tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54584237166471339212024-03-14T00:07:12.132-04:00Blarg, Snarge, and PhooeyHysterical RantsCarinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.comBlogger195125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-45478368967201796262013-04-06T21:35:00.003-04:002013-07-10T01:55:49.225-04:00Bye-bye Van GuyMy Van Guy has retired from van-guying. I know I should be happy for him - van-guying is no life for a young fella with a wife and coupla young'uns. But I can't help but feel a bit sad. It's like the Gem Store on Delancey closed down all over again.<br />
<br />
Matt's a beanpole. He looks like Carrot top, with a slightly more subdued mop of hair. When he showed up at my door the first time, I couldn't believe it - this stick of a man was going to help me move heavy objects down and up stairs? But move heavy objects down and up stairs he did, like the dickens!<br />
<br />
I first used Matt's van-guy services when moving from my Devoe Street apartment to Greenpoint. A third floor apartment to a fourth floor apartment. The big move with the U-haul and the friends helping is a harrowing tale unto itself; Matt just helped with the extras after all that was done. Mostly hanging clothes, a couple of boxes, a few loose items, maybe a small piece of furniture, and of course the ten foot pole that I'd used as a curtain rod.<br />
<br />
That's how he remembered me the next time I hired him. The ten foot pole girl. It was about nine months later and I was moving again, to my own place off the Montrose stop. A studio about the same size as the one I lived in on the LES, but ill laid out, and, oh yeah, totally janky. But I was desperate and the landlord was willing. Matt told me his wife was preggers and due any moment.<br />
<br />
I called on Matt again a year later when I moved from that hellhole to my current, glorious place off the Grand stop. It was a busy moving time for him, so he couldn't help me move, but he did pick up some wardrobe boxes and drop them off at my apartment - a lady was giving them away in Park Slope, and he didn't even make me go out there to me him! He just delivered them. That's service. I got him a again a couple of months later, when I picked up a love seat for the new place. By that point he had some photos of baby Olive on his phone, and they were expecting again.<br />
<br />
I found out he'd retired the hard way, when I texted him today to see when he could help me get something from craigslist. I'm not entirely surprised. The last time I saw him, when he picked up the love seat, he mentioned that he and his wife were trying to start an Italian shoe importing company, she being Italian. But he makes temporary wall tiles or some such now. Or sells them. Or made the website for them. He sent me the website, and the name and number of another Van Guy. Will this Van Guy be my new Van Guy? Only time, and several moves/craigslist runs, will tell.Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-62796563105552668312013-04-05T02:16:00.002-04:002013-04-05T02:16:47.767-04:00Subway Triple HeaderI was waiting for the L at 6th Ave the other night, as I so often do. I place myself on the platform where I need to be in order to get on the car that's closest to the best exit (or transfer) at whatever stop I'm getting off. That's the kind of planner I am. Some people would say that's the kind of New Yorker I am, the kind that knows the right car for the right exit or transfer.<br />
<br />
Right at that place on the platform, which happens to be next to a set of stairs, a musician was entertaining the straphangers, as they so often do. I suppose they stand at that place on the platform because the stairwell gives them a sort of backdrop; musicians set up in about the same place on the Union Square L platform.<br />
<br />
Even when I can't stand the music, or am just straight up not in the mood for busking or aggressive drum banging, I still stand in that same spot on the platform, waiting for my train car to come. But this guy, this guy I liked. I liked him a lot. Enough to peek around him for some clue as to his name. This man was a looper. He beat boxed a beat, and looped it. Then he played the trumpet for a bit, then looped that on top of the beat box. Then he played more trumpet over those loops, and it sounded like the fucking <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C9KAqhbIZ7o" target="_blank">Blade Runner soundtrack</a> (I know that's a sax). He hadn't even set up his little money basket before a lady came up to give him money. I don't know if I've ever been impressed enough to consider skipping the next train to keep listening, but the thought crossed my mind here.<br />
<br />
When the train came and I did get on, I regretted it after a moment. I should have listened to that impulsive part of myself imploring me to stay and listen a little longer. I got on a car with a particularly aromatic homeless man. Specifically, he smelled like shit. I feel sad as I type this, thinking about this poor man who was covered in his own shit, who maybe didn't even have the mental wherewithal to realize or care. A couple of people turned around and got off the train as soon as they walked on, but I sat. I thought it would be cruel to walk out, to essentially say that I can't stand to be in proximity to this person.<br />
<br />
So I waited, and at the next stop I got off that car and went into the next car over.<br />
<br />
After a minute on that car, I wished I was back in the other one. I ended up standing right next to a young Asian man who was preaching. Not to anyone in particular, as they so often do. He seemed to be talking about watching television, or rather, <i>not</i> watching television, or just <i>bad</i> television, <i>ungodly</i> television. I caught him after he began so I can't be sure. He got off one or two stops later, so I didn't hear a whole lot from him, but what I did hear counts: his blog address, which he repeated several times before he got off. It's not necessarily an easy one to remember, which struck me as quite amusing because here he was imploring/encouraging people to visit his blog for more preaching, just sort of shouting out the blog name, and no one will ever remember it, except maybe me because well, being so struck by the strangeness, I remembered. I didn't even write it down. It's <a href="http://repent5610.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">here</a>, if you want it. Sort of lame/boring/incoherent analyses of bible passages. I was hoping for some crazy ramblings, but he wasn't all that crazy a rambler in person so I suppose I may have set my expectations too high. There're some good examples of Christian Crazy <a href="http://christiannightmares.tumblr.com/post/18172729766/batshit-crazy-evangelist-auntie-cheryl-tells-a" target="_blank">here</a>, if yr lookin'.Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-68474644288258257062013-03-18T00:49:00.003-04:002013-03-18T00:49:47.716-04:00When I was 17<br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/U0GAjK64VZg" target="_blank">When I was 17</a>, my grandparents gave me a computer and set me up with an AOL account (that they paid for for several years). At first it was kept at their house. I can't remember why, but I'm sure there was some good reason. Maybe there wasn't room for it, wherever we were living at the time. We moved a lot the last couple of years I was living at home, before moving into the dorm in college. I had a car so I would drive to their house sometimes to go on the internet. Most of the time they were away in Massachusetts.<br />
<br />
They got it for me because I was the rising star genius of the family. I was going to go to medical school. I was going right my mother's wrongs, beginning by not getting pregnant freshman year of college. I was wildly successful at that; Chem II, not so much. I switched my major from pre-med to psychology probably in the first semester.<br />
<br />
The screen name my grandparents picked for me when they set up my AOL account was "carklet," and the password something like "premed." As soon as I got access to the computer, I set up another account, "prdinpink." Some of you might recognize it. At the time, there was a strict character limit on screen names, though I'm sure that even if there hadn't been, "prettyinpink" or any variation on the actual spelling would have already been taken. In 1997, there were no social networks. At least not that I was aware of. Maybe for techies, or hacker types, but not for average folk like me. We had chat rooms and fan club listservs. That's where we filled out very simple profiles. Name, age/birthday, favorite quote, favorite band, marital status, occupation. If I recall correctly, not unlike Friendster in its early days, except without the photos or commentability or messaging feature. There was messaging in friendster, right? When I was 17, I was quite goth. Prdinpink might not sound particularly goth, and "Pretty in Pink" wasn't (isn't) my favorite John Hughes film, but for a few years there, my hair was colored pink. Prdinpink just made sense.<br />
<br />
Morrissey was (is) one of my major faves, so under marital status I wrote "Will Never Marry," the title of a Morrissey song. Also, a sentiment I felt at the time (and maybe now-ish too). My quote was from an Ayn Rand novel. I still remember it, by heart. Judge if ye will. "I swear by my life and my love of it that I will never live for the sake of another man, or ask another man to live for mine." It was in "Atlas Shrugged." That sentence was a password to gain access to some kind of vault or entrance. Only if spoken with conviction would the speaker gain access.<br />
<br />
Under occupation, I said "Telling people I'm a dominatrix and then laughing when they believe me HAHAHAHAHAHA" (ah, the foreshadowing!). When I was 17, I had very little idea of what a dominatrix really was. Being goth, of course I had <i>some</i> notion, but it wasn't until I was 24 and living in New York that I learned what it really means to be a dominatrix. I would get messages from people, men, older men, probably <i>much</i> older men, who thought that I might really be a dominatrix. Maybe they stopped reading at "Telling people I'm a dominatrix." That would chat me on AIM, seeking domination. I would ignore and block them.<br />
<br />
It's striking to me now that I had absolutely no supervision on that computer. My mother never asked me what I got up to on there, never seemed concerned. My poor sister, with whom I shared a room, had to sleep through the glowing screen, me typing away late into the night, chatting with internet folk, mostly strangers, sometimes a friend. She never asked me to turn it off. Had it been the other way around, I might have gone postal on her. The patience of a saint, that one.<br />
Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-16608988814694296672013-03-09T04:34:00.000-05:002013-03-09T04:34:10.869-05:00Chicago SummersI spent a summer in Chicago when I had just turned 21. The Chicago area. The north(west?) suburbs. With Stella and her mother (RIP) and her mother's boyfriend, Steve. I tried to work at the main suburban Borders, at the big shopping mall, Woodfield I think, but they wouldn't quite have me. From an inventory supervisor in Tampa to a sort of barista in Chicago? It was a mess. They were a mess. They didn't care. They didn't want anything I had to give. Even wiping down the tables in slow times wasn't enough for them. I'd brought my own HR file with me when I traveled to CHI, so when I decided to stop going to that store, it wasn't that huge a deal. I went to a different suburban store, one further away. The manager thought I was a corporate spy, and got her other managers to think the same. In other words, I was hired on the spot. I guess I was just well spoken enough. Enough for them to think I knew what I was doing, REALLY knew what I was doing. Little did they know. I mean of course I knew. I always know from day one. It's only ever a matter of polishing. Isn't it that way with everyone? To know that you have something down ("I got this, man"), but just have to polish it?<br />
<br />
It's hard to remember that time. It doesn't feel real, if you know what I mean. It was over ten years ago at this point. It could have been a dream. I wonder if I've tried to forget it, that's how vague a memory it is. I remember the GM, the one who thought I was a spy, she was quite homely. She had these gnarly chin hairs. I later heard that that had happened when she had a baby, and I was horrified to think that that homely monster had a child, that she had someone who would make love to her and that they would procreate and a delicate lovely child would emerge from the ashes. Who was apparently quite adorable. I don't remember her name. Her right hand man name I think was named Cindy. She was a huge ditz. A late 40s ish blonde ditz. I remember having a thought quite like that, like how does someone get to that age and be such an airhead? It's weird to be younger and in a position of less power/authority than that person. She was nice though. She trusted me well enough. I seemed to have more savvy and forward thinkingness than anyone else at that store.<br />
<br />
It shared a parking lot with a dying mall. Sort of a dying star, it seemed. Very Tampa mall-esque. So many stores closed down. But the food court was a place to get lunch, at least sometimes. I only remember going there when I first started working at the store. I guess I probably started bring my own, or bought food from the cafe. Once I tried to buy cigarettes from a nearby drugstore, Walgreens or somesuch. But they wouldn't accept my out of state ID. I was so incensed. I wasn't a heavy smoker, but I smoked, and I wanted cigarettes, and also injustice gets me up in arms. They didn't believe my accept my ID because it was out of state. But it was a real ID, I reasoned. Really real. They wouldn't take it. Ironically, when I was under 18, I was the (non-smoking) one that my friends would coax to buy them cigarettes, because i looked old enough, when I took my glasses off. I don't recall ever being refused back then, when I was under 18. No one ever even asked for my ID, never mind questioning the really real ID I might have shown them.<br />
<br />
Melissa (Mel) was one of the supervisors. Of what, I don't recall. She had a crush on me though, sort of. She was a lesbian, definitely, but I don't recall her relationship status. I feel like I probably definitely milked that crush. Me and her and some other people went for tiki drinks one night, somewhere sort of between the suburbs and Chicago proper. Somewhere sort of shady. Though in those parts, you're almost always in a car, so shadiness doesn't matter quite so much. It's not like walking the ten blocks from the bar to the subway, or the subway to your apartment, blocks during which you could be mugged, raped, or pass out, because you didn't bother to take down the number for Brooklyn Bike Patrol, even though you've known about it forever. I mean, are you tempting fate or something?<br />
<br />
I worked with a man named Jarek. A boy, I guess. I've been getting myself into the habit, lately, of calling males of my age-ish or above, "men." It seems appropriate. But back then, I think he was a boy, as I was a girl. He was heavily Polish, as many of the people in Chicago and its suburbs are. As in, his parents were immigrants. His name the name of an immigrant son. Another co-worker told me that in high school he'd gone back the nickname "Jack," because it was easier, more American. Jarek is pronounced something like "Yah-rick," but with one of those "r" sounds a hard "r." Do you know what what I mean? Like the "r" is a "d," almost. Anyway. He sort of liked me, a bit. LIKED me liked me. Sort of in a way the average intellectual twenty something man can be expected to like the average intellectual twenty something lady. I didn't know what to do with it. At the time I was a virgin, in most every sense. He drove a mustang. We went to some sort of outdoors classical music thing once, I suppose maybe he and/or some other people may have taken it as a date. He brought a bottle of wine, and maybe even a bottle opener, but no cups. I can't remember if we opened it and drank from the bottle, or just forgot about it altogether. Back then I was very much not into drinking, so I wouldn't have made a fuss about it. I do remember him being a bit sheepish about not having brought all the right implements. I'd worn high heeled shoes, but brought something more comfy, knowing it was outside and I'd be doing some walking on grassy land. I ended up leaving my heels in his car and wearing the cozy shoes to the seating area, and ended up leaving my heels in his car at the end of the night. It was a bit of a scandal at the store when he was returning my shoes to me after that. Shoes are sort of intimate, aren't they? Something you'd only entrust to someone special, a lover, or someone of equivalent standing.<br />
<br />
I was never into Jarek. I was into someone else, someone whose name eludes me absolutely. He had the look of someone who needed comforting. Not just that, though. A certain effeminiteness, though not downright so. A prettiness. Full lips, devastating eyes, slight curls in his short blonde-ish hair. He was so depressed. He didn't care for anyone, least of all me. I tried to flirt, to no avail, no avail whatsoever. He was like a rock. Impenetrable. Not the rocks in Iceland, obviously, the ones that house elves and fairies. He was a different kind of rock. I befriended one of his dude friends at the store, who only affirmed his disinterest in me, and people/girls in general. Frankie, I think that was. I seem to recall that Frankie was rumored to have a large penis. Lord knows who told me, or why. He was on my side though, Frankie. Sort of. He wanted his depressed friend to not be depressed, and to have a lady, and he thought I was an alright gal so why not me?<br />
<br />
I only ended up staying a few months, though, not long enough to get involved with anyone. That had been the plan from the beginning, though three quarters of the way through I started to think about staying. Why? Was it because of Tory, who'd already way fucked me over? I'm still not sure quite what possessed me. I started looking for an apartment in the city, pretty seriously actually. I met up with a guy, a friend of a friend, who was looking for a roommate to find a place in the city. He was a photographer, and he ended up taking a series of slow exposure type photos where a man was beating me, or close to beating me, with a frying pan. I think he got one of his current roomies to be the frying pan wielder, though I suppose he might have put himself in that position, given the camera set up. I've wondered about those photos, what they ended up looking like. I have no idea how I'd find this fellow though, or any of the people I worked with at that store. This chunk of my life, vanished. Where are they now? Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-19935650621199853542013-02-28T04:24:00.000-05:002013-03-09T04:26:37.514-05:00Terry Doesn't Live Here AnymoreWhen I first moved to New York, I lived in Brighton Beach. Which meant if I was going to have late night party times in Manhattan, I'd need a couch to crash on. This was in the early days, before I understood casual sex, and the strangers' beds that are included in the deal. So every weekend, sometimes for the whole weekend, I would crash on my friend Ryan's couch (futon) in the East Village. He lived on 3rd St and 2nd Ave, a few buildings down from the Hell's Angels HQ. It is said to be one of the safest blocks in the city.<br />
<br />
When it came time to head back to Brooklyn, I'd sometimes walk to Union Square rather than taking the closer 2nd Ave F and getting off at 14th Street to get the Q. Sometimes I did it probably because it was nice out, and it was an alright walk, not too far, decent exercise. Probably more I did it because I could take the opportunity to walk by my ex boyfriend's apartment building. He lived at 215 E. 10th St. I'll probably never forget that address. I mean, it's been eight years since then. But I'd helped him find that apartment, I'd mailed things to him there, I'd shown up at his doorstep one day, unannounced, when things were ending. It's a memorable kind of address. I did run into him a few times, in the East Village, but never near his apartment. I wrote about running into him and a subsequent brief and ill advised rekindling, and posted it on here, but he found it and didn't like it, the truth of it, seeing himself accurately described for the whole world to see, or just my few friends who read my blog. So I took it down. I can be merciful.<br />
<br />
By the time the rekindling became unkindled, for the last time, he'd moved to Brooklyn, with his girlfriend, and at any rate I'd long since stopped walking by his building, hoping for a run-in, even though by then I was living on the LES and traipsing about the E. Vil on the regs. Then I moved to Brooklyn, and my E. Vil hang time dwindled to almost nil, so walking down 10th Street to get from point A to point B became a rare occurrence, indeed, but whenever I did, I would still look out for house number 215.<br />
<br />
Today I was walking down 10th Street from the east side to the west side. I realized where I was when I passed St. Mark's Church on 2nd and 10th, which is also near Angel's Share on Stuyvesant Street, a place where I once saw him get sloppy drunk and had to apologize to the people setting next to us, on behalf of my stumbling companion. I'd passed 215 E. 10th without even noticing. Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-41550967460038379942012-12-07T04:21:00.000-05:002013-03-09T04:22:40.463-05:00GrandmaMy Grandmother is sad that she's spending Christmas in Florida, away from our massive extended family. My mother is the eldest of nine; grandma bore ten living children, one stillborn child, and lost an infant to SIDS. She's been raising children for the past fifty-three years - her own, or her children's children. My mother was the first, at age nineteen, to have children. I'm one of six. We moved in with my grandparents and my teenaged aunts and uncles when my parents divorced, when I was two. My youngest aunt, who was eleven when I was born, got pregnant when she was 21 or 22 and still living with my grandparents; she kept on living there, my grandmother being the primary caretaker of her baby while she went to school and/or worked and/or partied. The baby, my cousin Kenny, called my grandmother "mom" for some time. But he wasn't the only one my grandmother took care of. She was the free babysitter for most of my cousins. My many, many cousins. Only one of my uncles hasn't had any children. At least as far as we know. I'd place the likelihood at a pretty high level that he knocked someone up at some point, and never even knew it; or maybe he did. The rest of my aunts and uncles have an average of five children each. The youngest, I think, is probably about five by now. <br />
<br />
The great grandchildren have started to roll in, but at a much slower pace. So much slower. My grandmother must be devastated by the slowness, and surprised - there are so many of us of child bearing age now. There are only three so far: one from my cousin, Katrine, and the other two from my sister, Jane. Katrine was living in Florida when she became pregnant. She moved home with her parents in Connecticut when she had the baby. My sister had her first baby in Florida, and her second in Massachusetts; she moved back there when she couldn't find work in Florida. For a time she stayed with my mother and my two half-siblings in the house that I grew up in. I imagine that whenever my grandparents were in Massachusetts, they would stay there too, and look after the kids, as usual. Well, grandma would - my grandfather would be reading the paper in his reclining chair, as he always does, occasionally lowering it to look at the ruckus-making kids, semi-sternly, over the top of his reading glasses before raising it back up to his face. Don't be fooled, though, he's an old softie, and is probably just as woeful as my grandmother is about not spending Christmas with the family. <br />
<br />
It's funny to think how very grandmotherly my grandmother is. That's all she's ever been in my experience. But I hear these stories from my mother's youth, stories about the nanny. It was the nanny that raised the kids, not my grandmother. She worked at my grandfather's medical practice, a secretary or office manager, or somesuch. Maybe that's why she's able to tolerate the young rascals now - she wasn't tortured by them in her mothering years.Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-20010518021886116362012-08-24T04:18:00.000-04:002013-03-09T04:22:10.905-05:00Strange DaysI've lived in New York City for eight years, so I can officially, per the unwritten rules fully applicable to NYC residents, call myself "a New Yorker." I always sort of was, though, at heart - not one of those kids that comes in to live it up for a few years and then settle into the Walmart life back home. By New Yorker at heart I mean: cynical, bitter, mean, snappish, always in a rush. You know, all the good qualities that the ever-increasing slime flowing through the sewer system inspires in us New Yorkers. It also means paying no heed to the screaming man on the subway, the topless East Village girl, that inexplicable maple syrup smell.<br />
<br />
Well today on my commute, I found myself in a state of caught off guardness. There was a woman standing near me on the subway. I was leaning against the door, and she was holding onto the pole beside one of the nearby seats. She was fairly unremarkable, this woman: camel colored loafers, cuffed khaki pants, a multi-colored, probably Mossimo, shirt, mousey brown hair in a pony-tail. Oh, the pony-tail! If not for it, I would not have seen: HER NECK PIERCING. This woman, otherwise a complete bore to the aesthetic sense, had her neck pierced. Suddenly she was magical. Not just because she had a neck piercing, no, any Hot Topic g-raver could get one of those at the mall piercing shop. It's because she was so very unremarkable other than the piercing. It's like, "Hey, check me out. I look boring, eh? I don't even register on your radar, do I?" Then, BOOM. Neck piercing in ya face!Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-54285186888704538392012-08-01T19:03:00.002-04:002012-08-01T19:05:21.558-04:00Dirty Subject Lines That Are Not Spam<ul>
<li><span class="gI">Pearl necklaces only 39.99 - 175 value - Value oriented neck decoration. (Beyond the Rack)</span></li>
<li><span class="gI">Pearl Necklace and Earring Set - When the necklace just doesn't cut it anymore, hit the next level: earlobes. (Groupon)</span></li>
<li><span class="gI">Half or More Off Facial - Quickie facial. (AmazonLocal)</span></li>
<li><span class="gI">European Facial - <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x6fhzv_eurotrash-series-7-show-4-1996-with_fun" target="_blank">European</a> things are always better, right? (LifeBooker)</span></li>
<li><span class="gI">Laser Facials - For those who want it to hit so hard it leaves a scar. (LifeBooker)</span></li>
<li><span class="gI">50-minute Facial - For Olympic e*aculators and those that love them. (LivingSocial)</span></li>
<li><span class="gI">Labiaplasty, </span><span class="gI">Facial Package, </span><span class="gI">Online Dating Membership - This one seems specifically geared toward <a href="http://www.vice.com/read/octomom-nadya-suleman-masturbating-is-the-38th-wonder-of-the-world" target="_blank">Octo-mom</a> and those of her ilk (are there any of her ilk?? She strikes me as a rare gem, a once in an eon personage, maybe that's just my hope, my dream for humanity). (Lifebooker)</span></li>
<li><span class="gI">Brazilian <a href="http://www.tadaocern.com/Images/01%20Tadas%20Cerniauskas%28www.tadaocern.com%29%20Blow%20Job%20525px%20%287%29.jpg" target="_blank">blowout</a> - Those Brazilians go hard, so hard they'll blow you right out. (Lifebooker AGAIN)</span></li>
</ul>
<span class="gI">* Redacted so as to reduce the frequency with which this post appears in searches for, you know, e*aculators. I mean, it's already going to get hit hard with all these facials, blowouts, and pearl necklaces. </span>Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-85104925124304078522012-03-15T20:28:00.001-04:002012-03-15T23:59:12.576-04:00Book Suggestion: Emily Post's Social Etiquette for the Truly PettyAddresses such quandaries as:<br />
<br />
- Whether to invite a person that you do not like to a party that you are hosting for someone the unliked for person is friends with.<br />
<br />
- How to keep your story straight when lying to persons at varying levels of the pecking order about why you are unable to attend a social function.<br />
<br />
- How to make it seem like the reason you started sitting at a desk much further away has nothing to do with your dislike for the person that you moved away from, and everything to do with your allergies associated with their side of the room. <br />
<br />
- Excuses for skipping important social functions, matched for appropriateness: boyfriend's best friend's going away party (long day at work); boyfriend's sister's engagement party (work deadline); co-worker's bachelorette party (your parents are in town); ex-girlfriend's ex-best friend's birthday party (going upstate for the weekend)<br />
<br />
- How to continue to have your needs catered to by someone you have dissed, or dis repeatedly, and not feel bad about it. <br />
<br />
- Facebook status updates and tweets: how thinly veiled a statement can you get away with when you know someone/everyone will see it and know who/what you are not so subtly taking a dig at?<br />
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And many more!Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-51797917414534671522012-01-30T23:04:00.000-05:002012-01-30T23:04:35.933-05:00Things in hospitals that look like faces (and not happy ones, at that)I spent five days in the surgical intensive care unit at Mt. Sinai Medical Center in Miami, two weeks ago. Hours seemed to melt into each other. At first it was easy to keep the melting at bay, with the ativan dose routinely coming every four hours and the morphine every eight. But then the morphine dosages kept increasing, so the time kept changing. Then they added respiratory therapy every four hours, but they weren't the same four hours as the ativan. Then came the elevating of one side of his body or the other every two hours, to keep bed wounds from forming on his back, because an infection would have been epically bad. <br />
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The first night I didn't sleep. I took a cat nap on a chair in the waiting room, using my winter coat as a blanket, draping my scarf over my face to keep the light out. I had my boots on, the ones that I wore on the 6 am flight to Tampa and on the drive from there to Miami, for 48 hours (the same clothes, too, naturally). The second night, my brother brought sleeping bags, so I slept in the corner for a couple of hours. The third night, they brought a cot.<br />
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It seemed like they never re-stocked the salad bar, while we were there. We arrived Wednesday afternoon in time for lunch, and had eaten them out of spinach and broccoli by Friday. After that it was burnt pizza and cold sweet potato fries. <br />
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Mostly I sat by his bed, which is how I noticed the bedside TV controller that looks like a face. After that, it seemed like everything had a face. But I didn't always have my phone to photograph everything. They all had the same face, you'll notice. A sort of stern face. Not frownie, unhappy, sad. Stern. "Man up," said they. "This ain't the first one and it won't be the last one. Deal."<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Bedside TV Controller, With Mysterious Music Button That I Could Not Figure Out How To Get Music From</i></div><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Otis Elevonic Group Control</i></div><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Rich-ish People Donation Plaques + Metal Cover Probably Covering Wires + Wall Rail Thingie, Probably For Patients Who Are Able To Get Up From Their Beds To Hold Onto</i></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf3so0vNICO3gbW5JxtbCgzguqW8oRS03GsnzKYcqiGBavRRFztfS7gbRbRMnBH-UuIgVCAcrxBZHV1kp1Iw8U7rWn94qiCY7pwYBMhFlRdKcAxaIG4fq43FeTARKslQdGAPmzH_cF63E/s1600/photo(13).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf3so0vNICO3gbW5JxtbCgzguqW8oRS03GsnzKYcqiGBavRRFztfS7gbRbRMnBH-UuIgVCAcrxBZHV1kp1Iw8U7rWn94qiCY7pwYBMhFlRdKcAxaIG4fq43FeTARKslQdGAPmzH_cF63E/s400/photo(13).JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-58763251315897609712012-01-07T22:15:00.000-05:002012-01-07T22:15:51.873-05:00A Smile is Just a Frown Turned Upside DownSome things I saw today:<br />
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Sunlight on my bare arms <br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sV69WBvFGBA">Smiling faces</a><br />
A man jogging, <a href="http://iconicphotos.files.wordpress.com/2009/09/5bf3997d27d535ff33e35823a6bb8d.jpg?w=700">topless</a>, on Kent<br />
Two lads tossing around the ol' pigskin at East River Park<br />
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A <a href="http://www.theoi.com/Ther/KuonKerberos.html" target="_blank">three headed beast </a><br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AM7zb5FMmLM" target="_blank">Three dogs</a> on a corner <br />
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Three white sheets hanging out to dry<br />
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A <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bG6b3V2MNxQ" target="_blank">sneering dolphin</a> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkbPbg1ppwRcJOXbJljSobrC8CJkfnAUkErDhyphenhyphenFa278QONCZ-Qfvv6gQQaLbYNYhWFaNA516pXFH9zXjp19pzssuuYIEdIJ_fT_w48e9V4fdFB79lBRQKYqkGrw4ds8VlkAweCkEvQbYI/s1600/photo%25287%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkbPbg1ppwRcJOXbJljSobrC8CJkfnAUkErDhyphenhyphenFa278QONCZ-Qfvv6gQQaLbYNYhWFaNA516pXFH9zXjp19pzssuuYIEdIJ_fT_w48e9V4fdFB79lBRQKYqkGrw4ds8VlkAweCkEvQbYI/s320/photo%25287%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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The <a href="http://www.topsecretrecipes.com/Dennys-Moons-Over-My-Hammy-Recipe.html" target="_blank">moon over</a> a jet stream <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi663XoneS58GTURxlxS_U8b4meISOPRNGLLvCzgWrh7K9EdUg9zHXUyyMCTxLDRrbsJQfHRw-IPkrVtvSemhDUtli2pmjQFwnv3V0mhlktOPFhDxg1EzgNa1wdY8ymZh5tc0ObTyOd0H0/s1600/photo%25285%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi663XoneS58GTURxlxS_U8b4meISOPRNGLLvCzgWrh7K9EdUg9zHXUyyMCTxLDRrbsJQfHRw-IPkrVtvSemhDUtli2pmjQFwnv3V0mhlktOPFhDxg1EzgNa1wdY8ymZh5tc0ObTyOd0H0/s320/photo%25285%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-2335149964545450932012-01-01T14:13:00.000-05:002012-01-01T14:13:13.750-05:00Goals, Or WhateverI was inspired to make this 2012 goals list while preparing my "new year's" brunch.<br />
<ul><li>Learn to crack an <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cGWCpSYun-k" target="_blank">egg</a> <a href="http://youtu.be/QfHqdc4pbbs" target="_blank">one-handedly</a></li>
<li>Always put my range fan on when cooking</li>
<li>Never use the <a href="http://www.managemylife.com/mmh/questions/133344-why-is-the-oven-flame-too-large-after-replacing-the-valve-on-my-kenmore-range" target="_blank">front right burner</a></li>
<li>Find another place for spice rack that's not <a href="http://images2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20071001170337/indianajones/images/e/e2/Death_by_face_melting.jpg" target="_blank">on or near the oven</a></li>
<li>Always have <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bpFeaV4VH1o" target="_blank">ketchup</a> on hand</li>
<li>Always have frozen <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXScpCzPgtI" target="_blank">pizza</a> on hand</li>
<li>Always have <a href="http://myfoodlooksfunny.files.wordpress.com/2011/06/funny-food-photos-ice-tea-with-ice-cubes.jpg" target="_blank">ice cubes</a> on hand</li>
<li>Never keep those refrigerated bake-at-home cinnamon rolls <a href="http://www.bryanprindiville.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/cinnamon-bun-death-trap.jpg" target="_blank">on-hand, "just in case"</a></li>
<li>Get <a href="http://youtu.be/lcWVL4B-4pI" target="_blank">curtains</a> for kitchen windows</li>
<li>Get a toaster oven to make pizza bagels in </li>
<li>Stop turning goals lists into shopping lists</li>
<li>Finish watching Dune</li>
<li>Finish that bag of <a href="http://youtu.be/6SuTLMp6Ytw" target="_blank">tangerines</a> I bought last week</li>
<li>Continue having unfiltered internal monologue, <a href="http://kubrickfilms.warnerbros.com/images/Video_Detail_shining_kart.gif" target="_blank">externally</a>, via blog</li>
</ul>Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-16780056183694659542011-12-29T15:55:00.000-05:002011-12-29T15:55:13.157-05:00Bitch As a Relative TermFriends often (yes, <i>often</i>) used to tell me that they used to think I was a bitch. "God, I used to think you were <i>such</i> a <i>bitch</i>!" That, or the equally telling comment "I used to think you hated me." Before we were friends, natch. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qfrLkmVq8BE&feature=fvwrel" target="_blank">Something in my way</a>, or in my naturally down-turned mouth, signaled "hatred/bitch" to them, after which time I managed to win them over with my <a href="http://winning.urbanup.com/5653587" target="_blank">WINNING</a> personality. But I didn't know that I had to win them over, see? Because I only ever found out about the "bitch" thing after, usually way after, the fact.<br />
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I haven't heard these lines in a long time. I don't think the sentiment on the Other's part has changed, I just think that with age comes tact. Scratch that - tactfulness is on something like a bell curve. It increases up to a certain point, oh, say, 52 years of age, and then begins a decline equal to its previous ascent. But that's beside the point.<br />
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The absence of these words falling upon my eardrums could be due to something else altogether. Perhaps it's that I've come to associate with people who love (my flavor of) bitchiness. In this scenario, there's no realization that I'm not in fact a bitch/hateful; rather, that's precisely what they love about me from the beginning. There's no winning them over with my true charms, because that <i>is</i> my charm. I had them at "Leave me the fuck alone," accompanied by a withering look.Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-19378661024988661032011-12-24T17:10:00.008-05:002011-12-27T17:39:45.981-05:00Fighting Evil By Moonlight, Winning Love By Daylight<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zOZpG5046Lk/TvpIQ59SR5I/AAAAAAAAAMc/Qm_6u4dgwHQ/s1600/photo%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zOZpG5046Lk/TvpIQ59SR5I/AAAAAAAAAMc/Qm_6u4dgwHQ/s320/photo%25283%2529.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>I always stay with my sister when I visit Florida. She's like a real grown-up - married, owns a Kitchen-Aid stand mixer and a three bedroom house. And is a year younger than me. Enough to make any older sibling feel inadequate. She never has house guests besides me, but she has a very cozily appointed guest room. A real, live bed (nunna that fold-out business), a loveseat, a closet for dress hanging, a bookcase containing all the Clive Barker one could desire (that's a lotta Clive Barker). And the prized cheetahs-on-mirror "art" piece I gave her for her birthday a couple of years ago.<br />
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My сестренка has plenty of extra linens and such, but always lays out my old <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X6_RZhh44NY" target="_blank">Sailor Moon</a> blanket for me (don't judge). It's one of those sort of scratchy, woolly blankets with silky soft material on the top and bottom edges. I'm not sure if she holds onto it for any reason other than to have it on hand for my visits. It's so faded now that you can hardly tell that the print on it is Sailor Moon. It's not a very cozy blanket; you really need to put something between it and your soft flesh, and in Florida, you never really need more than one layer of blanket (and this winter, you hardly need a blanket at all - night time temps didn't seem to drop below <a href="http://youtu.be/zYWT4uYOPvs">69, dudes</a> [and did I mention my sister's nickname is Dude? Not as in <a href="http://www.examiner.com/images/blog/wysiwyg/image/white_russian%282%29.jpg">this dude</a>, but more like short for <a href="http://youtu.be/LcxYwwIL5zQ">this doo-dah</a>]), but seeing as I'm 90 years old, I always need a blanket, so I tortured myself by sandwiching Sailor Moon between a sheet and a fleece throw. A little excessive, perhaps, BUT I LIKE TO GO HARD.Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-15166561500336432032011-12-20T17:40:00.000-05:002011-12-20T17:40:57.228-05:00There's Something About The Sunshine State; It Just Makes Me Wanna SMOKEOne of the first things I do when I hit the ground in FLA (pronounced eff-ell-ay) is buy a pack of <a href="http://www.searcylaw.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/santa-loves-luckies-ad.jpg" target="_blank">cigarettes</a>. The 7-11 near my sister's house keeps them under the counter - hidden. You have to ask for them. I always think they don't have them, that maybe they've just got the sale packs of Pall Malls ($4.75!) or Marlboro Lights (2fer1!), but I ask anyway and they respond, as do the bodega dudes in New York, "What color?" Yellow, natch.<br />
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Maybe the air here is too fresh. My lungs, filled with BQE particulate debris, truck exhaust, and the second hand smoke of some million or so addicts, yearn for the polluted New York City air. I'm like a fish out of murky water. In other words, a fish out of the East River. <br />
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Maybe it's habit; all's we ever used to do when I lived here was go to the cafe, sit outside, and smoke. Très bohemian. Of course, it's a different cafe now, and no one else is here. Kyle's married and studying Comp Lit in Buffalo, Jason's married and studying <i>something</i> in Chicago, Mindy is pregnant, Jonny Cafe is god-knows-where. Incidentally, the cafe where I'm now smoking and drinking coffee and typing is called <a href="http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=54612066285&v=wall" target="_blank">Cafe Bohemia</a>, bestowed upon the 'burg some eight years ago by my buddy Matt Neal, one of the last left standing in this city. <br />
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Maybe it's the anxiety of unhomeliness, in this place I used to call home, that calls for a self-destructive puff or twenty. All's I know is, when I'm here, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uA_3MnVen08" target="_blank">I sure smoke</a>.Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0St Petersburg, FL, USA27.7730556 -82.63999999999998627.6386456 -82.730575499999986 27.9074656 -82.549424499999986tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-17579999495684679722011-12-18T23:30:00.000-05:002011-12-18T23:30:13.069-05:00"What Do You Want From Me?""I wanna take you in that bedroom<br />
lock the door<br />
take your clothes off with my teeth<br />
throw you on the bed<br />
and give you a go round like you've never had."<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amctv.com/mad-men/videos/peggy-and-duck" target="_blank">Come on. I love the morning. </a>Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-79560059744603364242011-12-17T14:32:00.000-05:002011-12-17T14:32:13.517-05:00It's 1 A.M.; Do You Know Where Your Mental Faculties Are?Have I talked about this before? I'm going to talk about it again, because it never fails to shock me just how obliterated, sloppy, raving drunk people can be by 1 am. Falling over, babbling incoherently, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsd4S2viyZt6B9MrbAcOqjkRu_X5mqjkKOFK-St3Ujx1o71SCViqvAOiKUblt2Dp4vSkV1ChQxIxu_YQ_rfCPhkMQ3OXkJCxm-_41S_a3ZuB9xQ2LKeeFQ993dCLyaoO2oN3xXkucKmSnv/s1600/rupe1.jpg" target="_blank">droopy-faced</a> drunk. I was on my way home on the L, minding my own biznaz, standing by the door, playing sudoku on my iPhone, when this man, who appeared to be alone, and also appeared to be not a hobo, but a youngish regular guy, started harassing a woman as she was getting ready to get off at the next stop. I watched it all unfold out of the corner of my <a href="http://www.stylemag-online.net/wp-content/uploads/2008/07/main_aufmacher_bunuel.jpg" target="_blank">eye</a>, thankful that I wasn't listening to my iPod so that I could enjoy this live entertainment instead. The lady, also youngish and regularish, had been sitting beside him but had gotten up in anticipation of disembarking at the next stop. When she got up and stood in front of the door, which happened to be where I was leaning, he started calling her, sort of half heartedly, well, I guess more just weakly from drunkenness, a mess. "You're a mess," he babble-whispered, fish-out-of-water flapping his hand in her (our) direction. (She wasn't a mess at all, of course - <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivFDffXP8Y4ow8RbhTr86CFrugnIS5KTjRWI32umjwac4ZKuRZE5dN9bdlWbCZ3NBY2J0wC5DwgjGbdx07liPJtnGZiPty00aCuVoPN9rJrmzsh7iJaW11duewOrLNNkOMjPO4tcNDb0o/s1600/drunkMascot.jpg" target="_blank"><i>he</i> was</a>.) "Look at you. God, what a mess. Get outta here." And she did, with nary a glance in his direction. <br />
<br />
I make light of it in telling the tale but really, in the moment, it makes me feel what I imagine to be something like <a href="http://awesomebmovies.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/wild-at-heart-41.jpg" target="_blank">motherly concern</a>. Is he going to make it home tonight, <i>alive</i>? Will he stumble in front of an oncoming garbage truck or subway car? Will he choke on his own vomit (RIP Mama Cass)? Will he lose his keys in the gutter and pass out in the street and <i>freeze to death</i>? I guess that level of obliteration is par for the course, for some people, but how they manage to make it to the next morning, body intact, is beyond the capacity of <i>my</i> mental faculties.Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-77445198894237729862011-12-10T00:47:00.000-05:002011-12-10T00:47:25.766-05:00Movies Netflix Suggests For Me, And Their Unlikely InspirationsSuggestion: Cave of Forgotten Dreams<br />
Because I enjoyed: The Kids in the Hall Pilot Episode<br />
<br />
Suggestion: Nutcracker The Motion Picture<br />
Because I enjoyed: Parks and Recreation<br />
<br />
Suggestion: Marwencol (a documentary about a man brain damaged by a severe beating, and his art)<br />
Because I enjoyed: Pee-Wee's Big Adventure<br />
<i><br />
Starting to see a pattern here - serious, thought-provoking films suggested in response to mindless, hilarious comedies. What are you trying to tell me, Netflix?</i><br />
<br />
Suggestion: Yellowstone - Battle For Life<br />
Because I enjoyed: Party Down<br />
<br />
Suggestion: In Search of Beethoven<br />
Because I enjoyed: Party Down<br />
<br />
Suggestion: Eternal Enemies - Lions and Hyenas<br />
Because I enjoyed: Party Down<br />
<br />
<i>Considering Party Down was only on for two seasons, I'm surprised it's getting so much Netflix action here. Seriously now, suggest something based on the nine seasons of X-Files I enjoyed! </i><br />
<br />
Suggestion: PBS - The Buddha<br />
Because I enjoyed: Monty Python's The Meaning of Life<br />
<i>(I guess I <b>kind of</b> get this one - the profundity of life, blah blah blah)</i><br />
<br />
Suggestion: Ken Burns - The War<br />
Because I enjoyed: Mad Men<br />
<i>Uhh, because Don Draper was a veteran?</i><br />
<br />
Suggestion: Romeo & Juliet<br />
Because I enjoyed: The Wizard of Oz<br />
<i>Dorothy and The Wizard - star-crossed lovers?</i><br />
<br />
Suggestion: Law & Order ("cerebral, dark, gritty, suspenseful")<br />
Because I enjoyed: Little House on the Prairie ("sentimental, feel-good")<br />
<i>I...got nothin'. Seriously, help me out here. They both start with the letter L? They're both ripped from the headlines?</i>Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-43583222092450609612011-12-08T18:59:00.002-05:002011-12-08T22:02:06.015-05:00There's an electrical outlet next to my kitchen table, directly underneath my large and glorious black panthers painting (not to be confused with <a href="http://www.blackpanther.org/" target="_blank">these Black Panthers</a> - the ones in my kitchen are of the feline variety). Outlets are usually close to the floor, out of sight. You don't see them, and more importantly, they don't see you. See, I do a lot of sitting at my kitchen table, facing that wall. That's where I study, where I page through Harper's while I drink my home-made sludgey coffee on the weekend, where I eat my Domino's pizza while catching up on Parks and Rec, where I write words in my notebook and type them on my laptop. I, like many people, look off into some distance in search of words, or of an understanding of some words that we've read, or heard spoken to us. My eyes settle on things, things that come in between them and the horizon where understanding is to be found. My eyes settle on The Outlet. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxO0OseDr-jUJbnpbC87j0Wv6gXHSd8jwmIkoFVR9h6euRfxCzQMN2fAODsYxkziL02kwtzdXMadaxKoe21T6fFNkyku3UkBefnCt6VTHzEiWuQMNPVUOcEmPXWBfg1FOxSDXLsTXHR0/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" mda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxO0OseDr-jUJbnpbC87j0Wv6gXHSd8jwmIkoFVR9h6euRfxCzQMN2fAODsYxkziL02kwtzdXMadaxKoe21T6fFNkyku3UkBefnCt6VTHzEiWuQMNPVUOcEmPXWBfg1FOxSDXLsTXHR0/s320/photo.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Outlet, as you can see, has all the basics required to be anthropomorphised into a face: two slits for eyes and a hole for a mouth; no nose required. It's not just any old face, though. It has a mood. A feeling. It speaks, this face. It's shocked and horrified. Disappointed, repulsed. This is not the face you want to be staring at you when you seek understanding. It is not an affirming face. </div><br />
It reminds me of Twin Peaks, when Josie becomes trapped in the drawer knob of a wooden nightstand next to the bed where she has just shot and killed herself. It's a disturbing image. BOB is there and presumably he has something to do with Josie's being trapped in the wood. Wood/the woods are a big theme in Twin Peaks; the Log Lady wasn't crazy - her husband, who died in a fire on their wedding night, was trapped in the log she carried around, and he was able to communicate with her. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGnUEoltPoZD-nfM_uLwcb4fulCQ6_k3NTko51YhC5xCFKE0dqJMJ4eTYjdU6pPBhfCoV_ZfCVxzAhZhyphenhyphenbilvcf9N0GmWFuDsHkvNL0EvOn3LNTjB7AOg6qU1Pu-h8fHLgsNNNh7tRDFo/s1600/twin_peaks_s2e16_the_condemned_woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" mda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGnUEoltPoZD-nfM_uLwcb4fulCQ6_k3NTko51YhC5xCFKE0dqJMJ4eTYjdU6pPBhfCoV_ZfCVxzAhZhyphenhyphenbilvcf9N0GmWFuDsHkvNL0EvOn3LNTjB7AOg6qU1Pu-h8fHLgsNNNh7tRDFo/s320/twin_peaks_s2e16_the_condemned_woman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
"Fear and love open the doors," (the doors to the white and the black lodges) Major Briggs says in one of the last episodes. But is it fear that opens the black lodge and love, the white? Or is it fear AND love? The acknowledgment, the owning, even, of the fear involved in loving and being loved? Josie had both, but her fear was stronger. And I suppose, hence her being trapped. <br />
<br />
When I was a kid, we had fake wood paneling in many rooms in our house. Very seventies. The paneling mimicked the look of real wood down to the knots. Those panels were just lousy with the appearance of the cross-sections of knots. Those knots, I used to think, looked like monster faces. No, they didn't just look like monster faces, they <i>were</i> monsters. <i>In</i> the wood. I was sure of it. Faces all jaggedy, yet melty, yet woody. Melting, jagged, wooden monster faces. I hated being alone in the bathroom, behind closed doors, with these wood monsters. I don't recall when I got past it, when I was able to look at those knots and <i>not</i> think they were going to possess me. This, too comes to mind when faced with The Outlet. Can't sleep, The Outlet's gonna get me! And then I watch an <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/18883/saturday-night-live-canteen-boy-and-the-scoutmaster" target="_blank">Alec Baldwin</a> or <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/4191/saturday-night-live-the-continental" target="_blank">Christopher Walken</a> sketch from SNL, and everything is fine.Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-31101131688652338262011-12-07T01:03:00.003-05:002011-12-07T01:25:44.471-05:00Words Have Meaning(s)When we (I) think of consume, we (I) think: ingest, take in, absorb. That's the definition, basically. Consume comes from the Latin word "consumo," which means to take altogether, to spend, to use up, to finish. The derived noun, "consumptio," means a consuming, destroying. A "consumptor" is a destroyer. "Consummo" means to form a whole, complete. The Latin prefix "con" means with. "Sum" is the present singular of "to be." Con+sum = "to be whole." When we (I) want someone, we want to consume them (metaphorically of course, right?). So, do we (I) want to destroy them, or be whole with them? Is there a difference?Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-6409592198663485722011-12-05T21:20:00.000-05:002011-12-05T21:20:15.652-05:00The Age-Old QuestionWhen I think, "What would I like to rot my insides with tonight?", nine times out of twelve the answer is "Pizza!" It's got just the right combination of complex carbs, sugary tomato sauce, and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rennet" target="_blank">rennety</a> cheese, hitting every point on any reasonably healthy person's "DO NOT CONSUME" list. But I like to take it up a notch; or down 83 notches, to the lowest of the low, based on your perspective. In the race among Brooklyn pizza delivery joints, for me it always comes down to two: Domino's and Papa John's (Singa's, apparently the truly lowest, based on <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/singas-famous-pizza-brooklyn-2#hrid:rzKUepqccAQ8Gkg25_48NQ" target="_blank">this yelp review</a>, has disqualified itself based on <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/singas-famous-pizza-brooklyn-2#hrid:qu90QKB90weRaOvVziF0Xg" target="_blank">this other yelp review</a>; Pizza Hut would be the sure winner, if there were any nearby). Sure, I'll look at the menu for <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/carmines-pizzeria-brooklyn#query:carmines%20pizza" target="_blank">Carmine's </a>and <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/sals-pizzeria-brooklyn#query:sal%27s%20pizza" target="_blank">Sal's</a>, and even the newer, hipper <a href="http://best.piz.za.com/" target="_blank">Best Pizza</a>. But those are my slice places. I go there for slices. For a whole pie, plus breadsticks, without which I feel my pizza delivery meal is incomplete, it must be Domino's or Papa John's.<br />
<br />
The first time I had Domino's was in high school. There was a Domino's outpost attached to the on-campus 7-11. That Domino's was truly abominable. Never before, and never since, have I tasted that unique combination of cardboard + process cheese food + generic ketchup. Even the time that I got the mostly raw Little Caesar's pie was better than this Domino’s. If I consumed it on more than one occasion, it was out of truly desperate hunger. Pretty much all that the 7-11 stocked was Sun Chips, mortal enemy to my taste buds. I didn't touch it again until I moved to the Lower East Side in 2005. There was a Domino's nearby. My favorite neighborhood pizza place, Rosario's, didn't deliver. A cold/stormy night + epic hungers = me ordering Domino's delivery. It's been me n' D ever since. <br />
<br />
Papa John's was my jam in high school. I knew a guy that worked there who would hook me up with pizza if I hooked him up with a gigantic milkshake from the ice cream shop where I worked. But that ish was worth its weight in gold to me (see, pizza doesn't weigh that much, so it's fine). What Papa John's was then is much what Domino's seems to be now. The sauce so sugary/tangy, the crust so doughy, the breadsticks pillow-esque. Perfection! (Not to say I didn't indulge in the occasional Hungry Howie's pie with butter cheese crust). Whenever PJ's wins out over Dom's, it's this flavor nostalgia that tips the scales.<br />
<br />
Here are the things that weigh on my mind each time I decide on pizza over rice & steamed veggies:<br />
<br />
<i>Dom's Pros</i><br />
- Consistent. Domino's may not be "the best," but it always arrives hot, melty, and saucy, the flavor is actually respectable, it's always exactly what I expect it to be, and I've certainly had worse.<br />
- Cheap. They have all these great online coupons! Yes, I am secretly your coupon cutting grandma. DEAL WITH IT.<br />
- Order tracking. Like UPS, and just as reliable! Before it goes out the door they do a "perfection check"! And you get to pick the background theme for the tracker! I always pick the bodice ripper theme. Not that I order often enough to describe my frequency as "always," or anything. Just sayin'.<br />
<br />
<i>Dom's Cons</i><br />
- GUT BOMB. Do not go on a date after consuming. Actually, don't go anywhere after consuming. You'll probably be balls deep into <i>When Harry Met Sally</i> anyway.<br />
<br />
<i>PJ's pros</i><br />
- Ehhhh, pretty much the same as Dom's, except NO tracking. Get with the future, PJ's! I represent the people and the people want pizza tracking!<br />
<br />
<i>PJ's cons</i><br />
- As previously mentioned, the no tracking blows. Even if the Dom's tracker is a fake-out, it's very comforting to see progress. <br />
- And obviously, the GUT BOMB factor.<br />
<br />
I began this quandary knowing it would lead me to one of two ends. Gut Bomb + <i>When Harry Met Sally</i>, or Gut Bomb + <i>Dirty Dancing</i>. The Domino's pizza tracker just informed me that Ramon has left the store with my order. Could it have been any other way?Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-1903277789513005852010-12-03T00:44:00.000-05:002010-12-03T00:44:02.790-05:00I'm a Neurotic 90 Year Old Jewish ManI try not to be crotchety old lady about the loud music my neighbors play. Hey it's New York! We love music! At 2 am! On a Tuesday night! As much as I hem and haw about having to hear it, it takes kind of a lot for me to get it up to say something to the offender. And of course by that time, I'm fit to cause serious injury (emotionally, with my laser eyes). Since I've moved into my new place, it's mostly been the girl across the hall. She was entertaining a gentleman friend one weeknight evening, and by evening I mean late at night. They were watching a movie in what sounded like surround sound. It was an action movie! I could tell from all the explosions n' stuff. So midnight rolls around, as I'm trying to get some studying done, and of course, the volume diminishes not. Soooooo I go and knock. She must be expecting this, right? She takes a moment to come to the door (they were probably making out, as I heard the throes of love-makings not long after). She calls through the door "Who is it?" Seriously? "Your neighbor across the hall" I says. She opens the door. "Hey uh, can you turn that down? It's pretty loud and I'm trying to sleep." Her mouth says "Really? Oh sorry." Her face says "I'm not going to turn it down, because I am a bitch." As it turns out, it's her face that's telling the truth.<br />
<br />
My upstairs neighbor plays music often, but not ragingly loud. Until tonight. The sound seems to come from the area furthest from where my bed is, so as long as it's not really interfering with that whole sleep thing, I suck it up. What's weird about this guy (I assumed it was a guy, and it is - maybe it was the heavy step) is that it always seems to be the same album. The same song even? Over and over. And he'll play it late, yet be getting up in the morning, when I'm getting ready for work.<br />
<br />
Tonight this fella comes home around 11:45ish. Puts the music on right away, but real loud like, not like he usually does. I didn't wanna go up there. I hate confrontation. I have a violent bodily response to the faintest idea of confrontation. I get so pumped full of adrenaline I can hardly speak, and I probably look and sound like an idiot to the person I'm trying to all coolly ask to turn the music/movie/sex down. But I didn't want to let it go on, let him think it was acceptable, and then start doing it all the time, because then I would have to unleash the kraken. So up I went. Knocked. He turned off the music right away and came to the door - took him a bit too long to unlock it. It seemed like he must have a dozen deadbolts to unlatch in there. Finally he pulled the door open. Some blonde hipster boy. He had a <i>look</i> on his face, some <i>sad</i> look, and reeked of booze - can you get contact drunk from sharing air space? His look drained him of any power I might have awarded him, so I wasn't so nervous when I told him I live below him and it's pretty loud, can he turn it down please. "Really?" he said in this shaky voice - drunk voice or sad voice? Or maybe even <i>drugged</i> <i>up</i> voice? "Really??" I thought, I mean c'mon, it is OBVIOUSLY too loud, too late. "Thanks" I said and walked back downstairs.<br />
<br />
He waited a few minutes before turning it back on, much, much lower. But he has some of my sympathies now. That music he plays over and over, it's sadtown. Music a broken heart might listen to. Poor drunk hipster boy.Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-89915831247606269122010-11-23T00:28:00.001-05:002010-11-23T00:30:24.067-05:00A Story I Think You'll Enjoy<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So I get to my psychoanalysis class tonight, sit in my usual seat up front, the better to admire my sensei. I sit off to the side, not right in the middle, so as not to be blinded by the brilliance. You know what "they" say: look ye not into the eyes of God, etc. I have all my shit (purse, laptop bag, grocery bag full of rutabagas and </span></span><a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/recipe/classic-apple-pie" style="color: #400080; text-decoration: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">five varieties of apples</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> and cardamom and plastic wrap) leaned up against the chair next to me that no one is sitting in, that no one ever sits in, because few are brave enough to be in such close proximity to the sun - my forty or so classmates are dispersed throughout the large-ish room all the way to the back, though they could easily sit closer (if they had the balls to do so). </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We started Derrida's "To Speculate on Freud" tonight - I'm sure I need not remind you of the density of that one (if you know Derrida, you know that much and if you don't know Derrida - don't it just sound real hard?). I only read a few pages, and that was enough for me to know that it's par for the course Derrida (as in, purposefully unintelligible), and I'm gonna need to pay close attention to the crumbs of knowledge tumbling from </span><a href="http://www.disneyvillains.net/images/jafar_king.jpg" style="color: #400080; text-decoration: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">my liege's</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> mouth into my earballs, and flowing out through my fingers onto my</span><a href="http://home.uchicago.edu/~awinter/mystic.pdf" style="color: #400080; text-decoration: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> mystic writing pad</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. There I am tippity typing away, it's about ten minutes in and I already have a full page of notes. Then this girl comes in. I don't recognize her - but I don't really recognize anyone in the class that I didn't know already when the school year started. They're all newbies, and annoying ones at that. Anyway, she comes in ten minutes late. My deft master is easily distracted by late arrivals, early departures, trips to the bathroom, slight coughs, running of one's hands through one's hair, irregular blinking, etc. He stopped the lecture to make sure she signed the attendance sheet. She took it from him, and then sat down next to me, in the chair at the foot of which my shit was piled. I mean like, whatever, but goddammit there's a lot of empty seats in that big room, why you gotta pick </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">that</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> one?</span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> <br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She asks to borrow one of my pens - I have a blue one and a black one to satisfy my moderately anal underlining needs - I pause a split-end too long - she says "just for a second" and gestures toward the attendance sheet. "Sure" I whisper-grunt. (Translation: </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cFEUy8NzazE" style="color: #400080; text-decoration: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">my pen! you've got my pen!</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">). </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She pulls out her laptop. She let's it sit there for a moment. She </span></span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ajmI1P3r1w4" style="color: #400080; text-decoration: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">leans back</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> in her chair, all cozily. She opens the laptop. She types a text message on her phone - on a low setting, not silent - which is on the desk next to her laptop. She starts typing aggressively. Occasionally she stops, shuts her laptop, sits back comfortably. I assume she's low on juice, as I burn rubber on my plugged up machine. A couple of times her phone rings, she looks at it, doesn't stop it. About ten minutes before the end of class, she stops typing and makes a sound - shock, dismay, annoyance, some such sound. It's hot n' heavy at this point - my wrist is hurting from typing so much so hard so fast - after a full day of typing at work. She tries to get my attention, she's trying to tell me something, what is it? What is it girl? Is there a fire at the old barn? Oh your laptop died? You didn't bring your plug, and also didn't bring a notebook or a pen to your graduate philosophy class? Oh wait a second, I don't give a fuck! And I just fucking missed the last seven words spilled from the mouthbox of mine guru goddamn you! Never mind, she said, closed her laptop, and sat back again. Would that that were the end. WOULD! 82 or so seconds later, and I swear she does this just to piss me off, she digs around in her bag for what will eventually come to smell like a eucalyptus cough drop. She moves it around in her mouth, </span></span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f-K1mk5q9Ew" style="color: #400080; text-decoration: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">slurps on it loudly</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, clacks it against her teeth. An eternity goes by in those last few minutes - I envision epic intergalactic wars, natural disasters, the dying of the sun - all the while she is sucking and clacking. And then it's 9:50. Fin.</span></span></div>Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-49079600936724427572010-11-08T18:23:00.002-05:002010-11-08T18:31:31.317-05:00This is Your Brain On...the Third Floor of the Natural History Museum<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><object height="250" width="400"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/wREB5iPjBAQ?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><p><embed allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" height="250" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/wREB5iPjBAQ?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="400"><a href="http://www.amnh.org/exhibitions/brain/"></a>bject></p></object></div> <a href="http://www.amnh.org/exhibitions/brain/">Brain: The Inside Story</a>Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5458423716647133921.post-16098027923773919772010-11-08T18:19:00.000-05:002010-11-08T18:19:13.373-05:00Memory Tapes Christmas Tour<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.orbitinghumancircus.com/images/SAM_0243.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://www.orbitinghumancircus.com/images/SAM_0243.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.orbitinghumancircus.com/">Lullabies at Bedsides</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Carinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11677900439531651132noreply@blogger.com0