant to go to more upscale lounges, restaurant bars, dinner parties, or just plain stay home. So, we tried to decipher Philly, were a little baffled, and were glad to be back in NYC where at least we know what's what, no matter how much it sucks. Not related at all, but moderately appropriate: my Ridgewood, Queens profile is in the current Village Voice.

8/9/02
Well, I officially quit my temp job today, but I don't feel refreshed. Usually when I quit a job, or even get laid off or fired, I feel energized and excited (at least for the first week). For some reason I feel bad about quitting a low-paying, mind-numbing temp job and I don't know why. Is this what happens when you turn 30? Things that used to bring relief, now cause guilt? I mean, I took the job only expecting to stay 2-3 weeks because I thought something would pan out sooner than it has. But I spent a month sitting doing nothing, then after only two weeks of taking over for the maternity leave woman, I quit. Oh well. I just don't want any bad karma chasing me. I'm only obligated to tell the temp agency, not the employer. In fact, in the rules it says to call the agency if you're going to be late or are sick, not the employer (though I always have dealt with them directly when not coming in). But my guilt made me write a cheerful note saying what a pleasure it's been to work for them, and put my keys with it. They can't even get my freakin' name right, and I'm here feeling uneasy for quitting. It was Kristal most of the time, then the past week it's been Kris. Kris is a foul name for a girl. I get home today and there's a catalog from The New School addressed to Kristal Garcia. What the fuck?! At least Verizon, the shits that they are, have changed Krispa to Krista. I was actually getting attached to Krispa, though. What I'm nervous about is that I tried re-claiming unemployment, which I'm entitled to until Nov., but since there was a break in my claiming, they sent a form for me to fill out where I need to give the name and address of the recent employer. The point being, if you were not laid off, or the job didn't end, you don't qualify for unemployment. I can't give them the temp agency's name or they'll find out I quit of my own accord. But how do they know where you were working? Do they track W2 forms? I mean, I could've been freelance writing or editing or pulling weeds or whatever on a project basis for anyone for all they know. And that work could've ended. I have to figure out how to handle this one, or I'll be in hot water. On a good note, I am in round two with the "Food & Wine" job. I have the test in my hot hands (well, it's technically next to the keyboard) and will be interviewing a second time Tues. Who knows what'll happen.

8/7/02
I'm starting to feel like my Tues. night writing class is becomng a therapy session. Not because it's therapeutic, but because I always end up feeling like I have mental problems that need to be talked out. Like I'm obsessed with novelty food, and no one even knows what I'm talking about. Like Blue Pepsi was in "The New York Post" last Wed. and still, no one in the class had ever heard of it or had any idea what I was talking about. It's like some freaky, niche-y guy who always talks about Duplo Legos or whatever, and assumes everyone knows and cares about Duplo Legos, but the people he meets just think he's a kook. I think that's also a part of being non-twenties/non-teenage. Cute, funny fixations start seeming creepy the older you get. So my class: In a short 750 piece that was supposed to be about a single subject (ube, the Filipino purple yams was my choice, no one knew what I was talking about), the class found no less than seven other non-relevant threads that could be stories in themselves. On one hand you could say it's good to have lots of ideas vs. none at all, but not when you have no sense of focus, as I've discovered is my #1 problem with everything. I think I have ADD, I think I need ritalin. I talk very fast, and always have, I guess I'm trying to get lots of thoughts out quickly, and lots of thoughts are good, but at the age of 30 I still can't reign (is that the correct use of reign--I can't think anymore) them into something cohesive. I'm starting to think I'm not very smart. At least not in that way. How do you make yourself think more clearly so that individual ideas become more articulate? I think zine-type writing has ruined me, I'm not a literary type, duh. Not using paragraphs is a perfect example of my inability to slow down and demarcate between different trains of thought. But that's how I started this site and that's how I'm going to leave it. New idea:Why is that Jake Gyllenhaal kid in everything these days, and having sex with older married women in unskilled jobs? Now in "The Good Girl" which I'll likely see this weekend when it opens, and in "Lovely and Amazing" which I did see (likeable, but very woman-ish like you'd watch it with "the gals" if you were into that sort of thing) where he plays Catherine Keener's boss at a photomat. He was in two trailers when I saw "Pumpkin" (which I wanted to like more. I mean, jeez, it has that Beefy Boy kid playing a retard to a literal use of Belle and Sebastian's "Stars of Track and Field." But the tone is peculiar, sort of over-the-top, campy, sometimes serious and confusing. I don't know how to make a movie, but it did cross my mind that it'd probably be something like "Pumpkin" humorous, well-intentioned, but unfocused and flat) and some tearjerker, dead sister thing with I think Michael Douglas. He's a teen in "L&A" and Catherine Keener is closer to 40 than 30 I think, so this was bad (and she gets arrested, this sort of behavior can't be condoned even in fiction). He's 22 to Anniston's 30 (she's older than 30, isn't she?) in "The Good Girl," but that's still a little unkosher, I guess. New Idea Without New Paragraph: The older woman with a teenager in film seems to be big lately. "Tadpole" being case in point, though I haven't seen it because the reviews have been lukewarm and I the kid characters seems like a blowhard. New Idea: Whatever happened to Patrick Dempsey? "In the Mood" was a great '80s version of this genre. New Idea: Timmy from "Passions" just died. I rarely watched the show, but damn if he wasn't one of the oddest ideas for a soap opera character. There have been an awful lot of baby/misfit/freak/tards in the media lately. And no, I'm not referring to that horrible Mini Me guy. New Idea: I've never seen an Austin Powers movie and probably never will, unless it's on cable and I'm really, really bored. New Idea: I tried two new going out at night venues, and both were alright. Friday I went to the new South Slope, Buttermilk Bar, the closest non-salsa type hangout to my me ever, yet still 15 blocks away. The place seemed likeable enough, crowded, though we got seats, woody, planky sort of like a renovated Long John Silver's (I can't for the life of me remember what used to be in this space, it's a block from my gym and I pass it all the time) with a mountain photo mural. The jukebox made me wonder if I'd gone 15 blocks or 15 years, Pixies are so Park Slope aging hipster (and I like The Pixies), but the Spacemen 3 I'd almost forgotten about (must get my record collection to NYC). Sat. night I felt lazy after tracking down Filipino baked goods in Queens, but got up the energy to head back to Queens for some wild card art space party thing Revel that I was pretty leery of since I knew little about it and it cost $10, but it ended up being good. A total anti-Rubulad (last time I complained about Rubulad, one of the organizers wrote me. I didn't mean any harm,but I can't deal with the one stall, 30 minute bathroom lines). Actually it may be affiliated with them since there were similar touches like the homemade absinthe (though the vegan brownies and burritos were new). This party was in a huge space, multi-level, many roomed, well organized, and best of all, there were tons of bathrooms, like insane amounts of toilets, there were like six for women (and an equal amount for men) with an entire row of toilets against the wall under a blanket waiting to be installed. There were even little bathrooms in some of the galleries. I've never been so taken with toilets. Concern for your bladder must kick in at 30. Oops, I think there were some idea I blurred together, and I still have at least two more rambling thoughts to add that both have to do with weird guys in the office on my floor, but I'll refrain just to show I do have restraint.