Ooo, I can tell. My work today is going to CHANGE THE WORLD.

I actually left my terminal today, even left the neighborhood. Its just sterling out! Mosied up to meet Jeff for an outdoor lunch near his office.

Jeff went on a rant. I am not sure where it came from, or what started it, but he decided to share with me how much detests people with their techno-gadgets, namely when socializing. He told me that he was going to start carrying around portable tv and plop it on the table next time someone starts palming in front of him. I love that idea. All staticky and clumsy, and I picture him always fiddling with the antenna, nearly gouging people in the eye or mussing up hairs. Frequent outbursts of laughter and knee-slappings: "That Sanford! Oh, I tell you!" Rich.

For anyone who has ever lived in San Francisco, this is hilarious and so dead-on.

I saw the wierdest reunion of sorts while waiting for the ferry to the beach this weekend. All ages present: tots, teens, adults and an enormous fluffy dog. It seemed that this rendezvous was headed up by this 40-something kinky-haired woman in a trendy camoflauge skirt and leopard pumps. She was horrifying. A little girl in tweety-bird leg braces asked to pet her dog and camo-lady's response was simply: [pause] "Ehm, if he will let you." And then turned away. What does that mean? He may rip arms out? We dubbed them the Colds.

Amoungst them, there was much anticipation and talk of the arriving guests, yet every individual greeting proved painful and tense. All of them were well dressed and groomed, and air kissed quickly with wincing eyes. The good part? The last arrival. In breezed an old lady in gauzy patterned dress, cat-eye sunglasses and long grey hair pulled back in a sort of bun. She nodded hello and immediately blazed up the smokes the second she could. Smokin' Granny! Smokin' Granny clearly didn't put up with much from the Colds.

Our ferry finally arrived to carry us over the high sea. Rachael laughingly pointed to its name displayed in big block letters on the side: FIREBALL. Thats great. I like S.S. Powderkeg. All aboard!

Once we arrived it was relaxing and beautiful. Although there was a slight mishap wherein I had to crawl through a small window, my denim arse forced to shimmy all stealth-like through an area much smaller, and higher up, than myself. I actually made it without a scratch, but was stuck in a sort of see-saw position once I was inside- my feet up in the air sticking out of the window and my head on the hardwood floor, inside. That is a hard position to carefully remove oneself from, I learned. Not to mention, attractive all the way around.

Also worth noting: on my last day I strolled far down the beach in the late afternoon, and plopped down for some reading, not really sure just where I was. After a while I looked up and who was spawled out in front of me? Smokin Granny! She was reclined like a celebrity in her black one-piece and cat-eye glasses, just burning away. Excellent.

Currently my favorite lyric is by Heart: Kick it out! This is also endlessly useful as an exclamation, a farewell and as a verb.

The opposite may be true of this Train lyric: "...like the best soy latte that you e-vah had." Wow. I can't quite remember the best soy latte that I e-vah had. But that is probably because I am too busy concentrating on writing about the air conditioning.

I am in a peppermint hygenic nightmare! Between the air conditioning tornado, neon lighting and nearly audible Smoove Jazz, I am fully prepared to receive a root canal. I'm all cold and numb and stupid. I am oddly relaxed. Its clean. I will walk out of the building after sitting in this dento-environ for 8 straight hours, hit the muggy air and melt into a pile of alloys and blue gels. Pzzzfft.

Another reason to love New York. Its free and the views at night are unbeatable. Dreamy.

Today I drank some carrot juice, then I ate some Dots and then I threw a temper tantrum. Mid-tirade, I recognized what was happening-- I was about 6 years old, in the frozen food aisle at Safeway. I was sprawled out on the floor, red-faced, and screeching at the top of my lungs. I looked up and saw my mom standing in front of me with her hands on her hips, unimpressed. Immediately I realized I'd forgotten what it was I was screaming about in the first place and felt like a total dolt. Sorry, Scott. Gotta lay off the Dots.

It is stifling. The humidity, heat and exhaust combined makes this city a toxic, swampy miasma. Which is dangerous-- it makes people crazy. The taxi drivers wildly abuse the horn and lurch through crowded intersections. Impatient herds elbow ferociously. The tension on the subway platform is almost tangible. Evil plots are hatched.

However, up here on the 21st floor, we are so air conditioned that we are rendered crazy, but in a different way. Personally, the air conditioning has somehow managed to suck the zeal out of me, but I am very alert. Whether I would like to be or not. I am now a Stepford Wife. I have no original thoughts. I attend all status meetings with a pad and paper.

I notice that Jordan has the same artificial attentiveness. He stopped by today as I was about to take a bite of my sandwich. He stood over me and proceeded to tell me about the one time he bought a SKOR candy bar and was disappointed to find that it was afflicted with a choco-ailment known as "bloom". I then learned that bloom is what happens to chocolate when its been sitting on the shelf too long and the oil apparently is drawn to the surface and dries there, leaving the chocolate with a moldish, milky finish. After he was through explaining, we sort of blinked calmly at one another, saying nothing. He nodded and returned to his desk.

Reasons why it can be good to see an Ex. One can say things like:
"No, no. Not that shirt."
"I listen to Heart."
"Do I have buck teeth?"
"...oh, and side of curly fries, please."

I like people who studied at Harvard, and like to tell people they went to Harvard, whenever possible. Its fascinating, and never dull.

Hilarious line from SNL rerun: Jimmy Fallon's portrayal of a flannel-clad, enviro-rocker with shoulder-length hair. He starts by explaining about how he met this girl when he was "...hangin' at Starbucks, journalin' through some rage.." Oh, so good. So good.

Every day at 2:00 there is a "snack" lovingly put out for us at my office. We were getting spoiled by elaborate spreads and even theme days and such. Fondue! Baked goods! In recent move to keep us lean, fiscally lean (I think?), we were notified of a change-- snack would only be offered a few days a week. Which has totally messed up our Pavlovian sensibilities. Come 2:00, we jog down to the kitchen to find (if it is, indeed, a snack day) not a spread of imported cheeses and chocolates, but perhaps an assortment of sliced halva (?!) and a bowl of oddly shaped apples. More recently: sliced watermelon, a lot of it, and a bowl of crackers in thier individual wrappers-- like, from a restaurant. Melba rounds? Wow. So the other day I stood up and asked my neighbors if it was a snack day and if so, what was it. Matt shook his head but offered me some Echinacea. I could not contain myself: that is so low. Vitamins for snack? I'll take pinecones.

Two unrelated occurances which recently reminded me why I love this city:
-10:00 pm on a Monday night, walking down Perry Street with my friend. It was hot, the streets were empty. Approaching us was a old man with a graying golden retriever and a large, thick snake wrapped around his neck. The man stopped once we reached him and encouragingly let me pet the dog, then pet the snake, and shared with us all sorts of snake trivia. Truly? You don't say! Within moments the peculiar kodger was inviting us to come over to his house, which apparently was right around the corner. House? Repeatedly: "Wanna see him eat?" For a second it sounded like it could really be a good story, but logic set in, as it was unclear just who was eating what.
- My nearby park, Tompkins Square Park, I know to be a bohemian public area-- lots of homeless, hippies, punk rockers and a great dog run. I discovered yesterday that there is a POOL there. I saw little kids doing cannonballs and splashing about in a pool. A pool!

Oh, I am so cool! Look at me with my new hairdo and hip jeans. I am uproariously funny and unique: alternative even! I take my weekends now Sunday-Tuesday nights. I look for "quirky" places to hang out that have Bulgarian themes or dwell in strange hotel bars. I know rock bands! I go to weird parties. I have an uncanny, rare perspective on the world. Who thinks like me? No one!

Then I look around me, all around me, and I realize how many people- without even trying- just rock. Ideas hatching out of nothing: people writing, creating, forming, conducting experiments, pushing. And then there is me.

I like Goetz's caramels. And that SNL Goat-Boy makes me laugh pretty dang hard.

And I realize its time for me to become the Dogpatch postmaster. Or become a hippy. Its that time again.

In these rocky economic times, I think my company is trying a new tactic-- they are going to air-condition us all right out of here. Effective!

Near my office, the only local establishments for a post-work happy hour are the following:
- Blarney Star, Blarney Stone, Blarney Hole, Blarney anything
- Raccoon Lodge
- Dakota Roadhouse
The latter has been made the watering hole of choice. I am starting to think that after a year, its popularity has run its course. Per Sara: "Never again. That place reeks of bad decisions." So true! Some places just really do.

Here is a tip: when getting one's hair cut, it is best to have had a full night's rest. Or close to it. This was not the case for me today. On very little sleep, I plopped down in the supercomfy chair at my salon and ordered up the "usual". A boring trim, always to my hairdresser's oh-so-apparent dismay-- I think he'd like to experiment on my head. A lot. Today, I was too tired to fight, and it was just so dang soooothing in there. A steady breeze, billowing white curtains, Sade (what?) in the stereo, I didn't really care what happened to me. An hour or so later, I walked out onto 23rd street looking like an anchor-lady. Or a first-lady. Definitely a something-lady. Whew! I am all wuzzed up on top, in my levis and summer camp t-shirt. I feel really odd.

I am told that if I don't complete my timesheets a man named Irv is going to fly out from Minnesota and fire me.

Out at my friend's beach house this past weekend, I observed something peculiar: their neighbor has decided to build a park in his back yard. Not a public one, but his own park, complete with olde towne street lamps and walkways. Very well groomed. There isn't much room for a park back there, but I suppose if one really must have a park in their back yard, it does the job. The best part is, I am told this neighbor is always updating my friends on the status: the latest mulch patch, or perhaps news of an impending statue of some sort. He is proud. Who wouldn't be-- to own the only non-public park in town? One of your very own?

It got us thinking about creating some stiff competition. I think a volcano would be ideal! Fire Island's only volcano. But an unbelievably hokey one. Every day at 4:00 there would be an "eruption". People would gather to watch. My friends would play it off as if it really was a natural occurance-- they may need a remote control for stealth automated incitement, or one could also run indoors all swift-like and hit a power switch. There would be some rumblings followed by a somewhat audible exposion, a little smoke. The lava would bubble forth and spill out, over and down the sides and right into the volcanic earthen "tub" where it would be sucked immediately back up and inside the volcano, ready for the next day's magmatic explosion. Lots of and feigned terror and dramatic "running for cover" right there in the volcanic back yard. Every day.

Other ideas include: tar pit, doo-wop soda fountain, barber shop quartet.

I went through puberty all over again when I went home last weekend. Horrifying. I blame New York and its obsession with fashion, which, apparently, I have fallen victim to.

Dressed in what seemed to this city girl to be a normal outfit to wear to work and then to take the train home, I got off at my stop. Instantly I spotted my darling country parents, perched on the platform, straining to find me in the crowd. I waved, and saw them look at me, but right through me. I waved again, and showed them all my teeth. Yep, that's right, it was me. I saw mom's chin hit her chest, and take a few small steps forward, or backward, to steady herself. Huh? I was flummoxed. All seemed fine with Dad, who warmly greeted me and took my bag. They followed right behind me, I mean, right beHIND me -- inches from me-- as I ascended the flight of stairs, trying to chat merrily about the train ride but I could tell no one was listening. At the top of the stairs, I stopped, spun around and busted my mom nudging my dad, and pointing at me. At my butt? Fully aware that she was floored by the short-shorts and racy shoe combination, I asked her what was the matter. "Oh, uhm, you seem to have gotten taller!" Ugh. And to gang up on me? I was outraged, I felt too old to be ridiculed and at the same time like a little girl playing dress-up. Or like when I tried to look just like my artist friend Anastasia, replete with asymmetrical hairdo, heavy black eyeliner and unmatched chunky earrings. Bad. Painful.

After eating continuously for 24 hours, I decided to go for a run, even though it was 92 degrees with 400% humidity. Dad suggested I head straight to the bay for a swim to cool off afterwards. Good idea! I bolted straight up to my room after running to change into the only swimsuit I brought-- a skimpy, yet stylish, bikini. Overheated, I threw it on and hit the beach. I looked out ahead of me and noticed two people far out in the low tide, waving at me. Mom and Dad? Sheepishly, I dropped my towel and began the looong walk out to them. The absurdity of my recent swimming purchase became too apparent, and I tried to cover myself up as much as I could with my arms. What was I thinking? Unmoving, their stares were fixed. I decided to swim the distance, even though I was only in about 1-2 feet of water. I felt sort of creepy once I reached them, and dad stated bluntly: "Jeez, Holly, are you even wearing a bathing suit?" Arg. Mom snorted. We sort of bobbed about together silently for a while. I felt like I was going to yack.

Next trip home: I am going Victorian. High collar. Hoop skirt.