Naked in New York

Is WiFi like a fart?

2011-12-13T21:13:00.001-05:00

I am mystified by wireless internet. I don't understand all that power just floating around in the air - you'd think it would drive cats crazy (and maybe it does). Well, whatever. I was at work today and having a very hard time getting the wireless to provide a decent signal to my laptop. Sometimes it seemed if someone walked by, shortly thereafter I would get a temporary boost in signal.

WTF?

It wouldn't last, to the point that I eventually resorted to roaming around, computer in hand, looking for a better signal. Pathetic, right?

Well, it seemed like a plausible hypothesis that the wifi signals were being wafted towards my computer by the person walking by. Thusly, I figured wifi must be like a fart - you can waft it around.

Turns out the technologically inclined set me straight with talks of wave lengths and radiation. They may be right, but I prefer my fart theory.

No, really, I'm not a cat lady. These aren't technically mine...

2011-11-27T18:25:00.000-05:00

While we technically only have one cat, a 11-year old fur ball that is equal parts cute and evil, our outdoor brood has grown from Buddy, to Not Buddy, to Not-Not Buddy: three very similar looking alley cats that we feed with some regularity (meaning when we see them, we feed them).

Buddy, who some claim is about 15 years old (I doubt this very much), has learned how to get fed by three separate houses on our street. As a result, Buddy is getting pretty fat - but he/she/it is an outdoor cat, so he/she/it will need it for the winter. While he (I think it's a he, so let's just call him that) will rudely meow at us to get food, he will not let us touch him.

Not Buddy started showing up maybe a year ago. He/she/it looks a lot like Buddy, but with dark gray spots, instead of black like Buddy (hence the Not Buddy name). Not Buddy is smaller and thinner than Buddy and they are in the habit of sitting on our porch and meowing at each other very very loudly. Like Buddy, he does not let us pet him.

Not-Not Buddy showed up recently. He/she/it seems to be a kitten with markings similar to Buddy, but more black than white spots. Not-Not Buddy is friendly and I think he/she/it is/was someone's cat. If winter comes and he is still outside, I would like to bring him in - something that will not sit very well with our cat (who happens to detest all members of his own species, showing his distaste in the form of hisses and arched backs).

Our local humane society is overrun with kittens and I fear that if we trapped them and brought them there, they would be euthanized as they are not prime candidates for adoption. Since there are several neighbors who have started feeding them, while not perfect, is a way to provide them with a modicum of comfort. I think Buddy was never a house cat, and Not Buddy has been on the streets long enough that he is very guarded of people. Hopefully Not Not Buddy will find a home (or go back home) soon.

(not so) wise words

2011-11-18T13:21:00.001-05:00

I like profanity and foul language as much as the next person, but I also feel there is a time and place for the proper placed expletive. F-bombing everything is just, well, so déclassé.

Case in point:

I was folding my laundry at my local ~~hangout for crazy people~~ laundromat, minding my own business. Across from me, a meat-head Jersey dad was also folding laundry. His little girl who looked to be about 2 or 3 years old, sat on the table besides the pile of folded clothes.

Dad (folding a pink dress): "Isn't this the cutest motherfucking thing you've ever seen?"

Now, I'm not expert but I would say this falls on the other side of appropriate language to use in the presence of your child - even if it is accentuating the adorableness of the pink frilly dress.

I'm probably missing something, but...

2011-09-28T21:54:00.000-04:00

I broke up with Target a while ago. Since then, we've been able work through out differences and we remain casual acquaintances - meaning i don't go out of my way and stuff... but in in a laundry induced t-shirt and sock emergency I still run back for a one shopping stand (get it? get it?)

Anyway, I didn't much get the recent hoopla about Missioni for Target. People were clawing their way through merchandise that seemed inspired by the blankets lovingly crotched by grandma and proudly displayed in the basement rumpus room. Regardless, the collection sold out in record time, crashing the Target website and making everyone all pissy.

Really people? Really?

Well, it appears that people are now seeing clearly and returning merch to the stores, as Missioni items are re-appearing. (yes, there were quite a few laundry related emergencies necessitating purchases of t-shirts recently). I guess selling all that crap on eBay didn't pan out - and returning it at least helps you break even - minus the scratch marks and black eyes, I suppose.

Hurricane Irene's crazy aunt Donna

2011-08-28T19:39:00.000-04:00

As evidenced by the clip above, people's behaviors when faced with floods and cameras have not changed in 50 years. Same old stuff, but with prettier cars.

The images are from Rockaway in the aftermath of Hurricane Donna in 1960. I particularly love the "oh shit how shall we get the car off the boardwalk" moment.

And... scene.

2011-08-28T12:56:00.000-04:00

While the non stop news cycle continues to up-sell the ~~hurricane~~ storm, from our perch it was really no different than a regular storm, the type we have a couple times a year. Some trees fell on our street (which is not unusual) and there are small branches in the street. But to say this was a hurricane just doesn't seem right. Not that I wished for devastation, but I think that the media hype had people unnecessarily freaked out. Don't get me wrong, it's important not to be stupid (hurricane kayakers I'm talking to you), but to have the major networks (NBC, ABC, CBS) turn to 24 hour all news operations for 3 days seems a bit much. If you have to crash a wedding and broadcast live for no other reason than it was supposed to be a beach wedding that had to be moved inside, than perhaps it's time to return to the regularly scheduled programming.

So here we are, on the back end of a storm that produced its share of dumb reporting moments, from the aforementioned channel 4 wedding crash, to a reporter who unknowingly got covered in raw sewage. I think it's time for a nap - and than maybe, just maybe, a bit more of ridiculous non-news news coverage.

Irene (the incredible saga, as seen on TV)

2011-08-27T11:20:00.012-04:00

There has been incessant media coverage about Hurricane Irene, and every time this happens it seems that is a big ado about nothing. So here is the blow by blow as it happens (or doesn't) as seen from our little perch across the Hudson.

We (sort of) followed instructions to put together a preparedness kit, modified to fit our needs as you can see below:

8:43 am - returned my mother's panicky phone call. I guess the news of impending doom and gloom have made it to South America. Great.

9:01 am - headed to Madame Claude for brunch. Had my usual bucket of cafe au lait. It was busier than usual for such an early hour. I guess they were not expecting that many people. There was a lot of available street parking - looks like quite a few people left (the rest went for early brunch it seems).

11 am - rain is starting. TV seems to be all weather all the time. Guessing they are peeing their pants in happiness.

11:24 am - Channel 4 (NBC affiliate) has officially run out of news to report and are now broadcasting live from someone's wedding in Long Branch, NJ. It seems that since it was supposed to be a beach wedding and now it is an indoor wedding, this merits live coverage. Reporter fumbling to comment on bride's dress, resulting in a report that is equal parts funny and pathetic.

11:29 am - rain subsiding. Some wind would be nice, since it's kinda hot. This is really boring. I'm going to bake some cookies. Back when something interesting happens.

12:12 pm - the rain stopped. It's hot and muggy. Our neighbor in the back seems to be mowing the grass.

1:53 pm - behold! Cookies!

3:24 pm - no rain, a bit cooler than earlier. News now downright silly and naked.

3:54 pm - funniest tweet I read thus far on the storm: "The Weather Channel has upgraded Irene from "unable to lift Gov Chris Christie" to "able to lift Gov Chris Christie." also "NC Gov says "Irene not as bad as originally thought." Meanwhile Guiness record for most people hiding under beds to be set in NYC."

4:44 pm - ~~nope, still no rain.~~ a bit of rain. News continues to report on nothingness. Image of a man with an inflatable boat and two ores around Wall St. area - presumably waiting for the biblical floods.

7:30 pm - Got a pizza. Rain picking up. Watching Conviction and trying to spot the Ann Arbor (MI) locations. The Hurricane news cycle is now completely ridiculous.

9:39 pm - called my mom to let her know we are still alive. Rain is pretty steady now, and were it not for all the hooptla on the tee-vee I would say this is splendid sleeping weather.

10:20 pm - made some more ice. Would be a travesty to be without power and not be able to serve a chilled drink, no? Warm margaritas are simply not as delicious.

10:54 pm - it's been a long and non eventful day. I'm going to follow the cat's lead and go to sleep

Plate Tectonics

2011-08-23T18:06:00.000-04:00

We got ourselves an earthquake in New York City today.

I was waiting for the uptown R train at the City Hall station to go meet a friend in the Village. I usually try to stand away from all the people for a better chance at a less crowded car and today I decided to walk forward to where the first or second subway car would stop. As I waited, the station started to fill up. Not crowded, but getting fuller. A few people were standing nearby.

As it is often the case with New York City subway stations, you can hear the rumble of traffic from the street above. I heard the beeping of a truck backing up. It stopped, and then I saw the fluorescent lights above my head start to shake a bit. I figured it must be the truck idling directly above my head. The shaking continued for several seconds, then intensified to where the lights were swaying back and forth.

It got creepy.

As the strong shaking continued, the steps down to the station started to groan, as if the dinosaur cast of Jurassic Park was giving chase to a group of unsuspecting tourists. It got really loud for a split second. And then it was over. No one panicked or screamed.

My train came and I left. It wasn’t until I got to where I was going and came above ground and saw the sidewalks crowded with office dwellers that it dawned on me that something significant had happened. Through my magical superpowers (eavesdropping on loud conversations) I gathered an earthquake hit New York.

And that’s my story.

Politically Incorrect

2011-05-29T20:13:00.000-04:00

I was perusing the interwebs recently, researching vintage ads and found these gems:

I guess advertising has changed a bit over the years. Or has it?

Grabbing a Widget

2011-04-11T13:38:00.000-04:00

I'm helping a friend with a documentary project, and we need to generate some views on our IndieGoGo page. Here is a pretty widget that you can click on and will take you to our page. I'm pretty sure that if you click, good things will happen to you.

Underbelly

2011-04-07T09:25:00.000-04:00

This happened a little while ago but it's so hauntingly beautiful, it's totally worth the re-post.

The YouTube video has really crappy compression and the colors are very washed out:

A much better version can be found on the New York Times page (lacks embedding options, so you'll have to click the link to the NYT article and load the video from there).

Sunset on the BQE

2011-03-30T17:39:00.000-04:00

On our way back from doing our taxes (and feeling pretty crappy), the sun was painting the sky all pretty. So we got that going for us - which is nice.

My Beautiful Laundette?

2011-03-29T13:37:00.000-04:00

One of the down sides of being a renter in the New York City area is that chances are, you won't have a washer and dryer in your apartment. Maybe you'll have shared laundry facilities in the basement, or maybe you wash your clothes at your local laundromat. Some people use the wash and fold service, but since I can't deal with strangers touching my clean clothes, I have to do the laundry myself.

The local laundromat I got to is generally very clean (cleaner than most) with no soap gunk on the washers and minimal melted stuff in the dryers. And contrary to its suburban counterparts that take up several storefronts in non-descript strip malls, it is quite small.

The clientele is quite diverse, ranging from harried mothers with screaming children, teenagers washing their many sneakers, the elderly, the rude and the clinically insane. One woman in particular, who seems to be there frequently as of late, is one such example. She is middle-aged, about 400 lbs and with an equally large attitude. She brings her laundry in many black industrial sized garbage bags and she does her best to occupy not only all the machines, but also all of the available floor space. She talks to herself, she yells at the attendant, she insults other customers and when she sits down she takes up an entire row of bench seats.

I used to get very irritated when I had to deal with the odd cast of characters that pass through our local laundry facility. The people who played music loudly on their cell phones; those who let their kids run around out of control; those who lounged on the folding tables - not to mention the rude people, the smelly people and the ever present bootleg DVD peddlers - but really, the catalyst of all my grumpiness was always the woman described above. I always tried to ignore her and focus on my attention on the women gossiping in Spanish, kidding myself that i was practicing the language - that is, until today.

Today it dawned on me that I could just pretend to be a character in a John Waters movie. Once I realized that, all the mayhem around me actually became soothing and the chaos made some sort of sense.

Mark the Painter

2011-03-28T22:28:00.001-04:00

Walking down Prince Street today, I passed Ray's Pizza - which has been closed by the Health Department - and that was kinda sad (and gross). Anyways, here is a video I made of Mark the painter, who paints signs around New York City, including that of Ray's on Prince. A good portion of the video was actually shot just across the street form Ray's.

Mark the Painter from Felicia Jamieson on Vimeo.

The video comes from the I Love Old New York blog.

Catatonic the new black?

2011-03-24T10:25:00.000-04:00

I was riding the subway the other day and a woman with one of those obnoxious double-wide strollers sat next to me. Her kids, a boy and a girl, seemed to be about 3 years old or so. Initially they were pleasant enough that I didn't mind the fact that the stroller was totally intruding on my leg space. I figured I should be the adult in this situation. Besides, it was a short ride.

About 5 minutes in, the little girl started to make squeal-y noises and to kick me. Her mother told her, very calmly, to stop. It didn't work. The squeals morphed to high-pitch fake crying and hard kicking.

Her mother did nothing. People were staring. When she got louder, the mother would slowly put her finger to her lips to indicate that the little girl should shoosh it.

Shockingly, that didn't work, either. At this point the fake crying has gone on for so long that there are crocodile tears forming. My stop was nearing and I got up extra early and made my way to the farthest door, hoping it would be quieter there. I looked back and saw the mother with a content-yet-blank look on her face that projected a "right now I'm seeing dancing unicorns and a leprechaun is bringing me a pot of gold" expression.

I realize that motherhood is a lot of work and that kids will be kids (within reason), but all I could think was "easy on the Xanax lady!"

I think I'm in l--l-l-l-love...

2011-03-22T19:29:00.001-04:00

Just perusing them interwebs and reading some of my usual blogs, and this song kinda hit me upside the head and knocked me out of my neo-soul phase (at least for a minute or two). As a someone whose formative years were well planted in the 80s, this is not a throwback, but a homage. The Smiths anyone?

Old New York, Brand New Project

2011-03-15T09:33:00.000-04:00

I Love Old New York is a project I have been working on for close to a year now. We finally launched our blog I Love Old New York as a repository of all things old New York. We focus on experiences you can duplicate and we plan on using a lot of video and photography to tell the story.

Go check it out. I hope you'll like it.

Exploring in 6x6 squares

2011-03-12T18:52:00.002-05:00

One of the things I love most about New York is that you can find such unique neighborhoods and enclaves that seem like a throwback to a different time and place. Lately I've been working on a project with a friend that has allowed me to explore a lot of the Old New York neighborhoods.

An announcement of this new project is coming within days, but in the mean time, here is a photo I took in Greenpoint last week. I was trying out my new medium format plastic camera (yes, it was a Holga from the trendier-than-thou Lomgraphy people, but since I got it for $30 bucks I figured the pluses outweighed the negatives)

So here you have it - the first and last photo taken on my first roll of 120 color slide film (cross processed as color negative for the technicolor pop of color)

completely off topic

2011-02-25T15:41:00.001-05:00

Because I LOVE Oscar the Grouch!

http://video.aol.com/video/youve-got-oscar-the-grouch/2941910561

Jack of all trades, master of none

2011-02-21T09:35:00.001-05:00

I'm (attempting to) train for a half marathon. I say attempting because I really don't like to run, but the challenge seemed doable, particularly since the plan I'm following starts with a day of rest. I can get behind any exercise program that starts with no exercise, but I'm beginning to think that this was just a clever way to suck people like me in.

To make sure I stayed on the wagon and kept pushing myself, I started a little blog to document my progress - or lack thereof. You can read it here.

Feel free to check in and see how I'm coming along.

Coney Island in February

2011-02-16T14:30:00.000-05:00

The iconic Coney Island is no more. Yes, we all knew this was coming, but when I was there a few weeks ago, construction crews were building a new roller coaster directly behind where the Shoot the Freak space used to be. While I have to admit that I am a little itsy bitsy tiny little bit excited to see what this roller coaster turns out to be, I would take the old Astroland back any day over whatever new thing gets build here.

I took this photo through a hole n the plywood covered fence that enclosed the construction area.

Love is....

2011-02-01T15:43:00.000-05:00

78 days

2011-01-21T15:29:00.000-05:00

Some people get all high and mighty and resolve to do all sorts of things in the New Year: more exercise, less junk food, yadda, yadda, yadda.

I decided to give myself a present instead. I gave myself 78 days to just, well... do. To work on projects just for fun, to make little movies, to take pictures and to do all of the things I never have time to do. So to clean the slate, I'm plowing through a to-do list of stuff that has been hanging over my head - from paperwork nonsense to the practical, the list has to be whittled down to almost nothing by the end of the weekend. And then? Well, dunno. But I'm pretty excited about it.

Lo-Fi Photo

2011-01-19T15:25:00.001-05:00

So there is this whole thing about embracing the simple old school low tech approach to photography. The people over at Lomography seem to be making some good cash with their cameras that take really good bad pictures. I like the look, but I don't really like the price. So I dug through my stuff and found a~~n old~~ a vintage Sparta 35F camera, which was originally manufactured between 1946 and 1952. A little further digging revealed some Kodak film (with a process by date of Feb. 2007) and voilá! Lomography on the cheap!

Here is a photo I took at a nearby park. For some reason the camera felt that the snow should be blue. And you know what? I kinda like it!

Snow Day

2011-01-13T20:50:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was a (sort of) snow day. Snowpocalypse Part 3: the Revenge - at least that is what the news made everyone think. Instead, it was a moderate snowfall that anyone with roots in a more, um, snow-y place just went "pshah!"

Yet, I can't help myself and I have to run outside, so off to midtown I went (under the pretense I had to buy a book). Yeah. Um. True. But really? I just wanted to see more snow. While walking by the Flatiron searching for the Cupcake Stop truck which wasn't there, I couldn't help but notice that the line at the Shake Shack was basically non-existant.

Yes it was cold.

Yes the squirrels were perplexed there were actually people outside.

And yes, oh YES, a black and white shake tastes just as good as it does on a hot summer day (plus you don't get a brain freeze if you drink it too fast!)

Wish List

2011-01-06T17:54:00.000-05:00

While the title "homeowner" is but a pinprick in the horizon, I know with absolute certainty what my first post-house purchase is going to be - and no, it's not a cleaning product. I will purchase an olive boat. Yup, that's right. A complete useless and food specific dish requiring a full size kitchen with proper storage for such a frivolous item.

And yes. I do love olives.

Please meet Mabel, my biological clock.

2010-11-02T22:39:00.005-04:00

(But be careful, she is kind of a bitch).

This really came as quite of a shock. I breezed through my 20s with not so much as a thought about the subject, and I was pretty sure I'd be able to skate through my 30s just as carefree. Sure we always thought it would happen eventually. But about six months ago, it hit me like a full blown hormonal kick in the ass. That is when I first met Mabel, my biological clock. And Mabel is ticking. Actually, Mabel is screaming, like a crazy woman.

(Mabel is bat shit insane)

I fully understand now what women feel when they want to have babies. I get it, it can't be helped - it's a force greater than yourself. Except I don't want to have a baby. Oh no. Mabel brings on a different yet just as intense desire: to own a house. I neeeeeeeeeeeeeeed a house. NOW! RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE. But not any house. It has to be a brownstone in Brooklyn. It has to be in poor condition and in need of a full gut renovation, which I will undertake as DIY project with the intrepid husband. It's all I can think about. I spend hours online. It consumes all my available brain space. All the time. In my make believe house, I know which walls I would knock down. I dream of stripping paint off a banister and revealing beautiful wood. I fantasize about a roof garden. And don't get me started about paint and the benefits of skim-coating versus dry wall replacement.

In my make believe house I will throw fabulous parties. In my make believe future house I will look thiner and will dress with impeccable style. Yes, Mabel is not very logical. And she is really mean. She keeps reminding me that I'm not getting any younger and that the extent of renovations I would like to undertake myself is best left to those south of middle age. Not to mention that it's much easier to throw fabulous parties before all your friends embrace polyester and retire to Florida.

I need a house as much as I need air to breathe (this is Mabel speaking)

But of course, these things don't happen right when you want them to. So here is hoping that we can soon be proud to call ourselves homeowners.

Target, I'm breaking up with you.

2010-08-18T19:09:00.001-04:00

It’s over. Please don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be. Besides, this is much harder for me than for it is for you.

I ran to you every time I needed something. In return, you pointed out at least 10 additional things I could not live without. We shared the same values. I gave you my hard earned cash. You kicked some of it back to the community. We used to laugh at Walmart and the people who shop there. You were better than it. We were better than them.

That was then.

You changed.

I don’t recognize the Target I fell in love with so many years ago. Our values are no longer the same. And you refuse to listen.

So I’m leaving. What we had is gone. While I will forever treasure the striped area rug and the awesome yellow planters, you and me are no more.

You go back to your right wing candidate. I hope, for your sake, he loves you as much as I did. But he is a politician and he only likes you for your money. You’ll see. And when you realize he has absolutely no interest in reasonably priced home décor, or the absolute best fitting t-shirt ever, it will be too late.

Have a nice life.

Overheard

2010-08-08T18:24:00.002-04:00

Walking into the subway today I overheard a big burly dude singing along to his iPod. As per usual, he had no idea that a) we could hear him loud and clear and b) he was absolutely out of tune. It's true: one can actually rap off key. But what struck me about what he was singing were the lyrics. He very clearly said "my life is like mincemeat."

Now I know rap songs run the gamut from police brutality and social injustice to butts and boobs. But never, not once, have I heard one about a fruit based food. It is possible that I misunderstood, but I prefer to think he was singing about chopped fruit, distilled spirits and spices, used most often as pie filling.

So here is to you, mr. fruit based food rapper. Well done mister, well done.

Newton's 3rd Law of Motion

2010-01-06T19:12:00.003-05:00

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction as evidenced by exhibit "a" above.

Career Path

2010-01-04T21:35:00.002-05:00

If I do something really dumb/menial/time consuming for an entire year, can I write a book about it and be on the tee-veey as well?

Birthday Wish

2010-01-03T15:53:00.002-05:00

Wouldn't it be great if all the New York hipsters decided to move to Provo, UT?
They could be all hipster-y and not annoy anyone, except for the Mormons (and that's OK).

At Last!

2010-01-01T15:49:00.002-05:00

It was a long year.

Working for the clinically insane should be recognized as a form of insanity onto itself.

I worked too many hours. I ate too much. I didn't go to the gym (OK, I went once a week ago but that doesn't count).

So here is to you 2010. Help me out, will ya?

mmmm.... beer?

2009-08-02T19:14:00.003-04:00

It’s All Points West weekend, which could have possibly been a big deal if I cared to give a damn. It’s been raining and the last reports are of 2 feet of water in front of the stage. I’m really glad I’m not there. The Beastie Boys are not performing since one was diagnosed with salivary gland cancer, prompting me do the math and come to the conclusion that I saw them perform live fifteen freaking years ago (Yes. Old).

So what is a jaded resident of Jersey City to do?

Well, make homemade beer of course!

Yesterday we schlepped to Brooklyn Flea – possible the coolest flea market ever – and purchased a real home brewing kit from the nice people at Brooklyn Brew Shop, not that plastic crap you get at Bed Bath and Beyond. Today, after searching high and low for a funnel (which, it turns out, is a difficult item to procure –who knew?) we set out to make our first batch of Grapefruit Ale.

There was a lot of simmering, temperature taking and boiling involved, but it was much better than standing in a mud puddle in the rain.

Yes. Making beer at home is better than getting covered in mud.

Now we wait 10 days for the thing to ferment before we can bottle it. In the mean time. I’m told yelling at it to ferment faster seems to have little effect. But we'll see about that.

And the pile grows

2009-06-20T22:19:00.001-04:00

This past week was super busy and the last thing on my mind was laundry. The sweaters I washed over the weekend took forever to dry, since it's been raining every day. That means that now I have two sweaters that while technically clean, smell like a wet dog.

And when the Laundromat burns down – then what?

2009-06-14T18:38:00.001-04:00

Our local Laundromat burned down this week – well, it actually drowned, because the apartment upstairs caught fire, so all the water the nice fireman used to douse the flames ended up downstairs. Until the water damage is fixed, we’ll have to find an alternate place to wash our clothes. Because most of our neighbors seem to lack have laundry facilities of their own, the other Laundromats are super crowded with the weekend crowds. So, time to get creative.

Today, the home method:

People have been washing clothes for as long as humanity has given up going naked. The amount of time covered by modern amenities, such as an electric washing machine is, in the grand scheme of things, infinitesimal. So, I decided to go retro with my wash.

I broke out a couple of buckets and a few items that absolutely needed to be washed. In the process, I discovered the following:

• The kitchen sink is too small to wash clothes
• The bathtub is too big
• I secretly wished I had one of those wooden washboards.
• Once you wash your clothes and roll them up on a towel to remove the excess water, what do you do with the we towel?
• Wet clothes don’t dry as well in the summer as they do in the winter

I had some brief thoughts of going to seek out a rock by a river, but then I strongly suspect that the river water around here would probably corrode my clothing.

Up next, doing laundry in the burbs…

Pretty in Plaid

2009-05-07T10:48:00.002-04:00

Jen Lancaster, one of my all time favorite authors is coming to Manhattan today to read from her new book, Pretty in Plaid. As per usual, I will be stuck at work and unable to make it. You however, being a free creature, a master of your own destiny –yes you dear reader – do yourself a favor and get your ass to the Barnes and Noble USQ at 7 pm today for a rioting good time.

Neighbors

2009-03-22T13:41:00.003-04:00

New people moved in the house next door.

The house where previously lived a mother who belittled her kids and had only one setting: screaming.

The house where the game of Uno (thug edition) would run very late into the night, with overly excited players yelling obscenities to one another, to the point we thought the bullets would begin flying at any time.

This is the house where the siding has been partially ripped down, to reveal the original wood siding (without the benefit of paint), and where furniture has found a permanent home on the front porch. The sidewalk remained un-shoveled the entire winter, turning first into a sheet of ice, then into a mushy wet mess. This is the scary house on the block.

Our new neighbors look like regular people about our age. People who wouldn't get in an altercation over a game of cards, or who would constantly call their offspring stupid. People who will not keep their furniture on the porch. They even look like the kind of people who will fix up the place.

I should be happy we may have normal neighbors. But I'm not. A wee bit part of me wishes that house were still empty, sitting on the market for months on end - simply waiting for us to swoop in and buy it and a bargain basement discount.

UPDATE: a screaming taking place outside my front window has deviated my attention from coveting my neighbor's shitty house. Ah... nothing like living in the Heights.....

A winter sunday in Manhattan

2009-02-22T21:22:00.001-05:00

A man standing on the street corner with a live cat perched on top of his head. Neither man nor cat seemed to think this was anything unusual.

A man and a woman peeing in an alley. While public urination is not anything unusual in New York, an actual alley is, making this event quite unique.

Dispatches from Brazil: Vacation Brain

2009-01-05T09:16:00.002-05:00

My mind has a natural tendency to wander. I can zone out pretty much anywhere and be in my own private bubble. It's kinda hard to explain where my mind goes and what it does when it's there, but best I can figure is that it goes to La-La Land. When I'm on vacation, my mind is like in La-La-Land-On-Crack: double the fun. Add to it a few rainy days with little to do and it's all about over.

When my mind is in La-La-Land, it thinks up things that seem brilliant/interesting/groundbreaking, even if only to me. Here are a few samples of what my mind pondered during the rainy weather:

* If you mix equal amounts of salt and sugar, would they cancel each other out, thus causing absolutely no taste sensation? (yes, salt is stronger than sugar, so the amounts would have to be balanced, but still - wouldn't it be like tasting nothingness?)

* What would happen if I barked at the neighbor's dog and tried to be as annoying to him as he is to me at 7:16 am every morning? (I tried this and it was a great deal of fun. The dog now seems to be afraid of me and the neighbors seem to think I'm crazy).

* Cats would make very bad turtles - that is if cats wore shells and attempted to swim under water.

Luckily, the sun is back and that means I can go back to working on my sunburn, and give my weird mind a break.

Dispatches from Brazil: New Year's Resolution

2008-12-31T11:36:00.002-05:00

The celebration of the New Year is taken very seriously in Brazil; after all, ensuring that the New Year will be a good one is serous business. Cultural etiquette demands white clothing (for peace), new underwear (red, for love), the eating of lentils and grapes at midnight (for money and prosperity). By not eating beef or chicken on the 31st, one guarantees that the New Year will never fall back on the old.

Búzios (small sea shells) and Tarot cards try to predict what lies ahead. Mães de Santo (the high Priestess of the Umbanda religion) divulge what deity will guide 2009 and what color to add to the white outfit that will please the gods in charge (when I was a teenager, went to a New Year’s party dressed in black. People didn’t know what to make of me). Getting the color right and incurring favors right off the bat is the best way to go in these situations. After all, the deity has a lot of people asking for stuff. The personality of the deity will also dictate what kind of year we have ahead of us, since they are technically in charge, so it's best not to piss them off.

Offerings are made to Iemanjá, the goddess of the water, the protector of sailors and children and also my very own personal guide, I’ve been told. Thousands of people go to the beach dressed in white with bouquets of yellow and white flowers. Iemanjá seems to like yellow. She also likes shiny things. Some bring elaborate boats filled with sweets and candles. An explosion of fireworks illuminates the sky at midnight, and marks the official start of the party season, that will end only on Ash Wednesday.

As for me, I thought it might be a good time to join with the throngs of people who make New Year resolutions. Sure, most of us expect to break them right away, but in a perfect world…

I’d like 2009 be a year of adventures. I’d like to push myself to do things I haven’t done. Things that I always wanted to do; things that scare me a little. I hope to broaden my horizons and be less concerned about me. While I’m still very fond of myself, I think it’s time to listen to other people. Who knows, there is always a (small) chance they’ll be right and I’ll be wrong. I also do need to get to the gym on a more regular basis. I need to be better about returning personal phone calls and I really should be more organized.

Of course I could just resolve to eat only bamboo sprouts, drink only warm water and listen only to tuba music. But what fun would that be?

Dispatches from Brazil: Un-Dead Chicken

2008-12-24T15:35:00.003-05:00

Religion and mysticism are closely related in Brazil. Catholicism and the belief system brought by the African slaves back in the day, co-exist in a strange yet fascinating way.

One of the most prominent manifestations of the African religious traditions are the offerings to the gods and deities that can be seen all over the city. These consist of a mixture of food such as candy, pastries, fruit and grains, as well as booze, candles, and often the sacrifice of a black or brown chicken. The offerings are left on the street – frequently in the middle of the street – at a crossroads. It seems like some crossroads are better than others, perhaps because they are more easily accessible to the deity in question? I suppose you wouldn’t want to inconvenience the powers-that-be by making them go out of their way to pick up their goodies.

Driving home yesterday, we passed one of these offerings, but something was amiss. The scattering of grains and candy was usual for something that has been left in the street for a day or two. What was out of the ordinary was a live chicken eating an apple. When you’re used to seeing the chicken in the offering being quite dead, you have to wonder if it resurrected or something.

A chicken from the great beyond? Fascinating!

A zombie chicken? Can chickens even become zombies?

Sloppy craftsmanship on the part of the sacrificer? Probably not.

After eliminating other options such as vampire chicken (broad daylight), shape-shifter chicken (like really? Someone would change into a chicken on purpose?) werewolf chicken (aw, c’mon!), and plain un-dead chicken (too vague), it seemed like none of the scenarios added up to much.

As it turns out, this one was just an opportunistic chicken that happened to be wandering by a busy intersection and found itself upon a tasty apple and possibly though: “MMMMMM. Apple!”

This, among other things, is why Brazil is never boring.

Dispatches from Brazil - Open Letter to the Airline Industry

2008-12-20T13:52:00.001-05:00

Dear Airline

In consideration of the services you provide to those of us suffering from Wander Lust, I wish to provide you with some observations based on my extensive use of your services in Economy Class.

1 – No children under 18 should permitted on any flight for any reason. If you take only one of my suggestions, this should be to one you should choose

Really.

Please?

Pretty please?

OK. If not an outright ban, can you at least put them in the cargo bay? Thanks!

2 – Those wishing to join the mile high club should do so in the privacy of the lavatory. Not in the seat right in front of me. I don’t care how discrete you think you are – I can HEAR IT, so cut it out!

3 – Speaking of lavatories, how about separating them by gender? Hovering over a urine drenched toilet while bouncing around in turbulence is very hard. Also, I believe that I speak for all women when I say that we prefer not to stand in piss when using the facilities. Please address.

4 – First class should be located at the rear of the plane, so that us poor folk don’t have to walk by the more fortunate and think very nasty thoughts about them and suppress the very strong desire to whack them with our carry-on. Everybody feels this way, no?

5 – Leg room should be allocated democratically. Those with long legs get more legroom.

5A – No short people should be allowed in the bulkhead rows (that’s that very roomy row up front where the short people seem to ALWAYS be seated). You may wish to employ a system akin to that used in amusement park lines, by providing the flight crew with a yardstick. Since I’m pretty sure yardsticks are very inexpensive, please arrange for implementation right away. Yardstick may be used to pry apart the transgressors in item #2.

6 – Individuals should have to prove to ground crew that they are capable of lifting their carry on above their head. If they can’t, the luggage must be checked. If they give the crew attitude, they should be checked along with their luggage, next to all the children (see item #1)

7 – Fat people must purchase 2 seats – because really, I don’t like to subsidize their air travel by taking fat spillage over to my seat (a seat that I - not them- paid for). Should this be too politically incorrect, feel free to bump me over to first class and we’ll forget all about this little inconvenience. I’m fairly confident that this solution is agreeable with all my fellow Economy Class travelers.

8 – Please provide your flight crew with better training on how to operate the food and beverage cart. I would prefer they refrain from using my shoulder as a guardrail.

Please feel free to contact me so that we can discuss these points in great detail. I look forward to working with you.

The Importance of Forgetting

2008-11-19T20:24:00.002-05:00

I'm not sure what this means. I heard it on NPR and it sounded cool. Profound even.

There is so much emphasis on remembering stuff; of being pulled together and on top of things. Remembering the past. Remembering important dates. Remembering to take our the garbage on garbage day (nearly impossible). Remembering to move the car on alternate parking day (sooo important). Remembering what someone said. Or didn't say. Remembering some obscure thing that at one point or another may be important.

Me, I forget pretty much everything. But I can hold a grudge forever - and that is something that is probably worth forgetting.

Halloween

2008-11-01T22:59:00.002-04:00

OK. What's with the bee costumes this year? I thought for sure there would be a gazillion Sarah Palins (which there were quite a few), and way too many Jokers (not as many as I thought, but too many still), but yet the most common sight in all of Manhattan was that of women in bee costumes.

Am I missing something? Was that Seinfeld cartoon more influential than anyone gave it credit for? Have I inadvertently been stuck under a rock? I don't get it.

By far my favorite costume was the Samantha Ronson/Linsey Lohan duo. I saw at least 5 pairs. I thought it was original - but maybe not so much.

Me, I didn't have a costume. I had a camera, a good friend, and a few beers. And that was just fine.

Boring

2008-10-28T00:18:00.003-04:00

I haven't had much to write about lately.

International Zombie Day? Meh... The greatest thing about it was a guy taking pictures wearing a t-shirt that read "vegan." I thought that was hilarious.

I can't really top the dead mouse in laundry bag story. And I'm not really sure I want to, since maggots on one's hard wood floor (or any other surface for that matter) is really a disgusting thing. And if I can have a maggot-free existence, I'm ok with being boring.

Like, really?

2008-09-27T17:35:00.004-04:00

So a new number was discovered - a prime number, or one that is divisible only by itself and 1. The "new" number has 13-million digits, which seems a bit extreme to me. It appears mathematicians have been at it for a long time, and the winning UCLA team will get a 100K prize (that's only a 6 digit number - 8 if you count what comes after the decimal point).

To get to the shiny new number, it took 75 networked computers running for god knows how long. The results were verified by a different bunch of computers running a different algorithm.

Did we really need a new number? I think we're OK with the ones we have. Big numbers just give people ideas. Perhaps we can utilize all this calculating power to compute our national debt?

Moratorium

2008-09-21T21:30:00.003-04:00

Last weekend I did the unthinkable. I went out of my way to go to the Bullseye Bodega (Target opened four little "boutiques" in Manhattan peddling their designer stuff during Fashion Week. The stores were open for four days only). Naturally, I had to go (although it wasn't all that and even though it wasn't all that I did walk away with two cute mod dresses for less than $50). I then went to H&M and purchased yet another mod-ish dress - I think I'm going 1960s for the fall. Perhaps because I'm in love with Mad Men. Perhaps because the dresses look great with my eve expanding collection of Doc Martens. Perhaps because I'm going insane. All valid options.

Anyway, the point is that I buy too much stuff. So many pretty shiny things - does it make it OK if I bring my own bags? Yeah, like, no.

So I'm putting myself on probation. No buying anything new (other than food. Used food = gross) for one month. My "parole" is on October 15h. That's 4 weekends without shopping!

My hood

2008-09-11T23:07:00.002-04:00

For two nights in a row now, the goings on outside our window were more interesting than those on the TV.

Free Guacamole for all!

2008-09-09T20:15:00.002-04:00

It just occurred to me that the promise of Free Guacamole might be just as plausible as much of what is said on the campaign trail.

Tuesday

2008-09-03T22:41:00.001-04:00

It just occurred to me that Tuesday might just be the absolute worst day of the week. It gets no respect and really, is there any redeeming quality about the day sandwiched between the first day of the week and hump day? Prolly not.

And yes, the fish do bite

2008-09-02T20:01:00.006-04:00

Saturday was an exhausting 20 mile hike through rough terrain. Scott said I was hiking like a 6-year old.

(insert Scott flailing his trekking poles and making whiny face here)

My feet hurt. Like a lot. And when my feet hurt, anin't nobody happy.

Not the type of signeage you want to see when your dogs are barkin'

Somewhere behind that backpack is a husband.

Hiking out at 8 pm.

Monday was a day of recovery. So we went here:

Crater lake was formed after a meteor crashy-crashed there sometime in the 1800s. Surrounded by the Appalachian Trail and a fair amount of bear poo, the lake is super clear, populated with lots of very curious fish. They were very interested in our floaty air mats in fashionable hot pink and neon yellow, following us around and nibbling the mats and the mats' passengers - meaning us. being nibbled by a fish is weird. But at least it wasn't a snake.

Laboring Day

2008-09-01T21:12:00.002-04:00

Appalachian Trail 1 - Fe & Scott 1

Walking 20 miles in one day while carrying a full backpack hurts. A lot.

Seven years after our first backpacking trip ever (we didn't know any better, so we tackled the Appalachian Trail through Jersey - also known as the Boot Killer). we came back to finish the New Jersey chunk of the AT, in our mission to walk the trail in its entirety in our lifetime.

While in 2001 we had naiveté at our side, conquering a lot of terrain because we didn't know any better, this time around experience, better gear and geographical proximity didn't really help. At all.

Pictures and details to follow. But now I'm tired. And my feet hurt.

And I could use a beer.

Southern comfort

2008-08-25T20:22:00.000-04:00

I’m in Atlanta. Last time I was here was a few years ago, when torrential downpours along the east coast dampened a hiking trip and kept pushing us farther and farther south (we ended up in Alabama and it was still raining).

I’m here for a shoot, and I actually had scoped out the hotel to check out the amenities – something I hardly ever do. The pool looked inviting, with cabanas surrounding the deck. Sign me up.

I packed a bathing suit and did most of my work on the plane, so that I would have ample time to bask in the sun.

So here I am again. And again it rains. Atlanta, why do you hate me so?

And my room? It faces the damn pool. And the stupid cabanas. Looks lovely indeed, if not a bit soggy.

So I did the only other sensible thing to do. I ordered room service.

ACT 2: Dealing with the situation

2008-08-20T19:53:00.000-04:00

To review: there are maggots on the floor and a dead mouse in my laundry bag. Formerly clean and still neatly folded laundry lay on the floor nearby.

(if you need further details scroll down to the previous post)

What is a girl to do?

Scream

Scream some more

Call husband and scream

Husband laughs and fails to understand the gravity of the situation

Scream when reminded that there are maggots on the floor

Ask. Beg. Plead with husband to come home and take care of the mouse corpse.

Scream again when reminded that the contaminated beach towel touched my arm just moments before.

Husband unwilling come home to deal with mouse situation, uses some “I’m at work” excuse.

Scream when reminded that will have to deal with dead mouse and very alive maggots on her own.

Scream at cat, who now seems interested in the contents of the laundry bag. Where was he a week ago?

While a valiant effort, screaming failed to solve the problem.

The screaming eventually subsided and the mouse, maggots and linens were escorted to the trash.

A cleaning operation and a search of epic proportions for a living mouse ensued. No further evidence of rodent activity was found, and all of our clothes – and I mean all – were carefully laundered.

The question remains – why was there a dead mouse in my clean laundry bag? We don’t have any mice in the house (believe me, I looked), which means it must have gotten into my bag at the Laundromat. How this is possible I don’t know. It’s one of the great un-answered questions of all time and, most likely, will remain a mystery.

But as of late, I developed a cautious fear of laundry bags.

Wrong on so many levels, or why it’s much more fun to find rodents on the subway platform

2008-08-19T21:35:00.000-04:00

(a long and humiliating post in 2 acts)

ACT 1

This happened a few weeks ago, but it has taken me a bit to actually be able to write about it.

Why?

Because it’s gross.

And embarrassing.

Before we get into what happened, there is some background info I need to share. While I’d like to think of myself as a tomboy, I’m very much a girlie-girl in many aspects: my love of indoor plumbing (why pee in the woods when, somewhere, there surely must be a working toilet?), my dislike of bugs such as leeches and cockroaches, and the fact that I do very much like to wear clean clothes.

I’m very particular about my laundry (neurotic?). I have all sorts of special soaps – the kind that is truly biodegradable and won’t give beluga whales a skin rash; soaps to keep colors from fading; products that will prevent colors from running, not to mention Borax, vinegar, baking soda and vodka, a trick learned long ago in the college. Anyway, my clothes are very well laundered, thank you.

So it was very very strange what happened next:

I washed my clothes, plus sheets, bath towels, and a big pile of beach towels the night before leaving on a trip. There was nothing unusual about the process. I wheeled the granny cart with dirty clothes two blocks to the Laundromat, washed and dried everything and wheeled the granny cart full of clean clothes back. I then threw my clean clothes in a suitcase and left for the weekend.

Scott, the cat and the semi empty bag of laundry stayed home.

When I returned, there was a funky smell in the bedroom. It smelled like wet clothing that didn’t dry properly. I figured Scott had a sweaty t-shirt in his hamper and asked him to investigate.

The next day the smell persisted. It now smelled like wet clothing that didn’t dry properly plus a lingering fart. Again, I figured Scott was to blame. I asked him to do his laundry already or at least remove the offending garment from his hamper and quarantine it somewhere.

Some light sniffing took place and the source of the smell remained unidentified.

The day after that, the smell began to turn into a stench. Now it smelled like wet clothing that didn’t dry properly, plus a lingering fart, plus something rotting. Once again, I figured Scott was responsible. Perhaps he forgot to take his gym socks out of his gym bag. Maybe he traded his t-shirt for that of a homeless man. Who knows – but I was certain it was his fault. After all, he is the male in this relationship and we all know that boys are generally responsible for a great array of odors.

Some more serious sniffing was organized, and yet again, the source of the stench remained unaccounted for.

This was getting serious.

So we sniffed again. And again.

It had been a busy week, and I hadn’t yet put the remainder of the clean laundry away, since it was just towels and bed linens. They were neatly folded on the bottom of my huge laundry bag – or as neatly as one can fold fitted sheets, but that’s another story.

Just for kicks and giggles I thought I’d give the bag a sniff, cuz you know, it would be funny to point out to Scott that the freshly laundered laundry was the only thing keeping us from asphyxiating in our now stinky bedroom.

So I did. And I nearly gagged.

What?

No smell of expensive Earth friendly laundry detergent. It smelled like a sewer in there.

What? My? Clean? Linens?

Noooooo……

OK. I figured perhaps one of the towels didn’t dry properly and the heat and humidity of the past few days, along with the closed up laundry bag caused a bit of a funk build-up.

No problem. I had the laundry tools to fix this. I started by spritzing some Fabreeze onto the bag’s contents, removing each item one by one and transferring them to a different bag.

I figured, that way, the Fabreeze plus one wash with really hot water should take care of it.

First I pulled out the neatly folded pillowcases, then the sheets. How can something folded pretty smell so bad?

Then came the towels. This is when I noticed some weird lint-y stuff on my favorite beach towel.

I looked closely and the lint sort of moved, like it was self propelled or alive or something.

Weird.

Then something in the bottom of the now empty laundry bag caught my eye. I wasn’t ready for what I saw:

A DEAD MOUSE ON THE BOTTOM OF MY CLEAN LAUNDRY BAG.

I nearly fainted.

Rodent.

Dead.

Rotting.

In my clean clothes.

What the fuck?

I dropped the pile of towels on the floor. Maggots, jostled from the comfort of the beach towel, kinda got loose.

Dead rodent in the bag. Maggots on the floor. Can it possibly get any better?

(to be continued)

The light at the end of the tunnel

2008-08-18T19:50:00.008-04:00

It’s Monday again. Not only Monday, but a beautiful sunny Monday. The kind that should be a mandated day off. Instead, it’s a crazy, harried, stupid beginning of a soon to be crazy week. One with deadlines and cranky people (me chiefly among them).

I was running around the city in shoes that were not meant for walking, let alone running. My feet hurt and I had even less-than-usual patience with those people slowly meandering on the sidewalks in an aimless zigzag pattern. Oh hell no. Not today. I wished I had an air-horn – the kind sports fans use to annoy one another – so I could honk people out of my way. Someone actually walked straight into me and sort of bounced off. In hindsight it was kinda funny.

Long story short, I was running on a very tight timeframe to make it to a shoot uptown. I was sweating in places I didn’t know could produce perspiration. Sweat was running down my legs (so gross) because I was wearing a skirt and there were no pant legs to sap up the mess (soooo gross).

I eventually made it to my destination. Miraculously I had 15 minutes to spare. Even more incredible was the fact that the Dessert Truck was parked up front.

Ooooohhhhhh. The Dessert Truck.

I had only heard about this mythical, elusive vehicle packed with gourmet deserts roaming the New York City nights. Now turns out they hold court during the day on Park Ave between 51st and 52nd. Who knew? With a choice of 7 different treats, all 5 bucks each, I saw absolutely no good reason not to have a warm Molten Chocolate Cake for lunch (chased with a Diet Coke, of course).

My ‘lunsert” (lunch/desert?) was everything I thought it would be and more. Warm, creamy, luscious chocolat-y goodness. The Dessert Truck guys take their sweets very seriously and serve some truly amazing stuff.

I think my Monday could be divided into BDF (before Dessert Truck) and ADF (after Desert Truck). You simply owe it to yourself to find the zen of dessert.

You can find out more about them here:
www.desserttruck.com

My Monday fix.

Picture Post (aka too lazy to write)

2008-07-16T22:54:00.000-04:00

Do Not Attempt

2008-07-01T19:38:00.002-04:00

Shaving legs in parked car.
Not a good idea.
Too foam-y.
Very messy.
Not worth it.

Flash Forward

2008-06-26T15:02:00.002-04:00

I had a glimpse into my future last night. I always said that I would be the crazy old lady running around without pants. Well.. last night I got locked out of the house in my PJs.

I went to feed Buddy, our "outside" cat. He is an alley cat who shows up in the morning and in the evening looking for food. Of course, we feed him - as I suspect many people do. So last night, as I do every night, I came downstairs with a cup of food. What was different is that a) I was in my pajamas, b) I was home alone and c) I didn't take my keys with me for the trip to the front porch.

Sure you can see this coming from a mile away, but it actually came as a surprise to me when I turned around and tried to come back inside.

Door?

Locked?

How?

Shit!

I-don't-have-a-key!

Ringing the neighbors' doorbells did no good. Our upstairs neighbor ignored the doorbell (just like we do when we are not expecting anyone and the FedEx/UPS/DHL van is not parked out front. Our downstairs neighbors were not home, which left me sitting on the front porch.

It didn't take long for someone who lives in the building to show up, but next time, I'm bringing a robe.

SATC = Star Wars for Women

2008-06-02T22:44:00.003-04:00

I love Sex and the City as much as the next girl. I've been waiting for the movie with a mixture of curiosity, excitement and, well, dread. Not because I any story twists and turns - no - dread of the women who refer to the show by the acronym SATC, and Sarah Jessica Parker by SJP. These women scare me by taking the whole thing a bit too seriously. Being a girl (single or otherwise) in Manhattan is not at all like the TV show. Trust me.

Since the release of the film, women have been getting together with their girlfriends for a nigh out revolving around the movie (which is great - every excuse for a night out is a good one). With Cosmos and Appletinis, dressed in their best facsimile of Carrie & Co. fashion, they discuss which character best suits their personality: "I'm a Carrie," or "I'm definitely a Charlotte," defining their lives after a archetype: creative, good girl, brainy or slut.

I can't help but think that there isn't much difference between SATC and Star Wars, except perhaps better costumes.
Sure, I still want to see the film, and I want to find out what happens. But I will wait until the dust settles.

More LA

2008-04-29T21:50:00.002-04:00

There is not much in downtown Los Angeles. It’s like the opposite of New York. Sure, there are cars, but the city streets are not congested (the freeway, on the other hand…).

I went for a walk yesterday for recognizance, to fend off boredom, and to find something to eat. Since I don’t have a car, I’m confined to whatever is within walking distance.

All I can say is that I am in a different planet. I’m so used to walking everywhere and, it’s so true about the song: nobody walks in LA – that is except for me and the homeless. It was almost eerie. There was a strange emptiness to everything. It was 4:30 pm, and most of the people were gone.

Starving after a flight where they don’t offer food – unless you want to purchase it (exact change is appreciated) I had to find me some real food. After some walking, I found some grub and sat outside to eat. I ate a Greek salad with a side of hair, since it was breezy and my hair kept blowing in my mouth. MMMMMMM.

On my way back, I stopped by a convenience store to pick up some soda and snackies, and I was not prepared for what I saw next: a soup machine! Yes. A machine that dispenses soup, not unlike those that spew out coffee or soda. But soup? Genius! Why has this fantastic invention not made its way east?

Speaking of fantastic inventions, downtown LA is full of escalators of the outdoor variety. They are everywhere, baking in the sun, exposed to the elements. And not a single one was out of order, or closed for scheduled maintenance. How come escalator that live outside seem to work flawlessly, while those back east seem to require so much maintenance INDOORS?

Los Angeles Edition

2008-04-28T22:47:00.003-04:00

Before writing about being in LA, one must first get there. There is no dignity in air travel, and I avoid it as much as possible, which is not an easy thing to do when you like to go places that are far away. This time, on a morning flight from Newark to LA, I have made the acquaintance of the famed 6 circles of hell. On a scale of 1 to 6, I’d say this was a mach 5. Only overflowing toilets could have made it worse…. So here we go.

Since I left the house so early, I didn’t eat breakfast, thinking I’d just pickup something on the go. So, once at my gate, I grabbed a bagel, a large coffee and some cream cheese for my bagel. I found a place to sit and commenced eating. There are no tables or cup holders at the airport (why not?), so I had to balance my coffee and bagel on the armrest of my chair. I soon learned (by flinging a big gob of cream cheese onto my sleeve, which than bounced and stuck to the back of my chair), that my arrangement was less than ideal. Even though I was impressed with the aerodynamic qualities of my choice of spread, I didn’t have enough of it to cover both sides of my bagel. After consuming said bagel, I managed to spill my entire cup of coffee (mostly onto the floor, but I did manage to get a fair amount on my pants, too).

So then we board. Yippy! We make our way down that tube thing that takes you to the plane. Wait. Are those strollers?

We all pile in without much incident. Everyone is seated, all their shit is stowed in the overhead compartments or beneath the seat, and we’re ready to go. But the airport folk had different plans for us and we waited. And waited. And WAITED. Because of heavy traffic and a wee bit of rain, we sat there for 1 hour and 1o minutes.

The extra time was a great way for me to get to annoyed by my seat-mates. To my left is Ms. Sleepy. She brought matching pillow and blanket in a fuzzy powder blue material. She slept most of the trip - including the part that wasn't really a trip yet because we were still on the ground. I think the reason for this was because of the horrendous perfume she was wearing. I think it knocked her out.

To my right was Capitan Stinky: a middle age man with a beer gut and a copy of the Wall Street Journal he was determined to read in its entirety. I know this because his elbow invaded my personal space and hovered around my nose area quite frequently. I named him Capitan Stinky because of his horrendous breath. First I thought one of the many diaper-wearing children sitting close by had, well, done a doo-doo. At about hour 3 of our journey I figured out it was no dirty diaper. It was Mr. Stinky’s breath. To my horror, he refused all matter of food and drink, and ate only an un-peeled (as as far as I could tell) unwashed carrot. I really wanted to offer him a mint.

To add another level of interest to my travels, the Spawn of Satan (in the form of a 14-month old little girl) was seated across the isle. She went from cute to a raving mad lunatic in 2 seconds flat. I imagine she felt this unacceptable and was trying to improve her time, because she practiced it many many many times.

Behind me sat a little angel named Ari who kept kicking my seat. Ari was not very nice. Ari eventually fell asleep. I know this because Ari stopped kicking my seat and trying to find creative places to put his feet.

Oh, And someone farted. The entire trip. And it wasn’t me.

And then we landed.

(to be continued)

March Madness

2008-03-29T09:32:00.000-04:00

March 3 through March 28th: 234.5 hours spent working.

Grammar Lesson

2008-03-11T21:17:00.002-04:00

Oxymoron = honest politician.

Governor Elliot Spitzer, aka Client 9 is not an exception to the rule, unfortunately.

It's much more fun when the Republicans are the ones screwing up... but I suppose this is an equal opportunity grammar rule.

The best excuse ever

2008-03-10T21:44:00.002-04:00

Jan Lancaster came up with this one - and I speak as if I knew the woman (I don't). But still, this is the best excuse ever created:
I HAVE SAND IN MY MOUTH. How great is that? It's all encompassing and multi-purpose. You can use it in just about any scenario.

Can you help me finish this report?
I'm sorry, I can't. I have sand in my mouth

Why were you late for work?
I had sand in my mouth

Why are you so bitchy today?
I have sand in my mouth.

See? Works every time. Plus you don't really have to dignify stupid questions with an answer. Just say: Because I have sand in my mouth.

Useless Knowledge for a City Dweller

2008-01-27T22:29:00.001-05:00

For some reason my local grocery store sells copies of the Farmer's Almanac, and for some reason I can't quite yet understand, I purchased a copy today along my organic milk and mystery leafy greens (swiss chard, it turns out).

The 2008 Farmer's Almanac, while not a page turner, is filled with interesting factoids (which are mostly useless for someone who doesn't even have a back yard). I have learned, for instance, that a banana tree is not a tree, but actually an herb related to palms, lilies and orchids. Who knew?

According to the almanac, Februay 10, 11, 17 and 18 are good days for baking, while April 5-19 are the best days of that month to dig holes. But if the hole you're digging is for a fence post, the best days in april to dig that sort of orifice are 1-3, 29 and 30. I'm not sure I understand why....

Happiness

2008-01-17T13:17:00.000-05:00

Many people make way too much money writing books and giving seminars about happiness and how to find it. I personally think that the picture below illustrates absolute bliss: being comfortable with oneself, not caring what others think and, ultimately, living in the moment. I dare you to say otherwise.

Open Auditions

2007-10-13T23:03:00.001-04:00

We eat out a lot. Partly because we have crazy schedules, partly because we’re lazy and partly because we like to eat out. Because of that and because we’re creatures of habit, we’re regulars at a couple of different places.

One of those places has sadly closed its doors. The Mayrose, on Broadway and 21st street is becoming something else. Gone is the low-key, mostly tourist free atmosphere and, of course, the delicious simple food that hit the spot – every time.

So now we’re looking for a good breakfast spot. Someplace where the customers aren’t pretentious and where the food is good. This morning we went to the “Chat n’Chew on 16th street. It’s a long and narrow eatery in the basement, with a few tables outside. The tourist ratio was a bit high for my taste, but the place is quite cozy. The food options were basic – lacking for a veg like me – but the deserts displayed up front were absolutely killer!

Overall, the place is OK. Decent food and reasonable prices. The wait staff is very inattentive and our coffee was cold – unintentionally. The spot of favorite low key breakfast joint is still open. Replacing the Mayrose is no easy task…

It was one week

2007-10-07T20:08:00.001-04:00

71 hours worked
1 exploded tire
0 weekend enjoyment

Melancholy and the infinite longing for summer

2007-09-23T15:35:00.001-04:00

So this was the last week of summer. I don’t really know what happened to summer – went by so incredibly fast. I managed to get my white ass to the beach a whopping one time. Who needs a new bathing suit for that? I certainly didn’t – which is why I wore the old one, crunchy elastic and all. You know, just hoping for the best but bracing for the worst, should gravity take over. Luckily, I made it through one more summer without having to go through the über-humiliating experience of buying swimwear, and than being further humiliated by having to wear it in public. And yet, summer is still my favorite season of the year. I suppose I’m a glutton for punishment.

To celebrate the passing of the season, I was the lucky recipient of a nasty cold. Sore throat, coughing and green snot! As I sit here sucking on a cough drop I can’t taste, I wonder why is it that summer used to seem so long when you were a kid?

Pickles and Wieners

2007-09-17T23:41:00.000-04:00

I’ve noticed something as of late – weekends seem to be ever shrinking (in duration, that is). There is never enough time, and this weekend was no different. I’m told this happens when one gets older: time goes by faster (our asses get wider, too. Coincidence? I think not).

Our friends Kevin and Lauren were in town because Lauren was competing in a girls-only triathlon. I didn’t know this before, but a triathlon involves running, swimming and biking – all in the same day, all back to back. No ice cream break, no napping under a tree, no kick-off brunch with a few mimosas. No, none of that. Just a giant burst of physical activity bright and early in the morning. I get the distinctive impression that some people actually enjoy it, but even thinking about it brings on that shooting pain under my ribs that makes it hard to breathe. But Lauren is super fit and looks like she belongs among the athletic crowd. The likes of me should stick to being a spectator, which is where I belong (even more so if there are snacks).

The event was taking place at Sandy Hook, a skinny protrusion of land off the Jersey Shore, the site of a coast guard outpost and home to some wacky WWI and cold war relics like old cannons and really big machine-gun-thingies. Since none of us had much of a clue as to where this place was, or what was there, we went to check out the lay of the land the day before the competition, so that Lauren could get oriented….. and that is how we accidentally stumbled upon the Clothing Optional beach. There were actual naked dudes there, in 60-degree weather, strutting their stuff. There were not many women, perhaps because women don’t long to go naked when it’s cold and cloudy, or perhaps because that area was more of a guy locale. Don’t really know, but regardless, it was fascinating because it was also, uh, odd – who knew….

Sunday, the day of the triathlon, we stayed at home. The event started at 7 am, which meant getting up at like 4 am to be there in time. So, in honor of all the women exerting themselves, we conserved energy by sleeping late, something I hadn’t done in months. We spent the day in such a lazy fashion we missed the Pickle Festival at the Lower East Side. Lauren did well in the triathlon, finishing among the top of her group – which is way cool.

So it is now Monday. Weekend is over. Back to work. Didn’t get to do everything we wanted to do. There were drinks to be head, friends to laugh with, and triathlons to be competed in, but somehow, the time never seems enough, because we constantly think of what we could do, or wanted to do, or should do. And of course, the pile of laundry continues to grow, and the oil in the car still awaits a change. But really, is that what weekends are for?

Who does such a thing?

2007-09-10T21:50:00.000-04:00

In a new section to be named "HEY, PUT THAT DOWN....."

As I walked to my car this morning, I noticed something was weird. After staring for a few moments, I noticed that the antenna was missing. I tried to remember whether my antenna was one of those that retracted when the radio was off, but to the best of my recollection, it wasn't. The first logical conclusion would be that that it was a victim of gravity, but closer inspection revealed that it was actually lost to theft. Yes. Someone stole my car antenna. They didn't break it off. No. They carefully screwed it off. There is an inch long threaded piece of metal - which used to hold the antenna in place - that now protrudes from my car. Someone worked hard at getting the thing off it's perch. My car is pretty old, and rust should have been a deterrent. But besides that, why? What exactly can you do with a detached car antenna? Is it some sort of sick game of tag, where someone steals yours and you steal someone else’s? I can't imagine any other use for a used car antenna that was recently liberated from its owner. Unfortunately, I can't tell my antenna apart from any other - but from now on, I'll be on the lookout for everyone sporting a coat hanger wrapped around the little stump on the hood of their car. Potential thief, or another victim?

Negativity

2007-08-28T17:12:00.001-04:00

I’m not an optimistic person. Some may say I’m downright pessimistic, but I prefer to think of myself as a realist. So what if I’m always one of those worst-cast-scenarios kind of people? I always expect the worst, that way I’m either right or pleasantly surprised.

But even a grinch like me can get a wee tired of being such a downer. So I decided I needed a sunnier outlook on life. Try to see the bright side of things. Be more positive.

This morning, as I walked to my car, I kept thinking: “today will be a good day.” I was wearing new shoes and decided that, from that moment on, they would be my lucky shoes. Good things would happen whenever I’d wear them. Yes, a new and improved me. “It will be a good day.”

My good thoughts were interrupted abruptly when I kicked a large chunk of dog poo.

Overheard in New York

2007-08-26T22:09:00.000-04:00

Last night, around 6th Ave and Bleeker, I overhead this bit of conversation between two guys walking towards me. Guy 1 says to Guy 2: I really think you'd feel a lot better if you felt my balls."

It is it really like this?

2007-05-16T21:09:00.000-04:00

I've been rather grumpy these days. Mostly because life has been more or less like this: wake up, go to work, come home, go to sleep only to wake up the next morning and do it all over again. There is that nauseating fallacy of corporate-speak of "work life balance." Let me tell you that it is pure, unadulterated shit. It is some sort of unattainable nirvana, like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It's fiction. The question begs to be asked: is this what adult life is?

Overheard in NY

2007-04-22T22:29:00.000-04:00

Two upper west side ladies. One says to the other: "he is a male, so he likes to pee."
She was referring to her dog.

Why not?

2007-04-13T21:45:00.000-04:00

It's the same story, time and again. Wake up, go to work, come home, go to sleep, wake up, go to work....

While I'm a bit out of interesting things to say, these people are never at a loss for words. Check out Ira and the minions are up to by clicking the picture below.

Overheard at Starbucks

2007-03-23T20:40:00.000-04:00

A man walks into Starbucks and orders his coffee.
He proceeds to tell the barista that he has heard evidence of the end of the world.
The sure sign of appocalypse, he said, came in the form of a radio commercial announcing great deals on "almost new matresses."

Get your binkies - the final reckoning is comming. I guess.

Uh, WFT?

2007-03-08T22:24:00.000-05:00

It was another late night at work.

It was bloody cold. I was in Tribeca making my way home after a meeting with a new client. I was not in my usual 20-grommet red Doc Martens, but in conservative slacks and heels. My ride dropped me off about two blocks from the nearest subway. No big deal. I can walk in heels, right? I wish I had dyied my hair blue last week. That way I would be automatically removed from business meetting roster.

The wind is so cold it cuts through my skin. I whish I had my mittens. I have my hands in my pocket, a copy of the Village Voice rolled under my arm and a brown hobo-like bag slung around my shoulder. A boring, safe look. It is planly obvious that I'd rather be wearing my docs and jeans. There is no one out. The sidewalks are empty. The cobblestone streets too. Did I mention it was cold?

There is one intersection left between the nearest subway station and me. I’m walking like I have someplace to go (like someplace out of the cold). There are no cars, so I ignore the do not walk sign and keep walking. There are no people out, except for a man in his mid thirties. He wore a wool trench coat. He looked like some Wall Street dude who was working late. I kept walking. He didn't.

He stopped in the middle of the street. His arms flung wide open, gesturing me to keep walking. There really was no need to stop. There was not a car (or another person, for that matter) within a 4 block radius. But he stopped, and he made a big production of it. I kept walking. As I passed by him, he said something lame along the lines of “ladies first.” I looked over, and he said “thank you for wearing those shoes.”

To which I have to say… WTF? But it was too cold. I kept walking. My eyes were watering. Snot was running down my nose. I couldn’t feel my fingers. There is no one outside, and I manage to run into a guy with a shoe fetishh. OK, I guess….

Why I hate Mondays

2007-02-27T20:10:00.000-05:00

No day like today (I guess)

Monday is the universal day to start a diet. Ask anyone wishing to lose a few when they plan to begin. I know this, because I’ve planned to start many diets over the course of many Mondays many times. It’s the perfect day because it’s not today. There is always the benefit of space between today and Monday. However infinitesimal it is, it’s still better than taking the plunge and doing it right now. Monday is the universal day of denial, when our collective subconscious is going to break us of all of our bad habits and everything will be OK (or at least on its way to being so).

Starting a project is like starting a diet, more or less. It’s always going to happen next week, next month, once I finish this thing, or when my schedule frees up. In other words: never. Life gets in the way and it will most certainly throw a curve ball or two between now and Monday.

I’ve been meaning to start a project or two (or three). I believe they are all great ideas and will bring me great joy and personal fulfillment. But have I started any of them. Well… kinda…. Sorta, but not really. Instead, my time is occupied by working late, doing laundry and all miscellaneous menial tasks. I tell myself: Next week, when my work schedule gets less crazy.

But the thing is, just like starting a diet, doing something for oneself can be scary.

As I sit here (another late night at work) I think I might just be having an epiphany: life will always get in the way. Monday is a utopia and the only way to get anything done is to do it now. Immediately. Thinking too much will not make it happen in a more organized way. It will simply be pushed to the next Monday, or the Monday after, or maybe to Monday next month.

Blame it on Stress

2007-02-17T21:23:00.000-05:00

My poor blog has been sadly neglected lately, but I have a good excuse – or do I? I’ve been stressed out. Not just cranky, but questioning my life choices in a big way. I suppose when it comes to life choices, they are always big. But anyway…

I was working on a very stressful project for a stress-inducing client. Half way into the project, I found myself sitting on one of those giant planter boxes that have sprouted all over the city to prevent people driving vehicles into buildings. It was early morning and I was freezing my butt off waiting for the crew to show up so that we could load in for a shoot. I was about a half hour early – I’m always early – so I just sat there, watching business people rush by in their skirts and suits and expensive coats. Women passed by, their shoes making polck-plock sounds on the sidewalk, which vibrated with each subway passing by beneath our feet. People getting out of cabs, delivery trucks maneuvering into loading docks. People with places to go and things to do.

In the midst of the early morning activity, a street sweeper slowly made his way down the sidewalk. He was listening to his iPod and he swept the curb. He wore brown Carhart winter overalls and seemed pretty content with life. At that moment I wanted to be him, to be a street sweeper. It seemed like the ideal job. No stress. Lots of time to think. Yes, for a moment (or two, or threee), I wanted to be him.

Ho ho ho

2006-12-25T12:34:00.000-05:00

So it's Christmas again. The city is more or less devoid of people. A few tourists here and there and the random resident walking their dog. People seem to be visiting relatives out of town, as a large contingent of Manhatanites are transplants from someplace else. But I prefer to imagine them traveling to places like Paris or Bora Bora to spend some time chilling out and not thinking about Santa, Fruit Cake or midnight mass.

Booger Eating Businessman

2006-12-03T16:45:00.000-05:00

Not so long ago, I was coming back from a video shoot way downtown. I dragged my tired self to the E train and sat there, in the train, at the end of the line, waiting for it to move. It was past rush hour, but a few suits still straggled in. One middle aged man plopped down across the isle from me.

He loosened his tie and opened the Wall Street Journal. Nothing really remarkable there. Boring, really. I diverted my gaze elsewhere, my eyes drifting out of focus, really not looking at anything in particular, trying to whish the train to move. My thoughts kept getting interrupted by the man's crackling paper - either he is a speed reader or.... I looked over and I don't really think I was prepared to witness what he was up to.

Every minute or so, he let his right hand go of the newspaper, raised it up to his nose and went to work. He really dug around, his nose suddenly twice the size. After removing the offending piece of mucus, he proceeded to put it in his mouth. Naturally, I couldn't stop from staring. This was too gross not to gawk. A few times the bugger got stuck between his teeth, requiring a bit of a prod with this thumb nail.

I got off at my stop and, best I can tell, Mr. Booger Eating Businessman continued to snack all the way home.

Lard and other oddities

2006-12-01T19:34:00.000-05:00

I’m not what you could call a frequent grocery shopper. While there are periods when the purchasing of food-stuffs happens more or less regularly, there are also spans when the cupboards are conspicuously devoid of anything to eat; when we’re down to the last few cans of something un-appetizing, and while we might have enough spices and canned tomatoes to start a feast, all of the remaining key ingredients are missing.

This week was one where we were pretty much out of everything. No bread, no margarine (artery clogging deliciousness in a tub), no vegetables, no canned soup (always a staple of the lazy cook). So today I gave in and pushed the granny cart to the local chain grocery store, past the metal barricades, past the security guard, into the fluorescent-lit run-down store. Yes, this is a chain grocery store, and no, corporate doesn’t seem to care what this particular store looks like.

The dairy isle of my ghetto grocery store does not disappoint. In fact, it’s probably the highlight of the place. It runs the entire length of the store, going from the front registers all the way to the back. All the usual products you’d expect are there, plus some that might surprise – like lard. Sitting pretty next to Brown and Brumell yogurt margarine. Lard next to the margarine that is promoted as the healthy alternative to margarine. At least when compared to lard.

I perused the margarine section for a great long while. I like to choose my hydrogenation carefully. While I’m more or less conscientious in what I put in my body, margarine is a guilty pleasure. I made my choice and proceeded to the check out.

It wasn’t until I got home and put the purchases away that I noticed that my margarine was not mine, but Lee Iacocca’s. I thought it was odd. I struggled to find the connection between the K Car and vegetable spread. No dice.

Well, it appears that Mr. Iacocca is now in the business of margarine. Weird I suppose, but while I have always found the K car tremendously unappealing, a margarine tub is, to me, a sight to behold.

Not all fun and games

2006-10-01T21:54:00.000-04:00

It sounded more like a teenage girl’s holler. Like when kids are out with their friends and act all silly and decide to wake the neighborhood up. Random noises. Not distress, not happiness. Just noise. Random. A holler. It didn’t seem unusual, not on a Friday night.

It unfolded outside, partially obscured by the trees. The hollering. The screeching tires. A Friday night. People ran out of their houses. Grocery bags littered the sidewalk. People talked. The police came. Reports were made and, just like that, silence returned.

It wasn’t a teenager playing around. It was a middle-aged woman coming back home. The tires screeching were the getaway car racing off. A bad episode of “Law and Order” outside our living room window.

Louie

2006-09-10T22:42:00.000-04:00

I was walking home from work after an unusually stressful day, which ended an unusually stressful week. It was one of those days you just can't wait to be over, one of those day when you try to remind yourself: "this too shall pass," and than you feel a little silly for being so overly dramatic. A brief tingle of comfort trickles through your body and is soon squashed by the wallowing and the worrying and the always-tardy realization that hindsight is always 20/20. Well, the day was pretty much over, the very thing I couldn't wait to happen ten hours earlier.

Four blocs from home, a man walking in my direction, carrying a bouquet of flowers, seemed overly happy to see me. He wore a baseball cap with "España" embroidered on the front, and I'm pretty sure he carried a black backpack. He seemed to be of an undetermined age. Maybe 45.

- Hi, how are you! It's Louie.

The perplexed look on my face must have given him a clue

- It's me, Louie. You helped me with directions on Central to the mall.

I told him he must be confusing me with someone else. I assured him I had never even been to the mall, let alone told someone how to get there. Nope. Not me. Must have been someone else.

He was getting close. Maybe six feet now.

- No it, was you. I told you I played drums in the Village sometimes. You told me how to get to the mall from Central. You play?

- No

- Sing?

- No. I told you. It wasn't me.

He was standing at conversational distance now.

- Nah, it must have been you. She looked just like you. Two weeks ago. You told me how to get to the mall and I told you I played drums in the Village sometimes.

I was so physically tired and mentally exhausted that I couldn't find the strength to ignore him. Besides, at least I could have an interesting story to tell about my shitty week. OK.

- Look, Louie. I'm really sorry, but it wasn't me who told you how to get to the mall. I know this because I'm not even sure how to get there myself.

A little lie. I do know how to get to the mall. Never been there, but I know where it is. In case of emergencies, you know?

- I just moved here from California and I'm living with my brother. I'm helping him.

- That's nice

- I went for archeology in college. In Spain. I'm an archeologist.

- That's nice

- But I don't do archeology here. I work with my brother.

- Oh.

- Do you know of the Museum of the American Indian?

- Yeah, I've walked by it several times.

- I work there. I also play the drums in the Village sometimes.

- Good for you

- People here in Jersey City not so friendly.

- Really?

- I say "good morning," or "hello," and people don't say anything back?

- Really?

- People not friendly here. And they speak different Spanish. I speak Catalonian. They speak Mexican.

- Yeah. I heard they were two different things.

- You are my first friend in Jersey City. You gave me directions

- It wasn't me...

With that, he pulls out an old and won plaid walled from his pocket, the kind that folds in half and closeses with Velcro.

- I will give you my number in case you ever want to go to the Museum of the American Indian.

He opened his wallet and seemed to look for a business card. He flipped through the different partitions and than opened the bill compartment. In it, there was a single small piece of paper folded in half. He handed it to me.

- This is my information. I'm an archeologist. The name on the paper wasn't Louie, so he wrote it in. The paper, cut to resemble the size of a business card, was carefully written in blue and red ink. "Call Monday through Friday, 9 am to 3 pm. It gave a number, along with the words Archeologist and Barcelona-Spain.

With that, we parted ways.

- You're my first friend here. Call me.

I walked home and Louie walked in the opposite direction.

Pieces of Detroit

2006-08-13T14:27:00.000-04:00

They say buildings in New York are replaced every 50 years or so with something bigger and better. The city is in a constant state of reconstruction, with buildings giving way to new buildings. More open space, more this, less of that. When the space is finite, things end up having to be rearranged every now and again.

The other day, while perusing a salvage store in Chelsea, the owner noticed my Detroit shirt and asked if we were from there. We struck up a conversation and turns out he has cornice pieces from the old Hudson building - a majestic department store that occupied an entire city block before it was summarily demolished to make way to a much smaller (and uglier) building. He led us outside to the fire escape and pointed to ornate cornices that sat on top o the wall: pieces of the defunct Hudson Department Store (the store, incidentally, doesn't exist anymore either. It became Marshall Fields and is currently owned my Macy's).

So here you have it: a piece of Detroit's rich architectural history for sale in Manhattan.

Gimme Shelter

2006-07-25T17:29:00.000-04:00

Finding a place to live is easier said than done. Sure there is the fun of going to look at different places and imagining (or trying not to imagine) living there. There is something voyeuristic about it; a guilty pleasure of going into people's homes and looking around, trying to picture your stuff - all of your stuff - there.

Finding a place to live also is a full-time job. One has to contend with missed appointments and no-show landlords, flaky brokers and a whole lot of embellishment in the advertising. We soured Craigslist for weeks, made appointments, drove around and sifted through the cesspool of rental housing. Some of it was beautiful and expensive. Beautiful and tiny. Livable but in a bad location. An apartment without a kitchen. An apartment with a kitchen, an uphill kitchen. A staircase that was 2 feet wide. Apartments with no living space. Studios with chef's kitchens, but little else. Historically preserved, or raped of its charm by the vile period of the 50s through the 70s. I'm pretty sure we saw it all. I actually lost count of how many places we saw until we found "the one."

"The One" was a railroad-style apartment that consisted of the entire second floor of a beautifully preserved town house, which was owned by two gay guys. Need I say more? A huge kitchen, a nice bathroom - both with views of lower Manhattan. A park nearby, Hoboken just down the hill. What else could we want? Not much. We plunked down our deposit and went on to celebrate 4th of July by watching the fireworks display in New York City. The lease would be signed the next day.

The next day could not come around soon enough, and when it eventually did, Scott and I met with the broker at her office to sign the lease. Our search was over - we had found a needle in the haystack. But things are not always as they seem, and the whole thing fell through. The landlord decided no to rent the place and, instead, add a third floor to the place. I wish torrential rains upon him and his stupid project. It was back to square one. Back to Craigslit. Back to the cesspool.

Another wasted weekend. No pets allowed. Not big enough for our furniture. No parking. Sorry, our agents don't work on Saturday. What the hell? But fine. There was a picture of a house on a real estate website. It looked cool. We could sort of make out the address, so we went looking for it and found it in a lovely neighborhood. There was a "for rent" sign on it. I called. The landlady called me back. Five minutes later we were in. We liked it. We took it. It was home.

So now we are all moved. Our shit is everywhere. The cat is freaked out; he doesn't know what to do with himself. We have 17 windows, each about 6'4" in height. We have the second floor of the house - all of it. There are no views of Manhattan, but there are children at play outside, people walking their dogs, and a general feel of being in a real neighborhood. We're home.

Old Friend Atlantic

2006-05-29T21:03:00.000-04:00

This Memorial Day was my first, in some 13 years in which I didn't spend it somewhere where it was cold and rainy. On the contrary: it was warm and sunny. It's great to be far away from the Midwest, if, for no other reason, to see my childhood friend: the Atlantic Ocean.

As a child, I used to feel cheated because my parent's didn't own or otherwise procure the use of a beach house. Growing up in Brazil, everyone spent January and February at the beach. I felt left out, denied and condemned to a summer in the city. I could deal not having the ocean, but we didn't have a pool either. In my mind, that had to be some sort of double jeopardy. Surely, somewhere there was a rule that specified that children should have access to a body of water. Best I could do was the plastic kiddy pool, which in my book was rock bottom, both figuratively and sometimes quite literally.

Every now and again, a friend would invite me along with their family to *their* beach house. And while I used to pretend that *their* house was actually *my* house, it did little to alleviate the feeling of being left out. Sure, I grew up to be a good person, to be thankful for what I have and to help others who may not be as fortunate. I now understand the furiousness of my desire for a beach house, especially given the fact that so many people go without any type of home, let alone a beach house that features a large terrace adorned by hammocks in which one can nap and catch the afternoon breeze.

Truth be told, I should stay as far away from the sun as possible. As a child, before sunscreen was widely available, when people still used to grease themselves in baby oil and sit in the sun, I was the kid in the pool with the t-shirt on, because the two-minute walk from the car to the water had already caused my skin to fry. I was the first child among my friends to know what SPF meant. I have been painfully white all my life, so when schools started back up after summer vacation and all my friends were tanned from the months at the beach, it would sting twice as bad.

Even though I'm what I call "pigment challenged," (because it appears I have very little of it and sun exposure inevitably ends in second degree sunburn, no matter how many precautions I take), I can't begin to explain how much I missed living within driving distance of the Atlantic Ocean. Of just knowing it was there, in case I want to pop over and say hello. When I moved to the Detroit area from Brazil, it blew my mind that people actually lived so far away from the ocean. It was almost beyond comprehension to me at the time.

With a hat, a bottle of sunscreen and a t-shirt (in case of a sunburn emergency), I paid a visit to my old friend the Atlantic. He was a bit cold, and I stayed mostly on the sand. My hair grew sticky of the salty mist in the air, and sand crept into places sand should not go. All things considered, it's good to be back!

I want.... a shoping cart

2006-04-14T15:47:00.000-04:00

Scott says I'm ahead of my time by about 50 years. But I don't care. I want a shopping cart. The kind that city dwelling old ladies push down the street almost in slow motion, each tentative step taken with the utmost concentration.

Yes, maybe I'm ahead of my time: shopping carts are cool. Not only do they fold away when you don't need them, they have bit of a dorky appeal, I have to admit. I want a shopping cart.

I can picture myself shopping for produce at the Union Square farmer's market; darting to Chinatown for some fresh ripe papaya (which won't be all bruised by the time I get home from it hitting against my knee with every step I take). I imagine going wine shopping and buying more than one bottle without buyers remorse setting in a few blocks, when the bag handles begin to cut off circulation to your fingers.

Having a shopping cart doesn't make you old. Or low brow. My shopping cart wouldn't have bits of string and plastic tied to it. Nor would it be decorated with faded fake flowers and leftover gift ribbon. I would never push it in front of me, slowly, in that two-step shuffle of someone who is using it not just for its intended purpose, but also for balance. Me, I would grab the handle and tilt the cart, so that the front wheels are off the ground and off I would stroll, cart behind me like a nice piece of luggage. The gentle summer breeze fluttering the shopping bags. Bright colored produce carefully stowed within the cart's enameled mesh sides, safely nested until our final destination. Perhaps a bunch of sunflowers resting safely against the back. Yes, I want a shopping cart and I'm not afraid to admit it.

I want a shopping cart and I ill walk with it trailing shortly behind me. I will walk with pride and a gin on my face, because I will have a shopping cart.

Not all rudeness is created equal

2006-04-07T15:05:00.000-04:00

People are become ruder by the minute. It's epidemic - or endemic - what's the difference, anyway? Not in the don't-give-me-shit-stay-out-of-my-business-are-you-talking-to-me kind of rude, which is actually charming in comparison to the narcissistic behaviors people are into these days. Folks seem to be increasingly embracing that self-centered kind of rude; people who act like they live in a bubble surrounded by nothing other than what they can see in their mind's eye - which is generally be remarkably different from what actually surrounds us.

For instance, we've become sort of regulars at a little diner down the street, and we've witnessed suburbanites being positively awful. A woman came in, ordered the special lunch sandwich and a diet soda. She got her beverage and the soup (which comes with the special), ate the soup, drank the soda and than threw a hissy fit saying that she couldn't wait that long for a lousy sandwich. She got up and left and didn't pay for the food she consumed. Apparently she is a regular, meaning she does that often. On the same visit, a rather large man sitting at the counter engaged in a rather heated one-sided argument with the waiter about his food order. Turns out that he expected a shrimp salad to contain only jumbo shrimp. To his outrage, that is not what he got: there was lettuce, tomatoes and other fish products involved. Long story sort, they brought him his jumbo shrimp, and than he left, leaving most of them behind on his plate. If that's not rude and wasteful, I'm not sure what is.

The following is a partial list of what I find to be examples of self-centered rudeness:

Carrying on loud cell phone conversations at inopportune times and or inappropriate places such as a quiet restaurant or during a movie at the theater. You're really not that interesting and your business is not that important that it can't wait. Hang up dammit! That goes for the commuters weaving in and out of traffic while talking on their mobile phones, too.

Walking with your gaggle of friends/relatives/coworkers, side by side, taking up the entire sidewalk, and than acting oblivious as people try to get around you and your entourage. If you really must walk in side by side formation, at least walk fast, so that we don't all get stuck behind you. It is just so incredibly tempting to try and trip you all or throw gum in your hair.

Drivers who refuse to yield to lane closure notices and insist in cutting to the front of the line because they are simply too good and in way more of a hurry than everyone else to wait to wait their turn. You can crash into my fender, but I will not let you in, you asshole!

Parents who impose their attention starved, sugar-jacked, self-diagnosed ADHD darlings on the rest of us. Maybe the reason your kid is such a pain in the ass is because you don't pay enough attention to the little angel. Instead of bringing princess to a nice restaurant, how about spending some quality time with the kids at home?

People who take up two parking spaces because they are too lazy/too good to back up and straighten out the wheels. There is a reason they paint lines. It's so that you can park between them, not on top of them.

People who block a lane of traffic in a city street because they are waiting for their companion to pick up lunch/do the banking/pick up the dry-cleaning/get a root canal.

People who do a month's worth of banking at the ATM right in front of you (that's what the branch is for. They even have lollypops on the counter, so you should really save your banking and do it there instead). Plus, it's climate controlled. Leave the ATM for those needing some quick cash. Thanks!

I see a sea of green

2006-03-17T22:57:00.000-05:00

The sometimes volatile nature of being a freelancer means that jobs sometimes fall through. This can be disastrous or joyous, depending mostly on the state of one's finances and the weather condition outside. So when I found myself at the last minute not having to work on Friday, I figured it was a good day to do some good, old-fashioned people watching. It was an absolutely beautiful day and it just so happen to be St. Patrick's Day. While I find green beer to be an insult to the otherwise delicious beverage, I do enjoy watching its effects on those who consume large quantities of it.

Sure, the History Channel debunked the myth that St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland as exaggeration incurred over centuries of embellished storytelling. What is no exaggeration is the number of slushes it drives into Manhattan every year on the 17th of March - especially when the date falls on a Friday and even more so when the weather is nice, such as it was. They come early and they come drunk. Screams (of the intoxicated variety) tore through Penn Station around 10 am. A short and stocky marine escorted a drunken college kid out of Penn station and invited me to go to Jersey with him and get drunk. I declined and he professed his love to me anyway. A low-ranking restaurant employee tried to sweep fresh puke onto a dustpan, with little success. Everywhere people were wearing whatever green garments they could dig out of their closets. Silly hats, green beads and assorted shamrock crap were available for sale at every street corner, with plenty of takers.

For those on the market for a classier souvenir, the Saint Patrick's Cathedral gift shop offered this statue of St. Patrick for eleven thousand clams.

I'm not a parade-person. I can think of 100 things I would rather do than watch a parade go by, such as picking lint out of my belly button and watching paint dry. But you can't get a sense of the magnitude of the St. Patrick's Day festivities without attending the parade. So I went. For a little bit, which was all I could take. I figure, if I have to watch a parade, give me something to look at, like floats and balloons shaped like Elmo or Capitan Underpants. But no luck, at least not for the 15 minutes I stood, six or seven deep, kiddy corner from St. Pat's Cathedral (the VIP area where no commoners were allowed). What I saw was the color guard on horseback and several servicemen in combat fatigues. Mostly I saw the top of people's heads. Time to move on...

Every bar in town was having some sort of commemoration. Downtown in the financial district they clearly took ambiance a bit more seriously, including a stretch of real grass in the middle of the alley. Drunken, but classy, I suppose was the message.

At the end of the day, the casualties of the green beer staggered home the best they could, in varying levels of impairment, from seriously trashed to behaving mildly like an asshole. All in a day's celebration.

Day at The Daily Show

2006-03-11T19:02:00.000-05:00

We've been fans of the Daily Show since way back when it was hosted by Craig Kilborn - before he got weird and moved on to host The Late Late Show. Back in the day when their tag was "When news break, we fix it." So it was really fun to get to go see a taping of the show last Thursday.

It all began with waiting in line for a couple of hours, being entertained by our fellow in-line-standers. People our age, not old tourists from Arkansas like the type you see in line at Letterman. There were some aging hippies, 20-something hipsters, 30-somethings playing hooky from work, and generally no one that stood out as someone who lives outside the tri-state area.

After our obligatory wait in line, we were led into what appeared to be a black box theater with a facsimile of the set of the TV show. It was fairly small and charmingly low rent. I suppose when Jon Stewart jokes that Comedy Central is cheap, he is not exaggerating all that much. The feel of the place is more community access than late night talk show.

We were joking that the guest would probably be some former government worker who has written a book, based on the fact that the guest the night before was Neil Young. Sure enough, it was some guy who was fired from a government job for writing a book critical of the administration.

The show was fun. Before taping began, Stewart came out for a Q&A with the audience. He answered questions ranging from hosting the Oscars ("the goodie bags are unbelievable. You get certificates for lots of stuff, plus you get to choose one production assistant that they will kill and stuff in the bag for you") and hair styling ("This? Do you think someone would do this to me? Of course I do my own hair") to whether he changes diapers at night ("Well, no. I usually wear flannels instead.")

After the show we just so happen to walk by a little Brazilian restaurant on 9th Avenue, "Rice'n'Beans" and figured it would be a good mom's cooking. The place is a hole in the wall and it's hard to even put your coat on without bumping into anything. I want to go back sometime and try the Bacalhau, a staple of Brazilian cuisine that I've never tried, even though I grew up there. My mom refused to allow it in the house because it smells really bad when you cook it - it's dried salted cod, so you picture the foul odor of dry fish. Yummy!

We rounded up our evening out with a drink at the Boxer Bar in the Village. We had to kill sometime because the trains on the North East Corridor (that's Jersey if you're not from around here) were not running. Somebody decided to end it all by jumping in the front of the 7:29 to Trenton. It was about 12:30 am by the time we finally made it home. Didn't get to watch ourselves on TV, but that's OK. We'll be back.

Fat Guy in a Lime Green Mini

2006-02-28T19:40:00.000-05:00

Here is another post from the archives of my old life in Detroit.

Despite its many shortfalls, the metropolitan Detroit area is still the automobile capital of the universe. No one walks here, it's some kind of unwritten law - thou shall not walk. Ever. We all bask in our obesity while sipping some high calorie coffee concoction and discussing the next low carbohydrate diet craze while driving to Costco to purchase institutional-size boxes of cereal and packages of irradiated lettuce that will not rot for weeks. A friend, who is a Costco aficionado, gave me a head of romaine lettuce that remained inexplicably green in my fridge for almost two months.

In just about any social circle in Metro Detroit, there is bound to be at least a handful of people who are employed in some car related field. I imagine it's like LA, where everybody is working on a movie, with the exception that our movies are glove box videos and the work comprises of far less schmoozing and a whole lot more doing, no offence to those who keep the rest of us wishing we were someone else, giving us just enough to keep us afloat.

Detroit is gritty, dirty and, as the show biz people would say, "a has been." People drive there, and then they quickly drive away. Not me. I go there for no reason and I linger around. There is an immense amount of beauty in a city that once was the Paris of the west, but now it's more like Beirut than Paris.

On my way downtown today, I was being tailgated by a very large man - Captain Incredible large - lodged in a lime green mini. Saying he was merely riding would not accurately convey the scene. The man was basically squeezed into this tiny car, driving erratically down I-94. It took me a while to realize that the steering wheel in his car was on the right side, because his body mass pretty much occupied the width of the car.

Normally I wouldn't do this, but I slowed down to get a better look. In fact, I pulled out my camera and took a picture. Driving such a small car, make that a small old car, is almost like heresy in this gas-guzzling, SUV -oving metropolis. People here buy the largest vehicle available, regardless of their need for things like towing capacity, cargo space or the ability to climb the Great Wall of China. Most people driving these mega machines are men in suits and women with children, neither of which will have any immediate need for a power wench or to tow a nuclear submarine. That's why they make SUVs with leather interiors and heated seats, which is precisely what you will need on your next safari adventure to Costco.

I have a profound hatred for those driving the extra large cars for no reason. I can understand if you need a huge van because you make countertops for a living, or if you work in an adult care facility, and need it to take the patients to their weekly visit to Kmart. I don't mind that at all, especially since I don't shop at Kmart. By all means have at it.

What does severely piss me off are those men (and they usually are men) who drive a Hummer. The first thought that pops into my mind is that the poor sap must have a small penis. That, and the fact that said vehicle monstrosity is called a Hummer, is almost funny enough to make me forget that I want that person to hit the first available utility pole with that ridiculous automobile.

While the occasional Corvette can be seen on our roads, in the brief few weeks that comprise the Michigan summer, seeing an old small car have at it with our suburban attack vehicles is rather unusual. Made me think of that Budweiser commercial, in which they salute people such as Mr. Pickled Pig's Feet eater. For whatever reason, if size does matter, I'm sure the fat guy in the lime green mini had a huge penis.

195,870 - A eulogy to my Saturn

2006-02-25T16:30:00.000-05:00

Before moving to the east coast, I lived in the metropolitan Detroit area, which you may recognize as a place that is absurdly enamored of the motor vehicle. I wrote this about a year ago or so, when I had to give up my beloved Saturn.

"There is nothing like driving, feeling one with the car. The wheels become an extension of your legs and the steering wheel molds into your hands. When the seats cradle your body just so, and you feel part human, part machine. You feel invincible.

I dislike everything about owning a vehicle, other than the fact it's there when I feel like or, as is the case more often, when I need to drive it somewhere. I hate the fact that nothing in the automobile world has any kind of permanence. The car won't stay clean, or fixed, or filled with fuel, or cease to be a money pit. Once it's paid for, things start to break, so, no matter what, car ownership requires a steady supply of cash.

I just got a car to replace my old car, the car I swore I would drive until pieces started to fall off, and even then, only if the pieces jumping ship were vital to the vehicle's operation. I would not concern myself with a missing bumper, or a dangling side mirror. I would even consider a door held by rope and the power of prayer. I really, really wanted to drive my car to 250,000. It just seemed like such a nice, round number: a quarter of a million. Regardless of the unit of measurement, a quarter of a million always seems like a lot, whether in car miles or lottery jackpots.

I was one with my car. I bought it so that I could learn how to drive a stick shift. All my previous attempts at learning ended badly, so I thought that by buying a stick shift car, I would have no choice but to learn. And learn I did. After a few weeks of careful route planning, taking great care to avoid any hills or even slight inclines, I mastered the clutch. There was no stopping me. I drove and I drove. Drove to Alabama trying to run away from the rain threatening our spring hiking trip, drove to New York City many times, in my periodically pilgrimage of reminding myself why I keep on living. Drove to Chicago to see friends, and to the Upper Peninsula to get away. Together we pretty much covered the Eastern US. It felt like betraying an old friend when I drove it to the Charity Motors lot, having to use the gear-shifter in place of the non-existing breaks. After all we've done together, it came down to this: a tax deduction before the law changed and made it less attractive to donate old clunkers to charity.

There is something profoundly sexy about driving a stick shift. All the men I've dated drove stick shifts, with the exception of the man I married. I later thought him how, and now that's what he drives. He doesn't feel as strongly about it as I do, but I usually don't expect people to share my opinions.

My new car is not sexy. I would go out on a limb, as say it has no soul, only a good sound system. Due to budgetary constraints, we bought Scott's mom's car. They weren't using it, so it seemed silly to go out and buy a new car when we could actually pay cash for this one. In exchange for the convenience and cash solvency, I now drive a beige, four door, automatic sedan. Sure the car doesn't spew out black smoke from the tail pipe, or make so much noise that it was difficult to concentrate in the actual act of driving. Any yes, the stereo is great and all the speakers work. While the car doesn't have any soul, I can play music loud enough to pretend it does."

Coo-Coo for Cocoa Puffs

2006-02-17T09:21:00.000-05:00

My favorite mode of transportation in the city is my own two feet. It's never dull to walk around New York City. Cold yes. Dull, never. Whether you are just going around the corner for some coffee, or are hopelessly lost trying to find a very obscure address where the street numbers make no sense, lots of unexpected entertainment can be easily observed.

The other day, for example, walking downtown on 7th Avenue, starting somewhere in the 30s and making his way well beyond the teens, a well dressed man was walking with a shovel slung over his shoulder. From the handle of this shovel, between his back and the "scoopy" part of the digging implement, hung a Barney's shopping bag. What was puzzling to me was that the bag was not all crumpled and old. No, this bag had just been handed over the retail counter in very recent history, making what appeared to be its maiden voyage.

The shovel itself was also intriguing. It wasn't a snow shovel, which would sort of make some sense, giving the record snowfall of last weekend. However, this one was a heavy duty, big hole-digging shovel. The one you'd probably choose if you were, well, going to be digging a trench, or a pool or some other type of whatever which requires displacing a fair amount of soil. The shovel in question also looked like it had been used for this purpose in the past because it was rusty and dirty.

The man didn't seem to be too familiar with the implications of walking with a shovel slung over his shoulder. He was easily distracted by store window displays and would turn, willy-nilly to look at the (presumably) shiny things that caught his eye - while making fellow pedestrians duck for cover as the shovel nearly clobbered several passers-by in the head.

But what I really wanted to know was what came first: was it the shovel or was Barney's? And do they allow large hand tools in the store, anyway?

Musings on TV

2006-01-21T21:55:00.000-05:00

Consistent with my leaning towards becoming either a professional slob or a full time bum (I haven't decided on which yet, lots to consider and frankly it just takes too much effort), I flipped on the telly. Since I'm not working right now, I no longer have to pretend to work by surfing the web. I can simply let my brain slowly turn to goo by watching television.

To my surprise, NBC was showing a bull riding competition. It's wasn't like what you'd expect of a rodeo. This was in some sort of arena filled with an awful lot of people, not off on a ranch or anything like that. They even had the commentators; you know those who profess to know what was going on in the mind of the rider, just like they do with other spectator sports.

Perhaps calling bull riding a sport is a bit of a stretch. Seems to me to be more like a skill like bowling, except with much higher stakes since the most extreme bowling injury pales in comparison to having your head pounced on by a very angry bull. But who am I to bash any kind of activity, sporting or otherwise, in which my people give all the other participants a run for their money? It's not often that Brazilians dominate a sport or, um, activity, whatever you call it.

Regardless, I still don't understand why bull riding is on TV. In fact, I don't understand why a lot of stuff is on TV. I suppose no one does, really. Maybe the thing with bull riding has to do with watching people fall off - which they inevitably do, usually in less than eight seconds.

I also don't know why people enjoy others falling, crashing or otherwise injuring if not their bodies, certainly their egos before thousands of seemingly adoring fans. Take figure skating for example. I don't particularly care to watch it, unless the contestants fall down a lot. It makes it far more entertaining than a flawless triple lux or whatever they call the flippy jumpy thing.

I'm not sure who watches most of the crap that is on TV. The though of having to sit through a rose ceremony of the Bachelor makes me want to vomit... bull riding seems like a culturally sensible alternative by comparison. And that is so very sad. Thankfully, my local library has an absolutely amazing collection of documentaries on DVD. I'm about half way through what they have available. I may be going though a couch potato phase, but at least I can say I'm learning something....

Zen and the art of sleeping

2006-01-14T16:57:00.000-05:00

My mind never stops. However mundane the thought, it cannot be stopped: only momentarily distracted with another equally mundane thought or an act of biology, such as having to pee. That, or having a migraine or other biological function seems to override the brain, occupying every nanosecond of available thinking time - if there is actually such a thing.

I'm always in awe of the people who say they can meditate and blank their minds of everything. "Oh, you really should try it. It's absolutely amazing." Personally, I think this is impossible. "It just clears my thoughts and helps me focus." So you focus on your spleen, or on your breathing or think about your gallbladder. Whatever, it's still thinking. How is that different from wondering how ducks flying in formation decide who gets to go next? Once you get down to it, it's all semantics, really.

Lately my mind has been deriving sick pleasure in not letting me sleep. It just keeps going, and going and going and seems intent on bringing up random issues that should have been settled a long time ago. For example, during a recent night of sleeplessness, a few neurons got together to torment me on whether I had filled in my social security number on a government tax form some months ago. Not productive, being that there is not a damn thing I can do about it, especially not at 3:24 am.

When not preoccupied with burocratic minutia, some of my brain cells write stories, complete long elaborate short stories with a beginning, middle and end, of which I can only remember the first paragraph the next morning.

Ellen DeGeneres spoke of this topic in her standup routine some years ago, about mthe tricks your mind plays on you when you are trying to go to sleep, and the useless things it busies itself to prevent you from doing so. "Blue. I like the color blue. I should really look into that new laundry detergent." Random and more or less useless but they can't be stopped. Kinda like watching a marathon of some dumb TV show. You know it's dumb and wrong, but you can't help yourself.

I suppose it could be worse. I don't lay awake at night wondering what planet Tom Cruise is really from, or what shoes I will wear tomorrow (in all likelihood, it will be my new pink fuzzy slippers). I did however, for a brief moment, ponder whether "truthiness" was already a word, or if Colbert did in fact pull it out of his ass.

Shoes

2006-01-11T15:21:00.000-05:00

Since I'm not exactly gainfully employed at the moment, at lest not in the sense in which I was accustomed to, I'm trying my best to be thrifty and not spend much. Rather than shop, mostly I spend my time walking, writing and annoying our cat, Tigger - he came with that name when we got him, so zip it.

Today I was exceedingly bored and beginning to develop a near obsession with a $165 The North Face jacket which seems to never go on sale, so I decided to go shoe shopping to see if I could shake the jacket thing. It's not even cold, so the whole thing is really irrational. I went to DSW to peruse and maybe find some chap thrill to apply my $5 birthday discount and thereby get enough endorphins going in my brain to satisfy the jacket craving. Every time I go there I hope to find a secret stash of Jimmy Choo shoes, just like a found my green Docs at Marshalls for $20 back when grunge was huge. Anyway, it's a fantasy, like owning a magic carpet, that I know it will never happen.

The closest DSW was mostly uneventful. I long ago learned that it is way more fun to go there during a downpour, because their ceiling leaks and there are buckets everywhere to collect the rain water.

They had all the same stuff, boots that don't fit my calves, ugly flats and lovely four-inch heels I have absolutely no place to wear. On the up side, it seems like kitten heel thing is mostly over, at least at the discount shoe place. Even I, the queen of ugly shoes, have standards and under no circumstance do they include kitten heels. Ever.

I ended up buying a pair of pink fuzzy slippers made to be worn outside. They were adorned with 3 pop-poms and because of a missing pom, they were banished to the clearance rack. The sale, plus my $5 birthday bucks netted me a pair of defective fuzzy slippers for $9.

As soon as I got home I cut the pom-poms off (like I said before, I have standards) and gave them to the cat, having turned them into instant cat toys. Tigger went mad, running around and carrying a pom-pom in his mouth from room to room, eyes wide open, ears pinned back and high on catnip.

While he sleeps it off, I lay on the couch contemplating my purchase, wondering if now it just means I no longer have to be just an indoor slob and I can look like one outdoors, too. After all, I now own a pair of all terrain pink fuzzy slippers.