I am such a moron. I have been emailing back & forth with this guy from the personals who seems nice. I totally forgot that my blog URL is my sig in gmail. So I've been emailing him the address of my stupid blog every time! My blog in which I discuss my foray into the personals, among other things. I don't know any other way of remedying the situation (or fucking it up worse) except to address it here, on my cursed blog.
So David, if you're reading this: Hi! Sorry about that!
Yesterday afternoon I got really, really sad. I don't know what happened. I got so sad I skipped Top Model so I could have dinner with Sara instead. We went to my new favorite cafe, St. Helen's (whose owners also run my favorite new shop, Saved), where everything on the menu uses some combination of the same ingredients: salmon, avocado, wheat bread & goat cheese. Sara had avocado on wheat toast & a goat cheese salad & I ate a salmon & avocado wheat-bread sandwich & we shared a bottle of Malbec wine. On the way to Zablozki's after dinner we saw a bunch of people standing around on Wythe, looking up at the sky. There was an eclipse obscuring a corner of the moon & we stopped to watch but it was moving so slowly we just kept going. We didn't even know if it was the end or the beginning. I was still feeling sad but it was starting to feel ok. After Zablozki's we came home & I made a sudden catalog purchase of a leopard-print cardigan & knitted some more of my scarf (yes, the same scarf). I smoked pot & I talked to Melly in Chicago & I thought I would never stop being sad. When I went to bed I dreamed J asked L to marry him & she dumped B & said yes. I thought about J buying me a Corona on the roof of the Delancey & I felt sadder still.
I woke up sad but things are looking up. On a very not-sad-at-all note, Matt & Tracy are getting MARRIED! Their engagement really began over the weekend at Kings County, but now it is official. I can tell everyone, right, Tracy? Congratulations you guys. Now I am not sad. Now I have a serious case of warm fuzzies.
I have another not-sad thing to say. I don't know why I've saved the non-sad items till the end of the post. But anyway, how hot is my boyfriend Eminem? Click on his video Mosh to watch him stick it to the White House. Awesome.
So I put the comments back up & no one has anything to say. Except for Mike. Thanks homie! I'm a busy little beaver at work today. I'm apologizing via blog to everyone I've neglected to email lately. I know that's lame but I'm really, really sorry. I promise to write soon.
I've been getting a lot of responses from the personals but the more I get the more it depresses me. Some of them are scumbags who are already in a relationship & are looking for a mistress of sorts (um, been there, done that) & some of them are nerdy in a bad way or don't have a photo up or they live in Ghana & think it's actually possible to get a Visa thru the personals. Or they'll send a badly misspelt instant message to me while I'm trying to get work done. There's one I decided to write back to. He is very skinny & Russian-looking & in his message (NOT an IM, a proper one) he said he didn't have a Santa suit on hand (my profile states that I like the sex scene in Bad Santa... *ahem*) but wanted to write nevertheless. It's hard not to feel weird & pathetic over the personals but I'm trying to overcome it.
On another note, this is pretty awesome. It's like Netflix for fashion victims.
So, my comments are back in a big, big way. Ask nicely & ye shall receive.
It's with no little sense of apprehension that I reinstate my comments, cos I thought today I'd share with everyone how even more insane I was as a teenager than I am now. I took the whole wild-typewritten-pages-for-yr-own-joy notion of Kerouac's as practically gospel & I was under the influence of multiple hallucinogens. A snippet from my typewritten pages circa 1995 hints vividly at the result of this dangerous combination.
But now after so long I still wanna write madly; why did everything fuck up its like L said about T, "c'est proche mais il ne marche jamais" or whatever... for some reason or the other it never works out but obviously I dont know why or Id fix this whole stupid mess. Just like why did we even go to Boton, or to Bickfords in "submarine light"... at the laser light show pink purple red flying at us you only kissed me once inside... tripping kissing every time a bright flash came I was blinded and my eyes snapped shut and one fat tear rolled out, and after all would things have been different if we had just watched TV that nite, instead of taking off together in the Blazer?
Instead I had to sit with you in long stony silent car ride, all the way from Little Compton to Providence, no cigarettes, just like the first nite we met -- & besides the horrible car ride, THAT was the most poetic nite of all. We got back together again, I was standing in the kitchen, alone, but we were all somewhere in the house, tripping balls, and I was fascinated by everything, the madly shining hard apples I was preoccupied with when he came in and gave me a huge long hug and it was nice, but not any more so than the apples, and if hed left me to them I wouldnt have cared but as it was everything was fine with me. Later we were outside and I was spilling out every miniscule thing that was racing thru my acid mind. Cuz it was my first real trip. It was like that first nite cuz I was naive and silly and gushing and his eyes were slanted, we were getting together on the porch and I gave crazy dumb but insightful tripping commentaries: "It was Saturday nite, I had a cigarette in my right hand and Brad in my left; all in all it was a good nite." He just laughed at me & I loved him, but only as much as I loved the whole world, like the corners of tables and grinning window panes and scratched car paint. Sober now, I see him different, fuzzier, still the best thing Ill see. Im really madly in love with everybody but you just cant do that. Maybe Ive been wrong about everything where I always thought I was so sure; one day tho Ill find love & fire not lies. I hope.
Yesterday I bit the bullet & put up a personal online. The responses I've gotten have been hilarious so far. The first one was a nerdy 35 year-old Asian guy who wasn't very cute. The second was a semi-good-looking guy whose way, way too long message had mostly to do with "how moved, how swayed" he was by my profile & managed to not only use the word "embroiled," but somehow to spell it with a g. The third one was from an older man who is incredibly, rather admirably, honest about the fact that all he wants is a situation of "extended oral sex sessions" without any relationship whatsoever, nor, I should mention, any physical reciprocation from his partner. Another one was from a guy who is really into massages (they were somehow incorporated into both the "sexier" portion of the fill-in-the-blank part & the "If I could be anywhere at the moment" question). Too bad for him I'm probably one of the only people on earth who thinks massages are way overrated. & neither the cunninlinguist nor the masseuse have provided any photos, which (among other things) is unacceptable. So far the first one is my best bet. At least his message made some sort of sense ("I love PG Wodehouse too! What do you think of Roald Dahl?"). I'm holding out tho. The internets have got to have more to offer than this. What with their being plural now & everything.
So I took the comments feature off my blog. I'm not sure if this is a permanent thing or not. I'd like to know what you guys think about this, but unfortunately I took the comments feature away & now you can't tell me.
There's a large gap in my floor in the place where the kitchen descends into the closet before becoming part of the living room. Sometimes I like to leap over it heroically, like it's a pit of snapping alligators, instead of walking thru it or around it. At nite if I'm sort of drunk & want to check on what I'm cooking for a snack, especially, I like to dramatically leap across the gap on my way to the stove.
Last nite we drank many beers & I got forced to watch the Yankees game. I was the hostess. I was intermittently flirting via text message & getting up to get everybody more beers & emptying ashtrays & calling the 2 numbers I had for pot. After a lot of anxious waiting by the phone on our part, it arrived, & we rolled a joint in my slanted & dark apartment & watched the Yankees lose & I couldn't text message so well anymore because the keys were too small so I gave that up. Woke up this morning dry-mouthed, desperately craving an orange for some reason, half-remembering dreams of swimming pools & flights of stairs. Now I'm drinking coffee & trying to get my act together so I can be productive. It's not going so well yet.
About all I've done today is learn this:
That website has a lot of retarded quizzes where you put your name in & it spits out a random other name, e.g., porn star, boobie name, etc. I was bewildered to see that they offer a "Penis" name & a "Girl Parts" name. Girl Parts???? Since when is the female counterpart of Penis called Girl Parts? People are so fucking stupid! What is wrong with plain old vagina? I personally have a soft spot for cunt, but anything is better than the weird, squeamish, pre-school condescension suggested by Girl Parts. Ew.
I'm glad the weekend is over. If I had to hear another word about the stupid music industry -- what band so-and-so started, what label they're on & how much they sound like a shitty version of the Strokes -- I thought I was going to barf. There was also just weird & tiresome drama, best explained in blind-item form. Like which Chicago frontman was (understandably) acting like a total prick because his cats had just died? Which fashion artist & musician did coke with me in a dark & sketchy little nook at Trash? Which record label owner was drunkenly spitting in my ear when he talked, but was so cute I didn't mind?
OK that's all I got there. It was a fun weekend despite my CMJ bitching. Lauren stayed with me, & even tho she was sick almost the entire time, it was awesome to see her. On Saturday nite we stayed up with Cat, who had to catch a 6 a.m. flight. I wanted to pass out so Lauren gave me a drunken haircut while we waited. Luckily even a drunken Lauren haircut done with kitchen scissors at 4:30 in the morning is better than one you pay for at a fancy salon. The next day Cat & Lauren were gone & I tried to recover from the aforementioned Trash shenanigans. I managed to crawl into the city & buy myself a new pair of glasses & make it back to my couch in one piece. I read the paper & drank a lot of water & now I'm practically normal enough to go knitting with my co-workers.
It's getting harder & harder to have a favorite Top Model hopeful these days. They're all annoying as fuck at this point. Even my Eva was throwing tantrums all over the place last nite & generally getting on everybody's nerves. We tried to play a game where we'd drink every time Amanda brought up her blindness or one of the girls cried. We didn't have nearly enough beers for that tho.
Earlier I kept thinking of things I wanted to blog about but suddenly I forgot all of them. This post blew me away, the way Garden State failed to.
I'm editing some stuff about the Première Classe accessory show in France. There's this woman named Elizabeth Melinek who makes these hot things she calls strumpets. They're so turn-of-the-century tailored, so sixpenny call girl, so Vivienne Westwood! I'm dying for a pair of my own. & I wonder why I only have $12 till tomorrow.
Sometimes I get so tired of seeing myself write it all down, my monomania, my laziness, my inability to see things as they are. & then I write it anyway, because there isn't anything else to be done.
Up on the roof at Anna's last nite, we pulled our coats around us & pushed ourselves against the rails so we could see further out into the city. There was a canker sore on the center of the tip of my tongue & the wind was hitting it now & then & it hurt a little. We moved to the south side of the building so we could see more of Brooklyn. Anna was speaking in her strong, clear voice & I was looking down at the sidewalks of Bushwick where the darkness was broken up at intersections by the lights of the bodegas & I wondered if I was supposed to feel guilty.
It's exceptionally grey & murky in my cubicle today. I think I need a nap.
While all the hipsters are spending their CMJ Friday at TV on the Radio, I'll be watching Social Distortion destroy Roseland Ballroom. Not only do I love Social D, but guess which show will have hotter boys. & I'm not just talking about the crowd.
* I know, I know. I totally cheated by using a very old photo of Mike Ness. Well, good times come & good times go... I only wish the good times would last a little longer...
Too tired & rather too busy to write a proper blog entry on this suddenly chilly day, but a few notable things happened over the weekend & they’re all pretty juicy so I'm presenting them in blind-item form.
Which former fling tried to give me the whole "I'm sorry I haven't called -- my cellphone died" thing on Saturday? (Lame! & besides, isn't that my line?)
Which songwriter-about-town admitted one of his band's songs (one of my favorites, I might add) is about moi?
Which pathetic ex-boyfriend did I hear has a profile on those Salon/Nerve/Onion/etc. personals?
Which even more pathetic blogger is obsessively trying to hunt down her ex-boyfriend's online personal?
Which above-average movie still failed to blow my mind yesterday? (I made this a blind item cos people with like-minded quibbles are practically getting lynched over at IMDB.)
Sometimes on hungover mornings I terribly miss my old boss from Austin, Texas. She owned this chi-chi little boutique & if anyone came in hungover & hating life they'd ask her if she'd ever gotten drunk & done anything embarassing. She'd always say something perfect like, "Oh, you mean like walk up to a man at the bar & say Hi, I hate my mother. Wanna fuck? God! All the time!"
Is everybody in a fantastic mood today? Something strange is going on. Rarely enough, I woke up on the right side of the bed this morning. Melly did too. So did Anise, but she almost always does. I was feeling so awake & detached from the subway this morning, listening to Wild Pack of Family Dogs on my headphones.
The new designer at Givenchy's got my new favorite name: Ozwald Boateng. I can’t say enough good things about his first name & his last name & the 2 of them in combination. It's like Ya Ya Empress! Or Gouranga! It's just dying to be repeated: Ozwald Boateng! Ozwald Boateng! Ozwald Boateng!
I've got a thing about names. A couple of months ago my friend & I were laying on the sand in Long Beach, trying to stop the crashing depression that had inevitably begun to set in after a long nite of scores of lines of coke, a couple packs of smokes, some X that did nothing & about a case of beer. It was 9 a.m. & we were laying on the beach with nothing left to say to each other. Somehow or another one of us brought up the subject of names, & bit by bit, in a stilted, special-ed sort of way we managed to get thru it by talking about names. We got onto the subject of which names would prevent us from dating someone. I said I'd never date a Rodney (I know. I got no respect, even for the dead. But it's my dad's name, which is weird, & it also sucks), a Gary or a Phil. Nor a Randy & never a Conrad. I have issues with Keith, too. Awful names, all of them.
Other than that my standards are shockingly low.
I would date an Ozwald Boateng in a second. Too bad he's married. They look happy too.
Bored, bored, bored! To while away the time I put my name into Google's image search. I thought I'd make sure no naughty pics of me are floating around the interweb. Turns out there aren't many images bearing my namesake. See if you can spot me anyway. Is that me peeking out from behind a tree, or posing with my favorite horse? Sorry, try again...
Here's a hint: look for the one holding a drink AND a cigarette.
Last nite's debate was way more exciting than the first, presidential round. But it's totally lame how the audience isn't allowed to express any audible reaction. I have said this over & over to anyone who will listen. It is fucking stupid. When a candidate delivers a razor-sharp insult, or a shrewdly pertinent historical example, the audience response really drives the point home. "Senator, you're no Jack Kennedy" is a very cool line, but its Quayle-wounding power was probably multiplied a zillionfold by the loud cheers that followed.
For me, the best zing! of the nite came from Cheney, with whom I had found myself -- with a shocked, sinking feeling -- now & then nodding along. Good thing the awesome, casually tossed insult -- the bit about Edwards's attendance record in the Senate, where Cheney remarked, "I'm president of the Senate and the first time I ever met you was when you walked on stage tonight" -- turned out to be a lie. Still. I feel so dirty.
On an unrelated note, this morning I was hopping around, cleaning up my apartment for my friend Nicole's visit, trashing empty wine bottles & dumping out ashtrays, & the whole time I kept thinking about senior pages in yearbooks. What a dumb thing to be thinking about, but nevertheless I was thinking about all the ones I remembered. There was always the white-hat quoting the Grateful Dead, comparing high school to a long, strange trip. There was the idiot who was too stupid to think of anything but the Robert Frost bit about the yellow wood. There was the girl I actually liked -- she had tangled red hair that was always in her face & her page had a quote from On the Road, about "the only people for me are the mad ones" -- etc. Then I started thinking about how blogs are sort of like senior pages. You get to fuck with the formatting & write about what you want & quote whatever you want & put up photos & link to all your homies. The analogy works even better for Friendster & MySpace. Next time some asshole (usually myself) wonders why I feel the need to put all my private shit online, I’m going to respond that it’s my own personal yearbook senior page. I wasn’t completely satisfied with how mine turned out, ok? I'm still working on it.
Ya know, a job is a job is a job. Being a copy editor for a fashion company is not that different than being a copy editor for a newswire, except that it's a little bit more ridiculous.
The first thing I do when opening a document:
Newswire: Hit control-F to remove all formatting.
Fashion company: Hit control-H to change all instances of boucle to bouclé. Ditto ombré, piqué, and sometimes even the rare matelassé.
When I have a question for the writer of the content:
Newswire: Excuse me sir, I noticed that in your financial tables it says your company reported a loss of $3.4 million this year, while in the subhead of the release that figure is represented as a $3.4 million gain. Is that how it is supposed to read?
Fashion co.: Would it be ok if I changed a word in the third paragraph? I really think of the pouf as more of a "silhouette" than a "length."
Helpful acronyms to know:
Newswire: EBITDA, GAAP, SEC
Fashion co.: LBD, MOB, DTM, RTW *
In weekend news, I came this close to making out with the blonde friend of recent blind items. I fucked up by chickening out at the last minute. What a surprise. (I am not being sarcastic. It is weird that I chickened out.) Don't worry, gossip lovers. I'm just letting the suspense build.
* Little Black Dress, Mother of the Bride, Dyed-to-Match and Ready-to-Wear.
I'm glad the weekend is over. If I had to hear another word about the stupid music industry -- what band so-and-so started, what label they're on & how much they sound like a shitty version of the Strokes -- I thought I was going to barf. There was also just weird & tiresome drama, best explained in blind-item form. Like which Chicago frontman was (understandably) acting like a total prick because his cats had just died? Which fashion artist & musician did coke with me in a dark & sketchy little nook at Trash? Which record label owner was drunkenly spitting in my ear when he talked, but was so cute I didn't mind?
