So Eva is still in the running towards becoming America's Next Top Model. Hardly a shocker, but I'm relieved. Yaya is a close runner-up tho, after her swimsuit pics were about a million times hotter than anyone else's.
I've got endless piles of content waiting to be edited, but I don't mind because finally, one of my projects is done: all 59 pages of the lovely Junior Sportswear book -- my first! -- have been printed & it's all shiny & gorgeous sitting here on my desk. My paycheck is sitting on the other side of me & it's got a certain gleam to it too. I'll need it for tonite. Polly & I are going to Pete's to watch the debates & perhaps we'll play this.
I feel the need to clarify that yesterday's post was not actually written yesterday. I dug it out of a very old file of mine cos I couldn't think of anything to write. Just to let everyone know I'm not suicidal or anything. Except about the fact that I can't play pool like that anymore.
The flowers he gave me are dead. Everything is uncertain & falling apart. I played pool last nite with a tall, lanky fellow in glasses with long hair & an Adidas jacket. We were having a slow game, had nearly reached a stalemate. There were a lot of balls on the table but neither of us had any good shots. Suddenly the lanky fellow said, "It's just like The Rime of the Ancient Mariner."
I automatically nodded & laughed, but a second later, after he'd taken his shot, I walked over to him & said, "Exactly how is this like The Rime of the Ancient Mariner?"
& gravely he quoth, "Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink."
It was the only event in a boring nite; men who recite any kind of poetry are charming.
I am still heartbroken, but now I break my own heart, I fuck things up on my own & there is no escaping it, no matter what happens. Everything I hoped for was for us. When he had an eyelash I lifted from his cheek for him to blow I wondered about his wishes & whether they were the same as mine. Must set my face again to the world, the way I set my face against everyone in the bar last nite, daring them to challenge me, winning every game of pool I played, feeling slouchy & fat & odd in my old shirt from Austin & my roommate's belt & the sneakers he bought me. Still winning every game I played, not having any fun but never, never showing it.
This weekend I got to hang out with my nephew, which is one of my favorite things in the world to do. He just started daycare/preschool, so he's picking up some English. Tho he's got a hilariously thick Spanish accent when he talks.
My sister sometimes gives him little quizzes. One day in the car she said, "¡Antonio! ¿Cómo se dice 'araña' en inglés?"
"Ethpeedare!" he shouted triumphantly.
"Very good," my sister replied, beaming at him.
"Good???" I said, not sure of the answer to that question myself. "What the hell did he say?"
"Spider," she said sheepishly. "I hope he loses that accent soon. What if he asks some girl out on a date when he's older, & he asks her if she wants to go see Ethpeedare-Man?"
I think the accent could be charming. It worked on my sister after all. Her husband Juan was telling me how much trouble he's had with the English word "squirrel." Before he mastered it he would always pronounce it skvee-rell. That's even less decipherable than ethpeedare.
Happy birthday to you, Mike Toole. I wish we weren't at our now-separate places of business, so we could get drunk at Teddy's like last year. Afterwards you could go to the Electric Banana with Greg & steal another football.
Here's a birthday image just for you. I found it googling "electric banana."
I would like to reiterate how drunk I was last Wednesday. This photo doesn't even do the wastedness justice. That's me & my friend Margot, either at Rothko or at the Delancey. I sure as hell don't remember.
So the new season of America's Next Top Model is off to a racing start, & you better believe Sheri & I were glued to the television. It was a great episode, especially when the girls got into a bar brawl in Beverly Hills. One of them, who fortunately got cut (from the competition, not in the bar brawl), got a beer poured on her head & totally lost it.
"You got beer on my weave!" she shrieked menacingly, before bursting into tears on the ANTM bus.
I already have a favorite: Eva. She's not only my favorite Top Model contestant, she's my new favorite anything. She is somewhere between Angelina Jolie & Laetitia Casta on the hotness scale. Too bad her last name is Pigford.
Here's a great article about the whole f.b. phenomenon (or recent decline thereof) from the ideal-bedroom-paint-colored NY Observer. When I say great I mean it's the sort of article that makes you question every move you've ever made & basically every fiber of your existence, on a morning when you are hungover enough, after seeing The Narrator play a very late show at Sin-e, staying till the very end even tho you thought you were leaving after the second song, helping the boys load up the van, riding with them over the bridge into Brooklyn, finishing up the evening over scotch at Zablozki's & waking up what felt like mere seconds later. Over a third cup of tea & the last crumb of a bagel you don't want to start blaming yourself for not properly playing the coy, hunted lioness thru the grass or whatever such bullshit the article recommends.
So men really are the new women. It is happening in fashion & apparently it is happening to fuck buddies everywhere. I'm going to need another cup of tea.
So, I'm not a proper knitter yet, & maybe I never shall be, but I did get to know some of my lovely coworkers last nite at the Knit Cafe. I also learned how to correctly unwind the yarn, "cast-on" & finally, how to begin knitting a pretty pink scarf. We had tea & sat in a circle chatting like good little homemakers, but evil me brought my scarf home, put on The Front & slurped up the last of the delicious tequila Sonia brought me from Mexico. I had to restart my work a couple of times, & I couldn't smoke any cigarettes whilst I was craftsing, but I think I've finally got the hang of it & now I've got the beginnings of some lucky person's Christmas present.
The gossip at the new job isn't nearly as good as at the last place, but Anise called me up last nite & satisfied my hankering for dirt. There's still loads of it over there! But my lips are sealed. At least, blog-wise.
So, I have -finally- been invited to do something with my coworkers. I guess the new girl stink is starting to wear off. We are going to sit around & knit this evening. It's not exactly getting plastered at happy hour, but for now I'll take what I can get.
I had a mellow weekend indeed. I only have seven squares left on the Sunday crossword, & it's barely noon on Monday. Whatever will I do on the subway for the next few days?
Friday a bunch of us went to see Fletcher's awesome Lynda-Barry inspired 100,000 demons at the Art Truck in the burg. I love Fletcher’s art & I love that I can link to Fletcher now. Click on his name! His blog is awesome!
Anyway after the Art Truck we were arted out & deserved a few drinks, which we imbibed over at Daddy's. We sat outside under the terrifyingly fast-moving clouds, sipping whiskies & talking shit & taking ridiculous photographs.
On Saturday Anna had a get-together to watch the Miss America pageant, which was a complete & utter travesty, where the winner, Miss Alabama, was easily the freakiest looking of the bunch. Her eyes were all droopy, but not in a sad puppy way, more in a scary face melting sort of way, & they couldn't even secure the crown properly on her pointy little head. You can see her here with the runner up, who I think was robbed.
That's about all I have to report today. I've made no progress with my hot blond friend, nor with Kiefer Sutherland (oops! gave that one away). I haven't seen the one-eyed man either, which is a relief. But you'll be the first to know, dear blog, if anything exciting ever happens to me. Sigh.
It's a slow day in the office today. I had high hopes for my day off yesterday, Rosh Hashanah, but I squandered it recovering from a hangover so bad I was utterly incapacitated. I don't know what happened to me on Wednesday nite, but somehow, I got drunker than I've gotten probably in years. I blacked out several hours of the nite. The last thing I remember is being at the Delancey, watching Kickstart, thinking how much the Delancey looked like Lit to me, & dancing a little too recklessly. Suddenly I woke up at my f.b.'s house with a hard, sore lump burgeoning on my forehead, my shirt on inside out, one sock on my foot & nothing else. It was 7 a.m. Among other things, the fact that I was wearing one sock, rather than two or none, seemed like an impenetrable mystery. My dear f.b. only wanted to sleep, but I kept pestering him with questions about what had happened, how I had gotten there.
"You said you were chased here by a one-eyed man," he said, with the implication that it had been some sort of alcohol-inspired mirage.
But when he said it there rose up in my mind a picture (a memory or a vision?) of an older man, bedraggled, leering, with one milky glass eye staring straight, & behind him I made out the blurred background of Bedford.
I was, I faltered, feeling sick & unsure of myself. I mean I think there was a one-eyed man. But was there? I haven't seen a one-eyed man in my neighborhood before. I hope I imagined him. I hope I didn't really see some poor one-eyed man & then run screaming from him in horror. How atrociously rude. I'm sure he has enough problems, what with the one eye & everything.
I'm using my lunch break to blog, because I've been frantically editing a bunch of copy for this Junior Sportswear book we're putting together at work. I don't have much to say anyway, unless it's on the topic of Junior Sportswear, in which case I'm a total font of knowledge. I've been pretty sick for the last two days & going straight home diligently after work. Actually what I've been doing is making a slight detour at the video store first, so I can pick up the next installment of 24. I have become so obsessed with 24 over the last couple weeks that it's becoming a problem. I don't even bothering ordering it on Netflix cos I can't wait three days for it. The other day I finished one of the DVDs right before Reel Life closed & I practically had a panic attack. I booked it over to Bedford Ave like a woman on a mission -- nay, like Jack Bauer on a top-secret CTU assignment -- so I could pick up the next disc.
I finally finished the first season last nite. I'm getting my life back just in time too, because tonite Live Girls!!! & Kickstart are playing separate shows at separate venues. That would be Rothko & the Delancey, respectively.
Other than that I've got a few more blind items for you.
Which mysterious ex sent me an inexplicable text message on Friday nite? Which blond female friend do I not-so-secretly want to make out with? Which loud co-worker needs to keep her conversations to herself? Which rugged, blond 24 star do I have the hots for? Oh, & which Heather is my favorite?
Well, great pâté, but I gotta motor if I want to be ready for that funeral.
After a stellar weekend of painting my apartment & checking out some brand-new bars, I woke up around three a.m. this morning feeling terrible, stuffy, feverish & swollen-throated. I was drifting in & out of dreams that I was at the beach with my f.b., which was pleasant because it was a pretty beach & my f.b. looked good in his swimming trunks, but then I kept waking up & remembering I was ill. Today after a couple of Dayquil I feel somewhat better but I am still having hot/cold flashes & there are still hard bits of paint in my hair from Saturday.
Anna helped me paint my place -- the largest wall in it, anyway -- & we used mostly a sort of lemony creamy bone color, which is the stuff in my hair, as well as a dark glossy chocolate, which could certainly be in my hair as well, tho if it is my hair has rendered it invisible. Shopping for paint was fun. There are few occupations I find as appealingly poetic as Writer of Novels or Creator of Buildings, but I think Namer of Paints is a good one too. I'd like to call the elegant cream color Monticello. Or maybe Ring of Bone, after a pretty poem by Lew Welch.
I am always thinking about starting a cosmetics company, not because I have any interest in creating cosmetics, but because I would love to name the colors after my favorite heroines of literature. Deep, blood-red could be called Anna Karenina; Franny Glass would be a nervous but still ladylike pink; Emma Bovary would be a dusky French rose; sensible, brickish red with a hint of orange would be Nancy Drew; Daisy Buchanan an aristocratic shade of taupe & Dolores Haze a nymphet-like vivid pink. I wouldn't bother having a Hester Prynne -- that's too obvious.
Anyway I'll post pictures of the new paint job as soon as they're developed. Right now I have to get back to work.
It's a lot of pressure, trying to behave. Being bad, making the same mistakes, fucking up, going about it all wrong, overdoing it, being an idiot, breaking, gluing yourself back together, putting yourself out there & returning again, giving a shit about what doesn't matter, never figuring it out, overstepping your bounds, misspeaking, misstepping, & always, always, persistently looking for trouble -- that's where it all happens, doesn't it? The best bits, the truest moments.
I feel ugly today & I look ugly today. I'm dressed like a third grade teacher from New Mexico & everything about me is wrong. It is always when you are feeling ugliest & looking ugliest that the disgusting motherfuckers who like to make comments from their stoops or their cars decide to become more aggressively disgusting. Fending off dirty assholes when you are in no mood just makes you depressed, makes you hate the world even more. It turns into this spiral of loathing that focuses itself back on you. The worst part is, I believe that that is their intent. I really believe those motherfuckers get off on making us feel like shit about ourselves. I mean, they hardly expect to get a date with that approach.
This website has that fine feminist rallying spirit, but it still doesn't give, as far as I can see, any concrete answers to the questions it poses. I'd like to know, for example, how one would go about Engaging in actions that will make the harassment of women a NOT PLEASANT and NOT REWARDING experience for the harasser, or more importantly, how we are supposed to start Creating an atmosphere in which street harassment is completely socially unacceptable?
I'd like there to be some sort of mark we could give street harassers. When someone robs a bank, doesn't some sort of blue chemical explode all over them, identifying them as the culprit? Couldn't it be something where women were armed with paint guns or something, so when some dude hisses hey mami at us, we could blast him with a very bright dye that never washes out? & thereafter, everyone could see that he was a dirty bastard who had pissed off the wrong woman? I bet almost half the guys in my neighborhood would be covered in the shit, & probably 75% of the ones on my block. Sigh. Tis but a lovely dream. If anyone else has ideas, I want to hear them.
I spent Labor Day weekend in Providence, site of great giddy high school adventures & hometown of at least three of my ex-boyfriends. No exes were in attendance this weekend, altho the most significant one of them is getting married on Saturday, & I'd rather not talk about that right now, thanks. Not much about the PVD has changed. Jess drove me by the Prudential, the giant rock cluster where we used to smoke surreptitious cigarettes under the track field. There's a softball field there now too, but otherwise it looks exactly the same. Thayer Street was still clogged with oh-so-earnest Brown students, except now they are younger than I am.
The two days in Providence were for me (& for Joe, who came along) characterized by an almost total lack of energy, fueled by excessive smoking of excessively strong pot, massive amounts of card playing (especially Palace, a game that doesn't exist outside R.I.), gross overspending thanks to the tempting prevalence of delicious seafood practically everywhere we went, & best of all, the familiar sound of the Rhode Island accent battering itself lovingly against my ears. I woke up yesterday morning to the voices of two local men working on the roof outside my window. One of them was saying to the other, "You know, I never thought we had that much of an accent. But the other day I saw a guy from Providence on TV, & as he was talking I realized, no matter what we're saying, we all sound just like a bunch of quahoggers."
Today hard work & stress finally showing signs of a payoff... as this little message graced my inbox after lunch:
From: S*** H***
Sent: Friday, September 03, 2004 1:31 PM
To: All Employees
Some mens sweaters in 3G
First come first served
Hurry only a few!
OK, so I don't need any men's sweaters in my life these days (& thank you for rubbing it in, S*** H***). But as soon as I read the email I turned to my cube-mate for the scoop. She informed me that, yes, free samples in all departments are actually available on a regular basis. Hallelujah. Life has meaning again.