somebody in new york loves you

(transcribed from cocktail napkins)

it's one am somewhere in the east village on a sunday night and I've been walking aimlessly since my movie let out in the upper west side, despite the screaming protests from my tender bunion addled feet. I've been on them since eight when I woke up for my brunch shift, scrunched in a quasi-fetal position on my midget sized couch that is too large to be a love seat but not quite sufficient to allow a normally sized adult human to convalesce in a comfortable fashion. less relaxing still was the realization that my blanket was actually my winter coat, in a final desperate act to keep from freezing to death in the basement a la the Little Match Girl after using my bedding to improvise a method for soaking up the flood from a freak plumbing disaster the night before.

I reluctantly lumbered to the doorframe of the bathroom and observed what I had earnestly hoped was a dream, which in unreality, would have been much more comical. around 5 hours earlier I had returned to my apartment from a successfully executed girl's night on the town at my favorite local watering hole and though the memory was vaguely shrouded in a jovial whiskey mist, I recall that I was guffawing at some crack that alida had made regarding the possibility of latent lesbianism. I tossed my red tresses back in gleeful abandon, carelessly allowing my butt trajectory to be thrown off course, which caused it to make contact with the lid rather than the seat, which clattered violently into the holding tank, which then proceeded to shatter. it only took me a moment to stop laughing (and peeing) as to my absolute horror, I watched as a tidal wave of water erupted from behind me that shot across the floor in an ominous unbridled overflow. I shrieked at a decibel that made rufus flatten his ears to his head and make a squeak of confusion and alida turned to see me aghast with my pants around my ankles, horrifiedly watching the domestic disaster unfolding before my eyes.

"what did you do?!"

"fuck! FUCK! the toilet... exploded!"

"I see that, but how in the hell did you manage--"

"FUCK!"

consumed by panic, I crouched by the tank as the water continued to rush forth, and I scanned my mental rolodex for any information that might be relevant to rescuing myself from drowning in the basement. lifting a bus off of a baby, sure. frying an egg in an orange rind in the woods, fine. I'd never anticipated the notion that I would ever have the need to employ plumbing expertise. alida was behind me propping up my soggy mattress and throwing bedding in front of the rapidly expanding flood like she was sandbagging in a hurricane, and a few moments later I found the valve behind the bowl that was my redemptory killswitch. I panted and sighed in disbelief as I pulled my jeans back up, and observed rufus sitting on a textbook for html tutorials that was floating in the kitchen, flicking his tail in the puddle disinterestedly.

admittedly, the whole ordeal seemed strangely apropos. I feel like I've been managing various shitsplosions just in the nick of time in more ways than the unlikely accidental smashing of my porcelain throne. sunday night found me in an introspective mood that would lend itself perfectly to a long walk followed by an even longer writing session, so I did just that. I toured the glistening gunmetal streets of the lower east side, lit by hanging christmas garlands on every block, each littered also with skeletons of busted umbrellas that rolled like metal tumbleweeds into garbage heaps, spokes poking obscenely through crumpled canopies like broken bones through skin. for a few minutes, I saw no one at all, and I mused to myself whether or not I'd possibly come across the one block in manhattan that sleeps when I noticed the dimly lit door of a speakeasy looking place in alphabet city. I'd found my spot.

naturally, I generally try and limit my activity in bars to revelry and shenanigans, but tonight was meant to be between a pen and I in a place where no one could ever find me. I picked the far end of the bar in a position where I could see most everything, but almost no one could see me, partially obscured by the jukebox in a shadowy corner of a village dive. when I was so deeply engrossed in my scribbles that I practically had my nose to the paper, a waifish wisp of a blonde girl slid unctuously onto the barstool next to me and asked in a husky, implacable thick accent, "have you ever written on an airplane puke bag?"

I was shaken from my trance and I looked at her, as her large caramel eyes peered at me inquisitively. she was disarming as she was tiny, and she focused her doe-like gaze on me as the folds of her long grey cashmere sweater settled around her in a notably elegant manner. her beauty was undeniable but subtle, with an almost elven quality to it that was accented by the tips of her ears poking slightly through her long golden hair.

"no, actually, I haven't." I smiled. "I've written on a lot of other weird shit, though."

"what are you writing?"

"honestly? it's nothing of terrible consequence."

"sure." she said, curling her lip coyly, unconvinced.

"I'm writing about how I broke my toilet."

"what are you really writing?"

"seriously."

she paused, unsatisfied with my answer, and then replied, "you're fucked up, aren't you?" I shrugged, bristling into slight self consciousness, unsure of how to respond to the query without having opened up with even the lightest conventional formalities.

"it's okay, you can tell me. I'm fucked up, too. how'd you break your toilet?"

"I'm a klutz."

"ah. you think you're fat, don't you?"

"no... that's not quite it."

"you can tell me. is it a boy? it's amazing, these things strangers can say to each other in bars. don't you think?" she had the effortless and soothing temperament of a traveling gypsy queen and her wiles were dangerously attuned. "your heart must be broken, I've seen that look in the eyes of others... let me tell you a story," she went on and I anticipated her confession, "once, I mailed a puke bag break up letter."

"oh? to whom?"

"an african man that I was in love with. it was written on the plane back to costa rica, and I hope that it never arrived. when I was twenty-two I'd gotten unexpectedly pregnant by him and we were going to get married, but I had a miscarriage when I was dancing at our wedding, and we just couldn't survive the strain. when I left him I moved to new york. it's funny, you see, the most tragic things in life always end up leading to shaping your life into what it was meant to be, and it's for the better."

"wow. that hardly compares to my toilet story, I don't know if I can follow up with that now."

"you're not fat." she said, putting her small, dainty hand on my thigh. it was childlike and genuine, and suddenly I wanted to hug her.

"thanks."

"listen," she went on, chewing on the straw of her vodka soda, "you can't take yourself too seriously. some people will say you're not sensitive enough. you know what I say to that?"

"what?"

"sometimes your clit's too big, and sometimes it's too small. you just have to have faith that someone out there has the right touch."

the bartender, a surly man in red with a mammoth goatee, had begun to eavesdrop and raised a pint glass to cheers to her whimsical meme.

"here here!" she said. "simpatico!" as she lowered her arm her sweater fell askew and exposed a small scripted tattoo below a rising sun on the top of her wrist.

"what's it mean?"

"funny you should ask about this; perfect example. I thought it would be so cool to get my tattoo in arabic, despite the fact that I don't speak the language and have no tie to the culture. I thought it would be thoughtful to have a saying on my wrist that everybody knows, in writing not many could understand. I thought it said, 'this too shall pass' for a year until a tunisian classmate of mine pointed to it and asked me what 'that too shall pass' meant. figures, no? forever in my skin is a grammatical error, the thanks I get for trying to be too cool."

"you could always get it covered up to say 'this clit shall pass'."

she laughed melodically and slipped me a cocktail napkin with her name and address on it in swirling script. "promise you'll send me a puke bag someday."

"next time I fly."

with that, she gracefully lowered herself off of the stool and left me to my stack of napkins in the shadows, and the scruffy bartender who looked on with piqued interest.

I raised the empty glass of melting ice I'd been absentmindedly clutching and spoke up again, "you know how natalie portman does this thing where her tongue hits the back of her front teeth when she smiles very sincerely?"

"course." he said.

"I fall in love with her a little bit, every time."

autumnal meditations in an emergency

rufus & jack o'lantern

maren badeau once told me I was of a certain disposition that was abnormally excited by "seasonal treats". as it turns out, not much has changed. right now I'd enjoy a nice, seasonal xanax: spice packet gravy flavored, and time released to last until the new year. maybe with a side of benzo candied yams and leftover quaalude pot pie?

I've not been blogging or writing, really. a month has whipped by in a series of stop motion blinks, and I've been alternately hyper-tuned to and then frightfully disconnected from the unpredictable intricacies of mi vida brooklyn. I can't seem to find a sanctuary or an even-keeled routine, and I feel exposed and maddeningly lost. this particular phase I'm in currently is reminiscent of puberty, except that now my boobs are enormous, I don't have homework, and everything is inevitably ruined with or without the help of sex: the ultimate complicator.

october was manic. I had the time of my life on vacation in san francisco, reveling in my freedom from it and marveling at its ability to gloss anything over with impermanence, burritos and sunshine, and I returned to new york unexpectedly jobless and at the onset of seasonal affective disorder (my least favorite treat of all). things haven't all been bleak, and I've spent a ton of time kicking it with my lovely friends from both coasts, who are supportive and kind to me no matter what luck I've been dealt, and that's most heartening of all. I am just tired of my bank account being overdrawn and my fridge being empty and having to ration dimes to ride the subway. I'm tired of being a mooch. I need to manifest a more pleasant destiny to get me through the winter...

and I'll figure it out. I always do.

to be continued...

you're ugly and your mother dresses you funny

september's cool, soporific lullaby colors and forgiving breezes haven't soothed my uppity moods at all so far, and I've almost reached it's end. can't say I'll miss it. the crepuscular glimmer of hope in the distance is enough to keep me going, but the motions are hard to go through with a head full of rust and a bank account full of mothballs. I'm not even pretending to know what I want, but I'm certainly discovering what I don't, which is much less glass-half-empty than it might sound.

my mom's maiden voyage to brooklyn is imminent, and the prospect of showing her everything that made me renounce california for the far coast that's wrought with rougher edges is exciting but slightly nerve wracking, too. she's only been to new york once during a weekend in 1983 when she was on her honeymoon with my father, and I'm in no part uncertain that she spent it being chauffeured around in a towncar from art gallery to designer boutique somewhere in or around the upper east side. it's going to be a culture shock, to be sure, and I'm charging up my little pink point and shoot to capture guaranteed precious moments, such as Mom's First Subway Rat. I really do think that she'll understand how my neighborhood has become my home, and perhaps let go of her outrageous notions of how brooklyn must be... wrought with rapists, gang bangers, vagrants and thieves, rather than grumpy poles, hasidic jews, and hipsters in nut hugger stretch pants. I think she finds it impossible to wrap her head around finding community within such a juggernaut of a city, and I'm about to set out to show her otherwise. she doesn't have to leave the comfort of sonoma, but perhaps will have a better understanding of why I can never go back unless it's christmas and there's a check for me under a tree. my cousin summed it up pretty well at my bon voyage gathering when he put a pragmatic, vaguely paternal hand on my shoulder and simply said, "well kid, you were never a country mouse."

@chuckklosterman

today while I was walking down graham avenue, stoned on too much theraflu and snorgling my reluctant way to variety coffee to work on this freelance writing project on young adult's progressive values in modern society, I saw a toddler and his mom in front of the curious gravestone store that also sells fresh baked bread. though out of earshot, their body language indicated that she was instructing him to do something and he was barely obliging, the slight grudge in his consequent action evident by the way he pursed his lips in frustration and put his pudgy hands on his osh kosh b'gosh clad hips. the mother smiled at him warmly, reached into a sandwich bag and handed him a single, electric blue frosted froot loop, and the boy burst out into an wild fit of unbridled jubilation. he squealed and shoved it in his mouth ecstatically and started gumming it as he danced in a circles like a baby dervish. for a brief, sincerely triumphant moment, he was the happiest kid in brooklyn.

it made me long for the days when a froot loop was enough.

BLARF

over it. this day is so... eeyore.

did I shave my legs for this?

my first “boyfriend” (I use quotations because we were never in fact “official”) was during the period immediately following my remission when I was 18, rocking a bleached buzz cut, and REALLY stoked to be alive. his name was jeff, he was a musician, which I predictably swooned over, pontificating and romanticizing the potential of being an artist's muse, when really he was just getting stoned, taking acid, and hitting random buttons on a pc laptop and fancying himself the next thom yorke. jeff and I first made out on his best friend’s floor after I spent an entire summer lusting after his mysteriously tortured and permanently high hiney, listening to tenacious D and the mildly disturbing sounds of ashley losing her virginity in the next room. I was done for. the romance was unequivocal. 6 months after that, I ended up giving him my cherry on his grandmother’s bed after we had made it roughly 18 minutes into Lost in Translation and he turned to me and said, “so, uh, are we gonna do it or what?"

so, we did it. It was brief, and I remember being vaguely distracted by two things: my grandmother on her death bed having told me she was going to be watching from the ceiling with a bag of popcorn when I lost my V card, and also my little pink socks awkwardly bobbing in the air above us because I thought that you were supposed to stick your legs straight up during a missionary deed. [It didn’t seem to be working, but, give me a break. I didn’t watch a lot of porn.]

after it was over he had me check to make sure I hadn’t soiled his meemaw's linens, and he fell asleep. I laid half awake all night, naked on top of the covers and sometime around 4 am there was a knock on the sliding glass door that led out to the backyard, and and when I looked over, jeff was peering into the room with his hands cupped around his eyes to see. I was totally bewildered. I turned back to the other side of the bed to see that jeff was, in fact, still there and still very much in the buff and unconscious. this could mean one of two things: I had somehow absorbed some of the hallucinogenic drugs by sexual osmosis, or jeff’s twin sam was just perving out on us. I shrieked and tried to cover myself up, sam yelled “oh, shit.” and vaulted over the fence and ran back to the party down the street where he proceeded to share jeff and I’s intimate moment with a big group of dudes who practically owned the rumor mill.

shortly after, I put my clothes back on (I’d worn matching panties, just in case we were to participate in any of the “doing it”) and woke jeff up to tell him I was going home, but I didn’t, I just drove around watching the sunrise in the hilly vineyards in sonoma valley in my mercury sable luxury sedan listening to magnetic fields mixtapes and wondering if I should be feeling anything. all I was really feeling was sort of bummed out that I’d just given it up to a dude who, for all intensive purposes, really didn’t give two hoots about me, and also like I could go for a couple of advil liquigels.

the next day I called my mom into the room when I was doing my makeup out of my purple glitter caboodle case before going out to the shop, my small town’s only answer to a youth center, out in a warehouse in the boonies that was half of dowling magnet factory.

“mom, I’ve gotta talk to you about something.” I stated matter of factly, as I swiped on a second layer of blue wet 'n wild mascara.

“sure.”

“don’t freak out.”

“okay.” she put her hand on her hip.

“seriously, no freaking out.”

“honey, I hate it when you pull this shit.”

“you’re already freaking out…”

“just tell me!”

“I did it with jeff. we used a condom… it kind of sucked. don’t worry. everything’s fine. I just remembered that you’d ask me to tell you when I became “active”.” I punctuated my distaste for such an official term for this as of yet silly act by making a stink face. my mother took a deep breath and absorbed the info, and then spoke.

“really?? with jeff?”

“yes. It was just time. I was seriously the ONLY one. I’m about to turn 19. I was starting to feel like a eunuch.”

“and you were safe?”

“of course. sex ed. duh.”

“well..." she struggled a moment with the appropriate response to this unexpected news, "... thank you for telling me.”

“no prob. I’ll be home before two. bagels tomorrow?”

she shook her head at me. jeff worked at the bagel shop.

“love you!” I gave her a kiss on the cheek and bolted for the door.

a week passed with radio silence from jeff’s camp, and then I ran into him at the farmer’s market on the square and pulled him aside, where he unceremoniously dumped me over a corn dog from uncle bill’s. he told me we probably took things too far, seeing as he was moving to australia, indefinitely, after the following two weeks to work on a mango farm. he promised to write a song about me, sitting amongst the lush and vast fields of oz, and next I heard from him was in an email 8 months later saying he’d taken ill mid-harvest and caught something that the locals call “mango fever” that involved too many embarrassingly gross symptoms to share. my imagination ran wild with what delirium and oozing pustules must’ve befallen him. my V card had been avenged by tropical fruit!

these days (and after I might add, we attempted to date once more about 3 years ago that was just as ill-fated and entirely ridiculous) jeff and I are on friendly terms and he lives with his albino russian-israeli girlfriend in the east village. he’s apologized profusely for acting like a twat, and I can truly say that any residual hard feelings are null and void. being a teenager is hard enough as it is, and we had to deal with being teenagers in a tiny wine country town where the dating pool was occupied with a couple of tadpoles and the occasional slimy snake. c’est la vie. dwelling causes cancer. (I would know.)

I got a bug to write about the first time I really tried to “date” someone because I feel as if not much has changed, and I’m frustrated. some experiences have been more extreme than others, but my patterns remain. emotional unavailability (thanks, dad), instability, prevalence for infidelity, reach and withdrawal games, and sexual mediocrity have all been themes (and only one such experience offered them all at once!). the next dude after jeff was a manorexic bro from san diego who said he was “worried about my bod” when the condom broke and then refused to go to planned parenthood with me. I dated a male model from utah who drunkenly pissed in my laundry hamper after trying to surprise me with anal one night who ended up giving me scabies. my rebound after Jorge was impotent, shared a great deal of personality traits with george costanza, and lives with his boyfriend in oakland now. I once went on a dinner date that ended with me watching him get dragged off by several cops to the clink, bawling like a newborn, and getting charged with assault and battery because he lost his temper and kind of, sort of, tried-to-kill-his-roommate-with-a-bat. this most recent guy brought me to meet all of his friends one night, then took me back to his place for the first time after 6 weeks of dating, and in the morning upon inspecting his walls, found them practically wallpapered with photos of his ex like a break up mausoleum. what the fuck? am I doomed? would it be best to dip myself in honey and dive into a pile of lesbians? I came back after black.

are you there, god? it's me, christina.

the season change was anything but smooth this year, and the bizarre, florida-esque hot rains segued quick and clumsily into overcast, breeze swept evenings that merit the first donnings of fall's scarves and sweaters. there's a bittersweetness as of late that seemed to be originally stirred up in unsettled dreams that quietly bled into my waking hours without warning, and I've tried to greet it with as much patience as I can muster. I've been in cruise control, but I have no idea where I'm headed, and every time I think I want stability, reliability, and responsibility, I balk. somehow I can't seem to wrap my head around the idea that a routine would behoove me immensely, even though I know it must be true... it's frustrating to have had the other shoe dangling perilously for so long, not knowing if the drop is an empty threat. how do you go about chasing a goal if you're not sure what it is? is it as simple as attempting to discern the difference between bravery and foolhardiness? and then either way, resolving not to care?

of all of my accomplishments, I am most proud and fiercely protective of my freedom and independence. I don't have to answer to anyone, I certainly don't want to, and I go where I want, when I want, why I want. I make my own deadlines and I break them accordingly. while this lifestyle has suited me in the past, I wonder how it fits into the ways I want to grow, and if it does at all? am I capable of allowing myself to rely on more the occasional kindness of strangers and the ineffable, whimsical wiles of chance? I am not faithless, but I have two dueling split sides to my personality, and that is my dreamer versus my realist; what I hope for, and what I know, my ideals battling my fears. so many major aspects of my life are on a knife's edge and I know that whichever way I fall, I have no guarantee of landing on my feet. in fact, given my track record with grace, it's likely that I'll end up with a deviated septum, a busted heart, a pride hematoma and a broken bank. but, being a pussy didn't get me where I am, and for the most part, I like where that is. today I'm trying to bear in mind that if the chips are down and the dealer always wins... it's probably time for me to learn how to play poker.

from west to east

"What are the consequences of California? I have been thinking about this question because I am still young and rootless enough to feel that I might, in the future, move back there.

Having lived in California and on the East Coast for long stretches of time, it is viable (as well as romantic) to use these places as metaphors. California is ease, beauty, home and a certain surrendering of ambitions. The East is difficulty, stimulation, work and independence. The former seems more immediately appealing than the latter but then, in practice, it’s often not.

The West has better books and food and more space. The natural landscape can be sublime where the East is never sublime (it’s a matter of scale). One actually feels more deeply in California, and thinks less. Thinking is an indoor activity. It’s an East Coast thing.

Generalizations can be helpful and truthful in these matters. The important question appears to be: where do I feel most natural? Most unassailed? In spiritual terms, imaginative terms and digestive terms. And this is something that still seems to switch back and forth."

-Molly Young

as a born and raised california girl, I definitely feel as if I wear the scarlet C on my forehead quite prominently as I go traipsing about the city streets of new york. it's not terribly hard to discern my alien presence on the east coast as I indiscriminately smile at people on the subway while turning the page of my 7 x 7 magazine as I absentmindedly readjust my pink flip flops. as much as I enjoy the unique energy and insurmountable culture shock, 6 months apparently does not a new yorker make. just because neglecting to compost here is acceptable (and possibly encouraged) does not mean that there is not a law in my hometown that can get you arrested if you don't keep a pile of rotting food in your kitchen to 'save the environment'.

I have noticed that though I seem to have recaptured an elusive beatitude that went by way of a series of unfortunate events in san francisco, I'm not as of yet satisfied with my productivity here. new york is a entity of millions of hustlers, rat racing and beating deadlines and cut-throat swashbuckling their way to the top of the totem pole. there always seems to be someone better that you have to anticipate monkeywrenching your failsafe plan, or at the least, someone faster or with an extensive rolodex of who-you-knows. my laissez faire california coasting sensibility is regrettably intact and at times detrimental to keeping pace with everything. here, my "super stressed, so I'll get around to it tomorrow" is another man's "I pulled an all nighter and had it done by this morning".

it's a cliche new york-ism to complain of feeling a rock bottom lonely in an endless sea of this bustling metropolitan mecca. that cliche is one that I'm willing to defend as being (at times) indisputably true. from my outsider's view, I see the rough beauty and appreciate the extremity that new york lifestyle lends. if california is temperate sunshine, boundless ephemeral fairy tales, and a universal destination for young people to retire, new york is physically and proverbially as far opposite as you can get. here, you leave your mark, or you don't. it's a confederation of movers and a hegemony of shakers. you put out or you get out.

when I announced my coast swapping plan, my friend jeff confessed his concern about new york making kind, gentle people hard and bitter, and while I took it into account, I didn't necessarily agree. maybe I just haven't been here long enough. right now, it's teaching me independence and responsibility, benevolently providing endless writing material, and consciously molding me into who I want to be.

thanks to molly, for getting me thinking.

San Francisco's fine,
You sure get lots of sun.
San Francisco is fine.
You sure get lots of sun.
But I'm used to four seasons,
California's got but one.

-Bob Dylan

forever 21: friend or foe?

let's get real here: we are in a recession. no bones about it. we're all broke, cranky, anxious, and if you're in new york, on the verge of combustion from the sun's incessant assailing rays. all this taken into account, us ladies, we still all want to look good. no one wants to go job hunting looking like a shabby wabby, but being monetarily stunted can put a damper on donning yves saint laurent's finest, and even the fendi bags on canal st. are suffering the effects of inflation. what's a girl to do?

instead of the clouds parting, harkening to the angel's choir, and rainbows shooting out of my ass as I'm lifted to the retail hosannah in the highest, I climb wearily out of the fetid, swampy subway, bust out my sweat rag for a satisfying wipe, and throw elbows on 14th street like a shadowboxing breakdancer to get to the front doors of the discount fashion mecca:



ah, made it. I always try and give a nod of recognition to the security guard in the doorway because I feel like not many people do, and they've got to just stand there all day bored out of their minds lamenting on how pointless and boring their job is. (it beats being a fluffer, but not by much more than a bee's ass. ) now, it's time to start the dig. you know where you are, and you know what you're facing: mediocrity, lycra and broken teenaged dreams. you're being assailed from every angle by offensive fluorescently colored halter tops and plaid overall shorts that only a mother could love. this isn't just about convenience and value anymore, it's about the thrill of the chase, the huntress on a mission, and how high your tolerance for psychic pain is.

somewhere, deep in the forever 21 jungle that is inhabited by long island chippies and bronx cholas alike, is the triple cherry jackpot of 19.99 sundresses. we all know it's there, and that's why we go. it's the fashion blood on the dancefloor, it's the holy grail of a date dress, it's the perfect hot pants that august has pined for so fruitlessly... and it's so close you can almost taste the chic, swirling floral print of a darling topshop knockoff.

about a half an hour into the search, I've got an armful of hopefuls. a couple of onesies, an article with way too much taffeta but perfectly placed sequins, and maybe a pair of jeans from the bargain bin that are a size too small to practice wishful thinking. now to face the dressing room. the line is 20 strong and seemingly stagnant, and I'm running out of patience and friends to text. at this point I have no choice but to pay attention to the music, and I've deemed forever 21 the only place on earth in which I don't feel guilty listening to lady gaga. the 8th grader in front of me knows the words and the dance from the video and the 35 year old woman behind me is reading twilight and fighting back tears.

once inside the room, I pull the curtain closed behind me and try to keep as covered as possible as I'm changing because of the frequency with which I've been walked in on at this particular establishment. I usually try on what I'm most hopeful about first, so that the rest of the outfits turning out horribly is less irksome in the end. the zipper is pulled up, a few buttons fastened, and voila! there it is. the one dress I was sure was the one... and now I'm staring in the funhouse style mirror that makes my skull look like a pinhead and coming to the realization that cap sleeves make me appear uncomfortably similar to a powderpuff linebacker listening to a song about "riding a disco stick". beacon's closet is starting to look pretty good, again.

I've decided after my 900th bout with trial and error that resulted in self esteem stock plummeting and 2.34 panic attacks, that I'm returning to my all-thrifting, all the time policy until I win the super lotto or find a better job. forever 21 is strictly a supplier of cheap sunglasses and frilly underpants from here on out.

RIP forevs + christina, forevs.

summer of love 2k9

our lady of mt. st. carmel aftermath



chris bond's shitpowdersplosion extravaganza birthday party @ tortilla flats

big bingo winner, duh.

spankings a plenty

holly miranda at zebulon

playing unong on the LIRR

amanda & dad

sean, aka the Busiest Man In The World

my iDork

jen going apeshit on buck hunter

french miami at death by audio



FAME at mccarren park

edit in RE: to lydia white... alright. alright. FINE. behold the budkini.

dirty tit? clean it up.

the night before last I went out on the town with my ladyfriend catharine, and we met up with peter and his sister in greenpoint, summer rain be damned. copious amounts had already been imbibed, and it's sufficient to say that by the end of the night my liver was "well done". on the walk/stumble home accompanied by my strapping date, I somehow managed to do a flying karate leap faceplant onto the freeway under the BQE to avoid getting hit by a semi with a giant lead pipe on the back. (white girl can jump, but apparently the problem lies in the "landing" aspect.) I was in immense amounts of pain but trying to brush it off to scrimp together what was left of my pride, and I thought it best to change the subject with the international language of love when we got back to my apartment.

my come-hither strip tease was brought to a screeching halt when I removed my brassiere and peter started cracking up uncontrollably. at first I was incensed. why was he laughing at my boobs? my sexy strip tease had been meant to illicit a slightly more libidinous reaction. then he reached over and peeled a sticky, sweaty piece of orbit gum off of my left breast.

"oh." I said. "I've been looking for that."

I'm not a writer, I just blog a lot.

I've got some magnificent milestones coming up. tomorrow will mark my 6 months of glorious brooklyn life, october is my seven year anniversary of being in remission from ye olde 'Cer, and this month connotes eight years of being an "online diarist". I've literally been blogging since before blogging was blogging. nearly a decade (I'm rounding, here,) of leaving a trail of brain breadcrumbs, sharing fanciful musings, candid confessions and a surplus stockpile of weird cat photos with the world wide internet. in all this time I don't think I've ever blogged about blogging, and it's a topic worthy of a bit of dissection. my "blogs" (in their many incarnations) have been reliably rewarding and inspiring, and I've met some incredible people and experienced events that I may never have otherwise that deftly usurp the stranger-than-fiction cake, but it's also gotten me into some hot water over the years. blogging, my bitch goddess, as she giveth and taketh. am I crazy for putting so much of myself out there? or are people crazy for reading it?

as I've taken up blogging again on the regular recently, I've found myself faced with a question: how personal is too personal? at the onset of junior college, I had a site that was relatively popular with a regular and loyal 'readership', and it was mostly based upon my adventures in chemotherapy, the shit show of ptsd that followed, and my life readjusting to normalcy (relative term) and doing all of that gut wrenching, teenager pupa to young adult caterpillar metamorphosis just a few leaps behind all of my peers. I've never been one to censor myself, and at the time I wrote about people in my day to day life often, sharing our interactions form the mundane coffee shop sitting with cheap acoustic guitars, to the twisted webs of love and romance in our little population 4k town. I was never cruel, and any catty undertones were likely sarcasm, but I found out just how powerful a little misinterpretation could be when I told one of my close girlfriends about my diary where my pen name was "blondefox". [disclaimer: before you ridicule, please take a moment and recall what your screen name was when you were 15. it was probably sublime lyrics. or something including the words "babe", "vixen", "gurl" and/or the number "69".]


the artist formerly known as "blondefox", working the register at tower records

this supposed friend, one of many in a clique of sonoma kids, decided that she didn't like the idea of me writing about our lives, and perhaps, just didn't like me, and she sent out a massive email forward on aol to everyone in our school, and then for good measure, some of my coworkers. despite that more than half of names were changed to protect the innocent and guilty alike, it was fairly obvious to distinguish that there weren't more than one of jake's russian girlfriend's running around town and that my vegan coworker with a flatulence problem wasn't actually named "alexis". some people reacted angrily and felt like their privacy had been violated, and others wrote me and said they enjoyed the documentation of our little army of small town bon vivants. unfortunately, there were several more in the former category, and the blondefox chronicles ended up squashing a promising budding relationship like a cupcake under an army tank due to inability to dispel the spurious nasty rumors that were ruthlessly spread by the parties who would have rather I'd taken the Anais route and waited until we were all dead for me to publish what went on behind closed bathroom doors at co-op parties. I was shunned by people that I had hung out with every day for years, and the vegan girl at work was dropping bombs behind the counter double time. I'd already decided it was worth it to have came, saw, and blogged in the end, and it was part of the reason I decided to move to san francisco instead of berkeley with my sonoman friends, but it ultimately killed my site.

that year, I went back to paper journaling, which I've found to be more cathartic in certain ways, but at this juncture in my life I only really write non-fiction and I feel like blogging has been a great outlet for sharing my stories and also keeping in touch with my west coast friends. I've even been telling some folks in my new york life about a place to find some of my writings online, and I had something happen to me that has never happened before. a charming young man with a fantastic hat, let's call him Uzi VonBorfewitzovich, wandered into my restaurant after a softball game and sat at the bar chatting with aaron and I for a spell, and we somehow got to shooting the shit about being a nerd and embracing one's geekitude. I figured, hell, what better time to tell him (someone with sketch comedy and nerd experience) about my blog, to get some feedback and exchange some ideas. the next time I heard from him, he said if we were going to hang out, I'd have to sign a non-disclosure agreement or something. I laughed, thinking he was making a funny, and then he said, "no, I really don't want to be in your blog. seriously."

now, uzi, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. but I feel I need the point of reference, and I was really taken aback that someone would balk at getting to know me better because of being concerned that bits and pieces of our exchanges would end up on this silly little blog thing that hardly anyone reads, as it is. it's not like I'm trading stock tips, here. I haven't exposed any torrid affairs since I last had one. but it makes me wonder... should I shut my blog trap? should I just blog about other things to keep all of my personal affairs personally mine? I don't watch any reality TV, so I couldn't do celebrity gossip. I don't like sports unless I am close enough to the field to see the baseball butts (and there'd better be garlic fries involved). I am good at weaving a word tapestry of adventures; they just so happen to be mine. maybe they belong to you, too? but where did all of that ownership really get defined, anyway?

something to ponder. thanks uzi. this'll be your last appearance in blogalogadingdong.

the secret world of sweaty broads

this is a sign outside a church on monitor street.

surviving new york city as a thoroughbred californian can be daunting, but most of the time I'm fairly calm about it while doing my best to mask how baffled I am. yesterday night jen came over and I offered to cook for her using the kitchen of my neighbor for whom I am catsitting rufus' new girlfriend, LK. (short for Little Kitty. don't look at me. I didn't name her.) I was completely jazzed at the opportunity to bust out my culinary prowess that often goes to waste as there's no kitchen in my basement studio, just a sink and a hot plate that can fry up a mean runny egg in a pinch.

I went upstairs with my produce to set up a little spread before jen biked over, and when I opened the door I was hit with a wall of heat, and the pungent smell of stale, nuked cat food. the apartment felt as if beelzebub had shown up for supper sans invitation. LK looked at me expectantly and then at the inedible pile of warm chicken 'n liver bits in her bowl and I obligingly opened a new can while holding my breath. I wouldn't even have to turn on the broiler to cook the damn salmon. it was well over 100 degrees in the kitchen already, so I decided it was time to finally bite the bullet and purchase myself a nice, practical oscillating fan. I huffed and puffed to the ABC dollar store by the train station and picked up their deluxe model for $28.99 (dollar my ass.) and jen and I lugged it back to home base. as it turned out, the fan made it just bearable to be in alex's apartment that I dubbed "the seventh level of hell", and ten minutes into its maiden ventilation, the engine burned out beyond any shadow of hope for repair. the broiler was on and the fish only halfway cooked. jen took off her pants and I pinned up my hair and we couldn't tell if we were getting drunk off of crane lake chardonnay or having a double heat stroke in our underwear.

as we were eating our delicious salmon, mother nature decided to spice up her already miserable feat of a climate by throwing a lightning storm into the mix. I watched out the window as the jagged white bolts slashed through the post-sunset sky over the BQE as the cats ran around pell mell, knocking anything over that wasn't bolted down. jen was totally unfazed having grown up in florida, but I was having a bonafide california attack. I was as freaked out as the felines when the sheets of rain started to fall and the booming thunder shook the walls. on the way out later to meet up with kimi, I caught my reflection and saw that my chest had broken out in a heat rash. cute. turns out that's not something that happens only in kenyan jungles.

today, I've decided to hide out in the cave for as long as I can and avoid having any other unfavorable reactions to the weather, like melting into a puddle of shimmery goo like alex mack. I'm going to start living solely off of popsicles and emergen-c packets and research bargain airfares to alaska. it's starting to look as if I were ever stranded on a desert island that I shouldn't even try to survive while awaiting rescue, and that I should just employ the nearest cliff as a jumping point. I'm a wuss. I'm also willing to compensate a willing party to fan me with palm fronds and feed me frozen seedless grapes with free giggles and ha-ha's and access to my closet. not a bad deal?

croc tears for the silver screen

today's writing topic, via the modern sophist: stupid movies that make you cry.

when I was a kid my texan born and raised father would often reference a cold woman by quoting a confederate railroad song that went, "she never cried when old yeller died, and I ain't gonna cry when she's gone". now, I never saw old yeller, but it's likely that I skipped that cinematic experience out of fear that I wouldn't be emotionally affected in any sorrowful manner and be judged accordingly. I've never been a dog person.

I suppose it goes without saying that I don't particularly enjoy crying. as far as proper releases go, I much prefer a satisfying sneeze, a toe curling orgasm, or an aromatherapeutic bath with tea light candles and enya 'til I prune. I don't wear waterproof mascara, and I'm not particularly comfortable with anyone (acquaintance or close friend alike) seeing me in a blubbery state. I usually will not allow myself to shed a tear at any movie stupid or otherwise if I'm watching it with someone else. I think the last time I cried watching a movie with someone was during a bette midler flick (and no, it was not Beaches) when zoe starting laughing hysterically as we collectively realized at the same moment that I am doomed to end up exactly like her character in the remake of The Women, where she plays a platinum blonde, flamboyant LA agent in velour juicy sweats who is smuggling pot into an ashram retreat and very vocally damning mother nature and refusing to participate in the yoga classes.

there is one that gets me without fail, though. every time I am channel surfing and see that armageddon is on, I'm inevitably unable to tear my attention away, and every time, I weep like a little newborn bitch when bruce willis saves the world. that scene where he's struggling through the apocalyptic space storm and aerosmith fires up their 1998 power ballad magic and liv tyler is back on earth watching her dad as he's about to detonate the bomb and screams, "daddy, noooooooooooo!". COME ON. tell me the glands in your eyeballs aren't swelling uncontrollably just thinking about it. bruce willis is my old yeller.

"it takes a big man to cry, but it takes a bigger man to laugh at that man."
-jack handy

time of my life

I can haz it.

picture by the lovely cassandra wages.

milking it for free

this is a slightly belated response to my dear friend Thomas’s blog, “A Respectful Breast-Man”.

some say the universal language is love. some might argue that it is, indeed french. au contraire. the truth of the matter is that only breasts are of ubiquitous appeal.

thomas published a musing on his website about whether it was possible to respectfully (for all intensive purposes) ogle a nice pair of dirty pillows, and found himself bearing the brunt of the rage of 700 feminists. and to this, girls, I ask you, what's the big deal?

this is a photo of lindsay and I on valentine's day, completely unstaged. had a good guffaw upon uploading later.

I am not of modest mammary proportions. I wear a 36DD, and once spend a summer vacationing in 36E with the aid of having a nuvaring up in my proverbial "piece". my then-boyfriend certainly enjoyed that I ranneth over, but I found that E cup breasts were problematic in almost every sense, seeing as you have to go to specialty stores to buy lacy slings with which to strap them in, no article of clothing that goes on the top half of your body fits quite right, and people (mostly straight males) physically can't not look at them. it's a knee jerk eye impulse. large boobs are akin to kryptonite, and the world is their superman. I catch girls staring at my chest, straight and queer alike. honestly, most of the time, I don't mind.

while it's fair to argue that they are mine and no one else's to objectify or appreciate, it's also true that they're going to be located directly under my chin for the rest of my life and there's not a burlap sack on the planet that could conceal their sheer stupendousness. let's not beat around the breast: I have an amazing rack. I don't mind every once in a while if a friend (regardless of gender) every once in a while bestows an extended gaze upon my bosoms, or compliments my decolletage. my bodega guy gives them a nod of recognition from time to time. these instances do not bother me.

what does on occasion bother me is when someone is staring at them in a manner that befits rubbernecking a freeway pileup. the casual, respectful breast man glance isn't offensive to me. fixedly gawking makes me uncomfortable and at times I'll just come out and tell the visual assailant to get their eyes where I can see them. it comes with the territory of possessing such herculean wopbopaloobops.

thomas is not a "douche-bag", he is a breast man. take it from a pair of magnificent knockers who have known and adored him for upwards of 6 years. this man is not a crook for stealing tastefully timed glances:



ladies, handle yo tits. the plight of the gawked at boobs is age old. best just to embrace it, and melt into it's comforting, cushioned splendor.

where everybody knows your name

yesterday night after I finished my last entry I went to a bar with my friend jen that is widely known in the neighborhood for being a shameless meat market for hopeful singles and lusty lotharios alike. it’s two-fer tuesdays at matchless, where you get a token for a free drink every time you buy one, and as it turns out when your mainly attracted audience is sweaty, horny, and broke tecate enthusiasts, you get a lot of people that come in alone and leave with a new friend or in rarer cases, two. and you can always depend on waking up with a hangover.

my reasons for visiting matchless were of a more innocent variety, though I can’t say that two-fer tuesdays isn’t a trusty barrel for the lascivious shooting of williamsburg hipster fish. but I had leftover drink tokens, and staying home and going to sleep like a normal person didn’t do me a lick of good the night before.

the smoking patio was completely packed, but instead of pheromones and well whiskey, the air smelled heavily of B.O. and desperation. I’d go so far as to say 97% of the two-fer goers could easily fall under the “busted” category, the dregs of summer lovin’, that last sip of the communal 40 oz. that you can only respect yourself after drinking if you’re browned out. To paint an accurate picture of how crowded the yard was, trying to navigate my way back to the bathroom to pee was akin to starting a mosh pit at a cat power show. when I was in the doorway a guy carrying a full pint glass was nudged by someone else and dumped it in its entirety down the front of my freshly washed, fabric softened dress and then proceeded to yell at me and tell me to “watch where I’m going”. I flipped a token at his feet and told him to shut up.

when I returned (disgruntled and drenched in beer) with my next round a new dude had joined our little circle in the corner and my fancy was unexpectedly tickled. the newcomer was tall-ish, dark hair, soulful brown eyes, broad shoulders, and from what I could tell after 5 minutes of banter, cocky, witty and new york to the bone. I announced that I wasn’t really digging the matchless scene and that I was going to hit up enid’s across the street if anyone cared to join me for a beer and mystery man (peter, as it were) and priscilla agreed that it was a much better prospect for not catching an airborne std and also having a conversation. the chat at enid's was warm, breezy, and wildly inappropriate, some belly laughs were had and beer consumed, and pris left to meet up with some friends on bedford. peter and I kissed for a second over a table and I knew that I had a call to make based upon ardent desire: a fuck and run notch for the bedpost, or invite him over for a glass of charles shaw chardonnay and some making out with pre-determined ground rules.

I went with the chaste decision. (mom, if you ever read this… read I bang the worst dudes before you judge me.) he was game for it. we ended up engaged in an extreme 3 hour makeout session that left his back looking like he’d been attacked by a wolverine, and gave me an epic beard burn and a mild bloody nose. when we were curling up to fall asleep he asked me if he could take me on a date the next day, and I agreed that would be nice. of course, in the morning, we never made it out of bed. another 5 hours of alternately sucking face like teenagers and engaging in a lively "getting to know you" tête-à-tête. it was actually agreed upon as one of the best first dates we'd ever had. we shared a strawberry kiwi capri sun and played with each other’s hair. argued about whether or not The Wire is a “dude show” and why the L word should be. mock pillow fights. it was criminally cute.

at 4 he regrettably re-robed and got ready to go play softball in jersey. he asked me for my phone number, and when he programmed it in he held up the screen of his blackberry and inquired, “is this how you spell it?”

The screen said “MELISSA”.

I burst out laughing. his face contorted with anxiety.

“my name is spelled C-H-R-I-S-T-I-N-A. but, close.” I said. “best first date ever.”

a million little pieces

I’ve been up for almost 30 hours save for the 20 minute cat nap I managed to squeeze in before my itunes skipped over my library of ryan adams and started blaring a santogold remix right as I drifted off. oh well. It wasn’t until I got home from a really darling miniature thai food dinner party that things got hairy and I embarked upon a less than fantastic voyage of sleeplessness. at a thrift store yesterday I happened across a book called “written on the body”, and though the cheesy erotic clip art on the cover originally deterred me, I knew I’d heard of it somewhere before. reading the flap, I realized that jorge had recommend that I read it many years ago. all I’d known of the plot was that it was a love story written from the point of view of a protagonist of unspecific gender. that sounded intriguing… worth a buck, at least, so I picked it up along with an e.e. cummings anthology and made for the register.

It was exciting in a way to have snatched back a little fleeting memory of us that was for all intensive purposes lost; it was a second chance at taking his advice, which was always top notch, that I’ll never be on the receiving end of again. maybe it wasn’t a sign, but perhaps just a small something that could be comforting, make it easier to pretend that he’s floating on foam pool noodles in the tropics instead of six feet under in florida. I deemed it my bedtime reading material and curled up in bed with rufus and started in on it, to discover that it bore more eerie similarities to Jorge and I’s doomed relationship than I was comfortable with, and stirred up some really unpleasant emotions that I have bottled up and shoved in the recesses of my psyche to save for when I can afford therapy for a REASON. It was like a brilliantly written british literary gumbo of true love, infidelity, cancer, death, terrible timing and abandonment. and I couldn’t put it down. so I read it cover to cover, and then laid staring at the wall until dawn with a tornado of hurt and confusion in my head, went to get coffee at 7:30 and spent the afternoon walking around manhattan in a daze. I couldn’t have just picked up “goodnight moon” or “authentic ethiopian cooking”? I had to pick the footlong dildo of mindfuck reading material and go to browntown with no lube?

here is an excerpt:

“’You’ll get over it…’ It’s the clichés that cause the trouble. To lose someone you love is to alter your life for ever. You don’t get over it because ‘it’ is the person you loved. The pain stops, there are new people, but the gap never closes. How could it? The particularness of someone who mattered enough to grieve over is not made anodyne by death. This hole in my heart is in the shape of you and no-one else can fit it. Why would I want them to?

I’ve thought a lot about death recently, the finality of it, the argument ending mid-air. One of us hadn’t finished, why did the other one go? And why without warning? Even death after long illness is without warning. The moment you had prepared for so carefully took you by storm. The troops broke through the window, snatched the body and the body is gone. The day before the Wednesday last, this time a year ago, you were here, and now you’re not. Why not? Death reduces us to the baffled logic of a small child. If yesterday than why not today? And where are you?

Fragile creatures of a small blue planet, surrounded by light years of silent space. Do the dead find peace beyond the rattle of the world? What peace is there for us whose best love cannot return them even for a day? I raise my head to the door and think I will see you in the frame. I know it is your voice in the corridor but when I run outside the corridor is empty. There is nothing I can do that will make any difference. The last word was yours.

The fluttering in my stomach goes away and the dull waking pain. Sometimes I think of you and feel giddy. Memory makes me lightheaded, drunk on champagne. All the things we did. And if anyone had said that this was the price I would have agreed to pay it. That surprises me; that with the hurt and the mess comes a shaft of recognition. It was worth it. Love is worth it.”

-Jeanette Winterson

I don’t have much more to offer on this right now (largely due to being braindead until I get some rest), other than I highly recommend that you pick up a copy of the book. it probably will not give you a nervous breakdown-lite, and there is some really unique prose between its covers. every time I think that I’m “over it”, there’s always something there to remind me otherwise. hope you’re resting peacefully, Jorge. thanks for the free membership to the book club beyond the grave. I’d like to see oprah top that shit.


“Written on the body is a secret code only visible in certain lights; the accumulations of a lifetime gather there. In places the palimpsest is so heavily worked that the letters feel like Braille. I like to keep my body rolled up away from prying eyes. Never unfold too much, tell the whole story. I didn’t know that Louise would have reading hands. She has translated me into her own book.”

flying by the seat of my whimsy-pants

I'm going to try and give this blog CPR this week. bust out that binaca and get ready to make out, internet!

here's an excerpt of a letter to b:

my trip back to the bay was short and sweet, but also made it evident that I'm mentally detached from sf in a pretty official sense. things in new york are magnificently and unbelievably lonely at times, but the frenetic energy of the city and the golden rat race that everyone is a participant in (willing or not) lends it a unique charm. it truly is the mecca. and the other day I stepped in dog shit on ludlow in the lower east side and when I looked up alan cumming was chuckling at me. where else could you poo your shoe in front of boris grishenko?

this newfound clarity hasn't come without a smattering of strifes, and the past 5 months were more of a growing charlie horse rather than just your average pain. there was nary a psychic banana to ease my mental cramps to be found anywhere, high or low. my parents might call the past five years 'directionless', but I read this article the other day that detailed a newly identified common life phase that I'm fairly sure I'm in the throes of. it's called "odyssey", the decade of wandering that frequently occurs between adolescence and adulthood, where a "young adult" transitions in and out of school, cities, relationships and the like.

if the odyssey years are to be considered legit, then consider me to feel a hell of a lot better about my intemperate emotional flailing and hesitance to commit to anything, be it higher education, a person, a hair color, a brand of cola, etc. I suppose just the word "odyssey" resonates, as well, because I really look at my Big Picture as a grand experiment, a voyage, an epic that I write as I go. odysseys don't always go smoothly, they don't guarantee an ideal storybook ending, in fact the most famous one, ithaca is at peace in the conclusion, but not without some shit getting SERIOUSLY fucked up. so, maybe new york is my troy, and I've rolled myself in via a giant virgin america metal bird, and the war I wage is really one of personal growth and a righteous quest to find the best slice of pizza in all of the 5 boroughs. yes, odyssey is so much better than "quarter life crisis".

odyssey years: legit... or just a nice way to call someone a fuck up?

also, julia davis:

hearts they race

I'm overloading.

uh, is this thing on?

tap tap. bink bink?

so, I've been neglectful of ye olde blogalogadingdong... and every time I've thought to write an entry to announce an official hiatus, I've thought twice. there's absolutely everything to write about. each time I leave my apartment, I see the manhattan skyline, and I can not believe how lucky and brave I have been in the past month. I'm already toughened up... the other day I was walking to the train from work at 2 or 3 in the morning and when a bum asked me for a cigarette I immediately responded by barking, "go fuck yourself!" and got half a block away before even thinking twice to marvel at my finely attuned assholery.

this blog isn't on the chopping block just yet, but I am enjoying making my life slightly more private for the time being. perhaps a sort of a larvae-to-butterfly, thing. actually, the word larvae disturbs me on a fundamental level. "2nd puberty" isn't much better. suffice to say, all of this change has me love drunk on her lady humps and I'm raring to go for spring.

I'm going to consider posting up some paper journal entries in the few. even if only one, the planned parenthood brooklyn adventure was pretty fucking priceless. health insurance? pft. whatever. who needs it.

it's just a flesh wound

for the past 5 days, I've been rocking a Sweet Black Eye. and when I capitalize, I just do so to emphasize the extremity of the black eye I am referring to. this is a shiner to end all shiners. the only way it could be worse is if I went blind, slipped into a coma, or sliced my face open and by the grace of allah, none of those happened.



whoops.

how'd I manage that? how, do you ask? not by a mugging in harlem, not by defending anyone's honor, not by throwing myself in front of a semi truck to save a child. I did this by falling down the stupid fucking stairs. the stairwell leading into my studio basement is unlit and thus extremely dangerous (I recall being warned by jay about it the day I moved in), and after coming home after getting drinks with some friends in the east village, I misstepped on the last one to the bottom and bashed my head into the overhang above the doorway. I remember peeling myself off the floor, shaking it off, getting my key in the door and being madder at my clumsiness than a hornet trapped in a maraca. I don't recall any moment where I felt acute pain or even holding my hand up to my face or anything to that effect, just being inconsolably pissed and letting loose a string of expletives that would have impressed george carlin. I went to bed, and I woke up in the morning with a mysterious ache in my head, rather than just a headache. I went to the mirror to investigate and met my gaze in the reflection to see my right eye swollen half shut and turning a variety of beautiful shades of blue and purple, like a sunset of violence setting on my lid.

not a good look. especially not a good look for the job interview I had yesterday. I am not going to discount the small grace that it had de-puffed enough that my makeup skills were en pointe enough to mask my best rihanna impression. I'm still experimenting with cover up and different gradients of shimmery violet eyeshadows.

I have no doubt that having being somewhat intoxicated when this went down had something to do with it, but I've tripped on those stairs several times before when I was stone sober. I think the kicker is that I didn't think to ice it, and that's how I ended up discovering that "eggplant explosion" is not just a color one might use for the molding in a bathroom. regardless, it hasn't improved my mood at all, having to curb my instinctual facial expressions for fear of the inevitable pain shooting down the side of my face, and not being able to leave my apartment building without wearing makeup of tranny caliber.

I really do love new york, but I am not loving being unemployed in new york. I love my eye, and I want to send it a 'get well now' card. instead, all I've got is unverified webMD-esque testimonials to what works best for making the bruising go away swiftly. hot compresses, vitamin c, rest, water, and pineapple, apparently. I've force fed myself so much tropical fruit that I've got acid burns on the roof of my mouth and the previously personally condemned starchy banana is starting to look pretty good. especially with peanut butter...

moral of the story? I am a dumbass. but if I wear this look out on the town you'd better believe no one will fuck with me on the train.

trouble

new york... she's one tough bitch.

I knew that for a fact when I made the decision to join her massive army, and I stand firm on it. I'm just scrambling to get my bearings and the eye of the storm isn't in sight. the job leads seem only to lead into dead ends so far, and that's frustrating as hell but I'm not giving up. I have an interview at a sushi place on wednesday thanks to the graciousness of an old friend of sorts, and I hope that ends up panning out. after the job will come the apartment hunt for the end of my sublet from jay, and after that, I'm hitting mcsweeney's up again. my spirits are run down, today, and I really just want to go back to sleep even though my dear friend monica is in town visiting.

this is boring bullshit. I haven't been writing and I don't know why. this must be the three week hump scott referred to... it'll pass.

feathering the nest

a little to the left...

adjustments are being made, long sleeved thermal shirts are being bought, and everything seems to be exactly as it should for the first time in years. coming home to an empty house is bizarre, but I'm acclimating to it, however not without the first few nights alone riddled with weird nightmares of the type one might experience after drinking a bottle of tapatio before hitting the sack. I've been staying up reprehensibly late and sleeping in accordingly, which will have to end when I secure myself a job, and l've been out pounding the pavement. I don't mind being single and I don't even mind ceasing the endless search for finding a warm body to share a bed with for the time being. new york is my new significant other, and right now I don't want to share.

I've got 3 packs of polaroids coming to me from amazon and I am so excited to shoot my first brooklyn spring with them.

more is coming, I'm processing, it's a wonderful thing.

no sleep 'til

I haven't written anything since I got here except subway directions on the backs of receipts-- and that seems very fitting, very appropriate for the speed at which everything in new york goes. the words sprawl through my mind at paces far too fast to capture all the time when I'm walking around the city, and before I get back home to my new apartment underground, safely shrouded by concrete walls from the freezing cold, they've been replaced by a barrage of sensory overloads. I'm scattered, but in a way I've dreamed of, a brand of lost that sings to my fears in lullabies and to my hopes in missives of blind faith.

the plane took off at 9:30am on the 24th and the one salty, fat tear that I shed rolled inconspicuously down my cheek to land behind my earlobe like a secret. during the five and a half hour flight, I consumed four bloody marys, one valium (in several chunks), and a bag of m&ms. upon landing I retrieved my bags and left jfk to catch a cab to brooklyn whose driver seemed not to know how to control his basic motor skills, let alone navigate the labyrinth of streets in brooklyn that are laid in a haphazard maze that appears slapped together at best. it'd be a lot easier to get around here without ending up astray from my desired route and talking to strangers (some friendlier than others, but all of them intuitively know I'm from california) if I had an iphone, but I feel like that's cheating. magellan didn't need an iphone. then again, magellan probably didn't need pepper spray or a metrocard, either.

the first two nights I was here with jay and he did his best to give me a head start on getting to know the neighborhood, and on what was to be my first night alone I went out to savala's in on bedford to see an old bartender fracquaintance who always greets me with warmth, a one liner, and a shot. every bar in this city has got considerable competition because of this guy; I'm considering starting a petition to get him a raise. the bar wasn't too crowded, it was an oldies night with a svelte lady dj whose boyfriend was keeping a very watchful eye on the creepy geezer that kept returning to her booth to "make requests". I struck up a conversation with the boy nearest to me at the bar who was engaged in a game of dice, and he had no interest in chatting about anything other than giving me some hard to follow, drunk directions on how to play the game.

"I may just spectate," I said, "my luck is shot."

"don't be silly, this has nothing to do with luck." he grabbed my hands and closed them over the dice, and even gave me a little shake to boot.

"so it's strategy?"

"not really." he replied. I furrowed my eyebrows.

"karma?" I asked, lifting a finger from my clasped hands to blow inside for luck. I'd seen this in gambling movies.

"someone else has to blow on them."

"you've got a gift for educating," I said, knowing he wasn't listening but rather intently anticipating my next roll, so I did. I had no idea what I was supposed to do, so I waited for reactions to prompt my next move. luckily my roll deferred to the next competitor, so I excused myself to the other end of the bar to try my luck over there. I struck up conversations with a few more friendly faces and decided that I ought to go home early (1:30 being the case, since every bar here stays open 'til four) and got lost on my way back to the subway station. upon asking a young man passing by for directions, he obliged willingly and as I turned to go in the opposite direction, offered to buy me a drink. this good samaritan, a good looking 2nd generation polish chap ended up later directing me to his bed after what I remember as a blur to be not a terrible amount of persuasion. I'd have ridden on a gargoyle into the bowels of hell if someone promised me a box of spicy cheez its and someone to spoon me would be waiting on the other side.

in the morning I woke up with a start and found myself staring at a swirling brown water stain on the ceiling, and every immediate following moment brought a new revelation. a, I was not at home. b, someone was sleeping behind me with an arm slung around my waist. and most importantly, c, that my cable knit sweater tights were still on. (three cheers for hosiery, the chastity belt of our time.) my fidgeting woke up my new friend, ironically enough sharing a namesake with my ex, and I asked him where we were, and he replied, "bushwick."

what the fuck is a bushwick? I thought. I sat up and started hastily putting on my clothes and brooklyn jon tried to convince me to stay, declaring unwarranted sweet nothings at a volume such things should delivered with an ear nibble to a receptive party, and not to a girl who is running for your door with one pant leg on. I noted the lord of the rings fan memorabilia and comic books littered throughout the room and couldn't help but chuckle to myself. I got picked by up a tolkien geek trying to find my subway stop. (oh, if only orlando could see me now.)

the following afternoon I spent feathering my nest back on the homestead and pounding pint glass after pint glass of tap water that I am suspect might eventually kill me faster than the booze will after watching some terrible "truth is out there" youtube someone sent me about brooklyn being a giant toxic waste dump. chris came by to check out my new apartment and we sat on my couch filing through old photographs and tickling each other's brains. after a dinner at bonita with the talented mr. kreuger that was mostly comprised of tequila and salsa (both delicious) we hopped a car back to chris' waterfront loft and stayed up late talking of the puzzle pieces that molded us into the hot messes destined for greatness that we are. I can't retrace every step that led me to the precipice from which I just leapt, but the freefall I'm in is exhilarating, and rewarded every time I catch a glimpse of the city skyline. that night I stayed up hours after him just staring at it over the hudson, watching the high rises jockeying for position.

after a week and a half, I've found that I now never leave home without mace, a flask of whiskey, gloves, maps, and my ipod. riding on the subway is still giving me miniature heart attacks from time to time, even if I study my impending route with the conviction of a princeton scholar at crunch time, I worry that I'll somehow end up in harlem at 3am wearing a "Mug Me" sandwich board. (if neuroses were like pokemon, I've undoubtedly caught them all.) also, for a rather klutzy gal, I've picked up the kill-or-be-killed attitude that you must have on the train to survive. even me, someone who has trouble standing still without tripping, has developed a startling matrix-esque ability to dodge obstacles hurtling towards you in the form of people that are moving either entirely too fast or maddeningly slow. getting out of union square station during rush hour, I become The One; my shoulders shift and weave out of the way in a fluid motion that would make a greased weasel jealous. I am a cog in the new york city wheel. I even have a bruise on my thigh from the turnstile bar.

escape to ny

I've arrived in one piece! no time to write yet, but soon, soon,

auf wiedersehen

another one bites the apple. 7am tomorrow... the coop is getting flown. brrrrrrookyn!