|
Peanut Butter
|
| Preferred peanut butter texture |
|
|
|
Further Proof Starbucks is suing an independent roaster for naming their really dark bean "Charbucks" (yeah, I know the story is old, but I have something to say here). Because, you know, Starbucks doesn't want people who've thus far not become aware of it, to notice how severely burnt their beans are. But it isn't as if a little roaster can really bring down a company with a chain in every frigging strip mall in the US of A. If you compare cities at bestplaces.net, they actually give you the distance to the nearest Starbucks on the opening page. Not schools, crime or quality of living, but the nearest Starbucks.
Basically, my theory is this is how Starbucks gets their beans: they find out who accidentally over-roasted their beans, buy the seemingly useless batch up and sell it to yuppies at $3.50 a cup with some foam. It's like the trucks who go around collecting the day-olds from bakeries to feed the homeless, only Starbucks makes you pay.
There once was a supreme barista, she was the only person who could manage to compensate for the fact that Starbucks is pretty gross. She was my sister, she would make the best hazelnut lattes with 3 shots of espresso ever. Never too sweet, milky or too burnt tasting. I don't even think you can find a finer version of this concoction in your homey little coffee houses. Unfortunately, she quit and now I'm back to hating Starbuck as much as ever.
I was proud of my sister the barista, in a sarcastic way, and her supreme ability to compensate for the poor quality of Starbucks beans made her well-known throughout my circle of friends. Even Angel’s cousin’s girlfriend’s friends know about my sister. Now she works at Crate and Barrel, she’s a Barrelhead. The above list of inter-related people are happy to see her moving up in the world.
Wednesday, August 22, 2001
Rewards I finally got work this week, unfortunately, for the time being, I no longer have any work. Because, being brilliant and all, I made up fancy formulas to better automate downloading information from the web into a spreadsheet in the format we desired. And what was estimated to take all week finished in two days. Tis better to be seen as efficient and then to be bored than to simply meet expectations.
I'm still polishing my table and all the ammonia in the polish really gets to my throat so all I wanted to do was eat something cold, like ice cream. I asked Angel if I should feel bad about eating ice cream for dinner and he asked if I'd taken a walk this week (I've only walked every lunch hour plus down to Houston after work!) and then replied, "You've been walking, doing 8 minute abs, you can ice cream for breakfast too if you want." I love living with a boy.
Whenever I'm sitting on the inside of the turned-sideways two-seaters on the F-train which requires the person next to you moving in order for you to get up, I always say excuse me at my stop. I then say thank you once I've successfully navigated myself past the other person and squeezed into the already packed standing area. Nobody ever says excuse to me, they just stand and expect you to respond to them. On the NJ Transit train, people always say excuse me. It leads to a more pleasant and jovial environment. The subway needs to be happier; I am going to keep on saying excuse me and thank you.
Wednesday, August 22, 2001
Hey you guys! This is mostly for my sister, who is too hip to check this to begin with, but I'm sure word will reach her. This is a picture of cast members from Goonies since they plan on making a Goonies 2! This should be greatly appreciated and should make everyone a bit misty eyed as "Goonies never say die." (Chunk, by the way, is the guy on the right looking not so Chunk-ish).
Monday, August 20, 2001
Chunky vomit I love my poll. I love polls. I like statistical information and trends. I love knowing that very few people I know actually eat goobers. Jesse decided on the 4th of July that many things should no longer be produced so that we can then use the money from them to have more frequent fire works i.e. rice cakes and goobers.
Jesse and Marie are hilarious. I sometimes wish they were my "real" siblings rather than the two have, but then I wouldn't love them the same way. They are the only people who leave comments about my poll.
They should make chunky butter. Cottage cheese doesn´t count. -j
goober grape makes me want to voomer vomit. -m
Monday, August 20, 2001
Chemically Cooked This weekend was long, too long almost but not yet long enough when it comes to returning to work. I feel as if, since I'm not busy, they don't want me here. But that's just because when I'm not busy I get paranoid and my 3-month probation review is coming up. When I go to talk to the VP and she asks what I've been up to, I don't think that keeping up with news off the AP-wire is exactly what they hired me for.
Friday my old roommate from college and I went to a party together. She's beautiful and perfect. Then I went to meet Angel, got into some messy situations, got home right before the sun rose. I woke him on Saturday, and since he isn't exactly easy to wake, I told him, "get the fuck out of bed, you lazy motherfucker." This works better than petting his hair and sweetly asking him to wake up as I usually do. I was surprised at the effectiveness. We went to brunch, the place we wanted to go had already ended brunch. The food at the restaurant we wound up at made me want to puke.
Sunday my parents came because this table I bought off eBay and haven't mentioned since, because it's been a hassle five thousand times larger than waking Angel on a Saturday morning, needed to finally be put together. The completely brain dead seller actually shipped the brackets which hold the whole thing together in a box with no padding/protection and that badly bent one. Getting it together required my father essentially hammering and pounding it into place. But now I have an upright table that is in a sorry, sorry state. I bought new vinyl for the chairs since the originals were molded straight through to the wooden seat frames. I bought chrome polish. My father got bored and we went to eat.
I wanted to go back to the place where Angel and I tried to go to brunch the day before. It was "new" Latin cuisine, I guess. Just Latin ingredients. Nothing too shocking. My mom likes that stuff, the word yucca made my father wince. He got all freaked out when I was easting ceviche since, as he said, "it's just cooked in chemicals, natural chemicals, but chemicals!" He's a reactionary meat-and-potatoes man. Angel's girlfriend thinks potato is spelled with an e on the end in its singular form.
I spent last night polishing my chrome. I only did 1/3 of the edge around the table. I went through 2 packages of store bought metal polish cloths and most of a leg of an old pair of linen pants. I had the ceiling fan on in the kitchen and the box fan on high. I think I'm a bad bird mom since I couldn't be bothered with putting him in the living room. The dog we're watching started to roll around on the ground and I thought I was killing her with the fumes until I remembered she rolls like that when she wants attention. 1/3 of the edge of my table now shines like chrome of 50s diners as it should, I can see myself in it. The anxiety that this table has been causing me for 3 months is beginning to dissipate. It just might look like something nice one day even if, when I move, it will need to be hammered apart by my father who can bend tire irons with his bare hands (not on purpose).
Monday, August 20, 2001
Tin cans I hate change, the way it accumulates, the way little ladies in delis seem to get all pissed if you want to dig through your wallet to pay in exact change. Change is just a general pain. It gets every where. Frequently, when my change is under 5 cents, I tell them to keep it. I always feel as if I sound rude, but I just don't want to deal with 2 pennies when I'm carrying 4 bags of groceries.
Pennies are, however, good things. "See a penny pick it up, all day long you'll have good luck" Everybody knows that one. So what I do is toss my pennies in public. I give away good days, or at least a moment in the day for people to recite a childish rhyme. I do it because I know I just might make somebody happy.
I only have pennies to throw when my change is greater than 5 cents though, then I toss them all. Otherwise, I get this pile of change in my bag, in my pockets and, at more seasonal occasions of the year, in my coats. I hate change. So I decided to take these little tins my mother always seems to buy me from different places that come full of chocolate and ressurect the piggy bank. I've kept a piggy bank consistently throughout my life for change and now I have two. I have one at work for the change I generate after buying lunch and one at home for all other deposits. I'm also really contemplating going to the 99 cent store near my house and buying a plastic piggy bank, but then I could never pull out a few cents now and again for the ice cream man.
Friday, August 17, 2001
Butterflies The double meaning of the title:
(1)The beautiful white boy with the short curly hair at work, with a name that can only be the product of a New Jersey town with a similarly only-in-Jersey-name, who reminds me of my first crush in first grade, Eric Swan, who I never thought would pay attention to me because he was immeasurably better than me but would surprise me all the time by picking me first whenever he was kick ball captain which is a lot like the surprising casual conversations this boy at work strikes up with me, is wearing plastic framed glasses today which only further highlights the fact that he is beautiful in a way that few human beings are. (I wonder if this is appropriate, since I have the sneaking suspicion that people at work are reading this. If they are, they should at least talk to me)
(2) My butterfly panties have a magical power over my uterus.
Friday, August 17, 2001
Cool like Tootie I rarely encounter something that I absolutely believe I need. A material object that once I know of its existence, my life feels empty until I have it for my own. But these are absolutely essential. In powder blue too please, not yellow/blue, not pink or lavender, powder blue puma roller skates. Man, I'd be the happiest girl skating down to the park, flying by roller bladers, in my puma skates. The thing is I've never used roller blades. At 13, when I stopped going to roller rinks on Saturday afternoons and skating to classics like True by Spandau Ballet, roller blades were only worn by crazy kids who were trying to "keep up" their hockey form.
At GW, my roommate had a pair. The only good part about being 18 and living with 6 girls was the fact that 4 of us wore the same shoe size. The one with the roller blades was one of them. A couple of times, we would roller blade around our suite. But with 6 girls living on top of one another, there was always a dresser, desk, chair, bed nearby to cling to. I was terrified of these things. I didn't understand the in-line part, I didn't understand the stopper in the back. They were essentially foreign and scary. I think I would have been more comfortable on a trapeze.
My friend Sam in Seattle still uses roller skates. She wears the white boot skate that we used to rent for $2 or however much. She lives in Seattle and used to roller skate around the lake. Even Seattle isn't accepting enough towards roller skates, she said. Everyone would wonder what was up with the roller skates in a world of roller blades.
But with these gorgeous powder blue puma skates, who'd be so jaded not to love them, even in yuppie Park Slope? I bet even the roller bladers would go out and get themselves a pair.
On a side note, they are repaving Dahill Road near my house. After relaying the bed of the street when I moved in and having months of the bumpiest street in the developed world, they finally put down the asphalt. Construction workers aren't exactly neat people and there are patches of tar all over the place. This morning, after deciding on sandals, I managed to get a bit on my toe. I couldn't very well wipe it off with my hand as then I'd have tar on my hands. I did get most of it off at work, but I still have this dirty looking toe. Attractive.
Thursday, August 16, 2001
Watery Sauce On the last block to work, there was someone standing on the corner and handing out flyers. They were bright purple flyers. The woman was a small latina with her hair in a pony tail. I never take flyers from people. I like it when I'm smoking a cigarette and carrying something in the other hand; the flyer people realize you can't take them. About 5 steps later, there were flyers lying on the ground. About 2 steps after that there was a little latino man in his 34th Street Partnership white uniform sweeping up the flyers people dropped.
I went to Inside last night upon the suggestion of Karen Page. I figured it would be a really nice dinner since she and her husband are food people, cuisine people. If they write about where chefs eat on their night off, I figured where they eat on their night off should be good as well.
Dinner featured frozen corn in melted butter as a side dish for $5 and soggy cod (I hate watery things). They served a little custard with table spoons. The entire custard could have fit on the table spoon (I also hate table spoons). I was hoping to find a nice restaurant I could afford. Instead, it was just passable. I'd have prefered to save a lot of money and eat noodles at Republic
Walking from work down to dinner, I ran into my roommate's old boyfriend. He's from St. Lucia and has dimples and dredlocks. I've always been very endeared by him; we both look very good in yellow. He'd been out of the city for over 18 months but came back. Because he knows, even if there are redundant flyers and sweepers and good restaurants that are actually bad, there's something about New York.
Wednesday, August 15, 2001
Because I'm free, nothing's worrying me Last night, as the rains ruined plans for an evening on the Cyclone, cotton candy and bikers, I had a night out in North Brooklyn. I wonder if a great cheap place came up in that area, would I take it immediately. But no, my place is large and comfy and I can always visit. I would be nice, however, to get drunk and walk home rather than having to take some mode of mass transit back to the abode.
My plan was to just wander around with Angel. Neighborhoods are much smaller in that part of Brooklyn. In what I consider a brief stroll we hit Brooklyn Heights, Cobble Hill, Carroll Gardens and Downtown. We strolled and watched the great grey sky get darker and darker and then rain. We strolled in the rain, half heartedly pretending to find a place to eat. We finally went to some Thai place when our clothes were on the verge of being more wet than dry. Then we went out for beers.
The bar we went to possibly has the most wonderful juke box ever, and the songs are a quarter. The bar possibly had the most adorable collection of young men in their mid-twenties, 40% in need of hair cuts. The girls there were not over-done, uncomfortable looking types who follow the fashion trends of Sex in the City. The bartender, amongst all these white folks, was a handsome black guy who chatted with Angel and I.
The "new" little neighborhood where the bar was not much of anything long ago. Even when Angel worked in the area 2 years ago, it only had the place he worked and another trying to be Soho hip bar. Because it's right near the Gowanus Canal, factories and huge projects. People in their 30s who moved there when they were my age did it for the same reason people are moving to "Styvestant Heights". It's cheap and they are young and therefore not very bothered by the crime risk. Eventually there's more white folks, good juke boxes and Irocs parked near Volvos.
I'm wondering how long can these areas last? Will they turn when the full wave of the current lay-offs hit? Or do we need them because there are so many young people, there's more and more each day, and they have to keep us some where other than our parents' suburban basements? If I stick around long enough in my apartment, will it too one day be hip with a nearby bar I can listen to great music and then stumble home drunk?
Tuesday, August 14, 2001
Let's play dress-up I like to pretend that I am not vain. I like to pretend that I am above target marketing of products, but I am not. I act as if dressing, putting on make-up and the like are all very peripheral, some game that I play. Maybe they all are, but I'm not as humble as I claim.
I was contemplating my level of vainity one day as my younger sister thinks I am excessively so and my older sister thinks I have just a mild passing interest. And then I remembered the single most self-indulgent obsessive behavior I used to have. I used to sit and clip my split ends, individually. I'd take my hair and look through the ends, trimming each one that wasn't perfectly smooth. I used to clip my split ends one at a time, inspecting each strand of hair.
I have short hair now, I can't see what my ends look like really. I don't do that any more.
When I saw an ad in Sunday's paper for Lancome's give-aways at Lord and Taylor, I immediately wrote a mental note to go Monday, take a late lunch and go get free make-up. And I did. These cosmetic give-aways are my favorite thing. You spend $25, and they give you a little bag full of make-up. Then you don't have to spend $8 on an eye shadow that winds up sucking. I bought face powder since the sticky summer makes me want to powder the shine off my face. And then I got a free bag of make-up.
I think I learned this trick from my sister. She used to live for Clinique give-aways. I don't care what brand they are, it's an excuse to get make-up that isn't from Duane Reade. And I love it. Because no matter how much I insist that make-up in meaningless to me, that I simply don't care for it, I still absolutely love new blush.
Tuesday, August 14, 2001
Yap Yap Yap Yap Last night I went to party in mid-town on the Sky-deck of a east side high rise. I don't like the east side, I don't like high rises but I do like me some parties. The people there were nothing like me: young lawyers, financial-types, life-longer New Yorkers, rich people who write books about rich people. And I listened to them talk and really had nothing to say in response.
Conversation:
Best Hamburger in NY: Don't eat beef
Best restuarant in NY: Bet the noodle house I love isn't along the lines of good cuisine. . It's noodles.
Private Banking vs. Investment Firms: Need a definition of both terms
Really great white wine: I've always accepted anything not out of a box
Third World Investments: Why don't we build schools instead of factories?
And a whole bunch of other things that I couldn't even figure out what was being talked about.
But I still had fun, putting in my two cents where I could, enjoy the completely trivial conversations people would have and drinking good wine (out of a bottle). I talked about my plants, my humble life, and so forth.
And got to see the GW Bridge with Riverside Chapel shining right near by. I got that bird's eye view of Central Park and looked down on the Plaza. The entire situation was completely amusing and I being amused was a whole lot more fun than having anything relevant to say.
Saturday, August 11, 2001
Heat Wave The following haikus are inspired by the F training dying yesterday night, taking 3 times as long to get home, and being stuck underground for entirely too long.
Prelude
Oh hell, the sun fell
on East Twenty-First
Now we wait until it bursts
the river will swell
and quell our thirst
5 days of non-stop flip-flops
Monday
could it get hotter?
Summer: the devil’s daughter
I just need water
Tuesday
smells assault my nose
sweat drips from neck down to toes
good-bye pantyhose
Wednesday
heaping heat, too hot
un-air conditioned car
hopeless angry lot
Thursday
wilted skyscraper,
scalding steam baths, no escape
City’s supreme wrath
Friday
dead humid today
heat index chosen to stay
life is frozen hot
Friday, August 10, 2001
The time has come today In college, I had 1010 Wins on almost constantly. I drove my roommates nuts, walking by and hearing the drone of the news for hours on end. Mostly, during the day, it was for my bird's entertainment. I also enjoyed the drone, listening endlessly to the traffic, weather and news highlights. I'd sit there and work; become absorbed in my work and within 2 hours I'd get all the news I need (not 22 minutes as they claim).
I also liked the time. The constant beep each time they'd say, "the time now is exactly. . ." I'd know how much I was getting done, how much time was passing and so forth. And since my alarm clock was plugged in near bed, it frequently became dislodged, loosing the right time. I'd use 1010 Wins to set the time, exactly. I'd wait until I'd hear that beep, switch the minute over and check to see if my clock changed minutes in synchronicity to the next beep.
When people would ask the time, say "no, it couldn't be" I could give the smart-ass reply of that's the exact time. It annoyed people, maybe as much as me listening to 1010 Wins continually.
For about a month now, my watch has been wrong. I didn't really care. I'd arbitrarily try to reset it. It really didn't matter. It was a rough approximation of the time, and since it was a bit slow, I did not feel bad about walking into work at 9:05 even thought it was 9:10. But I went to the one place I know that has better time than even 1010 Wins. The US Naval Observatory has the "master clock." If I fully understood its operation, I'd probably be quietly taken from my home at night by the CIA/FBI/Russians/something like that. It uses decay and atoms, several different times to keep the right time. My watch now has the right time. The problem with setting an analog watch is the second hand is really hard to get perfectly right. So if you ask me for the time, it's within 2 or 3 seconds.
Thursday, August 9, 2001
I'm burning I'm burning for you I knew it when I started getting goosebumps at work, shivering cold and going outside to warm up. When I walked outside and shivery waves still went through me it was confirmed: I had a fever. I got paid for the first time to be sick / had my first paid sick day.
The heat of recent days made it all surreal. I learned how to use a glass mercury thermometer since they are the cheapest. I drenched my sheets and clothes with sweat, then sat in the un-air conditioned living room under a blanket shivering. I went back and forth for the entire evening. At 6 am, I realized it was time to call in sick.
The evening was hectic, with Tommy dropping off his dog for the next two weeks. Her name is Kyra, she is smaller than my puppy was at 5 weeks. She is smaller than a sewer rat. She also looks like a baby ewok. Shortly after Tommy left, promising to leave his car with Angel and I for the week while he's gone, Angel's cousin showed up with plants for us. His cousin is a yuppie, his cousin pays about 1.5 times our rent for a high-floor studio that looks over everything north of mid-town. His cousin brings over plants in very large Tiffany's bags. While his cousin, grilfriend and friend watched Sex in the City, drank Sapporo and doted Kyra, I sweated. I soaked my hair, I felt slimy and gross.
Finally, I knew I made made it through when, instead of sweating, all the liquids were trips to the ladies'. Kyra slept with me all day long, Angel fetched me water and juice. I kind of enjoyed it.
Kyra began whimpering this morning as I put on my rings, the last thing I put on after all the lotions and creams have been applied. She knew that today we would not lie in bed, her little body barely the length of my forearm. I pet her head and left.
Thursday, August 9, 2001
Vote! As mentioned below, I have a lot of time on my hands today. So I made the ever important peanut butter texture poll as the outcome of this will allow me to decide if I have a following I love or hate. It's over on the left hand side of the page below my links. I won't tell you what I like best but Jesse knows which one is just a joke.
Along the same lines, I took the gay test to see how gay am I. I'm 38% gay . . I think 10% is because I knew what a table saw looked like.
The world-wide gayness average is 37%.
11% of all test takers describe themselves as gay.
24 is the gayest age.
Women average 33% gay.
Men average 40%.
The funny thing is that guys are more gay than girls and girls are more comfortable about thinking girls are cute, etc. hmmmm
Tuesday, August 7, 2001
Just the facts, m'am Okay, so I haven't been up to much at work since I finished all this other stuff too fast. I can't really asked to be put on any more projects as in a matter of days, accumulating over the next month, I'll have more than enough work. In the interim, I spend a lot of time looking at the web. From Moby's page of links, I've found something of interest.
Bush's First 100 days and all the important numbers to let us all kick ourselves. I wonder if I'd waited until this January to move into an apartment, how much rents would have fallen as everyone is becoming unable to keep on paying with $2000 for a studio in Bushwick or something. No one has jobs, no one has money and the only thing Mr. Bush has to keep us going is $300 in the mail. No one talks about him, really, since we all know were super screwed and have a pretty sucky couple of years wherein nothing will be done for anyone with a net worth under $3 million.
He's really very horrible and I wish that moderately well-off people didn't always jump at the idea of pinching a penny and now got us stuck with him. Republicans are the people who take pennies from those red plastic "Take a penny, leave a penny." People who can't afford gas, rent, insurance and still want to know why the electoral college problem that put Bush in office is being ignored always leave a penny, sometimes even a dime.
I think it's time I become an active registered voter cause I hate Bush.
Tuesday, August 7, 2001
On the train ride in from New Jersey where I'd run away to last night to escape the sweaty heat of the city, I finishedThe Dork of Cork. Now anyone can borrow it, read it, fold back more pages. This book is so wonderful, I want to read more of his works that combine spirituality and science perfectly. They appeal to the hardnosed side of me as much as the part that wears a St. Christopher's medal (although he was decannonized in 1969). Here's two parts that stood out in my mind in the two years between my readings. When I read them they were as familiar as subway ads, something that has continued to occupy my mind without any effort.
There was something in the juxtaposition of her promiate almost touchable beauty and the infinite untouchable beauty of the streaming Perseids that . . . I understood that whatever exists is good, not by the measure of any individual person's happiness or sorow, but by merely being. Since that morning I have often felt sorry for myself, but I have never felt punished by a negligent or malicious God. . . my future happiness or unhappiness would only be found within myself.
We are all stardust, but your stardust is arranged more felicitously than mine.
Tuesday, August 7, 2001
Mango Inferno I like spicy food; I love hot sauces of all origins. I like trying out new hot sauces from different places. My favorite will always be this sweet and fiery sauce my mother sent to me when I was in Ireland from Barbados. She knew that there was no such thing as hot sauce in that country of bland, over-cooked food. The only thing the Irish made well was bread and milk-products.
Angel takes bottles of hot sauce from work. When I ate there on Friday, I completely loved this one sauce that we did not have yet in our apartment. It tasted so good on rice and peas, collard green, shrimps. Angel brought a bottle home the next day. Eating at his restaurant has a restorative value to my stomach, it always makes it feel so good, and no wonder I'm in love with Chef.
I went to Boro Park on Sunday morning to find a vacuum cleaner for my blue rug. I wanted to go Saturday but nothing is opened there on Saturdays, it's like a ghost town along the commercial districts. When I went I thought about wearing the most revealing thing I own because I like to see how many Hassidim really do avert their eyes from women. Surprisingly few. But since it was hot and sticky, I decided on comfort.
The first store with appliances I saw did not have the cheap Dirtdevil stick vac I wanted. They had lots of other things with price tags over $100, but I only have 1 rug. When I sales person finally came over to me lingering in the air conditioning, I told him what I wanted, said I wanted it cheap. He gave me a Boss for $65, $25 under what the price tag had. I was happy and walked home to vacuum my blue rug.
Then I decided to make breakfast. I wanted to make mango pancakes since we have so many sitting on our counter. I wanted to make mango syrup to go with them, pureed mangos, mango juice, sugar. It boiled down while I made bacon for the first time. And when I finally thought it was nice and thick, I picked up the pan, began pouring the syrupy liquid into a bowl and poured it all over my pinky. Thick liquid sticks to fingers, hot boiling thick liquid sticking to fingers makes for one hell of a burn.
After much boo-hoo and whining, I bought an aloe plant. I whined some more as it took the burn out. I made my gourmet white trash Kraft mac n cheese with a few slices of real peppery cheese, onions, scallions, mustard and plenty of my new favorite hot sauce. I comforted myself with aloe and mac n cheese. My finger has a hard shiny blister on it, my mac n cheese replaced the fire in my finger with a fire in my belly. And I'm in love with my first plant.
Monday, August 6, 2001
Leprechauns I try not to buy books; they suck up too much money. They get read maybe 2 times and then just sit on shelves as trophies for bibliophiles. I have a library card, I can go and take out as many books as I want for weeks on end. It's a pretty card with the lion statue on the front against a maroon backgroup. I like the library, I go about every 2 weeks to drop off the books I've finished and gather up some new ones. I like the old books with worn edges, books that many others have read. The library is free and I am poor: perfect match.
While in the motherland, I bought used books and would sell them back for about 1/100th of the price I bought them for. Used books stores are anything but organized so I'd pick titles at random. Most of the time, they were good books. Sometimes they were painfuly bad. And then a few were exceptional. Like The Dork of Cork.
I talk about this book whenever the subject of dwarves, astronomy, and good books comes up. I though I'd never find another copy of it. It was one of the few books I brought back with me (and then the fire ate it). But while in Park Slope one lazy evening, I found it and despite me not buying books and pretending to like the library, I bought it. And now I am reading it again.
Lately I've felt relaxed, comfortable with being, just "being". There is a flow I'm in that I love, a relaxation that I haven't felt in a long time. This book has something to do with it. Because the life of a dwarf astronomer encompasses the graceful beauty of the world. Buy it, ask to borrow it, read it. Period.
Friday, August 3, 2001
Baby I am wondering at exactly what age will I be able to tolerate getting sick without mumuring Mommy . When will I just be able to handle getting sick? When will I not need anyone to console me afterward?
I'm not sure how it happened, maybe because I haven't being eating regularly this week, but I went to bed feeling nice and warm fuzzy drunk. About an hour later I woke up, trying to run to the bathroom while simultaneously pulling on my pajama pants since Angel's friend is staying in the livingroom and I have random fits of mondesty, and then got sick. I get sick about ever 18 months from the alcohol. Last night puts me in the clear until my twenty-sixth birthday.
I found Angel, looked with those help me eyes and had him stand there while I whimpered and cried. And tell him how I wanted my mommy, and cry some more. Angel's the same height, has curly black hair and gives almost as good hugs as my mother, so it appeased me. But when will I just be able to get sick, brush my teeth and then fall asleep? We shall see when I turn 26.
Friday, August 3, 2001
The Downtown Lights I wrote something here earlier and now have deleted it. No need to go into shock however as I just merely wanted to add to it and it's safe and over here. Go read! I like if I do say so myself.
Thursday, August 2, 2001
The Summit I have been on go for 4 days now, last night was the first time I sat down, alone, for any extended period of time since Thursday. I really like being around people, but sometimes it's nice not to be. Being alone, quiet and so forth didn't last too long, but it was nice to have.
My weekend included a concert, buying mom's birthday presents, spending Saturday night with Angel's friend from Cali, trying to get a job babysitting, walking from the Brooklyn Bridge to the north end of Central Park and all parts between, celebrating mommy's birthday and finally getting to sit down on Tuesday at 8 pm when I got home from work.
I saw Bon Jovi. I saw a band that I really don't like but can't deny I enjoy. I was not living for this tour and honestly didn't even know about the concert until my older sister gave them to me. And it was great fun. 75,000 residents of the Garden State signing along to songs that were like anthems to our 80s working and middle class families. Songs that, although simple, do a good job in feeling Jersey. These are good guys; never hear about Bon Jovi band members beating women, with drug/alcohol problems and they like to play songs that Jersey people love to hear. They are Jersey boys with the jeans on their hips, hands that move too much when they talk, eyes that search for something in life that feels good.
I really enjoyed it. And he flashed this smile that showed this was good, and this day with at least 30,000 women screaming his name in the little state the rest of the country thinks is a shit-hole is something you remember amongst all the brief flashes of life before you die. And at that moment, with that smile, I remembered my heart fluttering at 13. Not just a cliché here, as I liked people like Kirk Cameron at the same age but I never recall my heart fluttering for him. But Bon Jovi, he made me want something more than being 13.
I love my Jersey moments. I love feeling that way, feeling some spirit of being from my little state. I'm not sure what was better though: Bon Jovi concert reminding me of my teenaged lust or rocking mattresses while Bruce Springsteen was singing the lines I completely love:
Let me in I wanna be your friend
I want to guard your dreams and visions
Just wrap your legs 'round these velvet rims
and strap your hands across my engines
Hmmm. . .
Wednesday, August 1, 2001
Two times, two times I have a couple, as in two, things to say with a couple, as in two, parts to each of the aforementioned mentionables. Firstly, I think that there needs to be some rules made up about summer sandals. I could make thousands of them, but two of them are a must, the Bill of Rights for taste in sandals.
(1) Don't wear them with stockings, tights, socks or any type of material on your feet. This holds true for all shoes with open toes. It's in plain bad taste.
(2) There should be room on the bed of the shoes both in front of your toes and behid your heels. Although one might wear a certain size in the pumps that give you corns because your feet are crammed into them, wear a larger size sandal. Get over it, you really do wear a size 10 shoe. Nothing is more horrible than seeing someones heel hanging off the back an inch with toes peaking off the front edge.
With that, there is a realted point to rule 1. Much like you shouldn't wear stockings and sandals, women should really remember to take off their anklets before putting on their stockings. And toe rings as well. No jewlery under stockings and tights. Ever.
The second of the two things I have to say is about the two new things I bought. Yesterday, while walking after dropping off Angel's keys a young man squating in front of his bicycle asked me for a cigarette. I'd already walked past him and would generally not bother turning around, but he said, "excuse me but could I please bother you for a cigarette," and I believe in rewarding good manners. He was a little hippy boy with large blue eyes, long messy curls and a thick beard. Then he asked me if I'd buy a bracelet off him. He had several attached to a string around his neck. They were simple seed-bead brackets on clear stretchy string. I said I didn't want any and he picked out two, both yellow and said, "but these are like the two I have on," and he shook out his wrist to show me. And
since they were yellow, and he had yellow, and I love yellow
and I really am enjoying the number two these days
I bought them.
Wednesday, July 25, 2001
|
|
|
|
|
