Death of the Q

Tonight there will be a funeral/festival aboard the Q train. It's on it's final run--soon to be banished to the subway train graveyard. Everyone is going to get on board tonight to morn it's death and throw it big a going away party. I never really ride the train, but the end of a line must have some historical signifcance, plus it should be mega fun and there will be parties to attend afterward. Meet on the Q diamond train at 9:05pm at 57th street or at 9:28pm at Union Square.

Silly Rabbit...

I think my luck is taking a turn for the worst. It was just a week or two ago that I split open my fortune cookie and found not one, but three fortunes inside! I thought things couldn't get any better. Then I had my Oliver related physcho-cokehead hot boy incident, the Valentines day puking thing occured, the day after I ordered my new computer I found out that my job just started giving a corporate discount on the very same brand, this afternoon I was licking an envelope and I got a paper cut on my mouth, and tonight while I was in the shower shaving my legs I dropped the razor, I grabbed it a bit too hastily and severly cut my thumb. I think I need to go rub a rabbit's foot or Buddah's belly or something!

Red? Green?

I take back whatever I said before. I've decided that copyeditors are in fact like the main character in Gogol's "The Overcoat". They are so caught up in the littlest details that they completely forget everything else. They are a collection of precise and correct marks without any awareness that there could be an underlying meaning.

The class never really goes anywhere because people are too intent on asking which color pencil is really the best color for correcting mistakes--really one color must be better than another, and what sort of eraser should you use? Will anything really completely erase a stray mark? No, really what color pencil is preferred? What do copyeditors usually use? Red? Blue? Green?

The thing is, it's not like class really has anywhere to go anyway. It's just like Driver's Ed. Not enough material to fill all the hours, so there are lots of dull silent moments when it seems like the teacher is expecting one of us to jump up and take over the teaching, because she sure as hell has run out of things to mumble on about. The good news is we always get out early. I have the feeling that, for me, it will turn out just like Driver's Ed did, completely fruitless.

Maybe now is not the time to ask for a raise.

I don't think I can even write about last night, for fear that it will somehow make things worse. All I will say is that I went to a president's day party at my co-worker's house and ended up puking in front of my boss. My only solace is that the managing edtor told me not to worry, because she smokes pot and doesn't give a shit.

Risky Business

Watching the O.C. on Wednesday I was feeling my usual distain for Marissa. Once again she'd gotten herself into a ridiculously threating situation and Ryan had to run in at the last moment and rescue her. This time she was being courted by a psycho coke-head named Oliver. "When will that girl ever learn?" I thought to myself.

Really I had to laugh last night when I found that I was living my own version of the show. I couldn't help sypathizing with Marissa. What is it about psycho coke-heads that is so damn sexy? They really are practically irresistible, especially when high--all that mindless chit-chat and enthusiasm. It really seems like they are just plain thrilled to be talking to you and if they're cute it's not like it really matters what their saying anyway.

Taking into consideration my own experience I re-assessed Marissa's. Now, the angle the show took was that innocent Marrissa had no clue that there was anything wrong with Oliver, "he's just friendly! He's so nice!" she insisted. I beg to differ. I think Marissa knew all along that there was something not quite right about her little friend, I think that she was also perfectly aware that all he really wanted was to get in her pants, but she of course couldn't tell this to Ryan. She was forced to play dumb, hoping that he might hold off on shooting himself at least until after they got to make out for a little while.

It's that element of risk, I tell you, such a turn on.

Road Island

In elementary school they make you believe that spelling and grammar are what it's all about. To be smart you have to learn these things and be good at them. I've come to realize that that's all bullshit. Elementary school teachers are mostly the same useless types that go to copyediting class.

When I was maybe three my parents took to to see Pink Floyd's The Wall, when the scene came with little British school children going through the meat grinder I puked on my shoes. I suppose that at that moment I knew what was to come.

Copyeditors are the same little kids who were teacher's pet and stars of the class. It turns out it all counted for nothing! Now they get to sit alone counting page numbers and checking the table of contents. In class they still give the teacher beaming, dumbfounded looks and when a question is asked they shoot their hand up. Their answer will be a meaningless phrase recited straight from the book, "Copyediting is the three c's, correctness, cohesiveness, clarity, and consisitancy."

Road Island, yes I know it's Rhode Island. I've seen it there on the map a thousand times and on the weather beaten sign as you cross the state line "Welcome to Rhode Island". But in my head it's Road Island and I am in the passenger seat of a dented blue station wagon with fake wood on the sides. It's summer and I'm ten. The window is cracked and the soft wind makes my hair dance. My eyes are on the sand dusted road; in this state the asphalt fades right into beach--Road Island. We ride by mountainous dunes, spotted with straight green weeds and reined in by nothing more than a flimsy wood fence that falls and rises like a crooked smile. At the horizion there is a blurry spot of darkened blue. The ocean.

It's fucked, but whatever.

Lea reacently posted this comment:
"a girl i work with knows Ryan from The OC. He changed his name now that he is a star. His last name now is really his middle name and i forget his real last name. Maybe we will write him a letter. Oh and someone else i work with has another job. at that job one of her coworkes went to high school with Pink. why didn't i go to high school with anyone who is now on a Fox show or MTV? it would make having a yearbook worth something."
This is amazing news! It means that all of us who know Lea now have a mere 4 degrees of separation from Adam Brody a.k.a. Seth!!! I no longer have to read Gawkerstalker and fantasize about seeing him eating brunch in Manhattan. We must start penning letters immediately. I propose the formation of a fan club, who's with me?

Last night on my endless subway ride back to Queens I had the joy of listening to three drunk party girls have an endless slurred fight, they were with me all the way to the final stop on the N/W. I transcribe some of their conversation, because it was truly too good to believe. I can't decide if these girls count as fantasy ladies or sparkle fatties, they were intensely annoying and equally fascinating. They had long hair and tons of eye make up. They didn't look cheesy and weren't wearing sparkle tube tops. There was one silent girl who was probably trying not to puke the whole ride. I imagine she could have been Ukranian. There was one named Melanie with her hair bleached an orange-blond, it was so ugly it was hip. The other had long brown hair and a cigarette scratchy voice. She was sort of tough looking and wouldn't take any shit. Melanie and cigarette girl spoke using drawn out sssss' and a perpetually sarchasitc lilt to their voices.

Melanie:
"Stop it, stop it, just stop talking.
Cigarette Girl:
You're an idiot. You're an idiot. You're an idiot.
M:
Stop it, just stop talking
CG:
I've been so embarassed, you're talking so loudly.
M:
If you're embarassed lets just stop talking.
CG:
You're talking so loudly, why do you insist on doing this.
M:
You're just mad because some fffffat fuck called you a New Jersey trout, when you've never even been to New Jersey.
CG:
Shut up, shut up, shut up...
M:
You know, actually, you know, whatever. I don't know what I did to you, I don't know what it was, but whatever it was I was kidding ok. I was totally joking, so just forget it.
*** After about 40 minutes of arguing, with a short pause during which the girls were silent then joking together for a moment. Cigarette girl then becomes serious and admits what's really upsetting her ***

CG:
Daniel called me a piece of nothing, so I'm not going to ask him for anything. So I'm not going to ask him about the waitressing position. He says I'm fucked up. It isn't a big deal. I didn't make a big deal. It's true. He says I'm fucked up. It doesn't matter much.
M:
That's bullshit.
CG:
I didn't go to school, fine. It's not a big deal, but it's true.
M:
That's bullshit, it obviously is a big deal.
CG:
It's funny. It's cute. It's cute. I've known Dan since middleschool. No one else knows that. It's fucked. It's fucked, but whatever.

But can you trust him?

Sometimes talking about Democratic canidates is like talking about love. All we can do is complain and say, "I'm not sure, he's giving me mixed messages," or "I just want there to find the one ideal guy, the perfect canidate, why is that so hard?"

I've decided that if we're going to win this thing we need a Ross Perot style third party nutcase to come in and confuse all the republicans. They'll make the same mistake we did with Nader and it will be in the bag. Plenty of crazy vigilantes in the mountains are all set to bolster some total crackpot conservative and get everyone all mixed up. It will be just like with George Bush senior. oooh, I'd love to see their faces.

Ps. Bennett knows kids in D.C. who have smoked pot with the Bush girls.

Little Devils

The other day I had a very fascinating anthropological lunch hour. I work around the west villiage where it's almost impossible to find a grilled cheese or a run of the mill tuna sandwich, every lunch place is all roasted vegetables and goat cheese with sundried tomatoes.

One such sandwich shop is located right next door to a private school. All the rich little New York kids invade this place around noon. On Monday there was a row of 6th grade girls eating by the window. They all had long brown hair were chattering at a startilingly high pitch, they kept yelling back and forth, saying things like "Is cancer contagious?"
"No, it's not contagioius."
"Aids is contagious."
"No it isn't!"
"But it's a sexually transmitted disease, you can give it to someone else by having sex with them!"
"Yeah, but it isn't contagious, you can't get it from sharing a drink!"

After a few minutes a hunched over girl wearing an oversized pink jacket, carrying a book in hand shuffled in. She put her money up on the counter without saying a word. The man handed her a blueberry muffin and she sat down at the same table as the girls, she remained completely silent and the other girls didn't seem to acknowledge her presence. She opened her book and began to read while absently munching on the muffin.

I noticed that she was reading a Sammy Keyes book. It's a mystery series about a tomboyish 12 year old detective. Unfortunately it's a horribly written series, nothing like the fabulous Harriett the Spy. It was very interesting watching these girls. They are one of our target demographics, we spend all day working on books for these kids, but we never see the kids themselves.

Eventually the girls had to get back to class. They all left except for the odd girl and two others. One of the brown haired girls who had a particularly squeaky voice said "I want another cookie" and she handed her friend a dollar. The other girl went up to the counter. "Here!" she said, flinging the money at the counter man. "You want a cookie?" He asked.
"No, two cookies." she shouted.
"Two, then I need another dollar from you."
"No, I already gave it to you!"
"When?"
"Before!" The man thought about this for a minute.
"No you didn't," he said, meanwhile the other girl was trying to sneak behind the counter, "hey, get out of there" he exclaimed.
"I did, I did, I put it in there," the first girl said gesturing toward the tip jar. At this point the counterman didn't really know what to do, so he just gave in and let the girl have two cookies. The odd girl finally stopped reading, she tentatively approached one of the brown haired girls. "Hi Melissa," she said, "how are you."
"Hi Jenny," the brown haired girl yelled back quickly turning away and sort of leaning into her friend. The brown haired girls continued to figet around and chatter as their cookies were being heated up in the microwave. The odd girl stood nearby, not saying anything more, just waiting in case someone got the unexpected urge to say something to her. Frankly it was painful to watch.

Although I hate to admit it I can sympathize with this odd girl. I once had a very similar experience at one of lunch meetings for assistants. Occasionally they have workshops on various elements of the company and they serve pizza. After the workshop ended a few assistants stayed on finishing eating. No one was left at my end of the table, so I made a half assed attempt to join the conversation a few girls were having. I knew one of them, so I figured she would at least say hello.

I moved down a few chairs and gave a little half wave. They continued talking as if they didn't see me. I didn't know what to do, so I just sat there, a few seats away silently eating pizza while they chatted. I kept trying to find that little conversational in, but nothing was coming to me. The closest I got was to join their giggiling with a few awkward, uninvited chuckles. They pretended not to hear. We all finished at the same time and I ended up trailing behind them down the hall as I returned to my desk. It's moments like this I miss Sarah Lawrence.

I Will Survive (I hope)

Last night after the endless Superbowl we had a Survivor All Stars party. I've never watched more than one or two episodes of the show before, but I promised Bennett I'd give it a try. He didn't tell me that this involves a two night commitment this week, but I'm willing to give it a go for Benny.

First of all I'm surprised that they can get away with all that fake primitive tribe stuff. What's with these team names: Mojo, Sufiti, and Sudatu, or whatever they were. Do these words actually mean anything in any language? Is the idea that everything that isn't English or something European sounds like baby talk? When did this become acceptable? Don't get me wrong, I'm all for made up cultures, I just think they could have been a bit more creative about it.

The really major shock occured when Richard started walking around naked. Naked! Yes, they blurred his privates, but still you could see all the "cottage cheese" as Bennett would call it, on the sides of his ass. It was seriously tramatizing. Bennett explained that his nudity was a mind game he was playing with the other players. Apparently his strategy is to disgust them into submission. My co-worker suggested perhaps it is instead a big fuck you to everyone, because he knows they are going to kick him off immediately for being the evil winner the first time around.

I found that I was inexplicably endeared by the gentle sasquatch, Rupert. He reminds me of my dad's friends who were major Greatful Dead fans (Dead-heads as we called them).

My dad's friends were these two science guys who lived out in the country and had beards and big beer bellies. Their entire house was coved in Greatful dead decals and posters. They had a big van that was all tricked out with funky hippie decorations. When I was just a wee lady colossal we would go visit on Saturdays and I would pick blackberries and play darts. Every summer we'd go to a big Cajun/Bluegrass festival in Road Island. I hope Rupert wins, he'll spend the million dollars on hippie concerts and tie-dye.

Honky Tonk Lovin'

Jeez, I haven't written anything in ages. My total hits just hit the 1000 mark and meanwhile I've been competely neglecting my public. I know I've said it before, but I promise to be a better blogger from now on.

Last night I went to a honky tonk bar on 9th and A. It was nearly closing, so there was only enough time for one beer. I soaked in as much atmosphere as I could in that little stretch of time, I want to go back. In my favorite book Sex Tips For Single Girls the author Cynthia Heimel says that honky tonk bars are the best place to flirt. Actually she says Texas is the best place to flirt, but in a cinch a honky tonk bar will do.

The author is big fan of cowboys, becuase she says they aren't intimidated by those newfangled "career" women. They're kind of the perfect combination of gentlemanlyness and ruggedness. I think she might be right. She also claims that New York City is the worst place to flirt, because all the guys are arrogant and the women out number them three hundred to one. Apparently the only way to get guys in New York interested is to pretend you hate them. I don't know about New York, but this sounds a lot like Sarah Lawrence to me. She says that if you're in New York you should make a point of it to go exclusively to honky tonk bars. I think I might. I didn't see any cowboys last night, but it couldn't hurt hanging around in case one should happen by.