I'm feeling totally autistic today, and I can't snap out of it. So I'm sitting here at work with a really interesting pile of scores to go through, but all I can manage to do is stare at my fixed field reading the same letters over and over again, processing them in any but a productive way. It's unbelievable, I've never zoned out so uncontrollably or with so much focus. My mind is going, but it's like not part of my experience of the world right now. For my next trick, I will gaze fixedly at a subject heading for six straight hours while simultaneously drooling and calculating pi.
I thought some coffee would help, but it just made me jittery and anxious. It would seem that the only thing that snaps me out of it is writing in my blog, mostly because here I can channel my retarded thoughts without any responsibility to importance or cohesiveness.
In unrelated news, somebody took a pencil from me while I was gone, and I feel like fucking Milton. I understand that it's an expected consequence of having the office phone at one's desk, but if it keeps happening, I won't have any penicls at all! And it was my good one, too. So I noticed there's a little space to write on the pencil cup I bought at Staples after my first day, and I wrote on it. I wrote "Pencil Cup." in regular pencil. And then I wrote "For me." in blue pencil. And last, I wrote "Mine." in red pencil. So hopefully, it will deter any future thievery.
Happy 6-6-6, by the way. I think there's a movie coming out, but I'm not sure. It might help if on every construction site, subway, and billboard in all of New York there were a cryptic sign that said 6.6.06 and didn't say what it was about so you think it's a stupid death metal band releasing an album or hey, maybe the real apocalypse, but you don't really care, and then suddenly you find out "Ohhhhh, it's a movie with Julia Stiles, I guess all that unnecessary vagueness was supposed to make that interesting." ...for instance. That's just an example, I mean there are other ways to advertise.
Maybe it's the government interfering...
Oooh, I'm so aggravated. So my phone vibrates at me, and I think "Oooh, a text message!" So I peek at it (highly illicitly, I might add, because I am at work), and it's all "Ok, if I tell you something, you have to promise to not get mad." What, phone? What did you do? "Well, ok, so I totally forgot to tell you, but you have 10 voicemails that have been accumulating since Monday. I was kind of in a mood all week, and I haven't been ringing except sometimes, and I just forgot about the messages PLEASE can we still be friends, I promise I'll never do it again. Oh, and I don't know who they're from, I haven't been logging your missed calls."
What the fuck, man? We're totally in a fight.
I haven't listened to these messages yet, but I'm pretty much certain they're going to be from just one or two people saying like "Why haven't you returned my calls, where are you, I hate you, you are ass!" All in a sentence like that. I'm kind of afraid to listen to them at all, but then I'm sure one would be about "Ooh, I've been kidnapped, and they only allowed me one phone call! Please save me by Tuesday!"
My phone's name is Marge, but from now on, I'm calling her Bitchface. I just bought it a couple weeks ago to replace my lost one, and it was working just great! I dunno, maybe it's a reception thing... and I NEVER have it. But I somehow doubt that.
I'm fairly certain this is why I haven't heard from my mom in days. Also, if you're one of my devoted fans and I haven't called you back, that's why. Please forgive Marge.
In conclusion, technology sucks and we should go back to carrier pigeons.
What the fuck, man? We're totally in a fight.
I haven't listened to these messages yet, but I'm pretty much certain they're going to be from just one or two people saying like "Why haven't you returned my calls, where are you, I hate you, you are ass!" All in a sentence like that. I'm kind of afraid to listen to them at all, but then I'm sure one would be about "Ooh, I've been kidnapped, and they only allowed me one phone call! Please save me by Tuesday!"
My phone's name is Marge, but from now on, I'm calling her Bitchface. I just bought it a couple weeks ago to replace my lost one, and it was working just great! I dunno, maybe it's a reception thing... and I NEVER have it. But I somehow doubt that.
I'm fairly certain this is why I haven't heard from my mom in days. Also, if you're one of my devoted fans and I haven't called you back, that's why. Please forgive Marge.
In conclusion, technology sucks and we should go back to carrier pigeons.
Jewn
I went to lunch and came back tan, though one might also suggest that I went to lunch and came back with sun poisoning. I'm still harboring hopes that it's just dry skin. Either way, it's not on my face, so who cares NOT ME! I'm feeling adolescent today, and I want to indulge that as much as possible.
I'm wearing a loud shirt. I sun bathed. I stared at men sunbathing. (Bryant Park is the best place to work next to. It's better than what you work next to, I bet. Unless you're a lifeguard.) I'm cataloging a score for a cello piece by Lars Klit, and the S is written such that it looks like a G. Everything about today is either fun, tan, nostalgic, hormonally stimulating, or immature, and I love it. I slept in. I dressed to Britney Spears. I ate pizza for breakfast. And I really really want to have sex (specifically, with the man on the red towel with the cool sunglasses... I wonder if he's still there....)
Furthermore, tonight I am going to some comedy group thing, after which I will meet one of everyone's favorite bit players in a movie: The Bend 'n Snap Guy from Legally Blonde! The more I think about it, the excitinger it is. He's in the group, and he's friends with my friend who I'm going with, so we're going to be bffs I just know it.
Today is 2 kewl + 2 B = 4-gotten! HAGS everyone!
I'm wearing a loud shirt. I sun bathed. I stared at men sunbathing. (Bryant Park is the best place to work next to. It's better than what you work next to, I bet. Unless you're a lifeguard.) I'm cataloging a score for a cello piece by Lars Klit, and the S is written such that it looks like a G. Everything about today is either fun, tan, nostalgic, hormonally stimulating, or immature, and I love it. I slept in. I dressed to Britney Spears. I ate pizza for breakfast. And I really really want to have sex (specifically, with the man on the red towel with the cool sunglasses... I wonder if he's still there....)
Furthermore, tonight I am going to some comedy group thing, after which I will meet one of everyone's favorite bit players in a movie: The Bend 'n Snap Guy from Legally Blonde! The more I think about it, the excitinger it is. He's in the group, and he's friends with my friend who I'm going with, so we're going to be bffs I just know it.
Today is 2 kewl + 2 B = 4-gotten! HAGS everyone!
Rack, Shack, and Benny don't even know
I just ate an entire giant chocolate bunny. For the moment, I'm blaming it on getting dumped this weekend (yeah, so leave me alone) but really, it only has to do with the fact that I felt like eating it, so I did. It wasn't one of those bullshit hollow ones either, this was like a big honkin' solid monster bunny.
That's me on the left, I'm wearing a disguise so I don't get beat up by ugly, dykey, gay-bashing bitches at Coyote Ugly ever again like this weekend. I would have blogged about it, but it was all too painful.
So basically I negated going to the gym this morning. And now I'm staying up late to type this asinine blog entry about eating a chocolate bunny so I'm not going to get up to go to the gym tomorrow either. I chose the word asinine because it has ass in it, and that's where the bunny will be tomorrow.
I also met a red-headed Irish guy in Central Park today because I was lost and apparently I was going in circles, and he knew I was lost, so he told me where south was. Anyway, he was on his bike and he had a little hat on and with his red hair and beard and accent, he looked just like a stereotype and so we can't be friends because I don't date leprechauns.
That's me on the left, I'm wearing a disguise so I don't get beat up by ugly, dykey, gay-bashing bitches at Coyote Ugly ever again like this weekend. I would have blogged about it, but it was all too painful.
So basically I negated going to the gym this morning. And now I'm staying up late to type this asinine blog entry about eating a chocolate bunny so I'm not going to get up to go to the gym tomorrow either. I chose the word asinine because it has ass in it, and that's where the bunny will be tomorrow.
I also met a red-headed Irish guy in Central Park today because I was lost and apparently I was going in circles, and he knew I was lost, so he told me where south was. Anyway, he was on his bike and he had a little hat on and with his red hair and beard and accent, he looked just like a stereotype and so we can't be friends because I don't date leprechauns.
Scary-an the Librarian
Holy shit! So I'm sitting here quietly cataloging the a book of John Hammond songs (with such homoerotic masterpieces as "Going Down Slow", "Down in the Bottom", "Crawling King Snake", and "Back Door Man") and listening to a corny tour being given below:
If you're a librarian, you know why that's corny, but it always makes tourists laugh. Anyway, the tour passes, it's rather peaceful in here when all of a sudden this horrific, shrill, blood-curdling voice screams "I CAN'T FUCKING TAKE IT! SHUT UP ALREADY, PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO WORK UP HERE!"
Jesus Christ! She sounded like The Wicked Witch of the West if the witch were insane, in withdrawl, PMSing, and being brutally tortured all at once.
It scared the hell out of me. I turned around to see what was going on, and nothing was out of the ordinary. Nobody was standing up seething with rage like I expected. Nobody was even whispering "What the fuck was that?" to anyone. It was as if things like that happen all the time around here like "Oh, that's just Crazy Martha. Don't worry, she only sounds like a ravenous, soul-sucking banshee. Really, she just has a lot of feelings."
No, these were not feelings. Happiness is a feeling. Anger is a feeling. This was an episode.
I asked a coworker later what on earth had happened, and she told me this woman just does that every now and then. But she assured me I had nothing to worry about because the woman is small, and if I felt threatened, I could just knock her on the head and she'd fall over. We laughed at this for a moment, and then I walked by the woman's desk to see what she looked like. I had never seen her before, and she looked as you'd expect from hearing such an outburst: dirty, unbrushed hair, pale skin, crazy eyes... she was a crazy straight out of a cartoon or a Dilbert comic strip. So if one day I don't come home from work, it's because I've been taken hostage by a raving office stereotype and the only one who can save me is Scott Adams.
What happened to classic "Shhhh, this is a library?" Maybe this woman is the next generation.
The number one question I get at the reference desk: "Where's the bathroom?"The number two question: "Where are all the books? If this is a library, where are the books at?" Well, they're under...
If you're a librarian, you know why that's corny, but it always makes tourists laugh. Anyway, the tour passes, it's rather peaceful in here when all of a sudden this horrific, shrill, blood-curdling voice screams "I CAN'T FUCKING TAKE IT! SHUT UP ALREADY, PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO WORK UP HERE!"
Jesus Christ! She sounded like The Wicked Witch of the West if the witch were insane, in withdrawl, PMSing, and being brutally tortured all at once.
It scared the hell out of me. I turned around to see what was going on, and nothing was out of the ordinary. Nobody was standing up seething with rage like I expected. Nobody was even whispering "What the fuck was that?" to anyone. It was as if things like that happen all the time around here like "Oh, that's just Crazy Martha. Don't worry, she only sounds like a ravenous, soul-sucking banshee. Really, she just has a lot of feelings."
No, these were not feelings. Happiness is a feeling. Anger is a feeling. This was an episode.
I asked a coworker later what on earth had happened, and she told me this woman just does that every now and then. But she assured me I had nothing to worry about because the woman is small, and if I felt threatened, I could just knock her on the head and she'd fall over. We laughed at this for a moment, and then I walked by the woman's desk to see what she looked like. I had never seen her before, and she looked as you'd expect from hearing such an outburst: dirty, unbrushed hair, pale skin, crazy eyes... she was a crazy straight out of a cartoon or a Dilbert comic strip. So if one day I don't come home from work, it's because I've been taken hostage by a raving office stereotype and the only one who can save me is Scott Adams.
What happened to classic "Shhhh, this is a library?" Maybe this woman is the next generation.
Woe, as I say, and betide
Yeah, I deleted the last entry. Bad form, I know, ok, get over it.
Yesterday I was awoken at 6 by the neighbor's dog, kept up by the recycling guy dumping bottles, tortured by no hot water in the shower, and annoyed when not one, not two, but three subway trains passed me by because there were so many people waiting. I was dehydrated, tired, and unable to focus. But my day turned around when I took an hour-long nap after lunch in the "Quiet Room", my new favorite staff area.
But apparently one aggravating morning wasn't enough. Oh no. Not if you get a nap, you have to get another crappy morning so we can have another go at screwing up a whole day! So I woke up well because I set my alarm to my new KT Tunstall album, so I was like singing from the second note in, which was nice. And then I screwed around for a while and showered and was like "Ooh, I totally get to be on time today!" But I get to the subway station, and there's this announcement that's all "Oops, yeah, we fucked everything up. The six train's all broke, so we put a 4 train or two on the local tracks. They're at 126th St. Thanks for being patient." Yeah, you're welcome, except I'm NOT being patient. After maybe 15 minutes, the first train comes, but there are SO many people on it. One old guy tried to get on like an idiot. He was standing half on the platform and then he's all surprised when the door starts closing on him. What a maroon. I made a mental note to displace him when the next train came.
Unfortunately, that wasn't for another 15 to 20 minutes. However, thoughts of him were discarded when the door stopped directly in front of me. There was room for one skinny person with a shoulder bag. Serendipity at last! But again, I was reminded the dismal state of human intelligence when about 6 tried to fit in after me. I stood my ground (not that I could move anywhere if I wanted to.) A women behind me was like "Do you think you people could move in a little? I know there's room, I can see it." Now this was ridiculous because the woman was about 5 and a half feet tall and couldn't see over my shoulder if she jumped. I remained silent until she pushed me, at which point I had reached my limit of Her-Being-a-Bitch. I pushed back, and I turned around to her and said "I can see over everyone's head. There is NO room to move or we would." And she opened her mouth to argue when the doors started closing on her and she too was forced back. Victory! I smiled with satisfaction, and I'm sure she saw.
At the next stop, I found my way into a corner so I could ride the rest of the way relatively undisturbed. Things got better from there until I realized how behind I was. So I finally get to work and looked at my cell phone clock: 9:40. Impossible! Forty minutes late when I was supposed to be on time! Early even! Rage!
Whatever.
So I get to my big old work area and turn on my computer and wait for it to power up when I notice something is wrong. It's so quiet. Oh, so quiet. So I looked around to realize that I was totally alone. My entire office of like 20 people was completely deserted. The tumbleweed blew silently by as I thought "What in the hell is going on?" So I look around. The fast cataloging unit is empty too. "What day is it? Is it Saturday?" But I realized it couldn't be or I'd have woken up with the guy I'm seeing. (This was seriously my rationale.) Finally I ran into Nancy, who works in neither unit, but in the area of both. I said to her "Where did the library go?" Apparently there was a meeting I was never told about because I am not on some special listserv that I should have automatically been put on. The entire professional and support staff (including Nancy) knew about it. But by this point it was 9:50. The meeting ended at 10:30. I wasn't about to show up halfway through, even if I knew where in the hell the auditorium was. Oooh, I was aggravated. Nancy assured me that the meeting was optional and showed me the itenerary that was e-mailed to everyone (else) and I just thought "This looks like a waste of time, if this were really optional, nobody would go. I'm probably required to be there and will get fired." Still, I opted out. Oh well.
So I'm here at my desk in my lonely office. I have cataloged one thing and spent the rest of the time writing this, which was first an e-mail to that guy I'm seeing, now adapted for the big screen in this blog entry. This morning sucks.
Oh, and speaking of rage, I want to share a poem that I find to be a masterpiece of the written word. It was written by a composer after a movement of a piece. The movement was called 'Rage.' So is the poem. I think it speaks for itself:
My favorite part is when the bird screams "Damn you!" The part where the bird is run over by a truck is pretty good too. I think we should all be nicer to birds and nature.
Yesterday I was awoken at 6 by the neighbor's dog, kept up by the recycling guy dumping bottles, tortured by no hot water in the shower, and annoyed when not one, not two, but three subway trains passed me by because there were so many people waiting. I was dehydrated, tired, and unable to focus. But my day turned around when I took an hour-long nap after lunch in the "Quiet Room", my new favorite staff area.
But apparently one aggravating morning wasn't enough. Oh no. Not if you get a nap, you have to get another crappy morning so we can have another go at screwing up a whole day! So I woke up well because I set my alarm to my new KT Tunstall album, so I was like singing from the second note in, which was nice. And then I screwed around for a while and showered and was like "Ooh, I totally get to be on time today!" But I get to the subway station, and there's this announcement that's all "Oops, yeah, we fucked everything up. The six train's all broke, so we put a 4 train or two on the local tracks. They're at 126th St. Thanks for being patient." Yeah, you're welcome, except I'm NOT being patient. After maybe 15 minutes, the first train comes, but there are SO many people on it. One old guy tried to get on like an idiot. He was standing half on the platform and then he's all surprised when the door starts closing on him. What a maroon. I made a mental note to displace him when the next train came.
Unfortunately, that wasn't for another 15 to 20 minutes. However, thoughts of him were discarded when the door stopped directly in front of me. There was room for one skinny person with a shoulder bag. Serendipity at last! But again, I was reminded the dismal state of human intelligence when about 6 tried to fit in after me. I stood my ground (not that I could move anywhere if I wanted to.) A women behind me was like "Do you think you people could move in a little? I know there's room, I can see it." Now this was ridiculous because the woman was about 5 and a half feet tall and couldn't see over my shoulder if she jumped. I remained silent until she pushed me, at which point I had reached my limit of Her-Being-a-Bitch. I pushed back, and I turned around to her and said "I can see over everyone's head. There is NO room to move or we would." And she opened her mouth to argue when the doors started closing on her and she too was forced back. Victory! I smiled with satisfaction, and I'm sure she saw.
At the next stop, I found my way into a corner so I could ride the rest of the way relatively undisturbed. Things got better from there until I realized how behind I was. So I finally get to work and looked at my cell phone clock: 9:40. Impossible! Forty minutes late when I was supposed to be on time! Early even! Rage!
Whatever.
So I get to my big old work area and turn on my computer and wait for it to power up when I notice something is wrong. It's so quiet. Oh, so quiet. So I looked around to realize that I was totally alone. My entire office of like 20 people was completely deserted. The tumbleweed blew silently by as I thought "What in the hell is going on?" So I look around. The fast cataloging unit is empty too. "What day is it? Is it Saturday?" But I realized it couldn't be or I'd have woken up with the guy I'm seeing. (This was seriously my rationale.) Finally I ran into Nancy, who works in neither unit, but in the area of both. I said to her "Where did the library go?" Apparently there was a meeting I was never told about because I am not on some special listserv that I should have automatically been put on. The entire professional and support staff (including Nancy) knew about it. But by this point it was 9:50. The meeting ended at 10:30. I wasn't about to show up halfway through, even if I knew where in the hell the auditorium was. Oooh, I was aggravated. Nancy assured me that the meeting was optional and showed me the itenerary that was e-mailed to everyone (else) and I just thought "This looks like a waste of time, if this were really optional, nobody would go. I'm probably required to be there and will get fired." Still, I opted out. Oh well.
So I'm here at my desk in my lonely office. I have cataloged one thing and spent the rest of the time writing this, which was first an e-mail to that guy I'm seeing, now adapted for the big screen in this blog entry. This morning sucks.
Oh, and speaking of rage, I want to share a poem that I find to be a masterpiece of the written word. It was written by a composer after a movement of a piece. The movement was called 'Rage.' So is the poem. I think it speaks for itself:
Rage
No more sweet songs for me.
You cut the tree that held my nest-
You burned the brush that fed my young-
Your metal monsters killed my mate,
smashing her to the street,
chasing me when I tried to fly to her, to comfort...
No more sweet songs for me.
I'm small and weak,
but not my rage.
Ruin the world!
Destroy yourselves!
No more sweet songs for me!
Listen each night as you try to sleep
and hear my new song:
damn you humans, damn you.
Damn you. Damn you. DAMN YOU!
David L. Adams - Judith's Dream
My favorite part is when the bird screams "Damn you!" The part where the bird is run over by a truck is pretty good too. I think we should all be nicer to birds and nature.
This probably makes no sense, ignore it, it's stupid anyway
Today there was a disconnect. The cognitive dissonance to end all cognitive dissonances. More of a cognitive cacaphony, really... a sort of aleatoric nightmare symphony of 1,000 transistor radios turned to satellite stations from around the globe.
I am having a great day, though all of the events and portents I have experienced suggest that I should not. I woke up late and did not realize it so that after I showered, I had 10 minutes to get to work. It took 30. I did not care.
Before leaving the house, I noticed my cat had peed on my clean laundry. "Silly kitty," I thought as I smiled and patted her head.
The woman training me to catalog scores showed me a record I had made and was particularly proud of. The piece was called "Don't Let That Horse". The black ink in which my record had printed was drowning in a turgid sea of red pencil markings detailing why this was the worst job I had ever done.
Lunch was dank. Yes, dank. Don't ask.
I was having a crappy day... and I was in a great mood.
OCLC was down, rendering my job impossible to perform. (For the uninitiated, OCLC is a lot of things to us librarians, but for the purposes of this essay, it is the thing I use to search for, create, and edit catalog records.) I couldn't even search the database to pull up a record. Nevertheless, I sat there obsessively clicking "Search" like a maniacal Minesweeper junkie, over and over receiving the message
An error has occured with your search. Please try again.
An error has occured with your search. Please try again.
An error has occured with your search. Please try again.
I felt cold in my workplace, the first pangs of professional zombie-ism eeking into my passionate young mind. What am I doing with myself?
An error has occured with your life. You've blown your only shot.
An emotion (the first of the day) started forming in the howling void of my psyche, and yet it was held back from becoming a true thoughtform by that strange, stupid-happy feeling that won't leave.
I left my desk for an early and extended break.
As I entered the same bookstore/cafe I patronize during every break, I thought "I wonder if there is anything to the fact that I work in a library around books all day and the only place I can think of to go on break is a bookstore (filled with books) whose window presents a spectacular view of... my library. Am I doomed? This feels doomy."
As if in response, the bakery case went dark, the flourescent light extinguished in an undeniable message regarding the state of me. And I just smiled, bemused at the sign that something horrible is about to happen, a nagging feeling I have always nursed no matter how satisfied I feel.
The darkness in that display case spoke to me in a hollow voice: "You're a 9-to-5er. You're going to lose your soul. Look at your crappy day. Every day is going to be like this until your skin turns grey and you lose your free will. OooOOoooOoooOOh!" Basically, my fear of becoming bored and boring was sneaking up again.
And yet I felt right as rain! Inexplicable! Why am I not in a mood? Why don't I feel the way my crappy morning should make me feel? Am I already so detached? No... contentment is not a detached emotion because... well, it's an emotion.
That's when I realized that my strange happiness today was not inexplicable, detached, or otherwise faux or alien or any of the various words I had thought of for it. Bad things happening, forboding thought surfacing... I wasn't happy because I was detached. In fact, the reason I am happy (perpetually happy, even) is because these things happen. These's a subtle distinction here that I'm having trouble articulating.
I realized the day was regular. Bad things happen to me all the time. Every day, I have a million things I can complaing about, and today was like any other. I was just super aware of it for some reason.
I'm not happy because I ignore these things or just don't feel them. I am happy because I can ignore these things though I'm aware of them. Get it? Every unpleasant experience in my life is another chance to say "Ha! Look how everything sucks and I can remain unaffected in the grander sense." It's a decisiveness that's key here... a decisiveness that had become second nature, though I not remember the days when it wasn't. I specifically remember making the turnaround when I was 14 or 15. It gave me a feeling of control over my life, which was both comforting and empowering.
There ended the disconnect. The radios were all tuned to the same station. I was ready to return to work, and OCLC (the client for which is appropriately called Connexion) would probably be working, ready to let me finish my work day smoothly and stress free, though honestly, I kind of hoped that it wouldn't.
I am having a great day, though all of the events and portents I have experienced suggest that I should not. I woke up late and did not realize it so that after I showered, I had 10 minutes to get to work. It took 30. I did not care.
Before leaving the house, I noticed my cat had peed on my clean laundry. "Silly kitty," I thought as I smiled and patted her head.
The woman training me to catalog scores showed me a record I had made and was particularly proud of. The piece was called "Don't Let That Horse". The black ink in which my record had printed was drowning in a turgid sea of red pencil markings detailing why this was the worst job I had ever done.
Lunch was dank. Yes, dank. Don't ask.
I was having a crappy day... and I was in a great mood.
OCLC was down, rendering my job impossible to perform. (For the uninitiated, OCLC is a lot of things to us librarians, but for the purposes of this essay, it is the thing I use to search for, create, and edit catalog records.) I couldn't even search the database to pull up a record. Nevertheless, I sat there obsessively clicking "Search" like a maniacal Minesweeper junkie, over and over receiving the message
An error has occured with your search. Please try again.
An error has occured with your search. Please try again.
An error has occured with your search. Please try again.
I felt cold in my workplace, the first pangs of professional zombie-ism eeking into my passionate young mind. What am I doing with myself?
An error has occured with your life. You've blown your only shot.
An emotion (the first of the day) started forming in the howling void of my psyche, and yet it was held back from becoming a true thoughtform by that strange, stupid-happy feeling that won't leave.
I left my desk for an early and extended break.
As I entered the same bookstore/cafe I patronize during every break, I thought "I wonder if there is anything to the fact that I work in a library around books all day and the only place I can think of to go on break is a bookstore (filled with books) whose window presents a spectacular view of... my library. Am I doomed? This feels doomy."
As if in response, the bakery case went dark, the flourescent light extinguished in an undeniable message regarding the state of me. And I just smiled, bemused at the sign that something horrible is about to happen, a nagging feeling I have always nursed no matter how satisfied I feel.
The darkness in that display case spoke to me in a hollow voice: "You're a 9-to-5er. You're going to lose your soul. Look at your crappy day. Every day is going to be like this until your skin turns grey and you lose your free will. OooOOoooOoooOOh!" Basically, my fear of becoming bored and boring was sneaking up again.
And yet I felt right as rain! Inexplicable! Why am I not in a mood? Why don't I feel the way my crappy morning should make me feel? Am I already so detached? No... contentment is not a detached emotion because... well, it's an emotion.
That's when I realized that my strange happiness today was not inexplicable, detached, or otherwise faux or alien or any of the various words I had thought of for it. Bad things happening, forboding thought surfacing... I wasn't happy because I was detached. In fact, the reason I am happy (perpetually happy, even) is because these things happen. These's a subtle distinction here that I'm having trouble articulating.
I realized the day was regular. Bad things happen to me all the time. Every day, I have a million things I can complaing about, and today was like any other. I was just super aware of it for some reason.
I'm not happy because I ignore these things or just don't feel them. I am happy because I can ignore these things though I'm aware of them. Get it? Every unpleasant experience in my life is another chance to say "Ha! Look how everything sucks and I can remain unaffected in the grander sense." It's a decisiveness that's key here... a decisiveness that had become second nature, though I not remember the days when it wasn't. I specifically remember making the turnaround when I was 14 or 15. It gave me a feeling of control over my life, which was both comforting and empowering.
There ended the disconnect. The radios were all tuned to the same station. I was ready to return to work, and OCLC (the client for which is appropriately called Connexion) would probably be working, ready to let me finish my work day smoothly and stress free, though honestly, I kind of hoped that it wouldn't.
Touching base
Look, I have friends now.
I always hate people who are all "OMG, I'm sorry I haven't updated my blog in sooooo long! I promise I'll do it more" because nobody cares. So I'm not making any apologies for anything, I'm just going to tell a story.
Actually, I don't have any stories to tell, at least none that I remember. Every day, something interesting happens to me and I think "Wow, I should totally blog about that. It would be the best blog entry ever." But then I forget what these things are by the time I get in front of a computer. I bought a little notebook to carry around just for general use, but I don't want to pull it out every time I have an idea because I'm not a writer and I don't want to look like a writer not that there's anything wrong with that.
Also, everyone should go to Drag Queen Puppet Bingo at View every week because it's way cooler than whatever lame thing you were doing last night.
I'm so sorry I never update and I promise promise promise I'll do it more more more I miss you guys sooooooo much.
Was: Not a review
I just got Chinese food all over my copy of Was, which I've been reading for approximately 17 years because I can only read about 2 pages at a time during breaks from work and on subway rides. It's good, wordy, depressing... now also "spicy" and "tasty". And now that my Spicy and Tasty Chicken and Cold Sesame Noodles are in the fridge for tomorrow, I can get back to it.
During dinner, I did what I usually do when I'm two-thirds of the way through a book, and I went to read reviews. The only ones I could find were on amazon.com, which sucks for reviews because everyone except me is stupid. Everyone there decided to compare it to Wicked even though the two books have clearly nothing in common except they both say "Oz" a lot. It's funny how people can read a book that other people are reading (Wicked, The Da Vinci Code, Lord of the Rings) or see a movie or play everyone is seeing that's supposed to be good (Wicked, The Da Vinci Code, Lord of the Rings) and suddenly they're like total experts in literature and theatre, and everything gets compared to the two books they've read and maybe Charlotte's Web from childhood. And reading two things with a similar theme, character, or location? Oooh, hold on to your hats! It's time for Compare and Contrast! (You remember Compare and Contrast... it's from when you had to write those "impossible" 5-paragraph essays in the 4th grade.)
I only know three things about literature:
1) The Da Vinci Code sucks.
2) Emma Watson makes a better Hermione Granger than my imagination does.
3) Comparing Was to Wicked is like comparing Nightmare on Elm Street to Miracle on 34th Steet because they're both about streets.
One reviewer (candycanegirl) heartened me when I read the title of her review: "Not meant to be a comparison to Wicked!" But then in her review, she's all "Wicked will never, come close to the work of honest art contained in Was." Ho ho ho! candycanegirl is from South Bend, Indiana.
P.S. My job is awesome, and I'm so good at it because I figured out how to correct my glaring errors that I keep making without asking, so everybody thinks I did it right the first time!
During dinner, I did what I usually do when I'm two-thirds of the way through a book, and I went to read reviews. The only ones I could find were on amazon.com, which sucks for reviews because everyone except me is stupid. Everyone there decided to compare it to Wicked even though the two books have clearly nothing in common except they both say "Oz" a lot. It's funny how people can read a book that other people are reading (Wicked, The Da Vinci Code, Lord of the Rings) or see a movie or play everyone is seeing that's supposed to be good (Wicked, The Da Vinci Code, Lord of the Rings) and suddenly they're like total experts in literature and theatre, and everything gets compared to the two books they've read and maybe Charlotte's Web from childhood. And reading two things with a similar theme, character, or location? Oooh, hold on to your hats! It's time for Compare and Contrast! (You remember Compare and Contrast... it's from when you had to write those "impossible" 5-paragraph essays in the 4th grade.)
I only know three things about literature:
1) The Da Vinci Code sucks.
2) Emma Watson makes a better Hermione Granger than my imagination does.
3) Comparing Was to Wicked is like comparing Nightmare on Elm Street to Miracle on 34th Steet because they're both about streets.
One reviewer (candycanegirl) heartened me when I read the title of her review: "Not meant to be a comparison to Wicked!" But then in her review, she's all "Wicked will never, come close to the work of honest art contained in Was." Ho ho ho! candycanegirl is from South Bend, Indiana.
P.S. My job is awesome, and I'm so good at it because I figured out how to correct my glaring errors that I keep making without asking, so everybody thinks I did it right the first time!
Don't you wanna wanna?
So I'm standing at a dollar per slice pizza stand somewhere over the rainbow (north of Chelsea) enjoying a greasy slice and an orange Fanta with a friend when this... I dunno, gangsta? hoodlum? not a munchkinlander... whatever, this kid with gigantic clothes and one of those stocking-looking things on his head turns to me and says "Hey, I don't wanna say nothin' rude or nothin', but are y'all gay?"
My friend was on his phone, and I could almost hear the gears shift in his head as he started ignoring his conversation and listening in on mine. Upon careful consideration of my situation and my chances of escape, I noticed the genuine curiosity in his eyes. Shocked that he could be so intuitive as to notice, I did a quick hair and eyeliner check in my reflection on his silver teeth and answered in a flat, wary affirmative. The following conversation ensued:
"Really? For how long? When did you turn gay?"
-"You don't turn gay, I've always been since forever."
(Since forever... real smooth.)
"So you be gay since you come outcho momma?"
At this point I considered explaining that people are neither gay nor straight until horomones and sexual desire kick in and that he was technically not straight until he first looked at a girl as a pre-adolescent and got that good down-low tickle, but I settled instead on:
-"Yeah, I guess basically, I mean y'know... essentially [mutter, awkward, not-a-gangsta uncoolness]..."
"Y'all don't like pussy?"
-"Not as such, no."
"Man, really? You ever had pussy before?"
-"Nope... never."
"Man, I can't believe you don't like pussy."
God, I wish he would stop saying that word. Anyway, instead of saying "I can't believe you don't like dick, man, maybe you just haven't tried it" and getting my ass kicked, I just said "I'm really ok with it." The conversation took a turn from there:
"So, you're a fudgepacker."
-Indignantly: "Excuse me?"
"Oh, that's rude, wasn't it..."
-"Yeah, that's rude. That's really rude, thanks."
"Sorry man."
I had no time to be satisfied with his apology because at that point his friend swiped the money he had left on the counter to pay, and my escape route was opened. I turned to my friend (still on the phone) and said "We're going. Now." I pulled my friend across the street leaving the remains of my Fanta shivering and alone on the ledge of the stand.
I couldn't believe my friend didn't save me for that conversation, but I realized he was probably getting back at me for earlier in the day when the Crazy Stinky Man at Starbucks cornered him and told him how they should donate all their travel mugs to the Salvation Army, and I just stood there laughing at him.
Needing a touch of gay to re-establish the balance, we then went to Chelsea for cupcakes where I fell in love with the boy at the bakery.
Last night I dreamt of Fanta and silver teeth.
My friend was on his phone, and I could almost hear the gears shift in his head as he started ignoring his conversation and listening in on mine. Upon careful consideration of my situation and my chances of escape, I noticed the genuine curiosity in his eyes. Shocked that he could be so intuitive as to notice, I did a quick hair and eyeliner check in my reflection on his silver teeth and answered in a flat, wary affirmative. The following conversation ensued:
"Really? For how long? When did you turn gay?"
-"You don't turn gay, I've always been since forever."
(Since forever... real smooth.)
"So you be gay since you come outcho momma?"
At this point I considered explaining that people are neither gay nor straight until horomones and sexual desire kick in and that he was technically not straight until he first looked at a girl as a pre-adolescent and got that good down-low tickle, but I settled instead on:
-"Yeah, I guess basically, I mean y'know... essentially [mutter, awkward, not-a-gangsta uncoolness]..."
"Y'all don't like pussy?"
-"Not as such, no."
"Man, really? You ever had pussy before?"
-"Nope... never."
"Man, I can't believe you don't like pussy."
God, I wish he would stop saying that word. Anyway, instead of saying "I can't believe you don't like dick, man, maybe you just haven't tried it" and getting my ass kicked, I just said "I'm really ok with it." The conversation took a turn from there:
"So, you're a fudgepacker."
-Indignantly: "Excuse me?"
"Oh, that's rude, wasn't it..."
-"Yeah, that's rude. That's really rude, thanks."
"Sorry man."
I had no time to be satisfied with his apology because at that point his friend swiped the money he had left on the counter to pay, and my escape route was opened. I turned to my friend (still on the phone) and said "We're going. Now." I pulled my friend across the street leaving the remains of my Fanta shivering and alone on the ledge of the stand.
I couldn't believe my friend didn't save me for that conversation, but I realized he was probably getting back at me for earlier in the day when the Crazy Stinky Man at Starbucks cornered him and told him how they should donate all their travel mugs to the Salvation Army, and I just stood there laughing at him.
Needing a touch of gay to re-establish the balance, we then went to Chelsea for cupcakes where I fell in love with the boy at the bakery.
Last night I dreamt of Fanta and silver teeth.
Where have I been???
The following is excerpted from my livejournal because I have no patience to write anything more. References to Bloomington are to be ignored if you don't live there. Deal with it:
Hi, I'm back! And I'm in sunny New York City! The move-in was great, my apartment is cute and little. I'll have pictures soon enough. There's not too much to say about it.
Mostly, I want to talk about last night because it was super-fun. So I hung out with this kid I'd been talking to for a while. (I'm a loser, so I have to make friends online in advance in order to feel secure about a move.) We went to some gay bar to have drinks. It was called Therapy, and it was kinda like E's only clean, hip, big, full of hot new people, and had amazing music. Really the only reason it was like E's was because I didn't get charged for half the drinks I ordered because my companion for the evening knew the bartender. So I basically chatted with my first new friend, and had a grand old time.
Then I felt like dancing, but he said there was nowhere immediately close to do that, but we went to another bar for a change of scenery. Posh. It was littler, but there was a picture on the wall that I swore up and down to everyone who would listen was Anne Hathaway. And there was a guy there that looked exactly like the guy in a porn I saw once except with nerd glasses. My new friend wanted me to go talk to him, but I was scared and then some hot, buff guy got there first. Sad destiny.
But I still wanted to dance. But there was no dance floor. But I was standing in a kinda open area and I was drunk, so I decided to just start dancing all by myself. So I kinda spaced out and just danced and looked at fake Anne Hathaway and was in my own head when this guy in a cute A|X long-sleeved shirt I wanted to steal came up to me and was like "Everyone's dancing because of you!" I said "What?" and then I looked around and sure enough there were about 20 people dancing all around me! But I was like "Are you serious, I did that?" And he was like "Yeah! You have such power over New Yorkers!"
It was pretty much the best compliment I could have received at that moment. I was so thrilled. And the best part was that a little bit later, I decided I didn't want to dance anymore, so I stopped and in about 2 minutes, nobody was dancing anymore. It was so awesome, I felt like Moses.
Then we went across the street to the Renaissance Diner for that ridiculous greasy meal you need to have when you're drunk and it's 3 a.m. It was similar to a Waffle House experience except instead of Kenya Brown, there was a hot girl waitress, and instead of greasy yucky chicken fingers, I had delicious gourmet chicken fingers with actual romaine lettuce garnish and everything!
Then I discovered that if it's 4 a.m. and you're in Hell's Kitchen and drunk and you need to get to the Upper East Side, your life is about to suck. Apparently the subways don't come except every a million hours, and I needed to take two. So I didn't get back until 5. Luckily, my new friend waited with me and was nice.
So that was my night everyone come visit now because it's so cool ok bye.
Hi, I'm back! And I'm in sunny New York City! The move-in was great, my apartment is cute and little. I'll have pictures soon enough. There's not too much to say about it.
Mostly, I want to talk about last night because it was super-fun. So I hung out with this kid I'd been talking to for a while. (I'm a loser, so I have to make friends online in advance in order to feel secure about a move.) We went to some gay bar to have drinks. It was called Therapy, and it was kinda like E's only clean, hip, big, full of hot new people, and had amazing music. Really the only reason it was like E's was because I didn't get charged for half the drinks I ordered because my companion for the evening knew the bartender. So I basically chatted with my first new friend, and had a grand old time.
Then I felt like dancing, but he said there was nowhere immediately close to do that, but we went to another bar for a change of scenery. Posh. It was littler, but there was a picture on the wall that I swore up and down to everyone who would listen was Anne Hathaway. And there was a guy there that looked exactly like the guy in a porn I saw once except with nerd glasses. My new friend wanted me to go talk to him, but I was scared and then some hot, buff guy got there first. Sad destiny.
But I still wanted to dance. But there was no dance floor. But I was standing in a kinda open area and I was drunk, so I decided to just start dancing all by myself. So I kinda spaced out and just danced and looked at fake Anne Hathaway and was in my own head when this guy in a cute A|X long-sleeved shirt I wanted to steal came up to me and was like "Everyone's dancing because of you!" I said "What?" and then I looked around and sure enough there were about 20 people dancing all around me! But I was like "Are you serious, I did that?" And he was like "Yeah! You have such power over New Yorkers!"
It was pretty much the best compliment I could have received at that moment. I was so thrilled. And the best part was that a little bit later, I decided I didn't want to dance anymore, so I stopped and in about 2 minutes, nobody was dancing anymore. It was so awesome, I felt like Moses.
Then we went across the street to the Renaissance Diner for that ridiculous greasy meal you need to have when you're drunk and it's 3 a.m. It was similar to a Waffle House experience except instead of Kenya Brown, there was a hot girl waitress, and instead of greasy yucky chicken fingers, I had delicious gourmet chicken fingers with actual romaine lettuce garnish and everything!
Then I discovered that if it's 4 a.m. and you're in Hell's Kitchen and drunk and you need to get to the Upper East Side, your life is about to suck. Apparently the subways don't come except every a million hours, and I needed to take two. So I didn't get back until 5. Luckily, my new friend waited with me and was nice.
So that was my night everyone come visit now because it's so cool ok bye.
One of those undirected ones
Remember that time a few weeks ago when I said I was gonna read The Da Vinci Code? Well I read it over the next couple of days, and it was pretty useless. I forgot to mention it. I know how much you were all holding your breaths waiting to hear what I thought because I am the final voice in literature and movie reviews. But that's all I've got to say: "It was pretty useless." So I'm not going to waste more time on it.
Unfortunately, I don't have anything else to write about except that I've had New York City Boy in my head for the past 4 days, an energizing if cloyingly repetitive reminder that I've got a ton of shit to get done before this weekend when I move and that I should stop wasting my afternoons reading, getting coffee, and playing The Sims.
As to those things, I'm halfway through Ryu Murakami's 69 (kind of a poor man's Catcher in the Rye but still pretty good), I enjoy the Seattle's Best that opened up in my local Borders better than the non-Starbucks that was there before (get the girl to make you a vanilla latte), and half my pregnant lesbian couple just died in a fire that I couldn't stop because the floor in front of the phone was burning (her life partner cried as she swept up the ashes.)
That's pretty much my life. I realized earlier that I never share too much about it on here. That's why: I read books, drink coffee, and play video games. So I'm coming out now and admitting to the world what a giant loser I am. But this will change if I can just get off my ass and pack the rest of my life up. Cause I'm a New York City Boy... Christ, here goes the song again.
Unfortunately, I don't have anything else to write about except that I've had New York City Boy in my head for the past 4 days, an energizing if cloyingly repetitive reminder that I've got a ton of shit to get done before this weekend when I move and that I should stop wasting my afternoons reading, getting coffee, and playing The Sims.
As to those things, I'm halfway through Ryu Murakami's 69 (kind of a poor man's Catcher in the Rye but still pretty good), I enjoy the Seattle's Best that opened up in my local Borders better than the non-Starbucks that was there before (get the girl to make you a vanilla latte), and half my pregnant lesbian couple just died in a fire that I couldn't stop because the floor in front of the phone was burning (her life partner cried as she swept up the ashes.)
That's pretty much my life. I realized earlier that I never share too much about it on here. That's why: I read books, drink coffee, and play video games. So I'm coming out now and admitting to the world what a giant loser I am. But this will change if I can just get off my ass and pack the rest of my life up. Cause I'm a New York City Boy... Christ, here goes the song again.
All aloooone in the mooooonliiiiight
The other day some guy was telling me how his earliest memory as a baby was of his father holding his head under the sink because as a baby he was stupid (as babies are) and pour rubbing alcohol into his eyes. I imagine his father was also somewhat stupid for facilitating this activity by putting a bottle of rubbing alcohol in his toy box or whatever, but I don't judge. (Not ever.)
Anyway, I thought I'd share mine. Not my rubbing alcohol (I need that) but rather
My First Memory
My first memory is of when I was a stupid baby in my walker. For those of you who might not have been as retarded as I was as a child, a walker is this contraption that you put an infant in... the baby kinda sits in the middle, and his feet dangle and touch the ground. And the thing is on wheels, so the baby is both sitting and standing and also able to totter around and bump into things. I loved my walker, and I would go around in circles all over the house just happy as a clam.
You might think "Oh, sounds like that memory happened to early for you to remember it, you probably just made it up." But no. It took me forever to learn how to walk. My mom was kind of afraid there was something wrong with me. I'm sure if I could, I would have simply expressed to her that I simply did not have anywhere I felt like going. I mean hell, I got picked up and placed wherever I needed to go! Why would I trouble myself with walking? Even today, I envy people in wheelchairs just a little bit. (A little, I said, I know nobody really wants to be in one.) So I was in my walker until I was about 15 when I could get my learner's permit.
That's why I remember it so well.
How strong I was
how young and gay
A prince of love
In every way.
Anyway, I thought I'd share mine. Not my rubbing alcohol (I need that) but rather
My First Memory
My first memory is of when I was a stupid baby in my walker. For those of you who might not have been as retarded as I was as a child, a walker is this contraption that you put an infant in... the baby kinda sits in the middle, and his feet dangle and touch the ground. And the thing is on wheels, so the baby is both sitting and standing and also able to totter around and bump into things. I loved my walker, and I would go around in circles all over the house just happy as a clam.
You might think "Oh, sounds like that memory happened to early for you to remember it, you probably just made it up." But no. It took me forever to learn how to walk. My mom was kind of afraid there was something wrong with me. I'm sure if I could, I would have simply expressed to her that I simply did not have anywhere I felt like going. I mean hell, I got picked up and placed wherever I needed to go! Why would I trouble myself with walking? Even today, I envy people in wheelchairs just a little bit. (A little, I said, I know nobody really wants to be in one.) So I was in my walker until I was about 15 when I could get my learner's permit.
That's why I remember it so well.
How strong I was
how young and gay
A prince of love
In every way.
Junior is bad don't read it ok?
Yesterday I thought it might be a good idea to buy and read Macaulay Culkin's new book Junior. That was pretty much the stupidest idea I've ever had. It's basically a meaningless miscellany of all too self-conscious stream of consciousness ramblings intended to paint our hero (affectionately calling himself "Junior") as some sort of creative, emotive force of modern writing. He comes off more as a crappy emo rock band that opens for a crappier emo rock band at your local Starbucks.
Just because you're random doesn't mean your work has "layers of meaning."
Just because you start every stupid list with "Dad" doesn't mean your relationship with him is somehow worth writing a book about.
This book reminded me of the journal I had at the end of high school when I was deluded enough to think that someone would find it after I died and feel inspired to publish it. Every entry was so painfully oozing with the effort to sound profound and artistic that I'm embarassed to look back on it. Reading this book made me embarassed for Macaulay. I imagine he'll look back on it and cringe if he ever grows up.
Oops, I'm getting judgmental. Time to talk about something else.... like myself. (It's all about me, you know.) Transition!
About 25 pages into Mr. Culkin's chef-d'oeuvre and after realizing the striking similarities between his drecky prose and my drivelling journal of yore, I realized that I could probably write a book. I was at Starbucks. I thought about it, and my thoughts started forming into all these little ideas. I realized "Damn! I'm so awesome!" I'm so much wittier and cooler than everyone (especially Macaulay Culkin) and my e-mails about my life that I send to old friends from college are like the highlights of their days. Then I realized that it would have to be all about me. Then I realized that nobody cares about me. Then I realized that nobody cares about half the people who write books about themselves. Then I realized I didn't care about writing a book.
So that was the end of that. Looks like I'm not writing a book, sorry.... unless there is a sudden surge of interest from at least 1,000,000 potential readers and a publishing company. Ok, if I get 1,000,000 comments on this blog entry, I'll write a book. Go!
Just because you're random doesn't mean your work has "layers of meaning."
Just because you start every stupid list with "Dad" doesn't mean your relationship with him is somehow worth writing a book about.
This book reminded me of the journal I had at the end of high school when I was deluded enough to think that someone would find it after I died and feel inspired to publish it. Every entry was so painfully oozing with the effort to sound profound and artistic that I'm embarassed to look back on it. Reading this book made me embarassed for Macaulay. I imagine he'll look back on it and cringe if he ever grows up.
Oops, I'm getting judgmental. Time to talk about something else.... like myself. (It's all about me, you know.) Transition!
About 25 pages into Mr. Culkin's chef-d'oeuvre and after realizing the striking similarities between his drecky prose and my drivelling journal of yore, I realized that I could probably write a book. I was at Starbucks. I thought about it, and my thoughts started forming into all these little ideas. I realized "Damn! I'm so awesome!" I'm so much wittier and cooler than everyone (especially Macaulay Culkin) and my e-mails about my life that I send to old friends from college are like the highlights of their days. Then I realized that it would have to be all about me. Then I realized that nobody cares about me. Then I realized that nobody cares about half the people who write books about themselves. Then I realized I didn't care about writing a book.
So that was the end of that. Looks like I'm not writing a book, sorry.... unless there is a sudden surge of interest from at least 1,000,000 potential readers and a publishing company. Ok, if I get 1,000,000 comments on this blog entry, I'll write a book. Go!
ROAR! (That's the lion)
Wonderful news! This is my 50th entry!
Better news! I'm employed! That's right. I am the newest member of the New York Public Library, Humanities and Social Sciences Library, Monograph Cataloging Division! I'm cataloging music scores, and it's going to be great!
It's all come together so well! So I've got a cute apartment and a fantastic job. Let my sweet new life begin!
I will now except your adulation and praise.
Better news! I'm employed! That's right. I am the newest member of the New York Public Library, Humanities and Social Sciences Library, Monograph Cataloging Division! I'm cataloging music scores, and it's going to be great!
It's all come together so well! So I've got a cute apartment and a fantastic job. Let my sweet new life begin!
I will now except your adulation and praise.
Close encounters
Y'know how sometimes you're walking down the street and you accidentally make eye contact with some stranger, so you smile just a little bit and quickly look away? And then for some reason you peek back at the same time they peek back, so your eyes lock again and this time you notice their eyes are really pretty so you accidentally stare a second too long and then they say "Hey" so you have to say "Hey" back so you don't feel like an asshole.
And then you're thinking "Jesus, I hope he didn't think I was checking him out, he's probably some gay basher and he's running home to make fun of me to all his stupid friends in his blog like 'Wow, so this gaywad was totally checking me out on the street and flirting with me today, OMG it was so gross, who wants to play some football?'"
So then you're all "Shit, I'm being gay bashed in someone's blog." But then you realize that they are not cool enough to have a cool blog like mine so all you have to do is write about him in your own blog like "Y'know how sometimes you're walking down the street and you accidentally make eye contact with some stranger" and then assure everyone that you weren't checking him out even though he had pretty eyes because you never check out asshole gay bashers because they have ugly souls.
And then you start a blog war with him which you totally win because your blog is so much hipper and cooler and your design is the template sensation that's sweeping the nation whereas he probably has the same-old lame-old default Blogger template like everyone else. So you feel good because you won the war and reward yourself by getting a brownie and large chai at the cafe instead of just a cookie and a medium chai.
Y'know how that happens? Yeah because it just happened to me.
And then you're thinking "Jesus, I hope he didn't think I was checking him out, he's probably some gay basher and he's running home to make fun of me to all his stupid friends in his blog like 'Wow, so this gaywad was totally checking me out on the street and flirting with me today, OMG it was so gross, who wants to play some football?'"
So then you're all "Shit, I'm being gay bashed in someone's blog." But then you realize that they are not cool enough to have a cool blog like mine so all you have to do is write about him in your own blog like "Y'know how sometimes you're walking down the street and you accidentally make eye contact with some stranger" and then assure everyone that you weren't checking him out even though he had pretty eyes because you never check out asshole gay bashers because they have ugly souls.
And then you start a blog war with him which you totally win because your blog is so much hipper and cooler and your design is the template sensation that's sweeping the nation whereas he probably has the same-old lame-old default Blogger template like everyone else. So you feel good because you won the war and reward yourself by getting a brownie and large chai at the cafe instead of just a cookie and a medium chai.
Y'know how that happens? Yeah because it just happened to me.
My stupid hat
I hate my stupid hat. Today I didn't have time to shower because I layed in bed doing nothing for and hour and a half after my alarm went off, but I also slept on my head funny so my hair was REALLY weird and I couldn't fix it, so I'm wearing my hat today.
My friend Kim used to like it when I wore my hat because it meant I was dirty. I don't wear it anymore though because even when I'm dirty, my hair still usually looks ok. But not today, so I'm wearing my stupid hat, and it's red and I can only wear it backwards or it shows off how big my head is. Since I wear it backwards and my hair sticks out of it in the front and on the sides, and since I am girly and gay and have no testosterone so I never developed a masculine jaw or broad shoulders, my hat makes me look like a 10-year-old.
And since I look like a 10-year-old, I pretty much just wanna act like a 10-year-old and eat pizza and not do work and sit around and talk about whatever stupid crap 10-year-old boys talk about. And I want to play video games.
So I'm going to leave work early because I've sat here doing nothing the whole time anyway. And I'm going to go get the cold pizza out of the fridge at my other job and eat it, and I'm gonna go home to start packing for my trip, but really, I'm probably just going to play the Sims and read my crappy book. (I read a lot as a 10-year-old, so it's ok.) And then I'm going to get a shamrock shake and drink the whole thing.
And then I'm going to take a shower and get dressed in something that is not my hat and this t-shirt and my red shoes so I can look like a 21-year-old just in time to go out and get drunk for St. Patrick's Day. And I'll hang my stupid red hat on the wall and let it wait another six months until I need another lame excuse to be irresponsible and fat and to relive the glorious days of my youth, which are pretty similar to the glorious days of my adulthood except I feel the need to blog about them.
I love my stupid hat.
My friend Kim used to like it when I wore my hat because it meant I was dirty. I don't wear it anymore though because even when I'm dirty, my hair still usually looks ok. But not today, so I'm wearing my stupid hat, and it's red and I can only wear it backwards or it shows off how big my head is. Since I wear it backwards and my hair sticks out of it in the front and on the sides, and since I am girly and gay and have no testosterone so I never developed a masculine jaw or broad shoulders, my hat makes me look like a 10-year-old.
And since I look like a 10-year-old, I pretty much just wanna act like a 10-year-old and eat pizza and not do work and sit around and talk about whatever stupid crap 10-year-old boys talk about. And I want to play video games.
So I'm going to leave work early because I've sat here doing nothing the whole time anyway. And I'm going to go get the cold pizza out of the fridge at my other job and eat it, and I'm gonna go home to start packing for my trip, but really, I'm probably just going to play the Sims and read my crappy book. (I read a lot as a 10-year-old, so it's ok.) And then I'm going to get a shamrock shake and drink the whole thing.
And then I'm going to take a shower and get dressed in something that is not my hat and this t-shirt and my red shoes so I can look like a 21-year-old just in time to go out and get drunk for St. Patrick's Day. And I'll hang my stupid red hat on the wall and let it wait another six months until I need another lame excuse to be irresponsible and fat and to relive the glorious days of my youth, which are pretty similar to the glorious days of my adulthood except I feel the need to blog about them.
I love my stupid hat.
The Da Vinci Code: Yet to be decoded
My boss lent it to me, so despite my avoidance of it for all this time, I am actually going to read The Da Vinci Code.
It's not the popularity that has heretofore dissuaded me from reading the novel. I mean hello, biggest Harry Potter fan ever! Rather, it was the popularity mixed with how it's taken so seriously. The intellectual elitist in me immediately recoiled when it noticed all the publicity that was attached to a book everyone was reading (i.e. popular fiction.) I'm one of those awful people who hates seeing James Patterson, Stephen Coonts, and Tom Clancy mixed into the 'Literature' section at Borders. So all the attention The Da Vinci Code was getting pretty much made me think "Wow, this will probably turn into a Tom Hanks movie," and I immediately dismissed it. Ok, maybe I didn't really use Tom Hanks' name.
But now I have it, and I want to see what all the fuss is about. Hell, maybe it will be more than cheap entertainment given far too much billing. I'm not getting my hopes up, but I know good writing when I see it. It's my job.
Flipping through the book, however, the first thing I noticed was that none of the chapters are more than 5 pages long. Dan, my man, I hope this isn't some cheap way to make this fast-paced, action-packed thriller seem more... fast-paced. Also, there's italics on almost every page. I can use italics here because this is a retarded blog. You're writing a book. Italics is lame. You'd better have a good reason. I guess I'll find out this afternoon.
So here we go. I'd say I'm approaching this with an open mind, but my full Jewish nose needs no more length. And if you think I'm a judgmental asshole for talking shit about popular things being taken too seriously when they're actually crap and also about popular fiction in general, you are correct! Well done. Five points to Gryffindor.
It's not the popularity that has heretofore dissuaded me from reading the novel. I mean hello, biggest Harry Potter fan ever! Rather, it was the popularity mixed with how it's taken so seriously. The intellectual elitist in me immediately recoiled when it noticed all the publicity that was attached to a book everyone was reading (i.e. popular fiction.) I'm one of those awful people who hates seeing James Patterson, Stephen Coonts, and Tom Clancy mixed into the 'Literature' section at Borders. So all the attention The Da Vinci Code was getting pretty much made me think "Wow, this will probably turn into a Tom Hanks movie," and I immediately dismissed it. Ok, maybe I didn't really use Tom Hanks' name.
But now I have it, and I want to see what all the fuss is about. Hell, maybe it will be more than cheap entertainment given far too much billing. I'm not getting my hopes up, but I know good writing when I see it. It's my job.
Flipping through the book, however, the first thing I noticed was that none of the chapters are more than 5 pages long. Dan, my man, I hope this isn't some cheap way to make this fast-paced, action-packed thriller seem more... fast-paced. Also, there's italics on almost every page. I can use italics here because this is a retarded blog. You're writing a book. Italics is lame. You'd better have a good reason. I guess I'll find out this afternoon.
So here we go. I'd say I'm approaching this with an open mind, but my full Jewish nose needs no more length. And if you think I'm a judgmental asshole for talking shit about popular things being taken too seriously when they're actually crap and also about popular fiction in general, you are correct! Well done. Five points to Gryffindor.
'My New Apartment' Virtual Walking Tour
WELCOME READERS! Are you ready for thrills and spills? Well you've come to the right place! Presenting a very special high-definition stereophonic event:
The 'My New Apartment' Virtual Walking Tour presented in Super Mondo-Cool-Vision 3-D!!!!
Here we are in sunny New York City looking at the gargantuan facade of My New Apartment!
While the sweeping walls soar to the heavens, the fire escape snakes to the earth, conveying the architect's vision of "bridging the worlds". He is quoted as saying "The home is like the great beyond, a place of comfort and security. My design embodies this, but also provides the viewer with a sense that one can easily return to the mortal world, a place whose hustle and bustle and stress make the home an even more idyllic place to return."
Now look both ways, it's time to approach.
Notice the stalwart stone pillars valiantly supporting this magnificent structure with brave, yet inviting confidence. The fire escape ladder peeking hello from the top is just one example of the vigorous safety and security measures the managers of My New Apartment have implemented for my sense of well-being. And the green door evokes comforting images of forest life, transforming the harsh city into a welcoming natural place where both man and beast will feel right at home.
And heeeeeeere we goooooooooooo!
Let's go inside, shall we?
Ahhh, here we are! Having just walked through the front door, we are present with a view of the menagerie, future home of the fabulous creatures that will live in My New Apartment. Everyone say hi to Tinkerbell! She's taking measurements for the unicorn pen. So far, we also plan to install a litter box and a hanging plant to make the animals feel right at home. Off to the left is the stunning master bathroom, which we will visit presently. The window at the end of this hallway provides a spectacular view of the building behind, providing a place to sit and contemplate the world while also minimizing street noise. Directly to our left is the rest of the apartment, but come, let us visit the bathing facilities first. Walk this way.
Smile! The Lady of the Mirror wishes to take your picture, which can be purchased later at our gift shop for a modest $10. The sink you see here was handed down from Alexander, and it spouts clean water smelling faintly of fresh strawberries, for it comes from the bubbling springs of Lothlorien. You may have seen Lothlorien in Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings movies, which were shot on-location in that mystical paradise. This water cleans and refreshes the body like nothing else in all the land. "But one cannot bathe in the sink", you say? Ah yes. Behold the shower!
This shower has been newly installed by the gnomish plumbing specialists from Kuala Lumpur. As you can see, it has been fitted with an automatic temperature adjuster, which scans your neurons and rains down Lothlorien Water of the perfect temperature to suit your mood and state of alertness. Now back through the menagerie, everyone, it's time to see the rest of this beautiful apartment!
What you see standing before you is the outstanding wall that provides this living establishment with all of its charm. This dividing wall separates what would be a studio into sections, giving the illusion of many many rooms for the price of one! To the left is the master bedroom, which we will visit in a moment. I would like to draw your attention to the right side of the wall. This is the library: a cozy nook perfect for a cushy armchair, a soft lamp, and the shelves that will carry the keys to your imagination! Rivalled only by the library in the Walt Disney animated feature Beauty and the Beast, we are confident that this collection will grow to match the Beast's impressive collection of mostly half-rate authors. (You didn't hear this from me, but the Beast just can't get enough of Tom Clancy and Mary Higgins Clarke. He thinks slipping off the dust jackets make his collection look "classic". What a maroon.)
And we have arrived in the master bedroom suite. The hi-tech radiator pictured provides cozy sleeping temperature, slowly lulling the tenant to dreamland with increasing warmth. The attractive window bars keep out prowlers and so called "Prince Charmings" who may wish to climb the fire escape to kiss you in the night, but they also swing open so that you may lean out as your lover sings "Maria" from the alley below. The narrow space requires a small bed so that you and your lover will have no choice but to spend the night in passionate embrace! Ah, love! We have more stop to make! Let's go to the gourmet kitchen!
My, what a surprise! It's my fellow tour guide Alexis directing another band of fearless explorers like yourselves! Everyone wave to Alexis! HI, ALEXIS! Well, as you know, this is the charming and unique kitchen facility. Seem small? Well it is! The appliances have been donated by Willy Wonka, and they employ state-of-the-art technology to magically adjust the size of your food while it is cooking! You can prepare cookies with a teaspoon of flour in the tiny stove, but when they come out, you can open your very own Mrs. Field's franchise from the privacy of your own home! One bagel pizza feeds a frat party! A cornish hen is a Thanksgiving feast for twelve! Save money and mess with Willy Wonka kitchen appliances, available exclusively at Sears!
And this concludes our tour, my friends! Unfortunately, our shot of the open common space (a ballroom modelled off the one in Buckingham Palace) has been stolen by the evil Witch-Queen Lucrecia. That room was the vantage point from which the previous three pictures was shot, and without it, you cannot witness the apartment in all of its splendor. I leave you now with two shots from the street corner as you go on your way. We hope you enjoyed your tour. Please exit to the right and remember to leave your valuables in the bins where they have been stowed. Goodnight, and good luck.
My new grocery store.
The street corner I will see every morning.
Thanks for coming!
The 'My New Apartment' Virtual Walking Tour presented in Super Mondo-Cool-Vision 3-D!!!!
Here we are in sunny New York City looking at the gargantuan facade of My New Apartment!
While the sweeping walls soar to the heavens, the fire escape snakes to the earth, conveying the architect's vision of "bridging the worlds". He is quoted as saying "The home is like the great beyond, a place of comfort and security. My design embodies this, but also provides the viewer with a sense that one can easily return to the mortal world, a place whose hustle and bustle and stress make the home an even more idyllic place to return."
Now look both ways, it's time to approach.
Notice the stalwart stone pillars valiantly supporting this magnificent structure with brave, yet inviting confidence. The fire escape ladder peeking hello from the top is just one example of the vigorous safety and security measures the managers of My New Apartment have implemented for my sense of well-being. And the green door evokes comforting images of forest life, transforming the harsh city into a welcoming natural place where both man and beast will feel right at home.
And heeeeeeere we goooooooooooo!
Let's go inside, shall we?
Ahhh, here we are! Having just walked through the front door, we are present with a view of the menagerie, future home of the fabulous creatures that will live in My New Apartment. Everyone say hi to Tinkerbell! She's taking measurements for the unicorn pen. So far, we also plan to install a litter box and a hanging plant to make the animals feel right at home. Off to the left is the stunning master bathroom, which we will visit presently. The window at the end of this hallway provides a spectacular view of the building behind, providing a place to sit and contemplate the world while also minimizing street noise. Directly to our left is the rest of the apartment, but come, let us visit the bathing facilities first. Walk this way.
Smile! The Lady of the Mirror wishes to take your picture, which can be purchased later at our gift shop for a modest $10. The sink you see here was handed down from Alexander, and it spouts clean water smelling faintly of fresh strawberries, for it comes from the bubbling springs of Lothlorien. You may have seen Lothlorien in Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings movies, which were shot on-location in that mystical paradise. This water cleans and refreshes the body like nothing else in all the land. "But one cannot bathe in the sink", you say? Ah yes. Behold the shower!
This shower has been newly installed by the gnomish plumbing specialists from Kuala Lumpur. As you can see, it has been fitted with an automatic temperature adjuster, which scans your neurons and rains down Lothlorien Water of the perfect temperature to suit your mood and state of alertness. Now back through the menagerie, everyone, it's time to see the rest of this beautiful apartment!
What you see standing before you is the outstanding wall that provides this living establishment with all of its charm. This dividing wall separates what would be a studio into sections, giving the illusion of many many rooms for the price of one! To the left is the master bedroom, which we will visit in a moment. I would like to draw your attention to the right side of the wall. This is the library: a cozy nook perfect for a cushy armchair, a soft lamp, and the shelves that will carry the keys to your imagination! Rivalled only by the library in the Walt Disney animated feature Beauty and the Beast, we are confident that this collection will grow to match the Beast's impressive collection of mostly half-rate authors. (You didn't hear this from me, but the Beast just can't get enough of Tom Clancy and Mary Higgins Clarke. He thinks slipping off the dust jackets make his collection look "classic". What a maroon.)
And we have arrived in the master bedroom suite. The hi-tech radiator pictured provides cozy sleeping temperature, slowly lulling the tenant to dreamland with increasing warmth. The attractive window bars keep out prowlers and so called "Prince Charmings" who may wish to climb the fire escape to kiss you in the night, but they also swing open so that you may lean out as your lover sings "Maria" from the alley below. The narrow space requires a small bed so that you and your lover will have no choice but to spend the night in passionate embrace! Ah, love! We have more stop to make! Let's go to the gourmet kitchen!
My, what a surprise! It's my fellow tour guide Alexis directing another band of fearless explorers like yourselves! Everyone wave to Alexis! HI, ALEXIS! Well, as you know, this is the charming and unique kitchen facility. Seem small? Well it is! The appliances have been donated by Willy Wonka, and they employ state-of-the-art technology to magically adjust the size of your food while it is cooking! You can prepare cookies with a teaspoon of flour in the tiny stove, but when they come out, you can open your very own Mrs. Field's franchise from the privacy of your own home! One bagel pizza feeds a frat party! A cornish hen is a Thanksgiving feast for twelve! Save money and mess with Willy Wonka kitchen appliances, available exclusively at Sears!
And this concludes our tour, my friends! Unfortunately, our shot of the open common space (a ballroom modelled off the one in Buckingham Palace) has been stolen by the evil Witch-Queen Lucrecia. That room was the vantage point from which the previous three pictures was shot, and without it, you cannot witness the apartment in all of its splendor. I leave you now with two shots from the street corner as you go on your way. We hope you enjoyed your tour. Please exit to the right and remember to leave your valuables in the bins where they have been stowed. Goodnight, and good luck.
My new grocery store.
The street corner I will see every morning.
Thanks for coming!
Success breeds success
Rock on, friends. Rock on. I got the apartment. I'm moving to New York. It's officially official, and I'm beyond excited. I will be living on the Upper East Side on 79th and York.
My excitement may be hard to gauge due to the utter lack of exclamation points in the previous paragraph, but I assure you that is only because I have eaten too many cookies today so my stomach hurts. Also, I just noticed that I have a cavity. Luckily, it seems there is a dentist on York between 76th and 77th, so I can walk there and stop at Starbucks when I go to get my filling.
Anyway, that's all I really had to say: that I'm moving to New York, and you're not. I'm thrilled that this worked out, the application process was a total bitch. It's only thanks to my parents that this is happening, so a huge shout out to them. Anyone wanna buy a crappy couch?
The place is a little studio with a tiny kitchen. There's this weirdo wall that sections off the place a little, so it gives the illusion of rooms! (There's an exclamation point.) So I'm going to have a bedroom, a foyer with a chandelier imported from France, a library (actually a converted smoking parlor), a ballroom cum entertainment complex, and a menagerie (the end of the hallway to the bathroom where there will be a hanging plant and the litter box.) For those 3rd graders in my audience: Hee hee, I said "cum entertainment".
In addition, I'm close to everything! It's a jaunty stroll to the laundromat and grocery store (and a flower shop, I guess, I don't know why my mom needed to tell me that.) It's a slightly less jaunty stroll to the subway... more of a leisurely walk. And it's sort of a lugubrious trek to Central Park, but it's still close enough that I can go every Sunday and walk around and read in the sun. I am well pleased.
You are all required to visit me and bring one (1) housewarming gift. I dislike white wine. If you cannot visit, you are instead required to tell me about two (2) places you know about in the City: restaurants, clubs, cafes, performance spaces, anything. For those of you that actually live in NYC, the requirements are more rigid, and I will discuss them with you on an individual basis.
That is all. You may now shower me with kudos and well-wishes as I enter this new super-hip stage in my life.
My excitement may be hard to gauge due to the utter lack of exclamation points in the previous paragraph, but I assure you that is only because I have eaten too many cookies today so my stomach hurts. Also, I just noticed that I have a cavity. Luckily, it seems there is a dentist on York between 76th and 77th, so I can walk there and stop at Starbucks when I go to get my filling.
Anyway, that's all I really had to say: that I'm moving to New York, and you're not. I'm thrilled that this worked out, the application process was a total bitch. It's only thanks to my parents that this is happening, so a huge shout out to them. Anyone wanna buy a crappy couch?
The place is a little studio with a tiny kitchen. There's this weirdo wall that sections off the place a little, so it gives the illusion of rooms! (There's an exclamation point.) So I'm going to have a bedroom, a foyer with a chandelier imported from France, a library (actually a converted smoking parlor), a ballroom cum entertainment complex, and a menagerie (the end of the hallway to the bathroom where there will be a hanging plant and the litter box.) For those 3rd graders in my audience: Hee hee, I said "cum entertainment".
In addition, I'm close to everything! It's a jaunty stroll to the laundromat and grocery store (and a flower shop, I guess, I don't know why my mom needed to tell me that.) It's a slightly less jaunty stroll to the subway... more of a leisurely walk. And it's sort of a lugubrious trek to Central Park, but it's still close enough that I can go every Sunday and walk around and read in the sun. I am well pleased.
You are all required to visit me and bring one (1) housewarming gift. I dislike white wine. If you cannot visit, you are instead required to tell me about two (2) places you know about in the City: restaurants, clubs, cafes, performance spaces, anything. For those of you that actually live in NYC, the requirements are more rigid, and I will discuss them with you on an individual basis.
That is all. You may now shower me with kudos and well-wishes as I enter this new super-hip stage in my life.
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