10.30.2002

I'm humiliated to admit this. A Blues Traveler song is currently harmonicking out of the radio here, and in middle of reading just now felt my toes curl up in my maryjanes. Painful. After college, living in SF, I totally remember checking out these guys at many shows around the city. We'd show up in packs, like 20 of us, all of us with our carefully selected jeans on, the guys in their Sigma Chi Kegger Tug-o-War Tee shirts. Maybe some bead tied around the neck with a leather stip. We'd stand around clutching our flat beerz, kinda doing this stupid "stuck in the mud" dance. Feet firmly planted on the ground, kinda groovin along, bending knees, eyes sometimes closed, head bobbing. Everyone was real aware of how much motion was going into it, you wouldn't want to get carried away. Dancing? Sorta? What the hell was that? Uck.

10.27.2002

Finals week. That's what pitching bew business is like. My hair's pulled back in a greasy bun, I'm in the same jeans I've been wearing all weekend, I'm over-caffeinated and punchy. Old cups and plates are everywhere with rice stuck to them, we all have blemished skin and politeness has flown way out the window. Lots of staring at each other intently, trying to understand what we're saying to each other with fried brainz. At times I'm unstoppable, then an hour later I want to crawl under my desk and cry. This is no way to spend a weekend, I mussay.

10.25.2002

Two Translations:

"You know what I am saying?" = I'm too lazy or dim to explain what I'm communicating to you.
"Yeah, right?" = Holy mother, that's a question? Agreement? Whatever it is, I take it to mean: I'm currently thinking about what I am going to eat for dinner, or wear tomorrow, and am pretending to be interested in what you are saying but really can't be bothered.



10.24.2002

I'll take Bare Naked any day over these guys. Unmistakingly, this has got to be the worst song currently on the radio. If I hear some pop-dork screetching out about how he's BEEN wrong and BEEN down one more time, I may drop-kick cute Diane's radio down Broadway. Oh, the angst Nickleback must suffer. Phhhhrrrrnt.

I just found myself staring at a line I just wrote: I mean, I hated that movement where you got like 3 asparagus and a piece of polenta the size of a post-it with drizzle all over it with like fudge in it. Why.

Completely separate: On the subway this morning, I sat next to these two attractive black women. One with short hair was crying. The longer haired woman was staring ahead coldly. As we rattled along underground, I overheard the short haired women apologizing repeatedly, it was heartbreaking. She was sorry. Her whole body was sorry, it was shaking and her little voice was so small: "I didn't mean to, I really didn't!" she sniffed and wiped her eyes which were full again instantly. She got nothing in response. "I won't ever do it again, I am so sorry!" Two stops later, the longer haired woman turned to her and let it fly. She was firm and collected, her voice was low. Something about how she felt she had been treated poorly, or was made to feel badly. I thought the short haired girl was going to hurl herself at the other's feet: "I know. I know, I am so sorry!" The hurt one continued on for a while as the short haired girl winced and squirmed and tried to interrupt with wet, snot-laiden apologies. Each word delivered to her ears seemed to cut her sharply.

It made me think. Not to sound all Carrie Bradshaw about it, but I'm conflicted on this issue. The wrongdoer should be told what he/she did that was hurtful. It should be clear. Getting hurt feelings is terrible, it makes me sad to even think about how many feelings get hurt every day. The hurt one is hurt, and wants the other person to understand the level they were upset. Its as if they want the wrongdoer to hurt as much or more than they did. I think I have a problem with that. Once the wrongdoer has recognized what they did, shouldn't it be dropped? Where's the limit? In a world of rules and etiquette perameters and such, there is no map for this sort of thing, it seems.

10.22.2002

Citysearch blows. What happened to Sidewalk? Now that Zagat.com isn't free anymore, there is nowhere to turn it seems.

Saturday night I was trying to cover several bases. I wanted to go to a friend's opening in Chelsea, and was also hooking up with some of Scott's friends from the Upper West Side. I figured we'd all meet and hit the opening together for a spell, then head to dinner together. Somehow I'd recalled one of the crew was a vegan, so I was trying to think of a place that would appease the carni and herbivores alike, and wasn't outrageously priced. In Chelsea, where I never go anymore. Am clueless.

Citysearch, I thought! I plugged in my criteria, and came up with this place. I mean, it got a 9.8 rating, after all, which means its nearly perfect! But what they have done, you see, is the rating is not from Citysearch's editors, but from the people. Sounds like a cool concept, but its not. If, like, three people write it up and rate the heck out of it with high marks, then that's it. Gold stars! But of course I hadn't realized this yet.

We got a little detained, so I made sure I stuffed the phone number to this hotspot in my pocket to call and move our reservations back a little if need be. Thankfully, they could take us a half an hour later. We headed east, and I started feeling badly when I realized it was quite a haul, especially for our friend in brand new stilletos. Ah, who cares, this place will be perfect, I thought. 9.8!

We rounded the corner and I saw the sign sticking out in green neon. My heart sank. Everyone was hungry and chatting merrily along in anticipation. Once at the door, I just started to laugh: it was like any sort of Asian restaurant. We could have been the Panda Garden in Cleveland. And it was nearly empty and quiet. Strange lighting. After all that, and being with a polite crew, we decided to remain and give it a go. The only other people seated near us were a ratty and quiet collegy-looking couple, and a huge 8-top with squealy babies. When my dish arrived, the waitress handled the whole presentation for me: adding the veggies and stirring it up in the hot iron pot; sputtering and sizzling up in my face in the dead silence-- I couldn't keep a straight face anymore. I assured our uptown friends that P Diddy had been there the night before.

Friggin citysearch. Although, I must admit, the service & food was just tasty, but that place is where you'd head Monday night with your boyfriend. Not when you're trying to be hotshot gallery-chelsea girl. 9.8? Best of? Yeesh.
Holy smokes. I just love this so much I have to post it again! 'Sides, its new & improved. Go here. The toones! They've really captured it with the electronica-horn.

10.18.2002

Nothing outrageous happens anymore. I guess its the economy, people aren't willing to try off-the-wall ideas as much as they used to. At least things seem that way to me, here in advertising.

Ouf. Its rotten that spirit isn't alive anymore. Deadening. I just ran into an old friend, a designer named Alan who used to work for us in NY years ago. We worked together on an epic new business pitch, I can't tell you what it was for, because I think the idea is so bizarre and wonderful, that it must live somewhere, sometime.

During the intial brainstorming, we held dozens of flat, conference room meetings. Nothing creative was blossoming. Everyone was starting to feel deflated and a little panicky. The next day, I walked back toward the designer cave to see what Alan may have come up with. I saw him sitting at his desk, his back mostly to me and bent slightly forward, working his arm up and down fervently. I was unsure whether I should approach, but of course I snuck up a few steps closer.

Casually, he turned and gave me a big grin, as is his nature, and a slow "Heyyyyyyy." I looked and between his legs lay an odd mannequin-head. It was dingy and bald; he was attempting to scrub it clean. This head was to be used in a very quirky manner as the focus point of all their advertising. It was a huge hit, when presented, but everyone was urging him to find a "cleaner" head. He silently refused. The head just kept appearing at each consecutive meeting, travelling all up and down Manhattan. I can remember many late, late nights where I'd be fixing up the head "just so", staring for a long time into its nut-brown eyes and its quasi-dirt mustache, carrying it around delicately.

The best part was that she was really no ethicity or gender; she/he was kinda of a light brown color and had real bushy eyebrows. I still have no idea where he found the thing. It didn't win us the account, but should have.

10.17.2002

I would like to share with you how I smartly spent $30 recently. I am trying to spend less money these days. I passed by a thrift shop displaying a pair of cute shoes, in my size even. Adorable, in great shape with a nice heel. I then went to Modell's and bought some 'bargain' workout clothes. I know how to save some dough.

Leaving my home this morning, the heel promptly snapped right off my stylish new shoe, and at a point where I was too far to turn back home but still a healthy distance from the subway. Its not pleasant walking in one heel and one "slipper". The gym clothes? Lesson learned: that is not an area to skimp. I looked like a cheezy JC Penny catalogue model cerca 1978, and let's just say I may as well have gone running in mosquito netting. Useless.

10.15.2002

Work today is some sort of payback, I am thinking. Ugh. Brutal. Not even worth describing.

After a useless meeting, I walked outside to sort of shake things off. It was chilly, so I returned to the lobby and was greeted merrily by the portund, friendly security guy. He smiled as I walked past and I hit the elevator button, like always. But not like always, something was different, it was the way he was staring-- at once he lunged at me just as the elevator doors opened, and said:

Oh, man! You know who you look like?
Uhm, no... I said, smiling meekly.
Yeah, oh man! You look just like.. oh, wait, what's her name? Shaking his head, racking his brain..shuffles around excitedly.
I felt I had to press: Oh uh, what movie was she in?
Umm, wait now... MM! Its coming... deeamn!
I motion for elevator button again.Tell you what, I will head up now, but will be back down later.
No, no! Hang on, now! Faces other security guards across the lobby. HEY! Guys, who does she look like? Oh yeah! Oh yeah! From that movie with the monkies and apes and shit.. yeah! Congo!
Oh! Haven't seen it... I leaned on the button.

He was still celebrating his lookalike victory with a little boogie. I jumped in the elevator while I could, and could hear him still whooping. I have to think he meant Sigourney Weaver, and not in Congo, but this one. Oy vey. I don't think I look anything like her. Nicole Kidman, however.. heh. heh.

Before diving back into my emails, I stepped into the bathroom and apparently opened the Wrong Door. Lordie. I think I now have a perm. Woosh.


Ahhh, its brisk and I love it. Fall is simply unbeatable. I honestly think it is one of the reasons I moved from the West. Its almost as if you have earned your stripes, after a grueling hot & stank August, its your reward. The air smells fresh and there is a breeze again. Lovely.

My fiance calls me Skeezix. I love that, too.

10.14.2002

Had a friend-reunion of sorts last Friday night. A flurry of emails went back and forth between all parties invited for weeks. Once a date, location and full attendance was secured, an email was fired off from a participant reading: We are a force to be reckoned with! All of us were confused by this, as I am not sure we understood what that meant exactly. Or what, colloquially, it has come to mean. A force to be reckoned with? A friend wrote, half-mockingly. Determined and fully unaffected, the author replied: Yes, reckoned with!

This was a gaggle of women friends who hadn't huddled together for a long time. Its funny with social gatherings. Our hostess lovingly had displayed gourmet and non-gourmet treats, all spread out on a table. We all pulled up chairs closely (there were manyh of us) to "visit". That part of get-togethers cracks me up. We were all jacked up and cutting each other off, complimenting, asking big questions and too hyper to really enjoy the response. Its endearing, and little awkward.

Once a bottle of wine was opened, it was quickly passed around the table, shared and another needed opening. Repeat. Corks started getting demolished, jammed sometimes into the bottle, and other times removed in parts. Things were getting very silly. The energy level was at a record high somehow. Cheers to us! One would say. Its way overdue! Clink-clink. And its Friday...

It seemed like 45 minutes had passed, when in reality it was more like 3 hours, 230 half-conversations and many bottles of wine later. The music kicked in and before I knew what was happening, a dance party erupted on the kitchen floor. People were singing, red teeth were abundant, braziers in sight, funny costumes were pulled over heads, singing, dancing, and in general: a group of people letting go. That was a force, indeed! A force I also suffered Saturday morning, I reckon.

10.11.2002

For some reason this one restaurant idea will not leave me be. I am not sure what it would be called, a sort of theme-plate idea. For example, lets just say you were mad about milk. You could head to to my joint and order the milk plate! An assortment of all the various milk products you could think of: cream cheese, cottage cheese, a tall glass of milk (of course), yogurt, a side of milk chocolate, etc. I would try and keep it all white. Or, for the carnivores: the meat plate! A nice sampler of meats all spread out there for you. Nothing else to fuss with, just meats. Its endless... even for the more odd cravings-- the pickle plate: pickled eggs, gherkins, olives rolling around, pickles. The jelly plate: strawberry, marmalade, mint. Mmm, mmm. I can't believe no one has come up with this before.

I just shared this idea iwith a coworker, I was carrying on and on about the dried fruits plate, and cracking myself up for quite some time. Little did I notice, he was standing in front of the bathroom, shifting weight from one leg to the other, with a magazine under his arm. I scurried off promptly.

10.10.2002

I think I met the world's most professional lounge lizard last night.

After work I found myself drooling over 5 scillion dollar boots at Bergdorfs, and seriously, the card they gave me was burning a hole my wallet. My heart was racing and my forehead was dewy but I restrained. No boots. Instead I met a friend at the Oak Bar, and we caught up amoungst the blue-hairs, nibbling treats out of the nut caddy. All at once this old geezer started circling our table. He was dressed very nicely, in a sporty tweed blazer and some Ferragamo-looking loafers. He was tan. He was hammered. We ignored him until finally he disappeared, only to reappear with a tumble of vodka, and all once plopped down on the banquette right next to me. He leaned in a little too close, and mumbled something to me about looking like someone, real smoove-like. He would not budge, either, even after we asked to be alone. Finally, after we flagged a waiter, he was summoned away from us but was left to sit at the bar. We got our check and when we left, my friend said that same guy did the same thing to her last year, at a different hotel lounge altogether. That's a career lizard.

10.09.2002

Mevening last night with the remote. I was only interested in not thinking for a while. Ti-red. Headed straight for the Gilmore Girls, the surfed past, and couldn't resist, this. Yes, I know, its awful, its depressing, we Americans are so gross. But I was entertained fully; she went to try and get a driver's liscense. She studied and studied her handbook for a few days, sniping at everyone around her and was obviously nervous (I think?) about it. She and even took a driving class with some poor Asian instructor-- you know, both of them with their separate controls in the front seat. The visual alone was pretty awesome. Her little dog and lackie friend in the backseat, giving her encouragement all the way. Her head reached the roof of the car.

He carefully instructed her to stop slamming on the breaks and was clearly concerned with her ability to steer the car straight. In broken english he would chirp "No brakes so soon!" and trying to sort of diplomatically keep all of them on the road. Finally, she got so irritated with the little man, that she took control of her wheel, cranked on the gas and crossed right over a double yellow line straight into a 7-11. The written test was no better, got less than half right. She failed, then yelled at her friends that she wasn't ready.

I then zoomed right over to the Real World in Vegas. Holy smokes. Everyone is completely drunk, vain and slutty. Amazing.

10.08.2002

Oh no. How is she allowed to be on the radio? What is happening?

First, it seemed(s) as though nothing musically original can sell through anymore, then Brownies closes and now Bare Naked is playing nonstop on the radio. Ouch.




At the very moment I was eating last night at Nacho Mamas, Rachael was hobnobbing with Mr. Big at an opening.
I got to pretend that I was in college again this weekend. Phenomenal. Rolled out of bed Saturday in Scott's clothes and silly cowboy hat and didn't return for a good 10 hours. We walked to a friend's all-day party. Enjoyed the warm fall sun, watched it sink and the evening come and well into the night we stayed; mixing up whatever we could, watching football, running around with loud music and cute doggies underfoot.

I like that. What I don't like, however, are these three items currently plagueing me:

1) My ATM card being left in a machine this weekend. Neat. Now I really feel like I'm in college.
2) I lost my all time favorite, old school Ray Ban aviators that I'd managed not to lose for a long time.
3) My "bed-head" is not stylish. Its like parted in the back, I slept so hard last night.

10.03.2002

Note to self: if you really want to annoy someone, send them a plucky little peice of mail, and make it certified.

Just now: hot subway ride in the middle of the workday, to a looong walk down smelly 14th, to then stand in a long post office line-- the wrong line of course-- directed to another line, and only to wait and open a completely nonsensical peice of mail that had been sent to me, yes, certified. Neat.

As I decended back down the stairs to Union Square station, the entire underground was filled with the most incredible trumpet playing. I rounded a turn and saw the artist: a beautiful young girl with a funky scarf in her hair, belting out the notes. It was tremendous. It was so clear and loud and courageous.

That is just like New York, its all hard work and then poof! You are reminded why you came there in the first place. At any given time you can round what was a desperate corner and to stumble on a beautiful garden. Sigh.

10.02.2002

Just when you start to think New York could gobble you up whole, you lose your cellphone in a cab. You are then woken up at 6:30 the next morning by a gruff-sounding New Yorka from Queens blasting into your home voicemail: Hey, yo, if you want your cellphone, I suggest you cawl your phone and I can get it to you. [CLICK.]

Various crabby voicemails are left on your answering machine over the course of a week, resulting in you meeting him at his gym in Chelsea or he is gunna give it to the first person I(he) see(s). You walk into the sweaty lobby and there he stands, middle aged, stout and holding your phone. You take a deep breath, maybe even poised to recieve a lecture.

Instead, he greets you and his face cracks into a warm smile, his eyes are friendly.

Thank you so much-- all this for my crappy cell phone. You take it, its slightly more scuffed up then before.

He nods, still smiling and is slightly awkward.

Here, please, take this for all your pains in trying to reach me. You hand over a $20 bill.

Naw, naw! I wouldn't dream of taking it. Just promise me that the next time you find a phone, you do the same thing.

Cell phone karma? You say.

Exactly.

You smile at one another and you leave feeling great about humanity. We aren't all that bad.

10.01.2002

Maybe its because I am completely unravelled today, or maybe because its near the end of a loooong day but I just got the world's most hysterical email. Ever.

A friend was all bent out of shape because she's been dogsitting and having to pick up this one gross dogs poop. Then she went on to describe some dork who was hitting on her last night:

He was real big on the facial expressions. Ya know- like lots of teeth clenching, pulling the jowls tight, lots of nodding with the eyes shut, "Zhhzxhhx, yesh, I know (jaw clench) it sounds crazy but its TRUE. Har Har"...I barely looked him in the eye but by the time he left he felt it OK to like rub my back. Weeener.