11/29/05
I’m so tired it’s ridiculous. I thought my equilibrium was just off because I did the stay up till 5am, sleep in till noon thing during my four-day weekend. But now it hurts to breathe and swallow, I’m sweaty and chilled and my bones are killing me and I know I’m not being a hypochondriac because the person who sits next to me at work was just complaining of the same symptoms. I swear this office is poisoned, I don’t recall getting sick so many times in a year as in the past twelve months. And we have a Special Libraries Association holiday party this evening, and normally I’d be gung ho for an open bar, free food and dancing librarians (believe me, it’s a sight to see. Which reminds me, there have been a lot of librarians used in ads recently. One, that stupid DHL commercial where the typical crabby old lady shushes the squeaking delivery guy who apparently hasn’t heard of a service entrance. Two, where a middle aged woman shelving books [middle aged women, except in Portland, and most librarians don’t shelve books. That’s like a minority teen job here. Do people really think you need a master’s degree to alphabetize dusty tomes?] gets a diarrhea attack and knocks over a series of shelves like dominos. Now that’s funny. I love that laughing at runny poop has become acceptable in advertising. Three, the Intel Centrino commercial where Lucy Liu is sitting on young, friendly [you can’t tell that from the print ad, she seems more amiable in the tv commercial] yet mousey librarian’s lap in the stacks. I guess the dichotomy is you wouldn’t expect a sexy Asian in a library? I thought Asians got good grades and shamed their ancestors if they didn’t study hard, so whatever with the lame librarian stereotypes) but I can barely keep my eyes open.

11/26/05
Finally…something to be thankful for. Last night I was mindlessly flipping channels and one of those great, simple “oh shit” flashes that are all too few and far between. I’m a rapid channel switcher, totally a.d.d. so I thought I might’ve been hallucinating Henry Thomas’s less-than-prime, mid-30s mug, as I passed through Showtime. But no, it was definitely him, and I was bummed because it was the last 15 minutes of an episode of that new Masters of Horror series, entitled Chocolate. It’s not something I’ve been following since I’m not crazy about the genre, but I became immediately engrossed by the synopsis, “a newly divorced young man who creates artificial flavors for the food industry, suddenly and inexplicably starts to experience brief and random flashes from someone - and somewhere – unknown.” I’d obviously missed on the majority of the plot, but was treated to Henry bugging some woman in a park with the following precious lines, “I’m not a stalker…I know how special you are…I have to tell you the reason why I love you. Please don’t be afraid of me. Sometimes I’m inside you. I’m not crazy, I’m not a pervert. Somehow we’re psychically linked.” Ah, such sweet mania. The only way it could’ve possibly been any better would be if Bonnie Root was playing the object of his unwanted affections. And creating artificial flavors for the food industry? How sexy is that? He probably makes ranch ranchier. The premise behind this series is getting masters of horror to direct each episode, and it’s interesting to note that the particular “master” of this episode ain’t so masterful. He was the force behind forgotten (for a reason) gem Psycho IV, where I’m assuming he made Henry’s acquaintance. I’m not sure when exactly I became illiterate, meaning never cracking open a book. I give James a hard time because I don’t thin he’s read a work of fiction since I’ve known him, but really, I’m not much better. I read like crazy in my twenties, and now I’m just stunted. It seems that the only time I read anything other than magazines is during solitary holiday stints. That’s a shame. I think it has something to with living with other people, as reading isn’t the most social activity. I haven’t lived alone in about a year and a half and it only recently occurred to me that I no longer read before going to sleep (which has nothing to do with what you might be thinking—we don’t even share a bed—freaky? sure) Now I watch tv until I’m completely burnt out and can barely keep my eyes open (though I try to make 1am my limit). Or it could also have something to do with work patterns. I didn’t have strict 9-5, mon-fri job before moving in here either. There’s something leisurely and decadent about reading, where doing real stuff like errands, cooking, cleaning, and…er, emailing and internetting takes up a lot of your time if you work all day. I guess that’s what subways are for, but rush hour is so jammed there’s not always room to hold a book in front of your face (though other do it and piss me off with the amount of space they’re hogging) with one hand, while holding on to a pole with the other appendage. So, a few weeks ago I put holds on Tom Perrotta’s Little Children and to get up to speed on the National Book Award nominees, Mary Gaitskill’s Veronica (there’s no way I could slog through winner, William T. Vollman’s 811-page Europe Central. He was an acquaintance of my old Portland boyfriend, though I’m not sure why or how. Mr. Vollman was over at his house one night but I didn’t speak to him. I think he was seeing a friend of my boyfriend’s roommates who worked at Powell’s). So far, I’ve only gotten through the first two chapters of Veronica so I don’t have any solid opinions yet.

11/24/05
I’m sure I’m not the only person around who’s not much of a turkey enthusiast. Turkey can be tasty, but it’s not my first choice poultry. I even bore myself when I cook it. Thankfully, I’m under no obligation to eat any of the giant bird this year. I’ll be heading out to Chestnut, a nearby restaurant, in a few hours for a low stress holiday experience, probably sans turkey (I was scrutinizing their online menu and am definitely more in favor of the duck or venison). A couple of friends are coming over and we’ll have a slumber party where we’ll try to refrain from painting each other’s nails, braiding hair and breaking into pillow fights while wearing only bras and panties. I have the strange urge to get crazy drunk (I just found some champagne I got for my birthday and forgot about) and watch R. Kelly’s Trapped in the Closet. I know, I know, so wrong. But a farting midget? C’mon, that just screams Thanksgiving. I’ve never been one for family gatherings either, not that I dislike or am estranged from my relatives (well, on my mom’s side. I’ve never really known or been close to my dad’s many siblings and offshoots). We all just have an ambivalently amicable relationship. My mom’s going to Las Vegas anyway. I was just thinking about the first Thanksgiving party I recall throwing. Turkey wasn’t involved because my sister and many of her friends that came over (I don’t remember any of my pals attending) were vegan/vegetarian (not me, however. I’m bourgeois to the core). All that really stands out from this party is that someone left a horrific mess in the toilet, and we spent the evening trying to get the “salad shooter” to fess up. Presto, indeed--who knew they still made Salad Shooters? It seems weird now that two teenagers were allowed to have their own holiday (meanwhile, the 35 year old in my current household rushes home for both Thanksgiving and Christmas, out of some sick sense of duty and obligation), that two teenagers lived on their own in a three-bedroom house (aw…early ‘90s Portland. I just don’t think the living’s so easy anymore) and that the mom would buy said teenagers rum and peach schnapps to make fish house punch (sickly sweet stuff—I think I got it out of a Trader Vic’s cookbook). I mean, I was 19 and in college, so it was acceptable to be on my own, but my sister was only 17 (she finished high school early and moved out when she was 16). I guess teenagers go away for school all the time and do their own thing, which neither of us did, but it seems like many students still rely on their parents for everything (or maybe I’m warped because I’m exposed to NYU kids who don’t work or pay for anything, and live like they’re on an extended four-year Manhattan vacation. Now that I think about it, plenty still don’t support themselves even after graduation) and are definitely expected to return home for holidays. Ok, enough misty-eyed reminiscing, I’ve got some holiday drinking to do.

11/23/05
If it weren’t for all the people wheeling around suitcases on the sidewalks and subways (and my getting to leave work at 1pm today), I might forget that tomorrow is Thanksgiving. It’s not the most exciting holiday, but I can’t complain about two and half days off. Anyway, over the years I’ve become fascinated with who people think you look like, meaning celebrities, because it’s almost always off base. How can a person look like ten different famous people? Actually, I’m sure there’s some scientific way of overlapping ten faces and comparing characteristics. The only common denominator I can see in the women (and thankfully, it’s only been females) that I’ve been compared to is the way the upper lip sits on the teeth so they’re exposed and/or that they have a small angular nose. This is throwing out surface shared characteristics like hairstyle or body type because when you say “you look like so and so” you’re meaning the face, at least I think so. Last night while getting my hair cut I got a new wildly inaccurate one: Selma Blair. I guess we both have light skin and dark hair and eyes, but that’s about it. I could comfortably say that I’m likely two Selma Blairs. To say that a Selma Blair could fit into each of my pant legs wouldn’t be hyperbole. I do think she’s pretty (and oddly, a few years ago when I was going through the trauma of trying to find short haircut photos, she was the only person who kept showing up) but there’s not even a passing resemblance. The only weirder comparison I’ve ever received was from a lady at a Portland flea market who must’ve been blind or suffering from dementia. She yelled out to me from behind a booth, “you look like that girl from 90210.” Right there, I knew she had a screw loose. I racked my brain trying come up with a character that I might even remotely resemble. But zilch. Not even the frumpy Andrea. Her eyes brightened and she exclaimed, “Tori Spelling, that’s it.” That one has baffled me for the past eight years. So, I’ve been messing around, gussying up my floundering dining journal that I realize isn’t terribly popular with anyone except myself. They’re not restaurant reviews because mostly they consist of me rambling about what I ate and other irrelevant details. But I can’t let go of them because I started them in 2000 when it seemed like a good idea, and it would seem like a waste to just get rid of them. It’s just that now everyone in the city, country, world, wherever has a food blog, and honestly, reading about food can be pretty damn boring, it’s a lot of white noise. Thanks to camera phones and flickr freaks, everyone expects photos of every stupid nook and cranny in an eatery, while I’m more of a minutiae with words person. And I can live with that. Never one to concern myself with Manhattan hotspots (there are plenty of others already on that beat), allow me to share my most recent entry covering The Melting Pot in Westwood, NJ.

11/22/05
I’ve been feeling a little flush, despite not seeing any extra pennies yet (and I’m 95% sure there’ll be an additional cash flow increase by the end of the year, but let’s not jinx that. No, I don’t mean a bonus. Librarians don’t get bonuses). This is dangerous because I’m frugal to the core and I’m afraid of going on a rampage if I start loosening the purse strings. I’ve even been considering buying a video iPod, despite being able to resist their shiny white allure thus far. One thing I won’t cave on is a cell phone. That’s never been a money issue anyway, I genuinely don’t want one because I never make phone calls. I just looked at my Vonage ($14.95 is really all you should have to pay for phone service that’s hardly used) outbound call history and it shows that I’ve only placed eight calls since Nov. 1, two of which were me checking my voicemail and one me *69ing a missed call. I have gone crazy on ebay and bought a bunch of unnecessary cat items like this, this, this, this, this, this, and some Thomas Paul plates that look fine despite supposedly being blemished (oh, the frugality rears its head). I also broke down and bought that Hypnotic Poison, despite Jennifer Love Hewitt saying she wears it, a Lorac mini lip gloss gift set (which mostly turned out to be too neutral for my taste—Rimmel Vinyl Lip, which used to only be at Wal-Mart, beats most higher end brands for like $5 a tube) and Urban Decay eye shadow in Lounge (I was actually bidding on this on ebay trying to beat the $15 list price and it idiotically sold for $18 plus shipping. Are people dumb or do they just live in isolated communities with no access to malls? Ok, I looked up person who won this eye shadow auction and she [I’m assuming it’s a she] lives in Sandown, NH, which admittedly looks pretty old timey from the city webpage. They have a hair salon called Towne Crimpers, if that’s any indication of their beauty scene). Now I’m trying for these stupid J. Crew boots, the ones I wanted earlier in the year (in black, not brown, but I’ve since bought black boots), but couldn’t justify spending nearly $300 with tax and shipping. Now they’re discontinued and do you know how impossible it is to find extended calf boots at all, let alone ones that aren’t butt ugly and in a size 10? I need these and 46 people have already viewed them and there’s still five days left in the auction (thick leg boots are totally a hot commodity because no one makes them. I really don’t get this, it’s not like only disgusting fat women might want these, there are plenty of fit muscular gals who can’t squeeze into tall boots either). Ok, not really, and I predict that pointy toe will be, if it isn’t already, out of style very soon (though I predicted that last fall and it wasn’t true) but this buying bug has scrambled my brain. James says you’re supposed to wear something as many times as dollars it cost to get your money’s worth. I guess I might wear an Old Navy shirt nineteen times, but there’s no way a Fendi stretch snake print dress could be worn 1,797 times. I totally disagree with this dollar per wearing criteria. But then, this is coming from a person also washes and reuses plastic baggies and decants takeout soy sauces into a glass dispenser. I must draw the line somewhere. I’m also splurging on a haircut, which isn’t really a splurge, considering I only get my hair cut like three times a year and still don’t pay hundreds like some freaks. But the price has steadily crept up since I moved here. Initially, I paid $40, which was a stretch, until the price went up to $60 and I had to go to Supercuts and that creepy guy who only gives girls under 25 really short crops (they used to be free, which made it more fetishy and hence, creepy). Then I got accustomed to $60, but in the past year the going rate has gone up to $80 and that smarts. It’s not my fault if my hair looks like a pile of shit. Keeping it in line is costly and to make matters worse I can’t find any hair role models anyway. I’ve complained about this for eons, how it’s impossible to find hairstyle examples that are shorter than shoulder length in fashion magazines (or any magazines). But it finally occurred to me that if I want photos of hairstyles that aren’t long, flowing and blonde (I realize color has no bearing on the cut, but still) I need to look at Asian sites, duh. Thank you feel-online and Apollonia.

11/18/05
I’m so bummed I missed all the Braunstein mayhem in my neighborhood (technically Cobble Hill, not my neighborhood, but they did check out a brownstone on Henry St., which really, is just up the street) yesterday What is this Braunstein, some phantom? He can just disappear and pop up all over the city, ordering coffee at the hideously named Bococa’s (BOerum Hill/CObble Hill/CArroll Gardens, for non-New Yorkers. And why the apostrophe S, I’m not sure. Would you name a café Harlem’s or Flushing’s? I try to be careful and not add ‘s where it doesn’t belong because there’s something distinctly uneducated and a little trashy about it. I was mortified when I was called out years ago for typing Fred Meyer’s when it’s Fred Meyer) and disappear into the morning? He looks like a different person in every photo they show, too, sometimes jheri curled, sometimes not. Maybe he’s like The Terminator and just oozes metallically into other human forms. He probably shape shifted into a precocious toddler to blend into his BoCoCa surroundings. Even the café owner said "I looked at him like I saw a ghost.” See? Not human. Not to downplay the seriousness of the attack, but I don’t understand why everyone is afraid like he’s going to come get them. He stalked/targeted this particular woman for whatever reason, and that doesn’t mean he intends on “molesting” (not “viciously raping,” as America’s Most Wanted wrongly reported—oh, I see they’ve changed the language on their site since last weekend) random residents of the city, god forbid, Cobble Hill dwellers.

11/15/05
It sucks to have things to say (nothing terribly important, of course), but not be able say them out of professionalism and discreteness. Two traits I didn’t even realize I possessed. So, this weekend I did little, but I did have a few cans of Schaeffer at the nearby baffling bar, Moonshine. I think it’s technically only three blocks from our apt. (but seems further because there’s no straight route and you have to get over the BQE) and not really either Red Hook or Carroll Gardens, it’s a total no man’s land right near the BQE and Brooklyn Battery Tunnel entrances. Maybe because of its oddball isolated location (speaking of, Bait and Tackle, in Red Hook proper, has been all but empty the two times I’ve paid a visit. It’s such tumbleweed territory that the bartender actually took off [I think she might’ve gone to Pioneer, a bar/restaurant next store] and left us and another twosome alone in the bar. Despite all the gentrification hype, Red Hook is still weird, hard to get to microcosm), the clientele is a strange hodge podge. There’s the gritty punk guy, like Circle Jerks, Exploited style, not Blink 182, who would’ve fit right in on any suburban corner twenty years ago (and he’s in his twenties now, so it’s all wrong), a few bald moustache types (I think one is the owner), a handful of guido-ish youngsters that begin to blur with the middle aged blue collar workers, and there’s usually a large party of very mild hipsters (meaning indie-yuppies, not MisShapes kids, which reminds me, I’ve really been getting a kick out of the Blue States Lose bit that recently moved to Gawker) celebrating a birthday, and one and striped suit-clad, pinkie ring wiseguy character. The thing about NYC is that if you suspect something is something despite being a stereotype you’re usually right. The city is filled with folks who spawned clichés (in ’94 on my first ever visit to NYC I was highly amused by people sitting on stoops and shooting hoops while playing loud ghetto blasters—I’d never seen such a thing in person, it seemed like a cheesy scene from a movie to illustrate that a setting was urban). Like once when I was in a freaky German bar in Queens and there was an old bald guy holding court. My first thought was neo-nazi, but that’s probably my NW upbringing, open white pride is very un-New York. But it didn’t take long before younger guys came in and they started exchanging sieg heils and “white power” in greeting. So, when this Joe Pesci doppelganger did that cheek kiss with one of the male patrons, my suspicions were just about confirmed. I’ve always assumed Carroll Gardens was mobbed up beneath its organic produce and Bugaboo stroller veneer. But I like this mix at Moonshine, it feels small town, kind of scary small town like someone might start a fight, a fist fight, not a catty war of withering glares and words. And the drinks are cheap, like $1.50 a beer cheap. Oh, and I got an unexpected raise today (nothing major, but a little more than I’d expected) so I could probably swing more than a dollar and a half a drink. But why would I want to?

11/9/05
I was fairly serious last week when I said I’d dress as Bea Arthur as a Golden Girl for Halloween 2006. And I guess I knew the show had been playing a lot on TV, at least peripherally. Yesterday the Times focused on the sitcom in its advertising column. But I didn’t realize what a cultural phenomenon it was until I saw that Lifetime (sweet jesus, I took the Which Golden Girl are You? quiz and I am Dorothy) was doing a 20th anniversary special sort of hosted by Mo Rocca. There’s nothing like a deadpan, minutely funny, chronic commentator on all our most pressing topics—the ‘80s, the ’90s, America’s ugliest bathroom, presidential pets, the 2000 election--to really ruin something for you (like how I wanted to buy Hypnotic Poison [um, I’m totally baffled by this description, “an ideal scent for Latin American holidays”>] until I read in Glamour two days ago that Jennifer Love Hewitt wears it. Never mind now). I personally know some Mo Rocca lovers, but I’m not feeling it. If I had to pick a ubiquitous pop culture pundit, I’d have to go for Joel Stein. He teeters dangerously close to Dave Barry territory, but compared to Mo he’s low on smarm yet high on dork. Mo does the bow tie, thick rimmed glasses schtick, but he’d totally use both hands and force a girl’s face into a blow job (hot to some, I realize). Joel is a pussy mama’s boy that either needs to be punched, humped or a combination of the two (more like pummeled senseless when you realize the kind of money these guys make--$450,000 per episode of an animated series about yourself?). His Time photo is semi Rick Moranis-ish, semi grimacing while taking a dump. The photo from his new L.A. Times gig isn’t much better. And look how meta the new column is—there’s one from last week sprinkled with Mo Rocca references. Urgh, I’m starting to feel icky now. An interesting (to me) aside, is that Joel Stein hails from Edison, NJ, a little pocket of the Garden State that I’ve been enjoying very much recently. They have the best Cheesecake Factory, Costco, and only Uniqlo in the country.

11/8/05
Maybe you’re already over the fake firefighter story, but never being one for current events and timeliness, I’m just now becoming engrossed by the oddball details. Peter Braunstein has become a NY Post cover boy--today and Monday, Sunday, Saturday, Thursday and Wednesday--and for good reason. It’s not one of those boring rapist taking advantage of Halloween tales. Oh no, it’s full of stalker goodness. They keep saying rape, though it has been mentioned a few times that after a medical examination that wasn’t the case. What the heck was he doing for twelve hours? Apparently, “making the woman wear several pairs of shoes because it would remind her of humiliating experiences in her past.” I have no idea what that means, but it sounds deranged enough. This saga has Law and Order written all over it. I totally knew someone like this, but never wrote about it because they probably would’ve gotten off on it. Um, and I wish I could say more because there are some good stories involved, but I wouldn’t doubt that he’s reading this now so I won’t. The internet was so much more fun before people learned how to Google themselves. I’ve been having that dilemma recently, I feel all stifled. I have plenty to say about work, strangers, coworkers, family, friends, everyone, and in the old days I’d just say whatever. But now the whole world is blog crazy and typing behind people’s backs can get you into hot water. Or maybe the world has stayed the same and I’ve just changed (joking, joking—even I, a cliché lover, must draw the line at times). What good is the internet if you can’t comfortably write wildly inappropriate things about others…or more importantly, yourself? Me, is all I’ve got. While I read plenty of other sites, I don’t personally have a knack for gossip, media analysis, local color, politics, real estate, chefs and restaurateurs who are my chums, posting mp3s and/or photos of my friends supposedly doing fabulous things at parties, or whatever the heck popular kids are blogging about. It’s sad when you’re supposed to write what you know, yet you don’t know anything except yourself. Enough me. I guess it’s the nature of the blogosphere (oh yes, I did) and media in general, that when something is hot for whatever reason, it shows up everywhere. This is happening all of a sudden with Hong Kong front door/back door. I saw this photography book when I was in Hong Kong and went crazy for it (though I didn’t purchase it until this morning—it was just released in the US on Nov. 1. I actually like the Architecture of Density series more, but for whatever reason those photos haven’t been made into a book). I love large scale color photographs a la Andreas Gursky. Lately, I’ve been wishing that I wasn’t one of those people who home is furnished 85% with Ikea items and that I could afford real art. We recently created a big blank wall space in our living room by taking down shelves and rearranging. James is gung ho on putting something in its place and I’m fearful he’s going to put up dorm room style M.C. Escher or Einstein posters when I’m out. He’d mentioned posters, probably meaning art prints, either way I’m like hell no. He thinks I’m too picky and extravagant, I think he’s got poor taste. Half-joking, he suggested I come up with a proposal for what should go on the wall. And I totally will if that means not uglifying the apartment any further. I could go either clean, bold and modern with a few graphic images or designs (I already have blik on a different wall, which James is tired of and wants to take down) or go small and crowded (I’m bidding on a bunch of scary cute ebay cat prints) salon style. In a perfect world I’d have $5,000 to blow on one of these Michael Wolf photos (I was a bit perturbed to see his images had exhibited at Feb. 2004’s Fashion Week). I’m totally just going to cheese out and make blown up color copies of the reproductions from the book. It’s not like I know any artists, art collectors or gallery types so I won’t be shamed by anyone. It’s maybe one step above buying posters of art (or possibly worse)

11/4/05
Sunday evening, after rearranging the living room and settling down to watch Rome (which I’m not terribly fond of, but nothing seems to catch my fancy during the 9pm Sunday slot) I started to smell what seemed like a candle. But then it got really strong and both James and I were like what’s burning, thinking that somehow our cleaning had caught something on fire. Then we saw massive flames out the window, along the curb, and the rear neighbor of the not-so-secret garden unsuccessfully trying to extinguish it while shrieking a little. Another neighbor managed to get his extinguisher to work, but it only temporarily stopped the burning and he used up the whole canister. By this point, there were already sirens approaching, I wasn’t dressed in street clothes, so ran to put on proper pants and shoes. I couldn’t get a photo out the window because of the angle, but the fire was bigger than you’d think, maybe eight feet high and touching the two cars parked next to the pile of garbage and recycling that had clearly been lit on fire by the nice kids who like to cross the footbridge from Red Hook and fuck up our corner of the neighborhood. And by the time I got my camera and made it out the door, the hefty bag bonfire was already being quelled. I did get a shot of the charred remains, including a broken Snoopy statue of James’s that my cat had destroyed at least a year ago and that he’d never bothered to get out of the living room. I was surprised by how many fire fighters showed up, maybe four or five trucks and ten guys, and how fast. I guess that’s the kind of service that comes with living in a “good” neighborhood. It was very impressive, and much more exciting than even watching incestuous teens on Rome. Who knew that fires could also be used as ruses for rapists? Halloween really brings out the best in people.

11/1/05
I’m sure this isn’t a fresh observation, but Halloween is nothing more than an excuse for girls to wear short skirts and wigs. Scary or funny I can deal with, but when did the nation collectively decide that Halloween is supposed to be sexy? Like taking stock characters: witch, devil, angel, etc. and making them sexy is somehow the height of creativity. I never dress up anyway, so who am I to critique. Next year I’m totally going to be ¼ of the Golden Girls. Unfortunately, I somehow know that I’ll have to be Bea Arthur (in high school friends and I would play this dorky game where we’d decide who’d be which characters on tv shows—and I was totally pegged as Dorothy on Golden Girls. Oh, and Cliff on Cheers. I’m so John Ratzenberger it’s not even funny). Monday night Halloween is a bad idea. I told myself that I wouldn’t stay too late or drink too much at the party I attended last night with a balcony overlooking the 6th Ave. parade (fun and eerily warm outside, but you can’t really see any parade details from twenty floors up) and I did leave by 11:30pm, but considering the event started at 7pm that still gave me four solid hours of imbibing time. I thought I was ok this morning, I felt fine until about half way into my subway ride when a wave of nausea hit and the sweat began pouring. By the time I got off I felt like I was going to hurl up copious amounts of the previous evening’s fun size candy and champagne punch. As I woozily crept up the stairs to 40th St., I noticed an Asian guy with glasses and a baseball cap motioning at me like he knew me. I had my earphones on so I couldn’t hear him, and gave him a blank look like do I know you? Then the queasy haze lifted for a second and I realized it was the Yagura counter guy (amusingly, just a few minutes earlier I was thinking how I’d definitely get chicken udon for lunch to calm my spazzing stomach) so I smiled and he said he’d see me later as he bounded up the steps with way too much vigor for 8:57am. I immediately started cracking up because I couldn’t believe what I’d put on in a half-baked stupor this morning. I was wearing purple shoes, a shirt with purple and white little circles, a lavender cord jacket with a sparkly purple lapel pin, and had my purple bag, and mauve eye shadow on. I looked like some sort of grape fiend. And I wonder why this guy said I must really like purple. If I ever change jobs, I don’t know what I’m going to do without my chicken udon. Midtown can be a scary place for lunch, you really need those rare cheap and tasty holes in the wall.