Brother, Can You Spare a Token?
It might seem like a good idea to use your metro card to cut your drugs, after all, the metro card is, uniquely, at once pliable and firm. It's not - especially when you have just deposited your tax deductible 'transit check' into the card.

More Performance Reviews
Great. Now I have to find a way to nicely turn in performance reviews that say: 'if you weren't such a stodgey asshole, everyone here might care a little bit, and try to do a good job. but you are and they don't so stop asking what's wrong with them and start asking what's wrong with yourself.'

Today
Today I was flustered from giving speech at an impromptu awards ceremony at work. We corronated one S 'Best Russian Poet, born on December 5th, who works at ---'. It was after another Russian poet appeared at my desk and made fun of my choice in reading material. 'It is interesting that you continue to read this garbage and you never get bored. Won't you read some Proust. I have some lovely English editions.'

'But - he was rated one of the best American Novelists under 40.'

'Ha ha ha - wait, they really wrote that on the book?'

After giving the speech, I neglected to take the tea bag out of my cup of tea, and it was oversteeped and in general, bitter.

On Music
Today, 3 of my friends discuss music. sarah, capitalinflux, and cowboysally.
To be fair, one of them discusses music a lot. But why are they all mentioning country singers. I'm going to sit here until I figure out what's going on.

Sometimes Youf Feel So Validated
Academic Conference on Buffy the Vampire Slayer [via whedonesque].

Badass
jonmc mentions one of my family's favorite hangouts.

Google Page Rank

I had a teacher who wanted to seat us by our gradepoint average in high school. Prior to determining our grades she wanted to seat us by I.Q.
Come on, I mean I know I'm smarter than Norma. I was having a bad day. A really bad day March 26th, 1987.

I think that incessant ranking is bad for your self-esteem and makes you paranoid.

Ummm, feminism
I'm actually a famous antipornography activist - when Playboy did 'Women of the Ivy League' and scoured my campus for subjects. I helped orchestrate a protest that 4 people attended. Unfortunately, due to the subject matter, it got A LOT of media attention. I was on the cover of every newspaper in central New York and a professor whose class I had skipped saw me on the news. It was kind of depressing. I realized how famous I had become when a year later the ill-fated, "Danny Bonaduce Show" called me to be on their panel. I had a math test and politely declined.

So, probably because of 'my past' I get a little bit squeamish whenever vibrators are mentioned in polite conversation. It's embarassing - I don't own one. It's like having 'I am not cool' tattooed on your forehead. Fortunately, my lovely friend maccers bought me a 'feel-better-emotionally' present 2 days ago.

I'm never going to leave the house again.

Ode to Deadbolt
You went to Chicago,
Without saying goodbye
The ARA might want you.
But New York needs you too.

Body Issues
Today I went to the gym for the first time in 5 months. I haven't been riding my bike for a month and a half or so... Lately people have been coming over to my house with dumpstered baked goods and demanding that I partake in an anarcho hedonist display of 'rioting not dieting'. At the gym I weighed myself (yah yah its just a number.) and I weigh less than I thought.

I was in the bathroom at work and I noticed that my breasts have fallen. It might be my undergarments, but it might just be me. Once I reached in and pulled them up, I looked normal. I suppose I have to do this every 10 minutes or so FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.

I just found out that there is a diet pool at my work. It's currently at $100 per person - 20 people. It's who loses the biggest percentage of their body weight. You weigh in on Monday at 5:00 - the due date is Dec 13th. They are talking about raising the stakes to $500 per person. For 10,000.00 I will become anorexic. I will give up all food for the next month and a half. I will take geri halliwell inspired vitamin shots if necessary.

Some more gushing.
Do you know when you read something and it is just brilliant, and then you kind of get depressed by how brilliant it is. And then it's by one of your friends, and you kind of feel a mixture of jealousy and honor?

My Status
I have two styes in my left eye? ("Where do styes come from (how do you pluralize them?)?" "They come from being dirty.") I am really restless, I don't think I should be allowed to listen to music that might inspire me to commit crimes.

Real Player
I use real player at work. I use it to listen to This American Life, mix-cds from my friends, bon jovi cds from my coworkers, the news... Real Player is set to run continuously, and picks up the old entries. At the end of every morning edition. "Fell in Love with a Girl", by the Hives plays, and then Terry Gross interviews Jane Goodall.

Performance Evalulation
It's columbus day. You might not notice unless a) you are a trader, b) you have small children or c) there is a 6 hour parade rehearsing outside your window. Outside my office 57 thousand high school students prepare to be televized.

I'm not allowed to leave my cube though, I must fill out my performance evaluation. It's due today. Cries of *hold me* won't help. I must come up with three strengths and three weaknesses. My two darling co-workers (I say that without a hint of irony or sarcasm), N and A have wholeheartedly given up. N is putting one weakness: "I can't admit to having other weaknesses." A said, "Perhaps tomorrow will be a better day", as he resumed surfing. I am now typing this in to blogger. I am in pain. I hate my job. I'm finding it hard to find the words to turn "I am a complete fuck up who doesn't care about work." into a strength.

PLEASE HELP ME. PLEASE. THIS IS SO AWFUL.

A Wise Woman Once Said
Pimples, Wrinkles, and Grey Hair:
Pick 2.

Yes cowboysally
this is really cool.

I've Broken Through to the Other Side
It might seem far-fetched, but I performed witchcraft today. I do hate my work, and my boss in particular. I was particularly concerned, because I had to explain something to him yesterday. He doesn't really understand things too good. I was nervous, because I was determined to get my point across, and prevent the standard two week later emergency call. I brought my index finger up quickly, and pointed to the screen, touching it lightly with my nail, and his entire computer shut off and wouldn't turn back on.

In Amerikka
I'm back at work; I'm not fired; but boy have things changed. We now have this stuff called pepsi, which is blue, and 'vanilla coke'.

Oh my god
The heroin in morocco is good.

Sarah Space

I linked to Sarah's blog in latin a bunch of times, which I thought was funny, because it was in filler latin. Ha Ha.

Someone nameless and faceless (poor boy) wrote: Why is Sarah's blog in latin? What are your friends like?

I respond: All of my girlfriends are really crazy but really preppy looking. All of my boyfriends are homeless unemployed alchoholic high school dropouts. Sarah lives with a big dog who bruises her regularly. Sarah's blog is in latin because she is busy *cough*.

Sarah writes: I'm going to update my blog because you keep linking to me.

So. I win. I effect change. I bring the world... Sarah.

(Please put the latin back in as archives!)

Please, actually, the English is really, really funny. So funny my nose is running. I'm probably not done, but I'm going to pretend to be.

My Father
Staying with my brother is fun because we are family, so we know a lot of the same people. Apparnetly, the last time my parents were here my brother's flatmate and her friend were talking to each other in their native tongue. My father, who didn't realize they spoke English, was surprised, and exclaimed, "Now that's a funny language!". Petra turned around and said, "Its Swedish".

My father is also at war with MCI, the phone company. I'm not sure of the details, but I believe that he bought some amount of shares at 70 dollars a share. Now it is worth nothing. He's been engaging in a form of passive resistance and has been refusing to pay his phone bill. My brother overheard this conversation:
"Hello Brian... That's interesting, but I have already given your company fifteen thousand dollars. You will not see a penny from this house."

I saw an envelope addressed to MCI that had a little note underneath the square that says, "POST OFFICE WILL NOT DELIVER WITHOUT POSTAGE". The little note said, "MCI will pay postage." I steamed open the envelope and saw a note, in my father's handwriting that said, "We are not giving MCI any more money."

Hoai Update
I emailed Hoai saying, "Are you alive"
Today my phone rang, it was Hoai.
Me: "Hoai. Are you OK? Are you alive?"
Hoai: "Yes,k yes, I'm great, I'm in Granada."
Me: "We are in Seville."
Hoai: "I have a recommendation for a youth hostel."
Me: "Oh where?"
Hoai (asking question of someone else): "Where did we stay in Seville?"
Random Spanish girl: "Santa Maria"

The Fucker

Guiri girls
We went to eat in some converted baths - converted into an Italian restaurant, that is. The service was really bad - I changed my order once, so I thought it was my fault. Apparently not, though because at the end of the meal the waiter 'invited us' to profiteralls. That means free dessert. He then said, in spansih though, that we should come back in tomorrow and he will invite us to more items.

Confession is a lot more fun when the priest doesn't speak your language.
Mom, mom, I've met a really nice man.
He is very religious! And very kind and understanding.
There is one small problem...
We can't get married.
No, no, he doesn't have children...
Well, his job forbids it.

Malaga
I went to meet Sandra at the airport. Hoai had disappeared. Her plane was 4 hours late. Sarah had mentioned that she had been reading vampire romance novels with menage a trois, in honor of our upcoming romance novel writing extravaganza, so I though I should pitch in on the RESEARCH portion and I picked up Nora Roberts' 'The Villa'. (They didn't have any vampire romance novels with lots of menage a trois - this was the closest thing)

I read a little wrote a little designed a website to house the collaborative novels, and finally Sandra arrived.

I had booked us into the world's worst youth hostel, so I brought her there, and we were chatting, and I said, "I think we can still find a drink SOMEWHERE." Lonely Planet Andalucia from 1998 recommended Calle Granada & Calle Beates for nighttime fun. The streets were really quiet though, and really clean and really run down. It kind of felt like we were on a holleywood set - falling down buildings with marble streets. So we walked and heard some music, and headed that way. Mulligans! NO! Not another Irish pub! Sandra lives in Dublin, its probably even more painful for her. But the music was comign from next door. La Casa De Cuba. It looked really dark inside, and when we got to the door the said something and I said en englais, por favor, and they said "there is a show, its 6 euros," and we said OK and walked in. It was salsa. It was sexy. It was sweaty. Everyone was gathered around on barrels and crates of empty coke bottles watching the worlds most beautiful people dance. We couldn't really see at first, because I am 5'0" and Sandra is 5'1" but we bought servecas and found a viewing space. It was sweaty and low ceilinged an;d wild and when the show ended you could see that everyone who was watching could dance, and everyone was gorgeous and fun and drunk. I ended up protesting "no, no, I can't dance at all, at all," to no avail, and was told "watch my eyes." But the thing is, I really haven't a clue about dancing salsa, I wasn't playing dumb. My teacher was hoping the lessons would be exchanged for something else later on, but Sandra and I emerged unscathed, laughing hysterically and returned to the world's worst hostel where she saw a cockaroach and we slept with the light on.

I Attract Old People
I´m not sure what it means, but 'no hablo espanol' does not mean I don't speak Spanish.' I sit, I write, an old man comes over to me and asks, basically, if he can sit next to me. I mime 'sure'. (different from yes in that you draw your hands up to shoulder level and shrug your shoulders whilst nodding yes). I say 'no hablo espanol'. And then we begin to talk. Him in his local dialect, quietly and rapidly, me in varying degrees of grin and sympathetic look depending on what the story seems to reequire. He asks me periodically if I undeerstand: intendiendo? I say no. (Hey! Its Spanish!) And we continue. I am very nice, He is from Malaga, a Malagenio. I think he was saying how much he hates Americans, because when I said, "ya Americana, Nueva York!" He seemed to apologise, I said, "no, no" and put my hands to my heart and smiled widely. He then seemed to say, "I hit my thumbs witha hammer." To which I shoook my head no, and looked distressed. A man shouted a few things and asked us all for money in return. My friend tells me of beggars in Madrid who tug at your arm. I give 50 cents and am reprimanded.

Diary

I am exhausted from trying to speak Spanish to two old women int he parkñ I´m reading a book about the life of Marilyn Monroe, sort of, and I´m falilng into her, a becoming, sort of. And then, out of nowhere, Maria Louisa & Dominique and I manage to tell them that my brother works as a Spanish teacher and that his girlfriend lives in Seville, and that I live in New York, with the twin towers. I´m exhausted from the searching effort of trying to remember words I never knew.

Yesterday I spent the day in Alcazar, an Islamic fortress'type place and when I was ejected by a suspicious security guard who didn´t seem to want me to return my socks to my feet I came upon an anti-war protest. Protests make me cry and gigle normally. I can´t bear the passion or the earnestness, in myself, or in others, I´m not sure. But in a small country, or in a small city in a small country I am particulary ashamed by this burst of enthusiasm. This isn´t what I mean. I am overwhelmed by the humanity of the situation, the smallness of human beings.

There is a picture of my mother in an Anti-Vietnam War march at her University in Cork, Ireland, and she looks so sophisticated. She has always seemed so sophisticated to me; a mixture of Charles Bukowski, Dorothy Parker, and the ubiquitous ´mama´. There is something so arrogant and niave in protest, in life, I guess. The bold girl in the picture who had the world perched in her hands became my mother. My father´s wife. A drunk in a bar in upstate New York. A person to die one day. No longer triumphant, just regretful, maybe even regretable. She never wrote a book or a poem, and was never really able to mother me. I suppose I feel I am to blame, my mother: more brilliant, more beautiful, more tragic than me. She couldn´t fail properly though, not tragic on a grand, public scale, only tragic to me.

The great tragedy being that we think there is going to be something greater than us that we have to live for. Alchohol, revolution or kids. Something that keeps you going or forces you to kill yourself. All the faces in the crowd, her face, believing that they would be something more, that they would have something more.

Ma Deva Sundra Speaks (not by me...)

Your tower is crumbling.
You are reading this letter unconsciously.
You are not reading this letter at all.
A shield which you have created is directing your actions.
I will not speak to you in cruelty.
Please, try to be open.

Brave people who are maintaining this openness are tied in your chains.
I am not worried about them.
They are fine.
I would like to reach out to you.
You have taken away their physical freedom.
Okay.
Know that there actually is an inner freedom.
They are that.
I don't need to tell you that your hands cannot touch it.
Touch yours instead.
Humanity is ripe.
Humanity is ready.
Humanity is moving.
You know this.

Are you scared?
It is okay.
You can join us.
You throw us in a cell with your confusion but, with awareness, we open
our arms to you.
Join us.

brief rant
These fucking travelers and backpackers with their shiny smiles make me crazy. They meet, they talk, they go drinking, they probably have sex. They stay in hostels. They carry soap with them at all times. They smoke in pubs, when drunk, but HATE the smoking cars. They share things, tips, food, banal stories. They run from culture to culture and stay within their own culture - backpackers culture. Give us your 10 - 20 euro a night and you can stay in a bed near other horny 20 year olds. The have credit cards and guidebooks and parents back home who are putting straight pins into maps of Europe.

travelers mack
"Hey, what´s up. I have the same guide - Lets Go Spain & Portugal."
"Crazy."
"Yeah, these guides are really good."
"Not a lot of tourists use them."
"Oh, are you reading Salinger?"
"Yeah."
"I´m reading ´On the Road´. I haven´t read ´Franny & Zooey´."
"No?"
"Ha ha, I´ve read, of course, Catcher in the Rye"
"yeah, that was good."
"I´ve been separated from the other people I´m traveling with."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, but its ok - it sjust for the train ride."
"Oh."

Please, won´t someone notice me? I have the "Rick Steven guide to Spain and Portugal (As seen on public TV)" from 1997. Everything is in pesetas. I´m reading a good book, too. I wasn´t in a knife fight - the cut and the rip in my T-shirt are concidental. I swear. Wait up!

"So, do you practice Spanish in San Diego - you go to state, right?"
"No, I work, well, I don´t have a job now - nobody works in San Diego. I´m a physical therapist."
"That´s cool"

I just drooled on my pants. It´s probably bad whatever to make fun of people.

GWB
I´ve hated him objectively - for policy, for lies, for arrogance, and I´ve hated him personally for telling dirty and racist jokes to the men who sat across the hall from me in an office building in Austin. I never though he would become president. I am shamefully naive at heart. I talk a good talk about people being horrible, but I never believe they will be THAT stupid or THAT cruel. I am disillusioned easily and often, but my rebounding ability is strong.

Spain and Morocco are at war right now, over a rock. Nobody lives there but it was Spain´s rock until recently, when Morocco ínvaded´ this uninhabited island. Me and my friends are planning to go to Morocco, but everyone in Spain keeps telling us that ´the situation right now is not so good´. I am obtuse, and I keep thinking that the Spanish people are referring to the rock, and I think to myself, "but I am not Spanish." I realized today that "the situation, right now is not so good" because I am an American and I live under a regime hell-bent on ravaging every Arab country so that an uneducated cowboy can remain president.

Madrid

IN a moment of unbridled stupidity I refused to give either of my traveling companions any details as to where I would be, nor accept any information as to hwere tehy would be. I refused to make any plans at all, vaguely saying,"I´d like to go to Portugal."
Hoai was in Madrid, I was in Madrid also, and I was sitting in the center of Spain waiting for him to show up. As I´d pre-destined in my mind. Its more fun like this, always, I´m trying to tell myself. I remember traveling to Dublin, last year, looking for a friend of my then-boyfriend, when suddenly Nick yelled out, "Lyncher". and the punk down the street turned around and ran over to us, handing us his keys and saying, "I´m late to work". You develop an instinct for finding the kids. I don´t have such an instinct, and usually end up wandering around the suburbs and housing complexes in bucharest. So I´m sitting here in Puerta del Sol and keeping an eye out for Hoai.

Language Barrier
Arancha´s mother bought me a skirt and a shirt after she met me. It is a comment on my appearance. The skirt is purple and satin and the shirt is frilly and flowery. So Arancha and I went ´shoe shopping´ to try to find something appropriate for me to wear. After some time trying on various shoes and translating adn getting new sizes I asked the poor man, quanto est? and Arancha, seeing his puzzled look said, "How much ees dis?" and proudly held up a shoe. We laughed all the way home in her gold car, listening to Sting on KISS FM.

Mikah Hota Fo, EnU, Britnea pea, Tom Kree, Silbetay Talon, Etin
AKA - I am a guiri.

Las tnight Nieves came over. Nieves is a wild Spanish girl who lives in an orphanage and learns English from my brother, Owen. She isn´t an orphan - she takes care of orphans. Nieves and I met a few years ago, and I liked her but we couldn´t really speak to each other. I don´t know any Spanish. I didn´t take it in high school or anything. I kind of sit around and laugh when the others do. She´s really funny though when she can´t find the right word she shrieks "OWENG, OWENG. My English is terrible and its your fault. You left for two month". Owen told here that she was supposed to be hanging out at Fitzwiliams,´"with the guiris" (giddies - (n) moronic american tourists). "I have too many Guiris in my life already. People are starting to talk about me here."

I have my period, I am in Spain:
dolor de regla
Thankfully, my brother is here to translate for me.

I´m Going Posh
The first leg of my journey has been remarkably unremarkable. JFK to Charles De Galle. I did manage to smuggle on a tin whistle, my weapon of choice. I wasn´t asked the security questions. I don´t think they pay attention at all. Last time I flew I brought my knitting with me. That´s two needles, people two. What does a tin whistle look like on a plane x-ray? Shouldn´t it warrent some attention?
Two charming Frenchmen sat next to me. I tried the "Asian Veg Meal" for a change of pace. It was alright, plane food, you know. I should go and take the RER instead of theshuttle bus, but I don´t think I have a lot of time. My plane leaves at 10, and its almost 7Ñ30. I´m just going to sit here like a big fat American wimp. But first, I´m going to get an espresso. Earlier everyone was speaking to me in French automatically. Now they are speaking to me in English. I guess I´m tired and witless. Here´s looking at you Spain.

Shatter Your Illusions
The other day I had what might be considered an earthshattering conversation with a friend of mine.

All of my life, when arguing about the trappings of capitalism, I have been met with the finality that is the statement, "so why does everyone come to America to get surgery/healthcare?" No matter what you say about infant mortality, literacy, etc. this argument holds water. No more.

One of my best friends and coworkers, when recently diagnosed with liver problems, returned to his mother land for surgery. We share health insurance, a United Healthcare PPO. He could go to any doctor and any hospital in NYC. He bought a 900 dollar plane ticket to Moscow because "there are good doctors there."

EMERGENCY
please, wont someone tape buffy for me?
(The punctuation on this keyboard is confusing...)

Trade For Garlic
I love creativity.

Creative Time is pleased to present GARLIC=RICH AIR, the second and third phases of St(r)eaming the Fields, a field harvesting and public network project conceived by Shu Lea Cheang with funding provided by the "Challenge to the Field" award from Lyn Blumenthal Memorial Fund for Independent Media.

In a fictional "after the crash" scenario, organic garlic has been recently ordained as new social currency, serving as "credito" for a global shared network. In the first phase of this project, Cheang organized the harvesting of 10,000 garlic plants, cultivated by organic farmer Tovey Halleck in upstate New York, by generations of old and new media artists this summer. These organic cloves, which took 10 years to cultivate, constitutes the garlic standard in this artist initiated economy.

Ten Men Dead
The book I am reading right now makes me want to curl into a little ball and die.

I cry on the subway to work, I cry on the subway home from work. I was most recently seen crying on the steps of the public library at lunch time.

It also makes me wish that there was heaven and hell so that I could feel like there is justice.

Oh and I HATE maggie thatcher.

Unlikely Criticism
Nelson Mandela: The United States of America is a Threat to World Peace

Canadian PM Links Sept. 11 to 'Arrogant' West

A conservative breaks ranks to oppose an Iraq attack

(via mefi)

and
the people of new york

Possible Romance Novels
A girl who lives in the east village and doesn't have sex with someone who eats garbage.

A girl who is in love with someone else's gay boyfriend for months at a time and then decides to sleep with one of her best friends who had previously slept with another one of their friends

A cowboy and a virgin are trapped together for one night in some sort of disaster. Since they both think they are going to die, they have sex (which is okay because the heroine does not have to take any responsiblity for her sexuality, she is going to die!). In the morning they are saved and go their separate ways, even though they both have fall in love during the night. Then 2 to 5 years later the cowboy meets this little boy and becomes friends with him. But the cowboy is really a millionaire rancher. The mom (the virgin) finds out and panicks because the cowboy will take her baby if he finds out it is really his. So she makes up some stupid story about the boy. The Virgin does something stupid and the cowboy has to help her solve some problem and they fall in love. In the process the cowboy figures out the boy is his. He gets mad at her for not telling him the truth and leaves. But as he is leaving something bad happens and he has to save the virgin and the little boy from death. They both realize that they love each other. They get married and have allot of babies

Sarah (the latin is very relevant), and Jeanine.

Longing
I have, no tea at work.
I have no toilet paper at home.

September 12th
So yesterday was the worst day. I woke up, and found that someone had smashed their car into where my bike was parked. By rear wheel is gone. It looks so sad. Somebody had, two days earlier, slashed my tires.

I went to work, and behaved like a busy beaver, and then stared at my shoes and looked mournful whenever I passed anyone on my way to the bathroom.

I went to visit Angela, my psychic, and she said that I'm about to break out of a cycle, and I will be wildly successful, and I'm really bad ass - so then I felt a little bit better.

Oh, and I heart j-po

results
I can feel your hands, as I imagine them to be on me. They are big, like you, and I feel warm in you. I feel close, and a strange and scared physical longing. I don't have answers to this question I've never posed before. Where, when, who, how - what is honest, what is boredom? When will i feel you, or will I feel you? What makes far away and close, and breaking down boundaries into a freedom that's new. The freedom to be in love and to feel natural, open, and unrepenting. This freedom I want to feel, but I mix it with earthly constraints - like presence and absence, and knowing and not knowing, and missing out on what could be because I'm focusing on what is. I know you, but I want to know more, and I know that you want to pry inside me, and pick through it. To get what is there; to see what I hold, to know what I have. I want that from you too; I want to feel you in flesh, and I want to know what you are.

I remember when I came off the plane with a million thoughts running through my head, a million voices, not the least of which was my bladder. I saw you at the gate, and I saw you smile with real happiness, and I was dressed in a green tweed jacket that you had never seen before. I must have looked strange to you. I pushed you aside, not emotionally, not yet, and went to the bathroom. You met me again - with the same hopeful smile, but there was lingering confusion there. From that time we haven't connected - you blamed it on an affair that I never had. I don't know what I blamed it on- maybe one smal death of childhood too many? I can still see you, and I still know and love you, in my mind, but we can't see to return to before I came off the airplane in the green tweed jacket when you looked at me with confusion and hurt for the first time.

to check
Anarchist women's oral history project
Ugh. I've been up all weekend with the September Free Events Calendar. I now have to go to work. I hope I will be ok.

Jordan Catalano + Andy Warhol + Barnabas Collins = Pelle Almqvist
I've never fantasized about having sex with two boys at once, until after the show at the Hammerstein Ballroom, when I envisioned Johnny Knoxville and Pelle Almqvist petting me and telling me that I am beautiful and interesting. The are naked with covers conspicuously draped (my fantasies are distinctly g-rated).

"I'm going to take America by storm." "No, that's impossible", "No it's not" And you have the Hives. Your New Favourite Band. Beautiful, nordic blue eyes, and a seemingly unending supply of crystal meth feed the enthusiasm. From the "Thank you and good night" after the third song that precipitated several 15 year olds stomping on my left foot to rooster walk, these guys are Rock Stars. And they played good music, and I must go now, because I have some things to think about.

On Dalmatians



It was a summer job. I was assisting at my father’s veterinary hospital.

Someone brought in Dalmatian puppies. Dalmatians are often deaf. That is why they make good fire engine dogs.

The woman and child who brought in the puppies wanted to euthenize the deaf ones. I held them while my father checked their hearing. There were four deaf dogs – out of six.

I understood what was about to happen. I had assisted with euthanasias before. I was twelve, but I understood that you have to put deaf dogs to sleep sometimes. I didn’t even really mind.

We injected the four dogs and I took the woman and child to the front to pay. I checked them out and walked to the back to start cleaning the table.

I ran into my father and I saw tears in his eyes.

Amy's Orgasm (no link provided, because I don't believe you should access any related site and give them traffic)
I wanted to go home. I have so many unfinished projects that I am in a constant state of nail-biting, tension, and furrowed brow, but Elizabeth wanted to see a movie. We settled on Amy's Orgasm, which I had wanted to see, based on the posters, scattered throughout Manhattan, of the most contented woman ever. She was so smug looking, so enjoying her own private little secret, and I know that I have the same expression when I, you know.


Anyway, any movie is better judged for its previews than it's posters, as so it began. The first was the biography of a strong man in Germany during World War II, who was 'not aryan' and suffered many trials and tribulations with much bravery and strength. The second preview was detailed a psych experiment in which one group of normal people become prisoners and one group guards. Predictably, bad things happen... The third, and most interesting trailer at the Angelica was for a Susan Sarandon film in which some child has died, or has almost died, and Susan Sarandon grieves with the leftover children, or their friends, or their lovers, or some random people who are younger than her, oh, and her husband. The really interesting thing, though, is that in both this movie and in the Susan Sarandon film that was a trailer for Mrs. Parker and The Vicious Circle at Upstate Films, in Rhinebeck New York, in a cathartic and triumphant moment of truth, Susan Sarandon throws things and pronounces that throwing things feels good. Perhaps, (to be honest, I can't remember the trailer for the 1995 film all that well) she even sets the thrown objects on fire. I haven't seen that many Susan Sarandon films, but I have admired her work to preserve, from Guiliani's now benevolent-seeming regime, the Brooklyn Museum. I can't stop myself from thinking, 'go girl'.



So, yes, the movie. I laughed a lot during the movie, but while I was laughing I was aware that the impulse was none too pleasant. It did remind me of a time when I fell down a flight of stone steps and the boy I loved was there. He laughed, and I was cross, but I could tell it was a strange reaction; it was more a result of his feeling uncomfortably embarrassed for me. While watching Amy's Orgasm, I was embarrassed to be a filmgoer. I wanted to melt under my seat; I felt so nervous that I was really laughing uncontrollably throughout the whole movie.


There were a few fuzzed out contented scenes, and unfortunately I can relate to an insecure, overly analytical, ivy-league educated, 27-year old girl. I don't have a 'Jewish butt', as Amy did, but I have something much worse: an 'Irish butt'. I don't believe that a self-help book has ever been written by an idealist. Every day Amy walked around jiggling in tiny tank tops, and every evening we were witness to her masturbating in a bra. I have never met a woman who puts a bra on before bed. I also believe, contrary to the new sex-in-the city style of having haggard old women play pretty young things, Amy isn't 27. Just to be careful though I have been wearing my eye cream every night.


I hated Good Will Hunting because it seemed like Matt Damon, or whoever it was, made a movie so that he could be a hero. Amy's Orgasm surpassed any realm of normal self-servancy and self-promotion. I want my money back.

On Decentralization
The End of Arrogance: a really good article discussing the need for decentralization within anarchism.

Punk Is...
I've been reading a lot about the history of punk lately. I guess that everyone has read Please Kill Me, but me. Anyway - there is something important to punk: freedom. We are all running around with so many constraints, and so few of us get to really live. I can remember feeling like the world was wide open to me. There was nothing stopping me, from doing whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. Now, I am trapped in this nightmarish work 10 hours drink 6 hours sleep 8 hours cycle. Something has to give or I will be left an old lady with nothing to look back on except a few non-witty comments in a bar. So, punk, is saying, fuck that. I'm going to do whatever I want whenever I want and I am going to live my life (my only life) with wild abandon. So that's what is important, a feeling of self-reliance, and self-knowledge, and self love. It's not being afraid of failure - it's not thinking too much about the future, and not dwelling in the past.

I'm supposed to be updating this?
I've been a bit negligent lately. I've been alternating between playing bridge and riding my bike. I just don't feel like writing.

I'm in trouble at work for the first time in my life. I'm not sure how to react to that. I've been accused of being sloppy. Me, sloppy. I'm not sloppy; I'm obsessive compulsive. I think that this is what happens when you decide to stop drinking and doing lots of drugs: your work suffers. The thing is that I've decided to LIVE LIFE. That just isn't very conducive to being happy in a cubicle. I'm not paranoid, or hung over, or high, at work, but I am bored stiff. There might be something to be said for drugs keeping you in line - as I feel way more out of line with work lately. How could anyone who wasn't on drugs do what I do?

The plan, the masterplan, the reason d'etre: I am going to become a professional gambler. Who would suspect me? I'm getting better at bridge, and I can count cards pretty well. Either that, or become a rock star.

oooooohhhhhhh
It's my first news link; I feel like elizabeth.

Justin Lipson wrote an article about the politics inside The Indypendent.

The gist is:
My friend wrote an article on dumpster diving for The Indypendent and they are refusing to run it.

Scandal in the left! No, wait, scandal amongst wanna-be journalists, trying to separate themselves from the left in order to get better jobs later on.

Comments are particularly pathetic, especially where John Tarleton claims they are getting more controversial and should expect this sort of backlash. More controversial to people working for change in society? More controversial to activists?

karma
I was laughing the other day at stories that people were telling about being shat on by birds. I said, loudly, 'I've never been shat on by a bird!' When someone told a story about being shat on twice in one day.

Paybacks a bitch

Dewey
I just entered the hallowed walls of the public library. Maybe it's a new lunchtime thing - where I wander around and pretend to love academia.

I haven't spent a significant amount of time in the library since living in Texas, where I decided to spend my days in the State Capital Library. I split my time between watching the State Senators in action and pouring over pages laughing at funny zoning lawss. It was much more of a trying to be funny thing and less of an actually funny thing. I also had great plans to create a guide to the berst free swimming places in Austin - it never really got off the ground.

One of my neighbors (erica from the applicators) kind of took pity on me, and asked if I wanted to start working with her at the local preschool. I didn't really, as I was frightened of work, but I said yes, and before I knew it I was falling asleep during naptime with kindred spirits

Like a beacon
Last night I stayed up too late. I climbed out of a window of a building onto a fire escape and up a flight of fire escape stairs where I transferred buildings. Then over to another building and up 14 flights more of fire escape. I could see the water tower; two skinny ladders and over the top with a leg up. By this time we were all nude, and there was this tiny little latch that you could let yourself into.

I can't express how cool it was to be on the rooftops and to go swimming in a water tower in New York city. A tiny bit of light, and some nice fun people.

Shiny and Red
My friend loaned me a bike for a few weeks, I'm forever indebted as this little mode of transportation has drastically improved my life. Critical Mass tonight at 7:00. YO.

community in the city
Today I went in to get my regular 'superfood' at the local deli. I didn't have any money though. I didn't even have to look mournful; the man behind the counter said: bring it to me tomorrow.

My faith in people restores easily.

you people are wierder than I thought

From my Launch station:

Title: I remember You
Artist: Skid Row
- Recommended by Fans of Jets to Brazil -

Modern Love

There is nothing better than playing tag and other assorted games all night in a park, other than meeting someone you really like.

Wall Street 101

Last year during tax season, my friend lost a packet of cocaine at work. He did look for it, but only really so that he wouldn't have to call Gyro, the massive man who shows up in a white jaguar outside my work with the goods periodically.

He walked ito the Managing Director's office, where he feared he might have droppped it.

The MD said, "was that your cocaine I found on the floor?"
My friend said, "yes" in the most broken English he could manage.
The Managing Director said, "that's good shit."

Romantica

373 Fifth Avenue at 35th Street

I was wandering around with my two friends in the wrong area of town, looking for something to eat. It was about 6:00, and nobody had eaten anything all day. We passed by a nice seeming restaurant, and deemed it too expensive. We saw a health-food restaurant, and deemed it, well, too healthy. we saw a small little restaurant, called, romantica and we thought, hey, lets give this a try.

Well, contrary to what the name might imply, romantica was not a small little romantic bistro. it resembled your school cafeteria, but with candles on the tables. there was however a nice-seeming waitress, and a free glass of wine with dinner, so we decided that perhaps the food would be better...

we ordered our dinners, and were informed, after some wait, that there was no spaghetti. someone at the table next to us was informed that there was no parmesian cheese. everyone who came in was wearing north-face jackets and cameras around there necks. we thought that perhaps romantica didn't have a regular crowd, just a group of people in the wrong place at the wrong time who made the same mistake we did.

i can't really express to you how bad the food was. it was, by far the worst food that i have ever eaten. i have eaten government surplus food. i have a friend who used to make spaghetti and salt for dinner for me. the wine, for you catholics, was worse. the wait staff had apparently never been to a restaurant before. there was nothing redeeming about romantica. we waited 15 minutes for the check. we asked for it three times. we knew that they should have paid us for ruining our nights.