6.28.2002

Ah ha! Some clarity! Jolene was at an event recently where she met a girl who actually works for John Frieda, the brainiacs behind those insipid Sheer Blond ads with the two barbie-drones as rockstars. She investigated. Turns out, its even worse than expected. Those smug "stars" are actually the daughters of some mucky-muck who works there, and that is an actual real-live band duo! Guess they wanted some publicity. That is so bad its great. Great like the feeling you get after spending an entire day in a mall eating cinnabons and funnel cakes. Waste.

6.27.2002

Returned from a vacation completely depressed. I mean, why even leave in the first place? I suppose one is to return invigorated and relaxed. Instead, I am spat back out into my WORKSTATION, tired, broke, staring at hundreds of emails and I just can't think of one reason why I ought to get excited. Are vacations (good ones) actually harmful? Its like a jam-packed glimpse of a dreamy, trouble-free world of hedonism, doing whatever you want. Sun, swim, frolic. No such thing as timelines, too "much", costs. I am sure if every day were like that, it would lose its charm, but how the hell would I know? I work. Sigh. Something's gotta change.

Unrelated, I did go and see About a Boy last night. I was skeptical, but I do like Nick Hornsby, and it was actually very, very good. I recommend.

6.19.2002

Attempting to find a place to meet some friends around Union Square, I fired up three NY search engines at once, searching for a relaxed place to catch up. Not that its any new news, but everything has become so ridiculously (and expensively) themed there, its bizarre. Stop here for a $10 mojito and a $40 taco, and zzzalza your drunk, broke self all the way home. Or everything made of crab meat. Tiki! Zen! Latvian! What is going on?

But see, its okay, because I am going to out-theme everyone. I would love to open a lavish, incredibly expensive theme restaurant, have a huge opening bash, have celebrity regulars. Yet the theme would be unique, so old-school, we weren't even around yet to document. It will be called Bio 101. Dishes will include things like paramecium risotto, plankton chowder, remora with toast points. Hydra fritti, blue-green algea tapenade! Look out, Manhattan, book now for your reservation.

6.18.2002

When I was living in San Francisco working for the EPA (very, very ridiculously clerical job), I was completely caught up in the vegan/hemp/save the ___/righteousness of it all. My Santa Cruz roomate was so vegan, she allowed her 3 year old daughter to be bitten to peices by mosquitoes at night, instead of investing in a fly swatter or repellant. It was all so intolerably Pee-Cee it was paralyzing.

So, I move to New York. I'll skip all the first impressions and revelations-- the shift from shock to absolute glee. The freedom! I was unburdened by it all-- I could speak my mind! I could not like people! I could actually admit that I eat seafood. A lot. I impulse shop. I watch TV. Yep.

Even still, there are lines I won't cross. Like the Hamptons, for instance. Ew. Or golf, I had thought. Until last weekend. Eric had two extra tickets to the US Open, so, thinking of Scott, I dropped my name in the hat and voila! I won. There is something about winning a draw, too, whether or not you thought it out- or even really wanted to go- if you win, you HAVE to snatch them up excitedly and jump up and down and by all means go. Which is what happened.

However! I am happy to report that I had a great time, and even got on TV at the 17th hole. If you had told me back in the Tempeh Days that I'd be chasing Tiger Woods around at the US Open, I'd have never believed it.

Here are some observations on the sport from a previous golf virgin:

1. This must be the only active sport where men can excel with large, pendulous teats and protruding tummies.
2. Its glorious to have miles and miles of lush grass, trees and flowers in which to romp-- no one makes you sit anywhere, you can romp or park it wherever, or however you want.
3. Concessions! Just as we were nearly finished our beverages from one stand, another was just in sight. Lovely.
4. Leering white men. Married, old, young. It was as if they had never seen a woman before. Odd.
5. The silence-honor code. How is it possible that no one, with a gut full of G & Ts, screams out inappropriately? I mean, simply that you can and it would be so wrong makes it deliciously tempting. A LOTTA HYPE, TIGER!

Wow. I like golf. What's next? Yipe. Memberships? Country Clubs? A "cadillac" golf cart? Oh my.

6.13.2002

A friend of mine and I have been exchanging emails, trying to spell how an accordian sounds. I say "verrrrnnnn- veeeeeeeeernn" and she says "rennh-rrhhhn-reennnhh-runnhh".

Its been so so enjoyable that now, when explaining things, its rewarding to slip the instrument in wherever possible. "So there I was at this party, surrounded by models-- damn, if only I brought my accordian."

6.12.2002

Today has already been memorable. On the subway this morning, seated across from me was a young mom with tot, and with what looked like a very proper older sister and definately her mother (in law?). The tot was probably about 4 and ne was squirming in his seat, so the mom dug out a box of raisins and handed them to him. Unhappily he fumbled with the raisin box, looked up at her and loudly asked "What about the crack?" The mother tried very hard to conceal her laughter and mentioned something about the crackers being available later, while the mother and sister stared ahead displeased.

6.10.2002

The death of the compact disk. Its not because MP3s are so nifty, CDs will lose popularity due only to the plastic uber-sticky barcode crap they smack onto the top of every CD case. Inoperable. Just got a delivery from Amazon, and tried to open a CD I've been waiting to hear. Just like always, the seal comes off in 27 different super-super sticky peices that take exactly 14 minutes and 3 fingernails to remove. Why is that? Why? The best part is that its impossible to throw them away, because they stick to each other, to a desk, baggy, side of garbage can, or in this case, my hair. Neat.

6.06.2002

Just walked into the mailroom-- you know, with the typically drab supply bins and shipping crap. There is a sad boom box propped up there, that for some reason is always cranked super loud. Loud. Just now, all alone in there stood a producer in front of the Fedex Powership completely stone-faced, going about her mailing business, while an ubelievably obnoxious radio voice belted out the details of a mattress BLOWOUT!!! sale at an ear-splitting decible.

6.05.2002

I keep walking right out of my Dr. Scholls. It happens really fast: I'll step incorrectly, my foot pulls out of the shoe and in one swift motion I am standing on the dingy street in my barefoot. Barefoot in the middle of Manhattan, like on Broadway several times. Turning back, I see the lone Scholl standing all by itself with the morning foot traffic whizzing all around it. It looks so funny by itself there.

6.04.2002

On dancing: a male friend told me once-- and I can't recall who, I think it was Dan from Wired-- that when he was little, his dance instructor in school taught him (and his class) how to dance to the tune of "Popcorn". Brilliant. No wonder none of us know what we are doing out there.
A friend of mine was set up on a blind date this past Saturday night. Just got the report back-- apparently this fellow was very friendly, very southern and very enthusiastic.

They found themselves at a pub with a live band, to which he instantly got to toe-tapping and excitedly dragged her onto the floor. Jitterbug-style; all hands-y and spins-y within the confines of a teensy dance area roughly the size of a card table. Awkwardly, she was dipped and spun throughout the lengthly Ray Vaughn cover, near-misses with colliding into other people, tables and the floor.

Immediately, she returned to her chair and he reluctantly followed. The band started up again, and he did everything in her power to get her back out there, and she politely declined. He persisted: "Awww, c'mon! Next song, you gotta get out there! It cain't be all that bad, now, cain it??"

I burst out in hysterics. I know exactly how she feels somehow-- its like you can't win-- you sit it out and you're somehow made to feel like a carmudgeonous stiff, but if you dance, well, you're having a rotten time. The zealous dance-partner will smile and spin and sweat and breathlessly await the next "number". Teeth, wet hair, too much fumbly, sweaty contact-- I can see it all. He had her out there for TEN songs. Even better, he kept correcting her and telling her "how to" do his jiggety jig. Talk about a bad time. I am still laughing.

I could tell she felt guilty about the whole thing. No. No way. How is it that hoppety-jiggy person is always in the "right"? I say sit it out. Steer way cleeer. Sit in the back. Heck, sit in your car.