1) Someone throws a baby down a trash chute.
2) Volunteers take to the streets to count the homeless.
3) A lowlife gang member beats a woman and leaves her on the street.
4) And well, of course, you can't spell "quagmire" without I, R, A and Q.
And you're crying about a HORSE?
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
East Village Ridiculousness
So I get to my favorite coffee shop/internet cafe yesterday morning to find the block cordoned off and crowds of cops and onlookers inside and outside the cafe. I figure, what the heck, must be one of those temporary distractions that we New Yorkers are so familiar and comfortable with. I mean, if it isn't a jumbo jet flying into the side of a building, we just aren't fazed by it.
Screw it, I thought, too crowded. I decamp to SoHo to liberate my G3 from Varick and then Rector Streets (more of the Orts of Jane scattered all over the tri-state area). My friend who is taking me and my pathetic computer to Brooklyn wants to get busy, but since he is the guy formerly known as "My Married Friend," I demur as kindly and politely as possible. Thanks but no thanks. No backward steps in 2007.
Hours later, I return to my coffee shop only to find that the crowd of police and onlookers has not dissipated -- in fact, it has grown, and to it have been added TV news vans complete with their eye-in-the-sky antennae extended and an NYPD police helicopter circling overhead. It's still standing room only inside the cafe, and I ask one of my fellow gawkers what's going on.
"Something with the He11's Ange1s" he said. Durrrr. I shoulda figured. With a sigh, I call my pal Racer X because, hell, I'm in the neighborhood.
Racer X treats me to pizza (did I mention that if nothing else, my friends are not assholes? I think I did), and we meander over to the 2nd Ave side of 3rd St to see if we can see any activity. Nothing happening, so he goes home, and I wander back around the block to the 1st avenue side of things, closer to the action. I'm hoping maybe I can jump into one of the camera shots and flash a "We're number one" finger or mouth "Hi, Mom," or maybe just do some spastic jumping jacks behind the announcer. I remember I left my flat-brim baseball cap and oversize, stamped-leather coat at home, so I just go home.
Net, net, a 52-year-old woman got into it with some Aitch Ays and one of them beat her nearly to death then pushed her out into the street. (Hey, I'm no idiot, I know better than to actually put their name in this post in a googlable form -- these are stone criminals who clearly don't have any problem beating women)
Now, let me speculate here -- a woman is beaten within an inch of her life and left on the street in New York City and this results in a daylong police standoff and results in ONE -- count 'em -- ONE arrest? Gosh, do you think the NYPD would do the same thing if it happened to, say, me on the streets of Bushwick? Just asking.
I think the NYPD saw their opportunity to get into the clubhouse, which is really why they brought out the show of force. City government being what it is, it took them ALL FUCKING DAY to get the warrant to get into the building (I'm sure Ron Kuby, that Prince Among Men, did everything in his power to slow the process even further), which gave S0nny B@rger's Boyz plenty of time to get rid of their drugs and guns. Hence, a single, piddling arrest.
I don't know where I'm going with this, maybe just to vent about the bikies. I have a friend who glamorizes these lowlifes and will reflexively take their side over the police, even though the evidence of their lowlifeness is lying bloody and bludgeoned in a hospital. She even witnessed their lowlifeness with her own eyes when she was playing a gig in the Village and two of them came into the club and STOLE THE MUSICIANS' TIP BUCKET. And still she says, "Oh, they must just be bad seeds, not everyone is like that." How do I explain to her, "they are all bad seeds, and they're all like that"?
Then you have the neighborhood idiots who say, "Oh, 3rd Street is the safest block in the city because of these people!" What the f***? The criminals make the street safer because of their reign of terror? You frickin morons. Sheesh. They're the modern day Mafia, and if you don't believe it, you need to read this book.
Ok, that's my rant for today.
Screw it, I thought, too crowded. I decamp to SoHo to liberate my G3 from Varick and then Rector Streets (more of the Orts of Jane scattered all over the tri-state area). My friend who is taking me and my pathetic computer to Brooklyn wants to get busy, but since he is the guy formerly known as "My Married Friend," I demur as kindly and politely as possible. Thanks but no thanks. No backward steps in 2007.
Hours later, I return to my coffee shop only to find that the crowd of police and onlookers has not dissipated -- in fact, it has grown, and to it have been added TV news vans complete with their eye-in-the-sky antennae extended and an NYPD police helicopter circling overhead. It's still standing room only inside the cafe, and I ask one of my fellow gawkers what's going on.
"Something with the He11's Ange1s" he said. Durrrr. I shoulda figured. With a sigh, I call my pal Racer X because, hell, I'm in the neighborhood.
Racer X treats me to pizza (did I mention that if nothing else, my friends are not assholes? I think I did), and we meander over to the 2nd Ave side of 3rd St to see if we can see any activity. Nothing happening, so he goes home, and I wander back around the block to the 1st avenue side of things, closer to the action. I'm hoping maybe I can jump into one of the camera shots and flash a "We're number one" finger or mouth "Hi, Mom," or maybe just do some spastic jumping jacks behind the announcer. I remember I left my flat-brim baseball cap and oversize, stamped-leather coat at home, so I just go home.
Net, net, a 52-year-old woman got into it with some Aitch Ays and one of them beat her nearly to death then pushed her out into the street. (Hey, I'm no idiot, I know better than to actually put their name in this post in a googlable form -- these are stone criminals who clearly don't have any problem beating women)
Now, let me speculate here -- a woman is beaten within an inch of her life and left on the street in New York City and this results in a daylong police standoff and results in ONE -- count 'em -- ONE arrest? Gosh, do you think the NYPD would do the same thing if it happened to, say, me on the streets of Bushwick? Just asking.
I think the NYPD saw their opportunity to get into the clubhouse, which is really why they brought out the show of force. City government being what it is, it took them ALL FUCKING DAY to get the warrant to get into the building (I'm sure Ron Kuby, that Prince Among Men, did everything in his power to slow the process even further), which gave S0nny B@rger's Boyz plenty of time to get rid of their drugs and guns. Hence, a single, piddling arrest.
I don't know where I'm going with this, maybe just to vent about the bikies. I have a friend who glamorizes these lowlifes and will reflexively take their side over the police, even though the evidence of their lowlifeness is lying bloody and bludgeoned in a hospital. She even witnessed their lowlifeness with her own eyes when she was playing a gig in the Village and two of them came into the club and STOLE THE MUSICIANS' TIP BUCKET. And still she says, "Oh, they must just be bad seeds, not everyone is like that." How do I explain to her, "they are all bad seeds, and they're all like that"?
Then you have the neighborhood idiots who say, "Oh, 3rd Street is the safest block in the city because of these people!" What the f***? The criminals make the street safer because of their reign of terror? You frickin morons. Sheesh. They're the modern day Mafia, and if you don't believe it, you need to read this book.
Ok, that's my rant for today.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
How Many Times Do I Have to Tell You?
Why don't you just get your ass over to The Marshall Stack already?
I mean, before the weenies descend on it and ruin it for the rest of us.
A low-key, friendly place with a great wine and beer list, and sometimes you get a hankering for a cubano, right? That's exactly what I got last night, a nice glass of wine, a delish cuban sandwich, and a spirited debate with the bartender about monogamy -- he's for it (for the time being. He IS a bartender, after all), and I don't believe it actually exists.
Just go, already.
I mean, before the weenies descend on it and ruin it for the rest of us.
A low-key, friendly place with a great wine and beer list, and sometimes you get a hankering for a cubano, right? That's exactly what I got last night, a nice glass of wine, a delish cuban sandwich, and a spirited debate with the bartender about monogamy -- he's for it (for the time being. He IS a bartender, after all), and I don't believe it actually exists.
Just go, already.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Sign Me Up for THEIR Mileage Program!
You know what? After being held hostage on more flights than I can remember by unruly children whose parents refuse to discipline them, I admit that I was gleeful to read that the good people at AirTran did this.
I've got my own ideas about air travel, see?
First, I think the airlines would do themselves and their passengers a favor by having a few flights every day -- say those early morning and early evening businessman specials -- designated as "CHILD FREE." Meaning -- you and your screaming ankle-biters take the unpopular midday or later evening flights. As a business traveler, I've probably purchased my ticket on shorter notice and thus for more moola than you have, hells yeah, I think I'm entitled to some peace and quiet. Business travelers the world over would thank me for this. If you've spent hours having your seat kicked by a rambunctious toddler whose overweening parent offers you nothing more than a namby-pamby smile in return for your murderous glare, then you know what I'm talking about.
Second, since nowadays the airlines treat us like cargo when we're in flight (not even offered a can of Coke on my flight to Pittsburgh last weekend? Come ON.), then have the fares set up as freight rates. You know, charge a minimum transportation fee, then for every pound over the minimum weight, tack on a per miles/per pound rate. Given the size of some of the asses I saw toddling through airports recently, I'd say the airlines would stand to make some money on this.
Here's my personal favorite: Do you really want to piss off the parent sitting in the row behind you? Refer to Darling Junior as "it." As in, "Can you make it stop doing that?"
I've got my own ideas about air travel, see?
First, I think the airlines would do themselves and their passengers a favor by having a few flights every day -- say those early morning and early evening businessman specials -- designated as "CHILD FREE." Meaning -- you and your screaming ankle-biters take the unpopular midday or later evening flights. As a business traveler, I've probably purchased my ticket on shorter notice and thus for more moola than you have, hells yeah, I think I'm entitled to some peace and quiet. Business travelers the world over would thank me for this. If you've spent hours having your seat kicked by a rambunctious toddler whose overweening parent offers you nothing more than a namby-pamby smile in return for your murderous glare, then you know what I'm talking about.
Second, since nowadays the airlines treat us like cargo when we're in flight (not even offered a can of Coke on my flight to Pittsburgh last weekend? Come ON.), then have the fares set up as freight rates. You know, charge a minimum transportation fee, then for every pound over the minimum weight, tack on a per miles/per pound rate. Given the size of some of the asses I saw toddling through airports recently, I'd say the airlines would stand to make some money on this.
Here's my personal favorite: Do you really want to piss off the parent sitting in the row behind you? Refer to Darling Junior as "it." As in, "Can you make it stop doing that?"
Monday, January 22, 2007
Greetings from 'Salem's Lot
Well, here I am back in the East Village, garlic and silver cross at the ready.
Small world, small world -- at the end of my phone interview with the Connecticut company on Thursday, I learned that the HR Director is very, very good friends with an old friend of mine from the magazine publishing world! L and I lost touch over the years, but when we worked together we were close enough to go on vacation together. New Orleans -- old school New Orleans. We called it "The Hot and Sweaty Bathroom Tour." Suffice it to say this was not only a great opportunity to reach out and get in touch with each other again (she has TWO kids and SEVEN cats, holy cow!), but she talked me up to the HR person like I was Oprah Winfrey, Peter Drucker and the little baby Jesus all rolled into one person. Now how do you like THAT holy trinity?
Hung out with Baby Boy yesterday -- we went to see "The Queen," for which Helen Mirren deservedly won the Golden Globe. Then we traipsed around the UWS in our fur coats, chatting and smoking and being cold. Ran into some OLD friends of mine from my old Hell's Kitchen days and Baby Boy's reaction to them was "That was one of the nicest families I've ever met." I'm so lucky that my friends aren't assholes. Well, most of them aren't. Everyone has that one friend (or family member) that you have to "make allowances" for because, frankly, he or she is just a great big asshole. The one you have to say "Well, you know how HE is..." when he sleeps with his best friends' girlfriend, or steals money from your quarter jar or always orders the surf and turf when you offer to take him out to dinner...
But honestly, I'm very, very fortunate that for the most part, my friends aren't assholes.
And you know, hanging out with my friends has become fun again -- once I cast off the pall of the Shit Job, I kinda feel like I became a likeable person again. You know how, when your life is sucking, you get the feeling that your friends see you coming and mentally roll their eyes and say, "Oh, shit, here comes that pill again."?
I don't feel that way about myself anymore...
Hey, I got myself all put together this morning, and when I looked in the mirror -- shh, don't tell anyone -- I liked what I saw. I thought I looked -- again, shhhh! -- pretty. There was something bright-eyed and light in my eyes. Funny how I didn't realize how dead-looking and beaten I looked for most of last year!
Realistically, I have put on a couple of pounds since the first of the year, and you could call my figure zaftig again. Or as the old Married Guy commented last week, "Your tits look amazing, can I come over?" Gotta admire his tenacity, right?
OF COURSE I TOLD HIM NO!
Small world, small world -- at the end of my phone interview with the Connecticut company on Thursday, I learned that the HR Director is very, very good friends with an old friend of mine from the magazine publishing world! L and I lost touch over the years, but when we worked together we were close enough to go on vacation together. New Orleans -- old school New Orleans. We called it "The Hot and Sweaty Bathroom Tour." Suffice it to say this was not only a great opportunity to reach out and get in touch with each other again (she has TWO kids and SEVEN cats, holy cow!), but she talked me up to the HR person like I was Oprah Winfrey, Peter Drucker and the little baby Jesus all rolled into one person. Now how do you like THAT holy trinity?
Hung out with Baby Boy yesterday -- we went to see "The Queen," for which Helen Mirren deservedly won the Golden Globe. Then we traipsed around the UWS in our fur coats, chatting and smoking and being cold. Ran into some OLD friends of mine from my old Hell's Kitchen days and Baby Boy's reaction to them was "That was one of the nicest families I've ever met." I'm so lucky that my friends aren't assholes. Well, most of them aren't. Everyone has that one friend (or family member) that you have to "make allowances" for because, frankly, he or she is just a great big asshole. The one you have to say "Well, you know how HE is..." when he sleeps with his best friends' girlfriend, or steals money from your quarter jar or always orders the surf and turf when you offer to take him out to dinner...
But honestly, I'm very, very fortunate that for the most part, my friends aren't assholes.
And you know, hanging out with my friends has become fun again -- once I cast off the pall of the Shit Job, I kinda feel like I became a likeable person again. You know how, when your life is sucking, you get the feeling that your friends see you coming and mentally roll their eyes and say, "Oh, shit, here comes that pill again."?
I don't feel that way about myself anymore...
Hey, I got myself all put together this morning, and when I looked in the mirror -- shh, don't tell anyone -- I liked what I saw. I thought I looked -- again, shhhh! -- pretty. There was something bright-eyed and light in my eyes. Funny how I didn't realize how dead-looking and beaten I looked for most of last year!
Realistically, I have put on a couple of pounds since the first of the year, and you could call my figure zaftig again. Or as the old Married Guy commented last week, "Your tits look amazing, can I come over?" Gotta admire his tenacity, right?
OF COURSE I TOLD HIM NO!
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Just a little catch up
I know how annoying it is to check back again and again to a blog and find that the person isn't updating, so I'll give a quick rundown of what's been going on...
I'm working with a recruiter who is trying to find the right place for me... hahaha aren't they all.
Had a phone meeting with a company in CT for a position with the NYC design studio.
Met up with an old college friend who owns a printing company in Union Square. He's become quite the macher -- I was blown away at how successful and seemingly perfect his life seems to be, and had to squash that little voice inside my head that said, "You have done every single thing in your life WRONG."
Trying to match my inside to someone else's outside will only lead to suffering, right?
Went to da Burgh to visit my parents last weekend, and it was quite nice, actually. The Crazy burner was turned way down to low, and Mom was 100% there for the entire weekend so I had a really nice time. And it reminded me that as adults living in Therapy Nation that we almost feel OBLIGATED to turn our parents (or our memories of our parents) into monsters. You know what? My parents weren't monsters. They were deeply flawed human beings doing the best they could with what they had, which honestly wasn't much. And they were both absolutely delighted that I went to visit them last weekend.
So there you have it.
The job search continues...
I'm working with a recruiter who is trying to find the right place for me... hahaha aren't they all.
Had a phone meeting with a company in CT for a position with the NYC design studio.
Met up with an old college friend who owns a printing company in Union Square. He's become quite the macher -- I was blown away at how successful and seemingly perfect his life seems to be, and had to squash that little voice inside my head that said, "You have done every single thing in your life WRONG."
Trying to match my inside to someone else's outside will only lead to suffering, right?
Went to da Burgh to visit my parents last weekend, and it was quite nice, actually. The Crazy burner was turned way down to low, and Mom was 100% there for the entire weekend so I had a really nice time. And it reminded me that as adults living in Therapy Nation that we almost feel OBLIGATED to turn our parents (or our memories of our parents) into monsters. You know what? My parents weren't monsters. They were deeply flawed human beings doing the best they could with what they had, which honestly wasn't much. And they were both absolutely delighted that I went to visit them last weekend.
So there you have it.
The job search continues...
Friday, January 5, 2007
Just a Coupla More Things
Read "The Glass Castle." I really thought I was done with memoirs -- the latest got-tired-in-a-nanosecond genre -- but I read this in one sitting. I just hope Jeannette Walls doesn't turn out to be the next James Frey or Augusten Burroughs.
Still pending in the new book pile:
"The Lost" by Daniel Mendelsohn. A little scared to read this, maybe it will jerk too many of my tears.
"The God Delusion" by Richard Dawkins. You want to start a war of words -- or possibly fisticuffs -- in a bar? Tell someone, "Mary was nothing more than a girl in trouble who came up with a really good story." Better yet, challenge them with this, "Tell me, just where was Jesus between the ages of 18 and 30, and how come that part's been excised from these so-called gospels?"
Okay, let the pile-on begin, here come the "Oh, ye heretic," comments.
Still pending in the new book pile:
"The Lost" by Daniel Mendelsohn. A little scared to read this, maybe it will jerk too many of my tears.
"The God Delusion" by Richard Dawkins. You want to start a war of words -- or possibly fisticuffs -- in a bar? Tell someone, "Mary was nothing more than a girl in trouble who came up with a really good story." Better yet, challenge them with this, "Tell me, just where was Jesus between the ages of 18 and 30, and how come that part's been excised from these so-called gospels?"
Okay, let the pile-on begin, here come the "Oh, ye heretic," comments.
Internet Cafes, Some Good, Some Bad
So my G3 has been indisposed (meaning, parked under my old desk because I was too damn lazy to cart it home), and while I await its eventual return, I've been frequenting internet cafes, paying their usurious rates to log on.
The one in Hell's Kitchen at 49th & 9th -- not so good. Really bad radio station choice, the coffee fixin's area is nothing short of disgusting, and lots and lots of actor-types. You know who I mean -- they look at you with that alert, expectant look, diligently making eye contact because you never know when you'll get your big break. Plus, the neighborhood has gone nauseatingly upscale since I lived there -- and yet, as it has classed up, it's loathsomeness factor has multiplied a thousandfold. Maybe it's just that as more bars and restaurants have moved in, the oily O&M types are sticking around the neighborhood instead of heading to the Upper East Side or Hoboken, where they belong.
The one in the girdle factory in Williamsburg. Also not so good. In fact, filthy, filthy, filthy. The keyboards are so grime-encrusted that you feel like you need a penicillin shot after using one of their stations. Not to mention you get to rub shoulders with New York City's most loathsome creatures of all, the hipsters. I know, the word is already outdated, but how the hell else can you describe these irritating trust fund brats? I want to knock every single one of those stupid knit short-billed army caps off of every single one of their heads and personally take steps to remove those full-sleeve tattoos they've all had done in the last couple of years.
East Village. Now, most of my friends know that I am NO FAN of the East Village. Full disclosure, I didn't like it before it became "gentrified" - as much as dingy tenements parked next to the projects can be gentrified, so there was never much hope that I would ever like it. But, this little internet cafe at the corner of 1st Ave and 3rd Street, I dig. First of all, yesterday they were rocking serious Zeppelin, and what's not to like about that? And today, the 80's are the Sirius Satellite choice of the day. Again, what's not to like? After all, the 80's were the decade that gave us a shitty one-hit-wonder song with my name in it. The glass cases are full of scrumptious-looking goodies, and the coffee is quite good. And they have this one station, scrunched into a corner, where I have nearly total privacy. And if you want the real deal of full-sleeve tattoo art, the HA NYC clubhouse is just around the corner. I dare any one of Williamsburg's hipster class to go there and mouth off -- just once. Please. But pleeeeease -- make sure I'm around when you do it, so I can watch as they rearrange your face.
Yes, yes, I know, I need to get my own computer up and running again at home -- but honestly, I'm afraid if I do that, I'll turn into one of those complete introverts with dirty teeth and dirty hair, schlepping around in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt with pizza grease stains all over it. Since that's my usual Sunday outfit to begin with, it wouldn't be much of a stretch to extend that into the weekdays.
And my last notation of the day, my old pal EmKay got a nice writeup in the Voice, the featured bar review of the week! Good for him, now will you people just go there and order a Cuban sandwich already? I'll be the one at the front end of the bar, sipping a nice red, reading a book, and tapping the bar in time to "When The Levee Breaks."
The one in Hell's Kitchen at 49th & 9th -- not so good. Really bad radio station choice, the coffee fixin's area is nothing short of disgusting, and lots and lots of actor-types. You know who I mean -- they look at you with that alert, expectant look, diligently making eye contact because you never know when you'll get your big break. Plus, the neighborhood has gone nauseatingly upscale since I lived there -- and yet, as it has classed up, it's loathsomeness factor has multiplied a thousandfold. Maybe it's just that as more bars and restaurants have moved in, the oily O&M types are sticking around the neighborhood instead of heading to the Upper East Side or Hoboken, where they belong.
The one in the girdle factory in Williamsburg. Also not so good. In fact, filthy, filthy, filthy. The keyboards are so grime-encrusted that you feel like you need a penicillin shot after using one of their stations. Not to mention you get to rub shoulders with New York City's most loathsome creatures of all, the hipsters. I know, the word is already outdated, but how the hell else can you describe these irritating trust fund brats? I want to knock every single one of those stupid knit short-billed army caps off of every single one of their heads and personally take steps to remove those full-sleeve tattoos they've all had done in the last couple of years.
East Village. Now, most of my friends know that I am NO FAN of the East Village. Full disclosure, I didn't like it before it became "gentrified" - as much as dingy tenements parked next to the projects can be gentrified, so there was never much hope that I would ever like it. But, this little internet cafe at the corner of 1st Ave and 3rd Street, I dig. First of all, yesterday they were rocking serious Zeppelin, and what's not to like about that? And today, the 80's are the Sirius Satellite choice of the day. Again, what's not to like? After all, the 80's were the decade that gave us a shitty one-hit-wonder song with my name in it. The glass cases are full of scrumptious-looking goodies, and the coffee is quite good. And they have this one station, scrunched into a corner, where I have nearly total privacy. And if you want the real deal of full-sleeve tattoo art, the HA NYC clubhouse is just around the corner. I dare any one of Williamsburg's hipster class to go there and mouth off -- just once. Please. But pleeeeease -- make sure I'm around when you do it, so I can watch as they rearrange your face.
Yes, yes, I know, I need to get my own computer up and running again at home -- but honestly, I'm afraid if I do that, I'll turn into one of those complete introverts with dirty teeth and dirty hair, schlepping around in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt with pizza grease stains all over it. Since that's my usual Sunday outfit to begin with, it wouldn't be much of a stretch to extend that into the weekdays.
And my last notation of the day, my old pal EmKay got a nice writeup in the Voice, the featured bar review of the week! Good for him, now will you people just go there and order a Cuban sandwich already? I'll be the one at the front end of the bar, sipping a nice red, reading a book, and tapping the bar in time to "When The Levee Breaks."
Thursday, January 4, 2007
Slacking
I know employment experts would probably swat me across the nose with a rolled-up newspaper for not putting my nose to the grindstone as hard as I probably should, but I'm taking it easy on myself for the moment. I mean, I haven't had a freakin' vacation in three years! So I'm cutting myself a break.
I'm not sleeping particularly well, but sleeping until I wake up is amazing. I love it. I love it so much that I almost wish I was one of those blockheads who can sleep until noon. But I'll take 7:30 -- gladly.
Waking up with the realization, "I don't have to go to that place ever again," is sweet bliss. I roll around in my bed like a dog in dirt on a hot summer day every morning. Remembering that I'm shut of the black energy of that place is the first happy moment of the day.
I finally, finally, finally have the time to redd up my apartment properly, and gosh, have I accumulated a lot of crap! There is nothing more satisfying than toting another black garbage bag down the stairs. In eight or nine more years, I should have the zen space I've dreamed about.
So far, here's what I've accomplished:
- started dialogues with three headhunters about finding me new gig.
- turned in my expired Colorado driver's license -- four years after leaving Colorado. Funny, when I left NY in 2001, I went to the Summit County DMV within my first week of being there and practically threw my NY Driver's License at them. And that one had a really cute picture.
- signed up for NYS unemployment for the very first time. Pretty easy, considering. You can now do it all online and with one simple phone call.
- watched approximately 19 hours of the VH1 "America's Next Top Model" marathon, interspersed with approximately 23 hours of the various "Law & Order" franchises. I don't know who I find more weirdly compelling, Tyra Banks or Vincent D'Onofrio. And every time I see Christopher Meloni, I remember the time I saw him in a restaurant in NYC. When I said, "I know him from television," my companion said, "I know him from gay porn." So now, when I look at Elliott Stabler, I think, "you know, he does look kind of porny."
So, all in all, I figure this is kind of half-vacation, half-I-don't-know-what. Call me a slacker.
My Japanese mother would be appalled. My American father would understand.
I'm not sleeping particularly well, but sleeping until I wake up is amazing. I love it. I love it so much that I almost wish I was one of those blockheads who can sleep until noon. But I'll take 7:30 -- gladly.
Waking up with the realization, "I don't have to go to that place ever again," is sweet bliss. I roll around in my bed like a dog in dirt on a hot summer day every morning. Remembering that I'm shut of the black energy of that place is the first happy moment of the day.
I finally, finally, finally have the time to redd up my apartment properly, and gosh, have I accumulated a lot of crap! There is nothing more satisfying than toting another black garbage bag down the stairs. In eight or nine more years, I should have the zen space I've dreamed about.
So far, here's what I've accomplished:
- started dialogues with three headhunters about finding me new gig.
- turned in my expired Colorado driver's license -- four years after leaving Colorado. Funny, when I left NY in 2001, I went to the Summit County DMV within my first week of being there and practically threw my NY Driver's License at them. And that one had a really cute picture.
- signed up for NYS unemployment for the very first time. Pretty easy, considering. You can now do it all online and with one simple phone call.
- watched approximately 19 hours of the VH1 "America's Next Top Model" marathon, interspersed with approximately 23 hours of the various "Law & Order" franchises. I don't know who I find more weirdly compelling, Tyra Banks or Vincent D'Onofrio. And every time I see Christopher Meloni, I remember the time I saw him in a restaurant in NYC. When I said, "I know him from television," my companion said, "I know him from gay porn." So now, when I look at Elliott Stabler, I think, "you know, he does look kind of porny."
So, all in all, I figure this is kind of half-vacation, half-I-don't-know-what. Call me a slacker.
My Japanese mother would be appalled. My American father would understand.