I've got to clean out my "bookmark" folder, the one that sits atop my browser with all the sites that I go to and check when I should be writing a masterpiece. I have to think it was easier to be a genius and an influencer in the 1800s when there were little internet distractions and more incidents of scabies to keep down the population of other writers.
Anywhoozle.
This is what I've got on repeat in my browser, because I don't link to things on the side of my blog. If you have some great suggestions, please leave them here!
Music
For discussion, trends and general theory, I'm of the mind that there are so many blogs and so little time. Because I am a dork with no musical talent but too many ipods, I like this one for hip hop culture discussion-y stuff because it's got a really charismatic host who talks about theory and 'kids today' and generally does a great and interesting job. Also it is Sasha Frere-Jones sanctioned, and I am a big nerd for the so-called Best Music Critic in New York. I mean, I just really want to be as well-versed in this stuff someday...
For general and new indie-type stuff, straight up reviews and recs or listings, I think I like the Deerhunter blog (soon to be replaced by the No Age blog for cute band-watching where you can hear the next big thing from the last big thing's mouth?) and adore Music for Robots. Of course the usual fare of Brooklyn Vegan, Pitchfork and the rest are always good for me too, but unless I have something specific I'm looking for, I try not to troll them too much. It gets overwhelming and I'll read about a show that happened three years ago and bemoan that I didn't see it. And that's for losers. And you know. I'm a winner. Damnit! A WINNER! (said while looking into the mirror holding a glass of scotch that I then smash, spider-webbing the entire thing really artfully).
Design
I think it doesn't get better than Yatzer, and this is the blog that Kanye West's blog is always ripping off. So I say, go to the source.
Fashion
Colette hands down has been my favorite for almost two years now. A year ago I bought a really cool pair of Nikes at the Paris store that were high-tops and bright blue and had a peacock design on them and then two months later they were in New York magazine. So I felt cool. And then when I saw what the price was in New York, I felt way stupider.
Also, Refinery29 does a nice job, with lots of updates and stuff all about New York. Hey, this is what being a girl means. We look at clothes the way boys look at boobs.
Comedy
I've been cheating for over a year by posting stuff by these guys when I want to get a blog post out but don't want to write, because I just can't get enough of them. I think their earlier stuff was way better, but what are you gonna do. Now they are pretty popular and have gotten kind of over the top. Scroll down to New Web Design for the recent best, or search for my personal favorites like Lunch Meeting, Sunglasses and "Canada".
Any episode of this is pretty much guaranteed to make me laugh until I have tears in my eyes. Oh the Michael Cera one is pretty darn good.
Photography and Other Art
I'm way late to the party but Tim Barber of Tiny Vices Tiny Vices is my latest art-crush. Though honestly the site is pretty hard to navigate if you are looking at it for the first time.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
The Best Photography Ever Seen By The Art World
At brunch yesterday, my friend shared with me the following pictures of her sister-in-law, who is a really talented and innovative photographer but who has been forced into a mall portrait job because of a school situation at the moment. These are the pictures she takes in between screaming little kids.
They are amazing.
They are amazing.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Me, My Fatal Flaw
My best friend and I are full of revelations, she says to me our good qualities all come with a bad side, she said she put me as the person who inspires her most when pressed and it was good that she said so over the phone, because my mouth hung open and I didn’t want to get bleary-eyed in front of her, and then she told me more.
She said she never knew anyone in the world who was a both a dreamer and a doer until me, that we’ll have a conversation so outlandish that it will of course just be for fun, and then all of a sudden I’ve emailed the publisher of a magazine I want to write for, solicited an agent, had that difficult conversation, bought a plane ticket to Thailand or learned how to paint with oils. She says it astounds her sometimes, inspires her always. But the downside to this, and the downside to me cuts deeply.
Her anecdote was this. She said when we were at the zoo in Argentina last April, that even though we were exhausted and not feeling well and did not have the time, I insisted we keep walking, even did it without her, leaving her at the side of the path, because there was an exhibit of cheetahs that I had seen many times elsewhere in the world, but never in this place, and I had to see it here, in Argentina. Even if the cheetahs were sleeping, out of sight, even if it was too crowded. Even if the exhibit itself was closed. She said I made sense to her then.
Because she finally understood, she said, that I could never, would never, leave a stone unturned. I could never be in and out with the greatest hits, the top ten lists, the recommendation without the exhaustive research and the hours and hours of brain power, thinking, ruminating, running hard until there was no more light and no more breath in my lungs. She said my fatal flaw is that I have no fear but one: that I am deep down quite afraid that I will not have squeezed out every last ounce in my life upon my death, that I will not experience everything that I dream to hold and this is what may paralyze me if I ever slow down long enough to let it creep up. This is what keeps me successful at some things, intriguing to people, infuriating and bouncing off the walls to others, and keeps me from sleeping because I will not miss a minute of my life.
My fatal flaw is essentially who I am and what makes my brain and my soul shaped as they are. My fatal flaw is my unrelenting fire, the knots in my neck, the list scrawled on my hand, the worn out soles of my flapping Converse and my empty stomach and my red eyes and my ideas that could fly off the pages if I stare at them long enough.
My fatal flaw is me. I don’t regret it yet. And I never want to.
She said she never knew anyone in the world who was a both a dreamer and a doer until me, that we’ll have a conversation so outlandish that it will of course just be for fun, and then all of a sudden I’ve emailed the publisher of a magazine I want to write for, solicited an agent, had that difficult conversation, bought a plane ticket to Thailand or learned how to paint with oils. She says it astounds her sometimes, inspires her always. But the downside to this, and the downside to me cuts deeply.
Her anecdote was this. She said when we were at the zoo in Argentina last April, that even though we were exhausted and not feeling well and did not have the time, I insisted we keep walking, even did it without her, leaving her at the side of the path, because there was an exhibit of cheetahs that I had seen many times elsewhere in the world, but never in this place, and I had to see it here, in Argentina. Even if the cheetahs were sleeping, out of sight, even if it was too crowded. Even if the exhibit itself was closed. She said I made sense to her then.
Because she finally understood, she said, that I could never, would never, leave a stone unturned. I could never be in and out with the greatest hits, the top ten lists, the recommendation without the exhaustive research and the hours and hours of brain power, thinking, ruminating, running hard until there was no more light and no more breath in my lungs. She said my fatal flaw is that I have no fear but one: that I am deep down quite afraid that I will not have squeezed out every last ounce in my life upon my death, that I will not experience everything that I dream to hold and this is what may paralyze me if I ever slow down long enough to let it creep up. This is what keeps me successful at some things, intriguing to people, infuriating and bouncing off the walls to others, and keeps me from sleeping because I will not miss a minute of my life.
My fatal flaw is essentially who I am and what makes my brain and my soul shaped as they are. My fatal flaw is my unrelenting fire, the knots in my neck, the list scrawled on my hand, the worn out soles of my flapping Converse and my empty stomach and my red eyes and my ideas that could fly off the pages if I stare at them long enough.
My fatal flaw is me. I don’t regret it yet. And I never want to.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Belle Laide
He showed up ostensibly to just say hi, in the middle of the evening, the lamp dim, the air full blast cold, our feet bare and barely clean.
He came to check in, up and down, and though I’ve been tired and on my own sort of weak-hearted bender, really I’d like to think it might have been to see if I still looked the same, had the same lilt, smelled like flowers, felt soft to the touch and still had a bony back, whatever it is that boys think of girls that they lose. And I had that new mix, all that old French rap, and clean sheets and he had cloudy sky slits for eyes and I missed him even as he was there, a whisper ghost with longish hair, longer than it should have been in a week’s time and the same familiar shirt, and I feel perennially as though I will wade through water instead of air forever if I have to, because I don’t know what I want but I do, I don’t know how to help those who also don’t know, and it struck me that there are so many people out there to love, so many people who are right in some ways and completely wrong in others and it never stops any of us from fusing with them anyway.
And it was one of those rushes that keeps pushing, to a thumping soundtrack and to a barely babbling conversation, brain and brook, we had these needs, and only if we had screwed up more, for real, could we be mad, could we take it all away. Tough enough as it is, and it’s all our own undoing. We knew it. We did it anyway. We anticipated the end as soon as we heard the starting shot and just leapt. Shit. It was stupid. It was ugly. As belle laide as Marc Jacobs aims.
Because you can’t start over when you never really began. You can’t heal when the wound was imparted by your own thoughtless hand. We wanted to conduct. We wanted to gesticulate and scream, talk nonsense, skip over cars, laugh too loud. We did that. We did it too much and to little end. Let’s play, we thought. But playing isn’t real. In context yes, but in the rest of this mess, play is escape, and there is no escape from New York.
He came to check in, up and down, and though I’ve been tired and on my own sort of weak-hearted bender, really I’d like to think it might have been to see if I still looked the same, had the same lilt, smelled like flowers, felt soft to the touch and still had a bony back, whatever it is that boys think of girls that they lose. And I had that new mix, all that old French rap, and clean sheets and he had cloudy sky slits for eyes and I missed him even as he was there, a whisper ghost with longish hair, longer than it should have been in a week’s time and the same familiar shirt, and I feel perennially as though I will wade through water instead of air forever if I have to, because I don’t know what I want but I do, I don’t know how to help those who also don’t know, and it struck me that there are so many people out there to love, so many people who are right in some ways and completely wrong in others and it never stops any of us from fusing with them anyway.
And it was one of those rushes that keeps pushing, to a thumping soundtrack and to a barely babbling conversation, brain and brook, we had these needs, and only if we had screwed up more, for real, could we be mad, could we take it all away. Tough enough as it is, and it’s all our own undoing. We knew it. We did it anyway. We anticipated the end as soon as we heard the starting shot and just leapt. Shit. It was stupid. It was ugly. As belle laide as Marc Jacobs aims.
Because you can’t start over when you never really began. You can’t heal when the wound was imparted by your own thoughtless hand. We wanted to conduct. We wanted to gesticulate and scream, talk nonsense, skip over cars, laugh too loud. We did that. We did it too much and to little end. Let’s play, we thought. But playing isn’t real. In context yes, but in the rest of this mess, play is escape, and there is no escape from New York.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Quote of the Day
Deputy Editor: Listen to this band, and tell me what you think. There are no right or wrong answers.
(Shuffling of keys and iPod earbuds)
Me: Huh. I think I need to listen to them more to really get it, but I like the second track better.
(Pause)
Me: I feel like I'm watching the The Dark Crystal for the first time.
(Pause)
Me: This is like the soundtrack to all those 80s cartoons where ponies lived on barren moons or something.
Deputy Editor: You just got hired to write the piece if you want it. Seriously.
I. Love. This. Magazine.
(Shuffling of keys and iPod earbuds)
Me: Huh. I think I need to listen to them more to really get it, but I like the second track better.
(Pause)
Me: I feel like I'm watching the The Dark Crystal for the first time.
(Pause)
Me: This is like the soundtrack to all those 80s cartoons where ponies lived on barren moons or something.
Deputy Editor: You just got hired to write the piece if you want it. Seriously.
I. Love. This. Magazine.
Monday, September 08, 2008
Motherf*cking Fashion Week
So there's that restaurant assigned incredibly late that's due tomorrow, my bankcard's been lost and I'm living off of credit, the jagged yet nebulous state with an offending friend, that soft and safe relationship to get over, waiting on a final no from a job answer that's months in the making so that I can finally say yes to the other opportunity that wants to pay me money (but then I'll be locked in), too much partying, too much sleep, not enough food, not enough gym, and above all, not trying to jump from one comfort to another, just to be comforted.
And on top of that it's m-f*cking Fashion Week and I just got my assignment schedule.
Right now, I miss Guatemala...
And on top of that it's m-f*cking Fashion Week and I just got my assignment schedule.
Right now, I miss Guatemala...
Thursday, September 04, 2008
It's That Time Again
Fall, all faded pictures and new beginnings, makeups and breakups, chills, stacks of papers, sweater weather and a feeling of anticipation. Something is inherently sad about becoming new. Something is inherently cliche about being sad.
Inevitable as it is.
Only red and orange leaves, falling over in a pumpkin patch and jugs of cider can help me now...
The mood waxes and wanes more than a lunar cycle, I've got these concert tickets in hand, I've got a lightness now on my shoulders but the heart's a little heavier and I wonder, even if it was fun, fantastic, are experiences just wastes of time when they don't particularly pan out, a few months have gone by and you haven't really changed, you loved, you didn't lose, you just were.
And you still are you.
Inevitable as it is.
Only red and orange leaves, falling over in a pumpkin patch and jugs of cider can help me now...
The mood waxes and wanes more than a lunar cycle, I've got these concert tickets in hand, I've got a lightness now on my shoulders but the heart's a little heavier and I wonder, even if it was fun, fantastic, are experiences just wastes of time when they don't particularly pan out, a few months have gone by and you haven't really changed, you loved, you didn't lose, you just were.
And you still are you.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
New York is a Playground
Where else can you stay up until 7 in the morning on a Sunday? Walk through Brooklyn and see jaunty, quintessential fashion plates who truly believe what they are wearing is street-appropriate and--surprising of all--new? Order delivery of drugs and Thai food twenty four hours a day? Date someone 20 years your senior or junior and not have anyone bat an eye? Have a party celebrating an "idea" for a gallery that has not even truly been conceptualized yet?
I stayed up way too late last night and this post is barely formed, but something, it's something enough to start. It's Disney-esque around here. It's Never-Never Land, and we don't exactly have any adults telling us we've got to grow up. And then someone says we're the adults, we're supposed to be telling each other or at least ourselves on this very fact, but that someone is a little voice in our head which we are able to quash with another cocktail and glittering party, and all of a sudden you wake up and you're 25, 35, and you don't understand what anyone around you is saying because they're speaking in pwning and apparently there are bands that are hugely popular wearing shirts of times you actually remember the first time they were in style and you shake your head and go, this is the fountain of youth in many respects. But to what end?
New York is the fountain of youth. We can bathe in it, drink it (and I bet it tastes like chocolate milk, right?) and splash each other with it, as another summer comes to pass, and the grind is what it is, and those bar, flesh, name-dropping distractions from the grind turn into the bigger grind itself, I wonder, why do we want to stay young and in a playground? I am too big for the monkey bars, I can fly by them way faster than the other kids, but that's because I'm not a kid, not like that any more. Of course it's easy for me, it's not challenging, and therefore it's boring. I don't want to wait for the other kids to figure out that you have to pump and swing to get across. You can tell them all that you have to offer, but they have to fall off and tear their skinny jeans and their palms to understand it for themselves first.
I remember because my older friends tried to tell me. But no, I knew it all, I was the smartest person in the world, I was deep, man, and I could handle it. Right. Only after a few scars did I really get it.
I want a roller coaster where you have to be "this tall" to ride, "this age" to ride.
That's what I want, not Disneyland, I want Universal Studios, please.
I stayed up way too late last night and this post is barely formed, but something, it's something enough to start. It's Disney-esque around here. It's Never-Never Land, and we don't exactly have any adults telling us we've got to grow up. And then someone says we're the adults, we're supposed to be telling each other or at least ourselves on this very fact, but that someone is a little voice in our head which we are able to quash with another cocktail and glittering party, and all of a sudden you wake up and you're 25, 35, and you don't understand what anyone around you is saying because they're speaking in pwning and apparently there are bands that are hugely popular wearing shirts of times you actually remember the first time they were in style and you shake your head and go, this is the fountain of youth in many respects. But to what end?
New York is the fountain of youth. We can bathe in it, drink it (and I bet it tastes like chocolate milk, right?) and splash each other with it, as another summer comes to pass, and the grind is what it is, and those bar, flesh, name-dropping distractions from the grind turn into the bigger grind itself, I wonder, why do we want to stay young and in a playground? I am too big for the monkey bars, I can fly by them way faster than the other kids, but that's because I'm not a kid, not like that any more. Of course it's easy for me, it's not challenging, and therefore it's boring. I don't want to wait for the other kids to figure out that you have to pump and swing to get across. You can tell them all that you have to offer, but they have to fall off and tear their skinny jeans and their palms to understand it for themselves first.
I remember because my older friends tried to tell me. But no, I knew it all, I was the smartest person in the world, I was deep, man, and I could handle it. Right. Only after a few scars did I really get it.
I want a roller coaster where you have to be "this tall" to ride, "this age" to ride.
That's what I want, not Disneyland, I want Universal Studios, please.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Underinsured Drivers, Have I Got a Pleasant Surprise For You
My friend, who rides a Kawasaki, was on his way back to school when a European motorist in a rental car rammed into him, sending him flying into an intersection.
My friend sat stunned in veering cars for about 10 seconds. He proceeded to pick himself, his ripped shorts, his skidded Nikes and his cracked, damaged bike up and wheeled them all to the side. He continued his text conversation with me without devolving to hysterics, calmly filled out an accident report only because the motorist insisted, and then, with three layers of skin left smeared on the pavement, limped away.
No legalities, no excess of claims, no whining that he was scarred for life. Even though it was the other guy's fault. Even though 2% of his body will be forever affixed to the street outside the cornerstone building of the Tribeca Film Festival.
My friend is a badass. But is it wrong to wish, and I mean really wish, that the next time I have a fender bender, I hit him?
My friend sat stunned in veering cars for about 10 seconds. He proceeded to pick himself, his ripped shorts, his skidded Nikes and his cracked, damaged bike up and wheeled them all to the side. He continued his text conversation with me without devolving to hysterics, calmly filled out an accident report only because the motorist insisted, and then, with three layers of skin left smeared on the pavement, limped away.
No legalities, no excess of claims, no whining that he was scarred for life. Even though it was the other guy's fault. Even though 2% of his body will be forever affixed to the street outside the cornerstone building of the Tribeca Film Festival.
My friend is a badass. But is it wrong to wish, and I mean really wish, that the next time I have a fender bender, I hit him?
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Quote of the Day
Me: Well, that's the craziest story from Guatemala. Pretty insane and scary right? You ever had anything like that happen to you?
Enormous trainer, lifting his shirt, showing a scar: I got shot when I was fifteen and lost a kidney.
Me: Fine, you win.
Enormous trainer, lifting his shirt, showing a scar: I got shot when I was fifteen and lost a kidney.
Me: Fine, you win.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Get Busy Being Busy
Why is it that when I had nothing to do at work, I would spend fifteen minutes with my mouth open, staring at the wall, dreaming about candy, or whatever the hell it is I think about, instead of paying bills, managing my calendar or returning emails? Even though any normal person would think that would be a perfect time to do such a thing, to go on writing the new book or managing the management of the old one, or even go down a floor and say hi to my old boss to let them know I didn't perish in Nicaragua, didn't even get dysentery?
Some times in life, there are no answers to questions. There is no answer appropriate to explain why I, at 26 years old, cannot do anything unless I explicitly have a prominent kick in the butt to do it. I sleep with papers on my bed because there is enough room to do so after I'm reading at night. I will drink coffee all day instead of picking up the phone to order actual food. I will write if I have a schedule and someone to answer to. Work out if there is an actual goal, not just the process of maintenance. Doing things just to do them, or because I should, even though there is no end in sight feels all too A Wrinkle In Time to me. Bouncing a ball because I don't want to fall out of line with the others. It's like when my parents forced me to do Kumon Math and there was a choice: do fifteen minutes a day of math problems OR leave them all to the last day of the week and spend over an hour doing them.
I let them sit until the end every time. I hate math. But I like an equation in which I am under a certain amount of stress and then must perform. I like pressure. It's...weird.
It's a strange thing, not doing work unless I have some imposing deadlines, and then suddenly I'm that much more productive. Banging out work-related projects, personal writing projects and scheduling a dentist appointment is so much easier when you've got a deadline on at least part of that to-do list. At least for me. Otherwise you're in this nebulous state. You could or you couldn't. No one would know either way. You yourself would know, but that's never really pushed me. I'm not that great of a self-coach. I can critique myself but not come up with any sort of constructive way to improve. Also, I have bursts of manic productivity and then stretches of extreme laziness. And I'm kind of getting used to it.
I decided this weekend I was going to have a busy week. I actually have a lot to do. I'm going to try to do it. Give myself some pressure. Because after the trip, I feel like so much of this is self-imposed. I thought the hamster wheel I was on was necessary, but really as I look at my piles of unopened mail and crushing in-box I see that it wasn't. But I liked it, deep down. I like feeling a little crazed. Otherwise I'll spend all my time staring and thinking. And if I'm going to fund my next trip, this time to Southeast Asia I think, I need to have both.
Because no one is going to pay me for ruminations. Not yet.
Some times in life, there are no answers to questions. There is no answer appropriate to explain why I, at 26 years old, cannot do anything unless I explicitly have a prominent kick in the butt to do it. I sleep with papers on my bed because there is enough room to do so after I'm reading at night. I will drink coffee all day instead of picking up the phone to order actual food. I will write if I have a schedule and someone to answer to. Work out if there is an actual goal, not just the process of maintenance. Doing things just to do them, or because I should, even though there is no end in sight feels all too A Wrinkle In Time to me. Bouncing a ball because I don't want to fall out of line with the others. It's like when my parents forced me to do Kumon Math and there was a choice: do fifteen minutes a day of math problems OR leave them all to the last day of the week and spend over an hour doing them.
I let them sit until the end every time. I hate math. But I like an equation in which I am under a certain amount of stress and then must perform. I like pressure. It's...weird.
It's a strange thing, not doing work unless I have some imposing deadlines, and then suddenly I'm that much more productive. Banging out work-related projects, personal writing projects and scheduling a dentist appointment is so much easier when you've got a deadline on at least part of that to-do list. At least for me. Otherwise you're in this nebulous state. You could or you couldn't. No one would know either way. You yourself would know, but that's never really pushed me. I'm not that great of a self-coach. I can critique myself but not come up with any sort of constructive way to improve. Also, I have bursts of manic productivity and then stretches of extreme laziness. And I'm kind of getting used to it.
I decided this weekend I was going to have a busy week. I actually have a lot to do. I'm going to try to do it. Give myself some pressure. Because after the trip, I feel like so much of this is self-imposed. I thought the hamster wheel I was on was necessary, but really as I look at my piles of unopened mail and crushing in-box I see that it wasn't. But I liked it, deep down. I like feeling a little crazed. Otherwise I'll spend all my time staring and thinking. And if I'm going to fund my next trip, this time to Southeast Asia I think, I need to have both.
Because no one is going to pay me for ruminations. Not yet.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Context
On the subway this morning I sported wet hair, taped-together headphones and a truly embarrassing pair of sandals, the others having been ripped seam to seam in Costa Rica after the ATV incident where I smashed against a cliff rock, and I was a few minutes off my normal schedule and fumbling more than usual when I entered the F train.
One stop and a seat opened up near two guys and I sat down between them, trying not to drop my bag, trying to keep open my eyes, adjusting my falling iPod and various other balancing acts and the guy to my left looked at me and so, I looked at him. His eyes were sad or confused, or maybe it was just me, but it struck me that he looked kind of familiar in the way that I had seen him around, in my neighborhood or in my office building or something, except he didn’t look like he normally did, he didn’t have a hat, bright sneakers. He was wearing something marginally office appropriate the way certain people under a certain age do, slightly off, still with that rebel shaggy hair or a skirt that is a little too downtown, uneven bangs, the posture still swaggering, the shoes flagrantly anti-establishment, anti-loafers. The way one shows the rest of the office that one still doesn’t belong on one's own volition, that this is all just eating time before that artistic endeavor pans out. And it didn’t fit him, maybe precisely because he didn’t want it to, maybe because he just didn’t look like he’d ever be right at home in a button-down, no matter what he did, because it wasn’t who he was underneath it, in the way you wonder if people become exactly what their genetics predispose—a skinny-pale misfit must then become a punk, a blonde boy from California, a surfer.
And he was reading a battered copy of Ulysses, one from the 70s with a hideous black font on the cover, yellowed pages, a broken spine. My own novel just got handed over for a pre-read, and when I started it I had nothing but Ulysses on the brain, I had wandering ideas about the entire thing, I had just gotten back from a journey of epic proportions myself and had all these new ideas about it and I thought, now is the time to say something, to reach out and connect with a stranger, because it would be the right thing to do, because this sort of thing doesn’t happen too often, and we all only intersect with about 20 people on a regular basis and how are we ever to meet anyone new unless we make an effort, without a beer in our hands, without wanting to make out, get a job, get directions.
Because in Nicaragua I made friends at the drop of a hat, wouldn’t hesitate to let whomever sit down next to me or comment about someone’s book on a bus, especially if I had been sure then, as I was at this moment, that I had seen this person before. That he had seen me. But now, on Wednesday morning in New York City, on the F train, even though I had something to say, even though it would have been too personal and maybe then it would have been memorable just because of that, I did absolutely nothing.
I didn’t even look back.
I turned my iPod up.
And then I got off the subway and while I was walking off, I knew that I had given up a small opportunity that would affect me for some reason, because it wasn’t just this kid, this moment, it was a symptom of an overlying disease of staid standards I just fell back into without even pursuing. It was natural to act this way, and because of that, it was wholly unnatural. I stole a glance as I got off, and the kid was staring at me, like he knew, I could have talked to him and didn’t. I just didn't.
It was all out of context—the situation, what we were wearing to go to work, the time of day, the day of week, it just didn’t make any sense. It was just another casualty of the city day, a million chances we have to make nice, to make friends, to make a connection and we just don’t.
I will figure out how to do this in NY, without alcohol, without sexuality, without an ulterior motive, I promise I will learn how to do this someday.
One stop and a seat opened up near two guys and I sat down between them, trying not to drop my bag, trying to keep open my eyes, adjusting my falling iPod and various other balancing acts and the guy to my left looked at me and so, I looked at him. His eyes were sad or confused, or maybe it was just me, but it struck me that he looked kind of familiar in the way that I had seen him around, in my neighborhood or in my office building or something, except he didn’t look like he normally did, he didn’t have a hat, bright sneakers. He was wearing something marginally office appropriate the way certain people under a certain age do, slightly off, still with that rebel shaggy hair or a skirt that is a little too downtown, uneven bangs, the posture still swaggering, the shoes flagrantly anti-establishment, anti-loafers. The way one shows the rest of the office that one still doesn’t belong on one's own volition, that this is all just eating time before that artistic endeavor pans out. And it didn’t fit him, maybe precisely because he didn’t want it to, maybe because he just didn’t look like he’d ever be right at home in a button-down, no matter what he did, because it wasn’t who he was underneath it, in the way you wonder if people become exactly what their genetics predispose—a skinny-pale misfit must then become a punk, a blonde boy from California, a surfer.
And he was reading a battered copy of Ulysses, one from the 70s with a hideous black font on the cover, yellowed pages, a broken spine. My own novel just got handed over for a pre-read, and when I started it I had nothing but Ulysses on the brain, I had wandering ideas about the entire thing, I had just gotten back from a journey of epic proportions myself and had all these new ideas about it and I thought, now is the time to say something, to reach out and connect with a stranger, because it would be the right thing to do, because this sort of thing doesn’t happen too often, and we all only intersect with about 20 people on a regular basis and how are we ever to meet anyone new unless we make an effort, without a beer in our hands, without wanting to make out, get a job, get directions.
Because in Nicaragua I made friends at the drop of a hat, wouldn’t hesitate to let whomever sit down next to me or comment about someone’s book on a bus, especially if I had been sure then, as I was at this moment, that I had seen this person before. That he had seen me. But now, on Wednesday morning in New York City, on the F train, even though I had something to say, even though it would have been too personal and maybe then it would have been memorable just because of that, I did absolutely nothing.
I didn’t even look back.
I turned my iPod up.
And then I got off the subway and while I was walking off, I knew that I had given up a small opportunity that would affect me for some reason, because it wasn’t just this kid, this moment, it was a symptom of an overlying disease of staid standards I just fell back into without even pursuing. It was natural to act this way, and because of that, it was wholly unnatural. I stole a glance as I got off, and the kid was staring at me, like he knew, I could have talked to him and didn’t. I just didn't.
It was all out of context—the situation, what we were wearing to go to work, the time of day, the day of week, it just didn’t make any sense. It was just another casualty of the city day, a million chances we have to make nice, to make friends, to make a connection and we just don’t.
I will figure out how to do this in NY, without alcohol, without sexuality, without an ulterior motive, I promise I will learn how to do this someday.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Quote of the Day
Enormous trainer at the gym: "Next up we're going to do Donkey Kicks."
Me, sniggering: "I was going to make a joke but, it's pretty inappropriate so I won't."
Enormous trainer at the gym: "No, go on."
Me, taking a deep breath. "Well, (pause), that's all fine and good but when are we going to do Donkey Punches?"
Me, sniggering: "I was going to make a joke but, it's pretty inappropriate so I won't."
Enormous trainer at the gym: "No, go on."
Me, taking a deep breath. "Well, (pause), that's all fine and good but when are we going to do Donkey Punches?"
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Linkies!
1994 was the best year of British comedy. The cobweb is freaking fantastic.
I've watched this about ten times today alone. And I still laugh out loud when he says, "I stand right behind this guy when he pees."
Utterly shameless promotion for some boys I know. Go on, try to explain it to me.
I've watched this about ten times today alone. And I still laugh out loud when he says, "I stand right behind this guy when he pees."
Utterly shameless promotion for some boys I know. Go on, try to explain it to me.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
The Business of Keeping Them Out
There's been a lot of talk lately, that opinions these days are just aggregate sub-genres, that whatever we like turns to crap once other people are aware of it, that there is a fierce sense of loneliness that lines the pride we hold dear. If I hear it, if I see it, and you haven't, then it's mine, I own it, I have a personal connection with it, etc. If you, or the internet by proxy, zooms it to you, then all of a sudden a band that I thought spoke to ME is speaking to a thirteen year old in Ohio. Tastes used to be this thing that brought kindred people together, but mass-marketing and too many choices and meta upon meta has made it all different now. We like the same stuff, and yet, we are not the same. We are still splintered.
And it's not just style or politics, it's our sense of who we are, where we came from and even, where we've paid to belong. I read this old article in Guatemala while a stray kitten bit my feet and it made me cringe and smile. I'm thinking about this article and all its abstractions today, how it relates to being a New York kid or adult, being an American, being anything. I don't have anything interesting to add, but I would love to hear your thoughts on it...
And it's not just style or politics, it's our sense of who we are, where we came from and even, where we've paid to belong. I read this old article in Guatemala while a stray kitten bit my feet and it made me cringe and smile. I'm thinking about this article and all its abstractions today, how it relates to being a New York kid or adult, being an American, being anything. I don't have anything interesting to add, but I would love to hear your thoughts on it...
Monday, August 11, 2008
Bah Hah Hah
I interrupt any revelations and beautiful pictures for a small dose of what I find to be incredibly hilarious.
Thank G*d for this.
Thank G*d for this.
Shots
Soon I'll start writing again, but by popular demand, here are more pictures instead...Nicaragua nights, Guatemalan pools, volcano climbs and freshwater lakes abound...
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
More Cheating (Mexico, Guatemala, Costa Rica)
That beautiful Costa Rican drive, our bag of lychees, a sunset across a volcano cloud, the ruins of the Yucatan and the tropical cliffs below them, the before-sunrise jungle hike through the ancient Mayan city of Tikal, and my very dirty feet high above the green limestone pools of Guatemala...
Monday, August 04, 2008
Where do I live?
Home from Central America for 36 hours and then I'm on a flight to Chicago, nerve to swerve enough to jump back on the music scene and Santogold's hit the saturation point and I can recognize only 60% of the names on Lollapalooza's bill.
Well, if that's all I've missed in nearly 2 months away, it can't be all bad.
So we ran around some, saw Spank Rock, Grizzly Bear (amazing), Lupe Fiasco, CSS, Radiohead (unreal), Cadence Weapon, Foals, Battles, Does it offend you, yeah? etc. Chicago was bathed in a golden light, or maybe it's the fact that right now, I only see metallic, I'm so tan I look like I hail from Long Island. Hey-o! The boy says I'm a new race now and it feels pretty great not to be Nilla for a bit, even if I'm back to just being me.
So how to catch up, chase back what I left behind, that book growing moss on its side, that friendship I forgot to remember, that new roommate, that room that needs to be soundproofed because I play music too loud, and truth be told, I myself, am just too loud anyway.
I'm at a desk and it feels funny. Runny. I didn't look out the window once, I've been out there all summer, slapping on war wounds and accumulating picture after picture that has no place to be shown here. They want to see them, and what can I show? I couldn't snap a photo when we half-drowned in the lake, slightly smashed an ATV but really smashed up our own bodies, when I dropped a marshmallow into a pit of lava, when I realized that I didn't miss a single thing from home. Good trips do that it seems. They end when they're supposed to, and leave you to begin another. They make you wait to see The Dark Knight. They bruise you up so you can show everyone that you took the time to get out there, and it's a small victory, because well, you came back, and to some, that itself is a failure.
People say, they just "stayed" and I think to myself, who packed up your apartment? Who told your mother you were going to quit school and become a bartender in Nicaragua, huh? You big liar. You just stayed? No way, you had to go home, wrap up loose ends, say goodbye to say hello and all that, right?
But that's just the knee-jerk. Cause really inside, I'm thinking, I wonder when I will just stay somewhere. Just find the right place in the world to become who I want to be, and be still. Because I don't know how to be still. And really, I don't know if I ever want to...
Well, if that's all I've missed in nearly 2 months away, it can't be all bad.
So we ran around some, saw Spank Rock, Grizzly Bear (amazing), Lupe Fiasco, CSS, Radiohead (unreal), Cadence Weapon, Foals, Battles, Does it offend you, yeah? etc. Chicago was bathed in a golden light, or maybe it's the fact that right now, I only see metallic, I'm so tan I look like I hail from Long Island. Hey-o! The boy says I'm a new race now and it feels pretty great not to be Nilla for a bit, even if I'm back to just being me.
So how to catch up, chase back what I left behind, that book growing moss on its side, that friendship I forgot to remember, that new roommate, that room that needs to be soundproofed because I play music too loud, and truth be told, I myself, am just too loud anyway.
I'm at a desk and it feels funny. Runny. I didn't look out the window once, I've been out there all summer, slapping on war wounds and accumulating picture after picture that has no place to be shown here. They want to see them, and what can I show? I couldn't snap a photo when we half-drowned in the lake, slightly smashed an ATV but really smashed up our own bodies, when I dropped a marshmallow into a pit of lava, when I realized that I didn't miss a single thing from home. Good trips do that it seems. They end when they're supposed to, and leave you to begin another. They make you wait to see The Dark Knight. They bruise you up so you can show everyone that you took the time to get out there, and it's a small victory, because well, you came back, and to some, that itself is a failure.
People say, they just "stayed" and I think to myself, who packed up your apartment? Who told your mother you were going to quit school and become a bartender in Nicaragua, huh? You big liar. You just stayed? No way, you had to go home, wrap up loose ends, say goodbye to say hello and all that, right?
But that's just the knee-jerk. Cause really inside, I'm thinking, I wonder when I will just stay somewhere. Just find the right place in the world to become who I want to be, and be still. Because I don't know how to be still. And really, I don't know if I ever want to...
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Cloud Forest, Hot Springs
Costa Rica is the last leg of our Central American journey and everything's changed: a new arrival brings a new dynamic, we've rented a car and are armed with a faulty road map, we've picked up two stranded travelers we recognize and the weather turns to torrent rains. Our bodies are a rainbow of bruises and bites and at the pool we point them out, play a game and sport them as badges of honor, can we name that injury on eachother? This sprain, that gash, where did it come from and who has the best, the biggest? We don't mention by the time we're healed, we'll be far away from the storymakers and street chickens, Imperial beer and the British we keep bumping in to.
Prices are up and we're counting our colones aloud...is there enough for rice and beans and ziplining both? It's hard to break the mold of cheaper places, we decide that we'll do whatever we want, a rule that should have gotten us into a lot more trouble by now.
So we walk in the clouds and slip in the mud, fly down lines over green valleys and turkey-necked cows, shacks and barns, coffee farms, we jump into the Tarzan swing and into a freefall and the forest echoes our screams. We get lost, we get found, leave blood all over the ATVs, Pina Colada glasses on the edges of beautified hot springs until the dignified waiter takes them away, eat mealy corn cakes at the Volcano Festival, drive many hours to find that the lagoon at the top of the crater's edge is closed and the view is sparse. We fight, laugh, shake our heads, sadly pack our bags and then, get on with our real life and try to remember how it felt when our biggest worries were how we'd ever manage to find a shower...
Prices are up and we're counting our colones aloud...is there enough for rice and beans and ziplining both? It's hard to break the mold of cheaper places, we decide that we'll do whatever we want, a rule that should have gotten us into a lot more trouble by now.
So we walk in the clouds and slip in the mud, fly down lines over green valleys and turkey-necked cows, shacks and barns, coffee farms, we jump into the Tarzan swing and into a freefall and the forest echoes our screams. We get lost, we get found, leave blood all over the ATVs, Pina Colada glasses on the edges of beautified hot springs until the dignified waiter takes them away, eat mealy corn cakes at the Volcano Festival, drive many hours to find that the lagoon at the top of the crater's edge is closed and the view is sparse. We fight, laugh, shake our heads, sadly pack our bags and then, get on with our real life and try to remember how it felt when our biggest worries were how we'd ever manage to find a shower...
Friday, July 25, 2008
San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua
Black sand beaches, tidal pools and breaking surf surrounds us around here. Surfers from every corner, overtanned Brits, natural Californians, one amazing guy from New Mexico with a tattoo across both of his knees (admittedly done whilst incredibly drunk) in gangsta font that says on the right one ¨Save the¨...¨ and on the left one ¨...world dude!!!¨
There is the trio from Oxford who played their instruments on the black sand beach while twelve of us drank beers, then got stung by a sting ray. There is the rock skipping contest, of which my traveling partner is disarmingly good at, and the Nica local who says I look like his ex-girlfriend and then teaches me the word for cool. The bumpy path here is only 8 KM from town but it takes more than a half an hour because of the horrible state of the road, a boa constrictor stopping taxis, and when seventeen school children in uniform scream out as we pass, joyfully jumping on the back of the open truck just to get a ride. The air smells like burning wood at night, there is no fog and the sunsets are saturated orange, waves crashing, everyone hugging their knees on flat rocks, perfecting Spanish, perfecting the art of downing buckets of rum and Coke until 4 AM and then jumping up at five to catch the chicken bus, to sleep while standing like a horse would, walk across a border with our bags sticking sweat to our backs, our feet are dusty, our fingernails are dirty and we only have one week of wonderful discomfort of sandy beds and random conversations left...
There is the trio from Oxford who played their instruments on the black sand beach while twelve of us drank beers, then got stung by a sting ray. There is the rock skipping contest, of which my traveling partner is disarmingly good at, and the Nica local who says I look like his ex-girlfriend and then teaches me the word for cool. The bumpy path here is only 8 KM from town but it takes more than a half an hour because of the horrible state of the road, a boa constrictor stopping taxis, and when seventeen school children in uniform scream out as we pass, joyfully jumping on the back of the open truck just to get a ride. The air smells like burning wood at night, there is no fog and the sunsets are saturated orange, waves crashing, everyone hugging their knees on flat rocks, perfecting Spanish, perfecting the art of downing buckets of rum and Coke until 4 AM and then jumping up at five to catch the chicken bus, to sleep while standing like a horse would, walk across a border with our bags sticking sweat to our backs, our feet are dusty, our fingernails are dirty and we only have one week of wonderful discomfort of sandy beds and random conversations left...
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Pass the Dutchies
Dutch boy #1: Yah, you understand what I am saying to you? If you haven´t tried Holland man, then you don´t know what you miss. You have to try all the flavors, you see? Sometimes you get mushroom, sometimes you get strawberry. You like another drink now?
Dutch boy #2 (whispering): My friend, he likes you. But he has many STD.
Dutch boy #1: What you say, Chuck Norris?
Dutch boy #2: No-ting. I like to be architect.
Dutchies together: Ah hah hah hah hah!
Love. The. Dutch. In Nicaragua on chicken buses eating 50 cent food out of a plastic bag that will surely make me ill, in a far too party town, on surfing beaches, on world politics, meeting everyone in the world I never could have at home, wondering how I can possibly extend this, and finally, realizing that I have lost my phone and all of its numbers of course. If you´ve texted me in the past month and a half, I didn´t get it, so send me your number and an email please! And I will report more from the most beautiful trenches in the world soon...
Dutch boy #2 (whispering): My friend, he likes you. But he has many STD.
Dutch boy #1: What you say, Chuck Norris?
Dutch boy #2: No-ting. I like to be architect.
Dutchies together: Ah hah hah hah hah!
Love. The. Dutch. In Nicaragua on chicken buses eating 50 cent food out of a plastic bag that will surely make me ill, in a far too party town, on surfing beaches, on world politics, meeting everyone in the world I never could have at home, wondering how I can possibly extend this, and finally, realizing that I have lost my phone and all of its numbers of course. If you´ve texted me in the past month and a half, I didn´t get it, so send me your number and an email please! And I will report more from the most beautiful trenches in the world soon...
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Laguna
Sunburned and flipped on our inner tubes along the floating dock, today was spent at the swimming hole, all green and blue, all lapping waves and clear water jumps, all our new Irish friends pushing us over and now back to the hostel for the world´s best burrito...and the only thing we can afford...we´re supposed to rest up because it´s Saturday night, and regardless of the fact that every night seems like Saturday night, we´re expected to show up in full form at the Beach Party where locals grind to blasting beats and gringos sweat it out just trying to keep up.
Yesterday´s bottle of tequila at one PM on a rainy day must be put far behind, and the British guy who was crafty enough to take evidence, more than fifteen pictures of me, in various states of card games and sugary shots. Who won and who lost is one and the same...
In Nicaragua there have been steam venting volcanos, my purchase of Nica punk rock CDs, the guard yelling at us for jumping on a plastic sheep, the worst milkshake in the history of milkshakes, the crumpled pages of so many books, swapping stories and countryside pictures, fans and open air, and very long open nights. Our clothes are in a rainbow jumbled corner, we´re sleeping in a loft where the rain crashes down, if you could call it sleeping at all, and there are less than two weeks left and all I can think is how I can manage to miss my plane home.
Yesterday´s bottle of tequila at one PM on a rainy day must be put far behind, and the British guy who was crafty enough to take evidence, more than fifteen pictures of me, in various states of card games and sugary shots. Who won and who lost is one and the same...
In Nicaragua there have been steam venting volcanos, my purchase of Nica punk rock CDs, the guard yelling at us for jumping on a plastic sheep, the worst milkshake in the history of milkshakes, the crumpled pages of so many books, swapping stories and countryside pictures, fans and open air, and very long open nights. Our clothes are in a rainbow jumbled corner, we´re sleeping in a loft where the rain crashes down, if you could call it sleeping at all, and there are less than two weeks left and all I can think is how I can manage to miss my plane home.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Vamos, Panteras!
Things that I have learned on this trip:
Do not assume that just because a boy is under seven years of age that he is incapable of wiping the floor with you via the worst chess game of your life (he plays professionally! What a little hustler!! Acting all cute so I would play with him). Castling? WTF is that? Has anyone heard of this move? I feel like I´m in the outtakes of Searching for Bobby Fisher over here. You beat me in eight moves, huh? Well you know what kid? There´s no Santa. Yep, it´s all made up. How do you like me now? Hey! There´s no crying in chess, buster.
No worries, only the biggest and hairiest spiders can swim.
Vamos, Panteras! is an exceptionally cute saying when shouted by a native Guatemalan guide who takes us into a volcano, with a gold tooth and her hands wrapped around her only nutrients for the day: a bottle of orange soda.
Sleeping is optional.
Stereotypes ARE hilarious. As in, the British can have a forty five minute discussion about the proper cake to serve with tea and then devolve into a near brawl over it. I met the most British guy of my entire life and he was such a foppish dandy hiking up his black socks and his little shoes and calling himself The Tulip Man that I could barely stand it. Also the Irish drink an astounding amount and call mushrooms ¨mushies¨, the Dutch can swim really well and have bad shoes, Kenyans run really fast and the Swedish do not smile at other people on the street. Please note, all these hilarious tidbits were actually brought up by the individuals themselves, and when I asked what their American stereotypes were, one paused before shouting ¨You go girl!¨.
Coconut bread is an acceptable meal. Also, gum, popsicles, or a mouthful of salt water.
While we´re at it, jumping into a body of water is an acceptable shower.
Cranium is a really great game for when it rains. The footnotes of Crime and Punishment? Not quite as fun.
I do not need, nor want, a cell phone, email address, or calendar. I do need, and want, a new sweatshirt, as this one should be burned immediately after what it´s been through.
Snorkeling in a thunderstorm in Nicaragua is the coolest thing you can ever do.
It is not, under any circumstances, a good idea to buy hot sauce and then put it in your bag and then break the bottle all over everything unless you want to smell picante. Really, really picante. All the time. So much so that stray dogs approach.
Accidentally leaving important personal items in every country you visit does not make your bag any lighter.
Taking the time to get away from your daily grind, and yourself, is actually easier done than said. So do it whenever you can, no matter what the monetary or supposed drawbacks, because your life is only your own, and no one else will ever make it as meaningful for you as you can, all by yourself.
Do not assume that just because a boy is under seven years of age that he is incapable of wiping the floor with you via the worst chess game of your life (he plays professionally! What a little hustler!! Acting all cute so I would play with him). Castling? WTF is that? Has anyone heard of this move? I feel like I´m in the outtakes of Searching for Bobby Fisher over here. You beat me in eight moves, huh? Well you know what kid? There´s no Santa. Yep, it´s all made up. How do you like me now? Hey! There´s no crying in chess, buster.
No worries, only the biggest and hairiest spiders can swim.
Vamos, Panteras! is an exceptionally cute saying when shouted by a native Guatemalan guide who takes us into a volcano, with a gold tooth and her hands wrapped around her only nutrients for the day: a bottle of orange soda.
Sleeping is optional.
Stereotypes ARE hilarious. As in, the British can have a forty five minute discussion about the proper cake to serve with tea and then devolve into a near brawl over it. I met the most British guy of my entire life and he was such a foppish dandy hiking up his black socks and his little shoes and calling himself The Tulip Man that I could barely stand it. Also the Irish drink an astounding amount and call mushrooms ¨mushies¨, the Dutch can swim really well and have bad shoes, Kenyans run really fast and the Swedish do not smile at other people on the street. Please note, all these hilarious tidbits were actually brought up by the individuals themselves, and when I asked what their American stereotypes were, one paused before shouting ¨You go girl!¨.
Coconut bread is an acceptable meal. Also, gum, popsicles, or a mouthful of salt water.
While we´re at it, jumping into a body of water is an acceptable shower.
Cranium is a really great game for when it rains. The footnotes of Crime and Punishment? Not quite as fun.
I do not need, nor want, a cell phone, email address, or calendar. I do need, and want, a new sweatshirt, as this one should be burned immediately after what it´s been through.
Snorkeling in a thunderstorm in Nicaragua is the coolest thing you can ever do.
It is not, under any circumstances, a good idea to buy hot sauce and then put it in your bag and then break the bottle all over everything unless you want to smell picante. Really, really picante. All the time. So much so that stray dogs approach.
Accidentally leaving important personal items in every country you visit does not make your bag any lighter.
Taking the time to get away from your daily grind, and yourself, is actually easier done than said. So do it whenever you can, no matter what the monetary or supposed drawbacks, because your life is only your own, and no one else will ever make it as meaningful for you as you can, all by yourself.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Grit and Bear It
The Corn Islands in Nicaragua are sloping green, with frothy waves every shade of blue, barefoot children with monkies as pets, little thatched jungle bungalows and communal dinners, free-flowing rum drinks at 2 PM, downpours every day at 3 PM, crowing roosters, and unripe mangoes hitting the dirt with a thud as we trek to the lighthouse to view it all.
Also, the walk around the deserted beach, untouched by tourists, unknown by most and the narrow path that leads into the forest. And in the water's edge, a dead dog being lapped by the waves, entangled in a rope.
We walk around it and assure ourselves that the dog died of natural causes before scurrying away...and I can't help but joke to myself the next wave of tourist ads for here.
Welcome to Nicaragua. Come for the waves, stay for the dead dogs.
Also, the walk around the deserted beach, untouched by tourists, unknown by most and the narrow path that leads into the forest. And in the water's edge, a dead dog being lapped by the waves, entangled in a rope.
We walk around it and assure ourselves that the dog died of natural causes before scurrying away...and I can't help but joke to myself the next wave of tourist ads for here.
Welcome to Nicaragua. Come for the waves, stay for the dead dogs.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Quote of the Day
Upon viewing the unbelievable, candlelit, devolving party before us, where the boys were wearing miniskirts without underwear and the girls were dancing dressed as pirates and everyone was falling on slip and slide scale tiles of vodka and mango juice...
"I knew I should have gone to State school."
Bye bye Guatemala, next up, Nicaragua.
"I knew I should have gone to State school."
Bye bye Guatemala, next up, Nicaragua.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Pineapples are juicy, but prickly f$ckers..
What adventura we´ve been getting into:
The deepest lake in Guatemala, a kayaking accident extravaganza where I was the most awesomest and nearly helpful in my entire life, jumped out to help an overturned passenger, then jumped back in my kayak like a spring, was then overturned by the effort of said person getting back into theirs and using me for leverage, and then a huge jungle spider jumped on my shirt scaring the bejeezus out of me, and then I plunged once again into 900 feet of dark blue water fabled to have an enormous sea snake that swallows swimmers, and then both kayaks were too full to get into, so I swam three-quarters of a mile, in my clothes, towing the boat and, for part of the way, the person as well. And finding it hard to swim because I was laughing so hard.
I am rewarded by the following prize; even more Irishmen (different ones) at our magical little hostel on the lake with family-style dinners, learning some fabulous and hideous slang that cannot be spoken in mixed company, a game of story telling that resulted in the new phrase PINEAPPLES ARE JUICY, BUT PRICKLY F$CKERS and a game of pool that I helped win, and four that I helped lose. Plus a cool looking bandage on my wrist from the battle of the day...
Backpacking stories are cliche for sure, but damn if they aren´t the most fun to tell later...
The deepest lake in Guatemala, a kayaking accident extravaganza where I was the most awesomest and nearly helpful in my entire life, jumped out to help an overturned passenger, then jumped back in my kayak like a spring, was then overturned by the effort of said person getting back into theirs and using me for leverage, and then a huge jungle spider jumped on my shirt scaring the bejeezus out of me, and then I plunged once again into 900 feet of dark blue water fabled to have an enormous sea snake that swallows swimmers, and then both kayaks were too full to get into, so I swam three-quarters of a mile, in my clothes, towing the boat and, for part of the way, the person as well. And finding it hard to swim because I was laughing so hard.
I am rewarded by the following prize; even more Irishmen (different ones) at our magical little hostel on the lake with family-style dinners, learning some fabulous and hideous slang that cannot be spoken in mixed company, a game of story telling that resulted in the new phrase PINEAPPLES ARE JUICY, BUT PRICKLY F$CKERS and a game of pool that I helped win, and four that I helped lose. Plus a cool looking bandage on my wrist from the battle of the day...
Backpacking stories are cliche for sure, but damn if they aren´t the most fun to tell later...
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
The lake in Guatemala
is described as Italy´s Lake Como, but with volcanos. There are women selling chocolate cake and will come by as you are sipping your tea on floor cushions under a bamboo roof. There are hammocks everywhere, ex-pats and plantains. There is more than one tourist who bought a wooden flute and this, somehow, is very, very funny. Bright bags, little kids with firecrackers and hot vents in select parts of the lake steam out.
There are also old men talking about their favorite mushrooms. I´m waiting for the girls to catch on up, it was a long journey getting here, riding in the back of a Guatemalan truck with a bunch of men who thought we were hilarious, blue green secret pools, a cloud covered ride through the mountains, and of course, a bout of bedbugs for one of us in the hostel in Antigue (not me! I spent that night hanging out until way past twilight).
We still have a few days left here, and it´s more beautiful than I ever thought it could be, and then we´re off to Nicaragua where we´ll part with all the kids we keep bumping into and even one of our traveling companions and trek out to beaches and this time I swear I will learn a little bit at least, how to surf. I know I´m supposed to be learning a lesson, gleaning some sort of true self, furiously scribbling in my journal and becoming some sort of young woman. But I´m too busy counting the robots painted in my room and passing bottles over guitar circles and my inescapable ability to devolve into laughter about jokes that no one at all understands. (Are we the only animals that hold it (aside from domesticated pets)? I wonder aloud as a horse lets forth a river of urine on the volcano.) Right. No actual world revelations yet I suppose...
Until then, I am thinking about what we´ve seen and done, mossy Mayan ruins, a lava river of red, an inordinate amount of time spent with the Irish football team I keep running into and all the days I have left...
There are also old men talking about their favorite mushrooms. I´m waiting for the girls to catch on up, it was a long journey getting here, riding in the back of a Guatemalan truck with a bunch of men who thought we were hilarious, blue green secret pools, a cloud covered ride through the mountains, and of course, a bout of bedbugs for one of us in the hostel in Antigue (not me! I spent that night hanging out until way past twilight).
We still have a few days left here, and it´s more beautiful than I ever thought it could be, and then we´re off to Nicaragua where we´ll part with all the kids we keep bumping into and even one of our traveling companions and trek out to beaches and this time I swear I will learn a little bit at least, how to surf. I know I´m supposed to be learning a lesson, gleaning some sort of true self, furiously scribbling in my journal and becoming some sort of young woman. But I´m too busy counting the robots painted in my room and passing bottles over guitar circles and my inescapable ability to devolve into laughter about jokes that no one at all understands. (Are we the only animals that hold it (aside from domesticated pets)? I wonder aloud as a horse lets forth a river of urine on the volcano.) Right. No actual world revelations yet I suppose...
Until then, I am thinking about what we´ve seen and done, mossy Mayan ruins, a lava river of red, an inordinate amount of time spent with the Irish football team I keep running into and all the days I have left...
Sunday, July 06, 2008
This is why everyone hates Americans
Our two players enter. A good looking and yet extremely intense and creepy Israeli soldier aged 25 years and your intrepid reporter...our scene begins in a coed hostel bungalow in the rolling hills of Guatemala, overlooking a raging river, a happy community of hippies, and one of the most beautiful limestone pools ever known. It is now eleven PM.
Me, sleeping, drooling, having not showered in at least three days/ ZZZZZZZZZZZZ
Israeli soldier/ Koi? Koi?
Me, sleeping/ Uh, are you talking to me?
Israeli soldier/ Yes, Koi, are you sleeping?
Me, sitting up/ My name is Kay, not Koi.
Israeli soldier/ I am being very brave to tell you this. I would like to give you many kisses. Your hair is a beautiful condition and your eyes are the big circles.
Me, trying not to laugh/ Uh, dude?
Israeli soldier/ Or we could talk perhaps. I just want to sit near you because you are so full of laughter.
20 minutes later...
Me/ So that's how, in my opinion, the actions immediately following Hurricane Katrina ended up being a microcosm of an overlying disease, one in hindsight that was nearly entirely preventable, within America's governmental infrastructure.
Israeli soldier, looking agitated, finally storming off to his own bed/ Yes, you are funny indeed. I come for kisses and you want to give speech about f$cking politics!!!
My apologies to you, dear Emmanuel. I didn't tell you of my hidden superhero ability to repel unwanted advances with an unending force of steely, boring US centric opinions...I am American, and this is the only way I know...
Me, sleeping, drooling, having not showered in at least three days/ ZZZZZZZZZZZZ
Israeli soldier/ Koi? Koi?
Me, sleeping/ Uh, are you talking to me?
Israeli soldier/ Yes, Koi, are you sleeping?
Me, sitting up/ My name is Kay, not Koi.
Israeli soldier/ I am being very brave to tell you this. I would like to give you many kisses. Your hair is a beautiful condition and your eyes are the big circles.
Me, trying not to laugh/ Uh, dude?
Israeli soldier/ Or we could talk perhaps. I just want to sit near you because you are so full of laughter.
20 minutes later...
Me/ So that's how, in my opinion, the actions immediately following Hurricane Katrina ended up being a microcosm of an overlying disease, one in hindsight that was nearly entirely preventable, within America's governmental infrastructure.
Israeli soldier, looking agitated, finally storming off to his own bed/ Yes, you are funny indeed. I come for kisses and you want to give speech about f$cking politics!!!
My apologies to you, dear Emmanuel. I didn't tell you of my hidden superhero ability to repel unwanted advances with an unending force of steely, boring US centric opinions...I am American, and this is the only way I know...
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Hostile
The hostel has swinging branches, little corner patches of wood and bright striped cloth, palm fronds and rope chairs, a canopy of cover. There´s an old guy with two parrots on his shoulders who doesn´t even work here and all the inhabitants look like they´re sharing blue mushroom teacups. The walls are moving man, the music has colors dude, the commenters have skinny limbs, the good sunglasses and the interesting haircuts and there are almost as many half eaten bowls of rice and beans as there are half-baked philosophical conversations.
Yesterday, six hours on the horses through the mud and jungle road and I pulled the brown one into a canter and nearly got bucked right off, then our crazy Swedish guide suffering perhaps from a touch of Tourette´s called her own horse an asshole, took us into a tomb with bats and proceeded to tell us about the three children found sacrificed with their skulls bashed in and hoped aloud that the cave would not collapse and bury us all.
Tomorrow we leave at 3 AM to see the sunrise over the ruins and then run our packs to Semuc Champey, where green pools sit in limestone and only those that can make the difficult trek can even hope to catch a glimpse, let alone jump in.
I´m missing July 4th, but I hope you have a good one while I remind myself it´s not a bad consolation prize to be in Guatemala...plus I got the good bunk bed this time and I´m not giving it up...not for anything in the world...
Yesterday, six hours on the horses through the mud and jungle road and I pulled the brown one into a canter and nearly got bucked right off, then our crazy Swedish guide suffering perhaps from a touch of Tourette´s called her own horse an asshole, took us into a tomb with bats and proceeded to tell us about the three children found sacrificed with their skulls bashed in and hoped aloud that the cave would not collapse and bury us all.
Tomorrow we leave at 3 AM to see the sunrise over the ruins and then run our packs to Semuc Champey, where green pools sit in limestone and only those that can make the difficult trek can even hope to catch a glimpse, let alone jump in.
I´m missing July 4th, but I hope you have a good one while I remind myself it´s not a bad consolation prize to be in Guatemala...plus I got the good bunk bed this time and I´m not giving it up...not for anything in the world...
Monday, June 30, 2008
Panty Ripper Quote of the Day
There is a drink in Belize called the Panty Ripper. It is amazing, potent, always in great supply. Our sailing trip ended with the first mate hilariously making us some instead of driving the boat properly. He says we have to say it "PANTIE RIPPAH". That is all. Well also, this...
Two in the morning we awake on the deserted island to find that one of us is not in the tent. No, one of us is not in the tent at all.
I take a walk around the water; there are no floating bodies. There is also no electricity. I tear my foot on some rocks and then decide if she's dead, well, there's nothing that I can do. And then, the following morning:
Figure appears hangdoggedly walking in the distance towards us...
Me, shouting: Walk of shame!
REDACTED: Yeah, yeah, I slept on the boat.
Me: Uh huh. So...who was it?
REDACTED, laughing: Oh Captain, my Captain!
Me, laughing: Well?
REDACTED: Well...what?
Me (clearing throat): I think we deserve to know how big his mast is.
---------------
Panty Ripper indeed. Also for the rest of the sailing trip I was allowed to call the captain "Papasito".
Two in the morning we awake on the deserted island to find that one of us is not in the tent. No, one of us is not in the tent at all.
I take a walk around the water; there are no floating bodies. There is also no electricity. I tear my foot on some rocks and then decide if she's dead, well, there's nothing that I can do. And then, the following morning:
Figure appears hangdoggedly walking in the distance towards us...
Me, shouting: Walk of shame!
REDACTED: Yeah, yeah, I slept on the boat.
Me: Uh huh. So...who was it?
REDACTED, laughing: Oh Captain, my Captain!
Me, laughing: Well?
REDACTED: Well...what?
Me (clearing throat): I think we deserve to know how big his mast is.
---------------
Panty Ripper indeed. Also for the rest of the sailing trip I was allowed to call the captain "Papasito".
Monday, June 23, 2008
Toss Off
Me and the ex-steady, we invented this little game, our first time on waverunners. He's long gone. But I kept custody of the game.
So back on the waverunner, or the golf cart, or whatever it is I end up driving, I'm too fast, too close to flying.
It's her first time, I've smooth-talked this virgin into it, I'm slick and oily with sparkling little promises. We'll go slow, it's okay, I know you haven't done this before.
I'll be gentle sugar. I promise.
Yeah, right.
She's strapped in with nowhere to go. I swallow an evil laugh. Now I've got you my pretty.
We on the runner and we are a blur. Man oh man, I want to push my luck. I want to gun it, ignore her half terrified/half delighted screams. I want to play Toss-Off.
Where you're at the wheel of the jetski and the squealing person behind you holds on for dear life and you drive into the blue and then you cut it to the right, jerk it around, try to do a 180 and try to throw the person riding with you clear into the air. I brace myself for it. The perfect throw. Possibly worth the next five and a half weeks of silence from my traveling partner. Possibly worth her never speaking to me again after that. Renouncing our friendship.
Maybe, all worth it for that one moment in the sun, a perfect flip off and into the waves. Legs kicking, shouting, sputtering, rubbing salt from red eyes, though without harm, landing somewhat happily, if they narrowly avoid the shallow reef. Right, the reef. Damnit I can nearly brush it with my hands. And the sailboats dotting the ocean like kites would a sky. And her hands digging into the straps.
Fine.
I can't do it to her, oh how I want to, make her fly into the air, make us both crash into the waves. But I can't do it. Sure she'd hate me for it, but it's not that. She's hate the ocean for it, the trip for it, might never get on one of those things again. That's the greater loss right there. It's too beautiful and important to be in the water. I can't be responsible for someone being scared of the sea.
So, I broach the topic from a different angle.
Won't she at least throw me?
I'll let you know how it turns out...
So back on the waverunner, or the golf cart, or whatever it is I end up driving, I'm too fast, too close to flying.
It's her first time, I've smooth-talked this virgin into it, I'm slick and oily with sparkling little promises. We'll go slow, it's okay, I know you haven't done this before.
I'll be gentle sugar. I promise.
Yeah, right.
She's strapped in with nowhere to go. I swallow an evil laugh. Now I've got you my pretty.
We on the runner and we are a blur. Man oh man, I want to push my luck. I want to gun it, ignore her half terrified/half delighted screams. I want to play Toss-Off.
Where you're at the wheel of the jetski and the squealing person behind you holds on for dear life and you drive into the blue and then you cut it to the right, jerk it around, try to do a 180 and try to throw the person riding with you clear into the air. I brace myself for it. The perfect throw. Possibly worth the next five and a half weeks of silence from my traveling partner. Possibly worth her never speaking to me again after that. Renouncing our friendship.
Maybe, all worth it for that one moment in the sun, a perfect flip off and into the waves. Legs kicking, shouting, sputtering, rubbing salt from red eyes, though without harm, landing somewhat happily, if they narrowly avoid the shallow reef. Right, the reef. Damnit I can nearly brush it with my hands. And the sailboats dotting the ocean like kites would a sky. And her hands digging into the straps.
Fine.
I can't do it to her, oh how I want to, make her fly into the air, make us both crash into the waves. But I can't do it. Sure she'd hate me for it, but it's not that. She's hate the ocean for it, the trip for it, might never get on one of those things again. That's the greater loss right there. It's too beautiful and important to be in the water. I can't be responsible for someone being scared of the sea.
So, I broach the topic from a different angle.
Won't she at least throw me?
I'll let you know how it turns out...
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Me and The Salty Old Locals...
...drink some vanilla rum after chicken and rice and the backpacker across from me who has my name but spells it differently, my doppleganger if I were a hairy hippie who was overly generous with her blackberry wine and was an undergrad from Maryland, laughs with her head thrown back.
We talk about this and that, something about Korea, the sea, what could be done with a high school education...they want to sing karaoke, they sigh that they aren't twenty years younger and we shrug politely. Yes sir, if only. If only the novel I'm reading weren't 900 pages about mental illness. If only there weren't low-flying pelicans trying to steal our johnny cakes.
Waves of cheering fall over from across the river. Kids are graduating and everyone wants to celebrate. Except us. We're not wandering ten yards from our hostel door.
You can't walk two blocks to the swing bridge in Belize City in the dark, that's what we've been told, shady characters slinging rocks and so forth, but in the daytime I've got on Angry Face and the dusty, the young and shirtless, barbecuing at seven in the morning and licking their lips at first, shrink away from me, perhaps because I haven't showered in days, perhaps because I meet any "Hello Girl, Do You Want To Dance?" with a scowl, I learned something in New York and if that something is how to repell people, unsavory or not, right or wrong, well I got that down, got that in my pocket, won't shine to them, won't let them come to me, snip the straps on my bag, no not once, I've got some salty old dudes on my side and Angry Face and I can run faster than I look...
Now we're back in the sun and in the water where we belong, we're Sea Monkeys like that, there is a lobster festival and we are not tired, no not at all, maybe because we haven't yet had to run once.
We talk about this and that, something about Korea, the sea, what could be done with a high school education...they want to sing karaoke, they sigh that they aren't twenty years younger and we shrug politely. Yes sir, if only. If only the novel I'm reading weren't 900 pages about mental illness. If only there weren't low-flying pelicans trying to steal our johnny cakes.
Waves of cheering fall over from across the river. Kids are graduating and everyone wants to celebrate. Except us. We're not wandering ten yards from our hostel door.
You can't walk two blocks to the swing bridge in Belize City in the dark, that's what we've been told, shady characters slinging rocks and so forth, but in the daytime I've got on Angry Face and the dusty, the young and shirtless, barbecuing at seven in the morning and licking their lips at first, shrink away from me, perhaps because I haven't showered in days, perhaps because I meet any "Hello Girl, Do You Want To Dance?" with a scowl, I learned something in New York and if that something is how to repell people, unsavory or not, right or wrong, well I got that down, got that in my pocket, won't shine to them, won't let them come to me, snip the straps on my bag, no not once, I've got some salty old dudes on my side and Angry Face and I can run faster than I look...
Now we're back in the sun and in the water where we belong, we're Sea Monkeys like that, there is a lobster festival and we are not tired, no not at all, maybe because we haven't yet had to run once.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Slobsters
My brother used to call lobsters "slobsters", back when he was too young and too cute to correct. I look in the mirror today for the first time in two.
Slobster. That´s what I am after the Yucatan sun.
There is a very dirty, mangy kitten that keeps trying to jump into my hammock, a voodoo lady in charge of our valuables, Tiki torches and the snakes that curl around them, a local who sprays me with Windex to fend off the bug bites, the clearest blue sea and the crumbling stone above it all. Birds are the brightest yellow. The night is the darkest I´ve seen.
There are watchers. There are waiters.
My traveling companion is scared to death of lizards. I am the bodyguard, the force field, I will scare them off with my slobster claws. Snap them in half.
There is no electricity, nets on hanging beds, crashing waves, sandy feet, tired eyes, and the burn of our bikes. There is nothing to do and still our minds are full. We are about to unplug, and then it´s time to move on.
Slobster. That´s what I am after the Yucatan sun.
There is a very dirty, mangy kitten that keeps trying to jump into my hammock, a voodoo lady in charge of our valuables, Tiki torches and the snakes that curl around them, a local who sprays me with Windex to fend off the bug bites, the clearest blue sea and the crumbling stone above it all. Birds are the brightest yellow. The night is the darkest I´ve seen.
There are watchers. There are waiters.
My traveling companion is scared to death of lizards. I am the bodyguard, the force field, I will scare them off with my slobster claws. Snap them in half.
There is no electricity, nets on hanging beds, crashing waves, sandy feet, tired eyes, and the burn of our bikes. There is nothing to do and still our minds are full. We are about to unplug, and then it´s time to move on.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Arrival
Today I am laying on a trampoline, looking at the cloud cover, waxing on life and drinking a Corona, talking of horseback riding, scuba diving, the ruins we will try not to, the bus ride without chickens, the dinner with, the sparkling blue of the lit pool, thatched roofs, double beds, triple hammocks, the way she fixed my camera in one swift motion and when I dropped it immediately after, the night, the crickets and everything after.
This is day one of forty five and it is navy and it is magic.
Mondays are good when they are not Mondays at all. I chased a toad and he jumped down a hole, a bug jumped me but I chased into a cabana, and tomorrow, I don´t know what will come, just that it will be.
This is day one of forty five and it is navy and it is magic.
Mondays are good when they are not Mondays at all. I chased a toad and he jumped down a hole, a bug jumped me but I chased into a cabana, and tomorrow, I don´t know what will come, just that it will be.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Big Shoes to Fill
Unflappable Australian grandfather, known to all in the family as “The Digger”, perpetually in shorts, smoking, drinking, mustache, and famous for yelling, “What the hell is going on in here?” when in fact, nothing at all, in the name of hell or otherwise, is going on here.
Grandpa: What in the hell are you going to Central America for?
Me: Uh. It’s the only place where the dollar still means something?
Grandpa: Well, don’t get the fever. I had Malaria and Dengue, and Dengue is far worse.
Me: You had Dengue? What? When?
Grandpa: It must have been, oh, 1942.
Grandpa, you’re flipping awesome. Was this when you were a tween and enlisted in the Australian army and got shot in the leg?
If I ever sell this book of mine, the next one will be dedicated to you, all travel stories like when I broke into that amusement park, drove a tractor and swung a machete on a banana farm in Australia, thought I’d die at sea in the Dominican Republic, saw those neon toilets in Japan, got spat at by an old woman in Italy, and nearly crashed a golf cart on the highway in Uruguay. And whatever else may come from the next six weeks…
Grandpa: What in the hell are you going to Central America for?
Me: Uh. It’s the only place where the dollar still means something?
Grandpa: Well, don’t get the fever. I had Malaria and Dengue, and Dengue is far worse.
Me: You had Dengue? What? When?
Grandpa: It must have been, oh, 1942.
Grandpa, you’re flipping awesome. Was this when you were a tween and enlisted in the Australian army and got shot in the leg?
If I ever sell this book of mine, the next one will be dedicated to you, all travel stories like when I broke into that amusement park, drove a tractor and swung a machete on a banana farm in Australia, thought I’d die at sea in the Dominican Republic, saw those neon toilets in Japan, got spat at by an old woman in Italy, and nearly crashed a golf cart on the highway in Uruguay. And whatever else may come from the next six weeks…
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Novel Excerpt
I promised myself I would have a rough first draft to hand off before I got on the plane. And I'll do it if it kills me:
Here we go...some paragraphs that I like right now from the first chapter:
1) The UN director’s speech was merely expensive white noise. Possibly, it was more to the parents. But not to the gin-soaked graduates; their cheap gowns clinging to their overpriced underclothes. They were roasting in the sun, they were blinking sweat from their lids, they were flipping back and forth through the program and complaining about the band’s arrangement, their trouble securing last-minute reservations at the town’s only two decent restaurants and bragging about last-minute trysts. A. felt Kyle’s head roll onto her shoulder for the thirteenth time, and shook him off with a violent jerk.
2) Growing up didn’t mean you saw the infallibility of your elders, A. had seen that long ago (that would be the second time her mother assaulted the gardener for destroying her prized Calla lillies, clawing at him with Campari-stained fingers in what broken Spanish she had deigned to learn, “No es beuno! No es bueno!”). It meant you came to terms with the fundamental and inescapable truth that you would forever be forced to love people you simply did not like. And if you had met them at a party, these family members, as real people, having to view and judge them as other real people in the world did, you might listen perfunctorily while downing wine, and steal glances for third-party rescue, and when it came, be very thankful.
3) Sloppy, thunderous applause eminated from wet hands. Someone groaned as the guy next to him pushed him awake. A. looked beyond the podium at the green carpet underneath a lane of towering spires. Aftermath. Trees swayed, kids swayed. They began to stand, shaking under the weight of themselves on legs that had fallen asleep. A. did not look to the rows upon rows of the football stadium. She did not want to see her mother in that ridiculous white hat with the enormous magenta flower, made specially for this day, making her way, deliberately to her, camera in hand, calling her baby, calling her anything. She did not want to see her cry, choked up with false pride, dabbing at her salt-licked cheeks with a scalloped-edged handkerchief. Kyle snored and Jodi squealed, but A. did not emit a sound. She was hyperaware of how grotesque this ceremony was, how obnoxious she had been about it every step of the way, how gratuitous they had all become in the image of their parents and caregivers, just because they could. And how everyone she knew was almost rewarded for it, commemorated, with the best of everything, parents handing over the world, even if they had next to nothing, they gave it all anyway. How funny that this—and their egregious spending habits, not entirely exclusive to this problem—this, was how the last of the Baby Boomers had changed the world. Funny. Not laugh aloud funny. More of a huh, half-smirk, funny how that guy died, funny, I don’t remember him. Funny, as in how no one seemed to notice it but her.
Here we go...some paragraphs that I like right now from the first chapter:
1) The UN director’s speech was merely expensive white noise. Possibly, it was more to the parents. But not to the gin-soaked graduates; their cheap gowns clinging to their overpriced underclothes. They were roasting in the sun, they were blinking sweat from their lids, they were flipping back and forth through the program and complaining about the band’s arrangement, their trouble securing last-minute reservations at the town’s only two decent restaurants and bragging about last-minute trysts. A. felt Kyle’s head roll onto her shoulder for the thirteenth time, and shook him off with a violent jerk.
2) Growing up didn’t mean you saw the infallibility of your elders, A. had seen that long ago (that would be the second time her mother assaulted the gardener for destroying her prized Calla lillies, clawing at him with Campari-stained fingers in what broken Spanish she had deigned to learn, “No es beuno! No es bueno!”). It meant you came to terms with the fundamental and inescapable truth that you would forever be forced to love people you simply did not like. And if you had met them at a party, these family members, as real people, having to view and judge them as other real people in the world did, you might listen perfunctorily while downing wine, and steal glances for third-party rescue, and when it came, be very thankful.
3) Sloppy, thunderous applause eminated from wet hands. Someone groaned as the guy next to him pushed him awake. A. looked beyond the podium at the green carpet underneath a lane of towering spires. Aftermath. Trees swayed, kids swayed. They began to stand, shaking under the weight of themselves on legs that had fallen asleep. A. did not look to the rows upon rows of the football stadium. She did not want to see her mother in that ridiculous white hat with the enormous magenta flower, made specially for this day, making her way, deliberately to her, camera in hand, calling her baby, calling her anything. She did not want to see her cry, choked up with false pride, dabbing at her salt-licked cheeks with a scalloped-edged handkerchief. Kyle snored and Jodi squealed, but A. did not emit a sound. She was hyperaware of how grotesque this ceremony was, how obnoxious she had been about it every step of the way, how gratuitous they had all become in the image of their parents and caregivers, just because they could. And how everyone she knew was almost rewarded for it, commemorated, with the best of everything, parents handing over the world, even if they had next to nothing, they gave it all anyway. How funny that this—and their egregious spending habits, not entirely exclusive to this problem—this, was how the last of the Baby Boomers had changed the world. Funny. Not laugh aloud funny. More of a huh, half-smirk, funny how that guy died, funny, I don’t remember him. Funny, as in how no one seemed to notice it but her.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Quote of the Day
Boy: I feel like all my emotions about everything were just more pronounced and greater when I was between 13 and 18.
Girl: They were, but you were full of hormones. Now you're just dead inside.
Girl: They were, but you were full of hormones. Now you're just dead inside.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Scramble
I have one more weekend in town, so I will spend it in a dress at Coney Island, getting a terrible sunburn, wading in freezing water, playing Skeeball, winning matching bracelets with my interview subject, techno bumper cars, then riding the Cyclone, which is terrifying, because if you were to put your arm out, it would be torn off, and the ride would not stop, and the cars feel like they are about to fly through the rickety wooden slats.
I will spend it dropping chicken fingers on the boardwalk, avoiding glass on the pier, falling asleep on the ride home and seeing the Cool Kids for the second and maybe last time, and getting a drink spilled on me by a belligerent concertgoer. I will play in a hydrant and put my hands in a pond-smelling fountain in Tribeca and try to make people smell them and walk and think it is the hottest I have ever felt and finally go to that place near my apartment which is very romantic but often empty and have the best turkey burger I ever have in my entire life by candlelight.
Then I will spend the next day trying to write, barely leaving my apartment, only to buy Pepsi, and I will distract myself from finishing my book by trolling websites and posting on this blog. Kicking the blanket off and turning the air on, looking outside and wishing for rain. I will get on the phone and try to talk to everyone I know because I will miss them when I am gone.
I will not make a list of things to buy for the trip, plan my last night out, pack, move, or anything else...and I will not feel bad about it because I am responsible like that.
I am full of great ideas today...
I will spend it dropping chicken fingers on the boardwalk, avoiding glass on the pier, falling asleep on the ride home and seeing the Cool Kids for the second and maybe last time, and getting a drink spilled on me by a belligerent concertgoer. I will play in a hydrant and put my hands in a pond-smelling fountain in Tribeca and try to make people smell them and walk and think it is the hottest I have ever felt and finally go to that place near my apartment which is very romantic but often empty and have the best turkey burger I ever have in my entire life by candlelight.
Then I will spend the next day trying to write, barely leaving my apartment, only to buy Pepsi, and I will distract myself from finishing my book by trolling websites and posting on this blog. Kicking the blanket off and turning the air on, looking outside and wishing for rain. I will get on the phone and try to talk to everyone I know because I will miss them when I am gone.
I will not make a list of things to buy for the trip, plan my last night out, pack, move, or anything else...and I will not feel bad about it because I am responsible like that.
I am full of great ideas today...
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Some side effects include...
-hallucinations
-night terrors
-changes in personality
*This is on the bottle for my Malaria pills. So, here's a little experiment. Let's not tell my roommates. Then, at three AM when I am baking a pillow in the oven and bring it into one of their rooms, covered in shampoo and whisper "Dinner's ready" at the foot of their bed, the laugh will be on all of us!
-night terrors
-changes in personality
*This is on the bottle for my Malaria pills. So, here's a little experiment. Let's not tell my roommates. Then, at three AM when I am baking a pillow in the oven and bring it into one of their rooms, covered in shampoo and whisper "Dinner's ready" at the foot of their bed, the laugh will be on all of us!
Monday, June 02, 2008
Night Habits
Things only people who have seen me in my underwear know.*
I like the room freezing cold. Air-blasting, fetal-position-inducing, take-all-the-blanket-fighting, freezing cold. And lots of quilts on the bed. It reminds me of my artic 19th century childhood home in which you seriously had to decide whether a trip to the bathroom in January was worth the likely possibility that, upon touching your toe to the old pine boards, your veins would turn to ice and you’d shatter into a million pieces. Compounded by my father, whose vehement insistence of responsible consumerism I imagine will surely, upon his deathbed, possess him to reach out a hand, pull me close and whisper, “I pass my legacy to you. Promise me you will not let your mother turn the thermostat past 61 degrees in the winter. Promise me this! Oil is too expensive! God damnit!”
I sleep in dresses. Dresses that I wear nowhere else but in bed. Hey, I’d walk around work in a penoir if I could (that’s a dressing robe which is explicitly meant for combing your hair in).
I write to blasting music. Like techno. Or obscene rap. It is really weird.
My friends that are boys in the neighborhood sometimes come say hi at night when I’m writing. And my doorman thinks because of this, I am running a low-class one-woman prostitution ring in a headband and yoga pants.
I dance to no music in the kitchen. And do a lot of jumping.
I wake up early sometimes and am mad about it. I want to sleep longer but sometimes am too anxious or on deadline to.
I get a little crazy right before sleep. Like all riled up and giggly, like if you threw a tennis ball at a dog and jangled your keys and shouted, “Wanna go to the park? Huh? Wanna go to the park!” riled up and giggly.
There is a green wooden armadillo hanging upside down on the ceiling in my room and a million sketches.
I don’t know how to be lonely any more.
Sometimes I wait for people to get home and it makes me happy to see them. Yes, again like a dog.
I could spend the day in bed if I have a really good book.
I have a lot of wacky ideas and half the time I actually do them. This led to me applying to grad school in Hawaii, backpacking through Australia, writing a book, and saying very inappropriate things to upper management with the thought that I’ll be liberally excused because I am a “creative”. Note: “creative” is just a euphemism for “quirkily unprofessional” at best and “not quite all there” at worst.
I am always thirsty but I hardly ever drink anything.
There is someone in my phone listed as "Not Sure."
I think being interesting is a gift and one day I hope to have it. For now I’m okay with being interested.
I think I feel alive and amazed more than is the norm. Like the wind will blow someone’s hair into a pattern and I’ll stop or I will think about the domestication of animals and think, whoa, who was the first person to see a horse and be like, you know what, I’m gonna jump on that thing’s back, what the hell. Let alone a camel! Or that if an alien landed on this planet and saw an elephant, it would freak the hell out and fly away…
* That includes my roommates, mom and best friend, and anyone else who has seen me sleep or woken me up.
I like the room freezing cold. Air-blasting, fetal-position-inducing, take-all-the-blanket-fighting, freezing cold. And lots of quilts on the bed. It reminds me of my artic 19th century childhood home in which you seriously had to decide whether a trip to the bathroom in January was worth the likely possibility that, upon touching your toe to the old pine boards, your veins would turn to ice and you’d shatter into a million pieces. Compounded by my father, whose vehement insistence of responsible consumerism I imagine will surely, upon his deathbed, possess him to reach out a hand, pull me close and whisper, “I pass my legacy to you. Promise me you will not let your mother turn the thermostat past 61 degrees in the winter. Promise me this! Oil is too expensive! God damnit!”
I sleep in dresses. Dresses that I wear nowhere else but in bed. Hey, I’d walk around work in a penoir if I could (that’s a dressing robe which is explicitly meant for combing your hair in).
I write to blasting music. Like techno. Or obscene rap. It is really weird.
My friends that are boys in the neighborhood sometimes come say hi at night when I’m writing. And my doorman thinks because of this, I am running a low-class one-woman prostitution ring in a headband and yoga pants.
I dance to no music in the kitchen. And do a lot of jumping.
I wake up early sometimes and am mad about it. I want to sleep longer but sometimes am too anxious or on deadline to.
I get a little crazy right before sleep. Like all riled up and giggly, like if you threw a tennis ball at a dog and jangled your keys and shouted, “Wanna go to the park? Huh? Wanna go to the park!” riled up and giggly.
There is a green wooden armadillo hanging upside down on the ceiling in my room and a million sketches.
I don’t know how to be lonely any more.
Sometimes I wait for people to get home and it makes me happy to see them. Yes, again like a dog.
I could spend the day in bed if I have a really good book.
I have a lot of wacky ideas and half the time I actually do them. This led to me applying to grad school in Hawaii, backpacking through Australia, writing a book, and saying very inappropriate things to upper management with the thought that I’ll be liberally excused because I am a “creative”. Note: “creative” is just a euphemism for “quirkily unprofessional” at best and “not quite all there” at worst.
I am always thirsty but I hardly ever drink anything.
There is someone in my phone listed as "Not Sure."
I think being interesting is a gift and one day I hope to have it. For now I’m okay with being interested.
I think I feel alive and amazed more than is the norm. Like the wind will blow someone’s hair into a pattern and I’ll stop or I will think about the domestication of animals and think, whoa, who was the first person to see a horse and be like, you know what, I’m gonna jump on that thing’s back, what the hell. Let alone a camel! Or that if an alien landed on this planet and saw an elephant, it would freak the hell out and fly away…
* That includes my roommates, mom and best friend, and anyone else who has seen me sleep or woken me up.
Checklist
Have party that the doorman shuts down and I myself leave early because of my insistence that someone put “quinine” in my drink. Check.
Go ahead and volunteer to go to Aspen in the days before I fly out of the country because I apparently, love wine and stress and hate sleep. Check.
Plan on going to Lollapalooza the day after I get back from Costa Rica. Because I apparently love planes and music festivals and hate my own bed. Check.
Get a subletter and get a new roommate in 10 hours or less. And while we’re at it, hey, why not move into another room in the apartment. Then spend all day looking at photos to organize instead of cleaning up change and errant lipglosses. Check.
Yet to come…
Finish the novel—a first draft at least.
Pack, more shots, more packing, Malaria pills.
Avoid looking at bank statements.
Bask in the last hot water for weeks. Then stand in front of an air conditioner for hours and trying to hold on to the feeling.
See my friends. Quit all my jobs. Or quit my friends and see my jobs. I can’t remember which.
Spend some quality time with the rents. Buy little ipod. Buy a new camera.
What am I forgetting?
Go ahead and volunteer to go to Aspen in the days before I fly out of the country because I apparently, love wine and stress and hate sleep. Check.
Plan on going to Lollapalooza the day after I get back from Costa Rica. Because I apparently love planes and music festivals and hate my own bed. Check.
Get a subletter and get a new roommate in 10 hours or less. And while we’re at it, hey, why not move into another room in the apartment. Then spend all day looking at photos to organize instead of cleaning up change and errant lipglosses. Check.
Yet to come…
Finish the novel—a first draft at least.
Pack, more shots, more packing, Malaria pills.
Avoid looking at bank statements.
Bask in the last hot water for weeks. Then stand in front of an air conditioner for hours and trying to hold on to the feeling.
See my friends. Quit all my jobs. Or quit my friends and see my jobs. I can’t remember which.
Spend some quality time with the rents. Buy little ipod. Buy a new camera.
What am I forgetting?
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Quote of the Day
File this under WTF...
The scene: an open house to greet potential roommates. A boy sits, a half mullet cresting, his Kanye West sunglasses atop his head, his oh-so-distressed T-shirt with the oh-so-accidental holes. He asks the following, in front of 15 other potential people vying for the apartment.
Boy: "What's the policy on smoking pot?"
Girl: "Oh, um, ha. Yes, well, if you're going to do that we'd like you to do it outside since we don't really smoke in this house."
Other Girl: "Yeah our drug of choice in this apartment is pretty much red wine!"
15 people laugh nervously.
Girl: "We're pretty fine with things for the most part, but if you want to do 10 lines of cocaine a day, maybe this isn't the place for you..."
Boy, extremely pissed off and twitchy: "Well, SCREW THIS!"
Boy LEAPS over couch, nearly knocking over a bystander. Runs upstairs. Nearly runs down three new girls coming into the apartment to look. They stare at him. He stares at them before saying.
"Well, THEY REFUSE TO DO COKE HERE SO BE CAREFUL!"
Whaaaaa?
The scene: an open house to greet potential roommates. A boy sits, a half mullet cresting, his Kanye West sunglasses atop his head, his oh-so-distressed T-shirt with the oh-so-accidental holes. He asks the following, in front of 15 other potential people vying for the apartment.
Boy: "What's the policy on smoking pot?"
Girl: "Oh, um, ha. Yes, well, if you're going to do that we'd like you to do it outside since we don't really smoke in this house."
Other Girl: "Yeah our drug of choice in this apartment is pretty much red wine!"
15 people laugh nervously.
Girl: "We're pretty fine with things for the most part, but if you want to do 10 lines of cocaine a day, maybe this isn't the place for you..."
Boy, extremely pissed off and twitchy: "Well, SCREW THIS!"
Boy LEAPS over couch, nearly knocking over a bystander. Runs upstairs. Nearly runs down three new girls coming into the apartment to look. They stare at him. He stares at them before saying.
"Well, THEY REFUSE TO DO COKE HERE SO BE CAREFUL!"
Whaaaaa?
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Remembering: Feel, Again
Thank you blog, I do believe you just showed me the ending of my novel...
I feel them. Those little creepers of sunshine piercing through Wednesday. They still exist. Ladybugs marching, small centipede feet. It’s on my throat and in my stomach. It’s the back of my head. These are hands out the window, feet in the water touches. There is no winter, only the prospect of spring. Bare shoulders and toes and warm rain cannot be so far away.
I feel them more and more, especially when I sleep, sound but in fits, lips parted, across the length of the bed. My blanket is chronically askew, backwards and jumbled. I create the folds in swift movements imperceptible to me, by no true fault of my own. Now no one’s here to tell me it’s wrong and it’s bad and it needs to be smoothed. Throat tight, eyes shut, feet to the wind…I’ve done it all but no more, not today.
No one can tell me that it’s impossible, that I’m impossible. I’m all I’ve got, so it doesn’t suit my soul to hate myself. To disbelieve my hopes and dreams is just that. I want to nap at one in the afternoon twice a week. I want strong coffee with milk at three in the morning, on a park bench, with or without someone else. I want the only lying to be on grass, I want to use my dog as a footrest when he’s sleeping and him to use my arm as a pillow when I am. I want to build a fort, I want to touch linen on my cheek, I want an outdoor shower, a homemade aquarium for sea snails, green apples in a bowl, wooden furniture. I want a well-tended garden that someone else weeds, to walk on weathered stones, to inhale lavender, to shut off my cell phone. I want the ribbon to hold fast in my hair and flowers in my fists before glass jars. I want to be good to the world. I want the world to be good to me.
Everything is within reach. Naysayers keep on; the gleam of the brass ring doesn’t fade. True, my eyes were on the floor for a while. I was averted all the way. Never again will I doubt myself knowingly and willingly. There is no one to fight for me; there is no one to fight with me but me.
Negativity breeds and then it’s screaming in your living room. It swells in your ears; you’re bad, you’re not worth it, you never were. You’ll never be good enough.
But who wasn’t good enough? You or that voice? The one that purported to know you and then cut you down. That bad man on your shoulder. The weight on your chest in the morning. The sleep in your eyes at all hours.
And you may ask yourself who will fight for you, with you, but you?
I feel the newness of liking again, the weightlessness of it all. Things are not as important as they seem, and then they are so much more than we could ever realize. Life in moments, in consciousness, in being kind and knowing when to contribute and when to fall away without hate in your heart.
Breathing deep is beautiful, the crushing burden of pain is bliss when it stops. It’s calm and flows, fingertip to fingertip. I spread my hands out to the city and let it radiate out. I give it to anyone who will have it in return. I give it to you but not to your little voice and not to mine. They don’t get to rule us anymore.
In return, they’ll let us stop spinning as long as we want, they smile back as they shrink, they’ll let us twist the blanket and they won’t say a thing...
I feel them. Those little creepers of sunshine piercing through Wednesday. They still exist. Ladybugs marching, small centipede feet. It’s on my throat and in my stomach. It’s the back of my head. These are hands out the window, feet in the water touches. There is no winter, only the prospect of spring. Bare shoulders and toes and warm rain cannot be so far away.
I feel them more and more, especially when I sleep, sound but in fits, lips parted, across the length of the bed. My blanket is chronically askew, backwards and jumbled. I create the folds in swift movements imperceptible to me, by no true fault of my own. Now no one’s here to tell me it’s wrong and it’s bad and it needs to be smoothed. Throat tight, eyes shut, feet to the wind…I’ve done it all but no more, not today.
No one can tell me that it’s impossible, that I’m impossible. I’m all I’ve got, so it doesn’t suit my soul to hate myself. To disbelieve my hopes and dreams is just that. I want to nap at one in the afternoon twice a week. I want strong coffee with milk at three in the morning, on a park bench, with or without someone else. I want the only lying to be on grass, I want to use my dog as a footrest when he’s sleeping and him to use my arm as a pillow when I am. I want to build a fort, I want to touch linen on my cheek, I want an outdoor shower, a homemade aquarium for sea snails, green apples in a bowl, wooden furniture. I want a well-tended garden that someone else weeds, to walk on weathered stones, to inhale lavender, to shut off my cell phone. I want the ribbon to hold fast in my hair and flowers in my fists before glass jars. I want to be good to the world. I want the world to be good to me.
Everything is within reach. Naysayers keep on; the gleam of the brass ring doesn’t fade. True, my eyes were on the floor for a while. I was averted all the way. Never again will I doubt myself knowingly and willingly. There is no one to fight for me; there is no one to fight with me but me.
Negativity breeds and then it’s screaming in your living room. It swells in your ears; you’re bad, you’re not worth it, you never were. You’ll never be good enough.
But who wasn’t good enough? You or that voice? The one that purported to know you and then cut you down. That bad man on your shoulder. The weight on your chest in the morning. The sleep in your eyes at all hours.
And you may ask yourself who will fight for you, with you, but you?
I feel the newness of liking again, the weightlessness of it all. Things are not as important as they seem, and then they are so much more than we could ever realize. Life in moments, in consciousness, in being kind and knowing when to contribute and when to fall away without hate in your heart.
Breathing deep is beautiful, the crushing burden of pain is bliss when it stops. It’s calm and flows, fingertip to fingertip. I spread my hands out to the city and let it radiate out. I give it to anyone who will have it in return. I give it to you but not to your little voice and not to mine. They don’t get to rule us anymore.
In return, they’ll let us stop spinning as long as we want, they smile back as they shrink, they’ll let us twist the blanket and they won’t say a thing...
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Grow like Trees
The leaves are changing and they are mine.
In a little less than a month, I will have new stories to tell, not the old of banana farms, scratched forearms and pale morning light above soy fields. Not of who I’ve lost and who I’ve found. Not of silly work stories or music recommendations or punchy quotes that pass the time, fashion, thin walls or this fleeting thought and that hollow laugh.
It will be the stuff of legends, beaches, loneliness, heartache, growth like birch trees up and up and even more so, far away. Sand forever in my shoes, dirt under my fingernails, the chicken bus, the malaria pills, the unspoiled wilderness and the spoiled beaches, all the yelling, all the quiet. All the togetherness and all the silent nights, slapping at mosquitoes, the deafening silence of my own thoughts, or lack thereof.
I’m going away for 6 weeks; it’s all set and done. Down the Yucatan, into Belize, Guatemala, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica. I will have a backpack and I will not have a computer.
There is that of course. There is also the novel, which, if all goes well, I will have a first draft and one I am proud of, by the time I get onto the plane. I’m handing over a part of me; the best part maybe, and letting it go, not knowing what will arrive in its place. I want to write; I want to be better, this time more about travel and discovery and less about the search for self. I want a great deal and that is good, it reminds me I’m alive, that we’re never stuck where we thought we’d be, that there is always an option, always a new day and always a way to go further even if you think that you’ve come as far as you ever even dreamed…
In a little less than a month, I will have new stories to tell, not the old of banana farms, scratched forearms and pale morning light above soy fields. Not of who I’ve lost and who I’ve found. Not of silly work stories or music recommendations or punchy quotes that pass the time, fashion, thin walls or this fleeting thought and that hollow laugh.
It will be the stuff of legends, beaches, loneliness, heartache, growth like birch trees up and up and even more so, far away. Sand forever in my shoes, dirt under my fingernails, the chicken bus, the malaria pills, the unspoiled wilderness and the spoiled beaches, all the yelling, all the quiet. All the togetherness and all the silent nights, slapping at mosquitoes, the deafening silence of my own thoughts, or lack thereof.
I’m going away for 6 weeks; it’s all set and done. Down the Yucatan, into Belize, Guatemala, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica. I will have a backpack and I will not have a computer.
There is that of course. There is also the novel, which, if all goes well, I will have a first draft and one I am proud of, by the time I get onto the plane. I’m handing over a part of me; the best part maybe, and letting it go, not knowing what will arrive in its place. I want to write; I want to be better, this time more about travel and discovery and less about the search for self. I want a great deal and that is good, it reminds me I’m alive, that we’re never stuck where we thought we’d be, that there is always an option, always a new day and always a way to go further even if you think that you’ve come as far as you ever even dreamed…
Monday, May 19, 2008
Writer's Bio
Today at work I was compiling writer bios for a new magazine I'm working on. Then I had a brilliant little flash idea--what if someone had asked me for my bio (this has yet to occur)? What, pray tell, would I put into it? My heart? My soul? The truth. Yes! All three!
I got a little excited. If I wrote it, it could read the following:
Kay is a writer who has contributed to {REDACTED FOOD MAGAZINE} , {REDACTED NEW YORK CENTRIC MAGAZINE}, and {REDACTED HIPSTER-HIP HOP-CULTURE MAGAZINE} and many others, most of which you have never heard of {REDACTED LUXURY NICHE MAGAZINE WHERE SHE DROPPED A SNEAKER REFERENCE FOR NO REASON}, {REDACTED SNARKY GOSSIP SITE WHICH NEARLY GOT HER FIRED} and the bathroom wall at work where she wrote that her editor hearts...{insert obscene act}. She is the proud owner of insane mullet-cum-shag hair that is often, if not always, completely inappropriate for work and too many T-shirts with gold lettering.
She enjoys long walks through her garbage-infested neighborhood, muttering "you dirty bastard" under her breath when meeting strangers, then accusing those who make direct eye contact as "stealing her cinnamon", cleaning the microwave at four in the morning, slipping in the shower, and most varieties of cheese. She lives at home with her stuff. And roommates. And her sweet, sweet ipod party mixes, the first of which born last summer.
She is currently working on her first novel, which was set to be titled "The Holy Bible" until it was found out that the title had already been taken by some book no one ever heard of. She is planning a trip to Central America this summer. If she returns, please contact her for work, as she will need it, mostly to show you her great tan, which you better be jealous of, or else the trip wasn't worth it at all, no matter how many cultures she saw and how expanded her mind became.
Yeah, that doesn't sound too bad. Not bad at all...
I got a little excited. If I wrote it, it could read the following:
Kay is a writer who has contributed to {REDACTED FOOD MAGAZINE} , {REDACTED NEW YORK CENTRIC MAGAZINE}, and {REDACTED HIPSTER-HIP HOP-CULTURE MAGAZINE} and many others, most of which you have never heard of {REDACTED LUXURY NICHE MAGAZINE WHERE SHE DROPPED A SNEAKER REFERENCE FOR NO REASON}, {REDACTED SNARKY GOSSIP SITE WHICH NEARLY GOT HER FIRED} and the bathroom wall at work where she wrote that her editor hearts...{insert obscene act}. She is the proud owner of insane mullet-cum-shag hair that is often, if not always, completely inappropriate for work and too many T-shirts with gold lettering.
She enjoys long walks through her garbage-infested neighborhood, muttering "you dirty bastard" under her breath when meeting strangers, then accusing those who make direct eye contact as "stealing her cinnamon", cleaning the microwave at four in the morning, slipping in the shower, and most varieties of cheese. She lives at home with her stuff. And roommates. And her sweet, sweet ipod party mixes, the first of which born last summer.
She is currently working on her first novel, which was set to be titled "The Holy Bible" until it was found out that the title had already been taken by some book no one ever heard of. She is planning a trip to Central America this summer. If she returns, please contact her for work, as she will need it, mostly to show you her great tan, which you better be jealous of, or else the trip wasn't worth it at all, no matter how many cultures she saw and how expanded her mind became.
Yeah, that doesn't sound too bad. Not bad at all...
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Cut Copy Love
I started a mix called "Bronze Pony". It refers to something hilarious only to me, but I can't stop laughing about it. And it is my nickname for my dance partner.
Now if only we could get away with shattering the windows of all apartments in a five block radius...
Cut Copy* "Far Away"
Mystery Jets "Diamonds in the Dark"
Foals "Balloons"
Van She "Kelly"
Hot 8 Brass Band "Sexual Healing"
Camp Lo "Luchini"
MIA "20 Dollar"
Spank Rock "Tell Me What It Look Like"
The Kills "U.R.A. Fever"
Free Blood "The Royal Family"
Yak Ballz "YBTV"
Any more suggestions to add?
*I couldn't be sadder that I'm missing this concert tonight. I love these guys so so much.
Now if only we could get away with shattering the windows of all apartments in a five block radius...
Cut Copy* "Far Away"
Mystery Jets "Diamonds in the Dark"
Foals "Balloons"
Van She "Kelly"
Hot 8 Brass Band "Sexual Healing"
Camp Lo "Luchini"
MIA "20 Dollar"
Spank Rock "Tell Me What It Look Like"
The Kills "U.R.A. Fever"
Free Blood "The Royal Family"
Yak Ballz "YBTV"
Any more suggestions to add?
*I couldn't be sadder that I'm missing this concert tonight. I love these guys so so much.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
How to Break Up in 10 Seconds
Girl: "I'm just likely to get too wrapped up in us and have it become a destructive force in my life. We're too different."
Guy: "I understand that I'm not what you're used to, but you can swim in my water without having to live there."
Girl: "But your water is black. And there's a dead body floating in it."
Guy: "I understand that I'm not what you're used to, but you can swim in my water without having to live there."
Girl: "But your water is black. And there's a dead body floating in it."
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
The Best Song You've Ever Heard
There are no words.
Thank you, BT, for sending this in. Now you're responsible for fifteen people peeing themselves at work and twenty being fired.
Thank you, BT, for sending this in. Now you're responsible for fifteen people peeing themselves at work and twenty being fired.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Nevermind the Bullocks
Vicious.
Was punk rock all about image? Maybe so, at least at the end? beginning? but with music videos like these, does anyone really care? This might be the funniest clip in rock history.
Was punk rock all about image? Maybe so, at least at the end? beginning? but with music videos like these, does anyone really care? This might be the funniest clip in rock history.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Muzak Roundup
Hey, everyone says he's too late to a party that's already over (they do say that about Kavinsky too, those Pitchfork kids hate the hyperbole fun don't they? How can you hate a man who interviews like this?), but I still adore Calvin Harris. Shout out to my friend(s) who have heard his album and sent it my way.*
He answers what is sweetness almost as much as Spank Rock on the other end of the spectrum**
Monday night at Bowery I caught Calvin in all his earnestness, asking over and over "What's up New York? Jump up New York!" So his stage banter could use some work, but he was so excited to be here and have a few errant East Coasters saluting him (the rest of the crowd was a weirdish mix of cliche interpretations of Eurotrash, a grandmother in sequins, and one of the guys from We Are Scientists) that it really didn't matter. Now if only I could be doing the same tomorrow, but Spank Rock got sick and now it's all off. Boo. At least I got those Radiohead tickets in the summer...and I'm listening to a lot of Fleet Foxes and Mystery Jets these days.
Who has a music recommendation to share? Let's hear it!
*Note to all of you, I'm SO COOL that I've had it since last year. No need to ask how I heard it first. No, it was not at a Forever 21 which completely negates all coolness associated with it. Okay, yes it was. Yes, your greatest fears are true: I am lame. Lamer than you ever imagined.
**--who, by the way, I ended up walking behind after the Crystal Castles/Health show a few months ago, and he put a huge traffic cone on his head as a hat and started shouting, "Where the party at?" which I misheard as "Where the party hat?" to which we responded, "On your head!" and then HE started saying "Where the party hat?" and like the Pied Piper led a parade of girls into the depths of Brooklyn and now every time I come into a party I say, "Where the party hat?" Moving on.
He answers what is sweetness almost as much as Spank Rock on the other end of the spectrum**
Monday night at Bowery I caught Calvin in all his earnestness, asking over and over "What's up New York? Jump up New York!" So his stage banter could use some work, but he was so excited to be here and have a few errant East Coasters saluting him (the rest of the crowd was a weirdish mix of cliche interpretations of Eurotrash, a grandmother in sequins, and one of the guys from We Are Scientists) that it really didn't matter. Now if only I could be doing the same tomorrow, but Spank Rock got sick and now it's all off. Boo. At least I got those Radiohead tickets in the summer...and I'm listening to a lot of Fleet Foxes and Mystery Jets these days.
Who has a music recommendation to share? Let's hear it!
*Note to all of you, I'm SO COOL that I've had it since last year. No need to ask how I heard it first. No, it was not at a Forever 21 which completely negates all coolness associated with it. Okay, yes it was. Yes, your greatest fears are true: I am lame. Lamer than you ever imagined.
**--who, by the way, I ended up walking behind after the Crystal Castles/Health show a few months ago, and he put a huge traffic cone on his head as a hat and started shouting, "Where the party at?" which I misheard as "Where the party hat?" to which we responded, "On your head!" and then HE started saying "Where the party hat?" and like the Pied Piper led a parade of girls into the depths of Brooklyn and now every time I come into a party I say, "Where the party hat?" Moving on.
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