Goo. Goo.

Mushy foods, sweet pies, soft socks and cozy couches have rendered me stupid. Numb and stupid. I am a 5'5" baby. It just took me 45 minutes to unstack, and restack a pile of papers on my desk. They look real neat-like. I scotch-taped two photos on my wall. I like them. I like pictures of mountains.

What is my name? What is my job? Huh? Ohhh, right, an article in a paper today says terrible things about my company's future, and yep, the towers are still gone. Better have some coffee.

E.P.A.T.B.M.M. have won me over. Earl Pickens and the Black Mountain Maruaders-- an animated rockabilly routine Scott and I happened upon at the Lakeside Lounge a few weeks ago. Their CD is titled "Death Rides a Pale Steed". Steed! I was so taken with them, I introduced myself to who I believed to be Earl and signed myself up on their mailing list. A few weeks later, I received a shocking WE ARE BREAKING UP [due to "personal reasons"] email, announcing their final two shows. One day later, my in-box displayed an email with the header WE'RE COMING BACK, NEW YORK! announcing their reunion gig. I like them.

Nearly-audible muzak is back. I have two words: squealy sax.

Near-impossible things are being asked of us.

Since 9/11, we've been told over and over again to go about living life "as usual" but to remain ALERT. Okay, that's disturbing and not easy to do. Now, at my office, we've been told that due to the funky economic climate and so on, there will be layoffs. We don't know when and can only speculate who. At the same time, we were asked to hold our heads high and keep up the good attitudes. Is that possible?

We sit at our personal terminals, overlooking smoldering and acrid Ground Zero, wondering when someone will come along to pluck us out of our seats and perhaps deliver some terrible news. Yet remain chirpy and optimistic. Unsettling. People are starting to break.

A friend here just asked me if despondency was worse than depression? Good question. I think I would have to go with despondency.

This may be my favorite post. Ever. Namely the Lazy Panda Zombie. Paul is my hero.

Its Monday. I'm drained. Its embarrassing to admit, but today I steal great joy in observing my friend's attempts to combat their own personal rage and frustration. Rage is winning all around NY lately. CNN-feuled fatigue has set in and we are all snapping. Big decisions are being made implusively and irrationally. Ah, I am not alone.

I got an email from a friend who went ahead and chewed out a contact at some company, and perhaps has gotten her fired somewhat unfoundedly. Everyone is crabby. An email I received today about some bossperson reads: "I love when he gets all conflicted over stupid shit. Oh wait, its ALL stupid shit ....who could deny a nice meaningless meeting? Like if he could have meetings about meetings and make lists of lists all the live-long day, that would be sheer bliss!" A unique description of someone's voice as a "muffler dragging". Everyone has had it. I observed a little "incident" in the mailroom with a crappy hole puncher.

I personally have nearly moved to Montana, Maine, and Oregon at least 23 times. Why not make it Planet Zulu while I am at it? I can ride my unicorn there.

Its amazing that I still have any friends left, with the amount of complaining that I've recently been doing about having no money. Last night was no different. Scott D. and I went to a surprise birthday party last night at a swank bar and after finishing our beverages we realized we were only talking to each other, so we ducked out all stealth-style. Jumped on his bike and zoomed around the village, looking for a place to have dinner.

Typically, the choices were many: Mongolian Barbecue? 8 lbs of pasta? Frenchy-frenchy? Remembering our (my) budget constraints, we dismounted at the base of Indian Row. I broke my $10 bill for a bottle of unrecognizable syrah for $8. We'd barely begun our 6th street curry-journey when we were stopped by an Indian fellow handing out coupons that read "50% off" to a place called Kashmir Tandoori. How could we resist? We had it all: window seat right on Indian Lane underneath the blinking Christmas lights, a bottle of mysterious foreign red wine, dazzling conversation-- surely onlookers peered in at us with envy! I couldn't help but laugh thinking of Kate Hudson in 200 Cigarettes on her bargain date. We did it all, we went for the bread, the appetizers and main courses. Every course was served by a very polite elderly man in a suit with extra-combed hairs. We even got a dessert thrown in, for good measure.

The check arrived on a plate-- the total was $10.20. I nearly fell of my chair, that's unheard of. I was thrilled, we were downright thrifty! With raised eyebrows and a sort of nudge-wink move, I got Scott's attention. He looked up from the check and simply stated "I think I am going to cry." It was ludicrious! We were one of three tables in the whole place on a Thursday night, and we ate like kings, with polite service, for $5.10 each. Naturally, we tipped them 100%, so we didnt really need the 50% off coupon after all. Still worth it. I guess I've been fooling myself thinking that New Yorkers have been carrying on as usual, eating and drinking merrily. I suppose not? Thats sad.