Friday, September 30, 2005

you'd think i'd have forgotten to renew my ritalin prescription, not my birth control

(I don't have a Ritalin prescription to renew, but I think it's about time I did. My god these faux-hormone-free cramps...)

*Like most web savvy corporate whores, I tired of Friendster approximately three months after signing up. Once I'd finished amassing as many "friends" as possible and searching for every person I've ever met, ever, including Boyd, my three-year-old boyfriend in 1984, there just wasn't anything left to do. Except, of course, to stalk people. Yep, 37-year-old Actor/Musician/Borrower of Money From His Dad is still single! Damnit, Whole Avocado Eating Rickshaw Driver still hasn't created a profile, so I cannot find out if he still has that girlfriend. Proably does. Bitch. No way, FAB put up another picture! So I was a little horrified to learn from E this morning (I've opted out of the unsolicited and unnecessary "Friendster Update" emails) that you can now see who has viewed your profile. Using my keen critical thinking skills, I put two and two together and surmised that other people can see if you've viewed them! But fear not, fellow stalkers. E just informed me that you can scrutinize profiles anonymously. Whew.

*Blogger and Morning News contributor Paul Ford has a book coming out and, I believe, actually deserves it. I'm a little amazed by how many people, including an editor at the NYT, thought his Gary Benchley hipster parody character was real. Dudes, Gary Benchley totally would've had a Friendster profile. Duh. [Memo to the NYT, if you need a new fact checker, I am more available than Tara Reid.]

*There are few things funnier than really bad sweaters. [via Thighswide] One of those things is Planet Dan's Halloween costume history.

*Squid sex. [via Push Fluids]

Thursday, September 29, 2005

it's official, folks

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Black is, indeed, the new black. I'm wearing black today! Are YOU????

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

things that have made me happy today

*Giant squid.

*Television Without Pity's America's Next Top Model Recap:
Nik, twenty-one, from Atlanta, says that she's not here to win the competition; she is the competition. Nik is also not here to make sense, because she is the sense.

*Cycle 2 of the Local Paper's Moments of Life insert. I won't subject you to the horror of the whole thing, but here's a snippet:
My favorite photos are the anniversary couples. They, too had hopes, dreams and plans for the ideal life together. What I see is maturity, a realization that life, even with a loved mate, is never perfect. Some compromises must be made along marriage's path. These are the couples who have honored the vows taken on their wedding day. They honored the vows and lived them.

[Except for that one time Herb boinked that toothless skank BettyAnne from his Sunday afternoon bowling league in the backseat of the Cadillac DeVille.]

*Dark chocolate and sugar-coated almonds.

*.... That's about it actually.


*I'm really, really, REALLY sick of the word "douchebag," but I can't come up with a better term for the type of guy who'd buy this. [via Ostensibly]

*Just wow:
"YOU GOT SERVED:" Sweat, cheap cologne and bad electronica filled the air as I maneuvered my way to the sweet salvation of alcohol in the horrible bar on my block my neighbor brought me to. As I paid for my drink, a figure came flailing towards me through my periphery. A skinny white thug in a Lakers jersey lunged in my direction with a purpose. A movement was enacted similar to an octopus floating through water and Morrissey dancing in gyration through a set without the microphone swing and shiny gold shirt. Following this spectacle I was graced with a hand in my face, and simply the words "you got served." I'm not sure what is worse; the bruise on my ass from falling off my stool with laughter, or that there is a group of people doing this that actually take themselves seriously. A -- Sean Root
[from Blacktable's Blacklist]

*Kirsten Dunst's stupidity [via cityrag] is something I've known about for a long time. She's best off frolicking around in her designer potato sacks with Jake and keeping her mouth shut under the guise that she's just a mysterious, private person. I saw her on a teen version of Celebrity JEOPARDY! (i.e., painfully easy questions) several years ago. She wound up thousands of dollars in the red, as illustrated by this blog commenter:
Coincidentally, did anyone see Kirsten Dunst's appearance on celebrity "Jeopardy" a few years back? If not, I'll recap:

Alex: Of these three, Mercury, Mars and Saturn, which planet is furthest from the sun?

Kirsten: Pluto!

The last question, which in normal Jeopardy she'd have been excluded from, was the nail in the coffin for me, but all I can remember is that she responded, incorrectly, with something about caterpillars.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

irresponsibility, epitomized

Last night I had a decision to make. I could go home and do the homework for my class today, which isn't so much homework as attempting-to-start-a-career work, or I could go straight from work work to the free Rainer Maria show at Arlene's Grocery. Go on, take a wild guess.... Ding ding ding! At 6:45 E and I found ourselves cozied up to the bar at Arlene's tapping the Rockies and waiting to be called into the room with the stage, which we'd just barged into as the band did their soundcheck. Woops, sorry guys. Once we were actually allowed into the room, I knew I'd made the correct decision.

The band's set was, as they say, tight. All three members displayed loads of talent, both technically and performance-wise. They're like Sleater-Kinney with some dudes, or, as E put it, "rock Tori Amos." Or they're good enough to warrant their own descriptive that I am not skilled enough to come up with. Wait, I know! Rainer Maria is so good, E and I paid rapt attention in spite of the tall smelly dude jumping around in front of us who was wearing part of a denim pants leg as a headband and had drawn a unibrow and a giant sun tattoo on his face with black marker, and had earlier been yelled at by the bouncer for brown-bagging outside the entrance to the bar.

The correctness of my decision was even further confirmed when I arrived home. I turned on the main light. Darkness. I turned on the kitchen light. Still dark. Opened the fridge....Oh shit. Yes, I'd forgotten to pay my utilities bill. Since it was already after 10:00, this wasn't too much of a travesty. I propped the door open with my purse and sat in the hallway eating crappy takeout sushi and reading Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, which I'd been resisting for a long time but finally picked up. Not bad, not bad at all. Chuck Klosterman, feel free to Gmail me if you wanna get married or whatever. I hope my frozen dinners are unharmed.

Sunday, September 25, 2005

hipsters, hightops, and horse heads: a weekend in pictures

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If Sunday was made for the New York Times, the stoop on the southeast corner of Bedford and North Sixth was made for Hipster Bingo. Reminded of this long-forgotten game by Fat Asian Baby, on Saturday afternoon E and I armed ourselves with two playing cards courtesy of Schmancy Hedge Fund's color copier, brown-bagged tall boys of Bud Light, and a hearty sense of cultural superiority. (Let us not discuss what our planning and playing of this game implies.) Although the game is a couple years old, we had no trouble getting through two and half rounds, ironic trucker caps included. We were called out by clever passersby on occasion ("Bingo!"), but it was all worth it for the look of sheer glee on E's face when she spotted the long-awaited ironic mustache. Stay tuned for the 2005 edition (think fauxhawks, 3/4 length leggings, and anal bead necklaces) once I get me some Photoshop.

I left E for a brief while to attend the modern dance performance thingamabobber in McCarren Park Pool. The words "modern dance" evoke instant eye rolling for me, but I agreed to attend since I'll try anything once, a policy that has proved mostly unnecessary (hardcore punk show at CBGB in 1999, anyone?) but still irresistible. So I was skeptical. And in the end, justifiably so. Agora is as over-thought and tedious as its description--"Performed inside the large pool, the overlapping narratives of Agora will produce the illusion of travel through the different layers of visceral urban experiences and explore the phenomenon of agoraphobia as a social and physical reaction to urban architecture"--and S and I left after 45 minutes of waiting for the "site specific" spectacle to start and 15 minutes of watching marginally talented dancers writhe on the concrete in their site specific Chuck Taylors. I did get this neat picture of an archaic diving board, though. And Tien Mao has some quality pictures of the actual show, which is more than you'd ever need to see.

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Then it was up the street to Greenpoint, where seemingly everyone lives these days, to reconnect with E and go to Drone's Doppelganger's surprise birthday party. It was in full effect when we arrived, and you know fun abounds when Drone's double-fisting includes a nearly empty bottle of liquor.

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Ever the party animals, E and I plopped ourselves down on the couch in front of the coffee table where we discovered a well curated cheese platter and, curiously, a digital thermometer. The thermometer was either a piece of crap or I am dead and don't know it yet, like Reese Witherspoon's character in that new movie with Mark Ruffalo and Napoleon Dynamite.

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Earlier in the day, Drone had bought rubber horse head masks for him and DD. I think this picture speaks for itself. "Neigh!"

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Wednesday, September 21, 2005

"and I have already dropped all the classes I can while remaining a full time student"

I have taught my sister well.

Speaking of classes, yesterday I went to my first one in over two years. (!!!) While perusing Mediabistro for jobs for which I am not at all qualified, I noticed that they have courses in the city. And they sounded good. The one I wanted started yesterday, so I called Shitibank to get my credit card limit increased and signed on up. Class started at 7:00, but I'd already made plans to have a post-work beer with E. What to do?! Multi-tasker that I am, I left work a little early, had a leisurely pint in a nearby pub at 6:00, and scurried over to class right on time. I wanted to replicate my college experience as closely as possible, you see. But then I got to class, and my brain exploded. The instructor was cool, knowledgeable, and inspiring. The other students were nice, friendly, and a lot like me, experience- and goalwise (tastewise, well, let's just say that I do not have a subscription to Self or Glamour.) But the most shocking part of all was that I talked. In class. In front of people. I talked so much I had to stop myself for fear of being a smartypants and annoying everyone. In my college classes I might as well have been a mute, and that includes the occasions on which I happened to be awake. The least shocking part of class was the following conversation:

Strong Island Classmate: Aawll through class I kept thinking you looked like a celebrity, but I can't put my fingah on it.
Gina [trying not to sound grumbly]: Julia Stiles.
SIC and Surrounding Classmates: Yes! And didn't you go to the same school? And did anyone ever...

*Sigh* Anyway, the three hours breezed on by and I'm actually looking forward to the next one. Weird.

Unrelatedly, I think I need to go to this store. Teehee!

Monday, September 19, 2005

to whom it may concern

For someone so clearly obsessed with writing about herself, you'd think I'd be a whiz at writing cover letters. You'd also be very, very wrong. The reason I'm a temp extraordinaire is largely due to my fear of and inability to compose cover letters. I have major issues with insincerity and, well, I am astute enough to know that what I'd really like to say in a cover letter is probably not going to get me any 401K/health/dental plans. Let's see though, just in case:

I am writing to express my interest in blahdy blah vaguely related to magazine and/or online publishing position posted on Craigsbistro. In May of 2003, I received a bachelor's degree in psychology from Columbia University. Since graduation, I have worked at a string of unfulfilling office assistant jobs in almost every conceivable realm of Corporate America. I feel that my education, administrative expertise, and sudden realization that I want to work in an industry in which I have absolutely no experience would make me an asset to your publication.

At Columbia, I devoted a large amount of my time to the crew team. I had never been much of an athlete, you see, and discovering that I didn't entirely suck at the sport coupled with the thigh cellulite-banishing benefits of rowing compelled me to spend five hours a day, six days a week, nine months a year exercising my ass off, literally. The girls and the boys (ooooh the boys) on the team also taught me how to interact with peers without blushing profusely, and so I spent the balance of my time interacting with them at such establishments as The Heights Bar and Grill, 1020 Bar, and The West End, which you may know as the historic watering hole of such literary luminaries as Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg. Sometimes, I even made it to class. I majored in psychology because a few of the courses were interesting enough to keep me awake for the full hour and fifteen minutes, and the typical three multiple choice exams per semester workload didn't interfere too greatly with the aforementioned activities.

Because my parents were screwed over by Columbia's financial aid policies, I also held part-time jobs, sometimes two at once, throughout my junior and senior years. My extreme overextension coupled with a raging case of chronic insomnia made it difficult to think about, much less decide, what I wanted to do after college. Somehow though, I procured employment sufficient to support my delightful but expensive lifestyle. After two years of administrative work, I have become proficient in filing, calendaring, expensing, scheduling, spreadsheeting, PowerPointing, and stapling, and I've decided that I will soon go batshit insane if I don't get a job that I care about, even a teeny weeny little bit.

I love writing and correcting people's grammar and reading blogs and magazines every hour of the day in which I am not drunk and/or asleep, so please please hire me for the love of Jesus and All That Is Holy. I can staple with incredible speed and accuracy such that the staple covers no part of the first word in the upper left-hand corner. Thank you for your consideration.

Via Gina

Yep, I'm screwed.

[if] every day [were] like sunday...

I've learned that there are two ways to spend a Sunday. You can wake up, get your New York Times/coffee/hangover Gatorade/tofu cream cheese bagel, try to do the crossword puzzle by Googling all the proper names, fail miserably, take a nap, watch Family Guy and assorted crime dramas, and toss and turn in bed until it's time to go to work since you've been dreading it all day, or you can go out and do whatever you feel like doing and forget about Monday's impending doom. I find the former quite enjoyable, except for the not sleeping at night part, but yesterday I did the latter and now I'm a bigger "doing stuff" proponent than ever.

I kicked off the morning...errrr, afternoon...with brunch with Drone. The place we went to wasn't so spectacular food- or pricewise, but hey we're suckers for overpriced egg dishes and outdoor seating. What made this brunch particularly enjoyable is that one of the two open tables on the crowded sidewalk was around the corner by the wait station, all by itself and thus secluded from the rest of the patrons. The only thing Drone and I love more than overpriced egg dishes and outdoor seating is avoiding interaction with others. Score.

After brunching it up with Drone, I subwayed it down to Soho for a little shopping with E. What was supposed to be a little shopping turned into an epic 15 store and 3 mile largely fruitless hunt for something awesome enough to justify spending a day or two's salary. This was okay though, because E and I had great fun barreling our way through the absurdly crowded, hot, smelly, and generally horrifying San Gennaro festival, discovering two great new (to us) stores, and consuming cuban sandwiches and beer in front of veiny-legged models outside of Cafe Habana Para Llevar. It was here that we were able to answer the eternal question, "Just how many models DOES it take to finish a small salad, and in how much time?" The answer: two, and in about 30 minutes. Though, to their credit, the air bubbles in that San Pellegrino are quite filling, indeed. "It feels like beer!"

After all the sweating and walking, E and I were drained, so we bought a bunch of magazines and a highly rated $6 bottle of red wine (because it was highly rated, of course.) We decided to complete the Girls' Night In theme by watching the Sex and the City episode in which SJP's acting particularly sucks and Charlotte first sleeps with hairy Harry (awwww.) Then when perusing the junky advertisement pages in the back of British Vogue, I happened upon the best hygeine product ever. Behold Retardex, a line of formulas and devices to combat even the worst case of halitosis, and you can get it in discreet packaging! Then I read Jane and Bust all the way home and slept happily ever after.

Friday, September 16, 2005

chicken fryz

Alright, enough blogging about nothing. I am not Jerry Seinfeld. Next week--all the stuff I didn't write about for the last two weeks but wanted to. There are some real doozies. Doooo. Zeeees. And I have high standards when it comes to the doozie designation.

In the meantime, entertain yourself with this online archive of lunch choices from the Harrisonburg, Virginia school district. I recommend starting with the Corn Dog Nuggets, moving on through the Ham and Cheese Pita, and then finishing off with the Lasagna, at which point if you're anything like me you'll be running to the bathroom to release your unsuppressable laughter and tears so that your bosses don't think you are possessed by a hyena. [many thanks, mimi smartypants]

Thursday, September 15, 2005

fuck george bush!

God dammit! Today's free catered lunch in the office is Thai food. Lunch is supposed to come at 12:00. It is now 12:36, and still no Thai! Where is the Thai? Aaah:
From: Receptionist
To: Entire Company
Subject: Salad Bar - only - is ready

FYI: UN traffic has held up delivery of lunch.

George Bush is holding up my lunch. Not cool. I am so not voting for him next time.

long-winded incoherent nonsensical tales from the last two days

*If You're Kitschy and You Know It Clap Your Hands!
New York is nuts right now, with the CMJ Music Marathon, Fashion Week, and a visit from Bushie all at the same time. The most involved in any of that I'd been was walking past all the black diplomat-type cars on my way to work. But last night, FAB's Former Roommate D came to the rescue and took me as his plus one to the Nouvelle Vague show at the Canal Room. Since he's interning for their record company, we were on "The Band's List" and got to go to the very special OTHER side of the velvet ropes. We also didn't have to pay. We also got to sit in the elevated reserved area in comfy round banquettes while everyone else stood packed like sardines below. (Memo to D: Never leave the music industry! Thanks.) I got to meet D's record company friends, and I made a great first impression by spilling my first drink (vodka and tonic, thank god) all over myself and shattering the glass to bits, one bit of which found it's way into my sandal and cut my toe, recalling the toe-slicing incident at E's place of work earlier in the summer. Fortunately, the band was really, really, REALLY good and I soon forgot about my soggy jeans and bleeding foot.

*Celebrities have been coming on like gang busters lately!
I saw two more in the last two days, and both uptown. I expect to see a C-lister or three when I'm downtown, but outside of work or my apartment it's more surprising. Yesterday morning, after a particularly long and harrowing experience in the photocopy room, I had to ammend my new No Cigarettes During the Day policy and stepped outside for some not-so-fresh air. Who should come sauntering in front of me but Steven Tyler looking scraggly and scary but still somehow cool. He got out of his limo and went through the front entrance of my building all by himself, so I'll forgive him for wearing a man-purse. Then this morning I almost ran over sorta-neighbor Liam Neeson's cute kid as I hurried off to work and Dad Liam walked him to school. Liam kinda smiled at me. I kinda love him.

*It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.
Speaking of neighbors, I've been having some strange run-ins with those too. It's pretty unheard of for fellow building dwellers to talk to each other in New York, even in smaller buildings ilke mine, so when I get on the elevator and someone else is there, I pretend to be engrossed in my mail, cellphone, the exterminator sign up sheet, etc. When I came home two nights ago I saw a woman I'd never seen before waiting for the elevator to return from the top floor, which means even more awkward silence. Or not.
"Do you live here?" she asked.
"Yep," I said.
"For how long?"
"Two and a half years," I said, thinking maybe she'd just moved in.
"I've been here for eight."
She then informed me that she was off to see the Sigur Ros show at the Beacon, and that I should drop by her apartment sometime. She was cool so I almost would, but am I supposed to bring a homemade pie or something?

Then last night as I was the one heading out for a show, this always jovial 40-something dude got on the elevator with me.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," I said.
"Nope, but I will be later!"
[puzzled look]
"Get it, I'll be 'hi' later?"
"Aaaahahaha..." move faster you crappy old elevator!

*I'm Getting Married.
Yesterday I got my first marriage proposal. The Canadian and I IM-ed for the first time in ages while I "worked" and he was home hopped up on flu medication. The Big Day is when we're both 32, under the stipulations that we're still single, we haven't gotten too fat, and his overbearing Frenchie-Haitian-Swiss mother is dead so that she doesn't have to witness him marrying an American girl. I'd give this scenario's chances of playing out better than even odds. Cheers!

Tuesday, September 13, 2005


Censoring myself is so not fun. Here are some more random thoughts on random crap (i.e., celebrities)!

*Perplexa sent me this little New York Metro cultural analysis:
The cupcakes, cheap and sweet, were a hit. Customers started queuing around the block. Then, in 2000, Carrie Bradshaw and her girlfriends indulged in the oversize treats on Sex and the City, and the lines got longer still. (The bakery’s now a featured stop on the Sex and the City bus tour.) Soon, the cupcake boom was being trumpeted in style articles and fashion-magazine trend alerts. The attention climaxed, perhaps, with a New York Times piece this year about a woman who lived a few blocks from Magnolia and whose dog had become dangerously overweight after eating discarded wrappers.

First of all, Magnolia cupcakes are far from oversize, especially not for the people I imagine would go on a Sex and the City bus tour. Perhaps Kim Cattrall secretly wrote this article, since I doubt she'd touch a cupcake with a ten-foot pole. Last I checked, cupcakes contain no fish. Second, why did the lady with the bloated dog make the New York Times? And a memo to the lady with the bloated dog: don't let your dog eat cupcake wrappers! Good lord.

*Speaking of celebrities and eating, well, I'm all for it. But when it comes to models and eating, well, starve away! I like Scarlett Johansson, at least as far as "starlets" go. She is naturally beautiful and interesting-looking, she picks good movie roles for the most part, and she appears to subsist on more than Starbucks and cigarettes. But there really is a reason why runway models are taller than the average dude and skinnier than the average 10-year-old. And that reason is high-waisted, tapered pants.

*I had a nice little Gawker Stalker moment last night. On my walk home from work across Central Park South, I passed by David Arquette with baby Coco and an entourage of handlers, Escalades, and cavalier king charles spaniels. Him: wearing a Penguin polo, suspenders, and a silly hat; perfect skin; much shorter than you'd expect (of course.) Coco: about ten times cuter than the average baby (double of course.)

Monday, September 12, 2005

how i felt after saturday night

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I want a cat just so I can put stuff on it.

Friday, September 09, 2005

friday nonsense

*This advice-seeking guy is sluttier in one day than I am in an average year. After the lengthy and somewhat jaw-dropping question, the first two sentences of Cary Tennis's response are priceless.

*Waiting in line for a club is indeed for idiots. So is paying a cover charge, I might add. But, being the eternal optimist that I am *cough*, I like to think that these sorts of things attract those who you wouldn't want to see at the cooler, cheaper, funner bar down the street. Just like the relationship between Times Square and tourists. So hooray for velvet ropes and Times Square!

*Two new funny blogs for the price of one: Copy Ranter and I Hate Capri Pants. No offense to anyone I know who wears capri pants. I still love you. And, well, I have to admit that I bought a pair once upon a time.

*I still haven't had a cigarette. It's not so much my own doing as that of the raging headcold I got this week, but I think I'll roll with this for a while, or at least until my head stops feeling fuzzy from either the cold or the withdrawal. I guess my rockstarish activities of last week were good for my health, after all.

Thursday, September 08, 2005

lay, lady, lay

Have I been writing a lot about ladies lately or something? Recent and pretty fantastic Google hits to my site:

which type of man majority lady need to be together

why did the lady doctor wanted to see it

my stomach is very bloated im not pregnant lady

old lady sex

bus lady

nice lady


how we know a lady is a virgin or not

the black lady that works at the white house

I appreciate the use of the royal "we" in the second from the bottom.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

death and destruction

*This story about a parasite that causes grasshopper suicide is at once the most fascinating, creepy, and just plain cool thing I have seen in quite some time. Read the article and then get over your squeamish tendencies and watch the video. It's interesting enough by itself, but then you start thinking about the implications for future research on the murky waters that comprise our understanding of neurochemistry and behavior and the relationship between the two and...woah. Go science! Perhaps someday Tom Cruise will be put in his place. Or at least get himself a nice big parasite.

*Eurotrash was probably the first personal blog I read regularly, and she's slowed down quite a bit but not lost a thing:
And then I woke up on Saturday morning and I felt incredible. The most peaceful and relaxed I've felt for years. Hmmmm. I need to probe this. Did I want a cigarette? Hell yeah. I had one. Yummy. What's going on? I thought about mum. Nothing. No pain, no fear, no stomach clenching. Just an incredible sense of calm and peace.

So I went to a hynotherapist to give up smoking and instead I finally made my peace with my mother.

This is perhaps the first Eurotrash post that has not made Diet Dr. Pepper come out my nose, and it's probably her best one yet. Heavy shit, but sometimes heavy is good. Sometimes, that is...

*Yesterday I received a reader email. This may come as a shock to you, but this is a pretty rare occurrence. However, that's not the reason I'm writing about it. First, the email:
To: Gina
From: Reader
Subject: ?
I'm curious? How do you write about the last week and not mention Hurricane Katrina, even in passing? Or in a footnote attached to a drinking story? I like reading your posts, but come on! I dont expect coverage, just perhaps, an indication that something out of the ordinary may just have happened.

Second, the implications. Cleary, Reader is passing self-righteous judgment on my character. Also...actually no, that's pretty much it.

Third, my response. Well, Reader, your email implies that you've noticed that my blog generally does not deal with current events. As I mentioned in what is probably the only post I have ever written about current events, I have always been somewhat politically disinclined, at least in comparison to my smartypants peers. This doesn't mean I don't like to stay informed, or that I don't have opinions, or that I don't care about what happens in the world. It just means that the Daily Show was my primary news source before I gave up cable and that I spend more time reading the New York Times wedding announcements than the articles on the front page (though I do read the headlines.) I don't write about pertinent world issues because, frankly, other bloggers--boatloads of bloggers--spend more time thinking about that stuff and thus write about it better than I would.

With regard to Katrina in particular, yes, it's a horrible tragedy. Yes, I feel bad for all those people who are seriously screwed. Yes, it's raised all sorts of questions for me like "Why did a city below sea level in a hurricane-prone area not have adequate defenses or at least recourse for dealing with something like this?" and "Why does this country have a president whose mere image on television gets me almost as riled up as when a cockroach accompanies me for my morning shower?" But I didn't write about it because 1. I tend not to dwell in issues of great magnitude that have the potential to be incredibly distressing and 2. lots and lots of people wrote about it and I didn't feel that I had anything unique to add and 3. I had a lot of shit going on last week and was pretty much phoning in my blog. I suppose one could conclude from this that I am overly consumed with the trifling details of my insignificant little life but, well, I'd rather be self-absorbed than self-righteous.
[No, I have not had a cigarette today. Yes, I am cranky. If you are offended by anything I've said here you can take it up with my parents.]

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

rated PG-53

Aaaah now that was a weekend. And I can write about it because, aside from a bloody mary here and a margarita there, it was relatively Parent Friendly. My doings of the last three work-free and absurdly-perfect-weather-filled days can be neatly placed into three categories: sitting (not for the purpose of eating), walking, and sitting (for the purpose of eating).

Sittin' For Sittin's Sake
*Drone and Gina Park, which you may also know as the Hudson River Park. We like to beach ourselves on the second patch of grass when you make a left at the 14th Street entrance and spend hours reading fashion magazines, finding fault in people's running strides, and exclaiming with glee every time a new dog walks by (approximately every 6.2 seconds.)

*The Cloisters. Now before you go thinking I did something cultural, let me just state for the record that I did not actually enter the museum part except to use the bathroom. Rather, I went with Drone and his funny fashion friends for a picnic on the Cloisters grounds in Fort Tryon Park, and my god it was beautiful. The Hudson River is simply majestic from a high leafy perch. It's also pretty cool when you're sitting in a piece of fiberglass two inches above the water.

*On the bench in front of some restaurant on Ludlow that was conveniently located across the street from Piano's. Drone, S, and I got ourselves some to-go margaritas and, having just walked from Hudson River Park, didn't really feel like "going." So we sat on that beautiful bench for a good two hours making huge amounts of fun of the endless hipster fashion victim parade. The afternoon was highlighted by the indie response to Hugh Hefner, Dov Charney. The American Apparel CEO graced us with his tight jeaned, enormous-schnozzed presence no less than five times, and we were no less thrilled each time.

A Half-Marathon of Walking, With Breaks to Sleep and Stuff
*Home from work, to Drone's, to Drone's again, home from Drone's, all the way across downtown, 3/4 of the way to E's, 1/4 of the way home from E's, back to work. Let's just say that I'm not as svelte as I used to be and by walking a lot I can trick myself into thinking I'm taking some action. Moving on to more important matters...

*I'd long dismissed Florent as a late night haven for Meatpacking snots and the occasional Olsen twin (not that there's anything wrong with that,) but it's officially become my favorite brunch place, even though I officially despise that word. Brunch brunch brunch. Ew. But for a late breakfast or early lunch, it can't be beat. A tasty bloody mary, endless coffee, and a goat cheese apple onion and herb omelette with seven grain toast and fancy salad for $13.95? Yes, please. Add outdoor seating, no over-crowding, and proximity to Drone and Gina Park to that and you can count on finding me there every Saturday afternoon.

*Lil' Frankie's. E and I decided to extend the long weekend as long as possible by meeting for dinner on Monday night at this cozy lil' Italian place. Our table was a little too cozy to fit our order of mini meatball pizza, fried calamari, and a bottle of Primitivo, and we had to get creative with the placement of the bread basket and condiments, but it was otherwise relaxing and more than satisfying. Bonus points for the strangely hot girl bartender whose strange hotness inspired my tattoo adventure last weekend.

*And last but certainly not least, there's Amy's Kitchen. Even if I had cooking skills, I'd still eat Amy's all the damn time. My refrigerator may be empty aside from several kinds of mustard, but my freezer is a font of delicious organic Mac and Soy Cheeze. Mmmm cheeze.

Friday, September 02, 2005

the wisdom of dooce

I've been a Dooce devotee for quite some time, along with a hundred thousand or so other people. I feel closer to her than one should ever feel to someone they've never met because she's helped me through tough times with depression, constipation, and other pertinent life issues. As you probably know, I never seriously considered that getting Dooced could happen to me, and despite writing extensively about my employment and employers, it hasn't. This post is, fortunately and unfortunately, not about me getting Dooced and losing my free chopped salad and gym privileges. It's instead about a ridiculous coincidence that happened today and has left me unable to process, much less write clearly about, my feelings. This morning at work between filing and stapling tasks, I read this interview with Heather Armstrong:

Apart from what you've already talked about with regard to writing, design, and setting boundaries, is there any advice you would give to a new blogger?

My only other piece of advice for a new blogger would be for her to ask herself, who is the one person you would not want to read what you have just written? And now imagine that person finding your website and reading it because it will happen. Are you comfortable with that? If so, carry on. If not, maybe you should consider keeping a private journal. If that person doesn't exist, well then aren't you lucky.

As I read this today, I recognized my impudence with regard to the kind of material I write about on this thing, and, given my previously unbreakable impudence, remained certain that this would never happen to me. As I've mentioned in the past, it takes some serious fucking up for me to learn any sort of lesson. Well, I think a lesson has finally been learned. I got a phone call from my mom today, and it turns out that my parents have found and read (I don't even want to know how much of) my blog (Hi, Mom and *gulp* Dad!). So I texted dear friend E, and she called me right back to tell me that tonight she found out that her parents have been reading, too.

I've written so many posts and thought "If my parents ever read this, I would die." I'm not going to die now, but things at Via Gina headquarters are going to change, somehow. I won't be giving up my vices and joining a knitting circle or anything, but I do think it would be good for me and my desired career to find things to write about besides how drunk I got the other night and the latest dude drama (which happened two days ago and I uncharacteristically refrained from writing about.) Also, I do care about my health and my safety and what my parents think of me, so I may consider ammending my lifestyle somewhat. But nothing can take away my to-go margaritas.

Parents, you raised us well. We're all okay. I realize this isn't much consolation coming from me, but I promise you that.


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Apparently, He would have a potato sack race. [thanks, S]