The end of his rope

The white haired man in the coffee shop hung his head a little.

"I just don't think I can do it anymore."

The man sitting next to him seemed concerned and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"You can't give up."

"No, no. I'm too old anyway. What's the use? I keep telling Carla that it's not going to work."

"You need to stay positive."

"No, I'm tired of it. I keep trying to use it and it won't work right. I type and the damn thing just turns off. I just need to face facts, I'll never be able to use a computer."

"Never say never."

"I guess I'm back at square one." Sighs. "I hate square one."

Auburn Road, the reading material

Three signs lined the property's snowy curb:

1. "Future home of The Haunted Castle"
2. "St. Vincent Scout Lodge"
3. "Christmas Trees"

On texting

"Oh come on, T9 word. You don't recognize rhombus?"

-B

Nabokov, reworked

ooh
marketing scheme, 1. allie, 0.

(via Samantha)

My new favorite (little) person

cute, cute

On culinary arts

"Not that I'm bragging or anything, but the last time I made this, I got mad bitches."

-M.Z.

Excerpt

"I've always been good at making money," he said, "but I never learned how to save shit. I drink too much wine... I can be antisocial and temperamental and defensive. I am a man of routine, which means I'm boring. I have very little patience with idiots." He smiled and tried to leaven up the moment. "Also, I can't look at you without wanting to have sex with you."

"I can work with that," I said.

- From "Committed" by Elizabeth Gilbert

The Lynching of Lamby-Pie: A Christmas Story

I had a white blanket trimmed in lace and a plush army of bunnies, kitties and bears – each with a name, gender and day of the week to sleep under my arm. (Apparently, I was the leader of my own polygamist stuffed animal sect.) My brother had a small quilt that he drug around Linus-style. My uncle had Lamby-Pie.

The small lamb was toted everywhere, according to my Grams, who, out of dutiful cleanliness, would lamb-nap when a proper bath was needed. One summer, after one such regular scrub, Lamby-Pie was left to air dry outside in the breeze. A simple shoestring hung from a small branch would do just fine, Grams thought.

As Lamby-Pie’s four-year-old companion came hunting, he took one look at the lamb – hung by his neck from a tree – and rushed screaming into the house. “You hung my Wamby-Pie!”

In transit

The delayed train means invisible scenic route due to that pesky type of nighttime that comes with being in the middle of who-the-hell-knows-where.

Traveling at night requires much more self-entertainment focus. For example: Your book choice cannot just be that one you’ve been meaning to flip through, you know, the I-hope-this-is-impressive one you bought while out with your friend the philosophy student. It must be one you’ve been plotting your attack on for weeks. Nothing slows time like disinterest.

I can only mark our trip’s progress based on a few smatterings of light – mostly orange-hued street lamps and Christmas displays shining from yards and roofs and windows. I notice something: There is a varying gap in holiday light displays that can instantly speak to the income of the family behind them. The biggest homes, inset high on hills or protected by gated communities seem to hold a chic standard for Christmas lights: white only, with the occasional use of yellow or blue when appropriate. But my favorites, they twinkle out of the small yards that mark their boundaries with chain links. I am always thankful to the family who can somehow evoke the Vegas strip in a nativity scene, with recycled reindeer replacing lowing cattle.

And when reading or counting light displays in lieu sheep gets old, take advantage of your surroundings (i.e. eavesdrop). I'm always amused and amazed by the lack of shame people have in public. Truthfully, it delights me. So did she:

The voice from behind belonged to an ex-prostitute traveling home from the South. She spent her trip on the phone with a voiceless man who had, obviously, crossed the wrong lady. (Please note: There was nothing left to do but write down the highlights.)

- I need to know what I can do to keep your cock from running wild.

- I was a hot mess when I came to Atlanta. I was looking to get fucked - might as well get paid.

- That's the difference between a nasty trick and a trick. A trick would put a rubber on you. I would know. And she fucked you without a condom? Nasty trick.

- She a trick. She a trick. She a trick. Even worse, she a dumb trick. She ain't even getting no money.

- I should call you when I get home. I'm on a train full of people and I've been loud and cussing and carrying on.

- And her ribs be good as hell.

- You know when you, me, and Boo-Boo, when we went?

- I might piss you off. I ain't gonna never hurt you.


I love the holidays.

Blizzard, oh baby.

Nothing brings out community duty like the first winter storm. Brooklyn was cloaked in snow and slush and an army of shovels dug in a line. More than one welcome mat was swept up on the curb, crumpled and frozen. Shop keepers enlisted those brave enough to march out for coffee or bagels to help lift their security gates from the snow drifts. A street worker helped a couple push their car and the little boy with all the curls threw snow balls at unsuspecting pedestrians.

Precipitation is good for the soul.

Christmas Time Is Here

rejoice.

On rules to live by

"Never wear lip gloss onstage. Your hair will stick to it when you head-bang."

-Taylor Swift

Last-Minute Holiday Guide: Gifts for Nerds

Merry Christmas from Techland

Movie Review: A context-free highlight

"Paul does manage to wheedle one dinner date, but their evening ends,
as so many Manhattan nights do, with a dead body falling from a
terrace."

Excerpt

"Legos used to be jumbled batches of bright bricks with the occasional wheel or axle. Now you can buy the Star Wars Venator-Class Republic Attack Cruiser kit, 1,170 pieces with instructions longer than The Brothers Karamazov. You build a cool spaceship, so long as you follow the directions – a useful skill, but no the same as constructing a cathedral out of nothing but cubes and confidence."

-Nancy Gibbs in "The Power of Play-Doh"

At my fingertips

the grapes of wrath.

busy bee

Avatar Roundtable Discussion: Oscar Buzz, Metaphors and Blue Boobs

Fringe's Misplaced Memory Science: Sci-Fi Fact vs Fiction

Tiger Woods Mistress Quiz: How Many Do You Know?

what a week.

Bravo, James Cameron

Caught a screening of Avatar tonight.
It. Is. Stunning.
Go see it.

Blog post: A context-free highlight

"Hot, nasty tortoise fucking, what a great day."

Oh um, thanks, B.

On zinging

“Bring it on, William. I’m reasonably confident you’ll be adding revenge to the long list of things you’re no good at. Next to being married, running a high school glee club, and finding a hairstyle that doesn’t make you look like a lesbian.”

- The amazing Jane Lynch on "Glee"

Excerpt

"I don't think New York City is like other cities. It does not have character like Los Angeles or New Orleans. It is all characters – in fact, it is everything. It can destroy a man, but if his eyes are open it cannot bore him.

New York is an ugly city, a dirty city. Its climate is a scandal, its politics are used to frighten children, its traffic is madness, its competition is murderous. But there is one thing about it – once you have lived in New York and it has become your home, no place else is good enough."

- "The Making of a New Yorker" by John Steinbeck

Sounds of a Brooklyn Christmas

1. Christmas carols through my headphones

2. Barking dogs

3. Car alarms

Song of the day

"Don't Worry About Tomorrow" by Van Morrison

My Choice VM:

1. Madame Joy

2. Into The Mystic

3. T.B. Sheets

4. Don't Worry About Tomorrow

5. Stepping Out Queen, Part Two

6. Slim Slow Slider

7. Wild Night

8. Joyous Sound

9. I'll Be Your Lover, Too

10. Contemplation Rose

Friday, a list

1. A man on the train is hunched in the corner playing a hand-held video game. I should know the name, but don't. He wears that wilted look that children get while they watch TV. Every few minutes you can see a bit of muscle movement in his face which I interpret in the way I see fit. I can't tell if he wins after my view is obstructed by the pretty girl in the gold dress.

2. The cashier in the cafeteria is singing Nat King Cole's 'Unforgettable' to herself. It's nice.

3. Sickness gives me the right to buy expensive juices guiltlessly. Sadly, this rule does not apply to bad hair days.

4. Russian woman with the largest diamond I've ever seen. I always imagined that I'd be slightly delighted and beguiled during an encounter with a small fortune perched on a finger, but I only felt disgusted and suspicious. Purse says PRADA. Looks real. Case closed.

5. Little girl dressed in varying shades of pink is wearing a Ring Pop which keeps getting stuck in her hair. A ring of this size is much more flattering on her, I decide.

Excerpt

"When people start flipping out in the library, a special thing happens—patrons get interested; suddenly the porn on their screen isn't as interesting as the fight that may be taking place just a few feet away. They don't leave their Internet terminals to help out because they're afraid they'll lose their time (libraries learned this months ago during a rather sizable earthquake, when patrons were more concerned about getting their Internet time back when the library was being evacuated, than whether or not the light panel dangling above their head might fall on top of them), they simply turn their chairs and stare."

- McSweeney's "Dispatches from a Public Librarian" By Scott Douglas

(A favorite)

Vivian Girls

play loudly for best effect

J-School: How To Learn Nothing

Oh, what I wished I would have known when I needed to know it. A journalism education is acquired entirely outside of a classroom, yes. I should have majored in ANYTHING else, yes. A majority of universities with journalism programs are so out of touch with the working world it's hilarious? Yes.

Am I bitter? You betcha. I was duped. Slate, where were you when I needed you the most?

Highlights of Jack Shafer's 'Can J-School Be Saved?' below:
(PREACH!)

"I'm convinced that if all the programs in journalism—undergrad and graduate—disappeared tomorrow, America's newspapers, magazines, and broadcasters wouldn't miss a beat of the news cycle. Our culture produces news junkies, English majors, aspiring novelists, sports nuts, failed lawyers, and student journalists in such profusion that we'll never run out of the green material from which to build excellent reporters and editors.

In fact, a J-school degree means so little to me that I don't hold it against its holder.

Some wonderful people teach journalism, but let's acknowledge that most J-schools stock their faculties with aging journalists who bailed from the news business because they 1) got lazy or 2) wanted another gig after missing their paper's assistant-managing-editor track or 3) burned out and sought a place to relight or 4) fell in love with the academic life.

Non-journalists don't know that the greatest single impediment to becoming a reporter is overcoming the basic human aversion to getting in strangers' faces and asking nosey questions. With the exception of a few psychopaths, nobody in the business ever triumphs over this aversion.

All departments of journalism should divest themselves of advertising and public-relations tracks for the obvious reasons of cross-contamination. In general, PR people are journalists' enemies, except when they work for your publication, when they're enemies in specific.

Easterbrook remembers his one year at Medill as "one year of practice in writing simple declarative sentences."

I'd encourage J-school students to overload with courses outside their department, partly because those classes are more demanding, but mostly because it builds a journalist's character to skip classes and work on the school publication instead."

Excerpt

"In a neighborhood of stay-at-home moms, Shaun's mother worked. A public-health nurse, she was the one you went to if you woke up with yellow eyes or jammed a piece of caramel corn too far into your ear."

- From David Sedaris' "Loggerheads" in this week's New Yorker

Immune system, why?

seeks relief & peppermint tea.

comfort & joy

Buried in my hard drive are more than 12 hours of holiday tunes that wait eagerly for this week each year only to dust themselves off in a pretty-damn-jolly frenzy and delight me once again. I am a Christmas music connoisseur. Of this I refuse to be ashamed.

Tonight's choice holiday beats:

1. Christmas Time is Here - Vince Guaraldi

2. The Christmas Song - The Ravonettes

3. Come On! Let's Boogie to the Elf Dance - Sufjan Stevens

4. Violets For Your Furs - Billie Holiday

5. I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm - Frank Sinatra

(And yet, more listing of lists...)

Christmas wish list highlights:

1. Mermaid bottle opener

2. Tiny cactus

3. Dinosaur cookie cutters

4. Tandem bicycle

Comedy by 4-year-old Thomas

"Knock knock"
"Who's there?"
"Light bulb"
"Light bulb who?"
"Light bulb in your mouth and it's a bomb"

"Knock knock"
"Who's there?"
"Cow"
"Cow who?"
"Cow in your mouth and it's poisoned"

On proper identification

"Oh, I don't have my I.D. Would you like to see my crown?"

- Miss America to Hearst security.

How does New England give thanks?

Oh, stay tuned.


My choice Thanksgiving traditions:

1. Being at the lake, smelling amazingly fresh air, staring out at the leaves from opposite shores.
2. Sugar cream pie. Why is it that no one here has heard of this? Savages.
3. Falling in love with Lucy Van Pelt each time I watch Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown.

On lunch

"These croutons are amazing. I'm going to eat them like candy."

-K

Wit of the Internet, November edition

excellent.

On good cheer

"We'll just make muffins and call it a muffin party."

- K

Dream

I'm sitting in a subway car. Sun is pouring in through the windows. We're above ground. I'm reading, but notice something moving on the floor from the corner of my eye. It's a dove. It's injured. I watch it writhing on the floor. It looks like something invisible is choking it. I'm horrified and I try to call out for help but everything is completely silent, including my voice.

The bird dies as I watch. No one notices but me.

Excerpt

You take to swinging a pickax
I take back my vamping kinks

And the pavement beneath us sinks
This stinks. Think: In-situ leaching

But with leeches, louses,
Lampreys. Oh Spouse,

Your hard hat leaks a surfeit
Of lamp rays that's wasted sub-surface

A night so pitch it's perfectly black.
A sapphire scarred by a scratch.

Sickness, health, abundance, lack
The salt in my wound. The shirt on your back.

- December issue of POETRY

Gchat: A context-free highlight

Me: no.
this will work.
and it will be epic.
with knee pads.

Friendship Summary

says so little.
says so much.

Excerpt

"Neither camp seemed to harbor any illusions. This war would be neither quick nor glorious."

- From "A Rainbow In The Night" by Dominique Lapierre.


The latest from Lapierre is the gritty history of South Africa. Reading about clashes stemmed from territory and religious disputes, it's impossible not to draw a more modern comparison.
Tragedy, on repeat.

On college

"Freshman year, I made out with a boy in an apartment above Crescent Donuts once. What was his name? Bobby? I don't know. I think we're Facebook friends, though."

- K

Bakery reminiscence

takes me back.

On Saturdays, Grandpa would come wake us early and we'd pull on jackets over our pjs without saying a word. Sneaking out the front door of the lake house, we'd hop into the cherry-colored deck boat – before anyone with an anti-donut agenda could object – and zoom off onto the water after pastries and fresh morning air. We'd dangle just over the ledge at the boat's bow and giggle as our faces were sprayed and splashed with cool droplets. There was something about the way the wind whipped through my hair and about the way we were solitary on the water that evoked the strongest sense of adventure I've ever had. (To this day, nothing beats the feeling obtained from speeding around in that boat.)

We'd dock in front of the old Tom's Donuts shop, where we'd press our hands and faces up against the glass, determined to pick the perfect bunch and beguiled by the never-ending supply of sprinkles and glazes and cream fillings. My brother and I would then begin the maneuvering process between the legs of strangers until our box was full and satisfying.

There was nothing better.

Want.

The Coralie Bickford-Smith Clothbound Series for Penguin.

ooohh, gimme!

jurassic. with sprinkles.

the very picture of happiness.

Other treasurable objects/feelings/instances:

1. The first bite of a tart apple.

2. The fit of a good hat.

3. The way hot coffee feels in your stomach on a cold day.

The Remedy

a new favorite.

yum.

When unemployment loses its "hip to be poor" sentiment, I'm headed back to Indiana to open a bakery and start a little quarterly pub to match. Who's in?

Gchat excerpt

Me: I get chased in manhattan. I get chased in bed stuy. not sure which one scared me more.

K: what?

omg

where in manhattan?

Me: in front of the damn mall

I mean, can’t you send out some message to all of the crazy religious folks and tell them that I’m a lost cause and if anyone is going to save me it’s going to be you, SO BACK THE HELL OFF

please?

K: mall?

where do we have a mall?

Me: Columbus circle

K: those people are not my preferred method of reaching people

ugh

Me: dear god, please stop me from being chased. thanks, allie.

(will you give him the message?)

oh, and I’d like a job.

and a pony.

Thursday's Dream/Friday's Reprimand

splish/splash

Thursday, I dreamt it was spring and my head nicely replayed our yearly "river" dipping.

Friday, the vending machine refused to serve me chips, and flashed "Make another selection" instead. I sulked off with granola.

The Daily Endorsement

I endorsed TV.
And I feel okay about that.

Halloween Account

Carrie rode the subway covered in blood, three pirate wenches shopped for shoes in SoHo and a teletubby stopped for a cigarette in Brooklyn. Later on, monsters shuffled down Sixth Avenue in droves. Highlights included, but were not limited to: an amazing MJ impersonator that led a zombie pack which stopped for periodic Thriller dance breaks.

Happy Halloween

Let's take it to the patch.

On affluence

"I just asked our PR girl where she got cute rain boots. You know, trying to be nice, bond.

"Saks"

Good grief. I had to look up how to spell it, let alone could I ever afford to shop there."


- K

Lunch Recall

Today during lunch we cascaded onto a fan favorite topic of meal times: Things that made us cry as children. After speculation of the terrorizing effects of beauty queens who self-promote in Midwestern shopping malls, we came around to the reason for the season: Santa himself. 

I loved this jolly man in a fuzzy red suit. He made me giggle. However, he yielded an entirely different result with my poor little brother. 

He would scream as soon as this enormous stranger would lift him onto his knee and would then proceed to shut his eyes completely for the entire time, all the while Santa and I would carry on conversations about dolls and kites and books about kittens. We must have at least three years of brother and sister Santa Claus photos in which the kid just looks damn terrified, but to be honest, I think he was the wiser all along. 

Why are kids okay with the fact that a strange man breaks into their homes each year while wearing a conspicuous red suit? And, all the while he's demanding cookies. 

Yes, children can be bought. 

Wednesday

Celebrity look-a-like day on the train featuring Richard Gere and Kiera Knightly.

His hair was slightly wavier. Her cheekbones were dead on.

Creating my own happiness.

Pumpkin pie! Cool whip!

Survey Says

The New York Times declares the world-wide recession officially over, which is sure to give jobless grads a sense of reckless hope.

Tomorrow's headline:
Job thirsty 20-somethings storm offices everywhere, submit Institute of Supply Management survey instead of cover letter, resume.


... Days of unemployment since graduation: 160

Text Message

Me: Your twin lives in New York. He dresses well and has a distinguished beard. I wanted to be friends but realized that he would never be a decent replacement.

Spegele: I wish I had a beard.

Adulthood

When it takes a chain of more than 20 emails to coordinate a brunch between four friends all living in the same city, the feeling that you've reached a point of no return within the context of growing up swoops in and smacks you directly in the forehead. 

Pastry death

Tragedy struck the train steps today as scrumptious-looking donut holes burst from their box and tumbled downward. Carcasses were strewn across the stairs and muddied floor, trampled on by passersby. Rescue attempts were unsuccessful as there were no survivors. 

I took a moment to mourn the deceased. 

Talented Tom

Tom Elsey, graphic designer. 

take a peek.

Aprons

Cookies?

Chocolate chip, please. 

Four other comforting foods: 

1. Baked macaroni and cheese

2. Mashed potatoes 

3. Pumpkin pie

4. Pot Roast 

The Freshest Issue Ever

New INSIDE. Check it.
(Claps enthusiastically.)

I'll keep to your ribcage if you keep to the nape of my neck because the bitter winter, he comes galloping reckless.

There's a cold smell to the air today. Be warned.

Olfactory, disillusioned

The air is cool and breezes through my hair, chilling my ear lobes. It's the type of day where I take a deep, dramatic breath while awaiting crisp-smelling autumn air infused with the scent of apples, campfire and straw. Instead I'm greeted with a mixture of damp garbage and car fumes.

Why can't we just have it all?

It's the bassline in your mind

"Vapours" -- new album by Islands
buy this.

On sharing

"Jen, seriously, you can use my Ped Egg."

Overheard from one aisle over, only this fragment of a conversation between a man and a woman. Frightening? A bit.

Won't you be my Lindsey Buckingham?

Make-believing.

For Halloween this year I will transform into the exquisite Stevie Nicks, though I will not be quite as talented nor as exquisite. Wanted: Buckingham wannabe to complete my Fleetwood pretense. Experience in torrid affairs resulting in hit albums a plus. "Rumors" memorization a necessity.

Apply in person or in theory.

Monday night

Tea with the Canadian.
Football watching with the Brit.

International stereotypes be damned!

Wake up, there's a new kid in town.

"Let's Go Surfing" by The Drums. Love it.

On self-awareness

"I'm a Scarlett. I've always wanted to be a Melanie, but when it comes down to it, I know it's never going to happen." 

... All character realizations can be made using Civil War epic references. Besides, I'd rather be a Scarlett than a Julie from Jezebel or that crazy bitch Elizabeth Taylor played in Raintree County. 

Infographic I admire. A healthcare system I don't.

^BAD. > GOOD.

A good day all around

I'm thinking of naming it Margot.

The thought crossed my mind the moment the tall, but aging man stepped into the train car. 

"SANTA!" ... If Santa was an old Jewish man who walked with a limp. 

The bearded man in the crisp black suit that covered his round belly leaned heavily on his cane as he attempted to sit, and finally plopped right next to me. After fuddling with his bag, he took out a piece of shiny paper foil and a set of small tweezers and began to fold. I was instantly fascinated. Within 10 minutes, it was clear he was making a tiny origami horse, complete with texture for the mane and tail. 

I'm sure my face glowed like a child's, and I thought I heard him chuckle to himself as he put the finishing touches on the pony. Then, much to my delight, he turned and said, "Here you go," handing me the paper art. I thanked him enthusiastically -- like I remember doing when I finally got "Charlie Brown's Christmas" on DVD ... last year. After the bestowing of silver animals, he made his exit, but not before he made my day.  

Shameless self-promotion

Humility is overrated, anyway. 

Right? 

I've developed a twitch.

My thumb ticks back and forth involuntarily like the needle of a compass that can't decide which millionth of a degree more is due north. I can't decide if this is amusing or annoying. 

Stay tuned. 

Art appreciation

A friend's photos. 

Sarah Boyle, check her out.

Horoscope

Remember: Three can keep a secret if two are dead. That said, you know what you have to do.

- This week's Onion horoscope 

Friday morning

The aging transvestite stands on the steps of the subway screaming at a man entering the turnstiles, waving her head back and forth as she snarls. 

"I don't need you, bitch." 

He mumbles something and keeps going. 

"Do you hear me? I don't need you, (slew of other explicatives)." 

She rushes down the stairs as he's hustling toward the entrance stairs of the train, puts one hand on her hip and the brushes the other through her long weave. 

"He's a homo! You hear me? You're a HO-MO!" 

She's screaming at the top of her lungs. He's practically running to get away from her. 

...You know it's going to be a bad day when your tranny is screaming at you in public before 9 a.m. 

The future beckons

In the afternoon, "all-seeing" New Yorkers call to unsuspecting tourists who roam the avenues wearing that look of "you could probably take me for all I'm worth." The collapsable wooden signs promise absolute clairvoyance concerning about what's to come. As I weaved in and out of groups of middle-aged moms donning walking shoes and ankle socks, I accidently ducked into the path of an olive-skinned woman with bright blue eye shadow and long reddish finger nails.

Oh, crap.

"Your aura is red, dear," she said tsk-tsking.

Normally, I tune out the Midtown bustle, but this is something I had heard before. Two years ago, I interviewed a psychic for a piece I was working on, and she "had a vision" while talking to me.

"You have a red aura."

"I like red." (Sarcasm abound)

She went on to reveal more about my future including the what-I-think-every-young-woman-wants-to-hear: a love story finessed out of thin air.

"You'll bump into the man you're going to marry on a train, but you'll already have met him. He'll be a photographer, at least in hobby, maybe even for a living."

This still makes me laugh, and she was obviously playing off of what she could already assume about my life: I was unmarried, a writer who enjoyed the company of other creative-types, and someone who had just told her that she was interested in working in a major city. Still, today's aura forecast was familiar, so perhaps a bit more credit is due.

Excerpt

"I'm not much but I'm all I think about." 

- Michael Gizzi's "New Depths of Deadpan"

Handwriting and Character

While poking through a stack of books this weekend after brunch, I found this little beauty. From 1923, it matches up every possible human emotion with its appropriate handwriting sample and analyzes the penmanship of historic figures: Napoleon, Elizabeth l, William Penn, the like... 

My choice chapters: 

1. Samples of Sensuousness 

2. Samples of the Magnanimous 

3. Special study of the Capital "M"

4. Determination in Horizontal Strokes

5. This Writer is a Sexual Voluptuary

It's written in a lyrical way, the kind of writing that was acceptable before we tore up the English language with commas and contractions and the overuse of appropriate pronouns. It is one of the most romantic things I've ever read, probably because it's one of the most oddly fascinating. But perhaps the most peculiar is the Copyright: All rights reserved, including that of the translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian. Because clearly, those Scandinavians sure are lax in the area of literary propriety...

The unfortunate fact: We have no use for this book in modern society. Our every correspondence is no longer entirely dependent on penmanship and we have almost no need for it. I can go days without writing more than a few sentences at a time by hand, and when I do, it's almost always for pleasure rather than necessity. When did free-hand writing become a simply a hobby? It's heartbreaking. 

A resolution: This week, I will buy a nice pen and scrawl on paper. Trees be damned! 

Enthralling.

Channeling Patrick Swayze

Anyone seen "Ghost?"

Cosmic translation

"It's time to reach for the stars." - Today's horoscope

Drinking on the roof later?

On America

"The British don't dislike Americans because of the Revolutionary War. They dislike Americans because they're fat and a bit dumb."

-Roommate

Date night jitters?

The young man sat across from me clutching a nicely wrapped bouquet of pink roses and wore a nervous look that made me curious as to who these flowers were for. Florals can speak volumes about your love life.

Flower varieties:
I-Love-You Flowers
You-Look-Really-Nice-Today Flowers
Just-Because Flowers
I'm-Sorry Flowers
I've-Liked-You-For-Ages Flowers
Get-Well-Soon Flowers
Hi, Mom Flowers
I'm-Trying-Too-Hard Flowers
Happy-Birthday Flowers
I'm-Sorry-I-Forgot-Your-Birthday Flowers

Me, I prefer the I-Bought-My-Own-Damn-Flowers Flowers...

On foriegn relations

"Hey, can I write, "Suck on that, Japan" in my blog?"

An ever-universal tone

The inflections of being annoyed with your parents over the phone seep through any language barrier. 

Tuesday at the office

Live blogging of the reading of Dan Brown's latest affront on writing, "The Lost Symbol."

What an awful novel. What a fun day.

Sunday morning bed-in

Stay in bed. Grow your hair.


... Beatles Rock Band hangover.

Excerpt

"It seemed a romantic business to be a successful literary man - you were not ever going to be as famous as a movie star but what you had was probably longer-lived; you were never going to have the power of a man of strong political or religious convictions but you were certainly more independent. Of course within the practice of your trade you were forever unsatisfied - but I, for one, would not have chosen any other."

- F. Scott Fitzgerald in "The Crack-Up"

Writing's on the wall

Well, ain't that the truth.
Sigh.

I spent a rainy afternoon rummaging through a basement of books and inhaling the musk that can only be found in the presence of aged leather. I wish I could purchase it as a scented candle.

Thursday Night In, the soundtrack

Warm bars of soft jazz via saxophone sift in through the walls from the neighboring building as the clamor of  the train donates percussion. It's a lonely sound, but I've got a warm blanket and a stack of magazines to keep me company. 

On realty, On sexual orientation

"Maybe I should find a lover. It would be easier than finding an apartment." 

- Roommate 1

"I think I'd go straight for Obama."

-Roommate 2

The last of summer accoutrements

A long, yellow surf board ran along the center of the train car, reminding me of how much I'd rather be at the beach; book in hand, drink readily available, sun for the soaking. It's fall. Time to switch mind sets. I should be thinking cashmere and apple cider, but all I want is more time in the water. 

My clock must be slow. 

Cavities inevitable, vol. ll

"Bliss" by Allie Townsend

Coming soon.

Teeth beware.

Free Dove hot chocolate in the office. 

Loft + Hostel = Loftstel

the ny/ny digs. 

Extra letter brings debate

b: i'll brbr.

me: beaming rules blast righteous? bouncy rats bake runny?

b: hahaha. bill receive buffalo ribs

me: beating rocky, be real?

b: burp, rice brings ruptures

me: be relevant, buy ruffies? 

Not-so-live blogging my train trip East

View from my perch

South Bend, Ind./11:30 p.m./Departure 

A packed car means I'm in an aisle seat next to a girl who wouldn't acknowledge me for 10 hours. (Off to a great start.) 

There are a few things to be learned about sleeping (or attempting sleep) on trains. 

1) The lights are never off. Bring a blindfold, or you could end up sleeping with a fleece pullover draped over your head. Boy, can that get a little toasty.

2) The annoying omnipresence of HEY I'M AWAKE SO I'LL JUST CHAT LIKE I'M OBLIVIOUS TO THE MASS SLEEPING OCCURRING ALL AROUND ME types. Earplugs saved my sanity and possibly that man's life. 

3) Yes, you're uncomfortable. Just deal. No matter how much I pretzeled myself inside my seat, I couldn't sleep for more than an hour in the same spot. Luckily, I had 18 hours to grab a full night's rest. 

Elyria, Ohio/4:21 a.m. 

Too early to be awake. Why are you yelling, man in the Amtrak uniform? Dear God, why? 

 

Erie, Penn. / 6:54 a.m. 

This trip is doing interesting things to my eating habits. Time to break out the snacks. I down a half of a peanut butter sandwich and shift my body into "The Lazy Cactus." 

Positions in which you can seat yourself on a train: 

1) Aforementioned Lazy Cactus: Legs should be straight out resting on the foot rest while arms are resting behind your head. (Comfort level: 5.5)

2) The Curled-Up Cat: Knees should be parallel with your waist, while you lay on your side. This is only possible for up to 20 minutes. (Comfort level: 4)

3) The Frumpy Flamingo: One leg is bent at the knee, cocked to the side, and tucked behind your other leg. Arms are wrapped your pillow which is tucked under your chin. (Comfort level: 7) 

Rochester, NY/9:50 a.m.

My seat mate finally leaves without so much as an "excuse me." I sprawl all over my new two-seat train haven just to prove that it's mine. I mark my territory with my sleepy limbs and drift off.

Albany, NY/3:00 p.m.

I decide to make my way to the dining car for a soda. It's not as quaint as I pictured it, but there is much less cigarette smoke. The food is all prepared and put into freezers before it's heated and shoved onto plates. The waiter is a younger man from Philly who talks like he's just lived the longest day of his life.

I have a two-dollar Coke, which was just poured into my glass straight from the can, and sit down with three strangers. Something's floating in my glass. I suck it up, and play dumb. Next to me is a boy - probably 19 or 20 - from San Francisco who is visiting family in Queens. He talks about his girlfriend every other minute. It's cute. For 10 minutes. 

The couple sitting across from me are native New Yorkers. They're fast-talking and charming. The man is witty and funny, but his comedy is subtle, not overarching or searching for a laugh. Just simple. They're returning from a wedding somewhere upstate and are fascinated that San Fran and I rode the train all night. They also seem fascinated by the midwest in general. I think they're surprised by my calm attitude about moving to their city, and our similar disdain for all-things Time Square. 

We spend about 35 minutes continuing our chat, but never exchange names. 

No Idea, NY/4:00 p.m.

MOUNTAINS! 

Croton, NY/5:15 p.m.

We're scaling the riverside, looping around the banks dotted with large, luxurious homes that sit importantly over the mini-cliffs above the water. There's too much to look at. I'm not getting enough reading done. On a train for nearly 20 hours and I've only read about a hundred or so pages. I feel unimpressive. 

NY, NY/6:00 p.m.

We're on the outer rim of the city and I'm anxious. We're thundering through tunnels under highways and peeking out next to parks. We're close. 

Penn Station/6:25 p.m./Arrival

Chaos. Wondering how I'm going to navigate a train station with suitcases in tow. A man instantly yells at me for being in his way on the escalator. A homeless man is hustled by NYPD's finest. Good to be back. 

Working on my street-cred

I live within a ten minute walk to Jay-Z's childhood home, the Marcy Projects. For explanation, please refer to "BK Anthem." 

This could get interesting. 

Live from the L

A antithetic mix shuffled onto the train, which sat at a dead pause, breaking at the end of it's line. Seven minutes to go. 

The boy with almond-colored skin pulled his guitar out of it's black cloth case and began to strum. A man with tousled brunette locks and a matching shaggy beard rose from his corner seat and after just a few sentences, the two christened themselves a temporary musical duo. The slightly disheveled man sang in a beautiful, low tone that scratched as the guitar played a sweet tune. It was Bobby Darin's "Simple Song of Freedom." 

"So come and sing a simple song of freedom

  Sing it like you've never sung before

  Let it fill the air

  Tell the people everywhere

  We, the people here, don't want a war"

No applause as the music faded, just a handshake between two strangers who went back to their separate corners of the subway car as the train finally started up again. 

Hell yes.

Up for a national Pacemaker Award. 

On nutrition

"Fava bean? Is that a person?" 

- Knowledgeable grocery clerk 

... I think you're referring to Flava Flav. And no. 

Check it

new year. new web site. 

proud mama.

Newly sharpened pencils

"Don't you love New York in the fall? It makes me want to buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address." 

- Tom Hanks in "You've Got Mail." Such a classic. 

 

My choice autumn vocabulary words:

Spiced, toasty, crisp, woolen, cinnamon, hot toddy, Thermos, body heat.

Back. Brooklyn. Biscuits.

I'm back in the City and thoroughly exhausted. 

Tomorrow is reuniting with friends, but more importantly tomorrow is a damn good breakfast with fresh biscuits and French-pressed coffee. 

egg. oh breakfast. oh hell yes.   

More on the epic train journey later...

CHOO CHOO

The same panicky feeling swoops in before each long trip. It's anxiety trapped between fear and excitement. I may vomit. (But if you know me and my weak stomach well, you'd know this isn't too unusual.) 

I'm leaving on an East-bound train. NY/NY or bust. 

I'll see you there. 

Acute kid.

From my seat in the coffee shop, I watch a small girl, probably no more than four, who is showing an impressive display of gymnastic ability. She's tangling her tiny torso around an iron bistro chair while using the large window as leverage to pull herself further up. (Her mother is one of those women who still has her eye on the child, but is too engrossed in a chat with her friend to ask her to sit still.) Her hands are on the seat of the chair, and her bare feet are on the glass as her body makes a triangle in the air. Acute. With cheeks puffed in concentration, she flips her feet down to meet her hands on the chair, balanced by her butt which is now pressed against the window. In an act of comical perfection, "Blue Moon" is playing softly through the speakers inside the shop. Though the dismount was shaky, no doubt caused by an agitated mother, I'm giving her a 10 for style. 

On friendship

"We all know that I can't be your moral compass." 

- Me to Kristi 

Four years at the speed of light.

Blink, and you missed it. 

Thursday

There's something about boxes that always makes me sad. It seems like I've moved almost every eight months during the last four years, but the process has yet to seem less daunting. I'm not sure if it's the physical act: the box cuts, the lifting of furniture, the dividing of the kitchenware; or if it's the task of metaphorically putting your entire self into the back of a truck, having only to de-rumple it in a new place. 

It's always easier to pack than it is to make yourself at home. There is something about a well-worn room that screams, "I AM COMFORTABLE HERE," whereas it takes me months to put everything in it's perfect spot in each new space. I mull over it for ages – photo there, pencils here, no the other way around – until it aligns with my perfectly balanced mental picture of bedroom harmony. 

Here's to coming back out of my box unrumpled. 

On social awareness

Who says we're a post-activism generation?

I woke up to my favorite song.

Just picked up Lightning Dust's new album "Infinite Light," and I'm loving it, this track especially.

The Sentence Game: A Porch Story

When the moon was full we danced naked, basking in the light that, surprisingly, made us climb trees and jump from one to the other. Then out of the blue sky, came a bat black as night water. It screeched as it soared, singing, "I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts." Damn. It was scary. Out of the woods came the bat's best friend, werewolf man. The bat took Liz away, Leah rode the werewolf following, so Sarah, Sarah P., Jill and Allie called their unicorns to follow. Afterwards we all took to the skies, swooping in and out of a dirigible. 

The six authors of this awkwardly wonderful piece of fiction would like to acknowledge the following people, factors and inanimate objects: PBR, Onyx the cat, new haircuts, porch weather and Polaroids.  

Some days just feel like this.

Wind me up,

wind me up

and spin me round.

On ominous wall art

"This was the year her mind went south." 

- Spray painted to a brick wall I stopped in front of due to alley-way congestion. Oh boy. 

On safety

"You don't need it. If you fall it won't help you much." 

- Said about my seat belt by the carney operating the ferris wheel at the Monroe County Fair with a slow drawl and side of animosity. 

August 29th

       My one-way ticket: freedom via rail. 

Toiletry-inspired Tuesday

The color of today's shirt: mouthwash blue, not to be confused with astringent turquoise. 

My first time

A few hours ago, I had virgin hair. 

We're a rare breed, those of us who have never dyed. We feign in dramatic situations and never quite dive into uber-trends. We're slightly selfish, slightly self-conscious commitment phobes who speculate about what something as small as hair dye would do to the psyche. I was proud of my virgin status and stood firm in my meaningless natural-colored righteousness. But in my final summer of freedom, I decided that I would stage the ultimate act of adolescent rebellion and experiment with my grooming habits. 

Gone grape.

Excerpt

"In the late afternoon he came upon scattered bones where the wolves had made a kill. The d bris had been a caribou calf an hour before, squawking and running and very much alive. He contemplated the bones, clean-picked and polished, pink with the cell-life in them which had not yet died. Could it possibly be that he might be that ere the day was done! Such was life, eh? A vain and fleeting thing. It was only life that pained. There was no hurt in death. To die was to sleep. It meant cessation, rest. Then why was he not content to die?"

From "Love of Life" by Jack London

Weekend highlights, in no order whatsoever

1. Watching horror classics "Phantasm" l and lll in succession. 

2. Neko Case concert. Highlights include a goose bump-inducing rendition of personal favorite, "I'm An Animal," her three-legged dog Travis who wandered onstage, and this quote: "Good sex sounds like mac-n-cheese." 

3. Snacks. 

4. Staying up entirely too late for no particular reason and not regretting it. 

5. Buying this:

Vintage bikini. Eat your heart out, Gidget. 

 

Produce & Repetition

There's a man who comes into the market nearly each day, buying nothing but cantaloupe and bananas. Somedays, it's nearly a cart-full. Somedays, it's just one of each. He appeared completely confused by my "Are you feeding a monkey?" joke. 

But seriously, sir, where does it all go? I need to know. 

A dream called "Thursday"

I wake up startled in an old farm house, the interior made of beautiful deep-red cedar. Groggy, I walk into the small living room to find four of my friends drunk and dancing around in celebration. One was riding a child's tricycle and one had a noise maker - the kind you only use on New Year's. It's early and as I try to ask what they're doing, I only get laughter. As I look out of the window, I notice the snow storm. It's a blizzard by any standard - at least three feet of snow. 

My friends announce that they're walking to the store for something. I try to stop them but they walk out anyway. They return, I scold them for leaving in dangerous weather, and then they decide they forgot something and need to leave again. This happens a few times. Each time they return, they're drunker. 

Confused, I walk into the kitchen to find a friend's parents making breakfast. I notice another friend at the kitchen table, eating toast and reading the newspaper. (In reality, she lives with her boyfriend.) I ask where he is and she looks up at me, puzzled, and says, "Who?" Just then, a middle-aged man I've never seen before walks into the room, says "Good morning" and kisses her on the cheek. I stare at him, trying to make sense of what's happening, and turn back to my friend, who has morphed into someone else entirely. 

Reeling, I look out into the back yard only to see that it's springtime. The sky is that eerie shade of yellow that is only used for forthcoming spring storms and a loud wind rips through the field. Tornado's coming. In the back of the yard, I notice a person under the lone tree. I run out of the door to warn them about the storm. I'm suddenly barefoot and the wind makes it hard to move. As I get closer, I recognize the boy as another friend. He's sitting cross-legged, reading a book under the tree. I try to yell to him, but the wind is louder than the sound of my voice. I finally get close to him and when I can't get his attention, I snatch the book from his lap. His head snaps up instantly and that's when I see his eyes -  all black in the center. I gasp and look down at the book in my hand. It's blank. 

Today's Horoscope

"Dear Gemini, the rains have let up but your cosmic skies are still drizzling ..."

Today's forecast, dismal no matter what. Great. Thanks a ton, stars.

Me & my 13-year-old self

Friday was two things: uncomfortably sticky, and, the day of my reunion with my inner Scrunchie wearing, bright-blue nail polish rocking, mall-roaming teenager. No Doubt made a stop in Indy, and four gals piled into a red Neon, turned on "Tragic Kingdom," and time traveled. We oozed with sweat, excitement, and girl power - the Stefani variety. 

As the curtain fell, the first few bars of  "Spiderwebs" cued up and suddenly everything made sense. Allow me to elaborate: 

- Once in a while I sit back and think about the planet. And most of the time, I trip on it.

- No matter, matter, matter, matter who calls. I gotta screen my phone calls. 

- You're really lovely, underneath it all.

- But I should have thought of that before we kissed.

- You've got me feeling hella good. So. Let's just keep on dancing.

- Oh ... I've had it up to Here. 

It's logical. It's passionate. It's all the advice I thought I'd need in life at the tender, assuming age of 13. Turns out, I was right. 

Excerpt

"Then we heard a far-off call. We listened and nodded to each other. One two three. Pause. One two. Pause. It was the metallic squeal of a basketball on asphalt, the teenage Morse code of indolent boys that said: I AM OVER HERE. We followed the trail." 

- From "Sag Harbor" by Colson Whitehead 

(The nostalgic sound of summer.) 

Work: A Haiku

The scanner beeping 

Is haunting my afterthoughts 

Won't you just hit "off?" 

Grammar, meet firework

"A" is for apple, Allie & ad nauseam ... as in the degree of my love for holidays.