fuzzy sweater.

Thursday, May 27, 2004

Weirdest thing.

This morning, I walk out my door to the sight of seven or eight fire trucks parked in the cross section near my corner and about fifty people standing around, police and firemen and regular people. I gaped. The lights were flashing on the trucks, and apparently they came quietly and had been there for awhile. I crossed the street, turned and looked behind me to see which building might be on fire, but I didn't see any sign of trouble. Looking into the faces of the people standing there, I saw concern, alarm even, but it wasn't focused on any one point.

I ducked under the yellow tape and continued down the street. I approached this little cluster of emergency-looking guys, and a little man in a powder blue duster strolled up to me and asked me what I was doing. Actually, he wanted to know "what my business was here." "I'm walking to the subway?" I said, uncomfortable and defensive. He had beady eyes. With this tight little smile, he pointed out in this "hey, I'm a friendly guy" sort of voice that the tape was there for my protection, and that I'd better just cross to the other side and walk fast to the end of the block. So I did. I walked really fast. I still saw nothing weird, no smoke, no snipers on top of the elementary school, nothing.

So at the end of the block, I ducked out from under another strip of yellow tape. There was a policewoman there, telling people they had to go around the block to get past. "What's going on?" I asked her. "They found a barrel," she said, like it was just so casual, "and they're not sure what it is."

"Oh." I walked on, wondering if I should have asked more questions, if my apartment would still be there when I come home tonight, if I should tell my loved ones I've been infected by a mysterious barrel and it's all over. If they have evacuated the school. How would they have known to check this random barrel? Was the stuff glowing, or how did they know it wasn't just normal barrel stuff? I thought of that movie starring Chevy Chase, where he becomes invisible after a bizarre chemical spill. I'm not invisible today, but I'm a little shaken. What the hell?

the words spilled out effortlessly at 10:06

Wednesday, May 26, 2004

Well, I'm back at work today... please, no pity. We all knew I'd have to return eventually. I had a pleasant enough weekend with my folks, although my feet are still aching from the eighteen or so miles we walked on the pavement of New York in search of amusement and pennies. My mom's sum total for loose change this year came to $2.84, plus a Euro and a parking token, for those of you who were dying to know.

Yesterday I spent four hours waiting at my brother's house for a refridgerator repairman to come fix the hole David gouged in his freezer. I had the day off, and that's what I did with it. Did the fridge man come between 2 and 4 as promised? No, he did not. Did he come at all? No. He didn't. Not until long after Dave got there and I left, anyway. But it was still quite nice... he doesn't have a TV or the internet yet, so I was kind of sequestered there with none of my usual crutches to aide me. I read the Sunday Times and wrote a few postcards. It was a good day off.

I'm a happy woman right now, because in my cubicle, virtually gripped in my hot little paws, I have three David Sedaris books. The new one, scored for me by a friend in the biz before it even comes out... Holidays on Ice, which I ordered from Amazon and got this morning... and Me Talk Pretty, which I grabbed to read on the train this morning. Even though I just read it for the first time a few months ago, and have since been too lazy to even remove it from my "sweater is reading" section on the right there. See how things come around? That's not laziness, that's foresight. Anyway, I'm swimming in Sedaris, and I love it.

Tonight, Idol finale... who's watching? I'm going to admit straight out that I probably will be. And I'll also admit that actually feel bad for not calling in a vote for Fantasia last night. That other chick's going to win and it won't be right, not at all. I was watching Colonial House and getting drunk at Martin and Stacy's instead. Was anyone else really bummed out at the end when the incredibly hot British guy, Dom, turned out to be a big girl in his normal life? Or that the governor's wife didn't get a comeuppance?

the words spilled out effortlessly at 16:05

Monday, May 24, 2004

I just had a dream that I was hiding out in a lingerie shop with winnie cooper, and we couldn't go outside because a horde of angry circus clowns and freaks had overtaken the town and wanted to kill me. any ideas what this one could mean?

the words spilled out effortlessly at 09:40

Thursday, May 20, 2004

This is going to be a long weekend for me. My parents are in town, and I have tomorrow, Monday and Tuesday off work. A cause for both joy and anxiety, as anyone with parents who visit them will know. Thankfully, this time around I've decided not to stress, not to try to plan everything. And for now I'm enthusiastic about their visit, mainly because they're paying for all of my food and a few drinks. Also because my brother is here to take the heat off. So I may not be around for y'all over the next few days or so. I'd like to encourage you to come here anyway, and read from the blogs linked at right. I've recently added some new names and deleted old blogs that had fallen into disrepair.

I also have a friend visitor in town from California, another friend who is moving away TO California on Saturday, and another friend who just had emergency surgery. I may spread myself thin.

But before I go, a few notes.

Actually, no notes. I don't have anything special to say right now. Bye.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 14:52

Wednesday, May 19, 2004

The future of rock and roll is now officially dead. Goodbye, old friend. Every time I hear a Morrisey song, I think of you. You'll be missed.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 13:25

At just the right time, my work is slowing and I have some time to do nothing here. Right now, for example, I'm searching eBay for "critters". Just to see what comes up. In fact I just put a bid on "CRITTER'S N THINGS Colorful Iron-On Transfers FUN", an auction which I expect to win handily. And while I know this topic has been beaten to death,I have to say that there really are some stupid things for sale on eBay. A Corey Feldman (from Lean on Me, no less) iron on? Kitch doesn't even stretch that far, I don't think.

I do wish kitch hadn't been ruined. I liked the whole ironic vintage t-shirt thing. It was like a fun game, a hunt for the best old school t-shirt, until Old Navy and all those companies started spitting out "vintage" tees by the thousands. Oh, well.

I'm sure there's a much better way I could be spending this free time. Pursuing my dreams, for one.

Also, I really wish I had a van.

Also, p.s., just go to ebay and type in "squirrel". Eight pages of squirrel figurines, crocheted squirrel-shaped doilies, taxidermied squirrels, squirrel toothpick holders... "taxidermy black squirrel new wall mount real nice"... I think I might have just formed a new habit.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 11:13

Tuesday, May 18, 2004

Two incredibly bad ideas:

1. To hold the 2012 Olympic Games in New York City. Why on EARTH would we want to do that to ourselves? Who is the evil backstabber who's pushing this idea, and how is it that some actual New Yorkers think it's not the worst idea in the history of ideas? Why? Who? Why? Please note that if I still live here in eight years, my apartment will be up for sublet because I'll be getting the heck out of Dodge. Any takers, please contact me. Going fast.

2. Having the Republican National Convention at Madison Square Garden. I think this is my paranoia talking, but couldn't they have held this in a field in the middle of South Dakota, so that when crazy people try to bomb all the Republicans to bits, they don't take my protesting loved ones with them?

I decided the other night that while I do feel like protesting there is something I should do, I'm just too chicken to actually put myself in that place. It's equally scary for me to think of my brother, boyfriend, friends going there... but I'm aware that I'm the one being irrationally frightened, and I'm proud of them for their conviction. So to alleve my guilt over not going with them to protest, I've got to find another way to contribute so that I don't feel that I've done nothing. Taking suggestions.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 12:22

Monday, May 17, 2004

Last night I had one of those great subway stranger experiences that so rarely happen to me. The story begins, as they usually do, with me drinking for several hours with old friends who I never get to see, probably hadn't seen in well over two years. We had five or six pitchers of sangria altogether, sat around, talked, grew belligerent, threw fruit at each other, reminisced, rehashed, grew embarrassed of ourselves (or at least i did) and finally stumbled off in our own directions. At this point, I decided it would be a better idea to continue this Sunday night binge by going up to meet Jeremy in Williamsburg than to go home, eat toast and pass out in bed. So I clambored down into the train station and flung myself onto a bench.

After a few minutes, this guy and girl came and sat down next to me. The girl had a bag of fresh chocolate chip cookies and the guy had a carton of milk. I couldn't take my eyes off the cookies, and their hands going back and forth from bag to mouth... I hadn't eaten dinner, not counting the sangria fruit. I let out a soft, involuntary "yum", and they both looked at me. The girl, she was one of those sweet faced people who everybody instinctively trusts, she held out the bag and told me to take a cookie. "Oh, no thanks," I said weakly. Then I leaned back in the seat. Then I sat up. I said "Well, okay, thank you, that's really nice," and I grabbed a cookie and crammed it into my mouth.

"You want some milk with that?" the guy asked, and took a chug. "No, ha ha, no, thanks," I mumbled through the wad of cookie in my mouth. Swigging from a stranger's milk carton in the subway, indeed! Who does that? He held it out to me. "Um..." I said, and took the carton. Took a big, long swig. From a stranger's milk carton. In the subway. "How weird, I've never swigged from a stranger's milk carton in the subway before!" I said, shocked at myself. But that cookie was so chocolatey and the milk so tasty and cold and heavenly, and I was so drunk, I just didn't care. I giggled, and they giggled.

The train came, and we rode together, talking about jobs and school and photography... by the time I got off, I had sworn that I would go to see the girl's senior show and tell my art friends about her, and the guy had given me advice on how to get into the film industry. I felt like I had made two new friends. Of course, we'll probably never meet again. But still. It was a nice little thing, and it was special.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 12:32

Thursday, May 13, 2004

I've been so excited over the past few days by all of the "summer events" schedules I'm getting from my little listservs and such... there's going to be so much to do! I mean, there always is, but still, it's exciting to think about park outings and bandshells and being outside with a beer and some friends, after such a shitty winter and spring. So here's what's up, get excited, woo woo!

Rooftop Films. Oh, Rooftop, how impatiently I have awaited thee! Short independent films playing on a rooftop on a breezy summer night plus beer plus sandwiches? Heaven. This year they've moved to a space in Gowanus, which makes me happy because I don't have to schlep way the hell out into the depths of East Williamsburg anymore. And I'm volunteering for them this year.

Bryant Park movies. Admittedly, I've never been to one of the Bryant Park nights before, but I'm interested in seeing some of these older movies...

East River Music Project. What's interesting to me about this is that it's run by people I actually know, and last year when I first learned of it and it was somewhat fledgling I thought wow, what a neat idea. This year they have friggin' Cat Power, Ted Leo, The Natural History... it's like a real thing. Talk about momentum. And it's free, 2-6 on Saturday afternoons. Yay for free things! Of course you're welcome to donate if you can. I think I'm volunteering here, too... I'm going to volunteer the hell out of myself this summer. I just decided.

Prospect Park Bandshell. Nothing looks too interesting to me here... Jay Farrar and Martha Wainwright, possibly. Hey, and maybe TMBG. They probably still put on a great show. Otherwise, snore?

Central Park Summerstage. Brought to you by Clear Channel? No thanks. Boo! I couldn't afford any of these shows anyway. Down with shows you have to pay for! Boo! Besides, the Jessica Simpson afternoon skin care event, complete with "beauty village", is already sold out. Boo to that, too.

Found Magazine 50 State Tour. Don't think I've forgotten about you guys in the other 49 states... I happen to know for a fact that they're stopping in many of your towns, blog readers, so you should really check it out. From Eugene, OR to Louisville to... the other 47 remaining states. You really should look into it. I went to their event here a few weeks back, as you know, and it was a blast. I wish they would come back to New York again.

What else is there? I'm quite sure I'm missing some lists.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 12:08

Wednesday, May 12, 2004

Just like everybody else.

My grandparents called last night. They sold their condo in Gatlinburg, TN and were in the middle of celebrating with a few Manhattans for Grandpa and some scotch on the rocks for Grandma. I can always tell even before they admit they're drinking cocktails, because Grandpa's speech actually does slur. Just like fake drunks in the movies.

So I was walking home at the time, and had just bought a lemonade from a little guy with a lemonade stand. I told my Grandpa this and he said loudly, all slurry, "You New Yorkers, always getting food off the streets!" I pointed out that I used to set up lemonade stands myself back in Indiana. It wasn't like I was eating discarded hamburger buns from the dumpster outside a Wendy's. He rebutted weakly, "Well, but you know, hot dogs and everything..." Then Grandpa asked me about my brother's new apartment, and I told him that it was nice, and very near a park with a big dog run where people brought their dogs to play. And my grandpa said to me, "You know, it's funny, what I'm starting to realize.... I'm starting to think... New Yorkers are just like normal people! They like, you know, dogs, and pizza... just like everybody else." So this makes me wonder what my grandpa, and others, actually thinks this place is. A mythical city where freakish, abnormal deviants run around purchasing and consuming hot dogs on the streets with reckless abandon, day and night? I mean, that's not all it is.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 10:39

Tuesday, May 11, 2004

Well, I'm over my little self-pity thing. I had a good night to myself last night after walking forty blocks down to the Coinstar with Kelly. Excercise, check. Financial alleviation, check. I then ended up going home and having a very comfortable night, making mac and cheese with tuna and peas and parmesan mixed in [which is my favorite, so why should I feel bad about buying the good kind?] and then lying on the couch reading Sense and Sensibility for awhile, and then watching The Real World / Road Rules Challenge: The Inferno. The Inferno is definitely one of my guiltiest pleasures... I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but I do happen to have a Fantasy League team. It's pretty clear that I'm not going to win the car, all because of some foolish trades I made midway through the season, but I still like to play. Erica encourages my obsession, as she does with many of my bad tv habits. It's easier to accept your weaknesses when your friends have them, too.

I do hate it when I let myself post personal exposures on the internet... but I feel like it's illegal to take a post down after the mood has passed, no matter how much I might want to. So it stays. Besides, mid-twenties is hard for everyone, right? So really, no major revelations were exposed... Erica told me yesterday that she gets through the hard parts of her twenties by telling herself that by the time she's in her thirties she'll have it all figured out. I don't know if I believe that for myself, but it's a nice idea, so I'm going to go with it whenever possible. Of course a rescue boat is coming!

the words spilled out effortlessly at 11:13

Monday, May 10, 2004

about me.

I drink too much. I think too much, and not generally enough about the things I think I ought to think about. I contemplate petty things. I don't fully appreciate my real worth, and in fact I have no idea what that sentence even means. In a nutshell, I don't know what I'm good at, I mean really good at, or how to harness it into something great and sustainable. I want too much. I ask too much, and keep too much inside at the same time, and am consistently knotted up, as a conundrum. I see a lot of beauty in, and am made happy by, small and under-valued things like slips of paper off the street or fragments of songs or sunlight in the hair of a person I love, but am still forced to call myself cynical, when the truth is called for. I feel unhealthy but am unwilling to put forth any efforts to excercise. I eat a lot of junk. I buy vegetables and they go bad. I complain about spending too much on groceries. I buy the good brand of macaroni and cheese and then feel like I'm overdoing it. I wonder where my money goes. I don't take proper care of my finances. I do the minimum amount of work for this money, but it's still mine, and I waste it as I like. I am better than this job, and yet I've been here almost four years and nothing much has changed. I look at job sites every day, along with the rest of you. I think I have a good-looking resume but maybe I'm mistaken. I sit here and wonder about things like that, all day long. How to improve the look of my resume. I spend eight hours staring at a screen at work, responding numbly to requests and wondering about my future, and then more often than not I go home and before I even pet the cat I've got the TV on for the Simpsons, and it stays on until I go to bed five hours later. I slow-roast my eyes and my brain this way. I have respectable books, half of which have yet to be opened. Every morning I wake up looking directly at them, and I think, I really ought to read that one, or that one. But then I don't. Well, sometimes I do. I do love to read. I didn't used to be so into reading as I am now, primarily thanks to the subway commute. I'm hoping nowadays that if I can focus more on reading good stories, my desire to write will resurface. It seems like that's what writing teachers are always suggesting. So I'm going to immerse myself in my favorites, I think. See what happens.

I could go on... but suddenly this has made me feel pretty good, writing it all out like that. Don't go and worry or anything. This is what blogs are for.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 16:08

Friday, May 07, 2004

I just had a great idea for a craft website... www.cuffcity.com! Cuffs of every fashion, be they knit or sewn, crocheted or fashioned from beer cans (Catherine?), made of leather or duct tape or whatever. Dan suggested I sell cuffs that shoot lasers out of the front, super-hero style... we could do that too! It would just be an array of cuffs to tempt every sort of cuff-wearer! Who's with me?

Yeah, it's brilliant. I got ideas.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 13:47

Wednesday, May 05, 2004

I'm feeling the ever-so-slightest pressure, from all of this traffic hemorrhaging over from my little link at QueSeraSera, to write something good. Unfortunately, as the regulars know, I rarely write anything of significant substance these days, and stick pretty stauchly to complaining about my job, talking about things I've done that I ardently hope will make me sound cool, and linking things I've stolen from The Morning News or other places, with the occasional semi-detached rant of praise or incredulity.

Here's this, for example. Amber sent it to me yesterday. It's an article about people who dress in animal costumes who... well, just read it. And here's a nibble you won't be able to resist: "near the front desk, three men known as Pack Rat, Rob Fox, and Zen Wolph are scratching one another's backs -- grooming one another, like macaques in the zoo. "Skritching" [sic], they call it. I am tempted to turn around and run. Instead, I find myself talking with Keith Dickinson, a self-described "computer geek." Not long ago, this man, a 37-year-old from Kansas City, Kansas, was so depressed he could barely bring himself to go to the grocery store. And then it hit him. He started to believe that, somewhere deep down, he was actually ... a polar bear." Is trans-species the new trans-sexual, which used to be the new gay, according to my coworker? Am I the last to know?

......

I need some new craft shopping sites... I'm on the lookout for cool silk-screened t-shirts in particular. Like BuyOlympia.com sort of sites. [I also frequently ask for advice.] Anybody, any advice?

the words spilled out effortlessly at 12:37

Tuesday, May 04, 2004

I can hardly stand to think about those photographs. You know the ones I mean. These. Just thinking about the backdraft of that whole mess, those stupid stupid Americans... I feel shame, revulsion, hatred of them. Why do people not think? Or care? Or think? Why do they have to be so mean and stupid and bigoted? And why on earth would you take pictures of these things you do? The consequences of this mess are going to be uncontrollably bad. This is a big deal, maybe the biggest deal yet, and I think maybe a lot of people don't even realize it at this point. It's long since spiralled out of control... makes me sick. I just hope people will remember all of this in November, and let's wish real hard that George doesn't pull some sort of circus trick to fool people back into believing in him before then.

Okay. Shake it off. On a completely different note... last night we watched Bubble Boy. Have you seen it? I know what you're thinking... but you're wrong. It's pretty awesome. It definitely transcends the bad reviews you may remember from a few years back. Just read some of the IMDB reviews, and then remind yourself that I'm almost never wrong, and then go out and rent it. Go!

the words spilled out effortlessly at 11:30

Monday, May 03, 2004

Since going to the Found Magazine reading last Wednesday, I've been trying really hard to find discarded love notes or the scrawled ramblings of an insane mind... I've picked up a few promising bits of paper, only to find them exceedingly boring. It's really hard. Davy Rothbart made it sound so easy, but really, it isn't. However, in the spirit of delighting over found objects, I want to share this story about a kid whose message in a bottle was found in Germany! Which, even when you read the story and see that it isn't so crazy, is still a pretty cool thing.

And also, this thing about Walt Whitman that I found on The Morning News today would be the best find ever, if it had happened to be a found item. But despite the fact that it wasn't, and despite the fact that even if it had been, it wouldn't have been me who did find it, I still got that feeling one gets when they've discovered something wonderful.

I keep needing to stretch today. I feel like I should've stayed in bed.

the words spilled out effortlessly at 13:59