I am in denial that there is a food chain. I live happily in my east village tofu paradise.

Its easy that way.

We were watching this great documentary on the Grizzlies in Alaska. The film was made in order to help the plight of the Grizzlies, to show that when not provoked, they are relatively harmless. It followed the bears through the course of post-hibernation, food search, mating and having babies. Then there it is. Inevitably, not all the cubs make it. I have known for my entire life that is part of these programs, and part of the Real World, but i cannot ever get used to it.

This one cub in particular was found by the stream, with quills sticking out of its mouth from a squabble with a porcupine, hot, dehydrated and dying. He was alone, trying to continue to find his mother but finally couldn't go on and sat himself in the blazing sun, blinking and confused, to die.

I understand the reasoning in these documentaries, to leave nature to itself and not to meddle. But it boggles my mind, in this world where we can't seem to lay our hands off anyone else, in any country, how would aiding a defenseless, innocent dying bear cub hurt?

We are one wacked out breed.

The search is over!

Scott and I were doing nothing out of the ordinary the other morning, sitting in his kitchen over coffee, chewing the fat. Somewhere in the dialogue he ended a sentence with the term "gone". Oddly, his pronunciation triggered the memory of a song I know I havent thought of in 20 years, and involuntarily I turned to him and responded flatly: "Gone, gone, gone, she been gone so long, she been gone gone gone so long." He sort of looked at me in that eerie way, like, wow, who just took over your body? And more importantly--

Who was that lyrical master? We spent parts of the day fruitlessly trying to recall, and happily Google came to my rescue. Of course, Chilliwack!

Word I love: Sedan
Word I don't love: Hubris

Also, on words: a friend of mine just wrote me that she almost "went for the gusto" on something. Gusto. Amazing.

I'm a really bad art buyer. Since we don't have any on staff anymore, I've been helping out over the weekend and I just stink. Don't know where to find cool images to use, have no idea what good bossanova mixes are and I just ate the props I bought for a shoot.

I'm feeling deeply sinister today. Due, I am sure, to a recent onset of inexplicable TMJ (jaw muscle spasm) making it hard for me to open my mouth more than 1". I have to eat all flat foods now. As well, I got clocked hard twice in the last 24 hours: once by a large goth woman all in black carrying loads of cargo in plastic bags. Giving her lots of clearance, I swear somehow she went out of her way to scrrrrrrrrape by me with whatever was in those Glad bags. Ouch. Later, got clocked by a student carrying a cello.

Victor, on the other hand, made my morning by starting a contest to find the ugliest picture of Donatella Versace.

I work with a guy named Eric. Eric is one of the friendliest peoples I think I may know. He's quirky, hilarious, is super-dear to his wife, and is socially conscious.

Today Eric is wearing a sort of Hawaiian shirt, a tropical button-down with small palm trees on the front. A celebration of the warm weather we're experiencing, I guess. I just passed him sitting at the long kitchen table by himself, in his tropical top, eating his lunch with knife and fork. It was really quiet in there. He was looking out the window.

Awww, shucks. Glimpses like that sometimes overwhelm me.

I commuted today from Maryland to my office, meaning I was up very early, rendering me now extremely irritable. I slept on wet hair and now have porcine, shirley-temple ringlets for hair. When I get up from my desk, the bag-strap wraps around my ankle and trips me-- every time. I dressed in the dark and my undies are 3" taller than my jeans.

Chirp, chirp! I'm back at work.

I walked down blossom-lined St. Marks yesterday morning in a short sleeved shirt & sunglasses. Euphoric! Spring! 9 hours later, I was walking down the same street towards home, soaking wet, chilled to the bone in a borrowed (still wet) sweater and umbrella. Deflated. Not Spring. I locked myself inside and dined on two beers and 5 melba rounds. Soon, soon.

I'm just going to go ahead and say it: skateboarders drive me crazy. Call me granny. Recently, I've seen no less than three boarder-pedestrian altercations. Out of nowhere, they come whipping from behind, noisy and out of control-- and if one is walking, there is no time to judge which way to move and you're left to wait, clenched up. They usually bite it anyway. So obnoxious.

Whitney's the first person I ever got chased by a someone carrying a gun with.

Well, OK, and so far the last. But lets just say, she is not only my oldest friend, but the best for adventures. Its something we try to do each year; at least two days spent being completely silly and anonymous in a fun setting. This was easy to keep up when I lived in California, she'd fly out and meet me and we'd end up in beautiful, rolling locales with tons of trouble to dig into, but of a more mature nature than, say, Mischief Night in 1984.

Since I moved back east, we've tried our best to recreate the West Coast junkets over on this side. I planned a trip to the Hamptons last spring. Turns out, we are not Hamptons people.

So this year, we decided to give the Poconos a whirl, neither one of us ever having been there. We chose this past weekend, and after loads of phonecalls and research, decided to stay one night in Philadelphia and the next head out to the country for some fresh air and hiking. Or whatever we would find.

It started out so smoothly-- Expedia helped me find a hotel right on Rittenhouse Square that was sweet and roomy; and we walked to some great joints for dinner and drinks. Saturday was more of the same. Outdoor cafes, tulips, and sunshine. But we were ready to get into something else, so we headed off to our second destination.

Whit was in charge of booking the place we found to stay Saturday. Having found it online, we were both so thrilled to be able to stay in a Country Club for the night- oooooo! At least three phonecalls from me: "Are you sure you have room for us?" We read about the great dining area, nearby hiking and beautiful grounds. I entertained thoughts of saunas and maybe even a massage. Champagne! Now we're cooking.

After cruising north about two hours, armed only with a Pocono "historic tour" mappe we arrived, saw the sign, and turned in.

The building was impressive, as we crawled up the hilly entranceway. Although, the sun was sinking. We both looked at each other once we made it up to the parking lot, in front of the main house. Ours was the only car there. The only one. Whitney carefully parked within a slot, we got out. All we could hear was crickets. Perhaps everyone was out at dinner? Must be. But the front door was even locked. What? We couldn't stop laughing.

We ambled around to the back, where we saw two golfers pulling their carts in for the day. Two thirtyish, sunburned men, each with frosty Coors tall-boys in hand:
"Excuse me, do you know, uhm, if anyone is here?"
"For what?"
"Well, we are trying to check in."
[Silence]. "You're staying here?"
"Well, we thought so..."

They put their carts away, and walked us behind the clulbhouse to where a golf shop was, passing a large, dirty empty outdoor pool. Empty pools freak me out for some reason.

"Do you girls golf?"
"Not really."
"What will you do?"

At that point Whitney and I looked back at the large, painttchipped, empty club. There were a few windows covered up with particleboard. The thought of actually getting our key and trying to sleep there by ourselves, sounded less like the night with bubbly & hyginx and more like Deliverance.

The golf-shop man tried to call the manager who had spoken with us on the phone and booked us there- was it Steve or Scott? Steve/Scott wasnt answering, so shop-guy left a message for him to come over immediately. Our two golfer friends had to head off, and shop-man stepped back inside his store.

We called this manager-person also, leaving long messages, insisting they call Whit's cell immeidately.

We walked back over to the rear of the club and peered into what looked like it was a banquet hall-- decorated with a few card tables and chairs. Dirty. Locked. We stepped down and crossed the lawn over to the dining room, with the windows covered in a clear plastic insulation wrap for the season. We leaned in to see only dirty, empty buffet serving trays and similar dusty tables. It was nearly completely dark when we both saw it: a flash from inside the dining room. It looked like someone with a flashlight, walking around and flashing it from side to side from the inside, saying nothing. It was eerie.

We both took off running, completely freaked out, around to the front where her car was. We stood there, breathing heavily: Did you see that? What was it?

We stayed out front and waited for Steve/Scott and were baffled: Why didn't he tell us this place was closed? Why did he take our credit card? And why did he not wait for us? And what was that light?

The locker room, to the side, had a light on and was open. An entrance to the building. Curious, we pushed it open. It led us through a musty, cigarette soaked, plastic-flowered ladies "lounge" to the dark lobby. We couldn't stop imagining say, if we had to stay there for the night. All alone, sleeping in the women's lounge? Unreal! We each took a matchbook for keepsake, and then sprinted out of there, started the car and left to find somewhere else, clean and populated, to stay for the night.

And no one ever called us back all night, or the next day. Creeeeepy.