We're good kids here in the suburbs. And I think the man knows it. Not any man in particular, you know, the man. Last night we had a little gaffe; a nibble of the flesh of the forbidden fruit... a foray into the world of petty crime, if you will. And oh, you will.
Pizza St*r, oh how I do thank thee. For you have provided me with a haven of pizzaine goodness. An island among oceans of cheesy pasty crap. An Undominoes; A StepPapa John's. And so it was with most humble apology that I forced Eddie of 42 Monkey fame to call you last night after we transgressed upon your holy tableau of trust. Only here in suburban New Jersey would you allow your pizza patrons to eat the pizza before paying. And only here in New Jersey would you allow us to wander out of your establishment without completing promised transaction. And only here would we feel so immediately guilty, so infinitely dirty and unworthy, that we would immediately call you to remit promised payment.
And only here in New Jersey would you know that we'll be back and agree to accept payment "next time" -- for, after all, there is simply nowhere else to go. And even though you always insist on mopping the floor while we sit and chew, thereby releasing a noxious odor of rotting cherries throughout the joint, I'm sure you're right... we will be back, and we'll pay you that fifteen bucks, and we'll apologize profusely, and you'll never forget us, and maybe you'll even put a painting of us up on the wall. I can only dream.
Actually, you're probably just getting ready to write it. You've got good intentions and a plot and a writing buddy. You've even roped your Dad into this charade. In the meantime, you're packing. You're clawing your way out from under a giant laundry pile. You have a few bags of (clean) clothes for Goodwill. Movers have been in and out, providing quotes. You've got a roommate all lined up.
Then things start to get weird. You've got a product to release. Sure, it's technically a peripheral, but still, you've got a day until the end of the month. And you're beginning to worry. You're planning to work late tonight. Like, really late.
Also, your roommate flakes out on you. Again. Not only has he now secured the larger room, but he's thinking that you'll just pay equal halves of the rent. Okay... and also, he'd like it if you could pay half of the "recreation fee." Uh, okay.
Wait, no... not okay. You call him back. This isn't what you discussed. This isn't fair. This isn't right.
Okay. Just a little hiccup. The second little hiccup in as many gassy lunches. Your roommate agrees, but you stop to consider the situation. You know of a coworker looking for a roommate. In a cheaper apartment. And all you'd have to do it be homeless for 3 weeks and put your belongings in storage instead of an apartment.
You panic.
You call your father.
You call your boyfriend.
You call your writing buddy.
You get in the car and drive two hours to pick up some product from the testing house. You listen to the Powerpuff Girls techno soundtrack. You stop at a Starbucks with a drive through counter. (Oh yes, you are a yuppie.) You never knew that "venti" also means "with two shots of espresso." You consider this fact, and wonder how it is that you were never informed before that "double" therefore means "with four shots of espresso," or, in some languages, "with a shot of adrenaline straight to the nervous system."
You contemplate this, and you consider moving to Singapore.
Sounds crazy? Feh. Sounds like today.
gotta go
In novel news, I'm all signed up and ready to go on my contribution to sagging bookshelves everywhere. I've got a few pages of notes, a couple of computing possibilities, and the best of intentions. Oh, and a writing partner. Of course, he wasn't my first choice, but Justin just didn't have time for the publicity tour. J also had a hard time coping with releasing the book so soon after his girlfriend's tome, There's Something About Mammaries. But I think I definitely got the sweet end of the brainstorming stick by dragging Tony into this with me. (Dude, he's like... a professional.) But, um, don't tell him that.
Anyway, I'm off to a decent start, I think, at least in terms of preparation and enthusiasm. You can probably expect this weblog to lag a bit in the coming weeks. I apologize in advance to my loyal reader(s). I'll try at least to keep a current word count going (see sidebar). And if you're feeling really charitable, you'll maybe take me out for some coffee and tell me wacky stories I can change just enough to keep you wondering which character is supposed to be you. Naturally, though, any similarities between characters described within and actual persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Got that? Good, sign here...
X_____________________________
All right, thanks. See you in a month.
It's the coolest new word. Bumfuzzled... it's the new hoodwinked. Or maybe whacked-out was the new hoodwinked. I dunno. Anyway. It's passed by here twice today, once in the fear article and once over there at dooce.
Whoever is doing things like this is making me afraid. The fact that incidents like this are no longer immediately making headlines terrifies me.
Check out this edgy Anthrax vaccination site produced by the military. Requires Flash (but oh, so worth it). The soundtrack reminds me of Bonnie Tyler's hit, Holding Out for a Hero. I couldn't get enough of that song in 1985.
Yeah, that's it. Science. "'We are all being guided by science,' said Lt. Dan Nichols of the Capitol police. 'The bottom line on this is science takes time.'" This reminds me of the main debate in my life and career: marketing v. engineering. In Japan I learned that every delay in the project I worked on was spun to make engineers look like bumbling idiots. Luckily, I got a chance to defend the engineers to the customer -- that is rare. The finger-pointing goes global here.
"DIDYAKNOW that it takes many more muscles to frown than to smile? That's right. You should not smile because BEING SAD AND/OR DISTURBED IS BETTER EXERCISE!" I learned this at Zoomy's games page.
"...please take the extra time to either put on some clothes before taking a picture, or concentrate on selling the non-reflective items in your kitchen." (link via metafilter).
The last time Marc and I were in Harvard Square, we ate at the House of Blues and then went to Urban Outfitters (this is what NYC kids do when they leave NYC) and even though it was about 75° that day, I bought the best pair of tan corduroy Wranglers ever. Which I just happen to be wearing today.
...is what I plan to be tomorrow morning. With nothing but endless traffic circles and baked beans as my guide, I'm off to the city that occasionally sleeps for the Head of the Charles. Boston has always seemed like the wrong city, to me. A city of perpetual yuppidom; crawling with Snaaby Banana Republicans and without even the "almost New York" credibility of Philadelphia. Unlike last year, when I explored mainly on my own, this year I'll be accompanied by Marc and his brother, and we'll be staying with Annisia and James, who are so busy these days that we're not likely to actually see them. But anyway. Promises to be an exciting weekend. Last time Marc and I were near Boston we almost had to move there -- we were so lost that we couldn't figure out which way we meant to go -- and that was actually before we even made it into town.
I've always had a somewhat crappy stereo, until recently. My car was always where I did the most intense listening, anyway. But now that I have something much, um, louder... I've been using it to torment my friends and neighbors. For example, my realtor was just here (why yes! it *is* 7:30 at night. focker.) to put the lockbox back on the door, and so I treated her to a Volume-Level-22 rendition of Tony Hightower's Infomaniac. That's Volume-Level-22 with the GROOVE button depressed, oh yes. Now I'm onto the second disc of the evening (which, truthfully, I'm about to shut off so I can go watch Survivor), and it's still cranked up, and Cake's Frank Sinatra sounds so good I could have sworn there was someone outside the window yelling at me. Turns out there's some shouting background vocals on there. Who knew? Can't hear that over the rotary, you know. Rock on, ya-yas.
So, I've been thinking about doing this. Writing a 50,000 word novel in November. I've got a concept, really I do, and I think I'm ready to just pound that shit out, editing be damned. I can edit in December. So I think I need to get my grubby paws on a laptop. Ideally I'd like something under $150, with a battery, a harddrive I can save to, and a word processing program. Come on now, who has an old laptop gathering dust under their bed? Let me know ASAP!
For those of you showing apartments you are hoping to rent out. Take the Decon out from under the sink before the prospective tenant arrives. I'm going out on a limb here when I bet that that's not medicinal warfarin. Oh yeah, and patching up the giant hole in the wall wouldn't hurt, either.
At the peace rally Marc and I happened upon Saturday afternoon in Washington Sq Park, Patti Smith reminded everyone that the most important tasks at hand for every person are these: 1) keep youself healthy, and 2) don't believe what the news tells you. I'm not one for blind faith (and being on this side of the cynicism fence is the right place to be for that) so I've got number 2 covered. On the other hand, I have been known to skip meals and with the office flu (and yes, it *is* just the flu) coming at me from every direction, it's more important than ever to pay attention to what time I go to bed, when I wake up, and what I'm having for dinner.
At the same time, I'm flirting with the idea of saving up a big ol' bunch of money. Putting away the Victoria's Secret Angel Card for a while, as it were. So while I'd love to cook up a big plate of something fresh and wonderful, I'd be better served by figuring out something to do with what I've already got. Along these lines, I pulled out last year's Christmas gift from Dad, a book of 4-ingredient meals, to see if there was anything I could do with what I've got: beer, spaetzle, an onion, and some frozen french fries. Hey, guess what! There wasn't. But I found some other stuff that seemed to go together and cooked up this treat, and with at least 2 days of leftovers I'm feeling all triumphant... the el cheapo gourmet strikes again!
Lentillian Spin.
you will need:
1/2 c. chopped onion
1 pkg frozen chopped spinach
1 can lentils
1/2 clove chopped garlic
olive oil
salt
pepper
dried oregano and basil
breadcrumbs
1 package pasta, cooked al dente and drained -- I like San Giorgio Rotini
Add a generous pinch of salt and pepper to the onion. Add a small pinch of the oregano and basil.
In a medium saute pan:
Coat the bottom of the pan with olive oil. Heat the oil until flicked water sizzles. Carefully put the chopped onion and garlic in the pan and cook until transparent. Lower heat to a medium flame. Place frozen block of chopped spinach into the pot and cover. Let cook for about 5 minutes, or until the spinach block has softened enough to separate.
Once the spinach has broken up, uncover pot. Drain the excess liquid from the lentils and add to pot. Add a generous pinch of breadcrumbs to soak up any liquid from spinach. Stir all ingredients together and cover. Let cook for about 5 more minutes, to heat the lentils and continue to soften the spinach.
Lower heat to low flame, add pasta and toss. Yum!
So, I found an apartment, and a roommate. Things were looking up. It was the perfect situation. He said he had no furniture. He said he'd pay the full rent until I could move in. He even knew some people I went to high school with, making him even semi-legitimate from a SWF-standpoint. And then he moved in, with his KING-SIZE bed, and realized he needed the big room. Er, okay. Except the big room comes with the big closet and the bathroom-all-to-yourself... the two features that made having a roommate again a not-altogether-revolting prospect. I am a BIG SPOILED BRAT and I wanted the big room for all my stuff. You know, STUFF. Ugh. So, back to the drawing board. Except now the drawing board is a little blanker than last time. And I'm running out of time.
MP3 poster -- "...this glossy 14" x 18" poster is the perfect way to say, 'I recognize that stealing music is unethical, but I'm protected by my sense of irony.'"
yep, that's the stuff. gotta use the "link" option in IM to force the tag. collecting functionality!
I am posting this message using AOL Instant Messenger, thanks to my new buddy, <a href="http://www.fibiger.org/bloggerbot/">bloggerbot</a>. Amazing?
I'll spare you the ugly phone dialogue. Suffice to say, my officemate is cowering under his desk, there's a crack in the body of my phone, I'm surrounded by shreds of torn up papers, and my realtor still believes we are friends. How can one woman be so resilient, you ask? Sheer, blind, bopped on the head stupidity. Box of hammers stupidity. I don't know what to do when someone weathers the storm of my anger with such empty-headed acceptance. And by offering to fix my heat, no less! I'd rather freeze.
Location: Princeton NJ Area Code: 609 Date Posted: 10/05/2001
PRINCETON STUDIO APT - 400 sq ft., Galley kit., full bath, pvt driveway. $850+ utils. Avail.
Dec. 1st. Call 904-710-2505
um, yeah. right.
is irony dead? simple answer. "no."
ha! the most fun eric i've ever seen.
wow. fired for a weblog. now that's devotion. well, it's some strong sentiment, anyway.
Oh, to be a Wainwright. Oh, to have stuck with piano lessons, to have realized when I started that there was more to it than toiling away in the cold basement for an hour a day, more than plunking out Kokomo chords, more than books of Minuets and Greensleeves. Our bookish parents made Matt and me literate, made us packrats; they made us introspective and intellectual and, well, hell, they even paid for the piano lessons... and my flute, Matt's trombone, guitar, harmonica, slide whistle, and keyboard... and one (just one) week of ballet... but they couldn't give me the interlinear intensity of a Wainwright.
Rufus missed his sister, Martha, last night. He missed her in a way that Matt will likely never miss me -- he requested that the audience at Princeton's McCarter Theater, an audience populated mostly by older folks dressed up for the night out, actually SING Martha's part. Didn't need to teach it, didn't need to plunk it out on the piano first... just played out a few lines on the guitar and waited for the shy melodic airy high part to kick in. And it did. And it was a thing of absolutely simple beauty: "I miss Martha."
Little sister come and sit beside me, beside me
and we'll play a tune on this old piano forte
just for awhile, just for awhile, just for awhile
till your hair becomes a powdered wig, and I become a total bastard
feet that hardly reach the pedal, sold to a tremendous shadow
ave history is on my side
so complain, have no shame
and remember that your brother is a boy
-Little Sister, Rufus Wainwright.
Well, I've neglected to mention this depressing little tidbit: this company is suffering.
Last week, they canceled the holiday party.
And just now, overheard from my boss' office: "woohoo! five o'clock!"
All right, I'm outta here.
I've been asked seventeen times in two weeks why such a drastic haircut was in order.
Split ends; too much work.
But also:
Season's change. I was ready to declare Summer over, ready to leave the heartbreak, sweat, agony, mosquito bites and sunburn behind. And all of that hair. Mother Nature is with me on this one, as evidenced by this week's dramatic weather shift. Like a lightswitch with faulty wiring, the connection closed with a lack of conviction, the sun has flickered a few final warm days onto us and is now thoroughly extinguished. Seasons in New Jersey always come and go like this, without the wonderful extended transition awarded me in my youth by a slight change in latitude. Spring and Fall pass with all the production of a curtain dragged by hand across stage. A haircut seemed the appropriate way to acknowledge my surroundings.
Friendship's upheaval. People are coming and going. Last week I said goodbye to Joe and Solmi. Hugged Joe, told him to stay safe, hugged him again. Wished for a forcefield of safety to surround him and his marriage as he sets out for the other coast to start the next phase of life. Asked Solmi to take care of him. Of course she will. I left for the train with tears streaming down my face. I am affected. Erik will leave this Winter. Marc next year sometime. This weekend I may have lost another friend, which tears at my heart... time will tell. It seems I am the only one staying put, and it seems I may be the one that wants to leave most urgently. I am also the one with the least conviction, and the least idea of where it is I'm going. A haircut seemed like a good place to start.
The times, they are a-changin', friends. And I'm not just talking about heartbreak and haircuts. We will never be the same again. This has always been true but lately, it's come as a little bit stronger kick than usual that we're evolving, and there really is no going backwards. Admit that the waters around you have grown. As I walked down 23rd St on Saturday evening, an ambulance with 12 motorcycle police escort screamed by. I tugged at Marc's shirt to drag him back from the corner. I wanted to knock him down and cover him, to protect him, to protect the whole city. We've no idea what's going on and we're reciting the ABC and CBS party lines back at each other. I heard this... oh really? I heard that... We're salon-dot-comming and metafiltering each other into paranoia. There's nothing to do; we're under siege. Staying up so late only puts off laying alone in the dark and wondering when something will jump out from the closet to eat you. Kill me. Torture me. Get it over with and bring it on, or just stay up and up and up until alert means unconscious, reasonable means drunk, open means closed. Love means despair. Peace means war. Strength means fear. Life means death.
Really, though. It's just a haircut.
It occurs to me that I haven't quite been clear. Marc and I do not speak in hypertext. Those were instant messages. Right.
Only, we do kind of hyperspeak, as anyone who's been around us for too long can back me up on.
So, you may have noticed that I'm a little bit of a spaz. Or, maybe you haven't. You will. Anyway, I've got this whole repertoire of self-deprecating stories. And hurray and thank you for providing me a forum in which to spread them even further than my protective little circle of being. So, one of my favorite stories revolves around a punchline where I suddenly realize that "STOP ALL WAY" doesn't mean that this particluar STOP sign requires drivers to reach zero velocity, and that it really ISN'T okay to roll through all other STOP signs.
I know. I know.
Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. I'm a spaz. And so, apparently, is David. Which I learned today and shared with Marc (whose name I've altered to keep all the cute girls away from him).
K8emak: you have to read this.
K8emak: this is so much like the stop all way story (and truthfully, a bunch of my other stories), i can't believe it.
Petuniahead: that's funny.
Petuniahead: who is that?
K8emak: stuff and stuff.
Petuniahead: duh
K8emak: i don't know, some guy!
Petuniahead: well, how did you get there? are you just reading random pages?
K8emak: i have a link to his blog on my blog, and i thought i better go read some of his archives, in case they suck!
K8emak: (they don't; they're really funny.)
(with apology to de Botton)
1. You are my essence. You are the deep meaning in my casually tossed-off comment. You are the bits of cooked-down salted-up meat at the bottom of my frying pan.
2. We are cojoined at hip, lip and zip, insofar as where you go I shall be, sometimes with nothing but my love to offer.
3. The set of my love for you contains the following subsets:
a. occasion
b. fascination
c. revelation
d. fornication
e. contemplation
f. education
4. You are my ally; you are my enemy. You are my distraction and my companion. My face has known no wrinkles like the smile that stretches it in your presence. My face has known no flood like the tears that rain down upon it in your absence. My face has known no wind like the gales that strike it as I walk away. Your eyes are my valleys, your nose my mountain, your lips my crevasse, your ears my caverns, your hair my field, your neck my equator. I wait for you to walk upon my landscape as I have yours, as you speak, as you rest, as you drive and groom and wait.
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