fuzzy sweater.

Wednesday, April 30, 2003

I know this is probably old fodder, but I still can't believe that our government is actually behind this "deck of cards" business. First of all, it's just tacky. And secondly... they're turning these men— who may be the "enemy" but still are human and have a certain sort of dignity even if they were part of an oppressive regime— into base cartoon characters for the low-brow dumbasses among us to yukk at and make t-shirts out of. Men who fought a war, mind you. If it were the brainchild of political cartoonists, that would be one thing. But no... it's the Bush administration. They've gone so far as to hire some poor jackass to create these ridiculous graphics. (Withourtaxdollars).

I can't seem to keep my jaw from hanging open at the ever-lengthening list of absurdities and completely asinine actions that our government believes are acceptable. Let's shoot some protesters! Let's let looters take over Baghdad and mutilate thousands of years of cultural artifacts! Let's pretend that we're doing what's best for the Iraqi people! Let's ignore the gross dearth of simple pleasures such as water, electricity, and food!

I'm reading this book right now, The Baghdad Diaries. A woman, Nuha al-Radi, published the diary she kept during the Gulf War and throughout the postwar "rebuilding" time in Baghdad. It's really something.

The book touches on the politics, but its main focus is the daily lives of this woman and her family and friends. She is, it seems to me, upper middle class... but she covers a broad spectrum of Baghdad's sufferings. It amounts to a pretty striking picture. They're just like us, just people accustomed to having cable TV and internet access... Permanently without toilet paper or gasoline or peace of mind, dealing with packs of wild dogs roaming the city, tales of hospitals where you have to bring your own sheets, lightbulbs, and dishes and where surgical gloves and needles are sterilized for re-use... toting garbage bags of useless money... bartering eggs for a year's rent... women attempting to dye their hair with vinegar and beets. And still she has this strength, something akin to a sense of humor about it all. Meanwhile, we in this country couldn't even imagine having to live the way they've had to. Most people don't think about the fact that they are living in squalor and it's our country's fault. Not you guys, I'm sure... but other people. It boils my blood.

Anyway... this is what I'm thinking about this morning.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 11:36

Tuesday, April 29, 2003

Radio, radio.

Oh, I just remembered: today at 5:00 EST, 4:00 Central, the great college DJ Barry Saggitarius will deejay his very last "Better than Puppy Dogs and Ice Cream" radio show from the halls of WIUS ever. He plays awesome tunes and makes corny jokes and is just the best. Not to mention the fact that he often enlists the aid and soothing tones of Henry Kissinger as weather boy. So give a listen, if you're of a mind to and you can access Shoutcast stations. Just follow these directions:

1. Go to www.shoutcast.com and type "WIUS" into the little space.
2. Click on the little speaker icon.
3. Sit back and listen and remember back to when you were a college DJ and how much fun you had doing it, and wonder what ever happened to your radio career or your plans to get a cool job at a cool record label making scrawny would-be rockstars into actual rockstars.

One of the best things about Dave is that he happily takes requests to round out his indie rock extravaganza, and (at least when you're his big sister) he will play almost anything you tell him to. So, sally forth and lend an ear. It's worth it.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:44

I feel like I've been absent from the blog realm recently. Even though I did post on Friday, and every day last week, I think... it's unusual for me to not want to post, and right now I'm just sort of bored by the idea.

I don't want you to fret... things are going well for me right now. I'm happy and enjoying my life quite a lot. I'm just feeling a little less apt to share about it here right now, and a little tired of writing sarcastic blips all the time... and without sharing and sarcasm, what we have left is a quiet little blog.

I think this is common.

I'll be back, though. With things to say, let's hope. Maybe tomorrow, even.

Love,
me.

PS. Could people please stop making SARS jokes every time someone nearby coughs, sneezes, or is Asian? It's just unfunny.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 13:51

Friday, April 25, 2003

A little story for you.

One year ago, Barbara invited Dan, Ben and I to go to a party with her. The party was on a tugboat in New York Harbor. On this tugboat, there was to be drinking, debauchery, barbecuing and merriment. Dan and I, who at the time had neighboring cubicles, were quite excited. We connived to dress as sailors on the day of the party, which was to be held on a Thursday after work.

On the day of the party, Dan and I did indeed arrive at work both dressed in our most seaworthy navy-and-white striped tops. People thought it was funny that we were dressed alike, not realizing that we in fact had intentionally dressed alike. We tittered and snickered all day long. We kept making this little hook with our fingers and saying "arrrr!" We still do this frequently.

Unfortunately the weather outside was not of the sort that is conducive to outdoor boating festivities, and as the day wore on we realized that we were not going to get to go to a party on a boat at all. Barbara was heartbroken as well. But she had an idea. We will go, she said, to a sailor bar instead!

After work, the four of us made our way to Montero's in Brooklyn Heights. There were lots of pieces of sailor memerobilia adorning the walls there, and the prices were sailor cheap. The women at the bar were sort of wench-like, and the men seedy enough to pass as seamen. Dan and I, in our striped matching tops, sat as proudly as we could and ate our takeout falafel and drank our drinks just like sailors do. Fast, hard, and with grimaces. If memory serves, I got pretty drunk and stumbled home just after sundown. We called it... Sailor Day.

That was one year ago today, everyone. Which means that today is Sailor Day again. I remember because it's also my brother's birthday (happy birthday, David!). I forgot to dress the part today... but I want to acknowledge the anniversary, and share these Pirate jokes with everyone who's interested.

Happy Sailor Day.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 15:04

In this crazy, mixed-up virtual world we bloggers exist in, there's just about nothing more odious than a weblog that is awash with boring content but refuses to acknowledge its own dullness.

Concurrently, I've just decided that there's nothing more refreshing than one that does.

(Thanks to Catwoman for the tip)...

the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:26

Thursday, April 24, 2003

So my boss is at Disney World for four days, and I've decided to take a little "me" time here at the old desk-a-roo. Which means that I am doing nothing but frivolous, silly things that IIIII feel like doing. Which means no work at all. The aforementioned frivolity includes, but is not limited to, the following activities / nonactivities:

1. Fussing around on Friendster.com.
2. Swapping kitty photos with the esteemable libronaut.
3. Installing iTunes onto my Mac, after much ado.
4. Excitedly filling up my iTunes with the dozen or so cd's that I've been lugging back and forth to work daily as well as some that I bought for my brother but haven't sent him yet (I will soon, Davey, I promise).
5. Chatting transcontinentally on IM with one of my best friends for life, Blonde Andy.
6. Reading some blogs.
7. Shopping on Amazon.com - would you believe, my gift certificate was invalid for all the things I wanted to buy! Because they were coming from independent sellers or some garbage. So I go back, and am meeting with somewhat less success.
8. Staring off into space.
9. Sending books to friends.
10. Hotjobs, honey, Hotjobs.
11. Maintaining the usual exchange rate of two emails per minute to and from Elizabeth.
12. Checking out vintage wallpapers on eBay.

And I'm getting paid.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:58

Wednesday, April 23, 2003

Embarrassment of the late afternoon-time: being busted by Dan while shopping for a Waterpik. On eBay.

I can understand why he would be appalled at this notion, but it's not like I was going to buy a used Waterpik. Personal Oral Irrigators are expensive, you know? My hope was that I might find one that fell off the truck or something. I'd reckon there's a pressing need* for a Waterpik black market, even thought they seem to have fallen out of favor in the greater dental hygiene community in recent years.

* Some background: When I was ten, I slammed my face into a cement block wall. I have crowns on my two front teeth. A year ago, I had painful surgery on them to help salvage the last remaining bit of hope I had that the dentist wouldn't have to pull my teeth out. Now, I do have reason to believe that there are food bits that have worked their way into my crowns, in the back, that no brush or floss can reach. I'd like to think that this is why my front teeth hurt, and that it is not because they are in need of a pulling. This is why I need a Waterpik.

Basically, I can't stand the thought of going to a dentist after my last horrible experience, and I will let myself believe anything to avoid the reality of my situation.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 17:20

why my friends are the best:

because after lunch today, we walked two long blocks enthusiastically bouncing rhymes off of each other about dog crap before any of us realized and pointed out that we are twenty five years old, intelligent, and not mental patients or social miscreants.

ladies, i tip my hat to you.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 15:47

Sunday, April 20, 2003

Sometimes I say too much. Sometimes I don't say enough. Sometimes I say nothing when I should have said something. Sometimes I cut myself off at exactly the right moment. Sometimes what I say and what I want to say aren't entirely the same. Sometimes I am brutally honest. Sometimes I lie to spare people's feelings, if only just a little. Sometimes I repeat things I've heard other people say because they sounded so good when I heard them said by others. Sometimes I construct sentences and ideas that I believe no one else has ever constructed in the history of time and language and the world. Sometimes I repeat myself. Sometimes I repeat myself. Sometimes I interrupt myself mid-sentence. Sometimes I have so many things to say and feel such a passion pressing on the inside of my ribcage for saying them that I am powerless over the words. Sometimes I manage to suppress. Sometimes I have so little to say that it hurts. Sometimes I talk to myself. Sometimes I think I ought to let myself talk to myself a little more often. Sometimes the things I say are right and perfect. Sometimes they are wrong, imperfect. Sometimes I am verbose. Sometimes I speak plainly. Sometimes when I talk to house pets, and to one college friend in particular, I speak in an obnoxious baby voice. Sometimes I drink alcohol and talk at the same time and while sometimes this results in freeflowing, intelligent conversation, other times my words ooze out thick like house paint and later make me ache. Sometimes I long for the power to take words back. Sometimes I believe wholeheartedly in what I am saying, and sometimes I just don't know for sure. Sometimes I am certain that what I am saying is worth the risk. Sometimes it is.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 22:31

Friday, April 18, 2003

I've had this Amazon.com gift certificate floating around in my purse since Christmas, and I decided today that I'm going to use it. But I want to get the most possible bang for my gift-certificate buck, you know? So I'm shopping, shopping... trying to remember all of those things I've wanted to buy for myself but not, for lack of money. And so far, I've decided to buy the following:

Trekkies (I'm in a docu/mocumentary sort of mood these days)
The Mysteries of Life: Keep a Secret (This was one of my faaaavorite tapes in high school. They're a Bloomington, IN band who rock in that sweet early 90's sort of Singles sort of way, but not annoyingly so)
Boy Island by Camden Joy (Joey, I'm finally getting onto the bandwagon... will let you know what I think)

And all of this totals a humble $13!! So I've got $12 more to burn, and am abuzz with so many greedy thoughts that I can't actually formulate some of them.

I'm thinking of going with an older Ted Leo cd, something from the Chisel era perhaps, as I heard a single and I really liked it... but my RealAudio isn't working, so I can't sample any of the songs. Then again, I might not go with Ted Leo...

THEN I thought maybe I'd buy a pack of Italian playing cards. But all I come up with is tarot cards, and I haven't the time or the inclination to get into those...

THEN I thought, gosh, I'd really like my own button press... for to make small buttons in my own home, and give them to friends. But I can't really find anything that sounds like what I want. Further, such an item would certainly cost more than $12.

BUST Magazine? Better to buy them on the stand than shell out $28 for four issues. Please.

I don't know. What do you think I should buy with my $12? What would you buy? Seriously. No suggestion is too outlandish, no suggestion too simple. Nothing practical, please.

I don't mean to tax you by continually asking for your advice, you know. Don't feel pressured. I just figured, you're all probably doing nothing at your desks on this Friday afternoon, too. Or at least you should be. So go to amazon.com and pick me out a present.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:05

Thursday, April 17, 2003

Today i started a log of mistakes I'm making at work. We will see how quickly it grows.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 17:13

Do something pretty while you can.

I need a little input from my favorite peanut gallery. Specifically, the peanuts who live in New York.

I've finally come to the point where I think I must part with the $400 it will cost me to take a continuing education class. I realize that I need this, in part because I need to be pushed into remembering how creative I can be, and in part because I know that I can make so much more of this writing ability of mine if I just try a little little bit. I KNOW I can. It's come to a point where I hardly even remember what it's like to get excited about something my mind has created. I also know that a night school professor can't make it happen for me; but the $400 can, and acknowledging the freedom to let myself write can, and the desire to be better than the rest of the class can... And there's the sad truth that I need to be given assignments at this point, or I just won't write at all. Except to churn out pop in attempts to please an invisible audience of fellow web dorks. And you know? I really enjoyed my writing classes in college. I really got something from being there.

So I guess I'm just wondering if anyone has had a particularly good or particularly bad experience with any of the local programs, and am hoping you'll take a second to share them with me, via email or comments. I'm thinking of The New School, NYU, Cooper Union, Gotham Writers' Workshop, MediaBistro... any other suggestions are also welcome.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:22

Wednesday, April 16, 2003

My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of snack foods and people with high cholesterol...

A few weeks ago, when our cafeteria hosted a "Celebrate America!" hotdog bar day, I snickered a bit. Celebrating America through beef by-products seemed like a tasty enough idea, but I couldn't bring myself to stand in the line, festooned with flags and other such protestations of national pride, nor could I be bothered to pay $3.50 for a sad-looking chili dog.

It seems that someone "in charge" in this building could and did buy into it, and found themselves woefully influenced by the bug. Because this afternoon, we in this building are going to be made to celebrate the United States again. Only this time, it's the big times. And free. A big "state foods" party.

Every floor will be featuring cuisine from a different state! For example, my floor will house an Ohio feast, and anyone from any floor in the building who has any interest in trying out some Ohio fare can come down here and help themselves. Whatever that's supposed to be. And as for me, well if I felt like learning a bit about the cuisine of Arizona, the Grand Canyon State, or had a hankering to sup on the foodstuffs of Missouri, the Show-Me State... why, today I can do just that!

I demand to know who came up with this idea. Foods of the Fifty (well, twenty five... we only have so many floors) States? Isn't it commonly acknowledged among all Americans that we take little to no no pride in our cuisine? That we hardly even have any cuisine? That most people have never even used the word cuisine? I wonder, will the Indiana floor be serving Tuna Helper on Ritz crackers? Where can I go to find me some White Castle? Which states will proudly offer up Freedom Fries with Cheez Whiz poured all over them, or Little Debbie snack cakes, or jumbo sized candy bars? Because that, people, is our cuisine.

Not that I'm not going to check it out. Of course I am, it's food and it's free, and there will be beer and wine, too. So maybe I'll update you on this later. I just think it's kind of retarded, as far as ideas go.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 13:30

Tuesday, April 15, 2003

I'm still here at the office after the longest day full of beaurocratic, red-tape, cost-cutting, bullshit-eating, dumb-fuck donkey scrotum I can remember having to deal with. I will be here for another hour, at least. And my tooth hurts... the bad one. And a number of things are not just exactly the way I want them to be. And I still can't fly. Pity me?

the words spilled out effortlessly at 19:29

Monday, April 14, 2003

I want to go to England. I mean really go, and stay for awhile. Get to know it again.

This weekend, I was wondering aloud whether or not it's possible to go anywhere these days and just disappear. Not that I'd want to disappear from my family or friends... but it would be nice to leave my job and sublet my room and go to England indefinitely, working a little sometimes and drinking a little sometimes and just being there. It would be crucial to my plan to not have to worry about visas or green cards or any of that silly red tape and paperwork. Not have to worry about coming home when they tell me to. I mean, would it really be that big a deal? I'm harmless. I haven't kidnapped anyone, and I'm not going to smuggle anything over in my intestines. I'd be a model runaway citizen.

Oh, I'd come back here, I promise... and as long as you all promised not to narc on me, I'd keep posting, too. But probably with a bit of an English taint to my phrasings and slang which you might find either funny or annoying. Hard to say.

I'm just a little tired of the nine to five. And maybe I'm also a little tired of knowing what's around every corner of this town. It can be small, too.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 16:36

Friday, April 11, 2003

I'm sitting here today, eating a salad and some veggie chili at my desk and waiting for my dad to call me.

My grandpa is having surgery right now on an artery in his neck, and I can't not worry. I'm actually not worried that he's going to die... I really don't believe that's going to happen. What I'm worried about is that this surgery, that scar he'll have afterward, will keep him from doing things that I know he loves to do. He's a really active man for 77 or 78... he works out three times a week, which is three times a week more than me... he laughs at everything... he's really active in the community... he reads maybe a book a week... he and my grandma go and visit random elderly people all the time, and he goes to Kiwanis meetings, and they go to church like a bazillion times a week... they're totally in love after fifty two years... they still take trips all over the place... they live a pretty awe-inspiring life, even without age as a factor.

Thinking about them sometimes makes me wonder what I'm doing sitting on my be-hind when there are people three times my age doing three times as much. I think, maybe I should do more. Then I remind myself that I'm innately lazy and don't care as much about helping the community and working out and stuff as they do, and most people don't. I really wouldn't mind being a better person if it weren't for the time commitment... but I suppose I do all right even without the roster of good deeds. At least I don't actively try to hurt people or declare a big war when there are other ways to solve a problem.

But my grandparents, they make the time, and they are good to the core, and they're funny and kind, and when they give me paper napkins for my birthday, or when Grandma kisses me and everyone else on the lips despite our best efforts to give her cheeks, I just smile because they're a little bit weird, too, on top of everything else.

So I want them to always be like that.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 13:49

Thursday, April 10, 2003

Another day older and deeper in regret.

I'm not exactly sure why this is all hitting me now, at once, but I've just realized that:

a) I have done almost nothing worth showing for my job in the entire two-and-a-half years I've worked here. Nothing worth putting into a portfolio or anything like that. It's all bunk, pretty worthless.

b) No one in my department thinks I'm capable of doing my job properly. The assistant who I trained doesn't bother asking me questions anymore because she knows I'll send her to someone else. My boss feels the need to give me over-simplified instructions for tasks I've already been doing for a year.

c) I will never make it out of here.*

d) I sit in my chair funny. I think I've launched the beginning of what will quite possibly be a life of back problems. My left shoulder is always all hunched up and my right arm is sloped downward, because my monitor is angled oddly and nothing I can do [feng shui or other] will alleviate the problem.

e) I can't find my Neutral Milk Hotel cd, and keep forgetting to bring in more cd's, and thus have no cd's at work other than Emperor Tomato Ketchup, which is a fine album as you may know but as with most albums, gets a little old after you've listened to it thirty times straight.

* It's worth noting that when I revamped my resume the other day, I was quite pleased with my progress until got to my "interests" section (which I think is an important way of expressing some personality and I refuse to get rid of it, even if it's not wholly relevant to getting a job) and realized that I hadn't indulged in most of my alleged "interests" in over a year. After half an hour of trying to think of what new things I might possibly have become interested in and just neglected to add, I slapped down something about my European backpacking trip [yep, that was back in 1999], something about enjoying going to indie rock shows, and then I actually fabricated a lie and said that I'm learning to play the banjo! Even though I'm not. Why the banjo? I'm not really sure. What does this say about me? Do you want to hire a liar?

Seriously, do you?

the words spilled out effortlessly at 10:22

Tuesday, April 08, 2003

Okay, okay... I'm back at work now after an only-slightly-harrowing four-and-a-half-day weekend of parental visitation. And if I may say so, I think I handled myself quite well and only got too drunk maybe twice. Or three times. And really, I only got exceedingly cranky yesterday, after their flight was cancelled and they had to stay a whole extra day, which I had originally intended to spend eating chips and watching Jenny Jones in my skivvies. I think I behaved very maturely, overall.

I didn't complain when my mother dragged me on a fifty block crusade to find a McDonalds, or when we embarked on a twenty-minute-out-of-the-way search for a fountain coke [in the rain] which ended at a Subway. I ruefully encouraged her in her boundless enthusiasm for collecting loose change from the streets and subways of this filthy city, rooting her on as she dodged feet and plunged her fingers into icy puddles of toxic liquids for pennies and nickels. I even helped a little.

When my father's weariness for shopping and celebrity gossip talk started to take a toll on his attitude, I barely got bitterly sarcastic with him at all. Hardly at all.

When we went for dim sum in Chinatown and Dad's voice went up four decibel levels in a cartoonish attempt to communicate with the Chinese waiter, I remarkably did not hide under the table or go to sit with a family of Chinese patrons at the next table.

And when yesterday, in the middle of a wickedly nasty snowstorm, my dad suggested we walk six long blocks to visit the U.N., and upon seeing it, decided it wasn't worth going in, my livid resentment was almost imperceptible to the group of frostbitten Ecuadorians who had to ask my mom for directions to the consulate five times before she understood them.

I love my parents, though. I only complain in jest... of course I love 'em. They're good people and they're my parents.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 13:56

Thursday, April 03, 2003

"you plus me plus the new york city justice system plus anthrax equals fun!"

yesterday was the best wednesday ever!

i rolled into work more or less on time, only to find as i approached my building that everyone was milling around on the sidewalk outside. after asking around, i came to find out that someone had called in an anthrax threat and we were free to go home if we wanted to! an old cynic like me knows that nobody really sends anthrax threats to book publishing houses, but i'm also no fool and i know to take a free day when it's offered. i scurried quickly away.

after a fruitful shopping excursion to h&m with interstate, i was sitting in the sun at rockefeller center when who should pass by but conan o'brien! looked me in the eye, too! conan! i wondered to myself if he always has a mischevious, uncomfortable look on his face, or if i made him uncomfortable by blatantly staring him down.

after my little star turn, i gave jeremy a ring, knowing he had jury duty and might be free for some afternoon shenanigans. in short order, i found myself sitting across from j. in an outdoor courtyard restaurant in williamsburg, drinking a glass of red wine and eating a brie and apple toasted sandwich just like the unemployed trust fund kids do. mmm.

after further laziness, we decided to go to an afternoon movie and trekked back to manhattan for the early showing of willard [which was really good, i thought], after which we went to odessa and knocked back three cups of coffee and i excitedly sang along to every song on the "sounds of the 70's" cd playing at the bar, after which we skipped over to twelfth street for sushi and enjoyed the most amazing sushi and sashimi platters, after which we, both feeling rather fatigued, decided to rent jackass, during which we drank chianti and some of us nearly peed ourselves laughing and i may or may not have turned into a twelve-year-old boy for a fleeting moment or two. maniacal laughter always caps a great end to a day, don't you think?

now it's thursday and i'm back in the office, which has yet to be cleared of its anthrax danger flags... but i have to be here even though my bosses aren't, because i'm out tomorrow and monday to entertain my parents and i have a lot of crap to do. i keep thinking that at least if i do die... at the very least, i can say i had a great free wednesday before i corked it.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 11:38

Tuesday, April 01, 2003

So it looks like I'm going to go through another April 1 with no tricks played on me (not counting the email that our managing editor sent out about turning our launch party into a cocktail hour... hoo hooo, didn't get me!).

I don't know if this dearth of trickery makes me happy or sad... it would be nice to be tricked, just a little bit. Don't I seem gullible enough to be tricked? Am I just too shrewd, too cunning, too clever to be the dupe? Or is it just that April Fools jokes are so 1995 and everybody knows it?

Yeah, that's probably it. I mean, I haven't pulled any tricks on anybody myself.

(Happy Birthday, Meghan!)

the words spilled out effortlessly at 16:53

I would like to postscript that I just heard on the radio... today is Debbie Reynolds' birthday. She is 65 years young. Go, Debbie! Shake that electric youth!

the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:07