I Want Everything

I had a delightfully slothful and entertaining weekend. I drank heavily, browsed at magazines, bought hochie-girl stretch denim jeans, and ate lots of diner food. The main topic of discussion, again and again, was Courtney Love. Her face has taken a frightful turn for the Michael Jackson/Joan Rivers. Courtney was just one element of a very nostalgic weekend. Friday night I sat around drinking beer and smoking at home with Janine and her best high school friend. Lounging on the couch, joking around and feeling perfectly content with them, I felt like I was back in the dorms with nowhere to go on a Friday night—not even considering going a possibility. We watched this Daft Punk video and listened to Dr. Octigon, both of which I haven’t listened to since back in ‘99. Bennett’s birthday party was a complex combination of SLC kids I never see. Most striking was of course K Hagar in kelly green.

Auspicious April

Tonight I discovered that the Olsen Twins are selling fragrances. One for the each of them. Ashley smells like piss, but Mary-Kate I'd buy. It's like jacked up lilacs. I love that Eckard is opened 24 hours, when it's warm out, like now, it makes my night to stumble over there twice in a row for emergency candy and make-up yearnings. It's so easy to spend upwards of $20 on such items as lotion, ice cream, chocolate, and nail polish.

Today I decided that I'm head over heels in love with my boss. She bought us all daffodils today. April will be a magical month when we get raises and we all going on a road trip to meet sales reps. We get lunch too! It sounds like fucking heaven compared to sitting in my dark little cubicle. I was thinking today about how long it's going to take me to get my own office with window. Amazingly a year has already passed. I can't really see it happening anytime soon. The end of next year? I wonder if I'll get lonely in there when the day does come.

Tonight I watched the show Playing it Straight, where a group of guys, some straight some gay compete to get a girl fall in love with them. If the girl falls in love with a gay he gets $1 million for being a skilled tricker, if he's straight he gets $1/2 million. It was pretty off the wall, mostly because it took place at a dude ranch. I think the show would be way better if it was a gay guy guessing which guy was gay and the guys would get $1million if they tricked him into thinking they were straight. The guys would all act macho and standoffish to the extreme, it would be very amusing.

Famous

I'm so excited, some total stranger linked their blog to mine!!! Not only that, but they write about awesome things, like diet coke girls. Go there now: http://www.universalreview.com/

Hey Ladies

I had the greatest weekend, so great that my phone is still recovering from the battery loss. Saturday night I was channeling the spirit of my fantasy lady companions and it was fucking amazing. I tell you they are having more fun than anyone and I’ve come to realize that above all else it is a state of mind.
Fantasy Ladies are all about
1. Craziness
2. Powerfulness
3. Hotness
All of these elements are best summed up by their penchant for
Gold Accessories.

It was like having the cool girls let you into their clique; in fact I have the slight fear that I might get tricked into murdering someone in the near future--and it might just be worth it.

It was Sarah’s birthday and I met the girls at a very crowded bar on the LES. There were others there, but they all melted into the background while I was in the presence of The Ladies. The three of them welcomed me into their arms with much gushing and enthusiasm. There were repeated shouts of “Look at you, you're hot! Lady, You Are So Fucking Hot!” as they hugged me tightly and kissed my cheeks. I have to admit, it was kind of a turn on.

There was Nichole with her trademark lightening bolt-gold hair, a heart-shaped locket shining out from her tan cleavage and, best of all, cowboy boots. Amber had on an awesome shirt with puffy sleeves, a high collar, and peek-a-boo stripes of tulle running across it. It was very Miss Lily Bart from The House of Mirth. This was paired with gold hoops and an awesome handbag that featured a fancy hinged closure. Sarah, the birthday girl, was wearing a turquoise Greek goddess shirt that matched her eyes and was made of something billowy and silky.

I had just rolled out of bed and devoted most of my preening time to getting the pillow marks out of my face. Luckily I came to realize that the groggy, just woke up look is very fantasy lady. I didn’t take time to accessorize though and I was coveting the other girl’s gold ornamentation. I was wearing a sparkly blue shirt with raggy edges that I made myself, blush (my new fav. cosmetic, because it automatically ups the whoreishness of your look everytime), lots of black eyeliner, and Big Hair.

I drank vodka tonics while being let in on many fantastical secrets. We lounged back on the couches while the boys swarmed around, and then huddled into the bathroom together. I was sorry to break with the comradey, but I’m pee shy so I had to make everyone leave while I went.
Around 2:00 Nichole hissed in my ear, “what’s your plan tonight?” I of course had no other plans.
“You’re coming with me then, ok?” Entranced, I nodded yes. We gathered forces and shoved our way through the crowd.

Outside Amber said goodbye to the fireman she will soon be fucking. Nichole gave me one of her Lucky Strikes which I promptly dropped in a puddle, she tsked-tsked and handed me a fresh one. We stumbled down the street screaming about how hot it was that Amber was going to be getting with a fireman. We saw two seconds of a band at another bar, then charged into the Margaritas to-go place.

It was under the bright lights of this establishment that I noticed Amber’s French manicure. Turns out that ever since she got back from Viet Nam she’s been getting manicures to keep up her Vietnamese. I immediately made her promise to bring me next time she goes. I have wanted a French manicure ever since I was 8 when they showed that Lee Press-On’s commercial every five minutes.

We ended up gathering the boys and going to another bar. It happened to be the very same bar where I had the final and most annoying night with the coke-head freak. I am happy to report that this Saturday the place was purged of all bad associations: Drinks were bought for me, I made out (on the same benches where I decided never to speak to the coke-head freak again), and promptly left to have sex. I admit, if he hadn’t lived around the block I wouldn’t have done it (it was 5am after all) but it was all very worth it. On my way out the door I was lauded with cheers from my ladies. “Woooo, you go girl! Go get laid, aw yeah!” They yelled after me as I was whisked off into the night. It was absolutely golden.

St. Patty's

Tonight I had to stay at work until 7:45, the worst part about it is that I had hardly anything to do all day until 4:00pm. Surprisingly, I’m not as pissed about it as I expect myself to be. It happened, it’s over, whatever. The worse part about staying late is that asking for overtime is such a procedure and I’m never staying for my real boss, so I feel like I can’t ask for it. I’ve decided that on Monday I’m going to ask for a raise instead. I’m long overdue for one anyway.

Tonight is a quiet night. I’ve decided that it’s better to go out Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday than to go out Friday.

St. Patrick’s Day was a bit of a bust. All the Brooklyn kids stayed home. Too scared of the snow I guess. No drink specials to be found. Should have gone to the Irish Bar near here. They’ve got a fat black dog that lies under the pool table and nude photo hunt. If you’re really lucky you’ll meet a leprechaun-ish crazy woman who calls herself Sparkle.

St. Patrck’s day is a strange holiday anyway, this year it somehow seemed more noticeable that the whole holiday revolves around getting sloshed. It didn’t make me all that proud to be Irish.

I met an alcoholic Irshman once. We were in Amsterdam, staying in the same room at a hostel. He was traveling as a means to cure his alcoholism. He said he wanted to find a place where drinking wasn’t culture’s only means of socializing, but in every city he went to he always hunted out the Irish pub. In Amsterdam it wasn’t even a real Irish pub, some awful Hard Rock Café type place that happened to serve Irish breakfast. He said the breakfast was the reason he went, but then he’d always end up staying on to watch the soccer game, he’d have a pint and then another and pretty soon he’d been drinking all day.

He had caught a parasite in Budapest that fucked up his stomach and had him laid up for weeks. He’d been all gross and lost tons of weight. When I met him he wasn’t totally better yet, but he was still cute.

He invited me out one night and we got drunk together. That’s when he told me about his problem. It seemed like the worst thing about it was knowing. Knowing, and not wanting to drink all the time, but doing it anyway. I’d never met anyone so stuck.

Sitting at the bar with him, I was conflicted. By the time he told me he was an alcoholic we were already drunk. It was too late to go back, so we kept on drinking. I kept thinking, this is his problem, this very thing is what he shouldn’t be doing, but we were having the best time. It seemed so impossible any way, the problem was so much bigger than that one moment. I guess that’s how problems are, all those little moments added up.

He told me about some Native American girl he’d met who had a vision of him being hit by a car. It spooked him, the Irish really are superstitious—he was certain of his impending doom.

That night, after he drank me under the table, we walked back to the hostel. The streets were completely empty as we crossed back over the canals. All smooth cobblestones and black puddles. Such a quiet city. We lurched past the shadowy ally ways, burnt out neon signs. Just the two of us. I wanted him to kiss me. In the entranceway of the hostel he stopped to pet the cat and I waited, nervous and hopeful. But he didn’t do it. We climbed the stairs to the room and tip-toed in, so as not to disturb the gang of Germans or the bassoon player in the other bunks. I went to use the bathroom and when I came back he started joking with me, teasing me about something. He was sitting up halfway in his bed and I wanted to climb in with him, but I couldn’t do it. The way he was talking and leaning up out of bed, it was like he wanted an excuse to keep the conversation going, trying to draw me back again. I giggled at his teasing as I climbed into the top bunk, but really I didn’t get it. Why didn’t he kiss me when he had the chance? I settled into bed and passed out. Alone.

That was how it was meant to be. We were loners, me and all the boys I met in the hostel--the Irishman, the bassoon player, the artist, and the Canadian. We all moped around and drifted together, stoned and bored, after a few days I left Amsterdam and never saw any of them again.

Trudge Slush and Fresh Air

Tonight my mom informed me that she just purchased a pair of snowshoes. Apparently they're very useful when it's snowy out and you want to walk normally.

I'm wishing for a day off from work, but I have the feeling that its going to be all slush in the morning.

This weekend I went for a jaunt in the country. We visited Bard and snuck into the cafeteria where the food was even worse than at SLC. We raced eachother around the garden in front of the very dignified Economics building and took a walk down a hill that lead to the bank of the Hudson. We sat on a wooden bridge an smoked a joint. It was a blustery day and we had to relight it every few seconds, but it was nice anyhow. We went to a Pi Day party with the five Bard math kids, ate pizza and lots of cherry pie. We wandered in and out of dorms and talked to an odd girl with a limp and frazzled hair who pretended she wasn't going our way.

It was a nice weekend--quiet but eventful and hangover free. Maybe this is how I will live my life from now on.

Since yesterday I've become addicted to downloading music. It happened right when I decided I should take part in more productive solitary activities, namely sewing and guitar. Instead I have been staring blankly at my computer screen, constantly clicking back and forth to see if "Remotely Queued" has turned into "Initializing" or, the most thrilling, "Finished"

Everyone must see The Return, it's the greatest movie ever.

Adventures

Today was the greatest. I was very rebelious. I escaped work when no one was looking and went on an adventure. We climbed out on the roof and down and drain pipe and over fences and broke into an abandonded restaurant to free a hungry pitbull, who turned out to be a very friendly dog. On Sunday there are plans to run off to the country and see some sheep.

Tonight I watched Joan of Arcadia featuring our very own Misti. Unfortunately she wasn't in much of this episode, but it was still very surreal and hilarious to see her on TV wearing a funny hat and to hear Joan call her "Babyvoice". I must say she fit right in with all the other TV kids, and I never would have guessed that she wasn't a high school kid.

Pretty + Ugly = Prizes

We just watched a bootleg copy of Monster. I think it was one of the most depressing movies I have ever seen. I assumed that Charlize Theron was going to be sort of annoying, the way Nichole Kidman was when she did the prosthetic nose thing, but Charlize was actually really good and this time the makeup was convincing, unlike that awful glued on nose.

The only thing that bugs me is that whole pretty-girl-goes-ugly-and-wins-an-Oscar thing is really obvious and obnoxious. At times it almost seems like these movies are just mocking their subjects. The real Virginia Woolf was not as frumpy as they made her out to be in The Hours and every time there was some mention of Charlize’s character being beautiful you felt like the person was weird or lying. If she had been played by anyone else there wouldn’t have been so much emphasis on her looks, she just would have been who she was.

I guess Charlize was good though, and maybe they just don’t make deep roles for pretty girls because the audience doesn’t trust them. The one interesting thing about it was that it made you feel like the character could have gone either way, like if she hadn’t had such a rough lot in life she might have been an Oscar winning movie star. It really did convince you that ultimately she was innocent.

My favorite thing about the movie was the way it combined corniness and heartbreaking tragedy, I think this is what made it so real. The way they set the love scene at the roller rink with some ridiculous 80’s song playing, somehow this made it really genuine. It made me think of this article I recently read about evidence from the Columbine shooting being shown to the public. The article mentioned all these everyday objects—regular high school things and odd relics of Middle America, suddenly these little things had become apart of this catastrophic event and had taken on a whole new significance. One woman’s daughter had been killed. She was an X-files fan, so her mother made a pin with her daughter’s picture and the words “the truth is out there” printed below. There is something so cheesy and at the same time so depressing and heartfelt about this detail.

Steak Diana

Last night I ate my first steak since high school. It was called Steak Diana. It was an inch and a half thick and took up it's own plate. It was the polar opposite to every meal I've eaten in the past eight years. From the first bite is was like being reaquainted with an old friend. I hadn't forgotten the taste and I devoured it. Not that I was a huge meat eater before, it's just that steak was the one type of meat I missed when I first went veg. I still have no interest in pork. The very thought of that pink fatty meat grosses me out. I think I could see myself enjoying a steak once in a blue moon.

The dinner was a celebration for Asher McShoe. Janine and I dressed to the nines. I wore my off-white lace dress with rhinestones dotting the edge of the collar, I piled all my hair on top of my head in a big beehive, put on pearls and my sparkly gold heels. Janine barrowed my candy apple-red dress with the full skirt, plunging neckline and gigantic rhinestone belt (I love rhinestones, they’re a girl’s second best friend), she wore red patent leather heels and a red bow that perfectly offset her black hair. We drank tons of red wine, gigantic ice cream pie desserts, and chocolate mousse for Janine. I was sure to offend all the other diners with lots of flash photography, because I live to stomp on the tranquility of others.

Afterwards Asher and I went to her friend Connie’s house where they gave us Danish liquor made of rye seeds. Connie and her roommate put on fancy dresses like mine and then Connie pulled out a white satin dress with silver embroidery for me to try on. It fit like a glove and she said, “it’s yours.” Eventually Asher and I caught a cab back to my apartment. We sat in the living room and chatted until 2:30 am, when I remembered that I had work in the morning. It was the greatest night.

Asher McShoe just left to go back to the windy city and I have to admit I’m crying inside. It’s weird how missing someone can make you act boring and uninterested when they’re still around. Tonight we were all tired and quiet. Asher made a storyboard like review of the trip on flashcards. I think it’s a great idea. Suddenly all the funny little moments were captured, as if someone had taken snapshots of all the best parts. The nice thing about it is that it isn’t too daunting of a task for a weary traveler and it makes the memories last a lifetime.

Colors

I went to this awesome thing one Monday night, The Moth StorySLAM! I can't go this week, because of my mother fucking copyediting class, but I wrote something anyhow. The theme this week is colors.\

The first time I dyed my hair I wanted to go bleach blond, Courtney Love style—all ratty with lots of dark roots. Lea and I shared the box between us, Clairol Ultimate Blond. We sat on the edge of the tub, with our sticky heads stuffed under plastic bags, and stared at our reflections in the bathroom mirror. Our scalps stung and chafed as the brown was striped out of our hair. I thought that 25 minutes might just change everything.

When our heads were rinsed and dried I was disappointed to find that the dye wasn’t strong enough to turn our hair platinum. Instead it came out a brassy orange-blond color. There hadn’t been quite enough dye for both of us, so we had a few gaps and irregularities where odd splotches of brown showed through.

It was November and we stood out on Lea’s dead front lawn, shivering in our sweatshirts. Her dad came out and stood with us, prying and criticizing and asking too many questions. Why did we want to be blond? Lea just turned her head and shrugged. I was 14 and she was only 12, but she was the toughest girl I knew and I felt like we’d crossed a line with this dye job, even if it hadn’t come out as dramatically as I’d hoped. We’d done it, now we were rebel girls.

Later that year Lea went for hot pink. I helped her do it, and as I painted on the syrupy gunk I felt a twinge of jealousy, because I knew I didn’t have the guts to go pink. For weeks afterward I watched as it seemed people gaped at Lea’s hair. I wished I could make myself a spectacle, elicit even the tiniest bit of shock.

Eventually Lea went for black and I graduated to lollypop red. Manic Panic, Deadly Nightshade. The dye was the cheap wash out kind and it never really set. My pillow turned red, the collar of all my shirts, towels, it was like the midas touch except red. I had to re-touch the dye every two weeks or it would turn a hideous faded brick orange color.

Eventually I decided to try blond again. I got heavy duty bleach. I deliberated over whether it would go with my skin tone and eventually decided to jump in and give it a try. This time the bleach burned far worse than the first time. It felt like I’d poured acid on my scalp, my eyes started to itch and turned red, when I couldn’t stand it for another second I washed it out. When I got out of the shower I was horrified by my reflection. My hair was a repulsive yellow, the color of artificial food products and my complexion looked like death, totally washed out by the paleness of my hair. I burst into tears and called Lea into the bathroom.
“What do I do?” I whimpered.
“Lets dye it back to red.” She said.
Without even waiting for it to dry we poured on the Manic Panic. With the blank palate of my newly yellowed hair the red came out florescent. It was far more dramatic than it had been before, but paired with bright red lipstick the result was sort of fetching.

Survivor Gets Political

Survivor was rather dramatic tonight. I haven't watched it in weeks but it didn’t matter. Tonight Sue left the show so she could sue Richard for rubbing his naked penis against her leg during one of the challenges. She had a big freak-out before she left thanks in part to the surprisingly flippant host.

He waltzed on to the set and said with a huge grin on his face saying, “so, last week at the challenge it seems our friend Richard got sort of…inappropriate.” This was after Sue had been crying and yelling about the situation the whole morning. The way the host tackled the subject made it seem like he thought it was all a big joke.

Was it the network’s strategy to belittle the situation it so Sue would feel stupid saying anything? Or did they want her to throw a big fit for the sake of ratings? At any rate Sue totally lost it and swore a whole bunch and said she was leaving the show.

It came out later that everyone thought she was faking, apparently Sue is a sneaky one, and who isn’t bitter about Richard winning Survivor 1? The whole thing brought out everyone's ugly side as well as the whole ugly issue of sexual harassment. When Sue was gone all the other players celebrated, even if they were certain she was faking or just didn't like her, this somehow seemed really fucked up.

You would never think that the whole sexual harassment issue would make its way to a deserted island. If these people were real survivors it would be like Blue Lagoon with brothers and sisters having sex all the time or everyone worrying about who would get to re-populate the earth, but in fact this is realty TV, not reality, and these people are all Americans.

I’ve decided that the bottom line about sexual harassment law is that, regardless of whether some ladies take advantage of it, it's a good thing—or at the very least it’s something. I like to think that the fear of getting sued keeps most guys under control.

I guess it's sad that it's come down to this. It seems like people should be grown up enough to not rub their penis on lady’s legs and that ladies should not take every opportunity to sue all the time, but it's unrealistic to rely on people's sense of propriety. Hell, even the governor of California is a groper. The bottom line is that suing for sexual harassment is a way of not taking any shit.

Maybe Sue blew the whole thing out of proportion, maybe it didn’t really bother her at all, maybe she just wanted Richard’s money, but then again if she hadn’t said anything it would have been like she was accepting it, all of it.

Richard’s nakedness made everyone on the show and everyone in TV-land uncomfortable. Richard’s whole strategy was to be the alpha male, using his dick to gain power. It’s kind of awesome how Sue has subverted that, and even if she doesn’t win the lawsuit he is going to be really pissed that he has to go to court. You can’t be naked in court. I say Sue wins Modern Society Survivor. And who’d have thought--a trucker from Wisconsin.

Ps. In case anyone was thinking it, it makes no difference that Richard is gay. Everyone knows that gays can be the biggest misogynists of all.

Oscar Observations

All the awards were given to a man who didn’t even bother to comb his hair and button up his shirt for the event. In fact, I have the stinking suspicion that he purposefully mussed his hair more than usual. If I saw Peter Jackson on the street I’m certain that would assume he was a homeless man, while looking homeless may fly in the case of certain nutty Latin professors at expensive liberal arts colleges, it is not a cool way to be at the Oscars. I’m sure Peter Jackson’s homeless look simply thrills his nerd fans, for the rest of us it is just sad. Being a mess does not make more of an individual, it does not mean that you are smarter than the rest of us, all it means is that you are a lazy slob who made three excruciatingly long movies that were really all the same movie over and over and over. I bet you anything this guy was a big fan of The Never Ending Story.

Once again the Oscars were a complete waste of time and I was tired all day as a result of staying up for no good reason. The worst part of it all is that they weren’t even really live. After the Janet Jackson incident the network paid big money to get technology that allows them 7 extra minutes to fix any swear words or stray boobs. I ask you America, what the hell is the point of live television without swear words or stray boobs?

Stickin' It

I’m writing from my brand new computer with its gigantic and very not flat 17 inch monitor. There is something very shining and refreshing about its newness, as ridiculous as it sounds, I keep thinking in the back of my head that this bright new computer might magically compel me to write something brilliant.

I went to the Visa American Cup gymnastics meet at Madison Square Garden on Saturday. The arena was filled almost entirely with 8-13 year old girls. After each gymnast preformed the sound of thousands of high little voices would ring through the air yelling, “Go Chellsie! Go Chellsie! Wooooh Cheeeeellsie!” (And yes, that’s really how she spells it). For a long time I’ve thought that gymnastics was a creepy and bizarre sport. Anything that involves putting an 11 year old girl through rigorous enough training that she comes out with bigger biceps than most boys I know is definitely weird.

On Saturday, sitting in that stadium, watching gymnast after gymnast flip across the mat and stick it, it took me a while to get over my criticism. These girls seemed like such a gross spectacle, it was almost like being at a freak show, but when they got to the beam I remembered. Watching the girls in the audience, sitting on the edge of their seats, their ponytails shuddering from anticipation, nervously moving their lip glossed mouths, I remembered that when I was that age I didn’t analyze everything to death. If I liked something, I just liked it. There was no Freudian reason behind it, no unresolved issues or secret fears. There was just something inherently cool about any girl who was good on the balance beam. Maybe it was the way they held their heads in the air—the tremendous confidence they seemed to exude as they cart-wheeled and back flipped across that stretch of wood. Maybe it was that perfect combination of grace and strength. Maybe there was no reason. The balance beam, the clarinet, Trapper Keepers, Jellies, these things all evoked that elusive and inexplicable thing: cool.