Alcoholic Frankenboobie Speaks!

a dear john letter to MBNA after an 8 year relationship

2005-05-13T13:20:00.000-04:00

Dear MBNA,

Baby, I know we've been together since freshman year of college, and this time has been really special to me. I loved watching you grow from regular, to gold, to platinum, and I thought it was cool how your maximum balance threshold went from enough to buy a hotdog to enough to buy a private jet. You were so suave.

But honey, you've changed. We used to cuddle, and talk about our feelings, and you used to charge me 11% interest. You barely carried a balance, and I always thought we would be so happy together. Now, though, you've put on an unbelievable amount of weight, and you come home smelling like cheap wine and hookers. Every day you become more of a bastard at a predictable, calculated rate. I have nightmares about our ongoing relationship and sometimes muse about faking my own death to end this pattern of abuse.

It's like the cycle never ends. We make up for a little while, I stupidly give you some money that seems to disappear into the wind, and you shave off a few points of interest ... but then out of nowhere I get a letter from you and you're back to charging me 18% (variable, you lout) with a minimum payment that rivals the gross domestic product of a well developed nation.

I don't think we should do this anymore. The svelte adonis idling in the driveway is Bank of America. I've seen him around, and this morning he put a pretty silver card on my finger and proposed low fixed rate balance transfers for as long as we both shall live. I accepted.

It's not that you didn't try. When I would call you, your service people always smiled gently and whispered in a sweet, soothing southern drawl while they repeatedly violated me. I thought that was a nice touch and I always appreciated it in the following days when I could only sit on pillows. In the long run, though, I just don't think we're right for each other. Public interest law isn't enough to support your habits.

Sorry.

SEF

madre

2005-05-08T03:59:00.000-04:00

My. Mom. Owns. (My dad does too.)

Happy Mother's Day Mom!

interior, Rittenberg Law Library

2005-05-02T20:27:00.000-04:00

From behind, Sue is seen typing furiously on a rather dirty looking IBM, surrounded by statute books, highlighters and outlines. In slow motion, her left hand reaches for the cup of coffee next to her. She drinks it. A loud DING sounds; at the bottom left corner of the frame a small icon of a steaming cup of coffee flashes "100." The screen floods with psychedelic colors, and Sue is imbued with a preternatural understanding of bankruptcy law.

there has been an outbreak of catholicism

2005-05-01T19:46:00.000-04:00

So instead of studying I went to mass with Vincent, who recently got an award for being The Man (true story; he got a standing ovation for it). In a new wrinkle in Catholic idiosyncrasy, today they had The Blessing Of The Brains and I had my brain blessed. It wasn't as invasive as it sounds.

I giggled a lot while thinking about that episode of Futurama in which giant brains attack Earth.

exceedingly compelling diet update

2005-05-01T17:19:00.000-04:00

Have decided that 800 calories/day is insufficient both for weight loss and sustenance of mental acuity.

Have decided to multiply acceptable caloric limits by a factor of 10 to encourage flagging metabolism, foster more focused studies, and rationalize $49 dinner bill at Taco Bell.

Have decided to call 911.

is that linkin park I hear?

2005-05-01T14:36:00.000-04:00

Lo, upon the second floor of the Rittenburg Law Library came a monstrous, oppressive wave of DESPAIR.

No I'm just kidding. I can barely focus long enough to study a single paragraph. Last two finals ever are on Tuesday and Wednesday. Originally I planned a Herculean effort as a proper sendoff from law school; then I reverted to my general disposition and decided to only do the bare minimum required to graduate on time (cf "D is for Diploma"). The final I took on Thursday had a multiple choice section. I flat out guessed at almost all of them without even a soupcon of anxiety. I took that final, that exam worth 100% of my grade, like I was filling out a user satisfaction survey at a mall food court.

That being said, I had a brief run in with The Fear this morning. He woke me up at 7 AM, a good 90 minutes before my alarm was set to go off, with a metallic clicking sound. I opened my eyes, squinted at the clock, and then saw he was perched comfortably on the edge of my dresser, scratching Vespa behind the ears with one rotten, disfigured claw, and smoking a cigarette (through a delicate ivory holder, no less) with the other. His legs were crossed at the knee, and one of my silver flip flops insultingly dangled off of his gnarled foot, attached mostly by the strands of mealy, brackish goo that oozed from him. He exhaled toward my open window, marring the already grey morning light, and grinned psychotically at me in a rainbow of black and amber.

I got to school four minutes after the library opened.

craaaap

2005-04-27T20:24:00.000-04:00

The many excellent movies I have watched in the last week are somehow not helping me memorize the 50 single spaced pages of criminal procedure I need to know cold in 22 hours. I'm also remarkably well rested, and I spent the better part of the day discussing the merits of lesbian pornography and legalized prostitution with my fellow overachievers. The screwing to which I've subjected myself was not as delightful as my inner narcissist had hoped.

I did, however, apply to take the bar exam today. Did you know that it's cheaper than some other bar exams because many people have to take it over again due to RAMPANT FAILURE? Also, the Fresh Meadows Post Office is mostly adorned in bullet proof glass, which made me nostalgic for the exceptionally well fortified White Castle at Fordham.

In conclusion, NOT RIGHT NOW. Mommy needs her happy pills and special stingy tasting water. Go play with your intellectually stimulating, gender neutral learning toys. Guns. I mean guns.

donut ice cream sandwich

2005-04-27T00:24:00.000-04:00

One small recipe tip from Jenny Craig before bed.

Donut Ice Cream Sandwich*

Ingredients:

Two chocolate cream-filled donuts (anything without a hole in the middle will probably do)
Ice cream of your choice

1 egg
1 cup milk
1 cup flour
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 teaspoon baking powder

Preparation:

Mold ice cream into convincing patty shape, sandwiched between donuts. Freeze the everlasting crap out of it until it's really hard.

Combine everything that isn't a donut or ice cream in a bowl, wisk until smooth.

Thoroughly coat now turbohard donut sandwich in batter and immediately deep fry until golden brown. Cover in hot fudge if desired, or Nutella if available. Eat, then nap off the sugar crash.

*Conceived while severely imparied and laughing too hard to breathe at a Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robbins Mecca with Gill. Recipe genius hit right before the paranoia set in and I became paralyzed with fear of the 15 year-old behind the register.

All-Dessert-And-Fruity-Drink-Diet

2005-04-26T23:38:00.000-04:00

I'm going away somewhere warm and wonderful and bikini requiring after finals. As such, I'm on a severe crash diet (it's horrible during exams; during which I exist mostly on fried things and sugar) to open up the way for...

The all dessert and fruity drink fat fest with the MRE! Yay! That is correct - dessert and alcohol for EVERY MEAL!

It makes my chest hurt a little just thinking about it. In a good way. :)

productivity is slowing

2005-04-23T21:03:00.000-04:00

Have four hours of library time left. Let's see how much productivity I can compromise with superfluous blog posts.

Bacon? I heart you.

Done!

2005-04-18T15:11:00.000-04:00

Paper done, presentation done; surprising coherence displayed.

So tired.

THANK GOD

2005-04-18T13:00:00.000-04:00

1:00 PM! April 18! Presentation in an hour! Paper finished! Hungry and sweaty and about to keel over from exhaustion!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

11:41

2005-04-17T23:41:00.000-04:00

SO TIRED. Page 31. Going to bed. Presentation will happen in the morning.

8:22

2005-04-17T20:22:00.000-04:00

I don't even know what happened but I added a paragraph and it went BACK to page 28. Am strongly considering leaving law school.

If anyone is keeping track, the paper is 38 pages long in Courier New.

8:12

2005-04-17T20:13:00.000-04:00

29. Thank God.

7:58

2005-04-17T19:58:00.000-04:00

DOES MICROSOFT EFFING WORD HAVE A BUG THAT PREVENTS PAPERS FROM GOING ONTO PAGE EFFING 29? GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!

NO ENGLISH PHD. NO NO NO NO!!

7:41

2005-04-17T19:41:00.000-04:00

Still on 28. Dizzy from being so tired.

7:17pm

2005-04-17T19:17:00.000-04:00

Still on 28. So tired.

6:38PM footnote chicanery update

2005-04-17T18:38:00.000-04:00

It appears a line between each legitimate looking, 10 point font, single spaced footnote added three delicious pages to my paper. 28.

I heart PTAI

2005-04-17T18:22:00.000-04:00

Last night was the Mock Trial end of the year dinner. Things started off innocently at my house, with my Mom going crazy, prom style, on the requisite parental photos in the living room. Did I mention I'm almost 26?

At the dinner, Bob, my sort of boss, and the MRE, my sort of boyfriend, gave me an MVP trophy for working hard at the trial stuff this year. It was funny and very sweet. Last night was a wonderful time and I felt quite loved. Did I also mention they served wine at the dinner?

Anyway, this is me, licking the trophy at a bar much later in the night. I'll post more of these incriminating photos as I see fit.

Did I also also mention my giant scary paper is due for real tomorrow? Page 25.

red light district

2005-04-17T18:07:00.000-04:00

This is the least inappropriate of a slightly inappropriate series, actually. Hi Mom!

show me your happy face

2005-04-17T18:01:00.000-04:00

Playtime with the MRE on the LIRR.

9:12PM

2005-04-15T21:12:00.000-04:00

Alone in library and kind of scared. Also realized my footers were too big; resized and lost a page; am totally pissed off.

8:00 PM

2005-04-15T20:00:00.000-04:00

Page 27. Alone in the library and getting nervous.

7:39PM

2005-04-15T19:39:00.000-04:00

Top of page 26. Progress substantially impeded by nice dinner at local Chinese restaurant with MRE. I attended in the aforementioned hobo ensemble. Am full, sleepy, and slightly spinny from the MSG.

5:44PM. I hate the Citadel, and the South Carolina government in 1993.

2005-04-15T17:44:00.000-04:00

[Footnote 51] Id at 559-60. In 1993, The Citadel was the only single-sex state supported college in South Carolina, and had been for two decades. The Resolution served no other purpose than to protect the Citadel’s exclusionist policies on the theory that the single-sex regime created “diversity” in the higher public school system. Id at 560. The Resolution does not address why the protection of “diversity” requires that women be categorically denied the benefit of an elite education.

5:12 PM

2005-04-15T17:12:00.000-04:00

Middle of page 25 (rocking the legitimacy).

Friday, 4:22PM

2005-04-15T16:22:00.000-04:00

Arrived to the library five hours late wearing brown linen pants that I pulled out of the hamper and neglected to iron, a pink ringer that features a slice of pizza making a frightened "O" face and reads, "Please don't eat me, I love you" and lovely chunky charcoal colored sweater that doesn't match anything I'm wearing. It's Olsen twin chic.

As you can tell by the font, the battle for timely graduation has again picked up. I'm giving myself until 10PM tonight to get the Con Rights paper near final draft status. I picked up the much blogged-about first draft from my professor today, who called it "excellent," to my enormous surprise. To thank him I have vowed to hit at least 30 pages in Times New Roman 12 with TNR 10 single spaced foot notes.

Will be spending quality time with Shannon Faulkner until further notice. Yes, this is what I'm doing with my Friday night.

As one cadet at the fucking Citadel said about court ordered sex desegregation, "We weathered the Civil War, we can weather this."

Asshole.

10:53PM: the "oh, fuck it" hour.

2005-04-10T22:53:00.000-04:00

32 pages in TNR with 10-point font unseemly double spaced footnotes. 28 pages with regular footnoting. Close enough, either way. Time to paint my nails, watch the L Word and send my intellect back to the musty basement in which it waits out its extensive confinement.

10:27PM

2005-04-10T22:27:00.000-04:00

Middle of page 31. Bored out of my skull. Arguing for a repeal of the combat exclusion laws like a toddler who wants a cookie. "Waaaaaaaaaaant COMBAT! *sob* Just doooooooooooo it!"

9:28PM

2005-04-10T21:28:00.000-04:00

Justice Scalia Hates Women. Flirting with page 29.

8:27PM

2005-04-10T20:27:00.000-04:00

The L Word is on in an hour and a half. We're back to double spaced footnotes and we're on page 26!

8:11PM

2005-04-10T20:11:00.000-04:00

Friend with much experience in publishing finds double space footnotes unseemly. Am concerned. Middle of page 22.

7:33PM - Advanced Trickery

2005-04-10T19:33:00.000-04:00

Hugs to Vincent; I put my footnotes in 10-point TNR and double spaced them because I am DYING HERE and I just want to french manicure my nails and watch TV. Page 25.

7:22PM

2005-04-10T19:23:00.000-04:00

Threatening to eek over to page 22. Still in a respectable font. Need to talk about two more cases and then I have to start actually using my liquified brain and analyzing things.

5:52PM

2005-04-10T17:52:00.000-04:00

Page 19. "Administrativa" is not a word? At least not in English?

5:20PM

2005-04-10T17:20:00.000-04:00

Have cracked a Mike's Hard Lime to facilitate my already preternatural understanding of Equal Protection law.

4:57PM

2005-04-10T16:57:00.000-04:00

Beginning of page 18, footnote 100! *fireworks*

4:30PM

2005-04-10T16:30:00.000-04:00

Beginning of page 17, haven't done anything inherently sketchy yet.

3:33PM

2005-04-10T15:33:00.000-04:00

Middle of page 15. I actually read a case!

2:57PM

2005-04-10T14:57:00.000-04:00

Middle of page 14, have been chatting with MRE, who informed me than 23.5 pages in TNR = 31 pages courier. The question is: short respectable draft in TNR or long puffy draft in courier?

2:05PM

2005-04-10T14:05:00.000-04:00

Breakfast consisted of two white castle burgers, a hot pocket and an orange. TIME FOR THE LAW!

1:36PM

2005-04-10T13:36:00.000-04:00

Middle of page 13. Stopping for breakfast. The courier debate rages on (page 18 in courier!).

12:58PM

2005-04-10T12:58:00.000-04:00

Beginning of page 12. So sad. First line of 16 in courier, though. Woo. Best font ever!!

12:29PM

2005-04-10T12:29:00.000-04:00

Beginning of page 10 (end of page 13 in courier!). Starting to crave salty crunchy things to help the writing process.

11:09AM

2005-04-10T11:09:00.000-04:00

Three hours and nine minutes late. My bed was especially warm and soft so I chose sleep over timely graduation.

11:55PM: Oh, whatever.

2005-04-09T23:55:00.000-04:00

I'm not the woman I was in college. Case in point I'm writing this paper sober, and it's five minutes to midnight and I don't care enough to stay awake to keep working. Will wake up at 8 tomorrow and do whatever I can between 8AM and 8PM. I don't give a crap about the rest of it.

Off to find most comfortable available PJs and clear the bed of the 40 cases and law review articles that currently infest it with sorrow.

11:39PM

2005-04-09T23:40:00.000-04:00

Almost at the beginning of page 8. Haven't said anything of substance yet and have not talked about the COURTS or any CASELAW in my CONSTITUTIONAL RIGHTS PAPER. Getting tired and cranky.

Have been IMing for 40 minutes. Considering just going to bed. My hard work allergy is kicking in. I should have uninstalled IM.

10:28PM

2005-04-09T22:28:00.000-04:00

Page six. Miserable.

Page 8 in courier new, though.

9:40PM

2005-04-09T21:40:00.000-04:00

Halfway through page 4. Conversation with Pat:

Me: Do people in law school write papers in Courier 12? Is that acceptable?
Pat: i hear [prof.] will accept a toilet paper wrapper that you wiped your ass with.

8:59PM

2005-04-09T20:59:00.000-04:00

Accidentally broke pull tab on cap on can of fat-free Redi Whip I'm having for dinner. Opened said can with my teeth. Nothing can stop the Future Infantrywoman of Tomorrow.

8:45PM

2005-04-09T20:45:00.000-04:00

Page three. Slow going. At this rate I need to write continuously for the next 27 hours to finish. Or, I need to switch to courier new so I can get some sleep tonight.

I heart block quoting.

7:47 PM

2005-04-09T19:47:00.000-04:00

Page 2!

7:09PM

2005-04-09T19:09:00.000-04:00

Two lines, two footnotes down. On page 1 at 2.5". Contemplating the ethical constraints on double spacing twelve -point font footnotes.

6:31PM

2005-04-09T18:31:00.000-04:00

Full page outline completed. Sort of.

5:47 PM

2005-04-09T17:46:00.000-04:00

Half page outline completed.

I am so full

2005-04-09T16:42:00.000-04:00

I am so full of shit. For years now my friends have toiled under the weight of theses and other breeds of grad school albatross and I have a thousand times imparted an unrealistically upbeat, consistent message:

50 page paper due in a week? You can do it! You're smart!

I had no right to say that. The appropriate answer is, that's completely fucking impossible! Just poop out whatever you can to fill up the pages! And then I'll bake you cookies and take you out drinking! (Also proposed: feed you fried ice cream and wrap you in sweatshirt blankets).

Now, you see, loves, I have a thirty page paper (draft, thank GOD) due on Monday. It is 4:39 PM on Saturday afternoon and I have not written a word. I haven't even finished my research. I don't have an outline, I don't have a legal conclusion, I have no idea what I'm doing. I also do not understand the subject matter and what little research I have done has spurred 10 questions for every answer I've found.

But before Monday morning there will be a 30 page paper about SOMETHING, even if it's written in Wingdings to disguise the lack of content and expand the font.

So, start time: 4:42 PM. Updates to follow.

*Notice how much more room this post took in Courier.
**This post is dedicated to Megger, who has successfully written about six hundred of the aforementioned 50 page beasts over the last few years.
***Happy Birthday Jaimes! I'm sorry my proscratination has precluded me from seeing you tonight.

abort mission

2005-04-06T20:19:00.000-04:00

Blog posts, emails and text messages that begin with the words "I feel" are hereinafter banned from my whitefenced acreage of internet.

Meh.

Happy Anniversary!

2005-04-03T19:25:00.000-04:00

A year ago today I got kicked off the Journal of Legal Commentary, a highly unwise administrative action (read: dick move) that sparked six weeks of crazed litigation with the then-eboard and --- my first blog. Mazel tov!

suddenly, my car got so much louder

2005-03-31T00:37:00.000-05:00

I think it was around the time these two pieces no longer connected and my car started spewing noxious fumes with abandon. Notice the muffler pipe resting on the rear suspension.

this used to be my muffler

2005-03-31T00:36:00.002-05:00

Most recent ex, most recent muffler.

the time has come for the giving of the props

2005-03-29T23:48:00.000-05:00

My car (99 Civic) sounds so badass right now. Mostly because the muffler fell off of it tonight.

Things have been weird with my car for a long time. Back in the day it would whine when I stepped on the accelerator, which is not a big deal. More recently it started making a metallic grinding sound which made me more nervous but I compensated by keeping the radio up loud enough to cover the sound. I assumed that eventually the sound would take care of itself.

And it did!

But the engine got ... louder ... which I could also handle because the car has 83,000 miles on it. I figured it was part of the aging process and I was delighted that the grinding sound had subsided (I believed that whatever belt or bent piece had either snapped or worn down enough to again be ignored).

All was well until the car started losing power.

For those of you with properly functioning cars, what I mean by this is that very very little happened when I stepped on the accelerator. No reassuring push forward, not even a lurch. Just a lot of RRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr and no payoff. It felt like I was almost in neutral.

I was also okay with that until the thunking sound happened and the car got incredibly loud. Not yet deterred, I assumed something had fallen over in my very messy backseat and decided to press on, which I did until I started to panic because of the clearly inverse relationship between how loud my car was and how much it would react when I stepped on the gas.

My plan for the night before Car Crisis 2005 was to talk a walk with and briefly snuggle the MRE, who had had an annoying day. Accordingly, I was nearing his home when I made a shrill phone call informing him that "my car is running really loudly and it's not really doing anything when I step on the gas and I'm really scared and I'm just going to see if I can drive it home! (holds phone out near dash) It's so loud, right? Can you hear how loud it is???" At that point the MRE asked where I was and instructed that I pull into a nearby parking lot so that he could check to make sure nothing was disconnected in my engine (the MRE is a carboy). I accepted his offer.

He met me in a King Kullen parking lot about ten minutes later. I spent the interim time starting and turning off my car, over and over again, cringing at the thunderous shuddering at both points but also kind of buzzed on the fear that it would explode, which seemed like a distinct possibility at the time.

The MRE looked at the engine, then looked under the car and called me over to see what was wrong. I hoped for a paper bag or something stuck under the wheel. Instead, he showed me a pipe hanging out in the ether under my car. That pipe was my muffler, and it used to do whatever mufflers do, until it decided to declare its independence from my car's undercarriage and emission system. It was connected to a spot near my bumper and was otherwise resting on my rear suspension (go, rear suspension!). The MRE cut off what little brittle rubber held the muffler to my car and put it in my trunk. It's cool that he knows how to do that. I was impressed.

The real time consuming part of the evening followed when I had to clean out my car to bring it to MRE's mechanic. I'm a slob with the muffin crumbs in the cup holders to prove it.

Finally, drove powerless, insanely loud car to MRE's mechanic, and MRE drove me home. It was a very pleasant half hour on the road, and though this is the worst car trouble I've had (except that stretch of about a month during which my brakes absolutely convulsed whenever I tried to stop), it wasn't at all stressful.

So, dare I say, the MRE took very good care of me tonight.

Generally unblogged about, but it was a great weekend too. Tsunami benefit was amazing.

ps you rock my world

2005-03-28T00:31:00.000-05:00

I don't know where we're going
I don't know what we'll do

I can't not share this with you

2005-03-25T12:10:00.000-05:00

www.manties.com

I can't figure out who the target audience is for this product. If it was men who liked seeing other men in ruffly, satin things, there would be more pictures. However, I get the distinct impression that this is for men who like to see themselves in ruffly satin things. Not saying I have a problem with pseudo-crossdressing masturbatory narcissism. I totally don't. I'm psyched that there are day of the week Manties.

I also think they HAVE to call their plus size collection Manatees.

My ADR paper is never going to get finished. 11 hours and 50 minutes to go.

films about ghosts

2005-03-24T12:14:00.000-05:00

All week I've been having strange dreams about death. I attribute them to excessive pre-bed cupcake consumption and the mild self inflicted Ring II trauma.

Among other things. They've all involved the MRE.

In one of them I got killed by zombies while he was on his cell phone telling his father that he preferred his own method of burying zombie corpses to the one his father had prescribed.

In another I was dead and really pissed off about it because everyone knew but wasn't telling me. I woke up with my cell phone in my hand trying to call the MRE to yell at him for knowing I was dead but not saying anything about it.

Last night I had a dream that a bunch of us, including the MRE, were dead, but not in an unpleasant way. I was hanging around outside a regular looking apartment building that existed in the middle of a cloudbank. I flew around a bit and played in the clouds with some of the other people who were there. At one point I was driving around with the MRE talking about how we were dead but it was okay. I thought it was some very mellow manifestation of heaven but the other people who were around started acting weird. Then there were muppets involved. Every once in a while there would be a bright white light on the roof of the apartment building and everyone would run for the roof in a panic but no one ever ended up going anywhere (there was some connection between Kermit, the light, and getting to heaven) and I realized we were all hanging out on a quarter acre cloudbank/apartment complex in our pajamas, waiting out time in purgatory. I spent some time IMing the living, who seemed okay with my deadness, and then the dream disintegrated into me getting a job in purgatory working at a news station for a woman whose eyes were made of a runny dark blue liquid.

That last part is because of a sex discrimination case I'm analyzing for Alternative Dispute Resolution about a female newscaster in the 80's who got fired for not being enough of a painted vacuous whore to read the news to midwesterners.

The death in dreams symbolism is usually the end of a phase in life or a change in thinking about something. Evidently there's also something to be said for being able to take the predominant emotion from the dream and meet it head on in your waking life so you just get over whatever is nagging at the subconscious and generating the dreams. The predominant feelings in the above dreams were fear, anger and .... chillness? I don't really know about the last one. Everyone was a little crazy trying to make it to the roof of the building but I was mellow the whole time. Maybe it's more about the end of law school than the MRE.

Whatever.

mad

2005-03-24T01:21:00.000-05:00

Mad. Often, and always about the same thing. This may not be fixable.

The more attached I get the more furious I am.

good start

2005-03-19T00:14:00.000-05:00

The MRE both remembers my favorite flower and left it on the windshield of my car.

Judged last trial ever tonight. Graduation melancholia looms.

Things I did not know

2005-03-17T16:18:00.000-05:00

Chuckles: BTW, are you aware of the double entendre?
Susanna: The MRE? Actually I'm not.
Chuckles: MRE = Meals Ready to Eat in army-speak. They're disgusting but nevertheless devoured ferociously by starving GIs.
Susanna: Jesus.

ode to chuck's prescience

2005-03-17T00:40:00.000-05:00

As Chuck once so beautifully stated of the MRE, "I cannot believe how lucky that fuckhead is."

Never has he been so on point.

Though I vowed to cut back on dedicated ramblings about the MRE, this is not at all heartfelt and is actually of party neutral interest. For a first person narration, see his own personal blog. (It's also a good study in how the gender gap changes syntax, diction and perception emphasis choice about a single event).

Very early this morning, someone stole the MRE's Dad's car from in front of their house in Manhasset. An appropriate amount of panic replaced breakfast, and the MRE went on with his day.

This afternoon, I headed to Starbucks with the MRE because he has not yet experienced the transcendent joy of Chantico. (Yes. It really is that good. Thanks J!) On our way back to school, I asked him to drop me off at my car, which was parked several continents away from the main campus. We were talking and missed my turn. The MRE made a random turn onto a random street while trying to turn around. Emphasis on random. There was no other reason for us to be there.

Halfway down the street he stopped short, looked out his window and exclaimed, "That's my dad's car!" while gawking at the little black convertible parked next to us. I took a few moments to serious question his sanity. We got out of his car and lo and behold, there was his dad's vanity plate on the front, and his mom's CDs in the passenger seat, and the unlocked, undamaged, lovely car gleaming innocently in the thief chosen parking spot, miles from its home garage but literally in the backyard of our lawschool.

The forces that had to align for this confluence of events are mindboggling.

The MRE called his understandably happy but alarmist parents, we hung out with the cops for a bit, and I left him to reclaim the car and meet up with the aforementioned alarmists.

Imagine the luck.

Ode to the Ides

2005-03-15T23:11:00.000-05:00

The honesty in this made me laugh.

Sue: How are things with that girl?
Anonymous friend: ya things have slightly changed, i think i got a shot. i gotta just ask her... but i see her and my balls shrivel up.

Rock on, anonymous friend.

FOCUS!

2005-03-15T10:54:00.000-05:00

Jesus H Christ in a cardigan sweater, enough.

I'm going out to lunch with my father, then to school to immerse myself in academia for the first time all semester, and then I am going to stop the constant writing about the MRE. Entirely too touchy feely.

Apologies.

Job, bar exam, apartment.

feeling yourself disintegrate

2005-03-15T00:02:00.000-05:00

From the Teenage Girl Blog archives.

I know that I've pretty much only been blogging about the MRE recently and you're so bored you could die. Totally understandable impulse. Other things have been going on (doctorate in education! Yes. Finally. I'm giving law until I'm 30 and then I'm going to Columbia) but this is all I really think about, to the point of paralysis, and it is making me insane.

Strap on your schandenfreude, my loves.

My face has been frozen in a permanent "huh?" mask since the MRE took a still beating heart, put it on the table in front of me, and basically instructed that I do what I will even as I sat there sharpening knives and firing up the hibachi.

I've since vacillated wildly between feeling awful, feeling nothing, feeling overwhelmed with tenderness, and feeling completely fucking furious that he has the audacity to do this after how much our break up hurt. You're tired of hearing about it, I'm tired of thinking about it, but regardless, it is the linchpin of the Longest Day Ever.

Original plan: go the the Hayden Planetarium and hang out. None of the above happened.

********

On the Longest Day Ever

Movement the First: Trial ad class. Passed cute, innocuous notes with the MRE. Duration: 3 house.

Movement the Second: Tried to figure out how to get to Manhattan from school. You say, Sue, you're already in Queens, how ignorant of public transit are you, really? I say, incredibly. Given school's location in the borough, I might as well be navigating my way from the Heart of Darkness to Kansas in a dinghy. Planned route, lied to parents about whereabouts. Duration: 1 hour.

Movement the Third: Tried like hell to actually make it there. Said attempt included a bus and about 30 trains, including an appearance aboveground and a reswipe to get on a train that ran in the right direction. Then walked a million blocks uptown trying to find somewhere nice for lunch. This was done in shoes that didn't fit and left my feet bloody by the end of the night. Along this route I also managed to scratch my finger rather badly and bleed over a good half-mile of Amsterdam. Duration: At least 2 hours. More I think.

Movement the Fourth: Lunch at the Westside Brewery. The drinking ban was broken in spades with 3 Magic Hats (truth be told the drinking ban was broken the night before with a mock trial pregame beer undertaking). Lunch was admittedly very nice. Good, funny conversation. The MRE looked wonderful and it felt pretty.... okay. Duration: an hour and a half? Who knows.

Movement the Fifth: Not drunk enough to be a mess but riding out enough of a buzz to decide that we stop in a pool hall (the fuck? I know) next to the restaurant. Good will toward MRE lapses into vindictive fury. Yelling is not exchanged but many unkind words are hurled at him, once accompanied by a whack on the melon with a cue stick. A good time was not had by all. Duration: two beers and a hell of a mood swing; in MRE time it was probably endless.

Movement the Sixth: We stumble out into the night and suddenly things are better. We meet two people who are on their way to see the Allmans at the Beacon. Other things of note occur but I can't blog them in case my parents are reading this. The MRE and I kiss several times. We hold hands and slowly wend our way to a party downtown. Duration: I have no idea.

Movement the Seventh: We make it to said downtown apartment, scene of some of my worst moments as a person on this earth. Am starting to quietly freak out about the ramifications of all of this. See MRE's best friends for first time since break up (they were nice). Leave almost immediately to call friends in search of some serious grounding and a voice of reason as to wtf I'm doing revisiting a place that no longest exists in my life. It's Saturday, the core four are busy. I stand outside and stare at the apartment building for a good five minutes deciding whether to make a run for it or stay. Yes, I know this sounds crazy. My wallet + bag are up there, along with my MRE, so I stay. Duration: not long enough for the walls to close in.

Movement the Eighth: We go all the way back uptown to someone's party, which really was lovely. Spend some time sitting on the lap of the MRE, having a nice conversation, then seriously lose my shit, grab my stuff, and take off with the full intention of going home and never looking back. MRE follows me to the street. A long, horrible, long, horrible, long time coming full out dressing down of the MRE occurs on the corner of 81st and York for the entire world to see. The MRE endures a wrathful (did I mention long? It was long. Really long, I think it took at least an hour) diatribe about how much it hurt when he broke up with me, how much more I deserve than this, how I'll find someone better, and how I don't care that he says now that he loves me. The MRE handles this amazingly well. There should be some kind of award for taking all of that. It was the least reasonable thing that has ever, ever happened. I made the MRE jump through hoops then punished him for making it through; it was a straight self exorcism. I know you think I'm awful but it was unquestionably necessary to going forward in any kind of meaningful way with the MRE, friendship or otherwise. Duration: catharsis is more of a state of being than an event to be quantitatively measured, really.

Movement the Ninth: Eventually we leave our street corner of discord and try to go home. While waiting forever for the train to come, the MRE hugs me and I cry on the platform. Duration: this Felicity bullshit is taking entirely too long.

Movement the Tenth: The train starts off crowded but empties quickly, ultimately leaving the MRE and I alone on the train with the insane man across from us who is alternately shouting and muttering about slavery and his hatred for white people. I spend the train ride running my fingers through the back of the MRE's hair and trying to make peace with the idea that we're going to die before we ever make it off that train. Duration: at least an hour on the train; 5 minutes wondering if people's lives really do flash before their eyes when they die.

Movement the Eleventh: We miss our stop and the train halts at the end of the line at the corner of Should Have Worn Running Shoes and Never Going To See Your Parents Again. When we emerged overground, the only things that were missing were the obligatory group of bums warming themselves around a trash fire and the distant ringing of gunshots. We rambled through the desolation for a bit, trying to figure out what to do and where we were. Eventually we found what I thought was a gypsy cab but what might have just been a guy in an old, big car who knew how to get where we were going. We finally made it back to school and had to get in by sneaking under the gate. Duration: 25 minutes.

Movement the Twelfth: Undaunted by the searing pain caused by my ill fitting shoes, MRE and I make it to my car. I kiss him goodnight, then barely sleep the entire night. Any sleep I have is plagued with nightmares. I spend the who next day feeling terrible. The MRE isn't doing well either.

*******

Overall it isn't a bad microcosm of my time with the MRE when we were together. It was hard to get there, it was really nice in the beginning when we did, a lot of brutal, wasted fighting happened in public places, it was interspersed with a lot of happiness, it ended weirdly, and a lot of sleep has been lost.

I still don't know what I'm going to do about this.

do we need to know this much about each other?

2005-03-14T15:18:00.000-05:00

We've hit a point in human existence where the only people who aren't blogging are the geriatric set who fear technology.

We know everything there is to know about everyone.

This is the death knell for mystery and privacy.

Oh well. Because irony is still hanging on by life support, post about the Longest Night Ever and the cataclysmic upheaval involving the MRE to come.

scenes from lower manhattan, back in the day

2005-03-10T12:59:00.000-05:00

I remember this.

In more ways than one, we need some clarification

2005-03-07T14:57:00.000-05:00

Teenage Girl Blog!

Jarett read yesterday's post and expressed concern that my confusion is over marriage-possibility-related concerns. It's not.

For the record, wanting to get married to the MRE or anyone else was a delusional phase that I went through in my early-ish 20's and is a vice I have since renounced.

This is the problem with the MRE.

Option 1: we don't get back together, I move off of LI and start new awesome job/life in la ciudad with side project of looking for the Next Big Love, which may or may not exist.

Option 2: acknowledge that I was very sure for a very long time that MRE was The Big Love, period, and that it might be a very big mistake knowing what we know now to let it go that easily. I am aware that this might not come around again. Part of the reason dating has basically been abandoned at this juncture is that I really don't see myself feeling much for anyone right now, and I'm not sure I should (can) be feeling for anyone else other than the MRE. However, the lightheaded giddiness that accompanied the first appearance of the MRE may never come back and I'm not sure I want to foreclose on the chance to feel that again for/with someone else. I'm worried that I'm going to devote myself, even a little, back to the MRE and in the interim miss out on someone who didn't/isn't going to rip my heart out and poop on it, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom style.

It's a bad deal, it's rife with complication, I have no idea what I'm doing. The MRE and I are connected in a very real way that six months of hacking away at couldn't dispose of, but the hacking worked just well enough that I can't take him back.

Will be moving into city and, NBL or not, living out most of option 1 anyway. It's TBD who, if anyone, will be sleeping next to me while there. MRE is chained to LI for at least the next 3 years out of contractual obligation to his job, among other things. This is either a good way to have both freedom + the MRE or a good reason to stay on my own.

More sleep deprived than ever, no job, on the verge of failing out of my last semester of law school.

but in truth I'm lost for words

2005-03-07T01:42:00.000-05:00

Substantial things are going on that might not see the light of blog in detail, mostly due to such serious confusion over them that a coherent post isn't really an option. I'm also running out of battery power on my laptop.

Your dose of disapproval for the day: I've been slow dancing with the MRE when no one else is around, and I plan to continue doing so. It's happened twice and both times occurred immediately before or after some heavy discussions about the merits of the not-together status quo. It helps me think and it's been platonic, kind of. (Stop looking at me like that.)

Post dancing tonight I explained that I'm not feeling sparks and the connection that was there isn't anymore and that I don't think we can get back together and that eventually we'll be okay with other people. In return, he told me about how happy he was when we were together and how he thinks that breaking up was "one of those life-changing decisions" and he didn't mean it in a positive way, and a thousand other things that I'm no longer dying to hear but which jarred me nonetheless. I'm jaded to the point of numbness and comfortable with the idea that we're never getting back together but the whole thing smacked of such disarming pain and sincerity.

I cut it off early because my belly & sternum were tingling. My brain held up very well because it's had months to work with this idea but my heart cannot figure out what the fuck is going on. I'm aware that it's serious. As in, major and probably irrevocable decision between two clear ways my life could go.

B: (without even looking up) Cut & run.
H: I got nothing.

Sleep deprivation is not helping this.

present tense

2005-03-04T00:42:00.000-05:00

Driving home tonight, unusually alone on the Northern State, the streetlights passed over the hood of my car in a way that made them seem like each one burnt out just as I drove under it, creating the impression that the highway was continually disappearing into nothingness immediately behind me. I am unsettled.

gah

2005-03-02T19:38:00.000-05:00

B paced. And paced. And paced. The windows rattled.

siouxnami relief

2005-03-01T12:08:00.000-05:00

This picture made me laugh. If you zoom in it's a Where's Waldo of my last decade with Gill and our predominant personality quirks. It's too bad you can't see her glow in the dark tongue ring or Di's copy of A Hundred Years of Solitude. Thanks to J for the picture. (Tsundance Music Festival, 2/19/05) .

damn you, Barry Watson

2005-03-01T10:48:00.000-05:00

So, in the grand tradition of disapproval generating posts, I'll confess that a) I saw Boogeyman. In the theater. While the Oscars were simultaneously broadcast on television, b) I had my ears covered by my hands and my eyes closed for extended sequences of that inane waste of two hours, and c) between the tinkling of the beads that serve as my closet door, the sundry large dark objects I have hanging from shadowy corners of my ceiling (a glowing mobile of the solar system, a large kite and a huge inflatable lemon, respectively) and the fact that the Bob Marley poster that hangs directly over my head is coming down so that it looks like the walls are reaching in to pluck out my sleepy, myopic eyes...

the light was turned back on several times last night. And I was up until 3.

I'm bad at horror movies, but I love them.

And for any of you that plan to see it in the future (don't), consider the possibilities of this for comedic purposes: a young man with a paralyzing fear of closets (and, it seems, mahogany banisters, antique chairs and kitchen curtains). Actual scene from the movie:

Blond, Crypt Keeperesque Girlfriend at office party: Honey, can you get my coat?
Barry Watson: literally stares at her in horror, then spends a solid sixty seconds slowly approaching the dark and scary office coatrack like it is filled to capacity with ninjas.

Despite these debilitating fears he sported repeatedly through the movie, Barry handled it with aplomb when a hoard of undead children who had been corpsified by the Boogeyman gang-haunted him in the foyer of his big, banistery, forest conservation-hating house. Welcome back, Barry!

ten bucks and a head start

2005-02-27T00:02:00.000-05:00

Because of the vast disapproval the following post is going to generate, I issue the following disclaimers for my friends, by my friends. Both by Chuck:

"Our hearts are the stupidest part of our bodies, I think."
"I can't believe how lucky that fuckhead is."

For those of you who read Turtle In Trouble, or listened to me spend the end of the summer bitching and crying over phone, IM, cocktails and every communicative media available, you're aware of the existence of the Most Recent Ex. You're also aware that the breakup was remarkably bad and followed by six months of intense loathing marked by constantly seeing him but refusing to speak to him or even acknowledge his existence. You know all about the sine wave struggle back to stable, pleasant living, and the nightmares, prepubescent drama, and misery that it took to get there. You know that on the rare occasions we were alone together the air would sting from the oppressive, freezing rage-filled electricity, and how I had to hold my breath and look away every time I passed his exit on the highway (twice a day, every day) because I couldn't stand to look at it.

For all of the patience and protectiveness you've shown, I ask that you forgive me for this.

I love him. It's not romantic; I don't want to get back together with him, I'm not even sure we're ever going to be friends, and this has nothing to do with what I thought I felt for him when we were together. Stripped of my psychotic girlfriend possessiveness, not close enough to have to worry about trusting him, and several months after destroying the pedestal then casting him down into my meticulous hatred, I think I can almost see who he actually is now. There's a strong underlying attachment there. I can't speak to whether or not it's right, deserved or even acceptable, it simply exists, and I love him as the funny, flawed person he is.

Please don't look at me askance in the morning. I understand. I really do.

fine takes work

2005-02-26T19:57:00.000-05:00

A small, dimly lit galley kitchen. S stands looking down at H, her face gleaming with sweat, breathing hard, and holding a cast iron frying pan in her right hand. H is curled on the floor with his arms up loosely around his head, twitching almost imperceptibly but otherwise still.

S: I told you to stay away from the CD player in my car.

Idea!

2005-02-26T10:12:00.000-05:00

Sweet butter flavored lip gloss.

With THC in it.

the sides of my brain need to have a meeting

2005-02-23T23:22:00.000-05:00

The sound started as a slight thump, which extended into a weak scratching, which eventually crescendoed to a brief, fumbled, arrythmic set of pawing knocks. Sue peered out the peephole.

S: (quietly) Fuck. Me.

Outside, Sue's Heart leered back in at the peephole. He looked terrible. Her Brain had exiled H months ago when he was at his worst, but now he was barely recognizable. Through the fisheye S could see the green flaky pallor of his forehead and what looked like a weeping sore near his temple. He'd lost at least a third of his bodyweight.

S: What is it?
H: Come on, let me in.
S: We had an agreement. Not until after the bar exam, at the earliest.
H: Baby, please... Just for a little while.

His lips were white and cracked; his eyes were ringed with dried yellow pus. S could almost hear him blink and his skin made a dessicated rustle when he leaned his head against the door.

S: B is here. Go away.
H: I just want to talk.

His voice had taken on a phlegmy, hissing quality since the last time they'd seen each other. B looked down the hall.

B: Jesus is that H?

He stomped down the hallway toward the door, stepped in front of S and wrenched it open. H lurched inward, his head forward and vulturelike.

B: You look like shit.
H: Thanks.
S: Oh, just come in.

H shuffled over the threshold. He was just over four feet tall now and smelled like rotten produce; B was nearly twice his height. H limped toward the nearby couch, eyeing the wine rack.

S: No.

He looked at the floor, shamed. S sat across from him with B poised behind her, arms folded over his chest, glaring.

S: Get on with it.
H: I'm ready to come back.
S: Out of the question.
H: Listen: for fifteen years ... more? I was the only one you listened to. You barely bothered to let B out for exams. Remember how little and dusty he was and how I used to kick the crap out of him when he tried to tell me what to do? That was awesome. I realize things have been different with us over the last couple of years, and I was hooked on some heavy shit for a while, but I'm over it now. You know you're not the same without me. You're not having as much fun.
B: She's fine without you. And why would we let you back after what you did to Instinct?

B pointed down the hallway. Through a half open door H could see I puttering around a sterile room, murmering to himself, his eyes unfocused. Occasionally a pearl of drool would bead on his bottom lip and string down to his dingy shirt.

B: Two years in solitary nearly killed him. He's never going to be the same.
H: Hey, man, what do you want? We had a difference of opinion. I let him in here and there for those nightmares. He had his time to shine, and it's not like he was ever the strongest member of the team anyway.
S: You can't come back. I have things coming up in the next couple of months that I can't have you screwing up.
H: But you've turned into such a see you next Tuesday. You're not answering phone calls of people I know you like, and what about that guy you made out with on the rooftop - the one you kissed while simultaneously telling him that you wouldn't go to dinner with him and not to call you? What the hell is wrong with you?
S: No time. I could have gotten so much done with all of that time I wasted with you. I can't do that right now.
H: I've been watching you for a while now, though. I can see you're starting to slip. You want me back. All the stability and contentment with B is boring the hell out of you.
B: I'm the one who is going to get us a career, you fuckwit.
H: Please, like she has ever, ever wanted to work. You don't know her.
S: Enough. You can't come back, you rasputin freak. Maybe in a couple of years when you're not completely insane, when you're not trying to lead me into fires and off of cliffs and into terrible, confining life paths. B's been right about everything you've been wrong about, and I kept listening to you anyway. Until you learn to work together, or at least until you're not consciously working to kill me anymore, you can't stay. I don't want to see you here again.
H: Baby you're never going to end up in the Sunday Styles section in Vera Wang without me... (whispers) Veeeeera Waaaaaang.
S: No. No Vera Wang, no ridiculous, masochistic undertakings, no listening to idiotic songs on repeat, no wasting all of that time for nothing. Job interviews, bar exam, apartment. That's it. There's no room for you here. Out.
H: Come on... what am I going to do without you? Who's going to snuggle you when you're freaking out during Ring 2 or that other movie that guy made about the water?
S: I don't want to hear it.

B grabbed H by the emaciated arm and jerked him to unsteady feet, then shoved him roughly to the door.

B: My show now. Go.

B shut the door on H. The smell of decay still lingered in the hallway. S looked pale.

S: I'm fine.

oh, oh I'm still alive

2005-02-21T16:05:00.001-05:00

Four entries and already the neglect has set in. You're not going to find much substance here either, but instead I offer you photos of my night in Central Park at the Gates with Jaimes and Jarett. Most of them showcase my shaky hands and all of them are terribly lit but you can get a sense of the saffronness of it all. I was happy with how Gates 47 turned out and dismayed that the pictures of me climbing a gate (don't judge me! It's public art!) came out blurry. For reference, we didn't write the message on the car, the Strawberry Fields picture is for Chuck, the pictures toward the end are of (in this order) Central Park West in the low sixties heading downtown, 34th street between 8th and 9th, and the Huntington train station.

There's also a small album of Vespa pictures.

Life is clear, somewhat peaceful and rather racked with beauty. John Flor tsunami benefit(s) was(were) wonderful. Friends and family seem reasonably well. Am consistently having vivid, crazy dreams for hours on end and have become addicted to the views from my car at night.

What I'm listening to...

2005-01-29T15:24:00.000-05:00

... a primer for the many LI commuters who have caught me singing and dancing while driving and probably thought I had epilepsy (but conspicuously didn't call 911 or ask if I needed help).

To hell with the battle for indie street cred; I made an unabashedly sunny mix of songs I just like to hear. It was untitled until I wrote this. Now I call it Teenage Fangirl Time.

1. Matthew Sweet - Divine Intervention. Kind of weird when taken out of Girlfriend context but still great. Tends to run a little long and I usually skip ahead to the second track before the multiple fade outs at the end. I feel very close to Matthew Sweet when he sings "I don't know where I'm gonna live! I don't know if I'll find a place. I'd have to think about it some, and that I do not wish to face. I guess I'm counting on his Divine Intervention." Indeed.

2. XTC - Then She Appeared. In an ideal world the person who loves me would listen to this on repeat when thinking of me.

3. The New Pornographers - Letter From An Occupant. Mostly because it makes me smile to think about Stephen Yeager. I also made out with someone adorable to this song a couple of months ago.

4. Nina Simone - Here Comes The Sun. Nina Simone kicks ass.

5. Pavement - Gold Soundz. At Fordham I lost two CDs that I need to live: Achtung Baby and Crooked Rain Crooked Rain. I downloaded Achtung almost immediately but I've only recently started listening to Pavement again. The video for this features men in Santa suits running around in the summer and sledding on grass. I could only like it more if it ended with an all out Rumble of Joy with the Bee People from the "No Rain" video.

6. Rainer Maria - The Awful Truth of Loving. All the new thinking is about individuality. This song makes me want to wear fishnet stockings, short skirts and really high stiletto boots. Timeless elegance.

7. The Soup Dragons - I'm Free. Was played many, many times on happy days after the most recent breakup when I realized that the life path had actually greatly improved.

8. Ben Kweller - How It Should Be. Nothing isn't nothing nothing's something that's important to me. That's right. Sha sha, sha doo.

9. Belle & Sebastian - Judy & The Dream of Horses. I spent a solid three minutes in my car this morning trying to come up with an accurate phoenetic spelling of the way "horses" is pronounced in this song. It's kind of "haaaawses" but without the Brooklynism you're feeling. The cha cha beat in the last couple of verses has on occasion sparked some air maracas.

10. Blur - Parklife. Damon Albarn + the dirtiest Cockney accent I've ever heard = gives me a sense of enormous well being.

11. Cake - Short Skirt, Long Jacket. My employment motivation anthem.

12. David Bowie - Life on Mars? For those times when I envision myself walking in slow motion to/away from something important.

13. Eels - My Beloved Monster. "My beloved monster and me, we go everywhere together, wearing a raincoat that has four sleeves."

14. My Chemical Romance - I'm Not Okay. Hipster naysayers be damned, this is the reason for this blog entry. A few days ago I read this about this song and was amused but mildly concerned about my tastes (#1 on the Buddyhead.com Worst Albums of 2004 list):

My Chemical Romance - Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge
How did this geek squad fronted by a porker wearing red eye makeup trick a nation of bedwetting pre-pubescent mall rats and dickriding "music journalists" into thinking that their shitty pop punk band was a real band? Much less a "band to be watched in 2005". So is this like evil Thursday or something? What exactly is going on here? And what's with the kid with the afro doing the solo in that throwaway Blink182 concept video? That kid looks like he could be on some Maury Povich, "I had sex with an Orangutang, and now I have a son" episodes or something. Bizarre.

Now let's just be honest with each other: I am deeply enamoured with the porker in the red eye makeup. Give or take the dated discovery that Brandon Flowers is one of the best looking people to have existed, the My Chemical Romance guy in a Catholic school uniform is fantastic. When you put the two together and you look all the way back to the day I realized that Dave Navarro looks damn good in a vinyl dress it's all so clear: I like my men in eyeliner.

15. The Shins - We Will Become Silhouettes. It's kind of a hoe-down tribute to the Postal Service. The repeated guitar part at the end sometimes makes me feel like I'm supposed to kill the prime minister of Malaysia.

16. Something Corporate - Space. Getting skipped a lot lately because the singer's voice has become kind of grating. Fun song though.

17. Weezer - El Scorcho. It only seems natural that a song about yearning involves the word "bacon."

18. Zissou Society Blue Star Cadets/Ned's Theme (take one). I was listening to this on repeat in my car a few days ago, driving home on the Northern State as the moon rose. When the moon is very close to the earth something about how the light refracts makes it seem enormous. There weren't a lot of cars on the road so it was just me, this giant moon, and all of the street lamps serving as my net of substitute stars. I love the Northern State at night.

19. Dave Matthews Band - Everyday. Dave has gotten very little play time in my life since I graduated from college but this was the song I listened to when I did my Walk of Focus before fall exams. The result: a 3.7 for the semester. Thanks Dave.

20. The Polyphonic Spree - Reach for the Sun. This is a small doses song that doesn't get played very often for the following reasons: first, it might just be a little too happy. I cry every time I hear it and end up feeling like a psychopath. It's beautiful. Also, it makes me want to run around outside in circles, which makes me fight the confines of my car by driving very, very fast. When it's the right time for this song, nothing is better (though I feel a little dorky about it).

Frost Bound

2005-01-29T01:24:00.000-05:00

This evening's activities with the most lovely Social Worker (Gill) and the Undiscovered Musicial Genuis (John Flor) have been precluded by the most lovely Social Worker's Mother finally coming to grips with the searing pain of the loss of the Family Patriarch five weeks ago, which keeps the lovely widow home with the most lovely SW. I talked to Gill at length in her mother's absence - she was extremely chatty and sounds so trapped and is missing out on the best time with John Flor. I used to make snarky comments about their destiny together but Extreme Complication has lately intruded and when I thought that would be a workable solution I was overreaching. He has his fraulein anyway. However, we're still in the very very early stages of evolution. Good in some ways I guess. I wish circumstances had left Gill more space. She needs it. We all do. If things improve in the next few months I'm thinking of taking her west with me, if she'll go.*ETA Not that far west Chuquito. Just into the city. Definitely far enough. :)

hola!

2005-01-28T02:54:00.000-05:00

Bienvenidos a la revolucion.