Its like I've grown my own beret

Hair.

I don't know if you've noticed. But my hair is getting GIGANTIC!!! This ranks as a big deal in my world! I've had this androgen thing going on upstairs since I was 15. And it has served me rather well. In fact, like being a cigarette fiend, it was sort of "my thing." Growing it out has been as emotionally loaded for me as (evidenced by the "Make-over Episode" every cycle of Top Model) cutting it all off is for most women. Something about having this obvious, feminizing signifier growing right out of the top of my head, feels like a lot to handle for me. Its like saying "Hey, here's my gender! I'm a FEMALE, take that!" Not that I've ever been one to leave the house on a Friday night in a hijab or anything. Usually my sartorial choices are influenced by the notion that someday I'm going to be old and everything is going to inevitably head south, both figuratively and literally, so might as well enjoy the fruits of my (relative) youth before they become crasins.

Being hirsute is like a whole new world though. It really really is.

• Its warm! Yes, I'm here to report, having a shit load of hair keeps your head warm in the cold. Lovin' it. Especially this winter because the "new economy" is making it unlikely I can afford a nice hat.

• Its gray. Not lovin' it so much. I knew I had a few coming in on the sides, but crop kind of kept them undercover. [Actually, I'm lying. I sort of love that it's turning gray and I love being able to be like "awww it's turning gray." I think I'm actually getting a streak! And how can I become the grand dame I envision myself as at 60 without a streak!?]
  

• I still want to have it in front of my face all the time, just like middle school. It's great, it's like being in your own little cave.

• Also like middle school, sometimes I go to sleep with it wet, get up and don't brush it. Unlike middle school this generally happens if I come home late and am trying to shower the drunk away (it's a preventative hangover balm.)
  

• I've adopted this ridiculous hair flipping move that involves me shaking my head a lot. It sort of looks like headbanging, except on a horizontal axis, or as if I have to say "no no no" to something, fast. And yes, it means I am flirting with you. I know I know...it probably looks like I have Tourettes.

• No one ever tells me I look like Liza Minnelli!

• "You look like that SNL chick from the 70s...uhh.. guggg...Gilll"

"Gilda Radner?"

"haha oh YEA, you TOTALLY DO"

I THINK THAT'S AWESOME.

I do think Gilda is out-hairing me by a mile. I'm never really going to be able to attain the heights of a brushed out jew fro but, It's something to aspire to.

I liked having short hair, but after a decade, I'm tired of it. When I chopped it off I was fifteen and it has never been longer than ear length till now (I'm 26). I so badly wanted to prove to the world my consummate singularity and being quite the observant little pet when I was 15, I noticed not a single girl in my high school had hair like Mia Farrow. Most had bad dye jobs and ponytails and wore bows. Yes, 16, 17 year old young women with hair bows. It just struck me as the silliest, most infantilizing thing. How, as a woman could you ever hope to be taken seriously having once worn a BOW.

Also, I was not entirely confident that my singularity was really all that consummate, but I was hoping to get the ball rolling in that direction. I was also kind of emo. Get it? I wanted how I looked on the OUTSIDE to be what like what I felt I was (or wanted to be) on the INSIDE.

Now I want to be

This guy.

Wellll maybe; despite their rather battle-ready image, male lions generally lie around all day mating and looking awesome while the less majestic looking ladies do all the heavy lifting, i.e. jungle business of catching stuff, pulling it apart, ingesting it.

(hahah EXACTLY)


In a year I'm going to be

YEA!

AIR RAID.

I feel the hair on the back of my neck exploding in split ends as soon as I see my mother reach for the handle on the refrigerator door.

And as she cheerily announces through her teeny, slightly-clenched, WASP'y teeth "It looks like someone threw up in here," my vertebrae curl together, pulling me in towards myself like an armadillo in a loosing battle.

Why do I care? At this point in my life I know my apartments will never be clean enough, ever. They've seen them all (except that China Town place with the crumbling tile and glue traps THANK GOD), I know the drill. After every apartment inspection I always have code violations. During the last visit, I had postponed the meet-and-greet with Clinton Hill. I knew it had to happen this trip. Resistance was futile, I just wanted to be ready, you know? I wanted to be the Department of Domestic Preparedness Affairs, armed with one god-damned acceptable apartment!!

As I sat there waiting for the door buzzer to ring, impressed with my anticipatory cheese, hummus, and crudites plate, NPR a-blazin', feeling as ready and properly contained as a tin full of tea biscuits - I noticed the 4 inch bike grease smudge on the wall. That will get a shout out, of this you can be sure, Ms. NPR and Cracker Tray. Before I could get to the paper towels, of course the buzzer went "ZAAANNNG."

"What happened there?"

I don't' know mom. Perhaps a bacteria-ridden Mongoloid threw up on the wall before he made it to the fridge since clearly I was too busy smoking opium with Madame Tang or whatever you suppose I do which causes me to be imprudent about my wall scrubbing duties. I can see her little brain ticking away, evaluating, logging, reorganizing, assessing the condition of this place I work very hard to live in. She settles in, imperfections duly noted but "its not that bad."

Well thanks.

Why on earth do I care this much? I'm the 26 year old adult child of a clean freak! Big deal! Some people got hit or fed meth in their Cheerios! I have perspective! I understand "Theory of Mind"! MY thoughts are different from OTHER PEOPLE'S thoughts! So how could I really be so fragile? So easily rattled by every silly little thing, my silly little mother says? I should be able to knowingly chuckle "Oh mom" without hearing the air raid sirens go off in my ego, my mature intelligence necessitates it!

DUCK AND COVER.

I was already 2.5 glasses of wine in anyway (so much for containment), why not make it four shall we?

And the soft focus moroseness sets in. There I am.

Ready to face the rest of my evening with my parents. Dinner discussion ranges from why I "look so unhealthy" (Grazie, Don Lipitor) to how Dad keeps getting "blown off" by other family members, and of course the ever popular "why don't I teach?"

Because I do not like kids and it interests me not at all. That's why I don't teach. I don't like children. Not small children, not middle schoolers, not high school kids. The thought of being the sweater-dress wearing, chain-smoking drama teacher for a bunch of school children makes me feel like somehow kicking my own ass. Really, it makes me want to get into a fist fight with myself.

I DO NT WANT TO.

AT ALL. NOR HAVE I EVER EXPRESSED ANY INTEREST IN DOING IT EVER IN MY WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE.

PLEASE STOP SUGGESTING IT EVERY TIME I SEE YOU I CANT THINK OF ANYTHING I WOULD LIKE TO DO LESS.

I also have fond memories from years 85 to 95 of how much mother dear JUST LOVED teaching kindergartners and used to fairly frequently come home from work crying throughout my youth so YEA, TEACHING, SEEMS TO SUCK.

Oh man. I'm exhausted. I'm exhausting myself.

Upon returning home, I looked at the remnants of my attempt at hors d'oeuvres on what passes for a kitchen table, and right there, right in the eye line of the bowl of mini carrots, leaning jauntily on the windowsill:

"The Smart Girl's Guide to Porn"

ITS PAIGE'S, REALLY! NO, Really it really is Paige's, I'm like, I don't know, porn? Just not really that into it really. NO REALLY.

I mean...I'm reading it but it's my roommates!! REALLY.

At least nobody said anything.

House Guests

It's like herpes bedbugs in Brooklyn, everybody gets them.

Houseguests

I kid.

Everyone coming to stay with me in the next couple of weeks I luv. And I am looking forward to sleepovers, jumping around in our underwear, making blender drinks and then subsequently dancing circles around the kitchen table while singing joyful tunes that serve to celebrate our respective self-hoods. Especially with my friend Erin's "band" of people I've never met.

Ha I don't know why I quoted "band" - they really are a band, they are here for CMJ. And a good band at that. They are more then welcome to go all Motley Crue on my living room.

Also coming to stay we have the incomparable Jesse. My household kingdom (me and Paige) rejoices.

Thirdly....we have... my parents. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I'm not the, sleeping-in-the-same-bed-with-mom type, nor am I the allow-mom-and-dad-to-sleep-on-the-floor-in-my-"cozy"-two-bed-room-rail-road type. So mom and dad have had to find other sleeping arrangements. (I'm also not the give-up-your-bed-and-sleep-on-the-couch-type.) Hey, I have to work in the morning here people.

Mental Fitness.

So during the time I was away, not writing this blog, I happened to discover that


I've got brain problems.

And when my room mate (who is like my wife at this point) upon returning home finds me, yet again, by myself during daylight hours making a sizable dent in a bottle of gin and chain-smoking on the couch, joylessly watching Tyra Show reruns (such woe!!) while feeling really really bad for myself - suggested what my mom has been saying for years

"you should go to therapy."

(Its harder to be all like "OH WHATEVER MOM" when your friends say it...)

I decided, yea, maybe I should. And I mean, unlike sopping up whiskey with your cerebellum, its not going to kill me. Furthermore since I am one of the lucky few who actually have health insurance, I can get my brain worked on, like, for free!

No wait, wait..

I can work on my own brain.

Right?

I shouldn't be so flip about it...I just find something about the whole idea of therapy fucking annoying. Well its not so mysterious. What I find annoying is that NYC offers up a myriad of ways for its inhabitants to display shockingly unpleasant levels self-involvement. So you strive to avoid being completely overtaken by your own ego (or risk becoming a frightening species of gorgon only found in New York), and then the first thing that comes to mind as a sure-fire panacea when you start seeing red doors and wanting to paint them black, is spending your money to essentially force someone to listen to you talk about yourself.

It just annoys me. About me. And I'm going to talk further about it, on this blog, which I write, about me.

Perhaps I am loosing this battle.

So battle lost, I have started "seeing someone."

Everyone says it's important to have "reasonable expectations". I guess that means, for example if I were a lunatic who was seeing gigantic hob goblins with fangs on fire everywhere, I shouldn't hope to eradicate the hob goblins entirely, but perhaps turn them into more petite, benign goblins. Fiery goblins you can live with. Goblins not on fire.

But I'm having a hard time continuing this venture. I don't think I'm really all that interested in not being upset. And some part of me thinks the whole thing is a big snake oil wholesale operation. I don't know...I'm just trying not become Artax in the Swamps of Sadness...you know what I mean.

Autumnal, Clinton Hill.

Well,

I wish I could report a reason I have written nothing since June.

Let's make one up.

So I applied for this uhhh... grant.....which I got....and I went to Istanbul...no...Constantinople.

They love me there. I'm huge there.

So after a long summer in Persia - or some other evocative name which was once a place, such as the USSR or Gaul - I am facing another fall, in yet another borough of our fair, fair, city.

Let me introduce you to Clinton Hill.

I am making friends in my neighborhood. And doing more laundry. Well actually I am doing less laundry because now it involves carrying a cart down the stairs and wheeling a panda-sized bag of it, old lady style, down the block. But things are always hopping at the laundromat on Dekalb avenue. By things, I mean fights involving cars and dogs and everybody having a generally harmless, innocuous time screaming at each other in front of their friends and neighbors.

As my darks and whites were tumbling and I was outside further distancing myself from my resolve to quit smoking, a very high dude came up to me and asked to try on my sunglasses.

Hey, they are awesome, I agree - so of course I obliged. He kept yelling "who do I look like, I think I look like T - I" , at his cousin, who he told me was Israeli. I kind of doubt it but OK.

anyway...I didn't know it at the time
but in fact he did look like TI!!!

not this TI



Then he asked me to hold his dixie cup of orange juice and feel his hands, which were soft because "he'd never worked a day in his life." ( FYI - They weren't that soft. Furthermore, Scarlett O'Hara, the term "soft hands" is creepy, don't say that to girls.)

Then he kindly offered to marry me and told me I'd never work a day in my life.

How's that gonna work bro?

Neither of us working any days in this new life together, which we are starting right now, on the street outside the laudromat drinking OJ (or methadone) from a dixie cup? And I get the feeling, well, because you told me so, high guy, that you'd like to get me pregnant pretty fucking fast, so their would be another 3 or 4 mouths to feed. I mean, I'm down for the no-working thing, really...I REALLY REALLY am...but uh, I'm going to need to see some proof before we head down to city hall, a bank statement...a sack of gold doubloons. Something.


A lady can dream though can't she? Especially now, cause the lady is BROKE, and I like living off dreams, fairy dust, and magic beans that come from the sky.

I am a professional mover

I've moved again.

it took me 5 months.

hence no posts.

That's a lie, it took me literally 3 hours with the hearty help of two of my strongest-armed friends and a uhaul.

However it many ways it has taken me five months. Maybe longer. New, on layers of new.

as I parse it all out i will be posting more.

Chinese Laundromat

I'm in that part of a transition where everything rubs up against the memory of how I did it "before". It leaves a little static cling in my brain.
I did my first load of china town laundry yesterday. I stood awkwardly in the Laundromat for a few minutes, not quite sure if I should stay and wait or go. Normally I would never sit in the Laundromat waiting for laundry, even in the old place I went to which was fully equipped for a human to live out his or her lifespan in comfort: Multiple TV's, a machine that dispensed gourmet cookies, both juice and soda vending machines, some machine that you stick your finger in and tells you how hot you are, one of those cruel contraptions with the janky claw on the end that you pay a dollar to watch it futilely grab at a stuffed animal, internet access, and, I kid you not, massage chairs. Next time you are in Williamsburg, stop by the Lavanderia on powers and kick back for 20.
I'm standing there, staring at my clothes, looking at a stack of 3 plastic deck chairs in a corner wondering if I should just sit in them. I didn't want the laundry ladies to find me somehow inappropriate. I'm very attached to protocol.
I deposited myself in the stack of chairs and listened to the Chinese radio. Snacking on wasabi peas (that I had bought because I was too uncomfortable to ask the girl the deli to give me matches without buying anything) gave me momentary anxiety because I remembered the rape of Nanking and is it offensive to eat Japanese snack products in a Chinese Laundromat? The depth of my capacity to worry about everything shocked me out of my chair and onto the street to smoke a cigarette from the stress pack I had bought 3 days before. And my laundry tumbled away.

year of the rat

brand new year. For China.

And me.

Cause now I live in Chinatown.

I'm going to spend my evenings honing my dance dance revolution skills at the arcade and eating things with red bean paste in the the middle.

This was one of the harder weeks I've had in a while.

Anyway, heres my new place.

there is some shit in my room

Last night was fun.

I started "packing. " It's going really well. I found my portfolio of drawings had some how been placed on the floor in the basement and now they are all water damaged and wrecked.

bye artwork.

(actually, full disclosure i stupidly sold this one for 25 bucks to some girl, she said she was going to frame it...i hope its still alive somewhere.)

I guess now I have to make more.

I'm just sad... I wanted to have those drawing to show my kids that will never exist

in case of their possible existence

Anyway that was fun, so I bought an overpriced bottle of vodka and watched "Make me a super Model" for a while and then after I was a little stumbly I decided it would be a good idea to start packing my books and cds.

It was the best idea ever.

I broke off all my finger nails and found all my old sketch books and photos and scripts which instantly make me start crying even when I'm sober as they represent the time in my life when I wasn't a professional squanderer of potential.

I love making myself cry over the "bigness" of my problems.

THEY ARE THE BIGGEST PROBLEMS EVER. FUCK YOU!!!

*door slam*

Three cheers for weeping profusely. I am convinced that's why dudes die so much earlier; a lack of hissy fits will kill you.

people under the stairs with a touch of children of the corn

Yo, girl.

Anyway I had a charming weekend at the house of the parents of Ezeeeez from Steeeze, with Fist Patrick from GMSC , Julian & Kyle who's blogs I don't know about. We made fried chicken with rice krispies. And of course drank a ton and everybody fell down all over the place.

Normally I am drunk when I fall asleep and don't really "dream" per se. Apparently, according to Garret I make horrible noises, snore, and wake up violently throughout the night, occasionally yelping. So something is going on in there. Thankfully, I don't remember any of these brain-rattling things that are apparently wreaking havoc on my unconscious, and keeping my bf awake. That said, I do remember this one dream I had on Saturday. I know, hearing about other people's "dreams" (and tangentially 'hopes') is boring, but I've run this one by a few peeps and apparently there's a nugget of interesting in there.

I'm in this house with a family. Mother, Father, 2 little blond haired kids live there. They aren't my family - I have no idea what I'm doing there but it doesn't seem strange that I'm there. Maybe I'm the au pair
or something.

Things are awry in this house. Little pellets keep shooting out of the cabinets. I wake up and I have demonic writing tattooed on my stomach. The kids keep disappearing and then show up crying. Obviously the house its trying to kill us.

There is a oversize door in the house that is padlocked for some reason nobody ever really brings up, I guess me and my host family are renters or something. The worse the situation gets in the house the more the door becomes suspicious (like a gigantic padlocked door wouldn't have been creepy before-hand). Its a glass door but you can't see through it because, as I put my face up to it - I realize there is white soundproofing stuff layered up behind it. A little bit of light shows through the edges. I listen really closely and I think I hear some very faint noises, like crying or screaming.

It turns out that there are rabid feral children living in some secret annex in the house. Then everything gets very non-linear but the climax of the dream involves me and one of the family's children trapped in a basement trying to get upstairs into the house before the feral children bust thought the wall and kill us. I can't unlock the basement door because I realize they have sawed off the bottoms of my keys. Somehow I do get up stairs but I've lost the little kid, mostly because I was trying to save my own ass from having my face chewed off by wolf boy or whateves.

Panic ensues. Some things happen and the dream ends with the police showing up and dragging out this band of scabby kids. One of them is in handcuffs giving a smaller one a piggy back ride.




welcome to my nightly hell ride.

Primal Strips.

I just read all the comments on this post on Bruni's Blog

And then I started writing one myself and as it got longer and longer and more and more personal and obtuse, I was like "hey that's what I have a blog for."

Anyway the blog was about how sorry vegetarian options are at fine dining places in NYC. Bruni, diplomatically sympathizes with the veggies. They can't get much else but risotto or green salads at the city's best and most innovative restaurants. And often vegs have to pay high prices for food that hasn't been paid as much attention to as their omnivorous counterpart's meals.

I was a vegetarian for a while.

I stopped eating meat at 12, mostly to avoid the catcher's mitt-like flavor and texture of my mother's Sam's Club pork chops. God I hated those pork chops. I would watch my father eat these industrial gray, fat ringed shingles covered in Gluden's mustard, mystified. They appeared to be enjoyable, somehow, someway, to Pop. Mom as well, but she likes Lima beans and liver. Not like, pâté liver, like LIVER liver.

I knew my parents would not accept me saying "I don't want this, it tastes like fingernails" and would rip into me about my "constant complaining" so I had to come up with a "belief system." My parents were quite tolerant when it came to me trying on ways to organize my identity. During my notable "Christian Camp" phase - I mostly went for the free ski trips and cubic zirconium crosses in the most holy gift shop - I made the fam say Grace every night, which went over like a lead poop. Then I would spend the evenings torturing myself about my inability to reeeeeeally believe in Jesus, thus I was damned to literally actually watch my own skin bubble in hellfire FOR EVER (that's what they tell you in those crazy places, really!!!!!). Nothing like trying to watch your daily dose of 'America's Funniest Home Videos' with a weeping 10 year old flagellant. During my "Ayn Rand" phase, I was just generally, inexplicably cunty, everyday, all the time. And cheers to Mam and Pop for letting me do my thing. I assume they understood I would grow out of all these things.

Anyway my pork chop antipathy ran so deep I said goodbye to cheeseburgers, "meat sauce", and my favorite thing in my childhood world, Hebrew National hot dogs.

No meat, not even hot dogs blessed by a Rabbi!

But I took to vegginess ok. Around 12 is when girls are figuring out which eating disorder works best themselves and their lifestyle so everybody was "not eating" something. Being a vegetarian in a South Carolina high school essentially meant I subsisted on a lunch diet of cheese pretzels. A perfect food, the cheese pretzel. Not only is it salty and full of empty carbohydrates, but with yellow # 5 paste in its heart. At NYU I was truly in heaven. The dining hall provided me with a million ways to eat a ton of food that had no meat in it, with the lowest health benefits possible.

Eventually I cracked. My vegetarianism was essentially sans moral/ethical foundation and as I got older and my idea of fun shifted from hanging in dorms, enjoying appetizer of Georgi followed by Bong then perhaps, Floor...to going out with friends, fit for public consumption, to an establishment of food or drink. My boyfriend in the end of college, Nick, (go look at his blog over there in linkies) cooked. Real meals, which didn't come from a box, and enjoyed great food, as did his parents who came through NYC frequently and were nice enough to take me to dinners with them. They were interested restaurants that were exciting and experiential. I'd never really had food like that. The temptations of really good meals were irresistible. Outside of major cities in this country, most restaurants in any given town are awful. When dining out options are uniformly overpriced and banal, avoiding the "Tex-Mex shrimp and chicken fiesta" for the meatless "Baked potato skins" at your local mall parking lot feeding trough, is no biggie. Its all shitty, and ambiance, forget it.

But the more encounters I had with great opportunities to eat amazing stuff in NYC, I just could not pass up eel at at Sushi Yasuda, skirt steak at Al Di La, or the Head Cheese at the Spotted Pig. Oh wait. hold the head cheese - it made me gaggy, but you get my drift {Please note, the Pig is UHMAZING, head cheese not so much}.

All that leads me to be of the belief that you're not going to get a transcendent restaurant meal if you aren't eating meat. And I don't think you can really complain to loudly about that. You can get wonderful dishes, but if you truly want to enjoy the whole package of eating out - the food, the pacing, setting, experience, and the more intangible things that make restaurants worth going to - don't refuse to eat some of the most flavorful ingredients that exist (unnnnlesss, you eat at a restaurant who's ideology in in line with yours, i.e a vegetarian place). I think high-end restaurants exist not to cater to limitations but to indulge palates, to overwhelm with whatever qualities characterize the place. And like, whatever, you can get great food with no meat in it, you're just going to have to work a little harder, and I mean a little. I've had a lot of great vegetable dishes all over the place in the city. Sometimes I end up ordering entirely veg with out even thinking about it (shout out Lil Frankies Salad and/or Calzone!) When I'm eating by myself I generally never eat meat. I never learned how to prepare any kind of meat other than what goes into a meatball so I just stick to the veggies. Also on a SERIOUS NOTE, I do care about where my food comes from and the damage it does to this cracked out planet. If you are actually reading my blog, you are probably well aware of the implications of industrially farmed grocery store meat as well as its lack of flavor. Also, I would rather know my bacon lardons had an ok time when they were pigs and are not full of more hormones than M to F pre-ops.

Lots of times I crave those weird bland, tofu salad deli sandwiches of questionable provenance. I believe they call them "Tofu Power." I also love that weird fake jerky that kind of tastes like plastic ahahha oh yea, they call them


And then I'll stare at the sandwiches and try and pick out the Best One.

Like one of them is going to really be the ne plus ultra Tofu Power Sandwich. It's the One. The Best Mushy and Sort of Frightening Sandwich Ever.

we're in your town, we're going to party down

we're an american band!

This friday!!!

thank fuckin god

OMG planet!



I found somewhere to live!!!

To all the people who's crappy apartments I looked at and said "wow" about, its true. I lied. Your apartments all blew. I am dancing a jig that i don't have to live in them.

Not to mention, I am also defying one of the great natural laws of city living, I am moving FROM Brooklyn TO Manhattan. WTF????

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, now I'm being an asshole. I'll shut up. shutting up in 5 ...4...3...2...1

ZIP







OM G OMG OMG OMG


ok ok now i'm done


THANK YOU UNIVERSE!!!!!!!

Diving for Sunken Treasure

would be much more fun than apartment hunting.

well at least I don't have a subprime mortgage

Actually it's not that bad, I'm just being ornery. I'm averaging meeting one prospective roomate a day.

It usually goes something like this

'Hi" awkward too gripy handshake

"oh Hi" uncomfortableness ensues

"ummm so this is the umm place...."

"oh wow"

I'm finding myself saying a whole lot of wows, when I mean the exact opposite of wow. There should be some kind of exclamation to describe benign acknowledgment that something exists, yet complete ambivalence about its existence, with a touch of reluctance to dwell upon it further. I would use it when prospective roomatee points out that, for example, the walls are brown, the trim is white.

"here's the bathroom"

"wow"

O RLY? Wow? you have bathroom? Can i poop in it? Yes? FAB, here's first month plus security.

Today I emailed a bunch of people, received a phone call from someone who's name, as far as I can tell, was Nir...

He spelled it for me, and of course once someone spells it, you can't keep asking cause if you've had to have them spell it you've already asked for a repeat too many times.

I'm considering not going to see this place because I'm so freaked out about having to call the guy back using what could be a made up word for a vaguely Norwegian fantasy land that I think is his name and looking like a retard.

"uhhh is NIIIIIIR there?"

"No re-re, NO APARTMENT FOR YOU!!"

Also, I reviewed the post I responded to in order to find reasons to justify not calling Nog back and i found a good one. First line of the posting:

"Hello all you beautiful people!"

nuff said.

But I don't want to give out the impression that I am am dragging my feet. I've gone to see quite a few places and few very unhappy Polish broker ladies. I suppose that commiseration isn't really what you go to a broker for, but I have to say, I appreciated the dewy downcast eyes of Sriniska when I gave her my price bracket.

"ohhhh (ever so softly) nooooooo, for you we have nawting"

"but please, take my card, i willll calllll yuew"

Hug me Svitlana.

royal oak, epilogue

Well epilogue would imply there is a plot which has a continuance. Which perhaps actually there is, but I'll get to that in a second.

A lot of people have been asking me 'What happened at Royal Oak?'

Which, for those unawares, is not something a knight might ask his lowly page.

Yea, anyway Royal Oak is a bar.

Kidsmith and I had a good long stint and the aforementioned bar as the Friday night DJs every first Friday of each month. Abruptly we emailed our list last Friday and had to cancel. Here's what happened for those of ya'll that have been asking: One of the bar tenders called DJ Kidsmith and told him he thought we had been notified already, but we'd been taken off the schedule. That in itself, no big hair in my meatball hogie; bar owners switch their DJ line ups all the time. We had a good run, and both of us have been urning for greener pastures. There had been some technical probs the month before which I think probably contributed...and they've got Finger on the Pulse djing there now, so can't hate on it. Howeves, it would have been much more awesome had we been told maybe the week before rather than 2 hours before we were supposed to be there.

And given that bar owners, as a species can generally be assumed to act like Sunday School teachers-cum-bureaucrats...its even more shocking we received such an untimely ring a ling, right?

Yes, I know, we should be glad we got a phone call at all.

And for those of ya'll who were rubbing boot black on your dancing shoes, I'm sorry we stood you up at the prom.

We would have just done it with you and then not called you anyway

...and told all our friends we did it with you, and then our friends would have called you to be all like, 'yo girl i heard you let him hit it'....

oh wait maybe that was my prom.

JUST KIDDING MOM, we both know I didn't even go to my prom cause there were some new astrology books at Barnes and Nobles I had to look my birthday up in that night or whatever.

For those of y'all wondering, that's it, no big drama. There will be more to come in the future, we're keeping our ears open for a new place to pump up the jams.

For now a look at some of our fliers.

How was your new years?

Mine was fine.

Actually it was better than most. I neither, A. threw up, or B, cried

A red letter holiday all around.

I've been looking for some new living arangements lately, which is of course, obviously, hard. Harder still knowing that if i wanted to live in any other place, barring maybe San Franciso or LA, I would never find myself thinking:

"hmm, not a bad deal for 1200 a month, i get my very own lofted sleeping pod with 3 foot ceilings in a building with a dead christmas tree in the elevator on the south side of williamsburg by a vacant lot, fab."

NYC apartment hunting induces something like night blindness. All the sudden you find yourself considering things that any reasonable person would go wall-eyed about.


But my new plan is to "Think Positive." which i absolutely hate doing and think is for like, moms.

haahah however if i don't i'm going to end up A. Like that doggy B. completly friendless because everybody has to listen to me bitch and panic (bichnic, panitch?) about what is essentially not that big a D. But what can i say? I'm a Cancer, we are home centric
and our abdominals are sculpted.



oh and go read Garrets blog.
http://neonriver.blogspot.com/
no it is not a blog about peeing...allthough there is a pee related story.