Chicken of the Sea. Chicken? Sea? What? Mom thinks I don't eat any protein, ever, so this weekend while visiting home I am lovingly being served bounties of the sea in some form or another with every meal. And it dawned on me, sometime after lunch, why would anything be marketed as a seafaring chicken? I don't feel well.

There has been a visitor from the midwest sitting behind me in my QUADRANT here all week. Why would I notice that? I am a Very Important Businesslady. Pssshaw. Timidly, he piped up today to ask me if it was okay to eat a pretzel, one that he bought off the streets from a cart dude downstairs. I turned around to find a fresh-faced fellow in sandals and safari shorts. He'd already torn into his sad pretzel-lunch, so I didn't have the heart to mention all the pretzel lore I've been made aware of (what is it? rats? urine? ah well). I told him I eat them all the time, sometimes they are just a little crunchy. He began telling me about his visit and his perceptions of the city, careful not to offend. I explained to him that New York is a simply a cesspool in the summer, which led him to admit that he had smelled things on our streets that he had never smelled before, some things "unnatural". Oh boy. "Unholy is more like it", I assured him. He is leaving today. I always feel heartbroken when I see tourists in Manhattan in the summer. Someone needs to make it known to visitors: Don't do it. Do not come between June through August unless you would like front row seats to watch swirling eddies of litter, smell rotten vermin and to stick to taxi cab seats.

A friend just sent me an email that used the word schnitzel twice in one sentence. Now that's excellent.

Here is a little something I've noticed in my various Euro-restaurantings around the city. No matter what I say, how accurately I try and pronounce the item I want to order off the menu, the waitron always repeats it back to me with robust accent. Its hilarious. Last night:
"I think I would like to start with the bruschetta."
"The bruskette?"
"Yes, then I will have the salmon."
"SaLLmon, yes."
"And a Moretti."
"MorETTi."
"And a plate of sneakers."
"Sneaker."

Up or off. I am not sure, but I think these are the last three songs I listened to from neighbor's radio:
1. Carribean Queen
2. (cuz I'm crazy-crazy for you, yes) Its gunnatakeamiracle
3. Theme to Taxi

East Village in the summertime. Whew, stinky. Out last night with Rachael perched up at some new bistro type place on Ave B. Reggae music. It was sweltering, and the bartender was too attentive, making it hotter somehow. We both faked it for a while, chatting politely, my hair tied up off the neck with a cocktail straw, until Rachael nearly slid off her stool in a heat stroke. We slipped down to another place with ACTUAL A/C! The best part? This enormous, long-haired, old dog reclined languidly on the couch opposite us. Honestly, he looked just like an old man. This dog was an old man wearing a wooly dog suit. Soulful eyes and exaggerated, old-man mannerisms; he stared at us inappropriately and sighed loudly with exposed belly and messy hair. Hot. Tired. Irresistable. At one point returning from the bar I saw Rachael leaning over talking to him. Talking! Like she was telling him about a new business prospect or something, while parting his hair out of his eyes. He looked dreamily back at her like she was a T-Bone steak. I called him Senator Claghorn.

I love the idea of dance routines. I have this ongoing fantasy of busting out into choreographed dance when I hear certain songs-- but it has to take place in a setting where dancing would not normally occur and definitely with people I don't know too well. During work travel, for example, after dinner, I'd lure colleagues to my room, innocently yet forcefully, and make them all sit down on a bed. I'd be a little nervous. If there was time, I'd change into a pilly, unfashionable dance leotard and apply a little show makeup. Some blush maybe. I'd clear my throat and make a quick entrance, and race over to my boom box (always a boom box, never anything else) and with trembling hands slip my cassette in. Breathing deeply, I would begin my dance routine, but then mess up within my first few steps. I'd get upset at myself, but only for a moment, apologize profusely to the crowd and then rush over to the boom box to rewind again and start over. It takes a while to rewind and it makes a lot of noise. Oh, it would be so rich. What would my audience do? I love the idea of seeing the expressions on their faces, as I leap to and fro, spin and gesticulate wildly to the lyrics. I'd show off my cool moves like somersaults and wiggle my butt cutely, not too cutely, and I always end in a split. That is essential. It has to end with me on the ground, not all the way as I am not that limber, with my one arm behind me, shakily supporting me, and the other outstretched in the air for full dramatic effect. I breathe heavily and proudly. These are the songs that inspire such fantasy:
- Foolish games (Jewel)*
- Half-Breed (Cher)
- Uptown girl (B Joel)
- With a little luck (Paul McCarney & Wings)
- Ain't nobody (does it better)
* currently in the number 1 spot
This list will be edited as the right songs come to mind. I am open to suggestions.

I am being driven to slow insanity by barely audible music. The only thing worse than bad music (this happens to be a hybrid of r & b and muzak) is bad music with very little volume. All that reaches my earholes are high pitched synthesizers and tinny sounding drum machines. An occasional wailing vocal. And the worst is that I can almost recognize the song, but not quite. A fellow I knew in college described to me how his fraternity closed him in a small room, during hell-week or some such nonsense, with no windows for 48 hours with nothing but a keg he was to finish and an endless loop of the 80's classic "Oh Mickey!" Real loud. I wonder which I'd prefer.

I fell asleep during Tomb Raider, the action thriller. It was still better, farrrrrrr better, than Moulin Rouge. In purchasing tickets over the phone, my friend kept getting lost in the 777-phone menu. He had to keep speaking to the phone "Lara Croft: TOMB RAIDER" but it kept sending him to the Jason and the Argonauts information. After two to three rounds he nearly lost it and almost threw his phone out the window, cursing something about Argonauts. I almost fell off my chair laughing.

Chachi say "wa wa wa!"

Lordie, I love New York.

Took Cathy's advice Friday to "rock on with the SISH" [self-imposed summer hours, I am told] and strolled home in the late afternoon just in time to catch a brilliant episode of 'Sabrina the Teenage Witch'. Why. Why? Disgusted with myself, I left home and headed over to Atomic Passion on 9th street for some vintage sandals I'd been eyeing. Too expensive, but man do they rock. And man, are they high. Whoosh. Plus, the funky, tiny rocker due who always works there is so cool. He makes deals.

Clomped over to Jeff's house, where one can always find the World's Strongest Cocktail, delightful comestibles, and hilarious discussions of love, life and gossip. He gave me a little fashion show of his new duds. Gay men just have good taste. Period. I was going to a party, a sort of summer solstice hoo-hah. I brought my pal Scott, one who has a slight tinge of A.D.D. and affinity for mischief, which always makes for guaranteed entertainment. One night walking down 4th street we overheard a party and slipped in the door, only to have a room full of strangers jump out at us, yelling "surprise!", behind them an elaborate dinner spread, and then immediately "who the hell are you?!" We ended up on the rooftop talking with some Swedish au pairs until I got bored. Anyway, last night he did a great job of feeding me an enriching dinner of stolen cocktail olives, no napkin, and later a dessert at McDonalds where after a long and tedious flirt session, convinced Denise behind the counter that she needed to get us free soft serves. She did. It was good.

I woke up this morning curled and twisted like an arachnid, and knew it was a good day to treat myself to a Chinese backrub. This place I go to is super cheap and kind of weird. They usually pair me up with a male "specialist" who, for some reason usually end up rubbing my butt for longer than expected, which is both odd yet sort of excellent. Today they were was busy, and I got a woman. Holy smokes. wOw. That lady took me to a place I've never been before. InCREDible. I swear, I started hallucinating. Weird visions of of porch swings, soft lighting, oatmeal cookies circled my head. Huh? Weird. Flowers! Rainbows! Unicorns! It was insane. I tipped Linda (show name, I am guessing) way too much.

Its a muggy, rainy Saturday. Observances walking around the city today include:
- a rusty guillotine on the sidewalk on St. Mark's place.
- three middle aged Mexican men sharing a packet of peanut butter crackers.
- lots of shiny faced and frizzy haired tourists, looking disoriented and disappointed.

I am classy. I shop at a store called Broadway G (short for Generation, I believe) and today purchased my second pair of "Breakin' Hearts" brand pants.

Here is how I react to criticism, in this order, as I outlined to Paul:

1) Disbelief [What do they know? I am flawless!]
2) Extreme doubt [I am a moron. I know nothing.]
3) Rebuttle [Bitter defense or self-flagellating acknowledgement]
4) Stew. Stew. Chew. Chew.
5) Repeat.

I am so green.

My collegue Jordan just hovered over my terminal for a moment until I stopped typing. I looked up at him and he announced that he was going to take his "summer Friday", a luxury we are offered at work wherein we can take 1 Friday off each month during the summer, right here next to my desk at the office. I picture him setting up a tent here on the concrete floor, crawling in and out of the zippered "door" a lot. He would cook up instant beans-rice dishes and be very distracting. I wish he would.

I could not get out of bed this morning and repeatedly hit the snooze button. Delicious. Breeze blowing in my window, and treetops rustling outside. Could not get up. And it dawned on me how bizzare the concept of beds is. All high-up, squashy and comfy-- like your own personal chunk of bubble gum that you make all nesty for yourself. Ha! A little soft pen, covered in delicate fabrics and with various downy pillows to make it just so.

Hotmail has got me pegged for a male who needs his penis enlarged, a lot, is addicted to teen porn, and is in irreversable debt. Neat.

Frrrrrrrrrrrnt. I feel like I swallowed 31 pinecones.

My name is Holly and my anti-drug is chickpeas.

After a long day in front of my terminal yesterday, I was feeling that Munday kind of useless-- anonymous and uninteresting. I began to numbly walk home enjoying the evening air. I picked my head up and felt much better about things, even though I was wearing a frumpy vintage skirt and lame sneakers. Yes, sneakers. Turned up Elizabeth Street and headed north, when I noticed a group of stringy-haired hepkats about 1/2 block ahead of me. I had my sunglasses on, enabling me to stare rudely, when I recognized this guy with his translucent green eyes staring right back at me. He held the gaze until I got right next to him, at which point he turned and greeted me with a big smile and a warm "hello!". I gave him a nice smile back, felt pangs of excitement and horror, then ran off, clutching my straw purse. And I could really feel the oil in my sneakers and remembered that Victor had slipped in two shiny Garlic Knots in my shoes one day when I wasnt looking. Whenever I'm hot, they stink like fake butter and 'garlic'. That must have been what drew him to me. Pheromones? Fah! Garlic Knots.

Moulin Rouge! Moulin Rouge? Were they serious? I am still scratching my head. Nauseating. I hope it was someone playing a joke, if so, well done! Very crafty!

I couldn't agree more with this review.

And the most unbearable-- since I've seen it I can't rid my mind of the word "maharaja", prounounced all flared-nostrilly like the stupid Duke character. Ugh.

Lollygagged at home for hours today, enjoying the grey skies and not feeling guilty having the tube on. Watched Reality Bites-- I think its a really good thing the whole grunge-gen-X gig is past tense. All the whining makes me so tired! Although it did make me deeply nostalgic for San Francisco and working for Wired, which is where I was during those years. I remember it so vividly! The chunky Na-Na boots, florally dresses, vintagey handbags and an exaggerated distaste for the "man". Whoosh. Had I seen that movie when it came out, I am sure I would have sprinted to the nearest grungy bar to find a guy just like Ethan Hawke's character, so cool, all tormented and greasy. On Ethan Hawke: I have to confess that I truly and sappily loved him in Before Sunrise. Again, with the torment and the grease. They really go together.

I was in a meeting this morning where a man that I work with chewed someone out, I mean, really let this person have it. I flashed instantly back to yesterday, when I caught a glimpse of him in our kitchen having lunch with his rowdy dude friends. He had some sort of a homemade looking sandwich laid out neatly on a napkin, or a plate, with a little stack of potato chips conveniently to the right of it, just enough, not too many, but a nice little quantity to compliment the sandwich. A cold soda with a straw. I wondered if that was how his mom had always presented it for him, and for a moment I sort of felt a strange sort of pity, but then it went away.

There is no such thing as a fresh circus peanut. They are born stale.

Overboard trivia question of the day:

Q: What was the song that the band played during the birthday dance scene for Annie?

A: Jim Dandy (to the rescue)

Victor gave me a tall glass of guacamole. Mmm.

Guacamole = caulk. grout.

Checked out Reading It last night. A captivating two hours rich with tales of inadaquacies, insecurities, addictions and uproarious observations. Sarah Vowell won my heart, and my all-time favorite was a reading from Jonathan Ames. Look at me! I am a name-dropper! They had a rather hefty lineup for one sitting, which was good, because they were all excellent, but bad because D. nearly peed in the can of budweiser that he snuck in.

So many restaurants and bars in this city. Which is one of the amazing things that makes the city, well, The City, but at the same time it can be overwhelming. For example, we are going to an event on Bleeker and Lafeyette tonight. There must be at least 10 ultra-chic spots to meet at beforehand, all within a block. I started thinking how privileged we are, and how finecky we become.

I am tempted to try something-- pick a slightly out-of-the-way restaurant, like one of those millions of neighborhood Chinese restaurants with the wipe-down plastic tablecloths and neon lights, and only socialize there. If anyone wants to hang out with me, they have to go there. "Oh, you gotta try the pork bun! Outstanding!" while clutching my textured plastic water glass with no ice cubes. I'd often go it alone, to balance my checkbook, read or write. I wonder how many friends I'd be left with! It just cracks me up, picturing my friends sitting across from me, trying to carry on about news, crises, or updates just as if we were propped up somewhere Kool.

I look like a jackass today. I can't be bothered to do simple things like pick up my dry cleaning, so I am forced to throw on outfits such as the one I have on today. A bright lime-green knit dress with a little too much cling. I look like a cross between Lilly Pulitzer and Mrs. Wiggins from the Carol Burnett show. Or a hooker. Or just a big lime green papaya. Something bad.

Oddly humorous- this happened Friday and I am still laughing somehow. A friend here at work barked, after remaining quiet for some time, "Someone, go let the pregnant woman in who is stuck in the stairwell." Upon realizing no one was responding to his peculiar request, he got up and started racing around, opening and closing doors, looking panicked. "Oh my god! Where is she? Where is the preggo-lady? I lost the pregnant lady!" He was gone for quite some time, only to resurface bellowing "She's okay! Everyone, everything is okay." The only response was the hum of neon lights and keyboard clickings. I almost fell off my chair laughing.

From Plastic: "...Reminds me of the 100 safety slogans we conjured up one blissful night. (Keep One Eye On The Job and The Other On YOU! Make Room For Safety! Please Don't Eat the Safety! A Safe Hand Has Five Fingers.)"

Now that is funny.

I can't put my finger on why, but I am unbelievably crabby today. I wanted to pen this woman today at lunch. The pen was all I had in my bag. She was standing in front of me at Alfanoos, a tiny and delightful greek joint nearby. She was wearing her over-logoed sunglasses inside, even though it was threatening to rain on the outside, and was on her cell phone while simultaneously barking at the nice men behind the counter. I wanted to pen her big squashy ass. I started chuckling imagining if I really did. What would happen first? Would she clock me with her big century 21 bag? Throw her phone at me? Storm cloud. That's me. Look out.

My friend Dan and I went to hear David Sedaris do a reading last night. It was so painfully crowded that we had to sneak in, and only to stand far away from the stage. Way back behind the Barnes and Noble bookshelves, unable to see anything except the row of Flemish painting books in front of us. It was like listening to the radio but while standing. One zealot in front of us actually grabbed the top shelf of books and hoisted herself up to stand on the second bookshelf to see him, thereby ripping and destroying the book covers. She teetered there for a while with the oak shelf bowing under her weight until she was reprimanded by the staff, at which time she climbed down with dramatic eye-rolling and promptly plopped on the ground with her nose buried in art history books. People are wierd.

The reading was naturally hysterical. He has a true gift for making writing seem so fluid, easy and even fun. Sigh.

I keep reading descriptions of people with voilet eyes. "...and he had these captivating voilet eyes". No one has voilet eyes.

Its hard to have a conversation here without people asking, almost immediately, "What do you do?" I am guilty of it, too. In this city, it seems nearly impossible to separate identity from profession. My experimental response lately has been that I've been promoted to floor manager of the Yarn Barn. The responses are hysterical, generally people trying to make it bigger than it is: "Oh, it is a chain? Many offices?" That sort of thing. "No, its in the village."

The thing is, I dont have skills that could support my Manhattan existance, I mean, what, only my writing? Tightrope walking? So, I work at a job, one that I like for the most part, the people are friendly and intelligent-- but the fact is: I am still broke. Perhaps its time to try something altogether new. I could move to Dogpatch and be the postmaster. Or take that job at the Yarn Barn. Or become a hippy! That's it. I am going to become a hippy.

Happy! Happy! Its summer. Joyous.

It was warm out. Was that it? For some reason, last night a few of my best friends
were in the exact same mindset as I: shall we roar? We shall! So we
found ourselves sitting in a bar patio guffawing, sipping clear adult
beverages and telling each other how great we are until one by one we fell. I was second.

6.5 11:55 a.m.

I am a huge fan of web research for traveling. When it comes to accomodations,
however, its roulette. One night this weekend, for example, we went
to a more remote part of LI and stayed at a place that online had touted
its beachfront property and state-of-the-art amenities, etc. Upon arrival,
we found the glass door to the office broken with a piece of cardboard
taped to it, and inside was a tobacco-toothed Liberace type who asked
our name. He flipped open a blue paper folder where our reservation
was one of two in there... "Ah, here you are!" Best of all
was the rusty stove in the bedroom, above it a cabinet full of unmatched
bowls and tweety-bird glasses. We became convinced there was a possum
living in the stove. [No photos currently available. Camera mishap.]

On the other hand, the roulette can truly pay off. This winter, a bunch
of us suffering from intense fresh-air deficiency decided to head up
to Hunter Mt. for a snowy weekend. Some last-last minute online planning
took place, and we were immediately seduced by the grotto
(who wouldnt?). In reality, the grotto was a tiny warm indoor kiddy
pool with a 3 ft. gritty slide. No bar. However, back at the 'penthouse',
we had a sunken living room--- an honest-to-god shagg-carpeted Conversation
Pit! Mirrors on the ceiling, apache-decor, view of the slopes. Brilliant.

8:55 a.m.

The Hamptons. I am always awed by its natural beauty-- the beaches,
the ancient trees bowing over the streets, undeveloped green fields,
wild gardens, the pace. Its breathtaking. But then people who populate
it...my stars. What happened there? The women alone made it feel like
Halloween with the overdose of plastic surgery. Spooky. The supershiny
cars and fake faces, worst of all: the arctic attitudes. Occasionally
we would pass a visiting family, sunburned and overweight, shamefully
licking their ice cream cones looking uncomfortable. My heart went out
to them! It was like they had taken a wrong turn on their planned vacation
and ended up at the Sigma Chi Mint Julep Bash.

For clarity: the definition of a nonpareil [Webster]: a small flat
disk of chocolate covered with white sugar pellets.

6.1

Backlash. I am experiencing a backlash rather acutely. I don't know
if it is the city, or work, or my own silly head, but something has
happened. I love New York, but the rampant self-absorption of the multitude
here can get really tiresome. Sometimes it seems like an endless three-legged
race-- all that effort that goes into fashion, or lofty job titles,
out-chic-ing the next person. Without even knowing it, I guess I've
begun rebelling. For the past month, I can't get enough of listening
to Rush, wearing a terribly un-hip and ill-fitting tshirt that reads
Windcrest Realty, watching movies like Overboard or Baby Boom. I want
to wear Bass Weejuns, tell insipid jokes and dance unfortunately at
parties. Its glorious.

5.31 10:47 am

Favorite word currently: pinecone. Its become my unit of measurement,
as in "I'd say its about the width of 3 pinecones". Quite
handy.

5.30

Beet juice is most definitely an acquired taste. I mean, the juice
of something tuberous first thing in the morning? It makes me think,
as I am sure we all do, of just who that first adventurous soul was
to extract the juice of a rock-hard beet for drinking enjoyment-- or
who ate the first dirty mushroom or hairy coconut. Who were those pioneers?
The first-timers. And on first-timers: I sometimes think about that
when a plane is taking off, for example. Is this the pilot's first flight?
Is this dentist delivering his first root canal? Yeesh