muse (ings and other polite conversation)

the only car you can af-ford after the split

2006-09-24T13:53:00.000-07:00

a few months ago my friend and i were watching tv at my place and this commercial came on. by the end of the spot our jaws were hanging open and i was frantically hitting the rewind button on the dvr to make sure we hadn't misunderstood it.
but no, there was no misunderstanding.
ladies and gentleman, may i present the car of the future; the car for the recently divorced family.
it seems that there is a plague of impending marriages and divorces spreading through my various circles of friends; the marriages mostly occuring amongst the people my age and the divorces amongst those i know who are in their mid- to late-thirties and have been married for around 6 to 10 years. (hmmmm, a clue, sherlock!!)
three of my ex-roommates have either gotten engaged or married. meanwhile two of my ex-colleagues are muddling through messy divorces right now.
i kind of want to put them all in a room together with a giant wedding cake in the middle, then sit back and watch the frosting fly.
and now, ford motorcars has decided to tap into this rapidly growing niche in america of thirty-something recently divorced families.
all i have to say is this:

fair play to ford. way to stay on top of current american culture.

five years later

2006-09-11T22:24:00.000-07:00

i was finishing breakfast and leaving for my very first day of acting class, freshman year of college at new york university when the planes hit. i remember being very confused to look up at one of the two landmarks i was instructed to use as a compass to find my dorm (the other being the empire state building) and see a smoking hole at the top of one of the towers. i ran upstairs to wake up my new roommate and best friend from high school (who happened to be visiting that week) and tell them that some plane had hit the world trade center, but that i *had* to go to class as it was the first day.
they kept us in school for about an hour, our section leader claiming it would be good to have some healing circle or various bullshit, until a girl from another section came running into our room in tears that one of the buildings had fallen. the teacher instructed us to immediately go home and call our families.
i remember walking out of the building and thinking it strange that there was so much smoke in the air, considering how far downtown the wtc was from nyu, and starting to walk back to my dorm with a friend from class. when we reached fifth avenue and saw the empire state standing tall in fron of us, due north up the avenue, we turned around to see how much was left standing of the twin towers. surely the buildings had only cracked off toward the top, where the planes had hit...
we told each other that there must be too much smoke in the air and that we were too far downtown to see them from this vantage point, but once we got to the entrance to the dorm we'd be able to see what remained.
when we reached 35 5th Avenue we turned back to look at the spot where we would usually recognize the towers but still couldn't see anything resembling the outline of a building through the haze.
"what the fuck, we can usually see them from here, what's going on?" i complained to my friend.
and i'll never forget this moment as long as i live, (excluding the chance of alztheimers or some such thing) a black woman with extremely short dredlocks, wearing a light tan business suit, paused as she walked by us as said "they're gone. there's nothing left to see."

that night they had barricaded the streets below 14th street so i went downstairs with my new college friends and drank beer, chainsmoked, and watched a bunch of kids play football in the middle of 5th avenue. there was a sense of unity bred from suffering, panic, and fear that blanketed the city more thickly than the haze that we joked would give us all mutant forms of cancer (which it is). throughout the night people could be either laughing or sobbing, silly or serious, open or closed. there were no judgements. there were no cries of anger or vengance. there were only the feelings love and loss.
it was a few years before i really felt the weight of what i had experienced that day. i suppose i shut it out to shield myself from the barrage of questioning i got from everyone i knew back home afterwards. but when i saw fahrenheit 9/11 and it got to the part where there's only a black screen and the sound of what was happening in the city, i started sobbing and had to leave the theater. and i still can't bring myself to go to ground zero.
as i look back on the years i've spent in new york since 9/11/01 i've come to realize that that was the day i really fell in love with this city, and experienced one of those days that will make it a place i truly call home for the rest of my life.

i guess beggars CAN be choosers

2006-08-21T15:40:00.000-07:00

there is a woman who occasionally stands on the corner next to my office begging for food. i've never heard her ask for money; it's always the same thing:
"does anyone have any leftover food they don't want?...any food from lunch?...anyone have any extra food?"
i feel bad for this woman. she's been haunting my block for at least six months and i've never actually seen anyone give her food. (to be fair, my office isn't really located in an area of town with the kind of people who bring their leftovers home after work)
so i decide it's high time i do a good deed; something nice for someone that i have absolutely nothing invested in. you know, karma.
now, funds have been running *scarily* low in my bank account as of late, so i don't have a ton of cash. i walk across the street to guy & gallard and purchase two apples and a bottle of cold water.

i walk back across the street, to where this woman is now smiling vacantly at a dog waiting at the corner with its master. i walk up to her and say warmly:

"here you go, two apples and a bottle of water"
"oh, no thanks, i get fruit all day"
"oh...are you sure?"
"yeah, i don't want any fruit"

i'm starting to get annoyed now.

"well do you want the bottle of water?"
"no, i don't feel well"

she does say 'thank you' but then turns away and continues begging people on the street for their lunch scraps.

i'm never doing anything nice for a stranger again.

ruse for jesus

2006-07-27T15:28:00.000-07:00

i am the bastard child of a former-catholic and a minimally-practicing jew.
there, i've said it.
i've come to terms with it.
in fact, i actually believe it's made me a *much* more open minded and generally well-rounded person than most people who adhere to strict religious principles. my parents decided when i was born that they would not shove any sort of belief system on me as a young child, and that we would discuss the subject when i was old enough to sort of poke around and see what sort of religion, if any, appealed to me. i became as close to an athiest as an agnostic can be, and i'm probably only really "agnostic" cause i don't feel like religion is worth the effort it takes to vehemently argue the points of athiesm.
i *hate* the way my mom's cousin is constantly trying to force her born-again christian b.s. on everyone within a fifty mile radius of her, so automatically catholisism was out.
i got both sets of holidays as a kid, but in a very low-maintenance way. (ie- passover, easter, hannukah, and christmas were the only holidays we celebrated in my house and they were all pretty much just an excuse for my parents and me to dress up, eat a nice dinner at home, and give each other presents)
temple can be okay, but the music is sooo depressing, use a major key already.
i've only been to mass once, on easter when i was visiting my grandmother at (i believe) age 10. i respected the service and whathaveyou, but when we walked out i turned to my grandma and said "i'm never going there again." christianity just really wasn't for me. thank's for calling, but i'm happy with my current service.
but i suppose we all have to feel *some* sort of connection to our historic roots, so i (still very minimally) jumped on the jewaggon. even though my dad is responsible for the jew in my blood, i choose to disregard the fact that in the eyes of the truly faithful this excludes me from the bunch (i have indeed had the hasidics that come up to you outside the bedford L train ask if i'm jewish and when i say "half" they ask me which side. upon hearing "my dad's" they literally turn and walk away) but i don't care. i consider it to be part of my race if not my faith. besides, latkes might just be the best food ever created.
so it really fuckin' irks me when i walk down in the subway and see a hoarde of black tee shirts bearing three solid stars of david with the initials "j f j" on them. these itinitials, of course, stand for "jews for jesus". maybe it's because these people remind me of the righteous antics of my mom's aforementioned cousin. maybe it's because it's simply an oxymoron. i don't know, but these people piss me off *almost* as much as the burgeoning mass of scientologists plagueing our city's fair subways.
the next time one of them comes up to me while i'm waiting for the train i shall pause, calmly turn to them, and say this:

"take your christian propaganda and shove it right up your jesus-loving ass. cause he's certainly not *my* personal lord and savior."

i can't get no...satisfaction...

2006-06-29T09:02:00.000-07:00

i was raised to believe that girls can do anything that boys can, and should pursue whatever it is they want in life (i mean, i'm currently making a movie about a female serial killer simply because my boss told me that women can't be serial killers). however, i have come to the conclusion that little girls should be banned from being "it" while playing tag. being "it" fosters a feeling that it's fun to chase. and for legitimate reasons; it *is* fun to chase; to concoct a plan of attack, pounce, and bask in the glow of the successful catch. on the playground, you can chase the boys all day and no one ever thinks twice about it. they're just kids having fun. but no one stops to think about the fact that this game is teaching little girls everywhere that the boys like to be chased, and with enough patience and perspiration you will catch them.
when i stepped off the playground and into middle school, the curse of the cooties was lifted from the boys. luckily, it seemed, i had already been taught how to catch one; just chase him around and around in circles until you finally tag him. then he's your's, right?
not so. after chasing more boys through middle school and into high school than i care to recall, i finally learned that tag was a game of the past. at least the way i had been taught how to play the game. somewhere between the elementary school playground and the high school quad the rules had changed. suddenly the boys didn't want to be chased. this has been the hardest thing for me to accept in all my years of "dating". after a slew of failed attempts to revive my role as hunter, i had to concede defeat, and let the boys chase me from then on, even if it meant my heart was never in it.
for years now i have been sitting back and letting them come to me. i've played the game the way it's supposed to be played now and i've gone from one boring and suffocating relationship to another. these boys pursued me mercilessly, and i played along for a while, but after a short period i always realized that i didn't want them. i didn't like being called ten times a day or stared at when i walked by or put up on a pedestal.
the problem with the game of tag is that one person is always running AWAY from the other.
eventually i concluded that a "normal" relationship just wasn't for me, and i sort of gave up on love. well, not so much gave up as decided i could never fall in love the way i wanted to. the ones i fell for would always run from me and the ones who fell in love with me were always too eager, which made me run from them. it was exhausting. i retired my running shoes and locked my heart in a rusty cage. i told myself i was the girl who couldn't love, because i really couldn't in the traditional manner.
then a month ago i started casually dating this guy. fairly early into things we ended up at my house, just the two of us, and after two hours of scintillating conversation we (naturally) started making out. in no time at all i had experienced the best oral sex of my *life*. whew. i have to take a moment just thinking about it.

however, a kiss and a caress later, i was asked if that was enough for tonight.
enough? yeah, for me, but what about you?
well, i think i need to take things a little slow for now.
no worries, slow and steady wins the race, after all.

that was 25 days ago, and there hasn't been so much as a tickling of tongues between us since. i totally respect his stand on things, and i'm trying not to chase him, but rather take things at his pace. but i can only go home to the loving arms of the green knoblin (le vibrator) for so long before i'll start to lose my mind.

the moral of the story is: if you want to make the girl who can't love fall for you, give her the best head of her life, then withhold any and all sexual contact. it'll make your head spin almost as much as her's is.

b's self-help cliffsnotes

2006-06-16T12:31:00.000-07:00

while sitting on the L train back to the 'burg in rush-hour foot traffic, i noticed a rather unfortunate woman sitting across from me. she was probably about 45 years old, with the kind of leathery skin that befalls those (myself included) who refuse to wear sunscreen on their faces. despite her obvious age, this woman was wearing ice-pink lipstick (a color that hasn't been seen since the mid-90s) and had her hair cropped short, with amelie-style bangs, and clasped back off her face with silver mini-clips (the kind you see on pre-teens in the midwest). clutched in her weathered hands was a copy of the book "how to win friends and influence people".
now obviously this woman needs a self-help book. probably more than one. so i have decided to save her (and anyone else who feels they might need a little self-improvement)and dispense my own advice right here and now.

1. DRESS YOUR AGE
nothing is sadder than seeing *that woman*. you know exactly what i'm talking about. the woman who was probably really hot in her 20's, but hasn't allowed her style to evolve with her body. there's a reason those clothes are sold in the "junior department". they were designed for your grandkids.

2. WEAR MAKEUP THAT SUITS YOUR COLORING
not all colors look good on everyone. it seems that a majority of women out there have come to accept this fact when it comes to clothing, so why on earth don't they apply it to their makeup too?? the only person that has ever looked good in neon pink lipstick is barbie. throw it out. now.

3. STOP FUCKING CRYING ABOUT HOW MUCH YOUR LIFE SUCKS
the only thing you're going to accomplish by complaining about your life is make everyone else's life suck too. stop it. whining makes you look fat.

4. DON'T READ SELF-HELP BOOKS IN PUBLIC
this only shows people hard and fast proof that you are a huge loser with no friends and no confidence. even if this is true, don't fucking advertise it. that's like making a caserole out of little jimmy's parents and then telling him the magic ingredient *before* he takes a bite. how stupid can you be?

that is really all i have to say. follow these simple guidelines and you will be happier and healthier. well, at least you won't be as sad a bastard as you were before.

(this) SO IS (a mental) & (informative) SPARK

2006-06-15T11:15:00.000-07:00

in 1993 i was entering my 10th year of life; a budding creative opening her eyes for the first time on pop-culture. it would still be two years before i bought a cd that wasn't strictly musical theatre (or michael jackson, really one and the same). however '93 was the year i started watching regular tv shows, most namely "the adventures of brisco county junior" starring bruce campbell as a wacky western outlaw and "lois & clark; the new adventures of superman" with dean cain and teri hatcher.
these two tv shows were the first (and come to think of it, the last) shows that i ABSOLUTELY had to watch every week, first airing, no questions asked. and if someone had put an ak47 to my tender young skull and said "you have to choose; brisco or superman" my instant answer would have been "superman". i actually suspect (though can't really remember for sure) that dean cain was my first crush. every week i would scramble to the tube to tune into abc to see what evil scheme of lex luthor's [the hottest] superman [ever] would have to thwart and what lois would say to brush off clark's charms for the thousandth time (oh, if only she knew his true identity!). even the eternally mediocre teri hatcher was great in "lois & clark", and even though i haven't seen so much as a single frame of this show since it originally aired, it has stuck with me for over 12 years. i just didn't quite know how deep the brand was until i started watching it again a week ago.

about a month ago i reconnected with a guy i hadn't seen in years, and upon hearing of my childhood nostalgia towards "lois & clark" he loaned me his dvd copy of the first season. i dashed home faster than a speeding bullet to pop it in the dvd player and relive all those carefree 44 minutes where superman always came to the rescue. kind of like the night i watched "clueless" for the first time since its release, a LOT more jokes and inuendoes hit home for me than they had when i was 10 years old. this time around i noted the writing *behind* the characters, which before had been an entire non-entity for me (i thought that dean cain walked around his malibu mansion in his superman outfit). and i noticed something strange about the writing of "lois & clark", it was profoundly similar to my *own* style of writing. there, up on my screen, in full '90s color, were the same puns, word-play, and tongue-in-cheek jabs at the show's media venue. (for example, in one episode there is a talent agent chasing superman all over metropolis, trying to get him to sign with his agency. he tells superman that he's already got a deal for a tv show, and lois says "right, superman on tv, that'll be the day." or the episode where clark tells lois they could hear her yelling all the way in gotham.) these kind of jokes pepper my own [screen]plays, not to mention the character types represented in the show. there's lois; the smart and independent woman who is really using her strength to hide her own insecurities. there's clark; the unlikely hero. there's perry; the one-liner spouting comic relief. there's jimmy; the physical comic relief. there's the kents; the uber-supportive parents. and finally there's lex luthor; the evil-genius villain, whom you want to hate but he's just *so* charming...
i do miss "lois & clark; the new adventures of superman". it was a great (albeit VERY '90s) program, full of hope and desire and secrets and action. it's good to know that it survives in something more than my heart.

camera rolling

2006-06-10T15:18:00.000-07:00

i like to think of my daily life as one long movie; starring ME. i think this phenomenon is something that los angeles (particularly the hollywood-based sectors) instills in its natives. the movies are everywhere; celebrities stroll into the local coffee shop daily, paparazzi crawl the city like post-apocalyptic cockroaches in search of a morsel of food, and cameras roll by more often than the naked rollerblader in venice beach. the movies are the norm. and the norm is being in the movies. everyone in l.a. wants to be involved in the industry, in one way or another, you'd feel left out if you didn't.
more likely, this state of constant "action!" i feel is due the fact that both of my parents are in the industry. when i was a baby, i would scream my fucking ass off if you seperated me from my mother for more than a few minutes. and i mean SCREAM. (i don't know whether my grandmother ever got over the time she told my mom that she really should go out and take a few hours to treat herself, the baby would be fine with her; only to spend the next 3 hours frantically walking me around in circles while i shrieked and cried until the moment my mother walked back in the door.) now, most parents in the greater united states area would have tried to find a solution to my crying nonsense: a vibrating crib or some such thing. but that's not how we do it in the industry! of course not, the logical thing to do was to record this child's mighty wails, and then dub them into a scene in "blade runner" when they couldn't get the on-screen baby to cry quite as rabidly as they had hoped.
curses, now i had the movie bug too.
so ANYWAY, i walk around as though my life were one big truman show. most likely because this way i can justify my daily existence as 'screen time', regardless of artistic merit or even blatant boredom. well actually, it hasn't always been a b-eaturette; i have undoubtedly climbed steadily up the ranks of my own imaginary movie set. for a while in high school (ie- the angst years) i was simply *tormented* by the fact that i felt like i was an extra in somebody else's movie (i even wrote a one-act play based on this particular sentiment; that and harry houdini as a metaphor for suicide set in a mental hospital with a wacky cast of mental patients. god i was deep when i felt misunderstood). i was still onscreen, but always out of focus and out of frame before you even thought to look at me. as the years have passed, and i've grown out of my angst years (and taken a few more acting classes) i've gotten to a place where i feel like i'm actually a developed character. with lines and all! i've got a part and i make the show (or movie or whatever) more interesting from time to time, always popping in and out with a punny one-liner or prat fall, but still surprising you with a wise-beyond-her-years moment from time to time. things are going good in my onscreen reality fantasia. i'm working my way up, bigger and bigger projects. may i have the envelope please...
and then, in the middle of a take, out of nowhere, i see another recurring extra.
you know what i mean. the people on the street, just passersby, that you've seen before. miles away from where you saw them the first time.
nothing makes you realize the low production value of your life more than seeing a recurring extra.
i have had three instances of seeing a recurring extra that i can remember. the first was when i was about 15 and it was no big deal. i only really remember it now because the second instance was so jarring and happened so recently after the first that i've managed to cling to the memory of it. i can't even remember the fine details of where i saw this first extra (both times that i saw him) except that the first time was most likely at the coffee bean and tea leaf in brentwood (as that's where i went every morning on the way to school) and the second time was that afternoon between the fatburger and iguana vintage clothing on ventura boulevard in sherman oaks. and he was wearing completely different outfits each sighting. now, contrary to how it may appear from time to time, i am not a complete idiot. i realize that although los angeles *is* a sprawling and highly populated city, there is still a chance that you will randomly see the same person in two different locations in the same day. this is why i brushed it off as a mere coincidence.
then, around 2 months later my mother and i went on our annual trip to cedar rapids, iowa to visit my grandmother and the rest of the fly-over fam. one late afternoon, we were driving to dinner at __________________ *insert favorite "fine dining" chain here* when i noticed a man jogging in a navy and silver spandex jogging suit; whom i'd seen in l.a. at the baha fresh in westwood. *jaw drops* this was when the notion of recurring extras really hit home for me. certainly the chances of seeing the same person strutting around west los angeles in tommy bahama shorts and an in-n-out t-shirt, then jogging down 1st avenue NW in cedar rapids in full professional-jogger fashion are almost zilch. this person had been *placed* in his background roles. and due to budgeting problems, he'd been used more than once.
it seems that my own personal ed-harris-as-the-omnipresent-director noticed my glimpse of how things work behind the scenes, cause i haven't seen any recurring extras since that moment.
until yesterday.
on the walk through hell's tunnel between the 6th avenue L train and the 1,2,3 trains, i saw a woman who reminded me of the woman in dolly parton's song "jolene" (if jolene had been an amazonian woman with a spare tractor tire around her midsection). since i recently dyed my hair red, and as it's not quite as red as i was hoping, i have been carefully judging the various shades of crimson i see gracing the locks of women around the city. her's was a bit too orange. i continued on my way to work.
at 5:30 pm i was in a taxi darting across 23rd street when a flame of hair and a mighty spare tire catches my eye. my jo-not-so-lean herself is walking along on the sidewalk in casual conversation with a friend. i'm suddenly gripped with an overwhelming urge to leap out of the taxi and engage her in conversation.

"excuse me, who hired you?"
"i beg your pardon?"
"who hired you? was it jimmy?" (jimmy is my imaginary casting assistant)
and then she cracks and tells me her entire life story, how she grew up in small town kansas and always dreamed of making it big in the movies. how she moved to new york when she was 17 to pursue a life of vanity fair centerfolds and veuve cliquot. and how she now works as a bartender at the pig 'n whistle while doing extra work on the side. and i tell her not to give up hope, that you may feel like an extra for a while, but with time and talent you can get your own feature.
but you can't break character in the middle of a take. it's just not professional.
so i continue across 23rd street in my yellowcab, merely imagining this interaction, and let the audience think that the resulting crease in my brow is due to my worry over whether to wear the black or turquoise heels to c's party tonight.

yakety yak (don't talk back)

2006-05-23T09:19:00.000-07:00

everyone else can

after a fun-filled but sleep-lacking weekend in new haven (anderson cooper is my boo) i took the 9:29am train back into the city, figuring i could sleep for the hour and half trip before heading straight to work. i was one of the first to board the train and grabbed one of those corner car "suite seats", if you will, where there is a row of three seats facing two more seats, where the weary traveller can, upon removing their shoes of course, prop their feet on the opposite seats and recline as comfortably as is possible on the metro-north. i stretched my legs across the gap and leaned my head against my backpack, rocking to sleep with the lurching of the train as it sped along the eastern seaboard. by the third stop en route i was mere steps from dreamland. i hear the distant sound of the doors whooshing open. then my reverie is cracked open by what i can only assume is a harpie boarding the train with her friend harvey the rabbit.

"i can't BELIEVE him! what was he thinking, i specifically told him to buy the SABLE colored napkins! he's ruined my entire color scheme now" (or something in that vein)

since i was under the impression that harpies were mythical creatures, i open my eyes to steal a glimpse.
i should have known, it's just some JAP yakking on her cell phone.
and instead of say, finding a secluded seat in one of the back cars, she decides that the best plan of action is to stand in the middle of the car, where everyone can hear her ranting on about her husband's lack of taste and sense (which should have been obvious, considering he married this beast).
i can feel a light simmer bubbling under my skin, but i take a few measured deep breaths and try to fall asleep again.
finally i am at the gilded gates of dreamland once more. i reach a hand out to push them open, and hear the deep voice of st. torpor boom out:

"can you hear me NOW?"

you're fucking kidding me.
i look at my watch,it's 10:50, we'll be at grand central in 20 minutes. this is pointless.
and what gets me the most about this whole experience is not that i missed out on the hour of extra sleep i could have gotten this morning, cause whatever, it's not like i've gone a day without much sleep. it's the fact that the mta is currently working on making cell phone use possible in the subway, so that in the event of an emergency someone on the train can call 911.
but the ratio of 911 calls to just-talking-on-my-phone-so-i-have-something-to-do calls is going to be outrageous.
but at the same time, perhaps the calls to 911 will increase once this plan goes into effect, because i will be ASSAULTING at least 3 people a day for their blatant displays of douchebaggery.

they're writing songs of love

2006-01-05T02:38:00.000-08:00

not for me

today marks the eight month anniversary of a day that has permanently shifted the way i relate to the leading men in my life. i knew, even in the weeks following our seperation, where i stormed and scoffed at the mention of his name, that my relationship with g; as much a ragdoll relationship as it was; would be placed at the top of the alter of eternal comparison, forever laying judgement over future male suitors. it was inevitable. all men that cross my path will be broken down and categorically compared to his features (both physical and personality). every woman does this, at least in my opinion; the first man she loves becomes the topmost romantic example for the rest of her life. or at least until she finds someone she fancies more.
i didn't mean to fall in love with g. really, had no intention of it. it started out innocently enough. well, it started out simply enough, at any rate; a drunken cinqo de mayo + a bit of psychological nudging from our mutual friend found us rolling like thunder under the covers at my place. i knew he had a girlfriend. she was the scary one that didn't talk to anybody. but she wasn't any of my concern. he had approached me, right?
besides, to be honest, after our initial mexican blanket dance i didn't expect (nor really care for) a repeat performance.
but somehow we ended up under covers again, and again the following night. actually, come to think of it, he wasn't half bad on his back. or on his front, for that matter... we started making excuses to spend nights togther; bathing each other in kisses and flattering words; fucking until four am; laying naked side-by-side in the dark and whispering through ringlets of smoke. it was sublime. i mean, he had a girlfriend already, so i didn't need to chase after his heart. he was a fuck buddy, with personality.
and it was fantastic to have someone raring to go three times a week. he was charming and smart. so funny. our similarities began to spring unannounced to the front of my mind, as well as the bizzarro fashion of our differences. at times, he seemed to be my doppelganger; a southern, male extension of myself. and yet, some things about us were so vastly different. we were nemeses. and i couldn't forget- he had a girlfriend.
this fact was becoming more and more of a tangible problem for me, now. i realized that i had reached the point where i wouldn't be indifferent if it were to end suddenly. this was probably two and half weeks into the thing (bear in mind the entire torrid affair only lasted one month, to the day). not to mention the guilt that was begining to trickle through the cracks of our already fractured romance. i upped the "this is my sex slave only" behavior, i suppose to cheapen the experience for myself, and broke out the silk neckties and paddle brush. i only kissed him with my eyes open. i was determined to fuck him and have it not mean anything once again. i'd talk dirty and lick my lips and fingers. but then i would look up and be locked in an eye-gaze so piercing that it slapped the heartless ho right out of my head and left her, the virgin-to-love that she really was, crying shamefully.
three days before we were found out i thought of ending it. i almost did it, too. we were laying in bed together, my head cradled in the crook of his damp neck. it took a few minutes before i realized we were cuddling. a steamwhistle went off behind my eyes. i hate cuddling. it's hot and awkward and your limbs fall asleep. i had never willingly cuddled with a guy after sex; there are just so many better things to do. but here i was, post coitus glow, cuddling with g and daydreaming. i knew i had let myself slip over the edge and was falling fast. i also knew the only way to stop my descent was to jump out of bed and scream "I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE" as loud as possible and end it right there. on my terms. with my pride.
but right as i was working up the stomach to tell him i shouldn't see him anymore, he let slip that he was falling for me, too. my plummeting heart did a loop-the-loop and i decided to freefall for a few more days. after all, it was a glorious feeling.
i was shot down. you know, flying in enemy airspace and whatnot. i should have expected it. i did expect it. but i wasn't ready for it.
to be honest, i kind of expected g to swoop in and pull me, spiraling out of control, to safety at his side. as much as i told myself not to think about what he would do, i was sure he'd leave her. i mean, he wouldn't have initiated an affair if he wasn't looking for a way out, right? he wouldn't have said such seductive things if he didn't mean to keep me. i stayed clear of the cross-fire that i figured was bound to explode between the two of them, and waited to help us both land on our feet after this turbulent ordeal; willing to help him schlep his furniture out of the apartment; ready for the rest of our love-story.
but he fled back to the scary girlfriend, whatever his reasons, leaving me staring after him, dazed, thinking "humm, so this is love."
i should have ended it that fatefull cuddlenight. then we could have at least parted with some dignity, and the possibility of reuniting if they ever do split up. but we each made good and sure to ruin that prospect; he with his childish and despicable behavior, and me with my biting tongue and blind rage.
i heard somewhere, probably some silly teen movie, that it takes 3 times as long as the duration of the relationship to get over it. well, 3 months has long since passed and i still stumble upon myself in mourning. it's horribly embarassing, whether or not the people around me can see it, and infuriates me. i cannot allow myself to dote on him or think back on the nights we stole or fantasize about him late at night. i have to realize that every sad love song was NOT written specifically about the two of us, and should therefore not incite tears. it's high time i moved on.
if i only knew where to begin.

----but it's time to face the truth
i will never be with you----

just what the doctor ordered

2005-12-13T20:55:00.000-08:00

remember that baz luhrmann graduation speech that was made into a semi-cheesy top 40 song? everybody's free (to wear sunscreen)?
there's a line in that song that has always made me laugh: 'live in new york city once, but leave before it makes you hard.'
"haha, that'll never happen to me" i thought to myself, "new york city and i will go together like hookers and times square."
a little while ago a friend of mine from high school posted a friendstermonial on my profile that said "stop talking smack on california. we may be full of morons but your city's full of assholes." and while i chuckled heartily at her post, i couldn't deny that she had a point. new york city is FULL of assholes, and it seems like wherever i go they are waiting to make my day just a little shittier. they are waiting for me on the subway platform, on the sidewalk, on line at the bank, all over manhattan. i walk around this city perpetually pissed-off, either stewing about a random douchebag i just encountered or preparing to deal with some other anonymous douchebag i will inevitably cross paths with in the next few minutes. new york city is a minefield of assholes, 24/7.
but not even chinatown on a hot summer sunday is as teeming with assholes as the new york subway during afternoon rush hour. it's infuriating. pushy self-important people, gag-inducing smells, screaming children, dirty junkies singing or beating on bleach tubs and asking for money for their "music", enormous strollers, huge, lumbering people whom you can never seem to find a way around, all packed like pickles* into 20x6 ft metal box. i feel like elaine bennis while riding the subway home, hunching myself into the littlest amount of airspace, screaming internally at the people around me. it's enough to turn anyone into a block of stone.
today, however, i discovered the miracle cure to the afternoon borough-bound blues:

2 vicodin
+ ipod
+ sound-isolation headphones
--------
commute bliss

amidst a particularly frustrating day at work (our internet went down EIGHT TIMES, and everything had been moved around in my absense, so i had no idea where anything was) one of the guys who works in our office asks if anyone would like a vicodin.
hells yeah, i'll take one!
thirty minutes later my mood has lifted a bit. the internet *still* doesn't work, but whatever, that proposal can wait til tomorrow, it's 5:00 anyway.
i am asked how i'm feeling now.
oh, i feel better, i'm not as pissed at everything anymore, but i'm not like *high* or anything.
well do you want another?
uhm, okay!
an hour later i am sandwiched against the glass on the brooklyn-bound L train, death cab in my ears and a wispy smile on my face. pushy people? who cares! heinous stenches? no problem! bucket-pounding retards? bravo!
it was the most relaxing train ride EVER.

*ref: ellen degeneres- "here and now"

starfucks

2005-12-13T10:44:00.000-08:00

ever since the mta implimented that law that you couldn't carry open containers on the subway (regardless of alcohol content) i have been scared to bring my morning coffee on the train with me. while i sorely miss the scrumptious cinnamon skim lattes from our building's top-drawer coffee-haus, oslo, they're just not worth $30 (which is how much i'd be shelling out if a cop ticketed me for it)
so instead, i have been forced to frequent starbucks, the only semi-worthy oslo substitute, simply because of its convenient location (ie- every two blocks) between the train and my office.
i go to the same starbucks every day, and (pretty much) always order the same thing: a venti vanilla latte with skim milk and only TWO pumps of vanilla syrup instead of the standard four, which is too sweet for my tastes. four out of five times they get it wrong. i've tried explaining it every possible way i can think of- venti nonfat vanilla latte with half vanilla, venti vanilla latte with skim milk and half vanilla, venti vanilla latte with nonfat milk and two pumps of vanilla, venti vanilla latte with nonfat milk and two pumps of vanilla instead of four- and they have messed it up every way possible- given me grande instead of venti, used whole milk, used lowfat milk, put the standard amount of vanilla in, or just plain forgot about my order. it drives me insane, but today i nearly firebombed the place.
i order my usual drink- "a venti vanilla latte with skim milk and only TWO pumps of vanilla instead of four" and the disgruntled countergirl calls out my order- "venti nonfat two-pump vanilla latte!" i pay for my drink and wait for the barista (baristo?) to make it. firstly, he makes the drinks for the THREE people who came in after i did, but i don't say anything, i really don't feel like arguing today. i see him pick up a venti cup and think "that must be for me", unitl i see him pump not two, not four, but EIGHT pumps of vanilla syrup into the cup. i gasp in shock and say, "excuse me, is that for the vanilla latte?" he glares at me and mutters a "yeah". i am livid, but i still don't feel like really arguing, so i just say "well, i asked for only TWO pumps of vanilla in it, cause i can't stand it when it's too sweet." instead of getting a new cup, he just pours the syrup out, leaving about two pumps worth coating the inside and then proceeds to put two more splashes of vanilla in.
i am too tired and late to argue, so i take my saccarin coffee drink and leave.
i can hardly wait til next week when i can happily sip the milder vanilla lattes at the coffee bean and tea leaf in los angeles, where the employees actually SMILE when they take your order, and rarely, IF EVER, fuck up my beverage.

adult swim? apparently it's adult drown

2005-12-08T13:31:00.000-08:00

don't drop the soap

the cartoon network has been busted.
and no, i don't mean the television station that features such fine programming as "the boondocks" and "aqua teen"
you new yorkers know which cartoon network i'm talking about.
for the past six years the cartoon network has been about the most *highly* renowned delivery service in manhattan.
"what does the cartoon network deliver?" i hear the non-new yorkers ask.
why, they deliver little plastic cubes of hydroponic chronic. (the boxes also double as excellent roach motels, fyi)
now, i was never *that* huge of a fan of the cartoon network. their stuff was really fluffy, and a box of it lasted you about a day and half.
but it is a sad, sad day when the biggest marijuana delivery service in nyc gets busted.
click the title of this post for a link to the full story.

and join me in a moment of silence for our fallen heroes.

it's a dangerous thing to confuse children with angels

2005-12-06T19:42:00.000-08:00

reason # 16,278 why i hate children:

i am running down the stairs at the 34th street entrance to the N, R, Q, and W trains, when i am suddenly forced to screech my snowboots to a thunderous halt, due to a mass of bodies that has accumulated on the middle platform of the staircase. it is 6 pm on a tuesday night, so i think nothing of the minor bottleneck and pick my way to the source of the jam.
surprise, surprise. it's some horrific brat that is refusing to walk down the stairs. i sidestep around it and try to proceed along my merry way, except at this point, the mother has tired of her spawn's squabbling and has decided to simply DRAG it down the stairs.
sounds like a good plan to me.
bear in mind that the child *still* does not want to descend said staircase.
so it starts taking these steps two at a time, and begins to lose its footing, and to catch its fall (which was impossible since its mother had a firm grip on the brat's arm) it reaches out and pushes against my leg. i sneer in disgust and sidestep even further out of its grasp.
the cord to my headphones, however, is not so quick to follow suit.
the flailing child proceeds to reach out and grab ahold of the cord, yanking down on it as the beast continues to be dragged down the stairs.
my headphones are sound-isolation, and thus must be twisted into the ear canal for proper listening pleasure. so i am now being DRAGGED DOWN THE STAIRS BY MY EARS. i shout to 'let go' but neither mother nor child hears me, so i am dragged to the bottom of the stairs by this horrible child, where it promptly lets go.
i loudly say "keep your child's FUCKING hands to itself"
they don't hear me

i declare that new york city should be deemed a "child-free zone"
no children under the age of 13 permitted.

but then all the horrible borough JAPs would have their bat mitzvahs in the city.
and no one wants that.