Barefoot Hermes

The Blackhole of Brillance: Part I

2006-06-02T08:34:00.000-04:00

For four(ish) years, I made my tuition checks out to a university in Atlanta. However, my freshman year of college was spent at a slightly humbler institution that required many gallons of gas and sweet tea to visit. My time there was a pitcher of the good stuff: cheap, sweet, and addictive enough to have you doubled over in a stomach ache. By my second week, I knew I didn’t want to leave this place in either a cap and gown or handcuffs. So away I applied.

Pretty soon, the acceptance letters began raining down. Or drizzled, for those of you concerned with a non-fiction rehashing of my freshman year. New schools meant campus visits. This meant travelling the country unnecessarily and I was glad for it. Delta loved me. Exxon adored me. The parents were slightly less enthused.

Technically, I narrowed it down to two schools. But they were so vastly different it felt like picking alternate endings in a crappy choose-your-own adventure paperback. Life would be radically altered depending on my decision between Atlanta and Pennsylvania. Had I completed my psychology courses by that time, I would have considered these choices the first sign of a raging bipolar disorder. I’m happy to report no significant mental ailments (the DSM says a burgeoning Nutella addiction does not count). Nonetheless, I still look back on this particular crossroads with nothing less then bewildered bewilderment.

Because I am both brilliant and restless, I decided to visit Atlanta for the first time at 9:39 p.m. on a Wednesday. I remember because I had just promised to cover the tab and realized that I only had enough funds to live on a jar of Jiffy for the next week. Thus, the road called. This stroke of scheduling genius got me into Atlanta a little after 4 a.m. which sounded quite reasonable to me. I filled a duffel bag with t-shirts and left a trail of smoke behind me.

At my former school, Blackhole of Debauchery (BOD), the weekend lasted from Wednesday afternoon until the clock struck midnight on Monday. The Tuesday, it was sacred. They say this is when the Papa John delivery boy rested. Given my newly arranged calendar, the Jeep and I set off for Atlanta. About four hours into the trip, I recall being overcome with a sense of extreme urgency. I pulled over to piss in the woods. Two minutes later, the urgency returned. Oh yes, I needed a map.

I’ve mentioned that, at the age of 18, I was rather brilliant. As evidence of this, I was going through a phase whereby maps, compasses, or any objects of a directional nature were considered shameful artifacts of minivan-ed families and I would have none of it. Missing your exit was an adventure! Getting lost was romantic! This is the same phase that allows freshmen to festishize dorm room filth as an indication of their waning commitment to adolescence. I am now cured. Plus, the AAA atlas lodged into the seat cushions of my Jeep was warped with a foreign substance that somehow made the entire state of Louisiana look like a quaint little fishing village off the coast of the Atlantic.

So with no real workable map, I decided to rely on the kindness of rednecks. By the glow of Chevron’s fluorescent oasis, I could tell the guy behind the counter had a skin condition. I could tell this because people typically don’t run sandpaper across their face for fun. However, in his defense, it should be said that at 1:30 in the morning after driving several hours down I-95, I, too, look only slightly more becoming than the old lady with the rifle from The Goonies. I was quite tired by that point and my empathy was at a low ebb. Yes, it does flow occasionally. Just not in the presence of other humans.

-Brilliant Moron: “Hi there. Think I missed my turnoff a while back. Any idea where Rt 313 is?”

-Chevron Slave with Poor Lighting: “Eeew buyin’ inny thang?”

-BM: “No. No, I was just wondering if 313 intersects the highway after-“

-CSWPL: “Well, I don’t recall 313 bein’ nowuur round the gas station here.”

-BM: “Ok, lemme just check out the map real fast to make sure I’m headed in the right direction, you know.”

-CSWPL: “Cayn’t letcha use the map without ya buyin’ it furst.” His cheeks crinkled up like the outside of a burnt croissant. “Got em watchin me awwll the time with the camera leeenzes!” His last word came out sounding like he was calling out to a room full of belligerent toddlers named Lindsay. He raised an alarmingly long fingernail to the corner of the store. Though partially obscured by a small city of cobwebs, there appeared to be a security camera pointed at the counter.

-BM: “Look, I don’t actually need the whole thing. Just a glance to give me an idea of which exit I need to take.” The familiar sting of indignance rose in my throat. Though it could have just been the Doritos.

-CSWPL: “Saaawry bout that, sweet tits. Just cayn’t letcha do it.”

Within the span of twenty seconds, I have learned that (1) security cameras are rarely equipped with microphones and (2) the vast majority of the population believes that tacking on “sweet” as a prefix to anything makes misogyny all fine and dandy. The world is my classroom, people.

He started to grin. His gums were approaching the color of overripe banana peels. Tiny rivers of saliva trickled through the spaces between his teeth and I wondered if maybe he just had a tendency to over-floss. With bungee cords.

It was time to leave.

Done Good and Well Done...

2006-05-22T17:14:00.000-04:00

…but still pink on the inside.

For those of you who follow these sorts of things, (underdeveloped sense of shame + excessive free time) I’m leaving for a bit. I won’t be going far and it’s for a noble cause: The Future Employment Apocalypse Fund. If that’s too wordy, you can make the checks out to B. “Dunkin Donuts Night Manager” Hermes. Just post date them until after I get my diploma. My destination for the next three months will be very green, rather dank, and will spit me back out smelling more like stinky cheese than Euro trash cologne.

The Netherlands. 90 days.

I forecast a low chance of suckage.

Nonetheless, this is not an invitation to unload your study abroad stories on me. I don’t care about the time you met Bono in Prague. Please do not email me with the name of your Italian cousin who swears he knows all the bouncers in Ibiza and thinks most Americans talk like one of the Bush twins. However, should you have any extra Euro laying around that you’d like to dispose of, we can talk and I’ll pretend to listen.

Now that exams are over, I’m free to make wildly invalid claims about the amount of things I will pack into the remaining days I have left. This is to avoid doing any actual packing of luggage or vital documents identifying me as an American citizen. The plan is to force my law school into letting me finish out the final year in a foreign country that has never known the horrors of deep-fried Twinkies or American Idol.

Actually, this week is when clocks lie and calendars are not my friend. It’s strange how stretchy the days are now, how the elasticity of time can be such a mind-fuck.….those three minutes waiting for the 4/5 express at 59th street ooze into oblivion, especially when the guy to your right smells like a wedge of Roquefort left out in the rain….the hours you spend giving your friends laugh lines just whiz through your memory like a stray bullet between your ears.

So with t-minus 6 days until the great Dutch migration begins, I’ve been thinking about what to do with this humble little alcove I’ve carved out in my corner of the Internets. It is, I believe, high time for some newness. The unsullied, virgin site will arrive soon. Just in time to reach new depths of mediocrity.

Fugitive Love Really Is the Best Love

2006-03-16T10:01:00.000-05:00

If I thought that more than 25 people a day read these words I might be more inclined to make a limp attempt at explaining the last week or so of silence. But since I know the readership is no larger than the amount of rats currently reigning over my building, we can dispense with the excuses.

Embrace the tardiness.

Rejoice in the brain cells you’ve salvaged in my absence.

I promise extra snark and unyielding stupidity from here on out.

In that vein, let's review one of life's staunchest truths (outside the inevitability of leaving your credit card behind the bar last night, you drunken fucktard):
If you're not laughing hard enough that your nostrils drip milk at least four times a week, then your life is starved for humor. You need to eat some funny. You're also missing out on the joy of obscene laundry bills but that's really just icing, baby.

In an effort to fill your hamper, I give you the practical side of fugitive love...

IAmJamieSabuda: Would you want to date a woman with one leg?
Worker #3116: I’m tempted to say yes, but I don’t know.
IAmJamieSabuda: Wouldn’t it be kind of sweet, though.
Worker #3116: For awhile, but you’re never going to date a woman with one leg and think “I’ve found the one.”
IAmJamieSabuda: Why not?
Worker #3116: Because. Look, whomever I spend the rest of my life with, be it man, woman, or beast, I need to be able to look over my shoulder at that person and yell “WE NEED TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, NOW!”I need someone who can flee disaster.
I don’t want to have to pull some one-legged woman from the rubble.
IAmJamieSabuda: It would be kind of romantic, though.
Worker #3116: When it comes to survival, I’m not that interested in romance. We can have romance on a cruise. In times of danger, I just want to know they can keep up.

How To Satiate Me With Little Scraps of Laminated Plastic

2006-02-26T19:23:00.000-05:00

When we’re lining up for the ski lift, you should position your hulking, neoprene-ed body so that I will be forced to either dangle from the gondola cable or face-plant you directly into the snow drift that is racing towards our gaping pie holes. Though I haven’t practiced my wrestling moves since last semester (“Defending Your Client While On Offense: 101”, natch), I will not hesitate to carve up your matching snow suit with the blade of my ski like a homicidal calligraphist with poor impulse control. And when I straddle your lifeless form with my goggles and a belt, you will know the menacing wrath of grad students everywhere on their final weekend of sweet, sweet break. Once I am satisfied that you have stolen your last breath from the pristine mountain air, the ski patrol guy with the crooked grin to your left will chuckle and introduce himself at the end of the Ski Lift of Rapidly Impending Doom. He will turn out to be a local yokle with very little in the way of properly firing brain synapses but, pish posh, all is not in vain. For, I, the lowly law student of even lowlier academic prowess, shall score a free lift ticket from Mountain Patrol Boy by day’s end and you, my friend, will still be excavating shards of Oakley lenses from your frozen skull. Toodles!

How To Win Me Over: Part 36

2006-02-26T19:21:00.000-05:00

Devote more than twenty seconds to compiling a CD for me before I leave on break. You should have a mix of audacity and foolishness beguiling enough to name the CD, Music You Don’t Know, So Listen To It. You should also not be faint of heart because that is the precise organ I will stomp on while gloating that, in fact, I already have that album and, no, Mazzy Star is not an actual person. As it turns out, your choices will be marginally superb and I will give my iPod OCD over the next fortnight as I keep the same playlist in constant, maddening rotation. When I begrudgingly mention the relative perfection that is your CD, you should simply smile over the phone and reply, “Oh, good.” I will know you are smiling because your voice changes when you try to stifle your smugness like a half-hidden burp. I will smell the feigned arrogance. But I won’t care.

Hurtling Towards Oblivion

2006-02-22T10:01:00.000-05:00

The airport screeners tagged me as a female traveling alone. Because I am a dangerous individual, I got to enjoy the tactile stylings of Jaquilla, Name-Tagged One. Her big ritual is the wearing of the imitation leather gloves. This allows her to pat me down from crotch to ankle while we both pretend that a millimeter of fabric covering her press-on nails eliminates any awkwardness I may feel at having a uniformed stranger stroke my inseam in front of the general public.

The troll wore Baby Gap. He exhausted his larynx a few yards away from my seat. I stared directly at the sun coming in through the plate glass window. Layers of tint peeled away. Melanomas threw a welcome party on my face. I chastised myself for not pursuing a career in oncology. More troll wailing. I wondered about the precise decibel level at which glass shatters. I wondered how I would explain to the cops why I used a toddler as a human shield while being showered with broken window shards. But mostly, I dreamed of slow death by sun stroke.

My eardrums began to hemorrhage as the loudspeaker wanted in on the bloodshed: Please be advised. Your flight is late. Your destination is fogged out and you are somewhere between royally fucked and marginally screwed. Your delay will be in the ballpark of three hours. Your stomach will also learn to consume itself from the inside out while you wait. Please donÂt eat the roaming trolls.

Welcome to the Trough

2006-02-17T07:23:00.000-05:00

So I've been neglectful, but there are good reasons that have nothing to do with reruns of Grey's Anatomy and dollar drafts at David Copperfield's. Promise.

To wrap up this soul-sucking week, I leave you with some retina-soothing images.

Actual words will resume after the weekend.

Superior forms of street meat...French Fry Encrusted Hot Dogs

Because Hallmark Told Me To Smile

2006-02-14T10:59:00.000-05:00

Shit's crazy round here.

Will be vomitting up the stories soon.

Unhinge Your Eyelids...

2006-02-06T07:12:00.000-05:00

....with a little link love.

Psychotrophics are underrated.

In case you needed a manual.

Just turn it down.

How To Break Me

2006-01-31T07:27:00.000-05:00

My law school chose a new mascot this week:

In other news, I chose a new career path:

Look for me to turn pro in early '07.

The parents. They are beaming. Ever notice how pride and disgust are easily confused?

Hi Lo: Week Edition

2006-01-27T08:50:00.000-05:00

Last Friday
Hi:Tegan & Sara concert (Canadian twins with bitchin shag haircuts + grasp of amazing lyrics) and meeting Ph.d. boy (potential grasp of advanced Freudian theory?)

Lo:Cake concert (abuse of trumpets + not enough Fashion Nugget) and battling moronic underage-ers for three inches of floor space (abuse of Natty Light + not enough brain cells)

Saturday
Hi: Bed, Bath, and Beyond expedition (dangerously high levels of estrogen + unlimited selection of smelly products) and East Village exploration (dangerously high levels of Hipster + unlimited gin selection)

Lo: Rent and receipt totaling (impending credit card doom + shiny apartment newness) and desperately-needed cleaning party (impending clogged drains + shiny, sweaty foreheads)

Sunday
Hi: Road Runners "Frostbite" Race (keeping up with the pack + walking away with my extremities intact) and spontaneous, caramel-corn-fueled Grey's Anatomy gathering (keeping up with the pop culture herd + walking away with my credibility intact (ish)

Lo: Towering pile of work left untouched (honing my procrastination skills + mulling over how to market a law degree as a waitress) and dwindling list of excuses (honing my denial skills + mulling over how Peter Sarsgaard got so menancingly attractive). I'm taking suggestions on both counts

Monday
Hi: iPod revival from brink of certain death via tech support guy (reasserting dominance over the devices that not so secretly run my life)

Lo: Ulcer revival from brink of certain [welcome] death via letter back from NRC (reasserting helplessness over the forces that not so secretly determine the rest of my career)

Tuesday
Hi: Restaurant Week shindig with the femmes (systematic draining of wine bottles + liquid pleasure in the form of chocolate raspberry drizzling sauce) and meeting British Bloke (trading family war stories + making fun of the French)

Lo: Walking home in heels (systematic draining of bank accounts + liquid fear in the form of ATM statements) and braving the wrath of Jack Frost (trading frostbite scars + making peace with our imminent death on a West Side sidewalk)

Wednesday
Hi: Offered research assistant position with favorite professor (padded resume + paychecks + publishing)

Lo: Realized the position doubles as an experiment in the effects of extreme exhaustion and pressure on the human animal (truncated sleep schedule + tension headaches + turning into a social pariah)

Thursday
Hi: Date with Brit Bloke

Lo: Date with Brit Bloke (must I elaborate, *sigh*)

Today
Hi: Shut-eye (Zzzz... ) and cautiously optimistic about impending evening with Ph.d. Boy (hoping that a dose of normalcy + humor won't be too much to expect)

Lo: Errands (Grrr...) and rapidly depressed about impending deadlines with Professor Man (hoping that a dose of mercy + amnesia won't be too much to expect)

Breaking News: Hipster T's Not Just for Cleaning Toilet Anymore

2006-01-25T07:13:00.000-05:00

See. Thanks, to M, I'm really, really not crazy.

Stupidity pays. But not as much as crime.

2006-01-24T10:05:00.000-05:00

Growing up, my brother was equal parts rotten and delightful. We took a break from tormenting each other every third Tuesday of the month because one can only pummel a small child for so long before boredom or bloody knuckles set in. During the cease-fire, he'd let me play Nintendo with him. More precisely, he'd permit me to sit on the far side of the room and watch him scream at the dancing TV monitor...while I wondered if Zelda was sick of waiting for Link to slay the dragon because I sure as shit was.

One of the many pearls I took from these lulls in sibling torture was how Contra made me feel like God hates kittens. I believe I was ahead of my time in this one, small respect.

The other invaluable piece of information I got was the abiding existential truth that blowing into the Nintendo cartridge, presumably to get the dust out, would magically restore the game to its normal, obnoxious function. The video shrine would once again roar to life and I was forever changed. I still have full faith in blowing-the-dust-off...DVD players, CDs, digital cameras, USB hubs, whatever. If there's a port, there's dust and I refuse to let my brother's year-long inability to beat Level 3 be in vain.

That being said, I realized the other day that perhaps I should scale back my approach when other people are in the room. Last week, I was trying to convince a friend that he could transfer his music to my laptop and wouldn't this just be a lovely, charitable gesture that would pay dividends once the next bar tab arrived. He remained unconvinced. His iPod is something of a monster and would normally give my iPod a complex if it weren't so confident in its ability to satisfy me musically. We hooked his up and of course it didn't work. Entire. Libraries. Of music. Held. Hostage.

In my slightly tipsy state, I applied the dust-buster method. Rather emphatically. Though I can't be sure, I'm sure drooling was involved. But I consider this a small sacrifice in dignity for draining an iPod with more storage than the basement of Fort Knox. Low and behold, my conviction was validated and my USB made friends with the iPod.

I will omit the fact that it later malfunctioned and has since ceased to work properly, thereby undermining my decades-long dust theory as well as my tentative faith in Steve Jobs' concern for my happiness. But all of this is beside the point. The point is that my brother was actually a tyrannical genius and I am not crazy.

Seventy Two Hours of Suckage

2006-01-20T09:38:00.000-05:00

Ok, let's review.

Tuesday: Received the final grade on my hardest class from last semester. Entered state of cardiac arrest at approximately 10 a.m. Emerged from despair-induced coma long enough to double check with the dean that they don't kick people out for scores like this. Seriously. Assured of my continued presence in law school, I proceeded to acquaint myself, face first, with every toilet seat on campus.

Wednesday: Board the 7:59 express train for 22 minute ride. Arrive 2 hours and 13 minutes later due to fallen tree on tracks. Brainstorm most efficient methods of slitting one's throat with a credit card and iPod case. Quickly realize I will never be the MacGyver of suicidal tendencies. Race to first class and burst in late and dripping in coffee. Informed that one of my classes was simply cancelled like a bad sitcom. No warning, explanation, or recourse. Later informed through unnamed sources that the professor suffered a heart attack and was still holed up in the ICU. Spend the rest of the day hoping he'll pull through and how committed he was (is?) to his students. Interspliced with these wishes are internal questions like "I wonder if he likes the hospital jello molds they're serving him" and "Gee, I hope the letter of recommendation he wrote me still goes through." Wrestle with the fact that I am a despicable human being.

Thursday: Lose the receipt for my Federal Rules of Evidence casebook, which needs to be returned because I dropped the class like a flailing cockroach. Put in good faith effort with cashier to convince him to take back my perfectly lovely textbook. Stare at the book. Amortize how many cockroaches I'd have to kill with it vs. the price of Raid spray cans before I broke even on my involuntary investment of $110.37. Work on cashier for another few minutes before admitting defeat. Stumble out into shockingly nice weather. Sleep on subway ride home. Decide life as a bum has its upsides.

Seven Minutes of Voyeurism. Now Go Shower.

2006-01-17T09:33:00.000-05:00

I'm usually not big on stuff. Clutter sucks and my wallet is thin. I repeat this mantra to myself multiple times per week, like a junkie swearing he can quit anytime he wants. Meanwhile, his forearm looks like it was mauled by a rabid squirrel and I find myself with an apartment full of matchboxes I don't need, from bars I don't particularly like.

It appears that I can not fight my nature. I have accepted my love of stuff, though my love is often fickle and I reserve the right to walk out should it start making demands. Like cleaning it and generally looking after it. This responsibility business, it is not for me.

When it comes to stuff, I endorse the Small Doses + Unncessary Accumulation approach. Meaning, accumulate small mountains of unnecssary items in cyclical waves that allow you to rationalize your guilt away as merely a small dose of indulgence. If this doesn't work, just watch the Gandhi DVD pictured above. It'll make you feel worthless simply for breathing and not saving the planet from world-wide oppressive rule at the same time.

In the photo above sits my minor molehill of shame. The photo book is filled with pictures of people on whom I waste (er, spend) my cell phone minutes each month, thus rendering the photo book a little more want than need. These people actually deserve an entire album to themselves but, let's be honest, I only keep the book out to remind myself that I have friends. And yes, pretending still counts. Plus, I like when my Stuff incorporates colors like infant poo brown with teenybopper pastels. Check, double check.

Sitting on top of the photo book is an awesome business card holder. My complete lack of sarcasm in that last statement is both pathetic and eerily soothing. This particular device is a rather unfortunate neccessity in my life at the moment. If I don't schmooze like a good little corporate monkey, then there will be no paychecks and even fewer bananas in my future. Therefore, I figured I would at least add a little art to my dreary existence with one of my favorite works. The only downside is getting weird looks from interviewers when I whip it out. But that could also be due to my spontaneous rendition of "The Sun Come Up Tomorrow" from the broadway extravaganza Annie. Whichever.

Next up is my favorite coffee mug. Actually, this is a bald-faced lie. [Sidebar: how can one be bald in the face? Discuss.] This is not my favorite cup because I am something of a prostitute when it comes to my coffee. Any flavor, anytime. So long as the mug is right. And no kissing on the lips.

The Jana water bottle is a little misleading. People who regularly spend money on bottled water are not to be trusted. I am not be trusted either but for entirely different reasons. I only have this particular bottle because I bet myself that I couldn't hold onto a single inanimate object for more than two weeks without leaving it on the subway or throwing it over the fire escape in a gin-soaked state. Defying all that is logical, I am still in possession of the Jana bottle and I faithfully refill every morning with sewage-fortified Manhattan tap water.

My next goal is stop stealing ketchup packets from diners. Stay tuned.

Om

2006-01-12T11:55:00.000-05:00

As a recovering Jew/practicing atheist, I don't often run into tidy, little ready to eat summaries of how I view the God question. Usually, peoples' encapsulations are too heavy on the syrup and too light on the whole life-can-crush-even-the-Zeuses-among-us-like-a-snowflake-ornament thing. Plus, it's rare that I encounter one that simultaneously incorporates my degree of Spielberg worship while reminding me that I should have paid more attention in Calculus. This one will even make you coffee before it kicks you out in the morning.

I do not believe in God, and I do not believe in fate. Though it's tough sometimes, I have little choice but to bow down to the powers of natural selection and mutation, even when it's working against me. There are those who suggest a greater power must be looking out for me. But the greatest power I know was doing last minute post-production on Munich so I didn't bother calling on him, either.

I do believe in poker. I believe in math, random chance, probability, and mostly, luck. Professional card players understand that poker is short-term luck (good and bad) eventually balanced out by long-term skill. Living, more likely, is long-term luck balanced out with occasional bouts of short-term skill.

The only question left to grapple with now is why girls are still wearing Uggs.

Cleaning House

2006-01-10T09:12:00.000-05:00

I'm at home on vacation.
I've been put on chore duty for the remainder of my stay.
I tell myself this may be directly attributable to my parents not loving me.
Perhaps a better explanation would be that I, as their beloved offspring, am the primary source of all that is messy and good in their lives.
This warms the cockles of my frigid, cobwebbed heart.
But it also requires me to develop premature skulliosis while crouching over the dustpan and tango-ing with the broom so that the Mexican tile in the kitchen doesn't actually start to resemble a Guadalajara shantytown.
This morning, the floor was extra crunchy. My sneaks had tracked in a few sand dunes. I assumed the position over the broom and dustbin. I began the battle that is not so much sweeping as corralling all the dirt into the actual dustbin rather than simply distributing it in strangely attractive paisley motifs across the house. My mom hates paisley. Even more than crunchy floors.
So after a few minutes of bargaining with the dirt, trying to bribe and seduce it into an untimely death at the bottom of the garbage can, it was clear my efforts were futile. My mom passed by the doorway. I spent another two minutes explaining the intricacies of the Law of Domestic Diminishing Returns. How no matter how hard you try, you will never be able to get up all the mess because whenever you lift up the dustbin, there's a line of dirt that simply remains on the tile. And make no mistake, it is laughing at you. And your feeble little broom. Every time you return, only half will find its way into the dustbin of death, thus why can't I just go swimming now and is my egg salad sandwich ready, yet? I can't be sure, but I don't think she was impressed by my physics tutorial because her response was, "I knew we should have tested the water levels for lead when you were growing up."

To Shake the Earth and Shatter the Sky

2006-01-02T23:04:00.000-05:00

Some time ago, when my shoes were Velcro and my eyes were bright, I would lay beneath the stars to watch the fireworks meet their brilliant end. The calendar was littered with national holidays, but they were just excuses. Reasons to nod our heads and justify the pageantry. I never cared. Not about why my town did it and not about why everyone kept trekking out to witness the same event every few months. I just wanted to tilt my head back under that jewel-toned sky and quake with every blast of neon thunder.

It was not enough that the heavens lit up like a slot machine and my spine turned to Jell O. I was partial to a certain blanket. It was the color of murky sewage. Poorly scribbled Siamese cats pranced across the folds in an unending parade of misguided 1970's decor. An atlas of bygone stains dotted its landscape and I reveled in the force of its unbridled hideousness. It was mine alone to love. My parents only kept it because they are both pack rats and realists. They weren't big on throwing things away and knew they had given birth to a daughter with unnatural attachments to distasteful home furnishings. Though I'm now broken of that predilection, I was, at the time, still under the Siamese's spell. And so they accompanied me.

When I was six, I ran after each singe of ash to its resting spot in the river. I imagined crews of fishermen rowing feverishly to retrieve the steaming embers. Their vessels were small, but I believed their will to be mighty. I imagined them racing each other in the darkness. Hunting the muddy bottom with unclouded vision. After a few moments, I'd relinquish my search, secure in the knowledge that the firework fishermen had duked it out to my satisfaction. I returned to my cotton perch of prancing cats. The others had abandoned it by then, paying homage to the glowing charcoal altar that promised burnt dinner. No one noticed. By the next cannon-blast I was off once again, chasing the dying light into the river.

When I was ten, I double-dog-dared my grade school compatriots to an ambush. We figured there must be a source to all this pyrotechnic glory. One lucky soul held dominion over the detonations and these nights were his artistry. We would ferret him out. Ten year olds are not renown for their prudence, but we felt we were different. We knew the Keep Out signs were only meant as encouragement. Why else would they be posted so prominently and with such emphatic color schemes. We reasoned that uppercase crimson lettering could be loosely translated as "Go forth and deface!" And so we pressed on, following the No Trespassing breadcrumbs to a small cinder block wall. It was here, at this tiny cement igloo, that I felt the first drops of fear. I was not afraid that limbs would be lost from a Roman candle. Nor was I afraid of the slightly menacing threats of prosecution. It was the creeping knowledge that my childhood could not survive in a vacuum forever. I had not yet seen The Wizard of Oz, but I knew to fear what lurked behind the curtain. Not because the truth was scary, but because it was disappointing. My Keds made two divots in the sand. I turned and sprinted back towards all that was still intact. Where the fireworks rained down from between the clouds and no one could tell me different.

When I was thirteen, my eyes wandered from the umbrellas of light spread above our heads. They gazed sideways at the boys that had begun to populate the blankets in all directions. Their sharp, adolescent features would soften and melt under the exploding sky, like oil paintings drenched in turpentine. Smirks and scowls liquefied into awe-filled grins. Eyelashes shuddered gently with each explosion. Forearms tensed and released with sheepish awareness for the first few blasts. And then they were still all over. Each one a black and white freeze frame beneath the shifting strobe light. Each one a work of art I was only beginning to appreciate.

More than twelve months have passed since the I last laid down for a night of fireworks. I no longer have enough cavities to make my skull quiver like a bowl of pewter pebbles. The blanket is worn through and long since trashed. But sometimes when the darkness hits its peak and my shoelaces are untied, I can close my eyes and remember the neon thunder. Blazing technicolor streaks, trading momentum and careening in the half light of a disco ball sky.

Snooze Button

2005-12-30T07:06:00.000-05:00

Barefoot and happy.

The normal drivel will resume post haste.

That Gentle Hum You Hear...

2005-12-20T16:54:00.000-05:00

...is not the subtle rumble of trains. That, my friends, is snoring.

So who's up for a raise?

You Know Things Are Looking Bleak When..

2005-12-14T11:11:00.000-05:00

...your forehead is indelibly etched with deep grooves of The Profoundly Distraught.

...your sole source of entertainment is reading the inside of Snapple caps that are rapidly piling up in the corner of your room.

...your bed looks like a nesting ground for great, winged paper birds. The ones that molt pencil shavings and shit staples.

...you catch yourself in the mirror and realize you've had a permanent scowl on your face for the past nine days. And that you've stretched the outer limits of the term personal hygiene.

...your posture has deteriorated so rapidly that you'd be most useful ringing the bell tower at Notre Dame rather than participating as a productive member of society.

...your stomach's throwing an anxiety-induced-acid-churning kegger complete with mariachi band and catering, while your gray matter has made the executive decision that it will henceforth be wintering in Aruba. Until January.

So, yeah. Things are peachy.

How To Sedate Me

2005-12-13T17:01:00.000-05:00

Serenity...

There's something really calming about sitting in an empty law school exam room just before 7 a.m.

Of course, there's also something calming about watching a dog lick itself.

Good luck today for those who need it. [Via]

Because Everyone Wants to Direct...

2005-12-08T15:41:00.000-05:00

..but nobody's got much talent.

And because the cinematic oracle is never wrong. Behold the name of the director.

The New, New Math

2005-12-08T14:56:00.000-05:00

The Good News: Just found out I got my dream (summer) job.

The Bad News: Just found out precisely how many icicles can form on my face while waiting to cross 3rd Ave. (7 plus a few sno-cone shavings)

The Expensive News: No caffeine in veins = dog shit for brains. I'm spending the equivalent of annual tuition on little paper cups full of brown, swampy liquid.

More to come when the bell tolls on Friday and I emerge from finals-induced hibernation. Temporarily.

Moving To Moscow...

2005-12-05T07:04:00.000-05:00

Gotta hand it to the commies.

It has recently come to my attention that during the Space Race this fair and valiant nation of ours spent millions of dollars developing an ink pen that would write upside down in zero gravity.

The Russians...they brought a pencil.

Plus, "Sputnik" sounds so much cooler.

Don't Rock the Gravy Boat

2005-12-01T07:32:00.000-05:00

Hittin the sauce and hogging the stuffing.

Mmmm....Carving Day

2005-11-24T15:02:00.000-05:00

The giving of the thanks....

That I was able to bottle a vial of Bono’s sweat from this week’s Madison Square Garden show. I am also thankful for New York’s lax enforcement of stalker laws.
That the flight attendant on my flight down to Atlanta is wearing enough caked-on mascara to obscure the sight of the pretzel-peanut-Bloody-Mary-mix stash I permanently borrowed from her cart. If the cabin weren’t pressurized, her lashes would melt shut.
That my roommates refrained from suffocating me in my sleep after a week of outta town guests, luggage forts, and broken bottle openers. However, as a preemptive measure, I’ve employed a food-taster until after New Year’s.
That my body has decided to continue functioning on three hours of shut eye and Stoli-pickled tapas. Nothing like a twist of lime to fend off the scurvy.
That the two med students crashing in the living room were able to answer my every inane medical question without ever questioning my sanity. I swear people get new-shirt-rash and Shingles mixed up all the time.
That, during my interview this week for a summer job, only one of the pinstripe-suit-drones upchucked on the conference table upon completion of my goat de-worming story. I am still waiting for a call back.
That, within any seven day period, the magnetic strip on the back of my ATM card can take more of a beating than my liver. Next up to test this theory will be my GPA.
That at least one of my friends has arms long enough to simultaneously hold the camera out front to document our latent stupidity, catch the beer I just dropped, and throw the other arm around our shoulders. I only fraternize with multi-limbed mutants. Don’t judge.
That cab drivers are legally prohibited from ejecting obnoxious, screeching girls from their backseats. At least after midnight.
That my law school case books would have exceeded Airtran’s baggage weight limit policy. My heart, it is breaking.
That we scurried out of the city the morning of the first snow and the weather [channel] gods call for upper 50’s when I return. Guess all those animal sacrifices are really paying off.
That I have all I could ever need.*

*Kitchen-installed frozen yogurt machine notwithstanding.

How To Make Me Reconsider Purchasing a Firearm

2005-11-18T10:54:00.000-05:00

While a monsoon engulfs the city outside, you should make a spectacle in a pharmacy. Demolish all traditional norms of decency while holding up the line of CVS customers. Ignore their shivering, for it is both a function of the impending frost and the shuddering rage your behavior is beginning to induce. You should have no real valid reason for this delay other than your own overgrown hubris. The one that is now pulsating above your head in a cloud of ego like a scene from Peanuts with Charlie Brown’s thought bubble. Direct your venom at the rather lovely older man behind the counter.

This man, he wears his job on his face.

He has reserves of patience and restraint that make the Dali Lama look like Jim Carrey on a coke-fueled weekend binger.

He is on the downward slope of “over the hill” and has been trapped in this little New York version of a fluorescent-lit ant farm all day. His employee of the month plaque behind him lists “Assistant Manager” as his official title. But everyone withering away in line knows this is not entirely true. It should really read: “Patiently attending to the demands of fuckfaces like you on a daily basis. Don’t forget your receipt.”

And yet, you should fail to grasp the degree of your shitiness.

By now, you should disregard the mounting tsunami of death stares aimed directly at the back of your skull. Instead, when the Golden Man of Bottomless Serenity Wearing the Plastic Name Tag tells you (with the utmost discretion) that your Shitibank Extra Platinum Class Gold Plated Miles Reward card is declined, you should not act surprised. Nor sheepish. Nor even apologetic. Nay! You should spew forth a self-righteous tirade on the incompetence of “people like you” while I test how far my jaw can unhinge from the rest of my face.

Ahhhh, yes. These words. They were spoken. The ones that are supposed to cue the depths of Hades to emerge and consume the Dimwitted Speaker of Despicable Things. I even had my camera ready for the carnage. Alas, 2nd Ave. did not split open down the middle. And you, being a Diesel-jeaned peon with no sense of civility, should continue running your trap.

To wrap up your personal spectacle, demand Buddha Man’s name. Make him write it down, along with the CVS complaint line. Be sure to accumulate those little pockets of saliva right along your lip creases. This way we can watch a grown man-child foam at the mouth like a pitbull in the throes of an epileptic seizure.

You should also remember to put the chain on your door tonight.

All The Pretty Colors

2005-11-15T21:58:00.000-05:00

The last fortnight or so (cause when am I ever gonna get to work that word into normal conversation) have been a bit of a kaleidoscope.

Disoriented tumbling.

Perpetual motion.

But damn if those colors aren't just as purdy as can be.

The only things that have kept my brain stem intact are the puny little tasks and treats that swell with importance when the big stuff becomes drudgery. Tangible sanity as of late: Daily runs, finding my keys before the apocalypse is upon us, oversize almond biscotti, new socks, anything committed to film starring Peter Saarsgard or Ryan Gosling.

You understand. I am but a simple person given to simple tastes. So long as they involve chocolate. Note that none of these minor lifesavers involve any variation on the words "billable hours," "condensed syllabus" or "insufficient funds."

In any case, the volcano of work still waiting to erupt has left me veering between flatline brain activity and bursting with ideas...but shackled by a wicked bout of intellectual constipation. So in honor of my dwindling attention span and need for, um, regularity, here are a few reasons to smirk through the crushing deadlines:

- This week's pressing concern running a close second to who shot Kennedy.

- Design + Indignation = Pop Art.

- And lastly, my favorite. Why L.A. needs to sink into the Earth's firey core. And take Madonna with it...

Why New York? There are a million reasons. Geographically, New York has a real density and you’re always having stimulus of other people, people are always doing other things and you’re thriving off of it. The architecture, the history, the weather – I love the weather here as opposed to LA where it’s always 70 degrees. [In LA] it’s the same day for 70 years. There’s no sense of time there. And I think the amount of importance on the way people look and youth is really intense in LA and I don’t feel that nearly as much in NY. I see beautiful old people all the time here – they’re really great and I can feel their characters. Whereas in LA, everyone’s in their underwear and they’re 50 years old and had their face done 20 times. Also, just living in a car all the time is the worst thing; the unbelievably bright sunshine isolation is really awful to me. I feel like I’m evaporating when I’m there, that I have no margins. New York somewhat holds me in and there’s something great about the density of it…Its cliché but the people here say something and you pretty much know they’re being honest and straightforward with you. In LA, I think people are used to having a passenger seat of car space next to them so when they’re in public they’re like “hi! Ohmygod” and you just don’t know what they’re saying.

-A recent transplant to Brooklyn, Director Scott Scoffey spent many years living and working in Hollywood, appearing in such films as Nicholas Kazan’s Dream Lover, David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive, Tank Girl, and is now currently releasing his first directorial debut – Ellie Parker. [Source]

Easy like Sunday Morning

2005-11-07T07:49:00.000-05:00

... makes Monday's photoSTREAM

Child Exploitation For Fun and Profit!

2005-10-31T11:07:00.000-05:00

Or just for the cuteness quotient.

Even I need a little nauseatingly adorable pick me up on Monday mornings.

In Honor of Harriet's Recent Demise, or How I Learned to Stop Doubting the Existence of God

2005-10-27T12:49:00.000-04:00

Bush Quiz

(Answers in bold. And your head.)

1. Who is Ben Marble?

(a) The Pentagon official who said that George W. Bush’s staged videoconference with U.S. troops in Iraq made him “livid.”

(b) The Texas liquor-authority agent who arrested George W. Bush’s intoxicated nephew John for resisting arrest.

(c) The former White House speechwriter who said that Harriet Miers, the Supreme Court nominee, told him that George W. Bush was the most brilliant man she’d ever met.

(d) The Gulfport, Mississippi, onlooker who twice interrupted Dick Cheney’s conversation with reporters to tell Cheney, “Go fuck yourself.”

2. True or false: During Sky News Ireland’s coverage of George W. Bush’s reaction to Hurricane Katrina, the network paraphrased his comments with the caption “BUSH: ONE OF THE WORST DISASTERS TO HIT THE U.S.”

Truer words were never spoken.

3. To what was George W. Bush referring when he said, “The best place for the facts to be done is by somebody who’s spending time investigating it”?

(a) The investigation into Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist’s stock sale.

(b) The investigation into the role of the White House aide Karl Rove in the Valerie Plame case.
(c) The indictment of House Majority Leader Tom DeLay on money-laundering charges.

(d) The indictment of the former Bush Administration budget official David Safavian on charges of lying and obstruction of justice.

4. What did Dick Cheney say when asked why he didn’t cut his Wyoming fly-fishing vacation short until several days after Katrina hit New Orleans?

(a) “Go fuck yourself.” Nah, just playin.

(b) “I didn’t stop smoking until after my fourth heart attack, so some things take a while to sink in with me.”

(c) “I came back four days early.” This time I'm serious.

(d) “The trout were biting big-time.”

5-7. Who said what about stranded flood victims?

(a) “So many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway. This is working very [chuckling] well for them.” Barbara Bush.

(b) That many of them were “drug-addicted.” Bill O'Reilly

(c) “So many of these people, almost all of them that we see, are so poor, and they are so black.”
Wolf Blitzer

8. While speaking to hurricane victims in Mississippi, Laura Bush twice mistakenly referred to the storm as:

(a) Catalina. (c) Condoleezza.

(b) Corina. (d) Karenina.

9. What was notable about the memo sent by FEMA’s director, Michael Brown, to Homeland Security Secretary Michael Chertoff hours after the flooding of New Orleans began?

(a) His repeated references to FEMA as the “Federal Emergency Management Association” instead of “Agency.”

(b) The lack of urgency in his request that a thousand workers be sent to the region “within forty-eight hours,” and his suggestion that those workers bring cash, because “A.T.M.s may not be working.”

(c) His prediction that the disaster could be “just the thing” to lead an “already shaky” George W. Bush to start drinking again.

(d) His suggestion that the agency see about setting up “foster barns” for the region’s Arabian horses.

10. Who is Norris Alderson?

(a) The Food and Drug Administration official who resigned in protest of the agency’s refusal to allow over-the-counter sales of the morning-after pill.

(b) The veterinarian with no experience on women’s-health issues who was initially named to run the F.D.A.’s Office of Women’s Health.

(c) The lawyer who was named to run the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency despite having minimal experience in immigration, customs, or law enforcement.

(d) The Manhattan shopper who confronted Condoleezza Rice at Ferragamo, where she was spending thousands of dollars as the situation in New Orleans was deteriorating, and demanded, “How dare you shop for shoes while thousands are dying and homeless?”

11. What did George W. Bush say to reassure people about Harriet Miers?

(a) “She’s the most brilliant woman I’ve ever met.”

(b) “She’s got the best heart of anyone I know, just a super heart.”

(c) “She helped hide the bodies in my National Guard record.”

(d) “She is plenty bright.”

12. What prompted George W. Bush’s response “I’ve got a life to live, and will do so”?

(a) A question about the propriety of taking a five-week vacation when U.S. soldiers were dying in Iraq.

(b) A question about why he was out bike-riding instead of talking to the war protester Cindy Sheehan.

(c) A question about why he flew to California instead of Louisiana after he heard about the New Orleans flooding.

(d) A question about the propriety of wasting so much fuel on trips to New Orleans that had no purpose but to make the public think he was in charge.

13. What did George W. Bush say that the government had to do in response to the New Orleans flooding?

(a) “We’ve got to get rid of that water. We’re water-getter-ridders. Of.”

(b) “We’ve got to do the work. We’re work-doers.”

(c) “We’ve got to fire Brownie. We’re Brownie-firers.”

(d) “We’ve got to solve problems. We’re problem-solvers.”

[Source]

Jesus Loves Me...

2005-10-26T07:50:00.000-04:00

...and wants me to pull my hair out strand by strand. There's no other explanation why this week could suck so divinely.

I'm perpetually behind the 8 ball this week. So I'm just gonna vomit up a few links before I pass out. wednesday doesn't deserve to be capitalized.

Darwin dies a second death. Again.

Actually, this is for Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster which was concocted to point out the absurdity of Creationism's [un]intelligent design theory. Support the thinking man . Buy a shirt.

Stay awake. [de]Locate your fix.

Blessing or curse? Discuss. Just not in front of me.

Do Your Best Not To Detect A Theme Here

2005-10-20T20:03:00.000-04:00

Four of the latest songs I listen to when I stare at people on the subway and wonder if their health insurance covers the chronic strain of being an asshole every morning. That shit'll kill you.

Yes, you can actually download them from the link should you so desire. Except for the third one. Cause I gotta ease you into the genius, real slow-like.

I pray this spontaneous bout of freeness will not be the highlight of your Friday. If it is, you must be a law student and we should talk immediately. By talk, I mean you should arrange for my speedy and anonymous exit from the country to a place where "lawyer" translates into unlimited-bar-privileges-and-bottomless-chip-bowls and all the boys are named Avi. Sigh.

I Need Some Fine Wine and You, And You Need To Be Nicer (The Cardigans)

Two More Years (Bloc Party)

Champagne for my Real Friends, Real Pain for my Sham Friends (Fall Out Boy)

Everyday I Love You Less and Less (M.I.A.)

And for making it this far through the post, I give you Death Cab on NPR.

Lunar Park

2005-10-19T00:47:00.000-04:00

The moon twisted my arm. It was too insistent through the curtains and I was too restless to let the warmth of my comforter win. One rung at a time. Gingerly at first, then swiftly like I have eight lives to go. Scrambling up the fire escape, the tinfoil roof hijacks the light and throws it at random off the windows below. Above me, it’s all charcoal velveteen. No wrinkles. No rips. Up here, midnight is bright and my goosebumps are tiny mountain ranges in the moonlight.

There’s a chlorine moon out tonight, like when I was a kid. Summer afternoons at the beach, all soggy corn chips and sunscreen. I’d get back home, plant myself at the dinner table and peer out through waterlogged eyes, bloodshot from sea salt and chemical cocktails. The kitchen lights orbited above, blurry planets with shuddering halos. Tonight is lit by one great buttery ring hazing out at the edges into nowhere. But there’s no bathing suit to wring dry, just a chlorine moon and its probing glow.

And tomorrow I will wake up and still be 24.

My hair’s still damp as a gale off the Hudson stirs the vats of yeast from the bakery downstairs, my mind churning with possibility. It’s a raucous night between my ears. A good night for lots of things.

For blaring The Bends and playing connect the dots with the constellations.

For racing down 95 like it’s a video game, no consequences and unlimited reset buttons.

For exhaling deeper than your knees and letting the smoke curl out from your mouth in sweeping cursive symbols, like a fragrant foreign language.

For reaching into the future and pulling back a great, dripping handful of the present.

A Little Malcolm

2005-10-11T21:46:00.000-04:00

goes a long way.

A Few Predictions...

2005-10-11T11:30:00.000-04:00

...which I predict will immediately be proven wrong.

If I die before the age of thirty, the coroner’s report will attribute my passing to an overdose of Splenda.
If I meet a guy who can recite every lyric to American Pie on cue, I’d consider that adequate grounds to finally commit.
If I just ignore that rash, the one that looks like Gorbachev’s birthmark and is spreading faster than communism, it’ll go away on it own.
If forced to flee my burning apartment, the first five items I’d grab all require batteries.
If I survive this law school thing, there will be a lump of frozen coal where my heart once beat.
If my brother’s passport is ever revoked, he’ll find a way to leave the country involving human trafficking and large amounts of narcotics.
If my professor grows a soul and changes the date on our Christmas Eve final exam, Satan would throw on a sweater and bacon will levitate.
If, at this very moment, I were anywhere other than New York, doing anything other than law school, I’d be spending every waking second scheming how to do just that. I’m a lucky bastard.

How To Light a Fire Under My Ass Without the Aid of Lighter Fluid

2005-10-10T09:27:00.000-04:00

Yell from the bathroom, without a hint of urgency, that unless I turn off the kitchen faucet in the next ten seconds, the preceding month’s worth of sewage will come spewing forth from our backed up toilet like a giant, pissy infant that hasn’t been burped in thirty days. When I start screaming that HOT CHRIST THE WATER WON’T STOP SPURTING FROM UNDER THE SINK, you should definitely shout back that hey, no worries, worst case scenario simply involves disinfecting every living organism within a thirty foot radius and napalming the contents of our entire apartment. That should go a long way to allaying my shit-soaked fears.

How To Decapitate Me

2005-10-10T09:26:00.000-04:00

When the entire city is swimming their way down 2nd Ave, keep your chin tucked into your chest. Glue your gaze to the three inch square of sidewalk directly below your feet. Do not unhinge your neck to make way for the drenched souls sharing the same strip of pavement. Do not peer beyond the umbrella cocoon you’ve created, the one you seem to think is an impenetrable force field of sweet, sweet dryness on par with the DeathStar. You should do this while wielding an eight-pointed instrument of death courtesy of London Fog. Please aim it directly at my jugular. It should have inane little dioramas of bouncing Siamese kittens and yarn balls painted on it. This way, when I meet my watery end, the last thing I see will be a flash of cheap nylon and visions of prancing felines as you barrel past my lifeless form. And I’ll finally understand my longstanding hatred of cats.

Hi-Lo: Weekend Edition

2005-10-05T11:36:00.000-04:00

Ran half-marathon in Central Park
High: (Endorphin-induced) Testing out entire albums of new tunes on the pavement. Crossing the finish line no longer blows my skirt up. This does not make me a talented runner, merely an exhausted one.
Low: (Homicidal-Rage-induced) Spending the first three miles behind a woman wearing T-shirt emblazoned with "I can do all things through Christ." Apparently, running is not one of them. Lumbering gait + maddening pace of polar ice caps = Plotting new and creative methods of shattering kneecaps.

Saki-bombed Saturday night into near oblivion
High: (Alcohol-induced) Saki flow like water from faucet, Daniel-son. There is no spoon.
Low: (Disgust-induced) Striped-shirt brigade. Enduring the belligerence of restaurant filled with enough plastered finance guys to make Warren Buffett nervous. In all fairness, I didn't see any horns so they coulda been attorneys. Too much cologne, not enough oxygen to maintain brain cells. The vision blurs, you understand.

Tried previously frightening sushi concoctions
High: (Fear-induced) Discovering that drenching anything in ginger-peanut sauce will salvage your taste buds.
Low: (Nausea-induced) Discovering that drenching everything in ginger-peanut sauce will sabotage your internal organs. Namely the ones that are most fond of absorbing your food rather than expelling it violently and under extreme gastro-intestinal duress.

NYTimes' "Great Read in the Park" Author Readings
High: (Awe-induced) Meeting Klosterman and Frank McCourt. Also, the suspicion that own personal feelings of literary inadequacy can be successfully subverted through groupie admiration. Never discount the value of Freudian repression.
Low: (Disappointment-induced) Meeting Peter Straub and realizing once again that Goodyear blimp sized egos can reside in the bodies of tiny, tiny men. The tinyness. It was staggering.

Indian Deepavali Festival
High: (Curry-induced) Paper plates with a load bearing of 40lbs.
Low: (Fatigue-induced) Rolling ourselves back to the 4 train. From the god forsaken financial district. Uggg. We crawled on our stomachs like snakes.

Rosh Hashanah
High: (Religiously-induced) Buying a plastic bear of honey to rationalize away my absence at High Holiday services. Economic mitzvahs count double.
Low: (Shame-induced) Ambient guilt floating around an island swarming with Jews. There is no escape for the non-observant. Note to self: I promise to fast *extra* good for Yom Kippur because if there's one sure-fire path to Jewish redemption, it's unnecessary suffering.

Balance Out The Slight Friday Suckage

2005-09-30T10:16:00.000-04:00

with some Klosterman. I'm meeting him on Sunday for giant author orgy sponsored by New York Times. Trying to dial back the expectations before then.

Stolen Season

2005-09-28T20:28:00.000-04:00

September Solace

Remember, no slideshow for you. Otherwise no captions.

Clicking only.

We just met.

Some Things I'm Not Proud Of

2005-09-22T08:49:00.000-04:00

Most bring shame and ridicule upon the family name.

Some are just embarrassing.

Why should I be forced to choose between the reprehensible behavior I inflict on the world and the public humiliation I bring upon myself.

I steal magazines from the gym. And the subway station bench. And my dentist's waiting room. I feebly attempt to justify this by assuring myself that I will, in turn, leave the semi-stolen materials in interesting places for other, more bored people to happen upon, thereby bringing light to otherwise darkened minds. Am I not a beacon of hope. This would work if littering wasn't actually considered a crime.

Sometimes when girlfriends ask to borrow clothes, I feign the Damn-it's-being-held-hostage-by-the-drycleaners-but-I'll-be-sure-to-let-you-know-when-it's-back excuse because I know they'll stretch it out beyond all recognition and can't bear to tell them to their face.

Sometimes on the subway I won't make the effort to give up my seat to elderly ladies but I'll jump up like George Michael in a WAM video when old black men get on, for no other reason than adoring Morgan Freeman. I suspect this is not only irrational but racist in some convoluted way that I don't fully understand. But I've started to thaw recently. Special exceptions can be made if oxygen tanks are involved.

Sometimes at dinner when my dish is worthy of culinary ecstasy (and I pronounce this multiple times in exclamatory tones), I won't offer to share with you. Even when your plate of fried catfish is glowing with mercury and smells like the East River. However, as a small act of self-redemption, you can be assured that on those occasions when I do in fact offer you a bite, I'm not just being polite. I really do want you to revel in my superior menu selection abilities. I know this last part makes me no less of a shitty date.

Sometimes, when I leave the restaurant, I scoop the better part of the mint bowl into my hand with no concern for the other patrons following close behind me. Don't send me emails about how dirty that bowl is. My cosmic punishment will be a wicked case of food poisoning one day not too far from now.

Sometimes I wish I could use other peoples' children for tranquilizer dart practice. When they're allowed to run free like hyenas, I shoot the parents dirty looks to make them feel unwelcome in civilian life beyond the confines of their PlaySkool fiefdom at home. I do this even though I have pretty good idea that it's the first night they've spent outside the house since Bush was elected and they're just happy to be among real, live adults for an evening. I am also aware that this petty behavior will be (rightfully) revisited upon me tenfold when I have kids. I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.

Final Note: This list is by no means exhaustive. Remember, every day is another invitation to court humiliation and act like an insufferable asshole. Treating people like dirt is a finely honed art that must be cultivated through repetition and diligence. Also remember that Jews don't believe in hell.

An Army of One

2005-09-21T10:57:00.000-04:00

This morning is resembling a fat load of suck.

This morning I got dressed in the dark. Think Courtney Cox in her Springsteen video debut minus the Dorothy Hamill haircut.

This morning my big toe, the one that goes to market, felt it necessary to became intimately acquainted with the legs of our new couch. By “new” I mean hauled up four flights of stairs after being pilfered from a cute couple down the block. By “acquainted” I mean waged a bloody, bloody duel with previously inanimate objects that apparently become fully operational beings when I forget to flip the light switch. By “bloody” I mean bloody.

Victory belonged to the furniture.

This morning I cracked the coffee pot. I prefer to think of it as a spontaneous shattering because my radiant face was too radiant for the morphine machine that Mr. Coffee built, it not being radiance-resistant and all. The only problem with this theory is that it would require me not to look like a Tim Burton character when I walk out of my apartment. This is the second battle I have lost today. My roommates don’t know yet, but Apt 4A will have no caffeine enemas for the rest of the week. I thought it only fair to warn my other toes, the ones that don’t go to market, that they may find themselves broken by Friday.

Thursday I will return. With a howitzer.

Retch for the Sky

2005-09-15T20:34:00.000-04:00

Is there nothing better than vomiting directly on Bambi's face?

I answer in the negatory.

Few things exist more edifying than projectile puking while being forced to stare directly into the watery eyes of Japanese anime characters.

Virgin Airlines has heard my silent plea. Click on the "gallery" option at the left. Enjoy the fruitiness.

How To Win Me Over

2005-09-14T07:38:00.000-04:00

When I stagger into your fine establishment in hot pursuit of caffeine, give me a cup equivalent to the volume of Crater Lake but charge me for a small. Proceed to ply me with gooey looking swirly things. Yes, frosting is fine. When I return from the bathroom, you should leave a plate of what you delicately refer to as "leftover batches from this morning's oven" next to my pile of sinister looking casebooks to ward off the waves of evil radiating from them. I will not so delicately refer to these as "sweet, I can afford to do an extra load of laundry this week" leftovers and commence chowing down. Feel free to chat about your shitty work schedule and shittier boyfriend. You should occasionally shoot me the no-living-organism-comes-in-this-early-good-god-where-is-your-soul-or-at-least-your-insomnia-medication look. I will ignore your pitying glances and half-listen to your stories because you gave me a plate of (1) free (2) edible (3) chocolate pastries. And because all the blood my body can conjure up before sunrise will be rushing directly towards my stomach.

How To Irk Me

2005-09-14T07:33:00.000-04:00

When I reach the subway platform, panting like a frat boy at a strip club with a pocketful of singles, lean casually out of your grimy window. Spread a sunny little grin across your face that communicates to all the commuting peons that you've got exclusive control over the Big Handle. Tip your conductor's hat at me as the doors close. Do this while I'm still heaving up lung tissue on the platform. But don't leave the station just yet. No, no, you should definitely make small talk about my stupid t-shirt and your even stupider observations about it. Yes, I know it's ratty looking. No, I'm not homeless. Yes, it's ventilation. Which I need because it's hot enough to breed rare tropical diseases on the sidewalk and you WON'T LET ME ON THE EVER-LOVING TRAIN. Be sure to give a little wave before speeding off down the tunnel in the direction of my doom (from here on defined as pissed off professors who punish tardiness upon pain of death.) Disregard the fetal position I have now wilted into. Resume playing with your Big Handle. Prick.

Shades of Green

2005-09-09T09:31:00.000-04:00

When I leave my apartment, I walk through 1o minutes of contradictions to reach the subway. Avenue by avenue, the city argues with itself. Unsure of its character and unperturbed to scream in front of us, its children. This place is prone to fits and tantrums, every block a different ultimatum, another island of immigrant toil.

Today was no different. In fact, it was a Park Avenue morning.

Every morning I get a choice. From my bed, I watch the sun peer over my fire escape, hesitating at first, like a kid suddenly realizing he's tall enough to do chin ups on the kitchen counter. I wrestle with the comforter (because top sheets are the devil's invention) until sunshine drips through the river-facing window, staining my walls saffron. By then, I can usually tell how I'm feeling: 1st Ave, 2nd Ave, 3rd Ave, Lexington, or Park. Each their own country, riotous and proud, whose borders appear in constant flux but never stray too far from their established design.

I don't usually wake up in a Park Avenue frame of mind. It's a strip of land unsullied by the grit and grime, safely shellacked in its own hubris. For such vacuum-sealed sterility, its residents trade all traces of vibrance. Park Avenue reminds me of a small army of girls I went to high school with. The ones too caught up in lockstep rhythm with some force-fed ideal of perfection to see the world beyond the campus gates. Admittedly, there's something fascinating in that tunnel vision, that refusal to admit defeat to reality. But it's also damn creepy, like overly-Botoxed grandmas and their lap-dogs-in-sweaters. And so it is with Park Avenue: it may be Manhattan, but it's not really New York. You gotta have hobos pissing into bags of Kibbles and Bits for that.

Despite my distate for its refinery, Park Avenue does offer a welcome break from the madness of 1st through Lexington. That morning I just needed a walk in the bubble. Ten minutes of enforced perfection where I wouldn't be dodging snarling cops and groggy shop owners. Where I could actually hear the sound of my shoes against the concrete, crisp and contained, not drowned out by wailing toddlers or pleading panhandlers. Today was definitely a Park Avenue day.

The sidewalk slabs rested together in unnerving symmetry, smooth as putty and slick with the city's collective sweat. Haughty, their surfaces gleamed like a case of Baccarat. It flowed out before me, a frozen cement stream the color of brewing thunderstorms. My feet were alone down there with no trash to keep them company. No Black & Mild wrappers congregated along the curbs, remnants of minimum wage indulgence. Just the occasional fire hydrant every few blocks, freshly painted and smug.

The arrogance of Park Ave quakes just beneath the surface and, if you squint real hard, it'll reveal itself to you. You can see the elitist flare-ups every so often among the gold-placard high rises. Fevers of entitlement spiking briefly before receding back into hibernation. The women smile weakly at the sanitation boys on their daily rounds, tolerance tugging at the corners of their lips. Painted with Mona Lisa smirks that hide nothing but their capped and bonded teeth. Then they turn into their Park Ave. palaces, erupting at the doorman for the strewn paper out front and a millimeter of dust on the lobby chandelier. Hard to find good help these days.

From my view out on the sidewalk, their lives are just a parade of drab colors. An endless procession of uniforms...gray jumpsuits to haul away trash, blue overalls to repair the kitchen sink, green jackets with brass buttons to carry the bags, white aprons stained with sweat rings to deliver the take out. A world of privilege may bring the green, but without humility, it's a colorblind universe.

Tomorrow, it's back to 3rd Ave.

Delirium

2005-09-06T06:24:00.000-04:00

Sick as hell. In and out of consciousness. Gimme a few days.

In the meantime, here are a few of my favorite things...this week.

Welcome to the Suck

Shattered My Refusal to Pay 17.99 for CDs

Dorky, perhaps. But so, so cool in a subversively toolish way because talent is always respectable.

There's also a great Esquire piece by Klosterman this month...but it's not free, so no link love for you.

Alright, back to the sinus-stomach-Sudafed-suckiness. At least I'm at the epicenter of Jewish penicillin (matzo ball soup!). Gotta recoup in time for Wednesday at the Garden.

Because, In the End, It All Comes Down to Candy

2005-08-30T21:53:00.000-04:00

Law school is now officially one third of the way over. If it were a Snicker’s bar, I’d be in the throes of relishing those first caramel stringy things that hang off when you bite down and I’d still be just on the cusp of fully grasping the peanutty goodness that only puppies and newborns have a right to know.

But it ain't.

So, in honor of the first day of classes after a summer of mingling with actual humanoid creatures, I thumbed through my Intellectual Property table of contents before attacking my cases. The nostalgia was short-lived. I realized to my delighted horror that I’m in for a semester of Warlocks, self-mutilation, and porn.

These are the real titles. Seriously.

Chapter Title: Presumptive Breadth, Inducement, and Harmonization
Translation: The Pitfalls of Embarking on First Dates with Too-High-Expectations

Layla v. Hendrix: The Dilemma
Case Study in Musical Deities: Distinguishing Clapton’s Fender Strat Genius from Jimi’s Unwavering Sonic Prowess

Reverse Engineering and Uneasy Transfer
Volume 9 from Jenna Jameson’s lost archives

Halfbloods
Litigation, Harry Potter Style

Codicils Revocation
How to Fake a Refill on Anti-Depressants Prescription, including new appendix: Fun with Blunt Objects.

Testatrix
I guess Jenna’s got a bondage collection as well.

The Living and The Dead: Taking Sides
How to Survive the Netherworld of Your 2L Year

Patentee as Lexicographer
Not. A. Fucking. Clue.

Here’s to hoping I figure it out by December.

The Camera Never Lies...

2005-08-26T13:43:00.000-04:00

...but it will cheat on you. Everytime.

Roadtrip Part Two

August Means "Surrender To Your Body Odor" In Swahili

2005-08-23T09:42:00.000-04:00

Roadtrip Part One.

When you get in there, forgoe the slideshow option. You'll be deprived of captions and nothing will make sense.

Plus, I'll know that you can't follow directions.

A Moment of Silence, Please...

2005-08-17T18:39:00.000-04:00

..while we mourn the death of irony.

Snake River. Skipping stones. Waiting for rafting trip. Idle conversation with stranger.

“So law school, huh?”

Me: “Yup.”

“That’s bigtime.”

Me: “Nah, not so much. You’d be surprised how many literate morons those places churn out every year.”

“Yeah, I thought about law school for a few years after college.”

Me: “Came to your senses just in time.”

“Yeah. I knew I couldn’t live with myself.”

I have a different version of this same conversation every three days with people I’ve just met. It’s like watching the same slightly insulting ping pong match over and over. You ask me what I do. I answer, assured of imminent disgust. You look at me sideways. I brace for your tirade. Fun is had by all. Unfortunately, I haven’t settled on an adequate response yet: laughter....surprise.....indignance....right hook.

Me: “Yeah…it can be a murky profession, ethics-wise I guess. But it doesn’t have to be. Least I hope so because-"

[Cutting me off] “Nope, no way. Couldn’t look in the mirror every morning knowing I was conning people out of their money. Slime factor’s way too high.”

Strained silence followed by an inaudible sigh, which makes sense considering that slime typically doesn’t speak. Feigned concession is usually most effective with these types so I play dead.

Me: “Ok. Fair enough. So you sound pretty into the morality of your work. Whatcha got in mind?”

“Oh well, it won’ t be out here. Gotta head out to the West Coast to really make it happen.”

Me: “Sure, you gotta go where the action is to really make a difference.”

“Yup, exactly. Plus, there just aren’t a whole lotta opportunities for sports agents where I’m from.”

My turn to look sideways. Gotta check for shark scales.

How To Delight Me

2005-08-13T14:25:00.000-04:00

Show up in a puddle of melting green slop holding a waffle cone bigger than the circumference of your face with the explanation, “Didn’t know which was your absolute favorite in the whole world so I got your top three flavors. All together. Mint goes ok with mango, right?”

You should also be 10 years old with pigtails and a Lizzy McGuire obsession.

How To Irk Me

2005-08-13T14:23:00.000-04:00

Make sure to shove your way through the huddled masses waiting for the elevator. Schlep enough file folders and laptop accessories to make an Everest sherpa groan. Leave rivers of Starbucks and trails of destruction in your wake. Once you’ve reached the demonic red glow of the UP button, indicating that the 27 surrounding people have already taken the liberty of pushing and cursing it, go ahead and crouch over said button while fuming that you should have taken the stairs. Forget the village of hurried 9-5ers who have been waiting far longer than you. Be sure to punch the still illuminated button with a mix of venom and glee usually reserved for Tiajuana cock fights and monster truck rallies. Announce your frustration. Do so in a tone that demonstrates how convinced you are that such acerbic wit is both highly original and worthy of a recurring spot across from Jon Stewart. Upon the doors opening, cherry pick the front right corner of the elevator to ensure your rapid escape lest you meet your bloody end in said elevator.

Brief Disclaimer

2005-08-12T14:26:00.000-04:00

Out West in the woods of Jellystone (Yogi and Booboo, anyone?) til Friday.

Communing with the internets most likely at a minimum for the next week.

Then the inanity begins anew.

Shh, listen real close. That's the sound of no one caring.

Stretching the Bounds of Sanity

2005-08-08T10:23:00.000-04:00

I'm not a huge fan of Lycra. It's unflattering on most bodies, toned or not. It comes in enough shades of radioactive neon to have warned the residents of Chernobyl. In fact, it single-handedly plunges me into flashbacks from The Days Bon Jovi Ruled The Earth despite the fact I was still in Pampers when they formed. I've watched too many Vh1 testimonials on hair bands. In any case, the man who unleashed Spandex upon the world should be punished for his crimes against humanity.

He should be forced to attend my yoga class. For eternity.

Without fail, no matter where I plop myself down, it's always the same: I'm seated squarely behind the largest Spandex-clad ass that nature could possibly dream up given the limited elasticity of the human epidermis. It is truly a marvel of evolution. It's not that I'm repulsed by the extra weight itself. Nor does excessive sweating bother me. I can even handle the odd grunt or two in the course of the class. My problem is that their gym clothes deprive their lungs of oxygen like a giant Day Glo anaconda that I can only watch in horror from few feet away. So often have I gotten a front seat to these lessons in fat constriction that I can now determine precisely how much Crisco and what size shoehorn the woman used that morning to pour herself into the day's Spandex sausage suit. Someone is telling these ladies it's at least marginally acceptable to leave their homes in this condition. For the sake of my retinas and small schoolchildren, this person must be stopped.

So there I sit, perspiring like I'm in the principal's office and trying to ignore the neighboring mountain of Lycra that has now blotted out the sun. Can't focus. Can't zone out. Can't "breathe through my chakras" or whatever Fernando, the flamingly fabulous instructor, is trying to convince us to do. Instead, I'm left to ponder the questions that have plagued the great Yogis since time immemorial.

Are these Lycra concoctions sold according to tensile strength like fishing line and airplane luggage?

If so, could I sue for undue public endangerment under products liability?

Did I just completely pull a new area of law out of my ass?

How long can limbs remain purple before gangrene sets in?

If the Spandex proves victorious in the match between Delusional Woman v. Fabric of Death, does Fernando know CPR?

Would he be willing to administer it on anyone with breasts?

So you see, young grasshoppa, I am hard at work chiseling away at life's enduring mysteries. After an hour of these mental contortions, I leave class depleted from the anxiety of knowing that the crotch seams on Spandex shorts can endure only so much strain before meeting their sweaty end. And I will be there, front and center, to witness the fall[ing]out. Until then, I sit unerringly behind every Spandex-swathed woman with a gym membership and Chick-fil-A addiction. Mulling over the timeless enigmas of our generation and working out in constant fear.

All this lingering dread is exhausting. Maybe I should take up yoga.

No Officer, I Thought the Speed Limit Was a Suggestion

2005-08-03T09:38:00.000-04:00

Home.

In one piece.

Sand between my toes.

Skewers on the barbeque.

I figure it'll be at least a few days until I start making fun of this place.

Closing Credits

2005-07-29T07:13:00.001-04:00

The owner's manual calls it Desert Sand Opalescence.

Everyone else calls it gold.

Actually, they call it ugly. But that's beside the point.

The insults have always fallen on deaf ears. It's true my car is painted a color only an owner could love. I can't deny that it's decorated with enough dents and scars to keep Maaco in business til the next fiscal year. But the view from behind the wheel tells a different tale: Not pockmarks and rust but war paint and scar tissue. This thing has earned its stripes. And I guess, for over a half decade, I have too. I've defended my beloved hunk of metal against a parade of indiginities so long it's visible from space. I know, there's a lot to answer for...mismatched tires from four different states, upholstery stained with silhouettes of the Baby Jesus, and floor mats chronicling every meal I ever balanced off the center console. I guess one driver's abusive treatment is another's idea of well-loved. The Jeep, in all its (chipping) golden glory, has endured five years ofchassiss-shattering hits while I withstood ego-pulverizing affronts of my own: Showers of South Florida salt spray, luxurious baths of Georgia red clay, frostbitten New York blizzards, suffocating D.C. smog blankets, groveling sessions by the glare of a State Trooper's flashlight (crying on cue is weak, ladies) and, of course, vindictive metermaids all along the East coast.

Alternately spit upon and spit-shined, booted and buffed, the Jeep now stands as a testament to the ghosts of boyfriends past. A museum of accumulated affections. Though I try to avoid the daily tour for sanity's sake, whether I like it or not, there's no escape from the exes:

The much-beloved cd player was a gift from D. True enough, it's not stabilized within the labyrinth of wiring and a bit jerry-rigged. But it's always been there in a crunch and still going strong despite the constant fist pounding. I can finally say the same of our friendship. Minus the hitting.

The backseat groans under the weight of burned cd's from K. Admittedly, I was initially opposed to his preference for live recordings and obscure imports. My flimsy reasons were something to do with sound quality and artistic consistency issues that seem like excuses now. Despite my protests, his hand-scrawled mixes kept coming. Eventually, they eased me into some of my now favorite bands, forcing me to admit defeat. And they always let me know he cared even from a few hundred miles away.

The passenger floorboard is dyed a lovely shade of Chocolate Slap Yo Mamma milkshake (large, please) courtesy of J. More than just coma-inducing goodness, those things were the best reason we could conjure to sit in the Jake's parking lot long after the straw made that sucking sound at the end of a milkshake. Undergrad philosophers surrounded by empty cake cones. Much was discussed, a bit was argued. All is missed.

And a faint cigarette burn completes the Sistine chapel of grease smudges on the ceiling. No, CN, menthols are not "just like brushing your teeth". I promise. It would only take a quick wipe, but I still haven't gotten around to cleaning it off just yet.

Fittingly, the only thoroughly shitty ex I have to my name is visible from the exterior: a sweeping gash of white paint streaked across the side panel. It's lengthy, but ultimately shallow. Jeep and I really earned that one. Peeling away from his house for the last time after a monster final argument, in reverse and without the aid of mirrors to slow us down. It was a reckless end to a foolish time and I was too elated at the thought of freedom to regret the injury. Happily, there was no permanent damage to either of us...just a little repair work before hitting the road again.

And so this week, I'm on my last roadtrip. The Jeep will be sold to the highest bidder or my older brother. Whichever can offer it the most loving home. My money's on a stranger. By the time I reach home, I'll have her all fixed up and purdy before the dreaded hand off, like a parent before Prom. Jittery. Weepy. A bit reluctant to let go. Maybe I'll stick a color-coordinated corsage on the antennae. Snap some half-hearted photos.

I'll take that last ride, the one she's been saving just for me. Windows down, speakers twitching, loaded up with memories.

South of the Border: fun with cut and paste

2005-07-21T17:34:00.000-04:00

My brother is working abroad.
Some people say we're telepathic.
And by telepathic, I mean connected at the cerebrum to our email accounts.

Hey [Barefoot],
Hello there, long-lost heathen brother.

I hope you´re doing well at your job,
I have mastered the extra froth function on the shrine that is Mr. Coffee. Bow before me.

or have you already moved on to the next stage of the summer?
The meth lab will not resume functioning until the fall. Please ration your supply accordingly and inform your clientele.

I'm here in Leon [S. America], ready to head out next week for other parts of the country.
Will you be traveling on foot or by abduction?

I´m trying to sell some stories on the volcanoes, sea turtles of Nicaragua, and maybe even
something on CAFTA (like NAFTA, but for C.A.) before coming home.
I can't introduce you to any of my new friends until you've interviewed Shakira. I hope you haven't bought a return ticket yet.

At the moment, I´m planning on being back in the U.S. by August for C's wedding and then in SF for the Fall.
I didn't know Duke Law opened up a West Coast Annex.

Let me know what you´re thinking.
Is it really necessary for us both to have nightmares?

Love...
M

...Is For Suckers and Puppies,
B. Hermes

Interoffice Memo

2005-07-21T01:03:00.000-04:00

To: Fellow Passengers on the 4 Express Train
From: B. Hermes

A few bullet points for your perusal:

When it's hot enough that passengers are sweating from orifices best visited on late night Skinemax with a soft focus lens and forgiving backlight, retreat from your position under the AC vent and cough up a few inches. No cherry picking.
When I'm grasping the monkey bars that line the ceiling, don't stare at my armpits to see if I've shaved that day or whether I'm glad I use Dial. I did and I'm not. The fact that I only bothered to shave because I knew assclowns like you would be leering is besides the point.
When that lady carrying the wrist-crushing wedding cake box gingerly steps off the platform and through the sliding doors, move. Away. In a rapid and reverential fashion. Like the god damn roach that you are.
When she requests a seat, don't snicker and ask to see her wooden leg. The woman is wearing pointy toed shoes. The woman is well versed in the more delicate areas of male anatomy. The woman is sweating like Niagara and carrying melting pastries. You are young in the ways of the world, my Twizzler-necked little shit.
When commiserating with your male companions about the rather unfortunate state of meteorological affairs Muffy, there is no need to reiterate the sentiment at 3600 decibels while staring at 42 other New Yorkers perspiring like priests at a boy scout rally. Redundancy will not be tolerated above 85 degrees. Neither will your cologne.
When trying to spy on my MP3 player track list on the sly, don't lean so far into my neck that I smell the street meat you scarfed down during your lunch hour. Unless creepy-finance-MD-with-a-creepier-access-card-photograph-and-extra-sauerkraut-compulsion is the look you're going for. Then I applaud your valiant effort.

Ok, all for now folks. Performance reviews are next month and your bonuses are, um, en route. Until then, resume sweating.

The Trapeze Artist

2005-07-18T08:33:00.000-04:00

I've needed the whale room all week. Cavernous and inky in the half-light, it's my spot. I've worn away a personalized indentation on the bench against the north wall. The one between the giant squid diorama and the sea anemone tank. The perch nestles me in the shadows without sacrificing prime people-watching, just waiting for a visit from the seat of my favorite jeans.

The eye always greets me the same way. Gelatinous and soothing, it floats silently with me as I scuttle through the herds of kindergarten field trippers and roving tourists. It's swollen beyond the iris, echoing into a deep blueberry flourish. The corona is its own glacier, endless and indigo. But for me, the eye is the farthest thing from icy blankness. Just a genial observer unmoved by time or tears, tales or tantrums. It has accomplished what I continue to fail at: existing at a remove but not without caring. The eye simply rests in silent suspension above the museum crowds. A snapshot of glass and gills frozen on its trapeze of cables.

Above the fray and untouched. I'm jealous.

I usually only need the whale room once in a while, though I'd be pacing the museum halls every week if I succumbed to my inner nerd. But these are tumultuous times and I pay the mammal a visit pretty frequently lately. Particularly when the stress of daily minutiae is radiating off me like a car hood in rush hour. And the past two weeks have been one long roadtrip through Death Valley without coolant. I think I may have lost the map as well. But I'm still behind the wheel and things are slowly falling into place like Chinese water torture. Certain but mind-bendingly slow. The details are unimportant and maddening to recount but I suspect all will be settled by mid-week.

Until then, I'll daydream about my spot in the shadows and wish for stillness beneath the whale.

Didn't You Hear?

2005-07-14T07:11:00.000-04:00

Fear is the new black. And I'm trendy as hell.

Tonight it could all come together. Or it could all fall apart.

Too exasperated to post about it yet. Or too superstitious to jinx it in a blog.

Either way, by 5 p.m. all shall be revealed.

Got tix for Tegan & Sara. Gonna pull up a stool at Burger Heaven on the way. Live music and greasy food will fix everything. Because I said so.

Here's to Starving and Stupid

2005-07-08T16:37:00.000-04:00

Graduation speeches are usually a time to reflect on squandered tuition and practice your snoring decibels.

Perhaps, Stevie, I was wrong about you.
But I'm still not using iTunes.

Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.

Runnin' Fool

2005-07-07T19:46:00.000-04:00

While the rest of my life is temporarily resembling the county fair Gravitron ride (centrifugal force + funnel cake vomit = right back on your face from whence it came), thanks to W for giving me one more thing to Type A to death on top of running.

Shield your eyes, young ones. Behold the holy grail.

Most recent conquest: The Brooklyn Bridge

Under Construction

2005-07-07T12:53:00.000-04:00

Caught in real estate purgatory like every other student doomed to a nomadic existence during July.

Update soon if I have a pulse tomorrow morning.

Quickest Way to Eliminate Those Pesky Second Dates

2005-07-05T12:28:00.000-04:00

When you're sitting across the table from me over dinner in a great Moroccan restaurant and everything's looking rather promising, that's the moment you should lean in with your shit-eating grin and mutter, "Plus, you're Jewish. That's ten points right off the bat!"

It's like Romantic Affirmative Action for New Yorkers. And I ain't havin it.

Star Trekking

2005-06-30T08:39:00.000-04:00

8 seconds flat until the stars appeared. Shuddering and white, they'd break through the inky blankness like metallic confetti through cheesecloth. Stunning to witness, but a bit freaky for a six year old. Your vision recedes and wobbles. The room folds in on itself. For those few moments, reality's just a flimsy scrap of origami collapsing into a void. And the void is all that's real. It was all very Matrix-y before Keanu made it a pop culture punchline.

I kept this up until I was about 10. Whenever I was scared or confused, I'd dig my palms into my eye sockets until the stars appeared. I was mercifully ignorant of corneas and cones or rods and retinas or misfiring synapses.

I thought I had God on retainer.

Pretty sweet deal for a Reform Jew more interested in making matzo balls than learning Hebrew. I'd take that 8 second trip, simultaneously inside my head and outside myself, for some serious face time with The Great Bearded One. Sometimes he'd have answers waiting for me, like perfect little paper swans too fragile to withstand much questioning. (Harder to swallow as the years went by.) Sometimes there was only silence as I implored the universe for its elusive operating manual. (Still looking...just in different places now.) Sometimes my palms curled into fists, running with frustrated tears, salty and defiant. Always, though, I was comforted and cared for by the presence in the darkness. Whether he was hiding in the star-strewn black or I was simply too obtuse to see him did not concern me. I felt and I knew. And I suppose, to my six year old mind, that was enough.

Those were the last times, however fleeting, I ever had a sense that God existed. As my birthday cakes became littered with more candles, I was left with merely an abiding desire that he might be real in some cosmic respect. A psychological need rather than an internalized certainty. I no longer wanted a personal therapist summoned at will. I needed the Truth in capital letters with trumpets blaring and blinking marquee lights. I knew the starry void in my head offered no authentic answers, just waning comfort. It would be a few more years until I learned, of course, that there are very few bold faced absolutes to be found either in the world of man or in my own imagination. But that is for another time.

Now, the inky field of stars no longer beckons. It is a frozen relic of childhood, more to chronicle than to comfort. It is sewn through with warm memories, a beloved old chair whose stuffing retains the half moons and angles of my heart years after my departure.

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

2005-06-23T18:53:00.000-04:00

1. Witness gap between polished granite slabs (a beautiful Smithsonian sculture garden from D.C.)

2. Insert head squarely between boulders.

3. Bash temples against either side like a demonic metronome.

4. Smile. Now we have something in common.

Last day of Appellate Division Oral Arguments. No sleep til Brooklyn.

Deja Vu....Revisited

2005-06-21T08:52:00.000-04:00

2: Number of crap ass opening bands forced to endure before rockin out to Better Than Ezra last Tuesday night.

1.7: Average number of years until crowd present at show will be old enough to buy the staples of youth, porn and cigarettes.

43,000,000: Amount, in Lire, blown on watered down vodka.

1: Number of ligaments torn by K while, um, dancing on stage. With a cowbell.

325. 27: Amount, in U.S. dollars, I would have paid to witness injury up close rather than fend off Cantor Fitzgerald Boy at the venue's back bar. I am not impressed by your upgraded cubicle.

90: Minutes spent in surprisingly clogged ER waiting room at 1:30 am last Wednesday morning.

359: Estimated number of ice bags and Advil salvation to be consumed in the next week by K the concert commando.

2: Number of consecutive Wednesdays that have devolved into a fat load of suck due to Tuesday night sonic revelry.

6: Number of court pleading drafts now balled up in the trash can because frontal lobe has ceased all communications with appendages in fatigue-induced mutiny.

37: Number of times this will repeat itself until September.

Life and Times: Excel Version

2005-06-16T08:39:00.000-04:00

1981: Born

Feared
bright lights, loud noises, men with mustaches.

Worshipped
bathtime, my brother, applesauce.

1987: 6 years old

Feared
the abominable snowman, brother in his superman cape attempting to fly, asparagus.

Worshipped
Punky Brewster, pillow forts, the Gorton's fisherman and his little yellow rain slicker.

1994: 13 years old

Feared
my torah portion, the Bitch Clique, orthodontic torture.

Worshipped
basketball practice, staggering array of drug store hair dye, boys in concert t-shirts.

1997: 16 years old

Feared
getting caught, death by boredom, wrath of god.

Worshipped
my English teacher, Kim Gordon, power vested in me by the DMV gods.

2000: 19 years old

Feared
change, cross-Atlantic turbulence, becoming my parents, absence of god.

Worshipped
Felicity reruns, Sleater Kinney, my English professor, guys that give me laugh lines.

2005: 24 years old

Fear
commitment, Manhattan housing market, writer's block, attorneys.

Worship
solitude, unlimited long distance calling plans, (solicited) parental advice, lemon bars with an inch of powered sugar, Ticketmaster.

I Do a Load of Laundry Every Three Days

2005-06-13T22:40:00.000-04:00

Mile 1: The headphones chatter happily with the genius of Achtung, Baby and I wonder if Bono wound consider taking a second wife. Life is good at the moment:

There are still a few hours before the temperature busts the mercury.
I’ve sold all my first year law books on half.com. Yes, I’ve ordered my Robb Report subscription.
And I have all morning to run. Or until my heart explodes from the humidity squatting on my chest like a sumo wrestler.

That was the cue for rapid onset joy…shouldn’t everyone be breaking into synchronized dance routines?

Mile 2: Begrudgingly, I share the sidewalk with two osh-kosh-b'goshed monsters being pushed down 5th Avenue.

In a garbage can.
By their mother.

The little devils are laughing hard enough to convulse into gap toothed giggle fits over the side of their Hefty-on-wheels, so I'm not too concerned. Besides, it's New York. This is code for I'm-an-unfeeling-running-bastard-who-laughs-in-the-face-of-child-endangerment.

Mile 3: My sinuses fill with the shit-on-a-hot-summer's-day aroma courtesy of the Clydesdales. Horse-drawn buggies hug the Southern border of Central Park as, one by one, they fill with bloated mid-westerners: grown men and women squeezed into Mickey Mouse t-shirts like so much polish sausage. With matching socks. For such retina-scorching tackiness, these people should be handcuffed to their Best Western minibars and left to die.

Mile 4: My sneakers bulldoze through the tourist gauntlet, embraced by the first merciful fringes of canopy. The Ipod people are out in full force, crawling the perimeter with that familiar overly-NyQuiled look of the Apple clones. Steve Jobs, should he ever desire to stage a coup, will have a fully functioning infantry of loyal zombies ready to mobilize.

Snow Patrol lulls me into my own sweaty trance as the office girls scatter across the green space to sun their pointy-toed legs. Brown paper lunch bags and blankets dissect the lawn into immaculate little squares, carving out a human chessboard. On an island of over a million people, clearly defined personal space can not be overstressed.

Mile 5: My nose vetoes my sneakers, dragging me closer to the Pretzel Man. He is a culinary god in these parts. Judging by the line snaking out from his cart, he must be coating the things in meth. Mmmm...Mountains of doughy goodness, soft as braided pillows, with boulders of salt crystallized at the edges. Stubble-jawed dads flirt with nannies. I play chicken with oncoming baseballs ricocheting off little league sluggers. I pound the pavement towards safer climes.

Mile 6: I peer upwards at the Central Park chandelier: Gristedes grocery bags, deflated balloon animals, and lonely sneakers dangle from the oaks. As Thom Yorke serenades my burning hamstrings, I wonder how many tears have flown at the loss of helium poodles...how may produce bags have harnessed freedom on the Hudson gale only to be snagged by a branch...and, god dammit, how many barefoot children are running around midtown with only one Nike.

Mile 7: I always visit the Mad Hatter. Best opium in town. His grin is frozen in bronze a few yards from 5th Ave. Today, however, herds of kindergarteners swarm at the feet of the Alice in Wonderland statues, like armies of good little Ralph Lauren soldiers. I'm tempted to stick around for the children's reading but the roar of the toddler battalion makes the decision for me. Zeppelin’s sonic tirade blasting through the headphones is more relaxing.

Mile 8: Looks like Bloomberg dug up a few bucks in the city budget for flowers along the north border of the- Oh shit, there's J.

And he's definitely already seen me cross over the bridge.
Can't sprint back towards anonymity.
Gotta keep pace.
Act natural. -ish.

Gloriously Bathing in My Own Perspiration: Hey there, shouldn't you be following Eliot Spitzer around like a school girl?

Criminally Attractive Former Classmate: Yeah, well, the AG's office doesn't need me to start til Friday. [Glancing down.] That's, um, an impressive sweat stain you're working on there. [It spreads, as if on cue, down my torso like a massive, salty Rorschach test. ]

Me: [Resisting the urge to spout off statistics on the capacity of human sweat glands during strenuous activity or anything else that would reveal the uber-nerd that runs this whole operation]. Well, it’s just really hot out I guess. [Throat clearing] Doesn’t look like you’re exerting yourself too much out here. Wouldn’t want to pull a muscle over the Sunday Times, huh?

CAFC: Yup, just reading the paper. Catching up on the last nine months we missed away from the real world, you know. [I glance down at the bench: Times Book Review. Sports Page. Circuits Technology. A man after my own heart.]

Got a pick up game in a little while over there actually…. We’ll probably end up at that place by 1st and 1st tonight. [Pause. Scanning the asphalt.] Think you could make it over there at 9? You and I never really got a chance to hang out since exams started…tried calling a few times but there was only a-

Me: -oh yeah, I got a new cell phone number! Didn’t get around to telling everyone.

CAFC: Yeah, guess stalkers can be a real pain in the ass.

Me: Ha, yeah. It was just cheaper for me this way. …I’ll definitely come by tonight. [Grinning like a deranged hyena.] Can’t resist a chance to rub elbows with the 82nd in command at the Attorney General’s office. After the janitor.

CAFC: Great, so tonight then. Hey, I, uh, wouldn’t even mind if you skipped the shower.

Me: [Resisting impulse to roll around the lawn, making out with CAFC next to Op-Ed pages.] Yup, til then.

I pick up my pace again, unsure if the growing sweat stain is just from the June weather.

Mile 9: Jimmy Eat World is begging me to finish up and my thighs are joining in the chorus of fatigue that my knees starting humming a few minutes back. I surge ahead, leaving my last ounces of effort writhing on the pavement. The shade of the granite bridge beckons.

A couple fresh from the synagogue (Yes, I’m sure. It’s New York.) poses in the gray light. Her wedding gown sprouts from the corset like an overfilled canoli. His tie is gray and knotted loosely, a lump of silky charcoal hugging his Adam’s apple. He keeps inadvertently fingering that foreign metal band like it’s a newly-sprouted appendage. Keeping my panting to a minimum, I steal a slice of stone wall at the other end of the bridge’s tunnel. I half-listen as the photographer coaxes just one more smile out of the newlyweds. Glancing back, they look exhausted but blissful.

Water logged with sweat and nodding in rhythmic worship to the MP3 gods, I lumber off to 5th Ave. Exhausted bliss. I know the feeling.

Clerks (minus Kevin Smith)

2005-06-10T07:15:00.000-04:00

Grease stains hovered above the seats, lining the wall like Jerri Curl halos. The oily lesions were punctuated by the occasional flyer and typical bureaucratic detritus: bus schedule pamphlets, daycare services, half-heartedly menacing signs warning "No eating, drinking, or roughhousing." Yeah, this was the kind of place that chained its plastic furniture to the floor. I resisted the urge to add my own artistic contribution, ...but smoke em if you got em!

But I don't usually bring a Sharpie on job interviews.

My suit was the only indication that I was vying for a clerkship under the judge. It would mean a summer of being chained to the law library desk while the Black Robed One handed down directives. There would be daily reverence, intimidation, and confusion swathed in the cloak of legal authority....like working for Darth Vader but without the face-mask-heavy-breathing. And no light saber.

Back in the waiting room purgatory, the natives were growing restless. The seconds crept by but there was enough entertainment value to last for hours. To my left was a walking Fort Knox. He channeled Mr. T, saddling his neck with enough gold chains to choke a horse. On my right, a woman flashed a set of nails arching out from her fingertips like mutant Fritos: brittle, purple talons she maneuvered expertly enough to debone a catfish. They tapped out an impatient concerto on the molded chair. Silently, we all waited for the machinery of the New York State Court System to surpass the speed of continental drift.

Occasionally, a door would open down the hall. Scraps of arguments escaped between the white noise of the waiting cage...

"But all my kids have different daddies. I can't get em all in here."

"You better listen up. Do you really wanna be a freshman for the third time?"

"Just wait til I've been clean for a few more days."

People shuffled in and out, faces drawn like sedated basset hounds, staring at the floor looking for 4th and 5th chances. Their luck had worn as thin as their soles. A uniform strutted in: "The judge will see you now." I rose, feeling strangely apologetic for my drycleaned pinstripes and clean socks. The officer escorted me through the jungle of glances and murmurs into the judge's chambers.

A clerkship offer awaited. Let the madness begin.

Cloud Gazing

2005-06-09T08:30:00.000-04:00

Wednesday Afternoon:
(Pre-morning caffeine fix, running on fumes, and battling mammoth headache)

Little tug-boat-that-could on the cusp of being
swallowed by fire-breathing dragon as the darkness
of The Nothing from The Never Ending Story
encroaches on the capsized ship.

Thursday Morning:
(Post-run, three cups of Blackberry Sage coursing through my veins, new Coldplay echoing between my ears and staring down the barrel of Friday)

Bounding Yellow Labrador free from his leash,
caught in mid-slobber-and-pounce, diving into
a sea of vanilla bean ice cream.

Ahh, perspective.

Your Tax Dollars At Work...

2005-06-02T21:45:00.000-04:00

Highlights from the nation's capitol.

1. Homeless man with shopping cart and marker-scrawled sign reading:

"Ninjas killed my family. Need money for Kung-Fu lessons."

Social inequity aside, that's $1.25 off the bat for creativity.

2. National Endowment for the Asinine

Please don't climb on the clitoris. Your government thanks you.

One Foot in Front of the Other

2005-05-31T10:26:00.000-04:00

The Metro station attendant was about to come for me with a net and a tranquilizer gun. My feet progressed 10 feet before my brain reigned them in and reversed direction, like an exasperated owner tugging on a Schnauzer's leash. The tug of war played out in front of the information booth: back-forth, north-south, body-mind, aplomb-fear. Three loops and two downtown trains later, my pacing ceased, knowing I'd wear out my soles far before my mind would relent. High heels and wingtips swept past me, tapping out their morning morse code on the platform. A silent conversation between commuters. My feet ached to follow, wanting to glide across the concrete with purpose, strident and unafraid. But, then again, the briefcase-toting masses didn't have dusty memories waiting for them. Mine were just beyond the Metro door.

Patient ones.

They'd been waiting for me here in D.C. for a while, knowing I'd be back, if only for a few days. And so it's come to pass...I'm back to revisit the former haunts, see an old friend and scrape off the painful residue that lingers over my recollection of this place. Tall order for a single weekend.

It's actually something of a shame because D.C.'s a great town. But my nausea-tinged reflex is owing to a relationship I was shackled to while living here. He shared his name with a wildly popular, banana-skinned cartoon character but, regrettably, not much else...minimal humor, scarce smiles, and even fewer fart jokes. Note to self: The absence of cracks about bodily functions spells impending doom for any couple. Mercifully, the details of our entanglement have worn threadbare with time. The daily sagas have receded into the past. Only the lessons remain. Though the particulars faded, some traces persist: unwelcome ghosts sauntering down my memory lane, loitering on the curb and generally bringing down the neighborhood.

It was time for a roadtrip.

Back on the Metro platform, my feet bargained with my gray matter: You only have to walk past the office door. No run-ins with former co-workers. No small talk with the old boss. It'll be Drive-By Catharsis! (Or was that stalking?) And the old, empty apartment, you'll just stroll by the entrance...no need to get reacquainted with the Ghost of Arguments Past. Forgo the Dickensonian tour. Just a quick visit to clear away the cobwebs and the memories will retreat back to their rightful place: the past.

And so my Pumas sprinted down the platform toward the Red Line train while my mind scrambled for a firmer grip on the leash.

I spent the day listening to my feet and sweating out the memories, like a sauna for the psyche. They covered a lot of ground, some of it stretching out before me and some unmappable territory between my ears. The morning runs. The daily commutes. The trivial steps that comprised a long, trying summer. I walked em all over again for the first time...making new associations, retraining the knee-jerk anxiety that boiled up in my stomach whenever D.C. was the topic of conversation at dinner parties. I trotted through downtown, digging new neural pathways to snake through the old trenches.

The ghosts I was certain I'd find at the other end of the Metro were not lounging on the stoop of the Calvert street apartment. They weren't crouching by the revolving doors of the old office ready to pounce. I was oddly disappointed. It had taken a few hundred miles and twenty bucks in tolls to find them where they'd always been: simply hunkering down in a neglected corner of my mind, unmoving and complacent. And why not...my fear had carved out a cushy home for them among the relics of my imagination. By now, it was practically a Jamaican bungalow with light off shore breezes and a man-servant named Sven. And at this rate, a wet bar was not far behind. It seems I came to D.C. for a forced eviction. With the new vacancy, all I needed was a fresh coat of paint.

The unofficial ghost tour ended where it began, in front of the reflecting pool by the Lincoln Memorial. My feet steered me to a shady spot on the marble steps overlooking the green strip. Peppered with tourists, the afternoon was prime for people watching: bloated, acid-washed masses roamed aimlessly like an ant farm turned on its head. I was appreciating the hot-dog-toddler-vomit-designer-imposter-perfume aroma of middle America when a distinctly herbal scent sliced through the soccer mom crowd. I peered to my left. Just beyond a long hedge, a guy was polishing off the last of his bud. His chin tilted toward the sun and a loose smirk languished on his lips. He gazed as the Dockers-clad sheep scurried about, maps spread wide and cameras at the ready.

His chin pointed towards me.

He saw me see him.

Not a trace of concern registered. Only a gentle smile flowered across his cheeks. A soft chuckle escaped as he said "You know, if you squint real hard, they all look like they know where they're going."

His weed gone, he shuffled a pair of dime store flip-flops, pulling himself off his perch. The wind changed direction and his incriminating aroma mingled with the sausage vendors. I watched until his red shirt melted into the oozing palette of Memorial Day crowds.

My Pumas tugged me off my marble roost. I plodded down the steps, not knowing where I was going but certain of my destination. With eyes narrowed and mouth widened, my vision blurred thorough half-open lids. He was right. Looking through the haze, they all walked so purposefully. Unseen assurance beneath the shuffle.

I followed their lead and dropped the leash. Less brain. More feet.

I'll Have the Agony Special with a Side of Desperation, Thanks.

2005-05-24T12:30:00.000-04:00

My right foot was intent on shattering the speed limit. Thoughts spun themselves between my ears, like a hamster wheel from hell, drowning out Weezer's best efforts to convince me that half-Japanese girls are alluring. I cycled through the same pep talk every 45 seconds: It's just a chance to catch up with extended family....a benign little country club brunch....maybe you'll steal some good muffins on the way out.

But my gut churned as wildly as my mind. I knew this was gonna be an ordeal.

The Jeep crept past the manicured sign, hugging the undulating expanse of golf course stretching in the distance. It was another realm, like entering a perfectly landscaped womb where nature bent to the whims of argyle-clad men and women gripping mimosas. Even the birds sounded sedated. I drove for a brief eternity before blowing past the valet enclave, their hunter green jackets glowing in the barely noon light. I headed for the parking lot because it's just weird to delegate the minutiae of everyday life to people standing idly by in uniform. (Exhibit A: In New Jersey, it's actually against the law to pump your own gas. Every gas station is full serve and if you make a move for the handle of unleaded, the attendants come rushing out like you've challenged them to a gas pump duel. This is certifiable behavior.)

In my rearview mirror, I saw the club valets had whipped out the golf carts and started to give chase. I considered indulging in a few doughnuts on the back nine, but quickly thought better of it. Instead, I raced towards the sea of SUVs that gleamed liked they'd been shellacked in crisco and tucked away the Jeep in the farthest corner of asphalt Siberia I could manage. It would be a bit of a trek to Mecca, but my pep talks didn't seem to be taking. I was grateful for the distance to the front entrance.

Killing the engine, I looked up to see what was blotting out the sun for a ten foot radius on all sides of me. It was this monstrosity below. I didn't need to see the driver (who was safely ensconced somewhere sucking down a Glen Fiddich) to know that he was a blemish on the face of humanity.

He even had the cajones to get the damn thing in red....so maybe a giant, festering boil on the arse of society.

Despite this discouraging (though depressingly reaffirming) beginning, my Grandpa was inside waiting and I owed him at least a good faith effort at walking in with an open mind. So I recommitted myself to a positive attitude (smile purdy now) and locked the car behind me. One foot in front of the other, my toes begged to stay outside and play as they dangled over my sandals into the Bermuda grass. The short, soft kind that looks like three day stubble but tickles your soles like a shag carpet of green feathers. As a kid, I remember asking my mom why I only saw that grass here at the club and at Disneyworld. She raised her eyebrow and answered, "Because they both have the same budgets."

Before I could make it to the doors, I had to traverse the swarms of IJC clogging the front steps. Envision a giant school of Amazonian pirahna in oversized sunglasses as big as your ass cheeks. It scrambled the mind: pastel Juicy tracksuits as far as your vision could reach...incessant cell phone chatter...shrieks in accents so deafening, it made microphone feedback seem soothing. So many JAPs in such a high concentration may cause profound disturbances in the surrounding electrostatic field; I thought it best to use the side entrance. If only to stave off convulsions.

I survived the gauntlet unscathed...only to be molested out of my jacket by the coat check attendant waiting like a preying mantis just inside the doorway. Despite my protests, I was, um, relieved of my garment and shushed into the dining room. I will never consider forced disrobing only to shiver through my meal a service.

The dining room was unchanged. Still a shrine to excess and overwrought interior design. Seafood buffets, soup stations, salad bars, grill patios. No artery left unclogged. No whim spared indulgence. There was also no need to scan the palatial room for my family: the half-soused cackles and china clatter were familial homing devices, like manic dolphins communicating at their own private frequency. To be clear, I was meeting my extended family. My tolerance threshold for them is still pretty high. As a brunch-survival technique, they're best endured with amused detachment like observing hysterical toddlers whose ADD is endearing and "so dynamic" as long as they're not really your own kids.

My entrance was masked by another melee at the table (a small mountain of lobster tail had arrived), mercifully allowing me to slip in unnoticed next to my sole ally for the afternoon: The Gramps. All white hair and smiles and good-natured debonair. Grandpa was an oasis of sanity and I remembered why I came. We squeezed in a good twenty minutes of conversation before the rest of the group turned its efforts to the newcomer in their midst.

The inquisition was underway.

The vultures test for weakness..."Aren't you just loving New York?"..."So many available men"..."You know, 24's never too early to start looking."

Smelling fear, they encircle their prey..."So how's your social life?"..."Anyone new?"..."What about that nice boy from last month?"

With blood in the air, they go in for the kill..."You know, there's this great guy from work you might like...and he's JEWISH!"

I emitted a grotesque, gurgling sound. Another round of shouts and bustling ensued as I feigned choking on my omelette. They should have just let me die. With relatives like this, it would be a mercy killing.

With the minor crisis averted, I soldiered through the rest of the cholesterol-fest, alternately eyeing the muffins and plotting my exit. With two and half hours of my life lost forever, we finally put the meal out its misery. Of course, the final onslaught was being roped into a day of Long Island shopping with the hyenas for things I don't need and can't afford. But the Gramps staved off the advances and I seized my escape route with two hands. I turned to the doors: only three hundred feet stood between doom and freedom. I gave the group a quick flourish to signal my retreat and told the Gramps I'd call him back in Florida before gunning for the coat check.

Back in the Jeep, I sucked in the first gulp of air like liquid bliss. Lon Guuuyland shrank in the distance and my stomach began to unclench. Sunday afternoon...just me, Ben Folds, and a purse full of muffins.

Can Almost Taste It...

2005-05-17T08:49:00.000-04:00

T minus 36 hours until my life as a OneL is finito.

Witness me doing my best impression of Normal Human Being Not On The Cusp Of Her Final Final.

Who's On First

2005-05-13T22:01:00.000-04:00

Actual Conversation with Blood Relative Sharing 50% of My DNA

Me (Voice of Reason): So you accepted?

-I told them to send me the papers.

VOR: Great, so you're going then?

-Sure, I'm gonna sign.

VOR: Is that a yes or a no on the 'going' part?

- I just told them to send the papers.

VOR: So you're accepting the offer then?

- Depends...if the signature binds me.

VOR: Well, is it binding?

- Ummmmmm, not sure. I dunno. You're a lawyer. Will I be bound?

VOR: I am not a lawyer! I don't know these things yet!

- [Silence]....[Crickets chirping]

VOR: Christ, do you wanna go?!

-Yeah.

VOR: Oh, ok...[cautiously]...that's good, right?

-Sure. Until I don't wanna go. Then I won't.

VOR: [Hair being pulled out in clumps as I run screaming in frustration]

Obtuseness...just hope it's not hereditary.

Earplugs

2005-05-13T20:51:00.000-04:00

We converse in silence over the cinnamon Life. He forages in the bowl like the DaVinci Code is lurking beneath the flakes. I flip through the New Yorker and fantasize about seeing my name in print somewhere other than the obituaries. Fruitless morning rituals. Anything to avoid actual speech. Our glances meet each other across my kitchen table every few minutes, wordless double-dog-dares dangling in the air between us. Would I mention the nocturnal symphony he’d composed with my roommate a few hours earlier? Could I resist an offhand remark about their penchant for battery operated devices named after furry Bambi characters? Would I be able to utter, “The Thumper" without spewing grapefruit juice out my nostrils? Perhaps he would fancy some dry heaves with his cereal?

I flash back to undergrad and the stilted morning exchanges with boyfriends’ roommates…all sly smiles, strained silences, and morning hair. A half-eaten english muffin later, I’d set a land speed record outta there just to escape the prying gazes.

Now, I'm the morning-after roommate.

Back in my kitchen, his spoon cradles the last of the Life and the New Yorker is beginning to induce elitist tendencies. I toss the magazine, ready to surrender our game of chicken with a snide remark about my radically curtailed sleeping schedule and rechargeable devices. My mouth opens.

“Any more 2% left?” God, I’m a tool.

“Uh, you’re drinking soy milk.”

“Right…I just thought you’d…”

My raging annoyance drains away in seconds. Empathy holds my internal bitch hostage long enough to give him a running start.

But before the mad dash begins, the Roomie walks in…or does a stirring rendition of the self-conscious shuffle. Semantics. Her nonchalance is as transparent as her skin and I watch her cheeks flare up the color of pencil erasers at the sight of us. It occurs to me at that moment how grossly inadequate the word “awkward” actually is.

Great, so now we all know that we all know. But the Weirdness has already arrived; a frequent house guest around these parts lately, the Weirdness might as well start chipping in for rent soon. It’s fully fucking present now, like an infant screaming in the corner that no one will acknowledge but is humanly impossible to ignore. Handy-Man across the table shoots a glare in my direction that communicates the direct correlation between Roomie’s rocketing embarrassment and his chances of getting laid for the remainder of 2005.

Oh, to speak and salvage my slumber! But I remember the college days and like to think we’ve all matured a bit since then. Or at least gotten better at subterfuge. So no tirade from me. Just a deep-sigh-and-eye-roll combo with a head shake thrown in for good measure. My silence buys him continued romps with Disney-inspired devices…though I may end up paying with my sanity. He exhales the weight of his future libido and Roomie stares down, polishing the hardwood floor with her Puma.

Good lord, the dysfunction in this house is palpable.

I resist the urge to openly cringe at how C-list-movie-script the whole morning is turning out to be and grab my things. Lunging for the door like a life raft, I hold it open a second with my foot. The Weirdness leaves behind me. It’ll be back. We gave it a key.

Before I reach the sanctuary of the Jeep, Roomie calls out from the porch.

“I’m making a list. Need anything from the store later?”

“Nope, I think we’re covered for a few weeks. Just don’t stock up on Energizers.”

I may never look at that giant bunny the same way again.

Coming Back For Seconds

2005-05-09T08:45:00.000-04:00

There are some places we never leave. If we’re lucky, those places never leave us.

It was the plates that did it.

The ones we pushed aside when indulgence turned to excess, our bellies swollen with laughter, curry, and increasingly shoddy mixed drinks with equally bad names. The ones that met their demise on the kitchen tile, another casualty of clumsy cleaning frenzies. The ones we scoured with sponges, lingering by a soapy sink to rehash the night’s events well after the last crumb had found its way into the disposal. The ones we hovered over as we sat across the table from sheepish boys, hoping to translate aimless food shuffling into a few more minutes of conversation. The ones we inherited from IKEA-blessed friends and long-sealed attics as we moved into the first place of our own. The ones balanced precariously in the sink, a perplexing game of porcelain Jenga, tall enough to incite empty threats of forced eviction. The ones brimming with dubious recipes from far-flung mothers that we, nonetheless, accepted gratefully after bouts of fever and sweats. The ones weighed down with homemade granola to fuel morning runs and chocolate chip cookies to usher in the monthly gauntlets of PMS so familiar to a house of four girls. The ones that proved, to our amazement, that these same sheepish boys could cook and clean without a hint of coaxing. The ones we carefully smothered in last May’s newsprint only to be haphazardly tossed in boxes labeled “Kitchen” and unpacked a mere mile away.

And there I stood, back in Atlanta, as the collective tonnage of the last nine months struck me one china pattern at a time. With almost a year behind me, the months had been on slow drip while I swam (or sank) in New York.

This was a different kitchen, of course, but the same plates. They suffocated in my grip as the memories piled up like a linebacker at a buffet. Same old hairline fractures stared back at me. The familiarity stung. I leaned against the counter, feeling heavier than the sum of my parts.

Plates in hand. Not a morsel in sight.

I've Got A Golden Ticket!

2005-05-04T10:19:00.000-04:00

The hair won't match the eyebrows til graduation.

Finals are a brick wall.

Your grade is just the blood smear left on the concrete.

Let the hemorrhaging begin!

Well, it won’t start in earnest until next week. But the tortuous bloodletting of cram week is indeed underway. It seems the spring pollen has descended upon us and with it, exam season. In the upcoming fortnight, I will bear witness to hundreds of seething Type A's emerge from their library hovels. Remember, these are the same creatures that erupt in spontaneous aneurisms when the mugs and bowls are put in the ‘plate and silverware’ section of the dishwasher. Hot Christ, who cares! Every last piece of porcelain’s getting sandblasted to sterility anyway. Clean is clean, people. But I digress…

So the One Ls have begun scurrying about like bipolar Oompa Loompas who’ve spent too much time in the chocolate river, only to get their suspenders twisted over GPAs and class ranks...the grand, unseen irony being that we came to law school more to escape the tyranny of numbers than an overwhelming desire to don those sporty black robes. Yet still the digits haunt us. I'd say that's an accurate assessment of the school’s communal headspace at the moment: haunted and a bit tortured. Granted, it’s essentially by our own self-imposed neuroses but, hey, nary has a law student missed the chance to bitch and moan.

My own dysfunction has manifested as a dwindling attention span. Gone are the days (and nights) of Yoda-like focus; now my brain revolts after two hours of communing with the books.

One hundred and twenty minutes.

For my office drone friends, that’s a sizeable chunk of their daily productivity. For the grad student drones, it’s just a pinky in the dam. Lately, I take frequent mini-hiatuses to keep my body from swallowing its own tongue in an act of mutiny. My recreational standards are pretty abysmal: extensive newspaper scouring, sporadic music reviews, the occasional magazine featuring Britney’s burgeoning, Cheetos-simmering demon spawn splashed across the cover. Though I’m alarmed at how soothing that last area of, um, reading has become. Mindless and addictive, while still exercising the right muscles. It's like porn for English majors, just more socially acceptable and minus the anonymous brown packaging.

My agenda for the next two weeks is a thing of beauty: binge on Tostitos and Portishead (hint of lime flavor and Sour Times, respectively) until the chips taste like feet and the tunes drive me to sanity. Mr. Wonka would be proud.

Open Letter to the Hipsters in the Front Row

2005-04-28T11:27:00.000-04:00

Dear Trend-Obssessed Tightwads with Slighty Better Seats,

I didn't expect you to know it was my birthday. I didn't even expect you to show up without your tired trucker hats and only slightly more tired sense of entitlement. I know you can't help it, it's encoded in your DNA. That's alright.

I just thought that, maybe, you know, because we all paid good money to go see The Shins concert tonight that you might consider dropping the oh-so-painfully-fabulous crap for the 89 minutes I am forced to be within spitting distance of you. Perhaps you could pull your cell phone out from between your ass cheeks long enough to actually enjoy the music that is glaring forth from the speakers like manna from heaven.

I relish good live tunes and don't take kindly to over-indulged, under-appreciative hipster clones sucking the lifeblood from one of my few nights out before the Finals guillotine lands squarely on my neck. And your pithy commentary on the night's "lame-ass" festivities courtesy of The Shins is fascinating considering the fact that you'll be throwing back pink martinis in some non-descript velvet roped pit in the meat packing district within the hour. Oh yeah, and your request that we "keep it down" lest we disturb your carefully cultivated aloof-yet-approchable pose wasn't the reason why I accidentally-on-purpose spilled my vodka tonic all over your new suede Coach bag. I just thought you sucked.

Kisses!

- Barefoot Hermes

Winter's Way Overrated

2005-04-26T17:55:00.000-04:00

Burning the Candle at Both Ends

2005-04-25T19:18:00.000-04:00

Feeling burnt out and distracted since Monday. So I’ve been reduced to merely riding out the intermittent spurts of productivity til they taper off after five hours or so. Sounds like a long stretch: 5 hours of pure, writhing work product [evil scientist cackle]…300 minutes of disgustingly puritanical precision and efficiency. But it’s really just spitting in the ocean compared to the amount of shit that is screaming for completion.

Without mentioning my fleeting doldrums, J and D left messages this week complaining of their own malaise, citing a “case of the moods” and “low level cabin fever.” Nice to know guys get PMS too. Though I do find it interesting that they each started their messages with “Thank god you’re not picking up, I’m not really in the mood to talk tonight. Just want you to call me back tomorrow.” Calling not to talk, just to get a call in return…I should be marginally annoyed at this. But of course, I couldn't even muster the necessary faculties to press the green button on my phone to answer it. Laziness trumps indignation once again!

See, even that exclamation point was exhausting.

High-Low

2005-04-22T12:13:00.000-04:00

Happiness was born a twin. - Lord Byron

It was a High-Low kinda day.

Spring-ish enough to stand by the windows and drool over the newly mowed emerald carpet taunting us from beyond the walls of Civil Procedure. Tempting enough to loll around all day on a blanket. Make up dirty limericks. Drain a bottle of Stop n' Shop's finest vintage. Have nothing to show for a day's work but grass stains and a hangover. Warm enough to stop feeding the furnace of steaming hot Lipton in your belly and let the sun finish the job...

But still low enough that we settled for the company of Crim Law books under the dogwood blossoms. Post-Finals fantasies kept us from cracking the cover. Trips to Brazil. Mid-week movie runs. Resurrection of social lives.For now, I chose the High.

Winter is withering slowly outside. My running sneaks call.

The Perils of Addiction

2005-04-20T16:08:00.000-04:00

I've been on a Blackberry Sage binge.

It's been two months since my last confession.

The sweet liquid has flowed through my veins every morning since February now. Better than narcotics. Far more legal. Twice as expensive. But my habit’s not the problem…it’s the cup. Yes, a mere sliver of textured cardboard has kept me from knowing the culinary ecstasy that is Blackberry Sage for over a week now.

The law school eatery (please, trough) has been going cheapo on me for months now…skimping on the rainbow-colored sprinkles nestled on their Krispy Kreme perches…denying us that uniquely American privilege- nay, right- to drain their carbonated coffers with bottomless refills. Morale is low in the second semester trenches. A few weeks ago, I noticed that our regular hot liquid cups (steaming hot coffee, tea or indignation anyone?) were replaced by interlopers so inferior, one weeps just to look. To compensate, they gave us cardboard sleeves to protect the cups. Of course, they don’t do jack shit to shield my scorched fingers from the blistering magma of goodness that is my daily Blackberry fix. But I persevered for the initial few days.

On the third morning, primal screams ricocheted through the halls. The Sleeve betrayed me like the cold, unfeeling whore of manufacturing shodiness that it is. It seems the glue intended to secure the cardboard ring around the cup, indeed, sucks. And this suckiness manifested itself in still-groggy first years, drenched in scalding liquid, watching as crimson burns of the third degree variety erupted across those arguably valuable appendages dangling from one’s wrists. My hands were not pleased. Late to class, perpetually damp, and taunted by the aroma of a Blackberry hit I could not have, I stomped upstairs to simmer in defeat.

This happened another three times. Yes, thrice I visited the dry cleaners, who must think I lack opposable thumbs. Three is the amount of times Jorge, maintenance man of saintly patience, resurrected his mop in the name of defective Sleeves. But sometimes things get worse before they get better. I was determined to outwit the inanimate object that was gaining on me in the IQ department. I lingered by the condiment bar, tangoing with the cardboard ring to ensure its adhesive would hold as I manhandled the nectar inside. No longer shall a piece of corrugated waste product thwart my attempt at sustaining addiction.

Ahh, hubris is seductive.

On the sixth morning, I race to class, my grip firmly encircling the cup’s girth. Adhesive be damned. I wasn’t going to be late again this week. I set the Blackberry Sage next to my books as the Crim Law prof launches into another riveting lesson. Victory appears to be mine; I raise the rim to my lips. But before it reaches my mouth, I can feel ever so slightly, the cup’s weight slip from my fingers. I gaze downward frame by excruciating frame to see liquid slather itself across the endlessly long, laptop-laden desk like syrup on a hot stack of Waffle House’s finest. Smothered and covered. No need to open my eyes. I know I’m fucked. I shall spare you the gory details, but there are two rather expensive machines still recouping in the IT department. Sorry, Christina.

So now I write with rather impressive, burn-induced callouses across my fingers, a significantly downsized ego, and a less than sterling attendance record...though my friends still talk to me, which is rather nice of them. The fate of The Sleeve, however, is less certain. I noticed the next day that it’s inscribed with the words ‘Patent Pending,’ followed by an alphabet soup of symbols and digits. This morning I began writing my tirade to the Patent-Office-for-Defective-Materials-That-I, In-My-Naivete, Have-Come-To-Rely-Upon-To-Get-Me–Through-The-Day. It’s entitled, “Dear Incompetent Douchebags, It has come to my attention that you should be fired. Yesterday." The rest is, uh, pending while I work on my diplomacy skills.

Nostalgic Upchuck

2005-04-15T16:09:00.000-04:00

Aww, tableclothes just get in the way of the slop, no?

My parents worked hard to instill in my brother and me a sense of culinary adventurousness. Food appreciation. Epicurean tendencies. Tastebud tolerance, at the very least. Until a few years ago, it seemed all their efforts had failed: one of their progeny actually preferred Chili's to Chilean sea bass. Authentic New Orleans Creole cuisine couldn't hold a candle to a few shakes of supermarket "cajun" seasonings thrown on stale curly fries. And, yes, I still tend to order the same god damn thing I had last time. Much to their dismay, I could not be shaken of my preference for the cringe-inducing request, "Can I get ketchup with that?" I'm slowly working on a few of these unsophisticated predilections and my tastes have evolved a lot in recent years.A few sun dried tomatoes here, four cheese sauces there, throw in some black bean soup.

It's a start.

So when I was dragged to a T.G.I.Friday's a little while back, it was essentially under duress. I swear. Granted, there was no rifle barrel pressed against my temple, but there was definite peer pressure involved and I'm pretty sure I saw the girls slip a roofie in my drink before we left. And so it came to pass that my ass was situated firmly in a corner booth of a god forsaken, yet alarmingly populated, Friday's.

I trolled the menu selections, determined to find something at least marginally interesting that hadn't been born in a hastily concocted puddle of grease. The only halfway acceptable choice was some Pecan-Crusted-Crispy-Asian-Fried-Cajun-La-Boca anomaly that sounded more like three different ethnic slurs strung together than a menu item. I'm sure it involved the following kitchen conversation:

Chef (Lowly Grill Man with Big Spatula): Hey, Ricardo, be sure to wrap up those chicken scraps and throw em in with the rat droppings before you leave. The mutt's gettin tired of the Snausages and if he's chewed through another issue of Hustler when I get home, so help me god, I'm droppin him at the pound on my way to work tomorrow. Oh, and, uh, make the foil into a swan. You know, all pretty like.

Line Cook (Lowlier Grill Man with Slightly Smaller Spatula):Naw, man. I ain't into that origami shit anymore. Let's just fry it all up in the rusted-out wok. We'll throw some garlic in there to mask the rot stench- Bam, we got a fusion dish. You know, stick a few hyphens in the name and let the grease drown out the Raid-spraycan flavor. The mall crowd loves that stuff. Makes em feel cultured or some shit.

Chef: [Thinking]...Alright, just do it up real fast. Those rats are piling up under the buffet and I ain't got enough coke to buy off the health inspector again this month....and, dude, just make me one swan before my shift's over tonight.

Line Cook: Hey man, relax, you'll get your fucking swan. And you ain't gotta drop him at the pound. Just swing by the kitchen early and we'll fix up a new Atkins dish. Rotweiller-that's some straight protein right there.

So my time spent working in kitchens that were one step up from Staph infection experiments has educated, if not paid, me well. And yet. I opted to tempt fate and told the stunningly vapid waitress that I'd have the ethnic slur with a side of veggies, extra BBQ sauce on the side please. Anything can be salvaged with enough tomato-based condiments...and, hey, old habits die hard.

The waitress, of course, was weighed down with enough buttons imploring customers to "Ask Me About..." that I considered calling her Jeeves. Instead, I called her Tambi (yes, with an *i*!!!1) as her plastic nametag requested, but only because I thought she might implode like the Austin Powers Fem-Bots if forced to dust off brain cells. Plus, after the first few rounds of asking the same question six different ways just to get a straight answer, it was clear that somewhere, in the middle of Kansas, a Dairy Queen was missing its pregnant Sophomore counter-girl.

Our lunch specials arrived at the table, all oddly smelling the same despite the diversity of dishes-even the fish smelled like chicken. And BBQ sauce. Not offensively aromatic...just eerily bland. But everyone was hungry so we dug in. I got a quarter of the way through my pan-seared-rat-poop delicacy before I realized my esophagus was about to become a two lane highway to porcelain city. Ugg. The rest of this story ended up in the toilet of T.G.I. VomitFest, as one can imagine. At least I was able to grab this slightly disturbing photo of pristine Americana before my stomach revolted. There's a reason why Pepto Bismol is sold by the quart.