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Stalking
Lone Star Thomas
Goodies

phone home

12/29/01
Strange. For no particular reason at all, this afternoon while doing that annoying exercise where you push the weights forward and up to work your quadriceps, this woman Sara(h?) popped into my head. I don't really know her, and have only been around her maybe five or six times, usually at bars or parties. I think she has something to do with music PR, judging from where I run into her. She has this crazy smoker voice that makes her seem older than she probably is, but anyway, while lifting weights I remembered this incident when I first moved here where at some party she moved her hand back all dramatically and hit my right cheek with her lit cigarette. I had a purple spot on my face for months. I don't know why I thought of her today at the gym. But I just saw her a about an hour ago at a bar, which was really odd. She spoke with one of my friends, but not me since I don't really know her, as I previously stated (I don't even know why I know her name other than the fact I have steel trap memory where pointless names are concerned). I predicted the random running-into of someone I barely know. Fancy that. More randomness that I was reminded of tonight: "Harold and Maude." I was going to mention this movie last week, but never got around to it, then a friend brought up tonight how they'd just seen it for the first time and weren't impressed. I too saw it for the first time last week (it's been playing on IFC). It's one of those movies you always hear about, that everyone's seen and the like. I never did, but always expected I would like it since it involves a misfit youngster and a freaky relationship. (Oh, that's really weird, I just looked up Bud Cort on the Internet Movie Database because I was under this false impression that "Harold and Maude" was the only movie he'd done [that I knew his name before seeing the movie is another one of those stuck-in-the-craw deals]. As a long list of movie results came up [who knew he was in "Coyote Ugly"?], I was suddenly struck with the conviction that he played a Brother [religious] who was a teacher in "The Chocolate War," which was also on TV last week. James loves that movie for some odd reason [I swear it's the Yaz soundtrack, though he'd probably deny it], and I like it too, mainly because it's so not 1988 -- watch the thing and tell me how it can be post-'83. Plus, it was one of my favorite childhood books [though the best Robert Cormier work is "I am the Cheese"-- not such a good movie, though it starred Robert MacNaughton in one of his only roles besides the older brother in "E.T."] And yeah, he was that "Chocolate War" teacher.) So, despite kind of digging Harold's character (mainly because I thought he was like 15 and he was supposed to be 20 [and was 23 in real life]. I love those abnormally young-looking boys) the movie just didn't do it for me. The whole free-spirit vibe, the Cat Stevens soundtrack (which James claimed was the equivalent of the crap I listen to today. My twee, indie, la-la-la music is not even in the same realm as Cat Stevens.), the forced nuttiness and melodrama--I just couldn't get into it. And I wanted to like it too. Another movie that everyone in the world has seen except me that I saw for the first time last week (it sure seems like I've been watching more than my fair share of TV lately, which isn't really true. I watch a lot of TV at James' but hardly at home.) was "Fatal Attraction." All stalkerish/obsessive, yet ultimately lame. Well, duh, it stars Glenn Close and Michael Douglas (who seemed old then -- how old is that cradle-robber, anyway?). The most interesting character was the androgynous boy-girl daughter who gets kidnapped and taken on a roller coaster ride, but I'm a sucker for gender bending tots. It's one of those movies that you don't even have to see because you've already heard so much about it over the years. I was like "when's the boiled rabbit scene going to happen?" or "where does she seem dead, but come out of the tub wielding a knife?" Boring. Though I get a kick out of the '80s morality play of what happens to cheaters who dare step on marital vows for a little ass. Family values. It made me think of another movie, "Box of Moonlight" that they've been overplaying like nobody's business on IFC this month. I've watched it what seems like 10 times, in snippets and pieces, and if I'm correct John Tuturro's character has a one-night stand with someone other than his wife (Catherine Keener, who I have this weird attraction/fixation with for no good reason. Not in a girl on girl way, but like if I were a guy that's the kind of woman I'd dig. She caught my attention in "Being John Malkovich" because she was such a bitch and could wear all white -- I don't know how anyone can pull of the cold-hearted-while-wearing-all-white combo and not come off like a senator's wife or socialite or something. Oh jeez, and she was also in a movie with Steve Buscemi I was watching this afternoon on IFC [I swear I don't watch that much TV!] that I don't know the name of because I have free, illicit cable at my apt. that lacks the ability to display info on the screen like pay cable does. OK, it was "Living in Oblivion" -- thank you imdb.com.) and he's all the better for it. After all his adventures while supposedly away from home on business, he loosens up and in turn become a better husband and father. That may be a load of crap too, but it's a far cry from the breaking-up-the-family hysteria of "Fatal Attraction." Besides, I'd rather cheat with Catherine Keener than Glenn Close any day. Total sidenote: today on my daily pass-by I noticed the dreaded Last Stop Deli on the corner had a handwritten sign on a makeshift easel advertising Cuban sandwiches. Ooh, I love those things. My second favorite non-American sandwich next to the Vietnamese sandwich. I was incorrect in my Mexican assumption (the counter guys I saw were Mexican, but the owner appears Central or South American), which isn't surprising since there isn't a sizeable population in NYC (though the biggest Mexican community in all five buroughs is in, you guessed it, Sunset Park). Tacos, who needs them. Bigger sidenote: I was up till after 4am last night putting up silliness like a troll tale (scroll down) and some soul-saving prayers. See, I don't watch TV all the freakin' time. This is insomnia in action. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I absolutely cannot get to bed. I've never had a problem sleeping in my life. It's always bothered me when people claim to not be able to get to sleep. All you do is put your head on the pillow and close your eyes. At least I used to think so. I told myself I'd have to get to bed before 3am tonight (15 min.) but I'm not really tired enough. The problem is that I'll finally force myself to bed, end up laying there for an eternity (hearing every toss and turn from the upstairs neighbors -- the walls must be paper thin. I'd really like to thank them for giving their toddler a xylophone/plinky piano toy for Christmas while I'm at it. And please, could the father go back to work? He's been on vacation for at least three weeks now and he's damn loud, I can decipher word-for-word everything he says. I always wonder if the poor sound-insulated floor/ceiling thing works both ways. Can they hear me? Well, I'm alone down there about 99% of the time so I don't know what they could possibly hear. The peculiar thing is that I've never ever heard sex sounds [not that I"m listening for them] not even once. I can hear the subtle nuiances of their phone conversations if I care to, so it makes one wonder.) finally fall asleep and then be awoken 1-3 times due to disturbing/scary dreams that are so detailed and intricate that it's downright unsettling. The other night there was this bit where for some reason I was in legal trouble over using full names on my website (you'd think I had a guilty conscience or something) from Terry, the lawyer at onebigtable.com, my employer two jobs ago and was to speak with him for exactly one hour. I swear to God, I didn't even remember the lawyer's name being Terry (I was only there five months and had no contact with legal folks) but when I woke up in the middle of the night all off-kilter I remembered clearly that there really was a staff lawyer there named Terry. I know it must be the Zyban, which I'm only taking for a few more weeks (I went all bad and smoked tonight, but Jesus, I feel I'm allowed some indulgence. I'm going nuts here. I've been alone [minus Christmas Eve night and this evening for a couple hours] in small apartments with absolutely no social interaction [not even phones] for over a week now). After falling asleep around 4am, I wake up at 8am totally exhausted. Uh oh, it's four minutes to 3am. I'd better force myself to sleep.

12/27/01
Ever since I moved in here, around seven months ago, I've wondered about the closed-up deli, The Last Stop Restaurant and Deli, on the corner. For one, the name has always cracked me up. Last stop before where? There's also an image of a stop sign on the awning for emphasis. I've always interpreted it to mean last stop before you enter perpetually un-cool Brooklyn. Like you would've received hints along the previous 10-15 blocks when you started noticing fewer people speaking English, less cute, white twenty-something couples and a severe increase in sound level both from car stereos and vocal chords. But in case you didn't realize your horrible mistake of a descent in the double digit streets, this deli sign is there to warn you: Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter. (Oh wow, that's weird. My computer just froze and I got all annoyed and restarted it, then noticed I had received a voicemail message while online [it must do something to the computer when someone calls]. It was an HR person Time Warner seeing if I was still interested in an Online Editor position I'd applied to at DC Comics ages ago. That's really weird, I've sent out dozens and dozens of resumes in the past month and a half, for icky jobs like answering phones and the like and no one has called me back. I'm suspicious of this, though I'll certainly return the call when I'm done here [priorities, right?]. At the least, I should get an interview out of it.) Anyway, I'm making my neighborhood sound grimmer than it is, though it does have an off-putting, isolated starkness. Christmas Eve I was sorting through a bunch of unlabled, old cassette tapes I'd made, some not so old, but some from the late '80s. I thought I'd grab one to listen to on the walk to the gym, which is rapidly becoming the most boring 17 blocks in the world. I can't bear the trudge much longer, especially now that it's gotten cold, but I thought some boppy, upbeat music might change my tune at least temporarily. I put on the earphones, expecting to be transported to some brighter place and what comes out is freakin' Mogwai. Like there couldn't be a more depressing band, except possibly Low. Total soundtrack for killing yourself during the holidays (not that I would, of course, but this would be the perfect backdrop). So much for my brilliant idea. Anyway, practically every block has a corner deli, even in this wasteland, so I always hoped that eventually the Last Stop would be turned into something interesting. Actually, I have something better than a corner deli, On the Run just a block south. Have I mentioned this before? It's so un-NYC (I've yet to see another one here), it's the convenience store affiliated with Mobil and there's a parking lot (very rare), it's all bright and (relatively) clean and corporate. There's an ATM (the only one nearby) that works, there's a Blimpie inside (though I strongly doubt they make the Buffalo Chicken Sub I found on their website) and all the junk food a person could stand. They even had cigarettes there a few months ago for under $4 (they're $5+ everywhere else). It's not a bad place for buying impulse crap. Yet I was still excited a few weeks ago when I noticed people cleaning up the abandoned corner deli. The workers/owners appeared to be Mexican so I was hoping they might turn it into a restaurant. Visions of cheap, corner tacos danced in my head (not that Mexicans could only make tacos of course). When they put up a sign in the window for a Counter Girl, I knew it was only a matter of time before they opened shop. But it's just a regular deli, as it turns out. Nothing special. And they've even left up the awning--the Last Stop lives on.

12/25/01
Christmas, Christmas, Christmas...that's about all I have to say on the matter. It was pretty much like any other Tuesday (goofing on the computer, watching "Judge Judy" and eating Girl Scout cookies--well, I don't always eat Girl Scout cookies) except that there were a lot of things closed and "Miracle on 34th St" (original and modern version) was on TV far too frequently. Somehow I didn't get up till 2pm and didn't get dressed till 8pm (I did shower earlier, at least), and the only reason I even put on clothes was because the place I wanted food from only delivered to 10th St. and I'm on 13th and it's silly to not go three blocks farther, but I didn't want to push the issue because it'd probably involve a bigger tip and I'm a cheapskate, so not into the holiday spirit of giving. I just felt like taking, and they made it difficult for me. But I wanted laksa so bad that I put on some clothes, a little lipstick and combed my hair to walk the stupid 11 blocks. You know how when you can't have something you just want it more? That's how I felt about this soup. Last week, I think it was last week (time blurs, it may have been two weeks ago), I wanted to go to this Indonesian place, Cafe Borobodur, that I'd never tried, but we ended up at a fancier, new Basque restaurant on the same block instead. I peeked in the windows and grabbed a take out menu for later ordering. I tried last Sunday but they were closed for a holiday I can't remember the spelling of that signals the end of Ramadan. Fine. I figured an Islamic place would be a good bet Christmas-wise. Actually a lot more establishments were open than I'd expected, around 75%, I'd say. So, that was my big excursion of the day. I went to a friend's new apt. for dinner and gift swapping last night. We hit a few bars later and by the time I got home (well, James') it was 5:30am, which I can't figure out. I don't remember waiting for the subway all that long (I was the only person at the Bedford stop, which is a rare experience. Nary a hipster in sight) so all I can figure is that we stayed at The Abbey past the 4am mark. I always find the folks out drinking instead of hanging out with their families on Christmas Eve to be of the entertaining variety. Patrons bordering on belligerent, some swearing and stumbling, striking up conversations with strangers/strangers striking up conversations with me, gay Polish boys offering up kisses and the like. Conviviality. I didn't think I was drinking excessively, but I wasn't feeling so hot today. Not a horrible, headache and nausea hangover, just a hazy, off-kilter sort of fog. At some point during the evening, the bartender bought shots (Lynchburg lemonade, I think) for me, Jane and some guy next to me from Portland that I didn't know and himself. And I don't usually slam a whole shot because I can't, and lately I've been having that weird choking/unable to swallow sensation that's creepy, but I tried to drink the thing in one gulp anyway and choked really hard. It appeared that I couldn't take the alcohol, but that wasn't it, my throat clenched up and I started coughing so hard that I threw up. Total bad news. It was probably only 1/3 to 1/2 a cup of liquid and I caught most of it in a napkin (the rest ran down my shirt) but it was truly horrifying because even in my most trashed moments (which this wasn't) I don't throw up on myself (or piss and shit the bed or any of that other lack of bodily function control stuff that drunks like to pull). I guess we all have our derelict moments. Some (like me) just have more than others. If I make it home before daylight in one piece, I consider the evening a success.

12/19/01
Please pardon my gushing (and excessive use of links--I know, I know, I go wild sometimes) but I'm in love with this Caterplan Virtual Kitchen site. I gather that Caterplan is this idea cooked up by Bestfoods Asia to sell their wholesale/bulk packaged items to chefs. Get past the marketing and cut straight to the priceless recipes. I was just searching for a Penang curry recipe, and found it along with some other standards, but the sandwiches and burgers section is total fusion out-of-control. When East attempts to go West, culinary mayhem ensues. Case in point, Title: Kiwi Egg and Strawberry Jelly Sandwich, Subtitle: Kiwi Egg and Strawberry Jelly Sandwich with a typically Asian Yakiniku Dressing in a Doughnut. Uh, from the photo, I think they actually mean a bagel, not a doughnut (though they do correctly use the term bagel in a different recipe so who knows), which is a little disappointing, but the jello and kiwi eggs more than make up for that. The Grilled Frankfurters and Satay Baked Bean Sandwich was also an eye-grabber. Sauerkraut, mayonaise and plum sauce?! They even have a recipe author page so you can find out the mad geniuses behind the misguided concoctions (chefs Kevin Lim and Kurt Pozzato are men after my own heart). They've even got a freakin' Monte Cristo, a particular obsession of mine. Oh shit...there's a Nachos Sausage Sandwich too that uses green apples. Oh, I can't take it. I wish I'd never have to work again so I could spend my days cooking up these unnatural creations. For the time being, I'm content to just play with bread. I can't believe I've had this Hello Kitty toaster almost a year (at least I think I got it for Christmas 2000--the memory's going) and have never tested out the face-burning feature on a blank canvas. I use the toaster at least once a week, it's just that I never buy white bread. Now that I'm poor and pathetic enough to start purchasing 99¢ loaves of crap and scrounge up forgotten American cheese slices in the back of the fridge from a Labor Day bbq to make grilled cheese sandwiches, I have plenty of white bread at my disposal. And I hate to admit it, but the toaster isn't very practical. In order to get a nice impression, the toast has to be borderline burnt (I like pale toast). Moderate toasting leaves the center raw and well, the thing murders bagels...but jeez, you have so much fun in the process.

12/17/01
It just struck me how close Christmas really is, though can't say I care much one way or the other about it this year. The whole holiday would easily slip under my radar if it weren't for little reminders like novelty songs on the radio. I'm out of the loop Top 40-wise (not that that's a bad thing) since I don't work in an office anymore (not that that's a bad thing either). My only exposure to popular music is on the days I get motivated to walk to the gym, and even then I usually tune out external distractions like silly yuletide songs. But I couldn't close my ears last week when I heard the new patriotic version of "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" that maybe everyone knows about except me. It's about as unfunny as the original, but grandma has been replaced by Osama. I'm not a terribly sensitive or P.C. person, but it was weird and mildly distasteful. I'd probably laugh at a similar song if the lyrics had at least been clever. On my way back from the most out-of-control outlet shopping center in the world, Woodbury Commons (surprisingly good deals, but let's face it, whether a men's Dolce & Gabbana cord, multi-pasteled-paisley blazer is $1,000 or $10, it's no bargain. I was just excited to find a photo bag [those black bags from a few years back you could only find in the suburbs with slots for photos in the front. My mom sent me one way back, but it's trashed and you can't find them here] and jean jacket, both under $20 each at the Gap, a store I rarely shop at), we were listening to the 11 at 11 most requested countdown show on Z100, hoping for "Osama Got Run Over By a Reindeer" and I was like, "they're not going to have novelty songs on the top 11," it was all Britney Spears and O Town. Well, Osama never got played, but songs like "Dominic the Donkey" some goombah thing with hee haws and that Hanukka Adam Sandler one made it into the list. The only Christmas novelty song that's cracked me up was "I'm Gettin Nuttin for Christmas" which I'd only heard one time ever in the car with my dad in the early '90s on some oldie station. It was this crazy, jokey thing with a grown man pretending to sing like a bratty kid that was funny dumb. I went nuts looking for it, all the places with the song on it are Christian pages with midi versions like this and that. I finally found a version with lyrics, but it was a precious, real kid singing, probably the original. I even managed to find a poignant, text-only version on an "Oz" fanfiction page--they like to call their musical parodies "filking" (the fact that I knew that even before finding the site is a little scary). I finally found sweet success in the form of comic genius,Stan Freberg, the voice behind my beloved holiday carol. The best I could do was track down a snippet from a Dr. Demento album. Satisfaction at last. Internet+excessive free time=many an afternoon lost.

12/13/01
Oh my God. As if laughing out loud at that horrible "Just Shoot Me" wasn't enough, now I'm guffawing at reruns. And to compound matters even more, a rerun I've already seen before (isn't that the way it always is--you never watch a show, months pass and you may happen to accidentally see it again and it's the exact same episode you saw last time). The plotline did involve a "slow" character, and dammit if I don't have weakness for retard humor. Ah, there's no real excuse for poor TV watching habits. Retard or no retard, I've sunk to a new low.

12/12/01
12:12. It's the date not the time, but did you ever do that thing where if you noticed the clock was at 12:12 you'd try and blow 12 kisses before it turned to 12:13? I think it was supposed to bring you your true love or something like that. Superstition like holding your breath over bridges or lifting your feet over railroad tracks. I've long given up on the last two, but I can't bear to see a clock turn 12:12 and not do the demented routine. It's tough at work when it's on the computer clock and you must be pretty subtle. Finding true love is serious business, though. There's two random chances a day to perform the ritual so when your eye catches a clock at the appropriate time, it's no place for dignity. 29 years (well, I'd never actually heard of the 12:12 charm til I was 21 [ooh, 12 reversed] so it's only been eight years in the making really) and I'm still not sure whether or not it's worked. Regardless, I can't give up the hope. Christmas is certainly a time of reflection and peace and thanks and all that and all I can reflect on is why the hell my family is so goddamn lame in the gift-giving department. Oh, ungrateful beast, me. Right. You have no idea. I think I may have mentioned this before, but it got so bad in the early '90s that me and my sister made a pact to not allow any Christmas presents to enter our homes. Once in, they remained in bags and boxes, crammed in closets, wedged in corners, taking up valuable space. (Off the subject: I forget how great Jesus and Mary Chain is. I just dredged up a "Psychocandy" cd, it's playing right now and it's good stuff...or maybe that's just an early evening of Xanax and gin talking. Second off the subject: why does my dr. only give me a tiny amount of Xanax, that's gone now, when everyone I know gets hardcore tranquilizers up the butt? [I can't believe I just said up the butt]) The rule was that all presents would have to be discarded on the side of the road immediately on the drive from Christmas Eve venue (that's a whole other issue. Due to retardedness, our family may celebrate Christmas anywhere from Dec. 21 to like the 31st.) to our respective apartments. I haven't even spent a Christmas with relatives since 1997 and I'm still scarred. And that's weird in its own way. This will also be my fourth Christmas in NYC, dead alone (well, Christmas Eve '99 was spent at T.G.I.Friday's in midtown and later Kokie's, a cocaine club in Brooklyn with friends so I suppose I'm exaggerating about the alone part a bit. I've never spent a Christmas day so sick in my life. I swear to God I thought I was going to die, my insides were totally coming out). It'd be sad if I dwelled on it too much. I'm not sure if you're even fathoming the genre of bad presents I'm talking about here. The last Christmas I can recall with my sister still living here (maybe '94) we got fake leather bags from Mervyn's with jungle animals printed all over them. I got a giant rag doll with lavender braids and jeez, now I'm blanking. I do know the year before I got a wicker basket with used 10¢ books that even the crappiest small-town Goodwill couldn't pawn off on passerbys. That was the same year I received a bunch of hotel toiletries: mini shampoos, soaps and the like. The clear icing on the cake was the trial size box of tampons (and I don't even use tampons--there's some freakish personal info you didn't need) from my aunt. Yes! Jackpot. Family, how I love you. Is there anything more humiliating and depressing? Oh, probably. Melissa emailed me the other day asking if I'd received grandma's box yet. I hadn't, and hoped to God that she'd got some sense and sent some money. Lord knows I'm no money grubber and I'd be shocked to see more than a check for $25 from any relative, but at this point in my life any bit helps. But no, I got pretty presents. Presents that showed up unannounced on my doorstep today when I was on my way to the Brooklyn Library to read about what an insensitive, robotic, unemotional, passive, asexual and seemingly gay ("didn't really like sex, kissing or touching"), suicidal, desireably-gened ("good at math and has great hair"), financially stable, baby-hating, pro-abortion, liberal, dream-crushing asshole my boyfriend, who's so scarred by my prying and consequent blabbing, is that he hasn't called me back tonight. Anyhoo, I had granny-sent treats waiting for me when I got home. A box containing a rooster ornament that I guess sounds innocent but isn't, a godawful, old-fashioned style alarm clock with the metal things on top and hideous flowers painted all over the front (I'm all disappointed because the website on the back of the box, www.tricoastaldesign.com is under construction), a shotglass bearing the words "Nashville" in neon green (that one's a tad amusing) and a beastly, burgundy, nearly '80s goth, oversized mesh/tanktop affair from Fashion Bug in a goddamn size 18/20. For fuck's sake, I know I've put on some pounds since I've moved here and I'll even admit I've become a bit nervous about my weight, but I'm not a freakin' size 18/20 (yet). As if I need any more complexes, it's already 10:50pm and the only things I've eaten all day are two pieces of bacon and a banana, which is more about penny-pinching than weight-watching really, but that's beside the point. The point is I'm now saddled with a butt-ugly (I used the word butt again) sweater, clock, rooster and a shotglass, and it's not like you can just go drop off bags at Salavation Armys here. Oh no, they'll pick through your stuff and actually deny donations. Seriously. Who am I going to pawn this crap off on in elitist-even-at-thrift-stores NYC?! Blech. Oh jeez, I just got a call from my mom (she always calls on Wed. night) and was semi-bitching about the presents and questioning how our family got so cheap, crazy and fucked-up and she preceded to tell me about grandma's wish list from City Liquidators (Portland's equivalent of the typical crap-filled 99¢ store on every Brooklyn block): a creepy black angel and some picture with air balloons. Last year she wanted a tacky Buddha with kids crawling all over it (not real kids, little ceramic ones) from the same store. Oh, what can you do? I suppose it's better than having some hard to please relatives who can only get excited by name brands and expect the moon.

12/11/01
Oh no, I've said it a million times and it's truer than ever: idle hands are the devil's playground. Sometimes I forget my stalker roots and lose sight of the fact that I'm huge insatiable snoop. And on top of being out of control nosy, I've also got a big mouth (er, hands as is usually the case here). It's not enough to just find out stuff that I'm not supposed to know, I have to tell it out loud too. I court trouble. In fact, I think I enjoy turmoil, causing problems, getting caught...I don't know which. But I know good and well I shouldn't be discussing what I'm about to. Today I was goofing off at James's while he was at work, looking for jobs online, playing indie radio stations (I swear, I still find downloadable music an engaging novelty), messing with my email, etc. and out of nowhere I got the urge to do a search on his hard drive for somebody's name. Not her full name because I don't know it. I'm like a little kid whose parents are tight-lipped about sex. I'm simultaneously scared and obsessed and have it all wrong, feel dirty yet want to know more, but am afraid to ask. It's because of James's brief relationship with this person that I endured such stalker, crazy crush trauma back in '98-'99. He was probably always a freak, but it didn't help getting him to pay attention to me. I found a handful of saved emails between him and this girl dating from '97 to earlier this year. Brief, perfunctory, business transaction-like messages. I knew I shouldn't be prying like that, but I couldn't stop looking, hoping for something meaty or explicit. Most of what I know has been pieced together from friends who were around at the time, mostly from a friend that I'm not even friends with anymore. I realize it seems peculiar that I just don't flat out ask James details if I'm so curious about what went on, but it's not like we're married for crying out loud--if he doesn't feel like talking about a particular subject he doesn't have to and vice versa (but I'll talk about anything without even being prompted so it's not terribly balanced now that I think about it). People are entitled to secrets plain and simple, but it doesn't keep my brain from reeling sometimes. If I'd just read some old emails that would've been bad enough (I had to go and open and close a bunch of innocent looking files so the word "inbox" wouldn't show in the documents list when you click the start button), but then tonight I got another bee in my bonnet. I had a mellow evening at home decoupaging my table and making coasters for gifts and wanted to call it a night early around midnight so I'd get up before noon and be productive tomorrow. But before I hit the hay, I got online to check my email. Next thing I knew, I was typing in this person-who'll-remain-nameless's first name plus another pertinent first name out of morbid curiosity. At first nothing much came up, then I saw a link to a Salon.com book review from '98 of a collection of essays by twenty-somethings called, "Personals : Dreams and Nightmares from the Lives of 20 Young Writers." And like I said, I don't know this person's last name, but the title of the story attached to her first name made it 98% clear that this was the person in question and the story published in this collection was specifically about the situation with my current boyfriend and it made me feel sick. I feel nauseous right now and all wound up and going insane for a cigarette for the first time in weeks (miracle of miracles, I haven't smoked in almost a month). I'm trying to be all self-analytical and all that as to why I'm so freaked out over this discovery. Well, first off I need to get my hands on this story asap. I immediately ordered a used copy off amazon.com then brushed my teeth and tried to go to bed and that led me here and back to the computer and my neck is all tense and my heart is racing and it's too long to wait for a book so I checked the Brooklyn Public Library's online catalog and they have two copies so I have to get up early (as planned) and immediately head up there before I blow a gasket. So, why am I freaked out? I don't know. I suppose it's common to be interested in details of boyfriend's/girlfriend's ex's (though I don't think this person qualifies as an ex per se), but this has become abnormal. Like there's so much repressed weirdness wrapped up in everything that's been bubbling under the surface for over two years now and I fear I'm going to let all hell break loose. In a twisted way, it's almost like I'm being one-upped by a fellow detail-spiller confessional-style semi-serious writer. Prattling about problems and talking about people behind their backs is my turf (uh, and the millions of others who blab with abandon on the internet), alright? I haven't even read the essay yet and I'm already aggro just based on this blurb in a review, "Wondering what other neurotic Catholic sluts do in their down time,[Blank] goes from partying (including unprotected anal sex with an actor, God forbid) to a vow of abstinence. Relieved by a clean HIV test result, she resolves to find an employed male who is groomed. She gets pregnant, though and wonders how much she can get for the baby." That gets my goat, it just does. I don't know if I'm mad or upset or nervous or sorry, but my stomach is in knots. My question is whether or not James is aware of this story. He's not much of a reader. I don't know if it's the kind of thing an estranged person would say they're writing about to the estrangee. I tend to say he doesn't know. He gets all crazy that I use his name all willy nilly on this site (I don't use the last name much anymore) and though it's never been made explicit I think the primary reason was because he didn't want this person to find any dirt on him (one detail I have gleaned was that at one point private investigators were involved in their dispute). If he thinks I have innappropriate tendencies then I think he'd shit himself if his name is used in this essay that I'll read tomorrow while at the gym (I've discovered that when I'm all mad/upset and feel like crying/punching someone in the face like last week when for the third week in a row Unemployment garnished/kept my check and I really want a stiff drink and to chain smoke, doing the stairmaster so hard I felt like throwing up helped a little bit). Hmm...I'll have to figure out a way to bring up this book without completely ruining the holidays. Well, maybe I'm being a bit melodramatic, but I can see this getting out of hand. Like where out of the blue did I just stumble on this story. Duh, I'm a stalker. The only surprising thing is that I didn't pry and poke around sooner. Damn, if I don't get a job soon the hot water I could get into is unfathomable. Jeez, it's already after 2am now.

12/10/01
It really scares me when for no particular reason I find myself laughing at/with a show I always hated. Did the show just get funnier? Have the writers changed? Is my brain getting softer? I used to find "Frasier" totally unbearable and then there came a day a few years ago where I caught myself chuckling at a few episodes. I'm still not a regular watcher, but the show doesn't bother me the way it used to. I recently changed my tune about "Just Shoot Me" and I don't know why. I've always hated this show, and thought it to be most unfunny. It'd come on after "Will and Grace" and I'd be too lazy to turn the channel. I'd catch snippets between doing this and that and walking in and out of the living room and it all just got on my nerves. Maybe it's sheer boredom, but a couple weeks ago I started paying more attention and next thing I knew I was giggling out loud at stupid jokes. I don't care for most of the characters, the parts that make me laugh are scenes that involve peripheral player, Kevin the mailroom guy (Brian Posehn). I don't recall him having such a prominent role in older episodes so maybe someone realized his humor potential. Or maybe my sit-com standards have simply reached an all-time low.

12/5/01
It just struck me that I've been back from England for exactly a month now, and I never said much of anything about my trip. I've just been so busy stressing and alternating between self-pity and violent outbursts to settle down and write (it's taken me three days to get this stupid entry together--nah, not 72 hours straight, but you know). It's a bad scene these days. Living off of credit cards sucks (I haven't given in to applying for $10/hour temp jobs yet. That sucked enough when I moved here three years ago, and to be reliving that nightmare at this stage in life is just plain pathetic. And besides, I'm a little scared I won't even be able to get one.) and getting zero response from sure-bet (and boring and low paying) jobs that I wouldn't have even considered a year ago, sucks even more. So, I'm one step away from homelessness, but I've been spending lots of time at the gym. Be sure to look out for that she-hulk with the giant biceps residing in that lovely cardboard box on the corner. Oh yes, back to England. Here's a list of highlights:

Weston-Super-Mare: This tacky (tacky's in the eye of the beholder, of course), coastal, boardwalk type of town on a body of water (not sure which) between western England and Wales was good off-season fun. It was a bit windy and cold, but who could resist the allure of 2p gambling and blocks of greasy spoons only 30 minutes from Bristol? I hit the jackpot on this cheapy slot machine and got enough tickets (it's not real money gambling, more like Chuck E. Cheese style) to redeem for a stuffed bunny, plaid wallet and rainbow eraser. Good stuff. Um, and had some chips (I don't like battered,fried fish) and cheese on toast (which is exactly what it sounds like--same with bacon roll. Very literal, these people).

Orange Kit Kats: These are the best. Orange and chocolate go hand-in-hand as well as mint and chocolate don't (the other Kit Kat flavor they have--ick). We just have plain ol' chocolate Kit Kats (well, we do have the BigKat now--their Chunky which I first discovered Thanksgiving '99 while visiting my internet crush), but ours are made by Hershey and theirs by Nestle (yeah, yeah, it's a big evil corporation and everyone over there boycotts them, but this is NYC and we don't care about the plights of the disadvantaged here so it's OK for me to eat them). I don't know why their chocolate is so much better. Even run of the mill brands like Cadbury are tastier. On the way to Bath our train passed a Cadbury factory and it was unbelievably exciting.

Tea at The Savoy: Fancy, spendy and touristy and all that, but it had to be done. I'm a sucker for little sandwiches, pastries and scones on silver multi-tiered platters. Our American roots showed when we polished off all our sandwiches and were politely offered more by the waitress. I looked around and was dismayed to see that parties of people who'd been served well before we were seated still had like 3/4 of their sandwiches left. What pigs we are, but at £22 apiece ($31.1322 at this writing), I felt justified in my white trash gluttony. Ew lookee here, purty lil' san'wiches, indeed.

Rabbit offal on toast at St. John: I wanted an upscale, unpretentious un-NYC restaurant, and this is what I got. An eerie, stark white, trendy yet traditional establishment serving goodies like bone marrow salad, eel, chitterlings, faggots (that dish still makes me giggle), rarebit, treacle, potted pigs head and the like. I got a kick out of it, though I'm not sure James did. He was convinced the table of Germans near us were Nazis who were privy to some after hours, members only, flesh eating club. Perhaps.

Prepackaged sandwiches a la Pret a Manger: Sandwiches (not sarnies. May god strike me dead if I ever use that abbreviation) appear to be a big deal there, and I'm a sucker for cute convenience food. It's not like nasty ham and cheese varieties you could find in the refrigerated sections at 7-11s here (well, not here specifically--I've yet to see one on the east coast), but it's the same concept. They're not only at Pret a Manger, but at most major supermarkets too. I know we've got three Prets in Manhattan now, but I've never been. I think it's a little pricey here and I'm sure our sandwiches have different fillings. I'm probably just responding to the novelty anyway. Stuff like ham and swiss and turkey club just don't have the same ring as brie and grape, egg and cress, cheese and pickle, chicken coriander on seedy bread and venison baguette.

Grocery shopping: Just plain old stores like Tesco and Sainsbury's get me all revved up with their packaging and various foreign goodies. I'm easily amused, alright? Discovering that cilantro and assorted herbs come in their own pots and that cheese spread (love that Primula. Seriously, I ate the shrimp flavor on toast nearly every day for three months when I was in England in '95) is sold in tubes is very exciting. Rows of heat and eat meat pies and Indian food? Yum.

Chip butties and Sunday night raffle at The Plough: Forget fancy cocktails and bars, it's all about corner pubs. Out of all the places we drank at, I was the most taken by The Plough, a gritty, mildly sketchy pub around the corner from my sister's house. It appeared to have a large Jamaican contingent, the owner was certainly Jamaican and everyone drank Red Stripe in cans (I'd only ever seen in little bottles), but it was a mixed crowd. I'm still trying to get a grip on Melissa's neighborhood (Easton). I think Bristol has some wealthy and trendy spots, but her area seemed rather diverse (i.e. lots of Indian or Asian, as they say, Caribbean and low-income white youngsters) which was reflected in this pub's clientele. For whatever it's worth, The Plough sponsors the Easton Cowboys, this obnoxious football team who plays Zapatista rebels and kids in Compton that Melissa seemed to despise (from what I saw, they all seemed to have leathery faces). Anyway, The Plough was good low-key fun and the only place I found in the whole godforsaken country that served past 11pm (Cliff, the owner, closes up whenever he feels like it, it seemed). My first night there I was taken aback when Cliff came round with a large tray of buttered white bread and greasy chips (fries, duh). I didn't know what to do and declined. I came to understand this was chip buttie time and you're supposed to take a handful of chips, place them onto half a piece of bread, fold it over and enjoy. It's the ultimate drinking food. Totally brilliant. Here's one fancy chip buttie recipe that you won't catch me making. Cibatta?! Feh. The last night we were in England, we headed to The Plough after a swanky "Mexican" (they're all confused over Hispanic things. Like it's all the same to them, no matter the country or continent. And salsa is a big trend. They'll serve salsa with anything and make it into a wrap [other big trend] whether you like it or not) meal with fancy imported beer like Corona and Negro Modela (like the only two beers you can find in my neighborhood) that was our treat (well, James's) for letting us stay with them. Apparently it was raffle night. There was some random system, as you bought drinks you got tickets, but sometimes you got two, sometimes you didn't get any. We were practically the only ones in there so we were bound to win something. It was all crazy and Cliff got up with a microphone and wouldn't stop jabbering and kept getting heckled and we were in the back room so I could only hear, not see anyway and Dave (my sister's boyfriend) won a bottle of wine. The couple playing pool near us won a pack of cigarettes. I hear that previously someone won a condom. I gather they pretty much give away whatever's laying about. Good clean fun.

Then there's the annoying stuff like word usage: Rocket for arugula. Coriander for cilantro. Pud for pudding (which really means dessert. "Would you like to order a pud?" and it's a list of cakes and pies. Oh jeez, that's hard to take). Veg for vegetable (duh). Cuppa for cup of tea. They love to abbreviate the hell out of everything. Spelling pita pitta. Referring to all Indian food as curry (and finding chips as a side dish. Er, I can't say much about this being in New York now. Chips all over "ethnic" [I hate that word] menus struck me as strange when I lived in Portland, but here they serve fries and/or plantains at practically every Chinese take-out joint) I'm over the novelty of sarnies (sandwiches) and baps (buns). Courgettes and aubergines are old news too (for a nation who hates the French, they use an awful lot of their language).

That's the long and the short of it. English vacation in a nutshell. I really should've savored it (and penny-pinched a bit more. Not that I could've really. I marvelled while being handed customs forms on the plane. All I'd purchased the entire week was misc. candy and Lush soap), as I may never be able to afford a vacation ever again. Well, one can always dream. This weekend I was looking up cooking classes in Asia and found these islands in Thailand where the top of the line resorts with lagoons and thatched bungalows (with air conditioning and TV) were in the $30-$65 range?! If I could piece together the expensive airfare, food and lodging wouldn't be a huge issue. I got all excited and even got James moderately interested (if I could just get him past the idea of creepy lizards, snakes and tropical beasts roaming the streets, and him trying to make me understand just how excruciatingly hot it is there, this could work). Yeah, I hate hot weather, crawly creatures, sand and swimming, but so what. Who needs to be rational.