3/28/08
It’s about 2 am on a Friday night, and I’m sleeping in a bed that isn’t mine. Well, at the moment I’m on a beige loveseat in a fairly beige living room, in the sparklingly beige Chelsea. It’s Gay Lite around here, Tasti G Lite (when did that happen?). It’s my brother’s crib and his laptop, a white Ibook, 12 inch, with the most pleasingly raised keys that coo and click. I’m crashing here before a bar mitzvah we have to travel to Flushing for, and then to the Crest Hollow Country Club where I ’ll wear a modest dress and feel alienated and defensive. We’re seeing our cousin’s kid become a man at 9 am and I can’t sleep. Not unpleasantly- again, the sound of the keys is comforting, the loveseat is precisely long enough that I can prop my feet AND my head up, and the glow from the screen feels so singularly Manhattan. I feel glamorous and secret. While Brooklyn feels like home, Chelsea, it appears, feels like a movie set, albeit in boring miniature. But I like it.
I like the living room here, I like his bedroom. Bret’s crashing in his roommate’s bed while I took his, but everyone who knows me knows I can’t sleep in any bed but mine. At least, not without over the counter sleep aids. So I’m on the loveseat and thinking about rooms, space, this private moment in a space that isn’t mine.
His bedroom is small but elegant- he fucked with the lighting so it’s a dimmer now, I think someone gay did that. I think the walls are beige or brown- I’ll check in the morning. I know the color was chosen to complement the other rooms in the apartment. It looks like Starbucks, which when you think about it, is actually quite a lovely color scheme. I mean this.
god i LOVE this clicking sound
the colors in my current pad are also, i think, soothing and congruent but bright, carefully considered this time, unlike the last one, which was plastered in color, every room different, a lunatic day care center, done by a different me. although ’winter cocoa’ certainly united the rooms in a way, yes?
This time, the colors are similar but the application was different, calmer, more spare. it’s just mine. It’s a place I love to look at, get into bed, surrounded by molding enclosing confident green squares. I love that bedroom. I love the company it’s welcomed and the conversations it’s overheard.
I think about all the bedrooms I know or knew- Bret’s new one, signifying his own growth, and the polar but always loving directions we go in; i think of marsha’s, which starts to resemble her more and more everyday; randi’s grown up conference phone and the defiantly punk footwear strewn by it. the lovely friends with whom i can always crash with, the lovely boys’ with whom i shared moments that, thankfully, all make me smile; i think of the one i grew up in, where i heard birds and my dad’s voice ordering me to get up at 9 on saturdays because ’i’d never sleep tonight’ (seriously, what the fuck?); i think of his voice breaking that night when i walked into their bedroom, right next to mine. he sat at the edge crying, unable to speak, as my mother told me she was sick. i was 8 and so sad, scared to see him cry. i don’t remember another time i saw that. but even now i equate a parents’ bedroom with the sanctity of that moment, of fear and love and pain for the person you chose for forever, and felt like i interrupted something none of us wanted me to see.
i don’t know my future with bedrooms. That’s cool. because the bed itself is fabulous. i got it on Montague Street in Brooklyn Heights. I got a massive discount because I listened to the sales woman (who bore a sadly striking resemblance to Calamity Jane) rant about her husband cheating on her in chat rooms in the early ’90’s, "on the computer I bought him! Can you fucking believe it, Nadine?". No, Laura, I could not. But I would like free delivery and a mattress pad.
I’m terrible with math, but I think the price of the bed went down $50 with every 5 minutes I nodded sympathetically and robotically exclaimed, "That sounds traumatizing" or the more succinct "Fuck yeah, bitch!"
She eventually got a new boyfriend who bought her a house. I assume that bedroom saw better times. I hope so.
Friday, March 28, 2008
randi
12/17/07
"Would you rather be the kind of person who DOESN'T get thrown an emotional curve ball by a heartbeat?"
fucking gorgeous question. not just in context.
golly, life is exciting. and weird and painful and exciting.
"Would you rather be the kind of person who DOESN'T get thrown an emotional curve ball by a heartbeat?"
fucking gorgeous question. not just in context.
golly, life is exciting. and weird and painful and exciting.
crappy sneakers
12/4/07
as a postscript to yesterday-
my landlord agreed to let me pay an extra $10 per month to pay them back for the window gate i'm going to get. now, it's just a matter of getting them to install it. they also said they'd reimburse me $100 for a broken lock that I paid $300 for, awhile back.
when i described in further detail what happened with the lock, he sweetly clarified that it was a cylinder problem and that it would be a $10 reimbursement, rather than $100. I do adore these mom n pop, community realty organizations.
i recall that evening with the broken lock as one of the few times i've felt entirely alone and pathetically female-ly vulnerable, and it culminated in me jogging down washington avenue at 6 am in my ugliest shoes to withdraw $300 from an ATM while two surly Russian men waited for me in a van.
i mean, in summary.
it was 5:30 on a Sunday morning (still a saturday night?) had walked into my apartment and opened the door, tipsy, with at least a few intriguing saturday night memories formed, and tried to pull the key out of the lock. it refused to come out. tugging and twisting till my palms sweated, i gave up and went inside, the door swinging open and the keys still firmly in the lock, door stuck open.
i considered going to bed and waiting to deal with it in the morning, hoping no one came in, or leave, wander brooklyn till i woke up a friend to crash with and hope i didn't get robbed while gone; in my drunkenness, i had enough clarity to do neither. but i did begin to force frustrated tears, the kind where your own, gently fake wails is entirely soothing, if only because you sound like a childish idiot in your own ears and you shut the fuck up.
i found a locksmith who sent two burly, irritated eastern europeans who stood in my apartment while i splashed water on my face to sober up. it was awkward, intimidating, and the fucking sun just still refused to come up. they replaced the lock, telling me no credit card, only cash. $347. they'd wait there for me.
see, i didn't have $347, and I certainly wasn't in the mood to leave my apartment to two polish giants while i went to an ATM in the dark.
no credit card? no check?
nope!
can you come with me?
no, we'll wait here.
(Quickly, quickly sobering up in the panic of poverty and potential bodily harm)
i'm kind of nervous to go withdraw this much money while you stand in my apartment. go wait outside. in... your conversion van.
(Better and better!)
agreed.
so, i put on my old running shoes, totally incongruous with that evening's outfit, and start running down washington avenue to get the money i really don't have, to fix one of those new york problems that you can't predict and thus can't lament.
that's when the real tears start coming- thoughts that don't usually plague me (why don't i have a man to fix this? or come with me? why can't i save money? why do i even fucking live in this city in order to pay for an apartment that, at the moment, anyone can get into, except for me, because i'm jogging at 5:45 am to an outdoor cash withdrawal machine?) start to pound in rhythm to my running.
the absence of certain things are amplified by the presence of others- hot, helpless tears and, still, the fucking moon. It appears that, in March the sun doesn't come up till around 10 am. And none of the things I'm wishing for are going to materialize, of course- the closest thing to a savior that night was my overdraft account. My bank in shining, 19% interest armor.
i got the money and they gruffly wrote me a receipt. on a legal pad.
i don't use those sneakers at all, they're pretty ugly. i found some new ones in the lobby of my building.
so there's ups and downs to every living situation, i suppose.
as a postscript to yesterday-
my landlord agreed to let me pay an extra $10 per month to pay them back for the window gate i'm going to get. now, it's just a matter of getting them to install it. they also said they'd reimburse me $100 for a broken lock that I paid $300 for, awhile back.
when i described in further detail what happened with the lock, he sweetly clarified that it was a cylinder problem and that it would be a $10 reimbursement, rather than $100. I do adore these mom n pop, community realty organizations.
i recall that evening with the broken lock as one of the few times i've felt entirely alone and pathetically female-ly vulnerable, and it culminated in me jogging down washington avenue at 6 am in my ugliest shoes to withdraw $300 from an ATM while two surly Russian men waited for me in a van.
i mean, in summary.
it was 5:30 on a Sunday morning (still a saturday night?) had walked into my apartment and opened the door, tipsy, with at least a few intriguing saturday night memories formed, and tried to pull the key out of the lock. it refused to come out. tugging and twisting till my palms sweated, i gave up and went inside, the door swinging open and the keys still firmly in the lock, door stuck open.
i considered going to bed and waiting to deal with it in the morning, hoping no one came in, or leave, wander brooklyn till i woke up a friend to crash with and hope i didn't get robbed while gone; in my drunkenness, i had enough clarity to do neither. but i did begin to force frustrated tears, the kind where your own, gently fake wails is entirely soothing, if only because you sound like a childish idiot in your own ears and you shut the fuck up.
i found a locksmith who sent two burly, irritated eastern europeans who stood in my apartment while i splashed water on my face to sober up. it was awkward, intimidating, and the fucking sun just still refused to come up. they replaced the lock, telling me no credit card, only cash. $347. they'd wait there for me.
see, i didn't have $347, and I certainly wasn't in the mood to leave my apartment to two polish giants while i went to an ATM in the dark.
no credit card? no check?
nope!
can you come with me?
no, we'll wait here.
(Quickly, quickly sobering up in the panic of poverty and potential bodily harm)
i'm kind of nervous to go withdraw this much money while you stand in my apartment. go wait outside. in... your conversion van.
(Better and better!)
agreed.
so, i put on my old running shoes, totally incongruous with that evening's outfit, and start running down washington avenue to get the money i really don't have, to fix one of those new york problems that you can't predict and thus can't lament.
that's when the real tears start coming- thoughts that don't usually plague me (why don't i have a man to fix this? or come with me? why can't i save money? why do i even fucking live in this city in order to pay for an apartment that, at the moment, anyone can get into, except for me, because i'm jogging at 5:45 am to an outdoor cash withdrawal machine?) start to pound in rhythm to my running.
the absence of certain things are amplified by the presence of others- hot, helpless tears and, still, the fucking moon. It appears that, in March the sun doesn't come up till around 10 am. And none of the things I'm wishing for are going to materialize, of course- the closest thing to a savior that night was my overdraft account. My bank in shining, 19% interest armor.
i got the money and they gruffly wrote me a receipt. on a legal pad.
i don't use those sneakers at all, they're pretty ugly. i found some new ones in the lobby of my building.
so there's ups and downs to every living situation, i suppose.
sleepy
12/3/07
I got home yesterday around noon and slept from 1-4, then went food shopping. then made meatloaf. then went back to bed on the couch, in front of the tv. tired.
i woke up around 8 to see a guy climbing the fire escape on the adjacent wall of my building, particularly stealthily, then sliding against the wall in between windows, then up to the roof. not a 'lost my keys and being inventive' variety of stealth, or an 'urban adventurer' kind. A 'robby' kind of stealth. then he stopped becasue saw me on my couch in the flicker of the tv. he couldn't tell if i saw him, of course, but he saw me there. he climbed up to the roof and at one point, peered over the ledge to see if the person on the couch had moved to call the cops, i presume.
too sleepy to freak, i called the cops, said 'fuck it' and rolled over and went to sleep. that, that tired.
i just realized my brother will see this at some point. don't worry, bret. i'm getting a better lock, a gate for the window and maybe some curtains.
my point is, i was really tired.
I got home yesterday around noon and slept from 1-4, then went food shopping. then made meatloaf. then went back to bed on the couch, in front of the tv. tired.
i woke up around 8 to see a guy climbing the fire escape on the adjacent wall of my building, particularly stealthily, then sliding against the wall in between windows, then up to the roof. not a 'lost my keys and being inventive' variety of stealth, or an 'urban adventurer' kind. A 'robby' kind of stealth. then he stopped becasue saw me on my couch in the flicker of the tv. he couldn't tell if i saw him, of course, but he saw me there. he climbed up to the roof and at one point, peered over the ledge to see if the person on the couch had moved to call the cops, i presume.
too sleepy to freak, i called the cops, said 'fuck it' and rolled over and went to sleep. that, that tired.
i just realized my brother will see this at some point. don't worry, bret. i'm getting a better lock, a gate for the window and maybe some curtains.
my point is, i was really tired.
Donation Request: Throwdown of the Ingenues
10/9/07
so tell me
if i organized a cage fight between the girl who sings:
If you are chilly
please take my sweater
cause iiiiiii
looooove
the way you call me baby
on that fuckign annoying old navy commercial
with the girl who sings that cover of the cat stevens song:
how can i tell you that i love you
i love you
But I can't think of right words to say
on that fucking stupid diamond commercial
would you make a donation to pay for the cage, and the song rights for when we play it for the winner at the end? oh, i also need an admin assistant to do the scheduling and the afterparty coordination, so that's 36K for salary (hey, this is new york) and a catering budget of about 14K.
wait, maybe debeer's will sponsor this? i'll have my assistant get in touch.
although i just found out (i didn't know Director of Events had to do their own internet research, this is why i need an assistant, thanks) that Cat Power does the diamond commercial. and we all know she's fucking crazy so i guess the outcome of the death battle won't be much of a surprise.
hell, just get me two plane tickets to old navy and kay jewelers HQ and i'll just punch the marketing people in the face.
so tell me
if i organized a cage fight between the girl who sings:
If you are chilly
please take my sweater
cause iiiiiii
looooove
the way you call me baby
on that fuckign annoying old navy commercial
with the girl who sings that cover of the cat stevens song:
how can i tell you that i love you
i love you
But I can't think of right words to say
on that fucking stupid diamond commercial
would you make a donation to pay for the cage, and the song rights for when we play it for the winner at the end? oh, i also need an admin assistant to do the scheduling and the afterparty coordination, so that's 36K for salary (hey, this is new york) and a catering budget of about 14K.
wait, maybe debeer's will sponsor this? i'll have my assistant get in touch.
although i just found out (i didn't know Director of Events had to do their own internet research, this is why i need an assistant, thanks) that Cat Power does the diamond commercial. and we all know she's fucking crazy so i guess the outcome of the death battle won't be much of a surprise.
hell, just get me two plane tickets to old navy and kay jewelers HQ and i'll just punch the marketing people in the face.
Beach typing
9/21/07
i'm listening to myself type on this keyboard and the sounds (just straight typing, when i'm not stuttering, slamming emphatically or typoing, an embarrassingly identifiable trait in my emails and gchats)
and the stops and starts, thoughtful pauses, and energetic determined unpunctuated sentences started to remind me of my grandmothers mah jong games at the beach with her leathery, chain smoking old beach friends. it sounds like this- pecking, unpredictable music.
she had a cabana at the beach and in the middle of the two rows she'd set up the table and these wizened jewish ladies (and one old funny guy named calvin, who used to tell me you knew you were fat when you could assertively grab two handfuls of stomach) would stagger over. because no one looks powerful walking in the sand, certainly not 70 year old women. they'd wordlessly set up and play, and most of the game was only interrupted when a grandchild would skip (again, not quite skip) up and ask for money for a hamburger. those were so fuckign good. cheap and charred, that smell is still magic.
they'd go till 4 or so and then we'd pack up, exhasuted and hyper and red and headachy and she'd drive us home. saturday nights she ate with our family, it was usually steak and fries.
bret and i didn't appreciate steak and fries at the time.
i didn't appreciate a lot of things at the time, i just realized.
i miss her, i loved her a lot. i wish she knew me now.
i don't think i put many typos in here but i'm not going to bother looking.
i'm listening to myself type on this keyboard and the sounds (just straight typing, when i'm not stuttering, slamming emphatically or typoing, an embarrassingly identifiable trait in my emails and gchats)
and the stops and starts, thoughtful pauses, and energetic determined unpunctuated sentences started to remind me of my grandmothers mah jong games at the beach with her leathery, chain smoking old beach friends. it sounds like this- pecking, unpredictable music.
she had a cabana at the beach and in the middle of the two rows she'd set up the table and these wizened jewish ladies (and one old funny guy named calvin, who used to tell me you knew you were fat when you could assertively grab two handfuls of stomach) would stagger over. because no one looks powerful walking in the sand, certainly not 70 year old women. they'd wordlessly set up and play, and most of the game was only interrupted when a grandchild would skip (again, not quite skip) up and ask for money for a hamburger. those were so fuckign good. cheap and charred, that smell is still magic.
they'd go till 4 or so and then we'd pack up, exhasuted and hyper and red and headachy and she'd drive us home. saturday nights she ate with our family, it was usually steak and fries.
bret and i didn't appreciate steak and fries at the time.
i didn't appreciate a lot of things at the time, i just realized.
i miss her, i loved her a lot. i wish she knew me now.
i don't think i put many typos in here but i'm not going to bother looking.
The Mall in November
9/17/07
I was in Williams Sonoma in high school and they were giving out samples of apple cider. apparently they were also giving out samples of beef gravy, because I wasn't paying attention and grabbed a cup and drank it thinking it was cider. it was beef gravy.
i don't know why there was beef gravy in cups. Maybe it was for dipping something.
my point is, I went to the mall too much when i was 15.
I was in Williams Sonoma in high school and they were giving out samples of apple cider. apparently they were also giving out samples of beef gravy, because I wasn't paying attention and grabbed a cup and drank it thinking it was cider. it was beef gravy.
i don't know why there was beef gravy in cups. Maybe it was for dipping something.
my point is, I went to the mall too much when i was 15.
To The Marketing Director at Keds
9/17/07
To Whom it May Concern,
I am proposing a brand new campaign for your fresh, young footwear line, one that might make some naysayers, scoffers, and so- so'ers turn around and say, "Huh? Was that a KED?" And i don't want more than 10%, sir. Or Madam. Or Sirs.
See, Mischa Barton, she's pretty, right? And in your ads, she looks like she's having a lot of fun. A lot. Her skin is clear, she's white, she can perch on top of an Ford Mustang in white slip ons without anyone screaming, "Geroff mah cah, hussy!"; she can trot down a boardwalk in a houndstooth low top with a brunette cascade down her back (fresh from the ocean!) with the most hither-y of smiles; she can kick your ass in a game of croquette and then go down on you while the sun sets over Cape Cod's shore, while her kicky plaid lace ups lie nearby.
Yeah, I know. I kinda want a pair of Keds now too.
But see? I've got a new angle. You ready? I think we should lose Ked's privileged, intoxicating, supernaturally clean image and go to where the Keds really are. Dump Mischa, and you'll see things start to shake up. Well, then who goes on the Mustang, you ask? Who blows Vanderbilt PuffyPants on the raquetball court?
See, man, here's the thing. You're a shoe company. Show shoes! Except cover them in blood.
Yep, that's right- Mischa out, blood spattered Ked in. It's the perfect image for our on the go teens and tweens and whatever the other one is. 'Mos?
Picture it, put it anywhere. On that beach in the setting sun. A single perfect, red smeared Ked lying next to a railroad track. In a dumpster. In the basement of the church orphanage. Outside of a Quiznos (for a dose of quick cross marketing)!
Give it some thought- I know it's edgy, and I know some OC fans might get a little fussy. But I think we might be able to grab some of the fence sitters on this one. Hey, what about a bloody Ked stuck on a post of a white picket fence?
I don't want a penny for that one.
I hope to hear back a favorable response for what I consider a fantastic way to shock bored consumers back into buying, buying, eating, using, buying, eating, eating.
Onto Nestle!
Best,
Nadine
To Whom it May Concern,
I am proposing a brand new campaign for your fresh, young footwear line, one that might make some naysayers, scoffers, and so- so'ers turn around and say, "Huh? Was that a KED?" And i don't want more than 10%, sir. Or Madam. Or Sirs.
See, Mischa Barton, she's pretty, right? And in your ads, she looks like she's having a lot of fun. A lot. Her skin is clear, she's white, she can perch on top of an Ford Mustang in white slip ons without anyone screaming, "Geroff mah cah, hussy!"; she can trot down a boardwalk in a houndstooth low top with a brunette cascade down her back (fresh from the ocean!) with the most hither-y of smiles; she can kick your ass in a game of croquette and then go down on you while the sun sets over Cape Cod's shore, while her kicky plaid lace ups lie nearby.
Yeah, I know. I kinda want a pair of Keds now too.
But see? I've got a new angle. You ready? I think we should lose Ked's privileged, intoxicating, supernaturally clean image and go to where the Keds really are. Dump Mischa, and you'll see things start to shake up. Well, then who goes on the Mustang, you ask? Who blows Vanderbilt PuffyPants on the raquetball court?
See, man, here's the thing. You're a shoe company. Show shoes! Except cover them in blood.
Yep, that's right- Mischa out, blood spattered Ked in. It's the perfect image for our on the go teens and tweens and whatever the other one is. 'Mos?
Picture it, put it anywhere. On that beach in the setting sun. A single perfect, red smeared Ked lying next to a railroad track. In a dumpster. In the basement of the church orphanage. Outside of a Quiznos (for a dose of quick cross marketing)!
Give it some thought- I know it's edgy, and I know some OC fans might get a little fussy. But I think we might be able to grab some of the fence sitters on this one. Hey, what about a bloody Ked stuck on a post of a white picket fence?
I don't want a penny for that one.
I hope to hear back a favorable response for what I consider a fantastic way to shock bored consumers back into buying, buying, eating, using, buying, eating, eating.
Onto Nestle!
Best,
Nadine
Cookie Puss
On the wikipedia page for Cookie Puss:
"According to Carvel lore, Cookie Puss is a space alien who was born on planet Birthday."
Amazing- he doesn't even have an accent!
Also:
"He requires a saucer-shaped spacecraft for interplanetary travel."
Well, duh, Wikipedia, you dumb fuck open- source website. He's an ice cream alien.
I like Fudgie the Whale, and Fridays.
"According to Carvel lore, Cookie Puss is a space alien who was born on planet Birthday."
Amazing- he doesn't even have an accent!
Also:
"He requires a saucer-shaped spacecraft for interplanetary travel."
Well, duh, Wikipedia, you dumb fuck open- source website. He's an ice cream alien.
I like Fudgie the Whale, and Fridays.
The Secret
8/1/07
the secret
i skimmed through this book at alan's suggestion in a bookstore. i don't really want to get into my thoughts on it, as i didn't really read closely, but suffice it to say i'm glad that if i don't THINK i'll get cancer, or won't get wet in the rain without an umbrella, i WON'T. very, very glad.
but hey, it did tell me something i liked. it told me to think about all the things i like about the people i know, and even list them. so here's a list of something i like about my top twelve. i dont
know quite what order they are in without looking. here!
bret- my brother has a giant brain and a giant heart, and he teaches me how to use mine better.
alan- at any given moment, i want to be wherever he is.
david- doesn't believe in faux pas, and lives that way. he's grand.
marsha- someone once called her 'exquisite' and it's the best word for her, ever.
dondrie- really, if i had to dance with someone forever. i should be so lucky.
josh- he sees art in any text message, evening, or moment. he is art.
leigh- has just the right quotient of sentimentality.
xua- is like the sun.
ben- surprises you.
daniel- he is a giant dutchman and his words are pictures.
sam- manages to make being 135 years old completely hip.
stone soup- makes good plays.
well, look at that. that did feel good, Secret! I owe you $23.95.
the secret
i skimmed through this book at alan's suggestion in a bookstore. i don't really want to get into my thoughts on it, as i didn't really read closely, but suffice it to say i'm glad that if i don't THINK i'll get cancer, or won't get wet in the rain without an umbrella, i WON'T. very, very glad.
but hey, it did tell me something i liked. it told me to think about all the things i like about the people i know, and even list them. so here's a list of something i like about my top twelve. i dont
know quite what order they are in without looking. here!
bret- my brother has a giant brain and a giant heart, and he teaches me how to use mine better.
alan- at any given moment, i want to be wherever he is.
david- doesn't believe in faux pas, and lives that way. he's grand.
marsha- someone once called her 'exquisite' and it's the best word for her, ever.
dondrie- really, if i had to dance with someone forever. i should be so lucky.
josh- he sees art in any text message, evening, or moment. he is art.
leigh- has just the right quotient of sentimentality.
xua- is like the sun.
ben- surprises you.
daniel- he is a giant dutchman and his words are pictures.
sam- manages to make being 135 years old completely hip.
stone soup- makes good plays.
well, look at that. that did feel good, Secret! I owe you $23.95.
rudimentary thoughts on sex
i was on the train to work today and i started looking around at other commuters. there was a couple with a baby near the door and for some reason, instead of just letting my gaze drift to other passengers or the zoni english school or ccny ads (which i really adore), i immediately started to picure them having sex.
and then, i really began to think about how sex just... makes new people. terribly novel thought, right? sex makes a new person! and then i realized that clothing stores are made specifically because of sex. to clothe these people.
i don't know why, but the store i pictured was that horrible place hollister my brother really likes.
and then i started to think of all the other stores that exist because people have sex-jennifer convertible and starbucks and apple store and target.
i could do without these stores, come to think of it. well, with the exception of target. but then what does that mean for the human population?
when i next started looking at everyone's crotches on the train, i decided that was the right time to turn up my headphones and reread my metro.
and then, i really began to think about how sex just... makes new people. terribly novel thought, right? sex makes a new person! and then i realized that clothing stores are made specifically because of sex. to clothe these people.
i don't know why, but the store i pictured was that horrible place hollister my brother really likes.
and then i started to think of all the other stores that exist because people have sex-jennifer convertible and starbucks and apple store and target.
i could do without these stores, come to think of it. well, with the exception of target. but then what does that mean for the human population?
when i next started looking at everyone's crotches on the train, i decided that was the right time to turn up my headphones and reread my metro.
Exposed
5/29/07
exposed
i imagine that makes me sound like this is a blog about my feelings. it is not. well, there's one feeling, which is a little confused. and grossed out. make that two.
actually, it's just bored. i dont find this confusing at all. not even grossed out anymore. and i even find my thoughts on it banal and completely overstated these days.
i was at the gym and watching the latest sordid offerings from MTV on mute while i was on the stairmaster. that thing fuckign hurts, by the way.
there is a show called exposed and it made me sick and uncomfortable and sad. make that 4, i guess. basically, there's a hot person, and their significantly less hot friend sits in a van and watches them go on a date with two contestants. apparently, the contestants are hooked up to voice regocnition sensors, which i find questionably scientific-y. and the ugly friend can tell the hot friend who's lying.
whatever, ok. i felt maybe bad for the ugly friend, and kind of laughed at the hot friend and felt artistically aggravated at the sheer staginess of all of it. but what is so terrible about the show is that balls out, straight up nasty girl showdowns the show STARTS with. i've never seen such mean, unecessary, and most bizarrely, their completely un-heartfelt bitchiness. really, it was like a chore for these girls to march across a lawn shouting:
Blonde: Hey Bitch!
Brunette: Who you calling a bitch, you fat slut?
Blonde: You, you dumb whore!
Brunette: (disbelieving laugh) You're the whore, you fucking ape.
Basically. So while this exchange hurtles towards a totally revelatory conclusion ("Katie, you lied when you said you never farted on a guy, but Natasha, you lied when you said you thought dogs should vote."), what I found so strange was that utterly bland bitchfest at the beginning. are catfights so expected that nobody has the thrill for it, the heart? it's now a rote greeting, rather than an outlandish finale? Really, we're so programmed to fight over men, that all the fire has gone out of our acrylic nails. and the disgust at watching it, gone too. so we're all messes.
he went with natasha, by the way.
exposed
i imagine that makes me sound like this is a blog about my feelings. it is not. well, there's one feeling, which is a little confused. and grossed out. make that two.
actually, it's just bored. i dont find this confusing at all. not even grossed out anymore. and i even find my thoughts on it banal and completely overstated these days.
i was at the gym and watching the latest sordid offerings from MTV on mute while i was on the stairmaster. that thing fuckign hurts, by the way.
there is a show called exposed and it made me sick and uncomfortable and sad. make that 4, i guess. basically, there's a hot person, and their significantly less hot friend sits in a van and watches them go on a date with two contestants. apparently, the contestants are hooked up to voice regocnition sensors, which i find questionably scientific-y. and the ugly friend can tell the hot friend who's lying.
whatever, ok. i felt maybe bad for the ugly friend, and kind of laughed at the hot friend and felt artistically aggravated at the sheer staginess of all of it. but what is so terrible about the show is that balls out, straight up nasty girl showdowns the show STARTS with. i've never seen such mean, unecessary, and most bizarrely, their completely un-heartfelt bitchiness. really, it was like a chore for these girls to march across a lawn shouting:
Blonde: Hey Bitch!
Brunette: Who you calling a bitch, you fat slut?
Blonde: You, you dumb whore!
Brunette: (disbelieving laugh) You're the whore, you fucking ape.
Basically. So while this exchange hurtles towards a totally revelatory conclusion ("Katie, you lied when you said you never farted on a guy, but Natasha, you lied when you said you thought dogs should vote."), what I found so strange was that utterly bland bitchfest at the beginning. are catfights so expected that nobody has the thrill for it, the heart? it's now a rote greeting, rather than an outlandish finale? Really, we're so programmed to fight over men, that all the fire has gone out of our acrylic nails. and the disgust at watching it, gone too. so we're all messes.
he went with natasha, by the way.
Christlike
4/2/07
Christlike
that adjective keeps running through my head today. it applies to many things, gives automatic depth to any artpiece.
Christlike running shoes
Christlike boutique hotel
Christlike sandwich
Christlike themes
Christlike bouquet of calla lillies
i was teching the show yesterday and there was a shadow of some metal bars on the black curtain behind it. leigh said
'that looks really amazing' and i said,
'yeah very Jesus-y'
even though it didn't look like that at all. but i wanted to say it.
i saw some production of athol fugard's 'blood knot' a few years back. all of his plays are basically a slowly simmering duet of 1-2 white actors and 1-2 black actors for an hour or so, with a big blowup at the end. no exception with this play. there were some crossbars in the background that glowed at the end, like telephone poles or something. no denying that that was kind of jesus-y. but there werent any Christlike characters in the play.
there's a sculpture of britney spears giving birth. Marylike.
Christlike
that adjective keeps running through my head today. it applies to many things, gives automatic depth to any artpiece.
Christlike running shoes
Christlike boutique hotel
Christlike sandwich
Christlike themes
Christlike bouquet of calla lillies
i was teching the show yesterday and there was a shadow of some metal bars on the black curtain behind it. leigh said
'that looks really amazing' and i said,
'yeah very Jesus-y'
even though it didn't look like that at all. but i wanted to say it.
i saw some production of athol fugard's 'blood knot' a few years back. all of his plays are basically a slowly simmering duet of 1-2 white actors and 1-2 black actors for an hour or so, with a big blowup at the end. no exception with this play. there were some crossbars in the background that glowed at the end, like telephone poles or something. no denying that that was kind of jesus-y. but there werent any Christlike characters in the play.
there's a sculpture of britney spears giving birth. Marylike.
to the woman i love
3/28/07
to sandra lee from the food network-
you're beautiful. a beautiful,wasteful, strung out homemaker with pendulous tits and a frequent shopper card for the $1.99 bin at Michael's craft stores. maybe the
outlets. they'd make an outlet just for you.
your deliciously atrocious taste in... just about everything. your
'table scapes' are equally terrific for western
maryland potlucks and, apparently, network television. how did you fool those execs? you minx. when you sip your miscellaneously punny named cocktails and the moment when your pupils dilate in pleasure.... oh my. sandra. i adore you.
i love you when you scrape the filling out of a perfectly edible
pumpkin pie and pipe it into a pastry bag and then make orange,
turdlike desserts. except now, they've been activated a little so the
seasonal maple leaf shape doesn't quite hold. oh well!
i love the look on your face, a barely masked grimace of anguish at
your childlessness when you talk about your nieces- it's just a
flash, my darling, but it's there.
i love how you drip vanlla extract into cool whip to make things
taste homemade. you'd never lie to me.
that giant faced strumpet, giada? come on. that bougie debutante ina
garten? go back to cape cod, you whore. alton brown? fuck 'im and his
stupid "alchemy"- who needs to know how much saffron can
theoretically fill up a baseball field? i dont.
and i know you don't either, my bosco drizzlin' beauty. you coudl
buy a dozen big macs, pull out the lettuce and call it a salad after
throwing out the burgers and i'd still call you mommy.
love,
nadine
to sandra lee from the food network-
you're beautiful. a beautiful,wasteful, strung out homemaker with pendulous tits and a frequent shopper card for the $1.99 bin at Michael's craft stores. maybe the
outlets. they'd make an outlet just for you.
your deliciously atrocious taste in... just about everything. your
'table scapes' are equally terrific for western
maryland potlucks and, apparently, network television. how did you fool those execs? you minx. when you sip your miscellaneously punny named cocktails and the moment when your pupils dilate in pleasure.... oh my. sandra. i adore you.
i love you when you scrape the filling out of a perfectly edible
pumpkin pie and pipe it into a pastry bag and then make orange,
turdlike desserts. except now, they've been activated a little so the
seasonal maple leaf shape doesn't quite hold. oh well!
i love the look on your face, a barely masked grimace of anguish at
your childlessness when you talk about your nieces- it's just a
flash, my darling, but it's there.
i love how you drip vanlla extract into cool whip to make things
taste homemade. you'd never lie to me.
that giant faced strumpet, giada? come on. that bougie debutante ina
garten? go back to cape cod, you whore. alton brown? fuck 'im and his
stupid "alchemy"- who needs to know how much saffron can
theoretically fill up a baseball field? i dont.
and i know you don't either, my bosco drizzlin' beauty. you coudl
buy a dozen big macs, pull out the lettuce and call it a salad after
throwing out the burgers and i'd still call you mommy.
love,
nadine
Grief
3/26/07
my superintendent died this past weekend. it doesn't really mean anything , that particular relationship.
i remember he was kind of a jerk to me. they changed the locks on the building's front door one time and my key no longer worked, and when i told him, he shrugged and said 'Nothing I can do'. i blankly replied, 'But I can't get into the bulding'. 'Sorry'. 'Oh... but seriously, how am i going to get into the building?'. This conversation also took place in the room in the basement where him and the other (building staff? buddies? family?) play dominoes in a haze of not unpleasant cigar smoke and raise roosters (cock fighting? dinner? hobby?) . They all stared at me and I felt very alone. i walked out. One of my upstairs neighbors lent me a working key I'm still using, because my key still doesnt work.
He was very old. there's a makeshift memorial set up in the lobby- a color copy photo of him sitting in an easy chair with 'Susano' scripted beneath it. Some flowers and a black ribbon hanging. it's cheap but clearly took a lot of care. knowing i go through color copies like it's nothing at work, knowing they are absurdly expensive. I walked by the memorial yesterday to leave, and didn't really stop becuase there were other people hanging out in the lobby. I felt uncomfortable for some reason- stopping to spend time with this man who i don't know in front of people i kinda have met. Who probably knew him better because theyve all lived there a million years. i got back last night and stopped in front, because it was very late and nobody was there and i stood and read and looked and thought about this guy i dont know but felt really sad.
we're all so remote. somebody misses him a lot.
my superintendent died this past weekend. it doesn't really mean anything , that particular relationship.
i remember he was kind of a jerk to me. they changed the locks on the building's front door one time and my key no longer worked, and when i told him, he shrugged and said 'Nothing I can do'. i blankly replied, 'But I can't get into the bulding'. 'Sorry'. 'Oh... but seriously, how am i going to get into the building?'. This conversation also took place in the room in the basement where him and the other (building staff? buddies? family?) play dominoes in a haze of not unpleasant cigar smoke and raise roosters (cock fighting? dinner? hobby?) . They all stared at me and I felt very alone. i walked out. One of my upstairs neighbors lent me a working key I'm still using, because my key still doesnt work.
He was very old. there's a makeshift memorial set up in the lobby- a color copy photo of him sitting in an easy chair with 'Susano' scripted beneath it. Some flowers and a black ribbon hanging. it's cheap but clearly took a lot of care. knowing i go through color copies like it's nothing at work, knowing they are absurdly expensive. I walked by the memorial yesterday to leave, and didn't really stop becuase there were other people hanging out in the lobby. I felt uncomfortable for some reason- stopping to spend time with this man who i don't know in front of people i kinda have met. Who probably knew him better because theyve all lived there a million years. i got back last night and stopped in front, because it was very late and nobody was there and i stood and read and looked and thought about this guy i dont know but felt really sad.
we're all so remote. somebody misses him a lot.
Not sure why
But I just moved all my myspace blogs to this. Its late. I feel motivated to move virtual words from place to place. Just... just love me.
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