I almost bought a ball of yarn yesterday because it was the color of my blog. It was a fuzzy, soft thread that changed from navy to lavender to pink flecks & back to navy again. I wanted it so much but I have to finish with this grey thing I'm making & anyway the coveted yarn was $15.75 for what looked like a very small amount.
Today I got an email from one of my best friends from college. I haven't talked to her in months nor seen her in probably 4 years & anyway she just bought a house. She's celebrating her three-year anniversary with her girlfriend & she just bought her own house in Seattle. She was always one of those people that somehow seemed to know how to do everything right, instinctively: play the stock market, drive a tractor, sew her own clothes, invent her own dances that actually caught on, make vegan food taste delicious & have relationships with women that weren't obsessive-compulsive jealousy-fueled screaming matches (most of the time). We lived together in a tiny little apartment in Austin called The Shanti. It was infested with dog-sized flying cockroaches & we had funny old avocado-colored couches & Japanese lanterns & outside, a small swimming pool surrounded by palm trees. We did a lot of crystal meth to write papers & we swam in the pool & sometimes if the roaches were very bad she'd let me stay with her in her room. When we drove into the parking lot of our complex together we'd crack each other up by singing the Madonna song to each other: Om shanti, shanti shanti... & now she owns a house! Meanwhile my current apartment isn't very much nicer than The Shanti, minus the roaches. We do have pretty furniture but it's about to go away with my roommate tomorrow. We don't have flying cockroaches either but we did have a flood over the weekend & a certain incident involving rats about a year ago that I don't like talking about. Let's not even get into the three-year relationship thing. It's funny. I'm not jealous, exactly, but I do feel sort of like 4 years of my life passed like so much sand thru my fingers & I'm barely holding on to a grain or 2. God. Sigh. Ya know?
Anyway perhaps I should try to accomplish something in life, in whatever small way possible. Like for example, post a blog composed of only two-syllable words. If you have any topic suggestions let me know. Tomorrow -- two syllables exclusively! See, that entire last sentence won't even be allowed.
Wednesday afternoon it rained, hard. We smoked pot & went to see Sideways & afterwards we drank wine in the city & then Thursday Helen made samosas & mimosas & there was dancing in the kitchen & smoking in the living room & somehow the turkey got carved & I got a pounding headache off the champagne & left with three new paintings. Friday we thought about getting out of town but we didn't. Instead we sat around the loft & I plucked my eyebrows in the stark big-windowed daylight of the living room while he showered. We made it to see SpongeBob in the afternoon. Saturday we ice-skated in the park, around & around. A woman fell on the ice, a middle-aged woman in a lavender coat. She wasn't moving. Before they brought a stretcher out to her they coned her off so we couldn't get near, but everybody slowed down when they passed.
Now's our chance, I said, while they're distracted by the incident over there. So we skated to the other side of the rink & took sips from the bottle of Jack he was hiding in his coat & then we skated around some more. Afterwards we craved hot dogs & horror movies, simultaneously; rushing back to Brooklyn we stepped in together thru the turnstile because my fare card had run out. A split second later three uniformed cops were coming towards us. So there we were detained at Union Square, in a grim circle of an underground room, getting a $60 summons each for trying to cheat the subway. & when we got home I couldn't move, from the skating, from the summonses, & in the morning we woke up at 8 because my apartment had flooded overnite. A Bob Dylan record was adrift & a few postcards & a bra & the usual receipts & old papers. E. very carefully unplugged all the cords from the outlets while I waited in the living room with Sara. The rain was coming down in torrents & we drank orange juice in front of the television & looked up plumbers in the yellow pages.
Last nite my bedroom was dry again but I couldn't sleep & it was terrible. I finished the Sunday crossword minus three squares & the entire Acrostic puzzle which I normally never touch plus the rest of the magazine too (minus a sports-related article), & then I read all of Sunday Styles, all of the Week in Review, & a 3-page-long, extremely moving article on AIDS in Africa from the perspective of a village in Swaziland. I think I finally fell asleep around 4, reading about the election in the Ukraine. Now feeling very informed but very tired too. Too tired to keep writing tho I feel like I probably have more to say.
The best things about today have been reading this very perfect post from one of my favorite bloggers & finding out that my boss isn't coming in today. The worst thing is I haven't had any breakfast yet & I want to go back to sleep.
I don't get into the holidays very much but today I am suddenly thankful for a lot of things. It's just coincidence, ok?
I'm thankful that I'm getting out of work today at 2:30, less than three wee little hours away. Thankful to have found a new roommate at last, a very lovely person who drank a glass of cheap wine at my house last nite while she wrote out the check. Polly was there too, enjoying the cheap wine as well, & I'm thankful to her for providing such insightful suggestions for a short story I wrote, for giving me a fancy new Rebecca Taylor shirt just because, & for getting an awesomely dramatic haircut so I don't have to. Also thanks to Helen & Fletcher, who invited me to Thanksgiving dinner -- shall be there, guys! Whiskey in hand!
Very (very) thankful for very (very) good sex. Among other things.
Thankful for Melly, tho sad I haven't talked to her in about five days, which feels awful. My sister, my nephew Antonio, my parents doing their thing, fishing in the Keys, me having a job I like most of the time, Mike Toole taking my advice, all tension between me & my roommates having dissipated completely, Eminem, Geoff Dyer, the new kitty that is moving in with the new roommate, Charles Bukowski, Nancy Mitford, queso, emperor penguins for Melly, sitemeter, cos it brings me so much inexplicable joy, collarbones, pelvic bones, getting stronger, feeling better, healing, changing, writing, sleeping. Did I say Eminem already? Amen.
My throat has been very scratchy since yesterday. I think I had too much whiskey this weekend. Either that or not enough, it's hard to tell. I'm snowed under with pre-holiday work. I'm beginning to realize that my company always does this. First they give me a shitload of work all of a sudden. Then they throw a goddamn bridal shower for some secretary on the third floor that takes an hour & a half, & naturally, attendance is mandatory. Then they announce we are closing the office at 2:30 tomorrow & suddenly there is no fucking way I will finish it all in time. So I'm coping with the stress by blogging rather than working.
I don't even know why I care. For all I know I am staying here in NY for Thanksgiving, so I may as well work late tomorrow nite. My parents are too busy fishing in the Keys to go home for the weekend, so I probably won't either. Kinda don't blame them tho. My dad finished the Axel W at last, & he's been dying to take it for a spin. At any rate, in my family, fish is way more important than turkey. Oh well. I'll just have to live vicariously thru my homies. Lucky Anna is going to Austin. Have fun, Anna! Say hi to Stevie for me! & drink a lot of margaritas...
Today I wanted to talk about this shitty movie I saw. I had such a perfect weekend, such a happy, dance-y, whiskey-soaked weekend, that the only thing I can think to bitch about blogwise is how much I loathed the 45 minutes or so I sat thru of that New Age barf-fest Baraka. I missed the beginning, & maybe that was the best part, but I really doubt it. I'd heard of this movie before & I should have known exactly what to expect. Heavy-handed imagery? Naturally. Electronic, globally non-specific soundtrack? You got it. Speeded-up footage of urban commuters, imploring you to compare city life to a rat-race? Lingering shots of bums sleeping on sidewalks? Ponderous close-ups of the soulful eyes of old men bathing in the Ganges? Check! Check! Check! Worse than that, in between all the shots of pensive primates & ominously rolling clouds, there were scenes of heavily made-up geishas doing a painstakingly choreographed dance in a red-curtained studio somewhere. Then in the same studio, an ashen-faced man with his eyes rolled back in his contorted face, ostensibly screaming for all of humanity.
& I was STONED when I saw it. Really really stoned. & I still wasn't into it. I'd had a more spiritual experience in the shower that morning. Really.
The way this movie forces down your throat the notion that all cultures are one, while, at the same time, the parts I saw implied that non-Western cultures are more noble & more sentient somehow, is so simplistic & off-putting. If I wanted to learn something about another culture via a movie, I'd watch one that was immersed in that culture & actually knew something about it, rather than this kaleidoscope of crap.
OK. Now I'm just being mean. & there were some very good things about the movie. I just can't be bothered to defend it myself. So to be fair, I'll present the opinions of some people who don't agree with me at all. Via Amazon & IMDB.
Though I came away from the movie feeling that I've just witnessed a timeless universal masterpiece, when I showed the movie to a relative, his reaction was quite upsetting to me initially. ALL he saw was the surface and technical aspects of the film/making i.e. "woah dude, an eclipse" or (ignorantly) "that tribesman's getting groovy". I later came to realize that not everyone will come away from this movie with the same response. It's not that he was wrong in his opinion; it's the fact that he didn't have the faculty for understanding and/or appreciating such a movie.
Tears of joy over this work - just amazing - I can't watch it again enough to accept the power of the message. I think to give away the plot I'd have to share the meaning of life … again, Tears of Joy watching such a crisp capture of the universe unfolding as I type.
Let's face it - you want to watch this movie because:
1) You like the whole different cultures, beautiful photography formula, in which case you might as well spend your time reading an issue of National Geographic
2) You're a new age hippie, or
3) You're a confused Mortal Kombat fan*
What a spectacular production! This film is made purely for evolved human beings. I am shocked that this sensational movie has been rated only 7 stars. This is of course due to the fact that some people really have no idea what life is all about.
It's hard to believe... but I cried three times during this movie - I didn't even cry once in Titanic!
(* I actually agreed with this review, but I included it because it's hilarious. Apparently Baraka is also a character from Mortal Kombat, which is the only reason the reviewer rented it.)
I liked this on my sitemeter today. I liked that someone wasn't just looking for generic tattoo removal, but wanted specific information about ex-girlfriend's-name tattoo removal. The best thing about sitemeter is when you can smell the desperation in a five-word search. It's practically poetic.
Just about everything has struck me as poetic lately. Everything has been vivid & fuzzy at the same time. I need more sleep, but it's ok.
Best news of the morning is the new Golden Girls DVD. I found out courtesy of my old company, who put out this awesome photo early this morning. Check out Bea. What a diva. She is perfect. And Rue is terrifying as usual.
Apparently no one feels like blogging these days. Paul, Mike Toole, Anise, Morgan, wtf yo?? I won't bother linking to their names since they aren't offering anything new to read anyway. Actually I don't feel like blogging very much either but it beats working & looking for roommates on craigslist. So it's got that going for it.
Anyway take my advice & go read this post over here instead of mine. I know how she feels but she says it better.
To de-stress from looking for roommates all day, I paid my first trip ever to the Gotham Book Mart at lunch time. I had a terrible time trying to choose anything & actually I walked out empty-handed. I was torn between Orlando, which I've never read, & Virginia Woolf's diaries, which look fascinating. I felt drawn to the diaries but foolish about buying them, since the only Woolf I can remember reading (using "remember" in its loosest sense) is To The Lighthouse about ten years ago. Christ, I never even saw The Hours. I liked the idea of buying them both & reading them concurrently but neither copy was used so they were $15 each. Anyway at the moment I'm in the middle of Claudius the God, the complete stories of Grace Paley & A Remembrance of Things Past of all things. I felt very Geoff Dyer-like when it struck me that the only reason I was looking at books at all was to avoid reading A Remembrance of Things Past altogether.
Back at work & new-book-less I started harmlessly flirting with the male applicants to whom I must deny my apartment because of my roommate Joel's self-hating bias against men. I loved this one who replied:
Yeah, I thought as much. Never been as penalized for being male as when I started looking for a room. All the best apartments are female only. Oy.
Then I said:
wow, im really sorry to hear it. in defense of boys, i think they are great!
This was quickly followed by an email from him casually asking if I wanted to "chat" sometime along with a link to his web site, the front page of which featured an extremely dorky headshot of an actor I assume is him. Right. I deleted his email & got back to business.
Today I want a new tube of lipstick & I want to have found a new roommate already & I want there not to be crumbs in my purse anymore after I accidentally put a bag of crackers in it one day & then never ate them. I want my Delia's cardigan to arrive already but it still hasn't shipped. (Trish, did you get yours yet? That shit is back-ordered for weeks!) Even more than that I want to have a lot of money in the bank & I want to fly to Chicago & see Melly & eat a Demon Dog straightaway. I also want Melly to play me her wintry mix in the car when she picks me up at the airport.
Today's been frustrating so far, but a couple of things made me happy. This did. So did this. & this little trio of sentences I read on the subway on my way to work:
In the morning he said, You're some lover you know. He said, You really are. You remind me a lot of Dotty Wasserman.
I like the elegance of those lines but what kills me is this fantastic lover being named Dotty Wasserman. That's really the perfect part.
Leyla & I declared the 14th of November International Happy Day. It really should have been the 13th but by the time we got around to making the official proclamation it was three hours into Sunday & I had to check my phone for the official date. We were at Zablozki's with Sara, in a table in the middle of the room. Our chairs were covered with other people's coats but we were sitting on them anyway. For our own separate reasons Leyla & I had been floating on happy little clouds for hours & Sara was a little bit drunk & also very smiley & we were looking around the bar & it was bathed in a warm sort of light & it was crowded, very crowded. A lot of people were dancing & some of them were quite good. We were looking in particular at a short guy with a big grin who was a dancing machine. It was like his booty refused to not shake. It was like the only thing in the world that mattered to him was a good song, a song he could dance to.
Do you know what that guy is doing, specifically? I said to Sara.
What, she said.
It's called 'cutting a rug,' I said. That is exactly that he is doing. He is cutting a rug & he is also doing a little bit of painting the town red.
Oh! said Leyla. I want to cut a rug too!
As a matter of fact I did too but we didn't; we stayed at our table instead in our happy-day haze. We were sitting on piles of winter coats & I was passing out cigarettes & we were smoking them.
The only thing that was tearing a small snag in the fabric of Happy Day was the presence of S. at Zablozki's. I had broken a date with him earlier that day & then I had told him I couldn't see him anymore. I'd been nice about it, & honest, & quick, but suddenly here he was at my bar on my street & it was throwing me off. I didn't want to say anything to him so I'd been pretending for hours that I hadn't seen him. Sara had just arrived & I filled her in about it. I didn't think it was so awful to ignore someone in a crowded bar but she was appalled. Very decisively she said, You should go over there & say hi to him. I'll be very angry if you don't.
But Sara, I said. I really really don't want to.
Just imagine, she said, if it were you & this guy you liked dumped you, & you saw him in a bar, & he wouldn't even look at you or talk to you. He just acted like you weren't even there. Imagine how sad you would feel. How terrible it would be.
We were both quite drunk & I think we were beginning to mist up a bit.
Could you twist the knife in any deeper? I said, feeling like a shit.
If you don't do it you will break my heart Kato, she said.
OK, I said, resolved. OK. You're right, you're right, you're right.
She's right, I told Leyla, who'd taken my earlier, more ruthless view of the matter. I'm going to have to go over there.
So that is what I did, altho I did wait until the very last minute to do so. & it went very well & it was all very fast & before I knew it I was back at the happy-day table, pulling on my coat & collecting my scarf & my cigarettes because the bar was closing, the lights were already on. & then we were leaving & then we were home.
It is very easy to stay on your wee little budget now that you are actually dating men who pick up the check. & you are going on a lot of dates for some reason. You must be bored, or maybe you have reached the end of your rope. But it is funny & strange to go to fancy places in Nolita where 35-year-old rich women are raving about the raspberry mojitos & you're sitting at the bar getting bombed yourself, over champagne with a guy who is talking about hedge funds.
You know, I've never really understood exactly what a hedge fund is, you say & his eyes light up before he really launches into it. You don't mind so much because the champagne costs more than you have in the bank & he's good looking & he has a big apartment on Mott Street & you smoke a joint with him there after the bar.
Is that what it's about? It looks like the Holy Grail of New York dating, but it doesn't feel like it. I woke up this morning & it was raining & I couldn't feel it. I walked to the subway with my eyes on the ground.
In other news, I think Anti is hot.
Sigh. My friendster crush is suddenly in a relationship. This chick is moving in on my boyfriend. In real life, I also heard a rumor that a girl I know is interested in a boy I like. Or she thinks that he likes her. Color me annoyed. If I had one of those live journal thingies I would be displaying some sort of slant-eyed, pursed-mouth emoticon bullshit today.
Arafat is dead & I've been reading up on his widow Suha, of whom I'd known practically nothing till Polly brought her up at dinner the other nite. She seems pretty revolting. Suha, not Polly! Reading about Suha led me into a spiral of "ZioNeocon" blogs, Israeli newspapers & the ubiquitously irritating, irritatingly ubiquitous La Shawn Barber, who I won't bother to link since she gets enough attention without my help.
In happier thoughts, my friend Brigita posted a list of movies she'd bring along if she ever got banished to an island. I like that she actually thought the scenario out first. She avoided using the old stranded-on-a-desert-island bit, because it's not only trite, but it makes no sense. If you were shipwrecked & stranded, why would your ten favorite movies suddenly be in your possession? Whereas getting banished to an island & being told by your banishers that you may bring 10 movies is, though strange, certainly within the realm of possibility.
Anyway. I like Brigita's blog, but you can't go around posting lists of movies & then not have a comments feature. It's sort of torturous. You know practically everyone wants to put their 2 cents in, because nobody gives a damn about what someone else's favorite movies are, but they can't wait to talk about their own. So in lieu of leaving a comment I'm posting my own list. Without the quotes tho. I can never remember quotes from movies. Except for Heathers, that is.
"I brought you to a Remington party & what's my thanks? It's on a hallway carpet. I got paid in puke."
"Lick it up baby, lick it up."
Heathers The BBC I, Claudius miniseries (all five discs count as one movie, thank you)
Gone with the Wind Edward Scissorhands Rosemary's Baby Singin' in the Rain The Big Lebowski The Red Shoes Camille Claudel Crimes & Misdemeanors. Or Annie Hall. I like Manhattan Murder Mystery too. I'd have to decide at the last minute.
My favorite person at work is this teeny-tiny little Iranian woman. She has many charming habits, but I think the best is that she walks around talking to herself, & when she does she says only one of two things: "Unbelievable!" or "It's OK." She doesn't exactly mutter them to herself, she says them pretty loudly & her accent makes it perfect. She utters "Unbelievable!" with this half-shocked, half-disgusted tone, while her "It's OK" has a convinced, affirming quality.
In a sense, what else is there to say about anything anyway? It's pretty much how I've felt since the whole Bush-winning-the-election thing. At first I kind of walked around thinking to myself, "Unbelievable! Unbelievable!" I still think that, but it's starting to be tempered by the calmer, more reassuring "It's OK."
It is OK, or it feels OK just today. Em's got his picture on the cover of the Rolling Stone. $400 vibrators are finally available on the Upper East Side. I had dinner with two friends last nite & we finished two bottles of wine much too soon so we had another one delivered. This morning I woke up forty-five minutes before my alarm & I read three perfect little stories from the bookPolly lent me. & I remembered what I had dreamt: that my friend Paul was giving a lecture on women in rock music. He was setting up a projector to show slides, & he asked us what rock musician looked most like Marlene Dietrich. Everyone was guessing, shouting. I thought I knew but Paul couldn't hear me because of all the clamor. Paul, I said, Paul, Paul, Paul. Is it Annie Lennox? I don't know why I thought it was Annie Lennox.
No, he said, fiddling with the projector. That's not even close. I woke up before he said the answer. The dream meant nothing, absolutely nothing. It's OK.
I have to come up with a snappy headline for an article about Beyoncé's new clothing line for work. For some reason I asked my smoking buddies for suggestions.
Fletcher said, "The word 'beyond' would fit in there quite nicely."
Paul said, "Yes. So would 'beyotch'."
So we came up with Beyoncé's New Fashion Line is Beyond Awesome, Beyotch! Or simply: Beyoncé: Beyond a Beyotch! Gee, thanks, boys! Anyone else have any brilliant ideas?
I don't have much to say today. Too many Bloody Marys yesterday left me delirious, woozy & tearful by six in the evening. I found myself in midtown, alone, Joe having stormed off without me, & suddenly I was on the corner of 50th & Lex, holding my jacket & my scarf cos in my state I was warm enough in a tee-shirt, cigaretteless, examining the vivid red splotches that had appeared on my hands & elbows. Because it had turned out I was allergic to Bloody Marys, or at least to such a massive quantity of them. Spencer called from a cab & picked me up on 3rd, & then we were whizzing back to Brooklyn & the splotches had gone when I tried to show them to him & he made me laugh & everything was ok again.
Ended up sleeping probably a lovely 10 hours or so last nite, which left me feeling more tired than rested, & today Sara broke the news that she's moving out in December, so I have to find a new roommate. She's also taking most of the furniture which means we'll have to do something about that.
I wanted to talk about my internet date but I never found out if he knows about my blog so I'm reluctant to dish. I will say that he was a very nice person but we didn't have much in common, & I got stoned beforehand & consequently forgot my cell phone on the window sill at home, which has got to be the #1 first-date bad move. It meant no excusing oneself to surreptitiously call a friend (or, in a panic, to booty call an ex-boyfriend from the bathroom at Max Fish -- not that I've ever done that).
I did decide that it was my last foray into internet dating for the foreseeable future. It will spare me having to talk about how many siblings I have & what kind of music I'm into & all that other torturous crap. I'd much rather have been doing this.
Last nite my f.b. & I were discussing blogs over very cheap beers & honey-roasted peanuts at the bar. "I don’t know, f.b.," I said (because of course I always call him f.b., even in person). "It's starting to get harder & harder to figure out what I can & can't put in my blog. I end up just putting almost everything in."
"It's your blog," he said. "You can write you want."
& it's true, it is my blog. But then again, a lot of my friends read it. Some part of me, somewhere, still wants people to like me, & would rather keep things not-awkward. The other nite while discussing the David scenario with friends I inwardly winced when one of them said, "If he still wants to go out with you after reading your blog, he's a gem." That gave me pause. Not that I've never thought about it, but I just don't care who knows what about pretty much anything. I know people who are furiously private. I'm not, obviously.
& then again, I could be doing way better at Tony's #19, which incidentally is the most important one. I could be blogging about what my f.b. & I did after we left the beers & the peanuts, or whose email I'm looking for every time I refresh my mailbox, or how much I'm dreading 17 days from today & why, or about a million other quasi-secrets, any one of which is undoubtedly much more interesting than this, but I'm too chickenshit to blog them.
So since I have nothing essential to say today, go look at this. It's totally transfixing & demonic & adorable & evil all at once.
"What kind of girl do you think I am, and how could you tell so fast?"
In response to the crushing blow (which is putting it rather too mildly) of yesterday's presidential outcome, I think I'm off politics for awhile. From now on, my blog will no longer concern itself with the weighty political questions of the day or the teetering balance of global ideologies. It will neither struggle to glimpse the uncertain future of humanity nor attempt to contribute to its betterment. No, from this moment forth, my blog is going to be all about boys, fashion & America's Next Top Model.
Er, right. So anyway. Last nite Sheri & Anna came over to watch ANTM. We had a lot of beers & we talked a lot of trash. Bulimic-stripper Cassie got the boot, which I thought was appropriate. This guy Spencer I met over the weekend called; I can’t decide if I want to go out with him or not. I'm meeting David from the personals on Friday. I still don't know if he has seen my blog. I guess I will find out. Or I won't. Oh & I bought a fabulous pair of arm-warmers. They are black with a glittery blue stripe near the wrist.
I am supposed to be blogging about the election, but I just can't stomach it. My sense of impending doom is too overpowering. Besides, we all know what I think about the election. The same thing every other educated "liberal elite" New Yorker thinks. It's tiresome to keep hearing everyone make the same goddamn "arguments" over & over when they really all agree with each other.
I'm tired anyway. Too tired to form sentences. Rather, tired of forming sentences.
So instead (to complement my incomplete thoughts & incomplete sentences) I shall present incomplete emails to ex-boyfriends, direct to you from my draft folder. I made the decision never to send these, or, more accurately, I never quite decided that I would send them. I think you'll see why.
To the One I Was Trying to Avoid:
hi, im really not avoiding you. im just feeling very on-my-own at the moment. can you understand that? also, what is up with you being on the atkins diet? you even take the limes out of your stoli sodas! thats just weird.
To the One I Loved:
sorry i keep making things so weird. i think im the textbook example of how to do absolutely everything wrong. just ignore me. (& by "ignore me" of course i mean, please say something.)
To the Manic-Depressive Game-Player:
i wish you knew how much i have to say to you. i say i wish cos i dont know if i will ever send this. i keep hoping i will see you at sweetwater & i dont. i thought i had an intuitiveness about you but it turns out i was wrong. you write these emails that i know you want me to respond to & i know you are testing me. sometimes i wish i could be with you, laying underneath our blankets in the dark. & then sometimes i feel like this EMAIL IS FUCKING LAME.
To the One Who Went on Tour for a Month & Didn't Call to Say Goodbye:
hi babe, i have great news. i'm in love. no, not with you, silly! with someone else!
hi, im really sorry i shouted "gross!" when i saw you at diner. i was really, really drunk, obviously. to be honest i dont remember anything, but i heard that i was extremely wasted & not very nice. anyway, so things didnt work out between us, but i just wanted you to know that if we run into each other again, you wont be in for a repeat of last nite's performance or anything. i am usually quite friendly, i promise. sorry again. by the way, at some point maybe could i get my buffy DVDs back? let me know ASAP. thanks.
My lips are chapped & I'm peeling them off & they hurt. Work is slammed & I keep getting emails & I feel terribly guilty about blogging rather than responding. I spent a very long-seeming Halloween weekend staying up way, way too late every nite. Friday after Ladyfest at North Sixth I had people over till five or sixish, & Saturday, post-parties, I found myself & several others at a friend's place till 4 (taking the time adjustment into account). In the daytime I watched La Dolce Vita & scarfed mac & cheese. There's a scene just before the end where a party is ending at dawn. Instead of everyone leaving whenever they feel like it, Marcello basically traps everyone there against their will. Finally they announce each person’s name in succession. That person gets up & does a little dance in the hallway while Marcello showers him or her with chicken feathers. Then the person dances out the door. That's the way to end a party, I thought. None of this sitting around wondering when people are going to leave.
(If you've seen the movie, I hope you know I'm half-kidding. The same feathers are used to cruelly degrade a drunken woman from the Italian countryside & the scene isn't exactly notable as an ideal party guide. Still, I like the idea of having everyone leave in a procession of sorts. It’s so celebratory.)
Today I am thinking about finishing a bunch of work, trying out a new budget of $15 a day, wishing my f.b. & I had more similar schedules, squinting at the screen, tied up in knots about the election, still peeling my lips, feeling somewhere between listless & despondent, wanting my name to be as cool as Anouk Aimée & counting the minutes till 5:30.