2005
january  february march april may

6/29/05
Oh, I’m so totally loaded. I finally got my 2003 (yes, 2003. First they claimed they never received it in 2004, so I resent it this year, then they sent it back because I didn’t include the correctW2 [I thought all the little tear offs were exactly the same despite the tiny designations at the bottom for state, city, federal, etc.] and didn’t list my school district, as if that matters) and NY state tax refund. Ok, it wasn’t really much of anything to shout about, but I was surprised that it was $102 more than I’d calculated. Tax refunds are another one of those myths like how people buy homes with inheritances, have entire summers taken up with weddings (I was just on a mailing list where a member had practically all her July and August weekends filled due to wedding festivities, her own and others) and stay thin in NYC simply by walking. I always hear (where? I don’t know, I just do) about people taking vacations, buying expensive clothes, tricking out their homes with gadgets, all with tax refund money. Yet another situation where I’m baffled by what many consider typical. Apparently, everyone gets money back, and not just piddly amounts but thousands. Ah, some hard facts—the IRS says the average refund is $2,436, almost six times more than I received. And I don’t think it’s a matter of the more you make, the more you get back because James always owes too, and majorly. Now that I think about it, I think my mom always owes too. Maybe I’m the common denominator, the tax jinx. I didn’t even get refunds until I started school again and got a few minor breaks from paying tuition and student loan interest. I owed like every year I started working after college in the early ‘90s until maybe two years ago. And no, I did not pay it either. There are some wrongs that you just have to right yourself.

6/28/05
I’m no wordsmith (I like using clichés and hokey language—that’s why the NY Post occasionally lets me write for them and the New Yorker does not. I’m also well aware that I’m repetitive with my adjectives, overuse the words like, actually and well, and abuse parentheses, but no one’s paying me not to, so who cares) but sometimes a phrase is so glaringly clunky that I can’t ignore it. I couldn’t believe that I was actually (see, I just used actually again) seeing the phrase “nothing tastes as good as thin feels” used with absolutely no sense of irony in a NY Times piece on fat camps. That’s right up there with “God don’t make no junk,” “I’m 80 years young” and the Garfield classic, “I’m not overweight, I’m undertall.” Oh, indeed. And there I was thinking the Times was a classy rag. That’s the sort of thing they, and most arrogantly literate news sources usually keep in check. For reference—number of times the phrase “clinging to life” has appeared in the NY Post since the beginning of 2005: 20. The NY Times: 6 (that’s more than I’d expected, but there were only three uses in 2004—maybe they’re slipping). Ok, I will now stop and try to find a better use of my nitpicking skills.

6/27/05
I don’t normally read corrections in magazines or newspapers. Really, why bother? But for some reason this morning while attempting to apply make up without simultaneously sweating it off I was also poking around the internet (even though I’m always rushed during my 45-minute get ready quick routine, I still have to check my two email accounts and skim the NY Times front page and sometimes the NY Post. However, I didn’t find this sweet doozy of a semi-article, Roll With the Paunches until after settling in at work) and had the urge to click on one of the corrections links in the NY Times’s style section (they don’t put all the corrections on one unified page, but according to subject at the bottom of each respective page) and was greatly rewarded by this “An article on May 29 about the latest sex manuals from mainstream publishers included a topic erroneously among the covered subjects. They do not include bestiality.” Simple mistake, really, perhaps humping pets sounded like a good idea on paper. Here’s the original line “Despite contents that seem to be ever pushing taboos -- even including bestiality, in some volumes -- publishers maintain that these are service books at heart, maybe even beneficial.” Sort of animal related, though not as sexy—there is now one more reason why Carroll Gardens/Cobble Hill is good for nothing: no soft-shell crabs on Sundays. It’s not a religious thing, it’s a stupid everything in the neighborhood is closed on Sundays thing. I found this recipe that I’ve been meaning to try for a few weeks now and picked up all the other ingredients on Sat. (to be fair, there weren’t any soft-shell crabs in Sunset Park Chinatown Sat. either) with the intention of making the sandwiches last night at my leisure. But no, both fish stores, the fancy one in Cobble Hill and the run of the mill shop in Carroll Gardens (where is the border anyway? It feels like Union St., but I think it’s technically DeGraw, two blocks north) were out to get me with their rigid hours. And forget about doing anything at all after 5pm. I think the hardware store closes at like 3pm on Sundays. Memorial Day evening (while being Monday, functioned like a Sunday) we wanted something for dessert around 10pm and walked practically the entire neighborhood. Not only was there nothing sweet to be found, there was nothing, no food or restaurants open (this wasn’t because it was a holiday) at all. Even the closest bar, Red Room, which wasn’t all that exciting, went out of business in the winter. Getting a drink is even a trauma. Sparky’s closed not too long ago. The only super close bar is the freaky old school PJ Hanley’s and even they don’t serve much past midnight. For being the city that never sleeps, it’s pretty darn sleepy in our neck of the woods.

6/24/05
So, I decided to not be judgmental and checked out the new IFC Center where they are playing the movie I thought I might have issues with, Me and You and Everyone We Know. But it ended up being really good and I will now refer to the actor as John Hawkes, not the Jew banker from Deadwood because I’ve made the point to remember his real name. I still don’t think just anyone can become a filmmaker because they feel like it. Even if you act unassuming, it’s about money and connections because who gives a rat’s ass about a nobody’s vision? Nobody, of course. For a while I was stressed out because Henry Thomas wasn’t showing up on that VH1 100 Greatest Kid Stars series. Especially since they were getting mildly obscure with choices like Justin Henry from Kramer vs. Kramer (which I’ve never actually seen) and Lara Jill Miller from Gimme a Break. But then the Ol’ Hankster came through at #24. I just wish they hadn’t used up good spots for obvious people like Christina Ricci and Kirsten Dunst. And they had Lance Kerwin (aw, I miss these pre-blog era websites where obsessive weirdoes haphazardly posted their celebrity clippings collections) who turned into a crack addict before finding God, but no Ike Eisenmann (at least that I noticed). So wrong.

6/21/05
Back to pointless summer fashion trends—I so don’t get madras. The pattern, the colors…the point? Maybe I’m not understanding madras, I think it’s a generic term, but I’m talking about that weird bright pastel patchwork palette I’ve started seeing all of a sudden. On the opposite and useful front, all of a sudden I’ve started seeing tons of press for Rebecca & Drew, designers who make women’s shirts based on bra size, not dress size. Just the thing I was talking about a short time ago. Personally, I’m not going to spend $165 on a shirt, but the concept is basically a sound one. I say basically because it still poses potential problems. My original concern was how a size 8 with an A cup is supposed to wear the same shirt as a size 8 with a D cup. But now they’re just ignoring size in favor of bust line, and assuming bra size will approximate clothing size. A slim 34C might not wear the same size shirt as a chunky 34C. Ok, I’m being too nitpicky. Not related to anything, but what ever happened with those missing kids in Idaho? I guess their disappearance was overshadowed by that missing Aruba girl. I prefer the Idaho kids story because the girl’s name is Shasta, and I’d almost forgotten that was a name. Very, er, white trash, but maybe I’m just biased because it doesn’t make me think of the mountain but of cheap soda. It would’ve been better if the boy’s name was Kelly instead of Dylan. I’m sure you all know this already because you are rational fact-lovers, but there are a lot of missing people in the world, and many of them aren’t young attractive blonde females. Poking around these listings from the North American Missing Persons Network is kind of eerie and vaguely depressing. Some are runaways, some seem like suicides, and the rest, like this middle aged woman whose abandoned SUV ended up in Gresham, OR—who knows?

6/20/05
Even though it doesn’t seem possible, I always manage to outdo myself with my un-photogenic-ness. I always thought body dysmorphia was more a case of seeing yourself as unattractive when there’s truly nothing abnormal to fixate on. I have the opposite, an anti-dysmorphia, maybe. I don’t think I’m a hot number, but I think I look at least presentable and occasionally border on cute. But when I see my photos, which I presume to mirror how I actually appear, I’m always disturbed by how grotesque I’ve become. I remember seeing some Behind the Music thing years ago and Ann Wilson from Heart was saying how she always thought she looked good even though she ballooned into this huge pudgy thing, like she couldn’t see it despite her obvious physical transformation. That scares me. There’s been all this A< href= http://www.gawker.com/news/culture/movies-celebs/retraction-chris-noth-rides-subway-maybe-wears-slippers-only-seems-drunk-109124.php>hoo ha on Gawker about their making fun of Chris Noth. It was all amusing until it occurred to me that I’m becoming Chris Noth. I finally broke down and got my passport photos taken during lunch. I had totally braced myself for the result, knowing it’s always a notch worse than one might imagine, but this was like ten notches. The horrible pink-ish digital photo captured me in all my bloated, haggard, big-eyebrowed glory (that’s it, I’m plucking the hell out of brows this week). And the photographer took three different shots. They all looked identical, even though I tried forcing a more flattering expression. I could probably deal if it weren’t for the fact that I’m not a fifty-year-old man like Mr. Noth. Every time I see that runaway bride on the commercial promoting her Dateline tell all, I start yelling (I really do yell at the TV) about how she can’t be 32. Of course I’m just in denial about being 32 and refuse to believe I look all scary, liney and beat up like that (Twice in the last few months I’ve noticed women’s magazines doing this spread where they show a celeb for each year from like 16 to 65 to supposedly illustrate a full spectrum of beauty and diversity. What irks me is the face they always use to show my age is Jennifer Garner who gives me fits more than almost anyone in Hollywood (actually she was the face of 33 and Cameron Diaz that of 32 despite both being born in 1972 like me. I’d prefer neither of them. Heck, give me Elizabeth Berkeley, if you have to). In fact, the truth is I look even worse. I’d better stop knocking that Jennifer Wilbanks—she’s a looker, bug eyes and all. I’ve been having all sorts of perspective problems lately. I caught a glimpse of that new Tucker Carlson show last week and was completely baffled by one of the guests who seemed like a blatant transsexual. I don’t have problems with cross dressers but it seemed really odd and distracting because I couldn’t concentrate on the commentary because I was so fixated on figuring out this person’s gender. It looked and sounded like a man wearing make up, not over the top, but enough to give me pause. But if I’m correct this person Rachel Maddow is actually a lesbian, her photo on the Air America site does look like a woman, but that’s not how I perceived her on TV at all. Then on my day off I caught some horrible show called Home Delivery where they help fat, ugly and/or poor people by rubbing in their problems under the guise of caring and make them cry a lot. The subject was this 600 pound person who was going to die without help and this individual’s rail thin, much older boyfriend Sarge was only enabling their eating problems. I thought the obese person was a man, and when they showed footage of Sarge being caring and affectionate and kissing the problem person I was like whoa daytime TV is way more liberal than I’d realized. Queer Eye whatever, I didn’t think the world was ready for two unattractive men smooching for the camera like that. But of course I was totally wrong and the fatty was a woman. I’m really having a hard time with gender. Last night I caught the tail end of some home entertaining show. The host was showing the woman of the house how to make ice bowls with citrus slices frozen beneath the surface, which actually were kind of cool, but I was completely convinced that the husky voiced, bony homeowner was a man in drag. I soon realized the premise was “her” wedding to this middle aged, middle American guy in a polo and all I could think about was whether or not this guy was open minded and knew he was marrying a biological man or if he was a deluded rube. Maybe I’ve suffered damage to some part of my brain or frontal lobe or wherever it is that discerns between sexes. Or maybe I’m just trying to justify why I’m beginning to resemble Chris Noth.

6/16/05
It appears that the pitter patter of little or large feet will soon be present above our heads. We were pretty lucky to get the last three(?) four(?), I already forget, months neighbor-free upstairs. But yesterday there was a woman wanting to look at the place (and no one was there to show it to her) in the mini front lobby, so I quickly searched Craigslist for the goods. It was there, and with photos, but not very descriptive ones. I’ve never been inside any of the other apts. in the building, so I was curious. The other apts. also have a different style, with exposed brick, wooden ceiling beams where ours lacks that rustic charm, assuming you find that aesthetic attractive. I think they’re slightly bigger than ours too because they have two rooms in front, making a bigger kitchen and large living room area, where my room takes up space in the back. But we have the second floor with three closets, an extra bathroom and fridge, so it’s practically like two apts. It’d be perfect for a family, frankly it’s large for a couple (by NYC standards), and that’s why I enjoy it so much, it’s decadent and the people in the building with more occupants have less room. I take particular pleasure in the fact that the apt. with the annoying young couple with a baby has the least amount of space. The open place upstairs is desirable because it has a private patio the size of a studio apt. We had a choice between that and ours, it’s about $100 cheaper, but neither of us likes the outdoors, an extra floor was way more practical. The problem is that now I’m bratty and spoiled and won’t want to live in less space, and if James ever decides to actually buy, especially in Manhattan, it’s going to be a step down in square footage. Or heck, if we ever break up I’m going to be seriously hurting. Just try doing a Craiglist search for anyplace anywhere in all five boroughs for under $900. It gives me heart palpitations, it’s so bleak. I’m not ready for the Bronx and NJ studios yet. I could deal with Queens, though, it wouldn’t kill me and it’s not like I haven’t done it before. Not related, but it wasn’t a huge surprise that NYC made the second dirtiest city (after Chicago) in a Reader’s Digest report (not that anyone gives any credence to R.D., though those Life in These United States stories are a hoot. Oh my god, and the NY Times’s Metropolitan Diary is a gas, too. Don’t even get me started on Kids are Punny…). It also wasn’t a huge surprise that Portland was the cleanest. Smartest drivers, tidiest streets and sidewalks, third healthiest for pets. I wonder if there’s a correlation between cleanliness, health, safety (actually that one’s a myth—of cities with populations over 500,000 Portland doesn’t even crack the top ten while NYC is fifth safest) and dullness. As much as NYC is filthy, disgusting and irritating, I can’t really say that I’m bored.

6/15/05
It’s pretty easy to gauge mainstream fashion trends by browsing Old Navy racks. I’m a reluctant nut for Old Navy, not because I like their wares more than any other chain. They just happen to be cheap cheap, under $20 cheap, not $49 cheap like magazines perpetuate. And their clothes will always fit, never any depressing freak surprises like Target (where they got criticism for large sizing from highbrow publications, which is so not true. I hate to say it, but the Issac Mizrahi collection runs small. If I have trouble at Target, well, couture is beyond out of the question. I think the Times said something like a size 8 looked more like a 12. I’ve found everything to be a size smaller, that 8 would fit like a 6, or maybe I’m just used to shopping at Old Navy and I’m actually a size larger than I think. If you ever want to feel really tiny [er, and good looking] hang out in the Wal-Mart clothing section for a while. Instant pathetic confidence boost.) or H&M (where I had button up shirt trauma this weekend. I know I’m not the only person with the gaping between buttons issue. I’ve heard complaints from women with all builds, it’s not even a matter of the shirt being too small, I think they’re just poorly designed [that’s what happens when you won’t pay more than $30 for anything, I guess]. I was trying to figure out how women with itty-bitty waists and big boobs wear buttoned shirts. Maybe that’s why you don’t Pam Anderson in oxfords. Obviously this is a real problem because I was reading that some designers have started making allowances in bust lines for all their high-end clientele’s augmentations. Couture is clearly created to look good on willowy A or B cups, but women with money, particularly in Florida, Texas and California have giant fake tits and a taste for expensive clothes that they can’t squeeze their bosoms into. One of the subjects in the story was a Houston attorney who’s a size 2 with 34F boobs, which frankly, is ridiculous. Maybe she should’ve considered how limiting her clothing options would be before making such a freak show choice). My original point was that fashion’s in a blah lull. As much as I try to avoid Old Navy overload, sometimes I find an armload of surprisingly cute things. But on my last visit, there wasn’t a single item even vaguely of note. It could just be that I have an aversion to warm weather clothes. Fall and winter are responsible for such better style. I’m just not feeling the long skirt, giant wedge sandals, tunics and ballet sweater thing. I don’t despise it like low-rise jeans and ponchos, but I have no inclination to put any of it on either. Fashion…whatever. Music…ok, I never talk much about it, but I’m home sick (yes, again) and able to organize my mp3s and listen to stuff I never get a chance to during the day (I watch TV at night, if you didn’t guess, and I don’t have a job where I can use headphones and play with music on my computer). Part of me has the taste of a young man, apparently. Every so often I catch bits on MTV2, which is supposed to be winning back the 18-34 male demographic from video games by showing hip hop and rock videos. I hate to admit liking or already owning a good number of things they play. All those British ‘80s-esqe “post punk” bands full of good-looking boys that were zygotes when their musical influences were popular. Maximo Park, Bloc Party, Kaiser Chiefs, The Futureheads, Hot Hot Heat, VHS or Beta. Ok, the last two aren’t English, but it’s all the same in the modern interconnected world, right? It would be such a good time to be a teenager right now. There’s a lot of really catchy, creative music out there and it’s so accessible. A while ago my friend Jessica was speculating that if we were youngsters today we’d be into crap like Marilyn Manson and Orgy. I was like no way. With the internet, there’s no excuse for liking mainstream pseudo alternative junk. Growing up, we only had the radio. Anything obscure had to be gleaned from magazines, foreign penpals and shows like120 Minutes, if you even had cable. There weren’t samples to download. If you read a good review you’d have to take the chance and just buy the record. I wasted $7.99 countless times on bad choices. Not that I’d want to be 16 again just so I could take advantage of all the current cyber perks. Maybe ever so slightly less trendy than the aforementioned bands—I’m also digging The Legends, (why is Sweden so hot for indie pop right now? Is it possible that the entire country is cute and hip? A friend just returned from Stockholm and reported that the city is brimming with attractive people, just as I had suspected. I think NYC needs a good splash of Nordic genes to smooth things out. I’ve always had a real lanky, sandy-haired, light-eyed fetish, and was warned before moving that I’d never find anyone in NYC because everyone tends to be small and dark. It’s a tough city, alright) Voxtrot, very much in a Smiths and Belle and Sebastian vein, but they’re from Texas so somehow it’s ok, Banner Barbados peppy, raggedy, rock ‘n’ roll Seattle band that I know next to nothing about and Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah infectious Brooklyn group with vocals that always get compared to David Byrne.

6/14/05
Just as every cooking magazine gets grill crazy around June, lifestyles mags have wedding bells on the brain. That’s fine, I’m not anti-wedding (or an enemy of grilling, for that matter). What’s weird is how this season seems to induce others to complain or at least lament about how many weddings they must attend during the summer. People can’t attend parties, make commitments, etc. because of all the marital obligations to friends and family. The pressure, the annoyance, the expense--I have no idea what they’re talking about. In my entire adult life, I have never ever been invited to a wedding (or baby) shower for a friend or even acquaintance. As far as actual weddings, I can only think of two in ten years. My sister in ’95 (and apparently again in ’06) and James’s sister in ’02. My current circle of friends consists of single childless people, my childhood/teenage/college friends are either gay and/or undomesticated weirdoes. My four coworkers are all childless (one is married) and range in age from late 20s to early 60s. Am I a freak or is my social sphere just really, really small? (I so don’t get the appeal of Friendster and My Space. I think I have less than 30 friends on each because I honestly don’t give a shit, but all these delusional socialites have like 500. Nobody really has hundreds of friends, even the most networked hipsters.) Ha, or perhaps no one wants me at their blessed events. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride, is no worry of mine. Maybe that’s why I’ve never gotten caught up in the notion of babies and weddings for myself. I just haven’t had the influence or peer pressure. I really wish that I didn’t put off incredibly important things like having my photo taken until the weather turns unbearably sticky. Having an end of July birthday, I know that my license will always expire in the middle of summer. And every five years (or however long between renewals) I do everything possible to prep looks-wise and no matter what end up looking like a shiny grease-pile in my photo. I was thinking this year I’d maybe get the new license early to avoid this trauma, but it’s already too late. Even dumber is that my passport expired in March, so I’ve had almost two months to deal with it but still kept procrastinating. I keep waiting for the temperature to get back under 80, but this has yet to occur in the last few weeks. Luckily, there’s place that does passport photos literally next to my office building’s entrance. Best case scenario, I’ll only be exposed to the heaty elements for maybe 20 seconds. I was aiming for Thurs. but now I have a head cold and don’t want my face looking freaky stroke-victimized for the next decade (for some reason I always get colds on half of my face—my left nostril won’t stop burning and gushing snot and my left eye is bloodshot and weepy. It feels like my entire left half is droopier than my right. Disturbing.) It doesn’t take much to induce nostalgia and amazement at the passing of time in me. Photos are obvious vehicles. I hadn’t even realized my passport had expired, ten years is a long time. My first was at 16 to go to France for a summer month in ’89. I’m not sure why I had to get another in ’95, maybe because I was under 18 with the original and they don’t last as long. But the mid-‘90s one was last minute for my sister’s spur of the moment wedding. I don’t look particularly good in my photo as a 23-year-old, I have a weird manly haircut, it looks like I have two chins, my eyebrows are shaped into that tadpole/spermy formation, no wistfulness for youth here. I have on a sweater that I actually still own, it’s one of the maybe 3-4 clothing items I brought from Portland that I’ve held on to. You can’t tell that I’m wearing it because it’s under a sweatshirt, but I know it’s there. Maybe I’ll wear it in my 32 photo too. I guess I’ll need another passport photo when I’m 42, assuming I’m still alive and kicking in 2015. Maybe I’ll save the sweater and wear it in that photo, as well. It’s not a particularly nice sweater, it’s merely this mauve short sleeve, acrylic-blend, button up thing, maybe ‘70s, maybe ‘80s, I’m not sure. At some point in the ‘90s I sewed a tiny cat appliqué on the pocket, but I might’ve removed it in the ‘00s, I can’t remember. It’s just a fluke that it’s never been thrown out, I haven’t worn it in ages. Now it seems imperative to make an heirloom out of the ratty thing.

6/13/05
Sometimes it’s weird seeing people become famous, even when you didn’t really know them, they just briefly inhabited your world. As I’ve recently discovered and reiterated, my memory is hardly the sharp whip I once thought it was. I worked for a week and a half at the Portland Goodwill soon after I graduated college, and I would say it was ’94 since that’s the year I finished school, but I also know that I worked at Goodwill the same week as the Portland International Film Festival because I also worked at the NW Film Center and doing the two jobs simultaneously really put me over the edge. I’ve never had much of a work ethic, that’s why I dropped the full time Goodwill gig (well, that’s not the only reason. It was severely dull and they were totally mean to the handicapped workers—I know I’ve told the deaf mute wailing and making a scene because I unintentionally got her trouble story before, so I won’t elaborate) and kept the also minimum wage part time box office job (I still find it hard to believe we could smoke while selling tickets, though we usually didn’t light up until the movie started. Now you can’t even puff away in bars, the inhumanity). But I just looked up the Film Festival and it’s listed as Feb. Maybe they changed it, I don’t remember it being winter while working at Goodwill, but then winters aren’t harsh in Portland. So, in either late ’94 or early ’95 I worked at Goodwill for about 12 days doing absolutely nothing. You just had to kill eight hours pretending to look busy, tidying up shelves and occasionally getting to cashier underneath the huge sign that said, “We Employ the Disabled.” A bunch of new people, all early 20s, sort of shiftless, including myself, were all hired at the same time. One of them was this riot grrl type who’d just moved from Berkeley. She would get into trouble for always wearing a parka (hmm, maybe it was winter, after all) with the stuffing popping out of holes in the polyester shell. I figured she was a lesbian, but I didn’t know that for sure. She did performance art or something appropriately cliché. But I guess she was really good at it because over the years I’ve seen her name, Miranda July, mentioned in conjunction with the Whitney Biennial, on NPR, and now I keep seeing it everywhere because I guess she’s decided to be a film maker and win awards at Sundance and Cannes. The movie getting all the hype, Me and You and Everyone We Know, stars the Jew banker from Deadwood (ok, ok, I'll remember his real name one of these days), who was also in A Slipping Down Life, which I’ve developed a minor fixation on despite not being any good. I wonder how long she stayed at Goodwill? Not long, I suppose. How do people become successful like that? Maybe this quote from her recent Elle blurb sheds some light, “Growing up in a brainy Berkeley, California, family, the multitalented 31-year-old director says, ‘I've always felt an internal pressure to do something amazing.’” Oprah kept appearing in a commercial not too long ago brimming with self-confidence and proclaiming, “I was born to do great things.” It’s interesting how relatively successful and massively successful folks often speak this way. They think they have a burning passion, special awareness and destiny that others lack. I’m sure there are plenty of driven, idea-filled, intellectually nimble individuals who never amount to shit. And no, I’m not referring to myself, there’s no fiery inner spark here, just a half-hearted smolder. I’m just saying that those who accomplish what they’ve set out to often imagine themselves to be unique, and that’s not necessarily so. Once I was struck in a writing class how the instructor who’d been published in a lot of places, but wasn’t well known or anything, was so surprised at how much the class knew. Like many of us knew the same people, at least in passing, she did in the industry, knew who the editors were at most of the publications in this field, had writing ability, we weren’t retarded, we just hadn’t had the same success as this woman for one reason or another. There’s happenstance, there’s luck, there’s perseverance, there’s charisma, and it can all trump talent or drive, especially in personality driven markets like NYC. Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just all simultaneously groggy and wound up from the heat. I’m feeling uselessly agitated but am too lethargic to do anything about it. I’ll refrain from ranting about individuals (who apparently have no body fat) in my office complaining about being too cold and having the air conditioning turned down so low that it now feels like a swamp. There’s no excuse for sweating at your desk, especially when the rest of the building is crisp and chilly.

6/9/05
I finally found the cover of A Slipping-Down Life that I was talking about the other day, but the photo is super tiny and you have to scroll all the way down the page because if you click on any details it says the book has been sold—and the list price was $1,250?! What the fuck? Who knows if the copy in my classroom was a first edition, but if I could’ve seen twenty years into the future I would’ve kept the damn thing. Which isn’t very library-like, and speaking of, this advertising prick (who looks like a younger, slimmer George Costanza minus the glasses) I was just in the elevator with was going on to the girl next to him about how the library just called him to return magazines he had out. He was totally outraged, and obviously not well versed in the concepts of lending and borrowing (nor observant of the library’s staff, as I was standing mere inches from his thinning pate). “They’re lucky they get their magazines back at all,” he was proudly telling this girl he seemed to be trying to impress with his tough anti-return policy stance. I don’t get people who fancy themselves to be hotshots, and act petty about a service that is free to them. If they are so powerful and above it all, why don’t they actually pay for their own personal magazine subscriptions? You know, I’d be a very poor criminal witness because I always remember incorrectly and exaggerate details. I walked past that University of South Vietnam car again the other night and it wasn’t “plastered” with flags and patriotic ribbons like I’d previously stated. I mean, it did have at least one of each, but it wasn’t as crazy as my first impression. But this time I noticed the license plate MAMANONA. I guess it belongs to some fervent, patriotic old Italian broad. I’m shocked. Oh my memory is playing tricks again. I just now found the same book edition on ebay I was talking about seconds ago. Less than six hours left and the reserve still hasn’t been met. But now that I can see it larger, it’s not the one I was thinking of at all. It’s more abstract and psychedelic and I’m thinking more realistic and comical.

6/7/05
As I’ve previously stated, I’m very bad about taking photos. I’m so bad that I’m just now getting around to developing a half roll of film that’s been sitting in my non-digital camera since Christmas ’03. It’s doubtful the photos are even any good anymore. I got my previous digital camera that holiday and stopped using the plain Elph that I was really excited about when I first got it in 2001 but neglected to ever use. The trouble with this film is that the battery is long dead in the camera, and was leaking when I opened up the slot, which can’t be good. I can’t rewind the film without the camera being on (I’ve tried to figure out how to manually rewind it but I don’t think it’s possible). I can’t even just pop open the film hatch and just pull the damn exposed roll out without the camera being on. I really, really don’t want to have to buy some stupid specialty lithium battery the camera requires just to get my ancient 15 possibly no good photos off the camera. But what if there’s something really good on it? (I do know there is a shot of this freaky nurse statue my grandma gave my cousin. And I made a big issue out of wanting a photo, and she didn’t want to let me snap a shot because I’d put it on my website. I didn’t even know she knew I had a website, but swore I wouldn’t make fun of it online. But hell, it’s been a year and a half. This was the same Christmas Eve where my uncle kept pulling his gun out of his pocket and waving it around—unfortunately, I don’t think I got any photos of that.) So irritating. I just went out at lunch to possibly pick up the ridiculous battery anyway. I only had $5 on me, so instead of heading to the Duane Reade across the street, I went a few blocks out of my way to my North Fork ATM (where $40 is the quick cash figure—I guess Carroll Gardens is high rolling with it’s $60 choice). I don’t know why when I could just use a handy debit card. And I don’t know why I’m still stewing about that subject. I think because it gets at the heart of the core wrongness with people in my neighborhood. It’s all about selfishness. I’m a bitch half the time, but I wouldn’t do something like needlessly waste the person behind me in line’s time with petty credit card transactions. It’s inconsiderate and rude. I think about my actions before I commit them. Upscale Brooklynites do not. They’re always involving others with their unawareness, blocking aisles with enormous strollers, paying incredibly slowly, forgetting items and stepping out of line, not budging when mindlessly standing exactly in front of the part of the shelf that you need to see. And they expect you to be kind about their ineptitude. Like when you come up against a blocked aisle and you stand there a few seconds thinking they’ll get the hint and squeeze in to let you past, they don’t, and if you act even the tiniest bit exasperated it’s like you’ve insulted their being. Because when rude and oblivious encounters equally rude and oblivious they react to each other in this odd mutual way, kind of knowing and with a smile because they don’t bug each other. Wolverines and wolverines likely get along, despite being abrasive to humans. Perhaps bad behavior shoppers are actually a different species, altogether. Like a mommy with a crazy screaming kid who won’t move out of the bread section isn’t bothered by another mommy with a crazy screaming kid who’s creating a barrier to the soup shelf. I, however, am running errands and like to do so efficiently and with little social interaction. Grocery stores are not playgrounds or mommy meet-ups. I see plenty of fliers for new mom activities around the neighborhood (and in my gym locker room. My recent favorite: Memoirs for Moms. It’s quite the niche, Me, I’m waiting for Blogging with Baby courses). I’m sure they could find a more suitable venue than The Met for their impromptu mixers. My new feel-good remedy will be to pay for everything with a debit card, even if it’s just an apple. Maybe I won’t have my wallet handy, I’ll have to dig around my bag, that’ll kill some time. I’m going to begin taking my sweet selfish time with all Brooklyn transactions. I might also have issues with the prices that are rung up (now I’m speaking to the elderly contingent, this wasn’t meant to be anti-mother/father, specifically) and have the clerk take back one of the items, but not in a pleasant way. “How much was that?!” “I don’t want it!” while shoving the offending product at the cashier is more my speed. I didn’t end up buying a battery at lunch, which is for the best. Manhattan isn’t where I need to test out my new winsome approach, anyway.

6/5/05
Yay, I finally got my new camera. It’s nothing fancy fancy, and I never ever take photos anyway (I’ve been curious how people feel about folks snapping shots of food in restaurants. Despite liking to see what dishes look like in various venues, especially ones out of my everyday dining price range, there’s something about the practice that doesn’t sit right with me. I’m forming a story pitch [yeah, don’t go stealing my brilliant ideas] so I’m totally serious about this. If any readers are heavy food bloggers or naysayers, I’d like to hear your opinions.) but I just like knowing it’s there in case I need it. People have come to expect blogs to be photo heavy (if you read any “how to start a blog” articles, which I wouldn’t, they include advice like this “a picture is worth about 20 blog posts”), but I’m just not going there. I did find it interesting that my package was sent UPS this time instead of USPS. I never received any details other than a form “you claim has been approved” email about my lost camera, but clearly buy.com decided the post office needed to be bypassed the second time around. I probably don’t need to state this, but it’s hot. Too hot. I hate the heat (that’s why I’m going to the freaking equator for a vacation). I couldn’t understand all the whining about how this spring has been so miserably cold. 60s are fine with me. And everyone knows that NYC is steamy every single summer without fail—why get ahead of ourselves before it’s even summer (and no, summer doesn’t begin on Memorial Day. It drives me nuts how everyone complains about summer being over after Labor Day, too. I’m surprised no one has demanded that we shift all seasons up one month and make the calendar conform to popular convention.). 86 is killing me already, I haven’t been able to drag out the air conditioning or even a fan yet. It’s like a little oven in here. And the heat is just an excuse for everyone to put on hideous outfits and expose way more not fit for public consumption flesh on display. In one block alone I got an eyeful of super unsexy pregnant midriffs in tank tops. Or maybe they were just fat. Thankfully, I was able to have a laugh on 1st Pl. I spotted a sign adhered to a pole that said something like “Parking Space Reserved for Mercedes Only,” and I was like oh, fuck off. But then, I was like that’s way too tacky for the typical Carroll Gardens dweller, that’s the work of a freaky fuhgetaboutit old schooler. I didn’t immediately see a Mercedes, but then spied it a few cars up, and it was a doozy. You could barely tell it was a Mercedes because it was plastered in American flags and various support our troops ribbons. One of those university stickers lined the top of the back window, maybe this would be a clue, what kind of educational institution would a nut like this attend? Ah, the University of South Vietnam, School of Warfare. I hear they’re very exclusive. Ha, I do appreciate the so not P.C. nuggets of South Brooklyn. So, in the last 24 hours I noticed another irritant in this neighborhood—the rampant use of credit/debit cards for small totals. I do use a debit card frequently, but usually for clothing or large grocery purchases. There’s no strict rule, but I might debit for things over $30. Last night we were at a nearby bar, Boat (which reminds me, I’m not impressed with most of the Smith St. offerings. We were forced to hang out locally because earlier in the day, we got a flat tire from some metal wire being jammed into it while we were at the Hong Kong Supermarket in Sunset Park. James is convinced someone did it intentionally, but I’m not so sure. The bar vibes tend to be blech. The overgrown grad student clientele doesn’t bug me so much, but there’s also a real frat/guido contingent to the area, and lots of girls with their whole bare asses hanging out over bar stools. I thought this bare ass and thong string phenomena was relegated to the tan, horse haired, $200 jean contingent, but about a month ago I was at a Lucksmiths show [I forgot how good they are. The only cds I had when I first moved here were their “A Good Kind of Nervous” and Belle and Sebastian’s “If You’re Feeling Sinister,” so I associate both bands with the late ‘90s, living in Queens, having no air conditioning, sleeping on a old left behind mattress and using a cardboard box for a computer stand. So, downtrodden and romantic, don’t you think?] and amidst all the sugary indiepop and twee there was an alarming amount of bare ass on display. If there was any place I thought I might be safe from low rise jeans, it was at this Knitting Factory show. There’s no hiding from the scourge of blatant butt cheeks, apparently.) and someone was using a credit card to buy $4 beers. Stupid. About an hour later at a bodega, the guy in front of us was buying a pack of cigarettes with a credit card. It’s a real fucking waste of (my) time. You don’t even have $10 on you? This afternoon at the world’s vilest Key Food, the girl in front of me had cat litter and milk and yes, you got it, whipped out a credit card. I had a can of fat free refried beans, seltzer water, Monterey Jack cheese (that’s kind of weird, I never crave it, but I had the urge to make nachos) and money in hand. My transaction would take less than 60 seconds (well, maybe not at Key Food). It’s like the girls peeing thing. I can pee in less than a minute and get infuriated by women spending 5-10 minutes in a solo bathroom, especially when there’s a line. I hate dilly dalliers and slowpokes. Friday night I saw the semi-pointless Open Water and I was really glad the couple died in the end because everyone else on their diving boat made it back at the scheduled time. But this lovey-dovey twosome was too preoccupied with the undersea beauty and kept taking snapshots (let me guess, they take photos in restaurants, too) and when they finally came up their boat had taken off. They certainly learned their lesson. I’m trying to figure out this credit card craze. Is it because people don’t plan ahead (I’ll go to an atm rather than use a card for tiny purchases)? Because they’re living above their means and don’t have cash? It’s not more efficient or time saving, and is contrary to every report I ever read about muggings. I’m always surprised by how much money thieves get, in all corners of NYC. It’s quite often in the hundreds. I was robbed in my teens and they only got $8, a couple years ago when a kid attempted to mug me I only had $12 on me. Recently I started taking out $60 as a standard, I’m not sure how that happened, it’d been $40 for years (though I noticed at the ATM last night that the quick cash option is now $60 instead of $40, so maybe the world has become $20 more expensive in the last year). But I know people who take out like $200, which is totally dangerous if you ask me. It’ll just get spent quicker (though it might prevent all those pointless debit card transactions). I was totally shocked when I moved here and the minimum withdrawal was $20, that seemed so high. In Portland it has always been $10, though that has probably changed in the past seven years (not long ago I found an ATM in Edgewater, NJ that had a $5 minimum, crazy). Now, I can’t even imagine what the point of $10 or even $20 would be, it’d be gone in minutes.

6/3/05
Sometimes cable TV confuses me (though sometimes it thrills me—I can’t wait for the new Strong Medicine season. They’re finally losing that mom from Home Improvement and bringing in The Ricker. Oh no, an arrogant conservative male in a women’s health center—culture clashes will ensue—with enlightening results.). Like maybe six months ago, possibly around Christmas I got bored enough to sit through a whole movie (it seems like I watch a lot of TV, but I don’t when I’m alone. [I also don’t smoke or eat as much junk. I’m not sure what that’s about—I’m smarter and healthier solo?] This is actually an issue because for me TV is social, I talk during shows, comment on everything [don’t worry, I’m silent in movie theaters] but James is like a zombie and gets irritated when I talk over “important” parts. Such serious conflict.). It was some dull thing from 2003 on Sundance channel about plain looking post-college kids in some boring town doing nothing. Not like Slacker, just girls with long brown hair and no make up doing temp jobs and eating hummus and acting socially inept. Yawn. The name didn’t even stick with me until I saw it reviewed in the NY Times maybe a month ago and it came back to me, Funny Ha Ha. How does this work that a movie is on cable first (and has been playing all month) at the same time it’s in the theater? I’m not a film industry person, maybe this is more common than I realize. Last night I ended up watching A Slipping Down Life on IFC, despite James’s inexplicably strong aversion to Lili Taylor (he was happy she died on Six Feet Under). He wasn’t watching anyway since he spent from 8pm till after midnight scrubbing the apt. from top to bottom for his parents’ arrival this afternoon (I can’t wait). I didn’t intend to sit through the whole thing, but my attention was grabbed by a scene where Evie carves the name of this local rock star, Casey, backwards into her forehead. This was totally the cover of a young adult book I read in middle school. Those books really blur. I was obsessed with all the social problem, drugs, runaways, supernatural, frank sex tales that were actually penned in the ‘70s but still lingered on library shelves in the early to mid-‘80s. The whole Paul Zindel oeuvre (The Pigman was actually published in 1968, despite its constant reinventions as evidenced in this ‘90s(?) cover), things Robert Cormier, Lois Duncan, Eileen Conford, Paula Danziger. These are all the mainstream YA authors that are coming to mind. I don’t really mean them (except Paul Zindel) and the other Judy Blumes. The books I’m thinking of were freakier, I recall girls getting forced into prostitution in scary ‘70s NYC, kids doing angel dust, gay sex, having abortions—topics that would totally cause trouble for school librarians today (I was just reading yesterday that book banning is on the rise again). Often the covers were dated in style, sometimes they’d been given an ‘80s overhaul. Trends and styles are so specific and even more magnified in preteen and teenage minds. Something designed in ’81 would look silly by ’85. I wonder if kids today see YA books from the late ‘90s and are turned off by passé cover art. But I distinctly remember reading a paperback in probably 7th grade, picked from a shelf in the back of the class. I think they were ALA approved books from various years, many past their prime. I tried finding the least unappealing story based on cover art and back blurbs. I figured the one with a fat girl with long brown middle parted hair and the words YESAC scrawled jaggedly on her forehead might be funny. I can’t even recall the storyline, except that the main character was a troubled teen who was trying to get the attention of this local musician. I couldn’t tell you any other details, the title, the author, any of it. That’s why I surprised to see this plot point in the ’99 Slipping Down Life on cable last night. It was confusing because the main character wasn’t fat (though her best friend played by the now-normal-sized-though-likely-still-fat-by-Hollywood-standards Sara Rue was fat [Mon dieu, this French site appears to be devoted to belles rondeurs i.e. chubby celebrities. I guess French women really don’t get fat—they have to cull our sitcoms—Sookie from Gilmore Girls?!--to satisfy their flab fetishes.] Other characters were played by the Jew banker on Deadwood, the guy [named Guy] from Memento and that tarot card reader who’s literally the spawn of satan on Carnivale. Good mix.), she seemed to be playing a teen despite being 32 in real life at the time, the local musician was a grunge god (kind of dated by ’99 wouldn’t you say?) not a ‘70s rocker. If the movie really was based on the random 35-year-old teen book (it was already 15 years old by the time I got my hands on it) I thought it was, how bizarre would that be? It turns out it was, and the author was the prolific Anne Tyler of Accidental Tourist fame. Who knew? It wasn’t that great of a movie (are they ever? I’m always so unimpressed with everything. Like the new Star Wars was bad, but I had no expectations going in. Crash was blech. L.A. race relations, cars and melodrama? Bor-ring. The only thing I’ve liked at all recently was a bizarre little film I caught on cable a few Sundays ago. I know it was good because I was able to watch it alone and didn’t get antsy or blab through it or change the channel every couple minutes. It was Noi Albinoi, a bleak Icelandic tale of a bald teenage social fuck up trapped in a small fjord town who keeps getting into trouble. It’s sweet, comical and well, sad, duh. Things don’t end well for these Nordic outcasts like they do in American films, even the indie ones like A Slipping Down Life, which had a mildly positive ending despite lots of tragedy.). Anyway, now I’m fixated on finding a copy of A Slipping Down Life with the original cover, just for old time’s sake. But all I keep seeing are these hideous versions. Oh hell, this 1985(?!) edition is pretty good, though.

6/1/05
I don’t really think it’s even worth mentioning subway annoyances anymore because it almost goes without saying. I woke up yesterday convinced that there would be subway trouble (it’s not like there had been an ice storm or rain storm, subways seem to have an aversion to water. Perhaps too much sun, leisure time and bbq smoke affected the tracks) and was proven clairvoyant (why can’t I predict anything other than tragedy? Maybe this is how Patricia Arquette feels on Medium). How can there simply be no trains to Manhattan in a neighborhood? Only further proof that Carroll Gardens is beyond lame (the crux of the screw up occurred in said neighborhood). At least in Sunset Park I had four trains to choose from during rush hour. Living near express stops is a bright idea, I’ll keep that in mind next time. Memorial Day weekends are never that thrilling, despite getting 3.5 days of free time. I had no plans as of Friday evening. That’s why I was surprised to be in Baltimore a mere 24 hours later. Baltimore wasn’t even on the table until at least 5pm Sat. The original impromptu plan was to get up early Sat. (8am kills me on a weekend) and head to Adamstown, a.k.a. “Antiques Capital USA.” We’d been there a few years earlier when I had to write travel piece on beautiful Reading, PA (scary place—people drive horribly. I was shocked that neither PA nor NY made the dumbest drivers list that was all over the media last week [unsurprisingly Oregon and Washington got top spots—these are painfully rigid, rule following folks. I can never find that statistic about Oregon drivers having the slowest response time to green lights, but I know it exists]). Pennsylvania drivers always almost back into you. We got (lightly) hit in a parking lot (we were parked) by a woman who seemed slurry drunk at 10am. Then a kitten was back spinning on the highway like someone had just thrown it out a window. It managed to run into the median—I really hope it didn’t die. We drove back later and looked for a body [the streets of PA are practically lined with roadkill] but didn’t see one). But one detail I’d forgotten and which isn’t highlighted on tourism webpages, is that the big antique mall and most of the smaller stores are open on Sundays, not Saturdays. It was a total bust and then it started pouring. But we were able to enjoy the new eggnourmous meatnournous Enornous Omelet Sandwich at a rest stop BK (actually, I just had a croissan’wich. You know, trying to be healthy and all. Only 20 grams of fat instead of 50, seriously.), shop at Target and eat weirdo cheesesteaks topped with marinara sauce at someplace called Spayd’s (as far as insensitively named cheesesteak shops go, I prefer Chink’s in Phillie). While filling up the car and getting junk food and crazy cheap cigarettes at Wawa it was decided that we’d head to Baltimore for dinner. Why not, I’d never been and it was only a little over two hours away. James showed me all his old apartments (strange because all three were like walking distance from each other. At least in Portland I’d inhabited three of the four main quadrants: SE [three apts.], NE [two apts.] and NW [one]). I saw lots of random neighborhoods in the dark, got a headache and car sick while trying to find places for crab using a Blackberry. We ended up at a fun place LP Steamers (who can resist a cartoon crab in shades, clutching a can of beer?)where we got a dozen crabs, fried oysters and a pitcher of beer and made a big mess and smoked like chimneys on a rickety rooftop patio because 95% of everyone including our waiter was also puffing away. Pitchers are hard to find in NYC, so is indoor smoking which is rampant in Baltimore (I swear cigarettes were like $3.50), so are $3 cocktails like colorful crap using Midori in martini glasses. I don’t generally seek out those kinds of drinks, but three bucks a pop? I still don’t know what kind of town Baltimore is, we were only there maybe five hours. We checked out old sceney bars from a decade ago, which obviously held no nostalgia for me, though I certainly understand how off putting it can be to re-visit old stomping grounds and have them be completely different (though if they were totally the same—wouldn’t that be even creepier?). I don’t have any fondness for bars closing at 2am (I know it’s only a two hour difference between that and 4am but I’m not ready to go home at 2am) or worrying about parking or having the car broken into (this has never been a problem in NYC despite what perceptions Americans might have. I thought James was being way cautious and paranoid about the car, but even the Citysearch review of Club Charles mentions being careful with your car. The last time we were carefree in a city we didn’t know well—Vancouver BC-- the car did get busted into). Urgh, ignore the convoluted disjointed nature of this inaugural June entry (like most are coherent and straightforward). I’m having one of those obnoxious eye things where my vision isn’t right, my head hurts behind my eyes, I’m dizzy and can’t concentrate, if I close my eyes I feel seasick and spinning. Sometimes I can’t see what I’m looking at directly like numbers and letters are whited out, but I can see peripherally. And staring at a computer screen just makes it worse. I think it’s some form of ocular migraine, but who knows, maybe it’s just a blood clot or tumor. Maybe I have eye cancer. Maybe it’s nothing and I’m a completely delusional hypochondriac. I had an MRI (or was it a Catscan) a couple years ago and nothing was wrong. So irritating. Next thing you know I’m going to develop chronic fatigue, fibromyalgia or some other impossible hysterical female disease. All in My Head is an interesting book sort of about this phenomena.