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»04.23.02, 10:50 a.m.
Ugh. The quest for decent Mexican continues. Ate at Mary Ann's last night. My chicken burrito tasted like all the other crap I've been served here. And they gave me Tabasco sauce when I asked for hot sauce. The burrito of my dreams is becoming more and more elusive. I'm starting to think I've imagined the entire San Diego burrito experience, and the best I can hope for is a soggy tortilla stuffed with lardy refried beans and watery Pace Picante sauce.
»04.08.02, 10:20 p.m.
It seems I've found a patriotic bone in my body. Previously, my love for this country had more to do being infatuated with New York City than with the country as a whole. A friend of mine once said that if it weren't for New York that he would leave the country. I concurred. But, being in Washington DC this weekend gave me a few more reasons to stick around.
Americans are creative. Americans are daring. Americans are inventive and greedy and smart and crafty and brave, and a few of them are incredibly well spoken. Those people usually have enormous monuments dedicated in their honor. These monuments are usually covered with some of their better sentences about the past, present and future.
I'm impressed with the methodical, unwavering intelligence of Abraham Licoln. The immense power behind Thomas Jefferson's eloquent plea for freedom of religious persecution. FDR's acknowledgement of our country's pathetic state during the Depression, and his promise to make things better.
I wonder if the people living during these Presidents' tenure in the White House were as impressed with them as I am. Or does prose only elevate in stature posthumously? Will George W. have a monument declaring war on 'evil-doers' etched in cement?
Aaah, to have a leader that is cerebral and well-spoken...that would be nice. Guess we'll have to wait until 2004.
»03.31.02, 2:30 p.m.
i just finished reading this book called Music for Torching. it's about this surburban couple whose life goes down the drain when they decide to set their house on fire. in the week of the aftermath, she fucks her neighbor's wife, he shaves off all his body hair and starts painting his toenails, one son starts reading fat-chick pornos and another son dies while being held hostage by his best friend. in the backdrop lies a peaceful Westchester town, delightfully fucked up friends and a sense that everything is status quo - until it isn't. they did it because they were looking for something. in the end, i think they found it.
got me thinking about how i'm pretty normal. i've never set anything on fire (nothing like a house, anyway). i don't freak out in public places (or if i do, i try really hard to hide it). i've never fucked our neighbor's wife (she's at least 70 and i don't think she's my type). but somehow i identified with this couple...making me wonder...are we all just one second away from really losing it?
some funny dialogue i've heard lately.
»03.20.02, 10:39 p.m.
the face of a cold
»03.19.02, 2:35 p.m.
Whatever. I meant to write something, but I lost it. I have nothing. Maybe I will continue later.
»03.11.02, 10:20 a.m.
long enough
Twin lights peirce
I look south
Twin lights peirce
Somebody let me know
— Wendy
»02.25.02, 10:44 p.m. »02.20.02, 1:45 p.m. »02.19.02, 10:12 a.m.
»02.12.02, 5:36 p.m. You know, sometimes I feel like my days slip away from
me. I get up and go to work and come home tired and eat dinner and watch
TV and read a bit until I fall asleep and wake to do it all over again.
Not particularly fascinating. Even though I just got promoted, and I turned
my whole life upside down last year, I face this restlessness every day.
Can't I be content with a period in life in which I go...nowhere? »02.11.02, 11:15 a.m. So, my friends and I create her past with our well-intentioned,
but mischevious imaginations. Perhaps she's a spy. Or in a witness protection
program. Maybe she's a researcher, filing away our conversations for future
use in a documentary, book or government-sponsored survey about spoiled
Manhattanites who drink, swear and fuck too much.
The issue erupted last night when we discovered she is
writing a book. It's a project she's been working on for years, yet she
wouldn't share any details. My friend Kristine pushed the issue. "Why
don't we know this about you, Tricia?" she asked. A safe question to anyone
but the enigmatic Tricia.
As I expected, Tricia artfully dodged the query, saying
that she wasn't ready to share the book's plot. She knows how people talk,
she went on casually, and if word got out about her idea, someone might
just run away with it.
By refusing to allow her book idea to see the light of
day, and of truth, Kristine, Kelly and I filled the void with a much bleaker,
and darker vision. Would we read Tricia's book one day and recognize ourselves?
Without answers from Tricia, we couldn't help but create a little plot
of our own.
I have a hunch that the imaginary world we've created for
Tricia is far more dangerous than the one she lives in. But this scenario
begs the question, does a friend who refuses to share her life truly qualify
as a friend?
If not, do I consider Tricia a friend? As automatically
as I say, Yes! Of course I do!, I have to consider my definition for 'friend.'
Is it an even exchange of secrets? Is it a shared hobby? Is it a shared
background or set of values? Is it a great dinner date?
In New York, friendships are quickly made, and just as
quickly dismissed. We're transplants, far from our families and the people
who've known us since we were small. In our quest to replace our parents,
siblings and childhood friends with an oh-so-trendy Urban Family, we cling
to those who can share a bottle of wine, a Sex in the City episode, or
a night on the town. We forget that true friendships take time. They weather
storms that last longer than a thunderstorm in June and they survive far
more than a cab ride uptown at 5 p.m. Our friendships can not possibly
keep up with the frantic pace of our city life, and maybe we shouldn't
expect them to.
Do I consider Tricia a friend? I consider her a friend
in the making, one that won't race with me on the Manhattan treadmill,
but may make it to the finish line nonetheless. »02.05.02, 4:03 p.m. Yesterday, I spent 10 hours interviewing parents and students
and teachers at a private, all-girls school on the Upper East Side. The
tuition is $15,000 per year. It seems that education, like everything
else in life, improves when you throw money at it. I was jealous of these
girls yesterday. Not for their obviously privileged backgrounds, but for
their poise, their confidence and ability to speak in perfect soundbites.
When I was 16, I had none of those qualities. Would I, if I had been sequestered
in an X chromosome ivory tower of academia? I'll never know. But if I
had a dollar for every time I doubted my own opinion, felt intimidated
by a man, or shied away from the spotlight for fear of being exposed...well,
I could have paid for that $15K a year education myself. Daily Spending Diary:
$2, Starbuck's Tall Coffee of the Day, $.70, FastBreak Bar. »02.03.02, 3:04 p.m. Daily Spending Diary: $4.17, Starbuck's
Grande Non-fat Vanilla Latte. »02.02.02, 5:13 p.m. Daily Spending Diary: $50,
Cat. $8.88 Cat food. $20, tickets to an off-off broadway show called The
Gates of Hell. $15, Gin and tonic and a house cabernet at Izzy Bar in
the East Village, post-performance. $5, Cab ride home with a bag of french
fries from Pomme Frites (not purchased by me). Yum. »02.01.02, 12:47 p.m. Tonight, I am going to make Orecchiette
pasta with broccoli rabe and fried chickpeas. I'll start posting my
favorite recipes on here when I have a chance.
»02.01.02, 12:06 a.m. »1.31.02, 11 pm That brings up point number 2. Apparently, there are more
than 5,000 Arab pilots who earned their pilot's license in the United
States. The FAA and the FBI have no idea where most of these people are.
Channel 4 News says they are ticking time bombs...each one of them a potential
hijacker, each one of them a 'threat to our national security.' Does anyone
else smell a mega-McCarthyism scare tactic? It's ridiculous to think we
will ever be completely free from terrorism. Evoking fear and panic in
an already troubled population will only squash whatever progress we have
made toward becoming a tolerant society. So much for that global economy...that
global society...and that global website I was hoping to pitch to the
FAA.
Sometimes I think I really can't live in this country anymore.
»1.31.02, 2 p.m.
My lids slide over grainy contacts and remain there momentarily as my eyelashes entangle themselves in bits of mascara and excess crust from the sleepless night before. Pressure builds behind my eyeballs and creates little seismic waves that radiate down to the tip of my nose. Air wheezes in and out of one nostril; the other remains stubbornly clogged with the pudding-like substance that has adhered itself to the walls of my nasal cavities for the last 5 days. Or is it 6? I force the oxygen through my nose and into my lungs, managing to puncture a small hole in the pudding. Success! The dislodged snot catapults from my nostril down the back of my throat and I swallow it quickly. The freed nostril celebrates just a moment before unleashing it's drain of salty slime. KLEENEX! I need a tissue! Eyes snap to attention. Brain focuses feverishly on my sloppy desk. No tissue. NAPKIN! A napkin. I need a napkin! No napkin. I can almost taste the snot as it slips over my upper lip and leaks into my mouth. I see where this is headed. I raise my sleeve to my nose and wipe away those nasty liquid boogers.
I need a little peace
Away from "Ground Zero"
Six months is long enough
Or is it?
Tonight's black sky
Six months, it's been
Since the world
Crashed, burned, died
From my window
Six months is not
Long enough
Their tears streaming upward
Trying to find a heaven
Escaping the dirt
The fear
The hate
The cold
When long enough
Is really
Long enough.
New site, new day. I feel like I've conquered a new outfit. Shopaholics,
you know what I mean. That victorious feeling you get as you carry your
dead prey neatly coffin-ed in tissue paper...plastic shopping bag handles
cutting deep purple lines into the creases of your fingers...receipt burning
a smoldering hole in your checking account. Aaahhh, the feeling of a fresh
kill. Didn't know a new website could illicit the same killer instinct.
Much cheaper, too.
Today is a palindromic day. Supposedly, we are to feel
a sense of order and balance in the world because the day, month and year
are the same backwards and forwards (20.02.2002 - European calendar).
Not only that, but at 8:20 p.m., the time (on a miltary clock) will read
20:20...which is some kind of uber-palindrome. Let's all take a deep breath
and enjoy our short-lived gift of balance. OK, that's enough.
I think of all of the overwhelming moments of my life;
falling in and out of love, moving to New York, graduating from college,
leaving home. None of them must compare to what happened to my friend
Jennifer at 5 p.m. PST on Feb. 18, 2002. She gave birth to a baby girl.
What a rush, what a whoosh, what a ride, what a fall, what a love. Congrats
to Jen and Todd, and to that little girl. Being born has got to be the
ultimate accomplishment. Leaving your warm home and slipping into the
garish, flourescent light of a hospital, into strange, latex-gloved hands,
into well, life. Maybe there's nothing scarier, and that's why no one
remembers it.
Nothing to report today. Not a single extraordinary
happened to me. Here's the breakdown:
I left out all the work stuff. It's not really important
to rehash it.
I have a friend who shares very little about her personal
life with me, and our mutual friends. I don't know where she works. I
don't know what makes her skin crawl or what turns her on. I couldn't
say why she broke up with her last lover, or why she'll break up with
the next.
This morning I saw people on the street running to
their destinations. The pace in New York is quick. When it's 19 degrees
with a wind chill, it's positively frantic.
I love the Sunday New York Times. It's great when a
newspaper assumes you have at least a sixth grade reading and comprehension
level. And I love the useful information it offers me every weekend. For
example, today I learned not to allow a water bug to creep from my purse
during a job interview. And, if one does happen to slip out, definitely,
under no circumstances, should I squash it with my hand.
Oola! She's not a Hungarian woman serving up hearty helpings of goulash.
She's my new cat. We got her from a shelter in Brooklyn. She's mostly
grey with brown spots. We're quickly learning her vocal range...so far
I think I've heard at least 7 different types of meows. The 'I hate this
carrier' meow. The 'I'm not in Brooklyn anymore' meow The 'Why aren't
you petting me?' meow. The 'i really like this soft blanket' meow. If
I could meow right now, I would say 'welcome to the family, Oola.' Meow.
I have the best mom. She sends me little
e-postcards for no reason.
One last thing. I'm reading this book called Music
for Torching. One night, the main characters, a married couple named Paul
and Elaine, decide they don't feel like cooking dinner. So they burn down
their house instead. I just order Chinese.
Two complaints. 1. Why is Domino's Pizza
making a fried dough stick dipped in frosting (see abominally obvious
display of guttony to the right)? Aren't they already damaging our obsese
population with their lousy, grease-pitted pizza? Why did they have to
add dessert? They should be ashamed. America will die of a heart attack
long before it succumbs to terrorism.
First day of blogging. I smell like an ashtray. This
guy I work with smokes in his office. I just had a meeting with him. I
wanted to tell him to stop killing me. But you don't say that to an important
man who runs a division of your company. My lungs are less important than
making my way up the corporate ladder.
Mark
Rachelle
worth a daily visit
E Online
NY Citysearch
CNN
Craigslist
Epicurious
at the movies
Storytelling: **
Amelie: ****
Royal Tenenbaums: ***
in the kitchen
Spicy
Grilled Salmon Steaks
Olive Stuffed Chicken with Almonds
Persian
Rice with Pistachios and Dill
recently read
Hotel
World
The
Fuck-Up
The
Handmaid's Tale
Kissing
in Manhattan
Here
is New York
The
Story of Jane
Shopgirl
The
Worst Case Scenario Handbook
A
Blind Man Can See How Much I Love You