Not All Who Wander Are Lost

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2010-05-09T17:26:00.001-04:00

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'Not All Who Wander Are Lost' is in a dormant period at the moment.

Thank you so much for visiting!

excellent newspaper headlines

2007-09-03T15:43:00.000-04:00

'Swede 1, Beetroot 0.'

This is an amazing headline. It refers to the opening weekend of the Premier League wherein Sven-Goran Eriksson's team, Manchester City, beat their inter-city rivals, Sir Alex Ferguson's Manchester United.

To unpack it:
- Eriksson is Swedish, the former manager/coach of the English national team, who left that post after the World Cup last year. Man City is a solidly middle lower team in the first tier of English football, almost always eclipsed by the other Manchester team, United, who Beckham used to play for before he moved to Spain's Real Madrid (and thence on to the (cough) LA Galaxy, a painfully misnamed team if ever there was one). Eriksson is a bit of an enigma wrapped inside of a conundrum for the English -- he is very dry and clinical, but managed to do quite well with England -- a hopeless job, as the English football team is very very good but not great -- ie, good enough to consistently get to the last eight of international tournaments but not great enough to get beyond. But good enough to raise everyone's expectations and then dash them, every two years. This drives everyone crazy. Also, there was a big sex scandal involving Eriksson and a nubile young secretary at the FA, which was bewildering to everyone. Eriksson is not the kind of person you could ever imagine actually getting anyone in to bed. He looks a lot like Mr Burns.
- Alex Ferguson has managed United for approximately one hundred gajillion years. He was born into a working class Glasgow family and is known for giving players who mess up 'the hairdryer treatment' wherein he stands very close to you and yells so loudly that your hair is literally blown back. He used to chainsmoke and has given up; now he stands on the sidelines and chews gum so violently that you almost expect his jaw socket to give way from overuse and the lower half of his mouth to flop down onto the pitch. He gets very very red when he yells (which is all the time) and stands outside on cold days (which is all the time).

I'm reading a book called 'Watching the English,' by this social anthropologist named Kate Fox, and one of the many interesting observations she makes is about the cross-class English joy of wordplay. Both the broadsheets and the tabloids take great joy in their punny amusing headlines.

And, of course, root vegetables.

cultural observation

2007-09-03T15:32:00.000-04:00

there's a brilliant store in Ireland called Penney's. Kasia, you may remember it from when you came to visit. It's got great, cheap clothes.

In the UK, Penney's goes by the name Primark. Again, amazing cheap clothes and handbags. It's nearly impossible to get something at Primark without someone complimenting you on it, and then it's nearly impossible to not say something along the lines of 'Only a fiver!'

And the same way that people pronounce Target 'Tar-jay' (and the way my father used to call Roy Rogers 'Chez Ro-get'), people here call Primark 'Primarche.'

what is it about downmarket things that we are compelled to frenchify? why does it give us so much joy?

circuitous

2007-02-08T14:09:00.000-05:00

I found this while going through old papers. I wrote it in the fall of 2004 (I think -- although I've been singing this song for quite some time, so really, it could've been written yesterday). It does wander a bit, but it's worth it (in my biased opinion). It's really two short essays, I suppose, linked together very scantily. For the record, I don't feel exactly this way anymore. Note the modifier.

*************************************************

I cried on that phone, that payphone on Clapham Road in Brixton, across the street from Tescos. I cried like a baby to my mother. It's awful here, I said. Everyone is mean. It's just like New York City.

I hadn't learned to look beyond. Everything just hurt at that point. There was no end in sight: I had been to flats in Vauxhall, Oval, Clapham, Belham, Kennington, Tottenham Hale, Willesden, Brixton, Kilburn, Streatham, Harlesden, Leyton, and more I'd forgotten, I'm sure. I hadn't grasped 'flathunting' as the great occupation and time-occupier it is. I just didn't, couldn't, face that hostel again. It was miserable -- I was miserable -- in that phone booth. Crying, red-faced, snot running down my chin, looking out at the street. The Nigerian mummies with their fantastical headwraps and prams, the emaciated young hipsters, the stubble-faced drunks: everyone had somewhere to go, something to do, and a place to return to at night, and I felt bereft. At last, I had absolutely nothing to do. I had nothing to do but search for a place to live, and I couldn't find one. Oh sure, there were scads of places -- some within my price range, most not. Some on nice streets, most (of those within my price range) not.

It was the first time, I think, that staying or leaving was completely up to me. I was alone. No one would be angry or upset if I left. Everyone would understand. I could go home. Or I could go to Scotland, or Wales. Or I could stay with Ben and Liz until they got sick of me. But fundamentally I got to choose.

What ended up happening was a lot like what happens everywhere, all over the world, every day. I made plans to go to Edinburgh, to investigate pastures new. I got the hell out of the hostel and brought my bags to Ben and Liz's flat in Euston (thankfully I didn't have to change lines on the Tube, my poor aching back). I stayed at their flat overnight and then got the night bus the following day.

I saw a place in Brixton the day I left for Edinburgh and I loved it. The door opened and the house smelt like my childhood friend's house. There was a cat. My room was small and only available for two weeks because its occupant was coming back from visiting family abroad. But it was cheap and it was in Brixton -- and Brixton was a lifeline. In the midst of the grey brusqueness of London, Brixton was a place I understood. Well, maybe not understood, exactly, but that I got, fundamentally. Our rough edges lined up. It didn't feel like home; nowhere did. But it was a place I could love. It scared me in the right ways, in the ways I knew to be scared: dark alleys, groups of fellows engaged in outside business, shadows you needed to watch to make sure they don't move the wrong way. Brixton is grimy but not trashy (well, if you don't count all the trash, anyway). But the market's colorful, stinky hustle and bustle, and the tension-begetting mix of classes and ethnicities -- that I got. That was it for me.

In the house, they told me the room was ready whenever, and I told them I'd be going to Edinburgh, but that I'd be back. I needed to hedge my bets, just in case. I think the room was such a short let they didn't think they'd get anyone, so they were happy to just wait for me. In retrospect it seems insane, but at the time it was a godsend.

I took the night bus to Edinburgh and got there at 7:30 am on January fourth, 2003. It was absolutely stone cold and pitch black. I wandered around until I found my hostel, and discovered I wasn't allowed to check in until two pm, but the overnight clerk, a very understanding young Canadien named Dexter, who I ended up almost sleeping with two days later, showed me to the lounge, where I crashed on the very uncomfortable dorm-room style couch until the afternoon.

If I was a pragmatic or practical person, I would've stayed in Edinburgh. I would've gone down to London to get my things, and come back up to Scotland. I met a group of good kids at the hostel, and I could've stayed there and gotten a job and found a flatshare and been content. Edinburgh is a gorgeous place: the castle on the hill, the Firth of Forth, glorious northern sunlight on stone. Friendly people in their own dour Scots way, and herds and herds of Aussies and Kiwis and gringos, all young, all smiling and happy to be young and to be drinking. Somehow, though, meeting everyone so easily -- knowing that the whole package was right there, waiting for me to pick it up and unwrap it -- it made it easier to leave. I didn't know if I was making a big mistake. I still don't know. But the knowledge that I could come back up and reconnect with everyone if London ended up really being shit -- plus having found that house in Brixton before I left -- made it possible for me to go back to London with fortitude. I was in Edinburgh for three days, went on a day trip to Glasgow (where I almost caved and there's still a five-pound deposit on a bedsit with my name on it; Glasgow is charming in a headbutting kind of way) and left Edinburgh two days after that on an early morning bus. Dexter saw me off.

I was terrified at my resolve. What the fuck was I doing, not taking what seemed to obviously be the easier option, why was I leaving someone who clearly fancied me, leaving a circle of goodhearted people who could become friends, leaving a town whose standard of living was significantly lower and whose people were significantly nicer. I didn't know then and I don't know now. All I can think is that there was a part of me that wanted to see if I could do it. I had faced the pit in that telephone booth outside of Tescos, I had somehow managed to climb out of it, into a place of comfort, and I was giving that up freely, in exchange for more uncertainty.

Of course, what happened then was: I went back to London. I moved into that house. I got a job that week, one of the most interesting office jobs I've had, and in Victoria no less, just four stops on the same Tube line. I found another place to live when it came time for me to move out. I stayed in Brixton; I couldn't imagine living anywhere else. I can, a little bit, now. Maybe. But then, it was my security blanket, and all the better that I be a bit unusual in my choice of security blanket. I knew (and continue to know) good people there. It's hard to live in Brixton and be uptight.

And that was that. I couldn't bear the thought of coming back, so I moved blind again, this time to Ireland, voluntarily undergoing the misery I'd been through seven months earlier. To my surprise, and relief, it wasn't as bad the second time around. I began to understand why people describe travelling as "addictive."

Looking at it now, it absolutely fucking boggles and amazes me. What the fuck was I thinking, moving to London without knowing a soul (except for Ben and Liz, not to be misunderestimated).

I do feel a little bittersweet about the fact that London will again be that fresh for me. It will never again be a place withought ghosts, ghosts of myself, of my former selves, of others. It will never again be incomparable to itself. Every time I go there again, I will think about those months when it was all new and frightening and thrilling and overwhelming and exhilarating. Like Nick Hornby writes in High Fidelity, there will never be a first time again -- no more first times to climb Primrose Hill, to dodge the fishmongers and phone card vendors along Electric Avenue, to cross Westminster Bridge, or Southwark Bridge, to wander wide-eyed through Borough Market, to be caught between the right angles of the Tate Modern and the majesty of St Pau's dome, to drink at the Oxo Tower as the sun goes down and the lights come up along the river.

I loved it in a way that I don't think I'd ever loved anything, or anyone, before. There are similarities, though: I long for it, physically, in the way that one longs for the body and the caresses of a lover. And I am pathetic for it, and utterly vulnerable in my patheticness, the way that one can be pathetically, and yet invincibly, in love, and the way that love can become an armor. And there are standards, there are stubborn boundaries: I will not be there illegally. I am not willing to live there, constantly hoping I won't be caught. And I will not trap myself with papers.

And it certainly wasn't a sudden falling in love. Well, maybe with Brixton Market. I had, I have, a lust for Brixton Market -- an urge to consume it, its brick and concrete and chipping paint and smelly fish and exotic tubers, its dirty mop water and its frilly itchy underthings -- a physically shameful desire to take it inside me, somehow. With greater London, though, I should say, I am mixed. I mean, I love it. I love the crowds and bridges. And I know it's not perfect. I hated it for the first few months -- or I would have hated it had it not been for Brixton and my relatively interesting job and Ben and Liz, and Dan, to a certain grumbly extent. It thrilled me, it excited me -- it simultaneously repulsed and fascinated me, and I didn't understand how to walk down the street until at least April.

Once I got the rhythm, though it was like swimming a stroke I'd always known but never quite put together before. Work, play, sleep. Fret about money, about excessive smoking, excessive drinking. Continue said habits. It wasn't that different, superficially, from my life here -- ah, except that it was in London -- I knew the 159 busroute by heart, I could name the bridges in order east to west, I knew where to find cheap eats and cheap drinks, it was London and I had found my path through it. It was enough, but not too much, for me. I couldn't imagine any more. I didn't need any more. I wanted to eat the sidewalks, I wanted my eyes to become videocameras, I felt nostalgic months before I left. I knew the end would come, and I dreaded it.

And, of course, going back to visit isn't the same thing. It's the highlights of my London theme park, my personal mythology of the city: Borough Market, Coldharbour Lane, Brick Lane Beigel Bakery, Oxo Tower, Tate, Muji. Taking the handbag with a wrap in it to the loo at a club with Tanya. Late nights smoking spliffs and fags, hungover afternoons in the pub watching football. It's not the day to day crap -- being late for the bus, trying to decide whether to walk out of my way for cheaper groceries or be extravagant and stop at the Sainsburys next to the Tube, circling things in TimeOut and not doing them, getting caught in the driving rain with no umbrellas and poorly sealed footwear. I could do all of those things here, and I do, but it's not the same -- I'm not in London, I'm not in London, I'm not in London, and that simple fact makes a world of difference.

Perhaps a flat search is much more like a life search. There are many spots that are close to right, except with one or two bits that you can't quite forgive. And then you find a place that is absolutely, incredibly right -- not because it's perfect, because nowhere ever is -- but it's perfect for you. You don't mind the problems -- it's worth it, to live there. And while there are times when you feel absolutely backed into a corner and you have to settle for, say, sharing a room with an unknown French girl for a month in Galway -- you do it. You do it. And later something works out. It's absolute crap in the process. You don't have a fucking clue except that your internal gauge tells you when and what it's appropriate to settle for.

In London, I knew the spot on Mayall Road was right, I knew I needed to be there even if it was only for two weeks. I needed a tiny kitchen with a compost bucket and vegetarian sausages in the freezer and homegrown tree in a jar on the spice rack and a cat named Kittenski, and I would have lived there forever if I could have, braving the walk past Dexter's Playground (few things less savory in a neighborhood than abandoned playgrounds) every night. But then I had to move.

And I didn't want to move to a posh refurnished house on Effra Lane or Railton Road, and Strathmore Gardens didn't want me, and so I moved into the house on Somerleyton Road. Even though I knew it was illegal, even though it was on a really dodgy street. Even though it was all girls and I was intimidated by their multilingual European sophistication. And I loved that house: loved that it was cheap, loved the thin walls and hearing My and Chico make love next door, loved the little anteroom by the door where you were meant to take your shoes off and I never did. I hated the crappy crappy shower though. But it was our beautiful house, with our three tiny fridges and our back garden, and I made rice and beans for Ben and Liz and everyone ended up eating together and it was like a little paradise (albeit with Rena and Jocelyne fighting) until My left and then the council found us out and we all had to leave.

So then I found the spot near the police station. And my room was small, and Mario the letting agent was a prick, but my flatmates were fine, though certainly not gregarious. But I met Xavi, and I got to stay in Brixton.

And so I guess is really is a matter of needing different things at different times, and being aware of what those needs are, and which ones you can compromise on, and which ones you can't. I couldn't compromise on living outside of Brixton, but I could live with sulky Slovakians. I couldn't share a room, but I could live down a slightly dodgy, underlit road, with groups of dealers spaced along it.

If I was there -- and working -- what would be different that here? I would be working a crap job I don't like (check), worrying about money (check), not knowing what I wanted to do with my life (check), being utterly frustrated by men (check), smoking too much (check), not doing theater (hmmm) -- oh, but the thrill. The simple ruddy nonpareil thrill of the river churning grey in the morning. The protesters outside Parliament. Paying through the nose for a decent, or even mediocre, cup of filter coffee, not that crappy espresso and hot water crap they shove at you. Good sandwiches, no delis. Not knowing what do so, so taking a walking from Marble Arch to Oxford Circus to Piccadilly and over to Leicester Square then down to Trafalgar and getting on the bloody bus home, why did I even bother to come out tonight I'm so fucking skint. Lager and lime, and ten packs of silk cut or pall mall or benson and hedges, and off licences and the fascinating people who work at them.

It always ends up as a list, a litany, a lament for what feels lost. Why does it feel lost? Can I ever get it back? Do I want it back?

*********************************************

So this is me, now, Hannah circa 2007, looking four months down the line: it will be scary, again, getting off that plane, and it will feel like an insane decision. But it's not going to let me go, clearly, and I've not been able to let it go, and I'll be damned if I keep holding this ambivalence. I've changed, London's changed, it's been four years for chrissakes!

I posted this after a LONG hiatus, partly because I know I'm going to use the blog while I'm in Ldn as a way of keeping in touch and I wanted to start getting back in the habit of posting (cheesey, I know, sorry) but also because what's in it is true, and valuable information. It was certainly more true when I wrote it (for instance, I am no longer frustrated by men, but in fact deliriously pleased with the one I've managed to snag) but by and large, in my more painful moments, this is still where I go when I don't know where else to go. I go to my lists, to my laments, I take a walk in my mind along Brick Lane or in Brockwell Park, or I go to moveflat.com and check that I can still afford a flatshare in Brixton (answer: yes).

I'm going, and I'm excited, thinking about it makes me weep with relief and joy and fear, and that (obviously) makes me just a teensy bit crazy, but aren't you glad I've chosen to share it, rather than bottling it all up inside?

well, aren't you?

Eh, can't please everyone.

mas pronto!

a good way to have me go off you

2006-04-24T23:31:00.000-04:00

is to successfully post an NSA ad on Craigslist, go through with it, and then tell me all about it.

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

ps. she was two years older than me!

aahh! so awkward!

2006-04-19T00:52:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time, I worked up the courage to tell a man I had very deep feelings for that I wanted our friendship to be something more. He responded by telling me that while he cared for me very much, what I wanted was not on the cards, because I had come along in his life "too soon." Were our friendship to ever become the romantic relationship he envisioned us having, it would have to be a serious one, and that was not something he felt ready for or willing to begin.

I could write a dissertation on it, and in fact probably have, if you put all the scrawls on slips of paper together. Who says that? I mean, come on! Just say you aren't attracted to me, or that you don't want to date anyone! Something! Too soon? Ick.

And yet.

I don't know what I should have done, only what I did do, which was to draw out our "friendship" until it was so pathetic even I couldn't stand it any more, then dead him for a year and change, until caving into his requests that we reconcile before he moved two-thirds of the way across the country, so it really is all water under the bridge now.

I don't know what I should have done, and part of why I didn't know was that, in all honesty, his reason did make sense to me. His not wanting to be with me didn't make sense -- I mean, come on! -- but his reason, his "too soon," his regret at knowing it would have been good, but also that it wasn't what he was ready for -- that resonated with me pretty strongly, as much as I hate to admit it, and as much as I wanted him to get over the too soon thing and just stick his tongue down my throat, already! It made sense: there are some people you are ready to be with now; there are some people you pray you will be ready to be with should you ever get the opportunity; and there are some people, no matter how much both of you want it, that you'll never be ready to be with. I don't know what category I fell into for him.

Later that year, doing the transatlantic chat with G, I heard her say of her own fella, "I feel like everything I've done in my life up until now was getting me ready to be with him." (paraphrased, but you get it) and it struck me in that same way. You can't make someone be ready; they are or they aren't, and you can choose if you're gonna stick around or not. SMF, for example, stuck around for three months with me, and then we had the best relationship of my life, to date. Roostafari and I were both ready, but we only had three weeks of (deep, meaningful, smoketastic) fun because I left it too late, and I still regret that, still think in the back of my mind that maybe we'll get another chance.

I bring this up for two reasons -- partly because today I saw a repeat of the Gilmore Girls (embarassing, but true) and Rory was arguing with some boy she liked about why he wouldn't ask her out, and he said something along the lines of, You would be a great girlfriend for me, but I would be a really bad boyfriend for you. Which is a copout, too, don't get me wrong, but a more easily understood copout than "You're too soon," which made me feel like something -- what exactly I don't know, my very existence, possibly? -- was bad, and all my fault.

My second point -- and forgive me for rambling -- is, I'm getting a crush on one of my friends. Wait, let me not sugarcoat the truth: I have a crush on one of my friends, and it's horrifically inappropriate because it's

TOO SOON!

Oh God. What fucked up kind of karma is this?

Too soon. I am so not kidding. If we were five years from now, it would be all kinds of good. In fact, pre-crush me had even been kind of looking forward to five years from now, thinking, oh, girl, you sing the sad & lonely song to yourself in bed every night, but five years from now it is ON with this boy. Pre-crush me was kind of excited about five years from now -- I would have my bullshit sorted out, at least somewhat -- holla atcha, thirtieth birthday! -- and he would have gotten all his pseudo-intellectual wanking and deep artistic angst out of his system while having retained his twinkly dearness. Plus we would have both quit smoking cigarettes (although they are an intrinsic part of our relationship).

But somehow over the past week, I've started thinking about him more and more ... and now I can't stop thinking about him. It's maddening. I could name a long list of things about him I don't like, or find annoying -- plus I haven't quite yet been able to envision doing anything more than kissing him -- but the bottom line is, once you make that switch in your head, once you move someone from the Non-Kissable Column into the Kissable Column, it's pretty much over. There's no switching back until you do the kissing (or until they price a prostitute on Brixton High Street while walking back home with you, but that's another story for another time). The only people I've been able to move from the Kissable Column into the Non-Kissable Column are people I've already kissed, namely, SMF and Toxic Type -- who really deserves a better name!

We are already spending googobs of time together on this play (you knew who it was, don't lie) and then last night after rehearsal he came over for a quick minute and the rest of that el that Heather, SA, and I couldn't finish on Friday night, and we just had the best time. Talking shit and smoking and talking more shit. And yeah, I felt like I was back in college, getting high when I knew I had to go write a paper, and that's inappropriate because, hello, I've been out of college just as long as I was in, but it was still a really great feeling, that, oh, why can't we just stay up and talk all night? feeling. And when he reads out loud (shut up! we're dorks!) he sounds like this weird amazing combination of 123L and Garrison Keillor.

And I started thinking, why not? I mean, really, why not? I know he likes me and respects me. I know he's smart. I do not want to make the same mistake I made with Roostafari, not do anything until it's too late, only realizing what I might have had until too long afterwards. I think I know that he's been sticking around, in his own strange way, for me. So why not?

Other than the fact that I have railed long and hard against it, have umpteen times proclaimed myself uninterested in his overeager somersaults and name-droppings, and unamused by his attempts to impress me -- all true, until last week.

Other than the fact that Ellie would highly disapprove, and a lot of other people probably would, too. Other than being unable to imagine ever calling him my boyfriend, or introducing him to my parents, or asking other people to take him seriously.

Other than the fact that I am too old to date someone who is ... let's just say, I am too old, or even better, he is too young. The gap between our ages will not be as significant in five years as it is now.

Other than the fact that it's TOO SOON! We can't do this now! We can't start this, can't have this now. (But why not? You're always bitching about how you want someone who will blah blah blah ... oooh, I hate being a Gemini)

Gah!

So I called this Chainsmoking Skier I used to work with, who I've been trying to make out with for about a kajillion years, and we made a tentative date for Friday afternoon (I asked him if we could make out as part of the date. I am in no mood to beat around the bush. I need to know if this crush is as real as it feels, or if I'm just spring-sap-running-through-my-veins horny. It made the Skier really awkward, but we still have a date!) and this Close-Talking, Balding But Hot Californian (CTBBHC) and I have been emailing, in that who's gonna put themselves out there first? kind of way, but I don't know how/if that'll ever pan out, plus, does the CTBBHC really want to make out, or is he just being a friendly Californian?

But can I wait that long? I have to. I have to. At least until after next week. Who knows what will happen at tech week? We could have a huge screaming match and never speak to each other again. Or, I could come clean about how I feel and we could do it in the manky downstairs paint-storage room. Eeeeeuuw, gross. Forget that.

The other thing that freaks me out is that he is one White dude. I mean, blondie blondie bluey bluey. Caucasiantastic. Not my Toxic Type. Not even my Type, at all! The same way that SMF and Roostafari and the Southern Gentlemen were equally not my type, yet were meaningful and connected to me in a very real way. What does this mean? Is my type dead? Am I destined to lust after Joel Fleischman but marry Drew Carey? (Bad analogy, and worse rhyme, but you get my drift).

And of course, the other thing, the thing that REALLY freaks me out, is: What if it's not too soon? What if it's right, really really right, and I've been fighting it all along, and now it's here, and what if that's it? We get together, and that's it? What does that mean? Eeek!

Mikee is back, and not a moment too soon

2006-04-13T12:31:00.000-04:00

when you're a famous boy, it gets really easy to get girls,
it's all so easy, you get a bit spoilt.
so, when you try to pull a girl, who is also famous too,
it feels just like when you wasn't famous.
(imagine it with a wee steel drum behind, and some handclaps, lovely)

One of the things I love about Mikee is how he speaks his truth. You'd expect his third album to be all about smoking spliffs on the estate, like the first two, but he's not there anymore. So he writes a song about .. this. And it's funnier, and more genuine, than posturing and bling-showing could ever be. A powerful reminder that there are stories worth telling no matter what your life is at the moment.

Brilliant!

in search of a cunning plan

2006-03-27T01:46:00.000-05:00

Well, I didn't get the Fulbright. Bollocks.

I came close -- made it from the first round -- ten to one chance, to the second round, two to one chance. So, nothing to sniff at, especially for a proposal to Western Europe (much more competitive than the rest of the world) -- and I'm not despondent, but it is pretty crap. I was soooo looking forward to having the US govt foot the bill for pints in Whelan's (or Neactain's, Em!) next year, in exchange for some interesting (and might I add) relevant research on immigrants in Dublin.

So what shall I do? Shall I brood and brood, and spend my days nursing spiked cups of coffee, wringing my hands as I watch daytime television (Dawsons Creek reruns are my favorite, but the Cosby Show will suffice in a pinch)? Shall I sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho, for a husband? Shall I become a fitness-crazed robowoman, join a gym and Stairmaster my woes away? Shall I chainsmoke and write horrifically bad haiku? Or how about just a nice little cry on the sofa with a ciggie and some chocs (too Bridget Jones, but v v tempting)? All of the above? None of the above?

No! Non! Nyet! And further, nish-nish! There are books to be read, tea to be made and drunk, Merseyside derbies to be won (HA!), letters and emails to write, songs to be sung, revolutions to be planned, roots to be dyed (see attached), warmongering Republican administrations to be protested, Etc. Etc. I am stage-managing one of the most boring plays on Earth -- and yes, they ARE paying me, but not enough, and directing a fabulous play at my old high school (for which they ARE paying me enough, and the kids crack me up, bless them), but that's all over by May first. Also working my usual three-to-five part-time jobs, but that's a given.

In all seriousness, I am applying to Kings College for the MA in Cities, Culture, and Social Change (sounds a bit grand but I'm reasonably sure it's not) -- but I won't really know about that until late May or June, particularly concerning the financial side of things. If I get in (cross your fingers) I will defer a year and start in September of 2007. Why defer a year, you are asking, Dan? I think that, although the program sounds fabulous and right up my alley, I don't want to get the degree and then come back to the States and get stuck again -- so I want to do a little more wandering before starting the degree, with the intention that after the MA I could (cross your fingers on the other hand) get a job in the UK.

This is where you all come in, all you preposterously smart and tremendously dear people: What should I do between now and September of 2007?

Here are the parameters of the conundrum, should you choose to engage in this exercise:
- I want to save at least $5K (defray London expenses for the MA year);
- I need to be in DC July 15 2006, in NYC August 12 2006, and back in DC sometime in the spring of 2007 (weddings, dammit);
- I would like to spend at least two months living and hopefully working in either one or some combination of:
A) New Zealand (pro: I can get a work permit, con: it's hella costly to get there);
B) Slovenia (pro: cheap as chips, con: harder to get under the table work, esp as I cannot stand the idea of teaching English, yuck) (pro: but if I went soon I could be in England and/or Germany for the World Cup!) (con: but I am broke);
C) DR or some other Spanish-speaking country (pro: possibly very cheap, and I can regain Spanish fluency, con: could relearn Spanish right now if I commit to it) (also, more dengue fever and fewer adorably badly dressed men than Eastern Europe);
D) I'm open to suggestions: I can read Cyrillic (can't speak anything using that alphabet though) and my French is mort but revivable -- although I don't really fancy China or sub-Saharan Africa, to be honest, or anywhere extremely sandy, as it bothers my lenses;
- I need to pay off my credit card, $2-3K. I have student loan debt but the interest rate is low, so I won't count that;
- I need to go to the West Coast at least once before heading to London (projected cost around $1K);
- errr, that's it. Those are my parameters.

So come on, dream a little dream for me. That's right: give me some advice. How lovely to actually be asked for advice, for once, rather than just wondering whether or not one should give it! I'm open to any suggestions (other than prostitution and teaching English, yuck) and I know all of you sitting at desks, or nursing your first born sons, or supervising the raising of leaking derelict boats, or plotting revenge on your evil and/or incompetent superiors, you know, however you spend your day -- all of you have an idea for something you've always thought I should do, or something you've always thought YOU should do but you want me to try it first and tell you how it went before you decide. Or maybe you don't have that idea now, but you might in the next few weeks. Or maybe you have tons of ideas. Email me, now & forever. I will consider it all. However you want to play it -- come all up in my Kool-Aid, I told you the flavor.

Or you could come visit me in DC. Singly or in pairs or in groups. I even have a spare room with a futon in it. DC's nice in the summer when it's not sweltering hot mosquitolicious 9but the spare room has AC, never you fear!) We could go to NYC for a couple of days or just kick it around here, drinking lemonade and talking shit on the back porch. It's a gorgeous town if you stay a good distance away from the gub-mint people and the herds of tourists. I'm just sayin is all. Think it over.

having more fun?

2006-02-07T16:02:00.000-05:00

the roots are starting to grow in -- but in general life as a blonde has been a pretty good time. I haven't noticed an appreciable rise in getting hit on, which for some reason seems to surprise only men. Dudes -- well, Graham, mostly -- are like, what? You mean you don't get hit on all the time? Sigh. As much as women wonder what goes on in men's brains, it must be even more of a trip for men to wonder what goes on in women's brains. I do feel tougher in some ways -- walkng around at night, or what have you. A bit more take me as I am, a bit less nice little white girl. whatever that means. Walking around in CH though I do feel quite a bit more like a gentrifier -- look at me, here I am going to buy three dollar coffee!

I can't think of anything to write about at the moment. Am at Tryst since our interweb is down again, no deep thoughts about anything. everywhere around me are the young and cute and I must admit I feel a bit old and grungy. The woman sitting on the couch across from me, with a darling young man with crinkly eyes, is wearing Sienna Miller black leggings. Yeesh. When will we give up the leggings ghost?

I keep thinking about where I was last year and where I am now, and where I was two or three years ago, and where I am now. It's different every time, isn't it? I wonder if that changes when you have kids, if times slips and slides a lot more. Maybe you just don't have as much time to be contemplative.

Getting through round one on the grant is quite wonderful

if this doesn't make you laugh there's something wrong with you

2006-02-07T15:57:00.000-05:00

the head swims! Courtesy of the Fiver:

Leicester City manager Craig Levein parses a win over Chesterfield:

"To put it in gentleman's terms," he began. "If you've been out for a
night and you're looking for a young lady and you pull one, some
weeks they're good-looking and some weeks they are not the best. Our
performance today would not have been the best-looking bird, but at
least we got her in the taxi. She was not the best-looking lady we
ended up taking home, but she was very pleasant and very nice, so
thanks very much, let's have coffee."

Leicester City manager? Make this man poet laureate instead.

sorry all

2006-01-19T14:10:00.000-05:00

Hey guys

sorry it's been ages. I've lots of good posts planned but our internet has been down (I know, I know) (I KNOW!).

more soon I promise -- at the moment I cannot stand being in CHC any longer; have to go home and finish reorganizing my room, eek!

more soon, I promise.

2005-12-19T15:00:00.000-05:00

for Buk: I had a cider on Sunday afternoon watching the Arsenal-Chelsea match -- Norf Lann'en derby -- which Chelsea won two-nil. Oh dear.

I feel like a fish that's been let back into it's rightful tank, just flexing my gills and swimming about. Met with the master admissions tutor for the "Cities, Culture and Change" MA at Kings College London. He was really interesting and dear and the program sounds fantastic, lots of possibilities for networking and traineeships. Am I ready to be that responsible though?

I've been taking buses everywhere and riding on top wherever possible, and I met my old workmate Alan for lunch in Covent Garden, and then went for a wee shop along the Kings Road (nothing for me though, everything for others -- Ben I got ya Muji gel pens, and how!)

And it doesn't help that I've fallen for a man named after the primary character in "Where the Wild Things Are." I've known him since I was living here in 03 but things have shifted between us and ... and I am working on not getting ahead of myself. He always has been and continues to be absolutely lovely.

Tomorrow a big run all around and then the Young Vic Christmas show (The Adventures of Tintin -- I canNOT wait) with Daniel and Beverley, and then a few drinkies, and then I'm off in the morning. Sniff, sniff. I feel less hopeless, though, less like it's going to be ages before I get back. We shall see.

remote blogging from LDN

2005-12-14T05:24:00.000-05:00

Even thought I haven't lived here for almost three years, it still feels like home. Came in the long way from Heathrow, on the Underground that's over ground until South Ken -- peering into people's back gardens, glimpses of the tops of terrace houses, graffitti sprinkled about. A woman next to me was working a crossword puzzle in what looked like either Polish or Turkish, and across from me a lovely man with lovely hair (gay or European?) ended his phonecall with "ta for that, bye" -- too wonderful.

Got off the plane, got off the train, rented a phone, then spent ten dollars on: a bottle of water, a tensy of Lambert & Butler's, and a lighter. No kidding. Those three items cost me ten dollars. There's a Krispy Kreme in Victoria Station now -- I resisted, but barely. It did make me feel slightly uncomfortable, I'll say that much. Now I have 90 minutes to kill before meeting Dan to get the extra set of keys so I can go and sleep for a few hours.

I am so ready to be rid of these bags so I can go exploring and cavorting, visiting all my old favorite places and finding new ones ... the internet cafe is playing "No Diggity" which I think must be some sort of sign, although I'm not sure what type.

merry Christmas to ME!

2005-12-07T11:54:00.000-05:00

sorry I've been a bit ghostlike, Loyal Reader(s). Our interweb connection has been craptastic.

So I'll be in my favorite city from 14 December through 21 December, get your orders in for PG Tips and Thai Chilli Crisps. Have a meeting wiv University of Manchester on the fifteenth, with KCL on the nineteenth, wiv SOAS sometime else, and in between then I'll be boozing it up and eating paella with Tanya and Dan, drooling after luscious Max, catching up with Nora and Susie and Theo and Alan, playing coochie-coochie-coo with Finley and hugging his mom, and hopefully catching some kind of match somewhere -- can't really splash out for the North London derby (Arsenal v Chelski, 18th December) but maybe some sort of Palace fixture -- I love me some Croydon!

At any rate, I'm very excited, and soon to be very broke. Rest assured I shall try to purchase as many Harrod's beer mats as gifts as I can. Huzzah! Huzzah!

it's not that there aren't gorgeous men in my life -- some straight ones, even! -- it's that they're just not that into me

2005-11-23T00:15:00.000-05:00

My very dear friend and first love of my life, SMF, was in town this weekend conducting the business. In between him booting up craptastic Dupont food and me falling asleep at ten pm, we hung out, which was fantastic. He recently got himself engaged to a lovely lady of much better repute than I, and during a beerlarious evening with Dore and myself recounted the (awesomely cute and goopy) story of his proposal. I knew I wanted to hear the story but I hadn't realized how I would feel -- which was mostly, holy CRAP we are all getting old. Or as TT put it on Sunday night, there's grief at losing the person you knew, even if you are happy and excited, grief because their lives are changing, and that's going to change your own life. He said he put that in a toast when two of his best friends from college got married over the summer -- that he felt so thrilled for them, but also sad, and it was good to hear that I'm not just crazy. I love SMF and I think this is the right thing for him, and for them, but damn. I don't know if I'm ready for one of my nearest and dearest to bite the bullet, you know?

I hung out with Toxic Type on Sunday night, after I saw a show with the parentals. He had been one of two actors called for a part in the show I had just seen, and obviously was not cast, so I wanted to walk him through how the show sucked, and just catch up in general. We hadn't seen each other in quite a while -- he's been rehearsing like a madman for his new show and working late hours at his bar, and I've been, oh I don't know exactly what I've been doing ... drinking cups of tea and watching Undeclared, and trying to decide whether I should go to the Smoke now or in January.

I don't know what it is, exactly, about hanging out with Toxic Type that tends to make me wax philosophical. Maybe the beers and the afters. Maybe the fact that somehow we ended whatever it is we had on equal terms: I don't feel like either of us lost any face, and that's very unusual for me. Maybe the fact that he has chosen to make his living in a field I am attracted to, and that hearing his stories only reaffirms that I really am not suited for pursuing it. Maybe the fact that he has no qualms about asserting his value and skills, when I can be pretty reticent about my own, especially in a professional context. He makes me feel less freaked out about my future, partly because he has to constantly make decisions about his future (reasons #3971 I would not be a good professional actor), so it has shown me, over and over, that paths open in different ways at different times. And TT is quite good about telling me he thinks I'm great (literally, he has on more than one occasion called me "fantastic") which really never gets old.

However it works, I always leave an evening-cum-early morning spent in TT's company fantasizing about how I am going to grow up and be a fabulous artist/patroness of the arts, and that all and sundry will come and visit my flat/house in Ljubljana/Santo-Domingo/Accra/Kyoto/London, and eat my fabulous (yet simple and inspiring and locally-sourced!) meals, and have brilliant conversations about the world and about art. I love that fantasy, and I will always be very fond of TT for fostering and nurturing it in me, because I need to be imagining it in order to bring any part of it into reality.

But for once, in my admittedly-short life, I am not lying when I say it's okay for us to just be friends. I don't want to date him -- among other reasons, I just couldn't listen to him that much. All at once every few weeks is fine, but every day? Yeesh. And to think I've made this realization before pining over him for a period of not less than three months and not more than two years? Astounding! A new leaf! All in all, a stunning and intriguing relationship: I find him quite attractive, but I don't want to get in his pants -- and not just because I've already been in his pants!

While we're swimming in the Sea of Ex, the Southern Gentleman wrote an interesting opinion piece over here. The comments section turned into a screaming match, of course (although he handled it very well I thought) but I think that the piece itself is a sweet little homage, very true to what SG struggled with when I knew him, and true to the struggles of mid-late twenty somethings everywhere: what size fish do I want to be? in what size pond?

Of course, having SMF in town this weekend (so incredibly lovely) threw a new light on the whole DC renaissance issue -- he hasn't lived here in quite a while, and I've certainly forgotten how different this city is from what it was. It is different, and not just because there are hella more wealthy people moving in and buying up property. I wish I could write that the city is moving more towards economic and racial desegregation, but that's not true. Part of why I love working where I do is that it's one of the most integrated social places I've been in DC: we've got the nieghborhood druggies and local fromages grandes, we've got little grandmas of all sizes and colors, we've got human sexuality from one end of the spectrum to the other, and the kitchen judges them ALL on the same thing: how they behave. This definitely is not the time to waiterrant but suffice it to say that neither assholism nor politeness know color or wallet capacity, and we WILL talk about you if you are not acting like a grownup.

But sadly DC isn't becoming more like Zion. Yes, there is more money (thank heavens) although it's not all getting spent where it can do the most good. Yes, there does seem to be more of a local artistic community/energy than when I was growing up and Woolly Mammoth was across the street from an abandoned lot. And yes, now we have a soccer team and a baseball team, and a mayor who doesn't smoke crack. All this "progress" is still bittersweet, though, and some of the comments to SG's piece got at this. Local DC (not federal DC) before this boom was a little bit of an inside joke, something not everyone got, and that was for the best. Really. Errr, maybe. It's the same lame argument everyone makes when their favorite band hits the big time -- now that it's popular, we don't want to like them anymore, or we need to broadcast that we knew about them way back when, etc. Now I can't go to Adams Morgan on a Saturday night without stepping in intern puke (possible in the 80s when Adams Morgan still had a little dodgems left) but I can walk to and from a bar on 11th Street without running into problems (distinctly less possible in the 80s-- and yes, that has to do with the fact that there is now a bar on 11th Street that caters to my pale and disposably-incomed ilk, which definitely did not exist in the Barreighties, but there you go). As my beloved Johnathan says, Six eggs in one basket, seis huevos en el otro ... It's hard to find that balance.

It's strange to think about the directions SG and I have gone in since we parted ways. In a sense I don't feel that my life is really that different: I'm still slinging hash, living in the best house ever, and puzzling out what and where my next concrete steps are. And yes, I am aware of the fact that no decision is a decision, much as I wish the contrary. Still, I am almost entirely where I was at this point last year, whereas it seems now he is progressing very nicely along in his life. I don't FEEL that I am at the same point I was last year, and whether that relates to the grant or to the idea of graduate school not making me puke I don't know. It's good though.

I'd like to see a cage fight between SG and 123L: both passionate, articulate young men, well aware of their above-average intelligence and manejo of pop culture. And both very much concerned with the world and the struggle to find their rightful work in it. When I say I'd like to see a cage fight, it's not really true. I know who would win, and both of them have pretty faces I wouldn't want to see unnecessarily bloodied and/or disfigured. I'd like to think that at one point I knew them each well enough to know that they would enjoy an opponent worthy on several fronts, not just physically or mentally, and that afterwards we could all go for a beer at the Raven, and then my new boyfriend (I swear, looking at him never gets old!) would come and pick me up in his Mini and we would go have cutesy nibbles at Vidalia or something. Also, I would like a pony. Who wears a tiara.

a partial list

2005-11-21T02:04:00.000-05:00

I believe in trust.
I believe in art.
I believe that men and women have important things to say to each other.
I believe that talking is good.
I believe that there can be too much talking.

I believe in telling stories.
I believe in listening to stories.
I believe in hearing old stories and remembering what has been forgotten.
I believe in laughter, and in old friends, and I believe in the power of sharing laughter with those who have known you at your worst, as well as at your best.

I believe in sincerity.
I believe in engaging debt.
I believe in repaying debt.
I believe in offers made without thought of recompense.
I believe in generosity and in the joy of gifts well given and received.

I believe in a future encompassing compassion.

I believe in the manifestation of value, even if obliquely.
I believe that the people in the world who see similarities and forgive differences, and who long for acceptance of all kinds, number more than the people in the world who do not.

I believe in kisses of all kinds: passionate kisses, sweet kisses on the neck, baby kisses, butterfly kisses, long and intense how do you come up for breath kisses, clandestine kisses, air kisses, glamourous and short kisses, old movie style kisses, kisses over the phone, kisses through words and thoughts and deeds, how do you do kisses, kisses that seal deals and kisses that break promises. And I believe in the intimacy of walking arm in arm.

I believe that wisdom can and does originate from unforetold sources.

I believe in women sharing each other, joying in each other, and I believe in the universality of experience across generations.
I believe that specificity is a virtue.
I believe that seeing specifity in abstraction is an important skill.

I believe in second chances.

I believe comfort and danger are both important, though not always equally or in the same context.

I believe in finding and recognizing what satisfies one's inner sense of balance.

a slightly less endearing feature

2005-11-14T23:28:00.000-05:00

So I love autumn, blah de blah blah. Makes me feel all warm and snuggly inside, making pies, watching movies, the first stirrings of winter's turn towards hibernation, lovely blue sky days when a hoodie and a puffy vest are all (or more than) you need. Possibly another reason for my fondness for The Smoke -- it's autumn weather there ten months out of the year (January is too bloody cold, and July is absolutely gorgeous, but the rest of the time you need to layer up, gel!)

I think part of this may be due to the fact that I missed two of these seasons. For Fall 2000, I was in Santo Domingo, where October is the hottest month of the year and it doesn't get much cooler at any other time. Being on the beach in November was quite lovely though. I spent the Fall of 2003 in Galway on the west coast of Ireland, where the ground is pretty much two feet of dirt and then stone. While the weather got colder, I didn't really notice the seasons changing until taking the bus to Dublin at the end of November, when I saw the leaves on the ground and realized that since there weren't many trees where I had been living (lots of shrubs though) I had effectively not had a fall. I'm not cryin or hatin, just aware.

Part of why I love the autumn is melancholia, the realization that the year is coming to an end, that time is limited, precious and of the essence; my blood's rhythms hearkening back centuries to the ancestral farmlands of Bohemia and Scandinavia -- better pickle that herring and store those grains, pookie, or you'll be chewing on boot leather come February. All of this is very well and good for a person like me who is too often inclined to NOT make hay while the sun shines but instead lay inside, hopefully with some McEwan or with the Current Nose.

Alas, nowadays, as I have since March (barring a few June nights with TT -- eek!), I find myself alone in my bed; the formerly-Current Nose has taken himself out of contention for that spot, and I am in no hurry to repeat last November's shenanigans. Another thing about autumn: it sparks that longing in me -- the body's memories of warmth generated from another person, thigh against thigh, arms atangled, chests rising and falling, and of the sweet, sleepy cold morning murmurs about who will be the first one out of bed. Like any Gemini worth her salt, I swing back and forth between feeling perfectly fine and dandy about the situation and wondering if I will be alone for the rest of my life. The reality, I'm sure, isn't either of those, but I think, if I could choose a season in which to fall in love, it would be the autumn. Therefore, every autumn in which I realize I am not in love -- or really anywhere close to it, barring my fantasy relationship with this man -- is a mixture of happy-go-lucky, and happy-go-barf.

my new secret boyfriend

2005-11-14T20:50:00.000-05:00

luscious Luke played very well on Saturday. (interesting/dorky tactical discussion here)

gratuitous sigh here (his horse came fourth at the 2005 Derby Meeting, poor thing) (how does one learn to layer so well?)

Fouteenth and Park: A Dangerous Place

2005-11-14T18:08:00.000-05:00

I had a long lovely walk today back from Dupont Circle -- up Connecticut to Florida, east on Florida to 18th, up 18th and then up Columbia, then over Mount Pleasant Street to Park and then east on Park across 16th, where I came to meet my nemesis: the SuperGiant.

I entered, intending to buy peanut butter (mmm, sweet sweet peanut butter) and oranges and a cheapie cheap bottle of wine. But then I saw the posh cheeses and I thought about how Ellie had talked about making a gratin with the white sweet potatoes she'd bought at the farmers' market, and then I remembered we didn't have any canned black beans because the last time I made beans and rice I had to use pinto beans (I prefer red or black beans when I'm making rice and beans -- with some peppers and adobo and sazon and fresh cilantro, yum!)

Anyway, the point is that I left with: a big bottle of cheap red plonk, a fourpack of butter (we were running low on butter), eight pots of yogurt (dude, they were fifty cents each! organic! you can't beat that with a big stick!), orange juice (we were out and I drank the last of the apple juice we had before), gruyere, jarlsberg, three cans of black beans (dude! forty cents each!), peanut butter, two jars of whole peeled tomatoes (again, we are out and these come in suoer handy all the time), and split peas (for the lentil soup I will make later this week, with oranges and the andouille in the freezer), and three oranges.

Certainly not a junk food binge, but more than I had thought ... meh.

messages from the universe

2005-11-08T22:33:00.000-05:00

It's not been an ideal start to the week, I'll say that. Certainly not the worst week -- that honor is split between the Week of Endless Exes (June 2005) and the Sleepless Scary Flatmate Week (September 2003) -- but pretty grim: getting let down, however thoughtful the other person tries to be, is never really that fun. I've also realized that I've been hemorrhaging money in a pretty serious way (the nadir would be a thirty dollar impulse purchase of Prince Williams' 21st -birthday commemorative stamps on Ebay -- I simply must stop buying things in pounds off Ebay! But I'd just read a piece in Granta about stamps ... Gah!)

At any rate, I'm ready for a do-over; I'm ready for some joie de fucking vie.

Off to a late start to Dupont for my work study & decided to go whole hog on the self-loathing with a cigarette for breakfast. Walking past CHC, a man stopped to bum a cigarette from me. He looked a bit the worse for wear -- not so many teeth and some sort of elaborate head adornment that may or may not have been intended to repel aliens -- but he was polite and he called me "dear" which certainly is not the worst diminutive I've heard. He asked me how my day was going, and I hesitated (despite feeling grumptastic, I did, after all, wake up in my own warm bed, in a secure house with food available to me, which I was assuming may not have been his case) and he just looked at me and said, "Hey, it is what it is."

It didn't exactly stop me dead in my tracks, but it did strike me as something I really needed to hear. It is what it is: this day, this week, this particular space I am choosing to inhabit at this moment.

Then on my way back from the studio and rescuing my bank card from the ATM I'd left it in the night before, I saw one of my most fave graffitoes: Dream More Work Less. Which is, I suppose, both an affirmation and an exhortation.

brown paper packages tied up with string

2005-11-04T15:17:00.000-05:00

these are a few of my favorite things (and pardon me for the recent Hornbyesque lists):

1) Forgive me. The Style Network's "Clean House" show (Wednesdays at nine pm and reruns throughout the week) is one of the best things on TV. Believe it! As good as Arrested Development and TDS (both my godmother and my friend A. insist on calling it "Jon Daily" -- so cute). Here's the plot in a nutshell: four people come to your dirty-ass, cluttered-up house, clear out all your crap, sell it in a yard sale and then use the money from the yard sale to fix up your house. Sounds pedestrian, right? Oh no my friend. The hostess is the amazing Niecy Nash (also of Comedy Central's Reno 911) and the other three folks are fabulous and funny and surprisingly dear for people who live in LA. They really talk about all the strange reasons why people hold on to crap, and they are really good about making deals and just being emotionally present with what's going on. Dude, it's hilarious, but it's not a cheap laugh. Check it out sometime.

2) You may have heard me wax poetic on the merits of the Guardian website. For a long time -- even now, actually -- I'm not overly keen on reading newspapers online, feeling certain that I have missed something dreadfully important in some tiny print somewhere, but c'est la vie. I digress. The Guardian online: what's not to love for an Anglophile snob like me? Nigel Slater's mouthwatering recipes going back years and years. A sports section -- well, let's be honest, a football section -- that strikes that oh-so-English balance of snarky humor and ball-busting direct honesty: Mike and MadDog, but with bigger words. There is something to be said for the European tradition of biased media. You know what you are reading; you know what they want you to think. I read the Times of London, knowing it will convince me to build a shrine to Ronnie and Maggie. I read the Guardian, knowing I will want to slit my wrists because I am a pathetic useless drain on the world's resources: why am I not in Pakistan, constructing tents for the earthquake victims so they won't freeze to death in the Himalayan winter?

Anyway, it's all there, archived, and free. And it's all free, no Guardian "Select" crappity NYT crappity crap crap. I've lost myself for hours. Somehow though, I'd missed this section until today. Effing brilliant! Wee macro flash click-through guides on everything from bird flu to the thirtieth anniversary of the fall of Saigon to Mount Everest to the missing link between chimps and humans. This one is fascinating -- j'adore maps. And Miss L -- this one is just for you!

In short: a must before your next cocktail party/night out on the town -- who knew a little background on the Battle of Trafalgar would come in so handy?

3) The autumn-time. I've been conducting an informal survey about people's favorite season, and our current one is running a pretty serious third. People seem to prefer spring and summer, mostly because of the warm weather I think -- with fall, everyone knows the winter is coming and its hard to enjoy it because you know it's all coming to an end. I think, however, that's why the fall is my fave season. It is so crisp. Turtlenecks, lightweight gloves and jackets, and everything is just that bit more special because you know it's not going to last forever. Bittersweet.

4) This blog. Don't hate -- just read it.

listalicious

2005-10-23T23:12:00.000-04:00

Things I didn't do last week:
-put away my summer clothes/bring out my winter clothes
-send E and K's birthday presents (now two months overdue)
-go through my box of papers labelled "To Go Through"
-watch either of the amazing tie matches (Spurs v MUtd; Chelsea v Everton - Everton?!?!)
-finish the book TT lent me
-find my drill
-sell or give away my bloody fishtank. Gaaahhh!
-call any of the people I said I would call (Liz S, Liz W-O, K, K, L, L, C, xyz)
-email Rachel -- although I have been reading her blog with great zest
-file my box of papers labelled "To Be Filed"

Things I did do last week:
-work
-sleep
-send Ginger's package (en fin)
-bought birthday present for Cabiya and wedding present for E & E
-bought shoes to fancy up for the wedding
-had qt with Downey and a surprise guest
-read the New Yorker and the Economist and Bon Appetit
-stopped the hannahjideen from an extreme overanalysis of my current Nose (minor victories over the hannahjideen = eventual triumph and vanquishment of them!)
-major qt with SA, including a screening of the best DVD ever (CiM)
-yoga x 2, plus dins with Elis and D
-very briefly partied in Mount Pleasant

I had a lovely moment on TT's balcony after work on Thursday night, snatching a drag and peering out across the rooftops for a midnight glimpse of the cathedral's lights flashing. He'd just poured me a glass of wine and was speaking on the phone to his beloved; it was a perfect early autumn night -- a little bite to the air, but still really pleasant to be outside. I hadn't realized one could see the cathedral from TT's little spot -- so bizarre to be in Columbia Heights looking across the park to Cathedral Heights. I just felt, then, just for a moment, my chest and my energy opening up, a moment of consciousness, of awareness, that I haven't felt very often since being back in DC.

I think it's partly about being in my hometown, so I rarely see things with new eyes -- but it was a blessing, a recall to moments outside of this stagnant maelstrom I've felt myself in -- a hearkening back to the walk across the Corrib and seeing the swans, or passing by the fish market on the way to the Tube at 8 am, or catching my guagua on the 27 de Febrero: a realization of purity. This is my life right now, and I can savor it -- for all my bitching and lack of direction, it is a rich life, full of people I care about and questions worth pondering* and good food and challenging art -- or not. I am sitting outside during my favorite season, about to catch up with someone dear to me (for all his bitching/whining, he IS dear), drinking a lovely glass of wine, I've just sweated an honest sweat. As Dore and I once said under extremely different circumstances, but with no less sincerity: it doesn't get any better than this.

*not that I don't advocate a literate and cultured populace, but come on! You're calling quits on the date so you can go home and read? Gaaahhh!

more syncronicity

2005-10-14T00:34:00.000-04:00

As I blog in a last-ditch procrastination binge, having read The Guardian, the Onion, Londonist, DCist, LAist and Chicagoist (why?), memorized the yoga & footy schedules for the weekend, browsed Target.com, and Friendstered as much as I could stand, I now sit with my chocolate-smudged finger in the final-draft dyke (wha..?), and would like to note for the record that one year ago tomorrow was my official last day of work at downtown corporate pukedom, hopefully forever my official last day of work in corporate pukedom at any locale (though the free snacks were quite nice)

This year, the fifteenth of October is a Saturday. It's also the day my application is due (although I am mailing it tomorrow & it'll get there Monday the 17th, that specific date has been the alarm on my internal clock, tick tocking, for the past four weeks). I don't know if that stretches to a full circle, but I certainly do feel a bit more of a person, maybe even more of a person like ... myself, now than I did then. It's been a whirligig twelve months: the Flesh and Candour, Indecision 2004, aventuras en la costa oeste, the Southern Gentleman, nonprofit purgatory, saying goodbye to Granmama Em, the Cup to the Kop, 9 kids/3 acts/5 weeks, birthday panic attacks, asana sanity, learning cyrillic, cuppas & rollies on the seaside, purple mountains majesty, and now a strange calmness.

I don't know how long it will last and I don't know exactly how it came to be here, if next week I will feel a light's gone out and it's back to Blah Blah Freakout Chainsmoke Pessimist Land. I sincerely hope not, but I suppose there's only one way to find out.

I heart Tony Hoagland

2005-10-11T23:10:00.000-04:00

Rob D and I went to see him read a few weeks ago at the Folger. He is an elf with a Brain of Pinky and the Brain sort of head, but not in an annoying supersmart way, just in a twinkley sort of way. He read in a wonderful, measured, very precise tone that left lots of room for laughter and reconsideration of what different moments meant or could mean, which I loved. Mostly from What Narcissism Means To Me (which you should either buy or ask for on your next gift-receiving occasion) and then he signed for hours and hours. The food was fabulous (rare roast beef on toast points and carmelized onions in puff pastry -- Downs and I had a bit of a binge) and the wine was my favorite kind of wine, free! When we got to the front of the line I saw he looked exhausted and offered to get him something, so I brought him a fizzy water (he said he needed some fizzy energy) and then he signed my book "For Hannah with thanks." I am smitten with him and his wee red suede waistcoat over black tshirt and jeans.

Here is one of my faves, which he read:

Migration
by Tony Hoagland

This year Marie drives back and forth
from the hospital room of her dying friend
to the office of the adoption agency.

I bet sometimes she doesn't know
what threshold she is waiting at --

the hand of her sick friend, hot with fever;
the theoretical baby just a lot of paperwork so far.

But next year she might be standing by a grave,
wearing black with a splash of
banana vomit on it,

the little girl just starting to say Sesame Street
and Cappuccino latte grande Mommy.
The future ours for a while to hold, with its heaviness --

and hope moving from one location to another
like the holy ghost that it is.

***
(what I just realized is that the title of this poem is the topic of the grant I've been working myself barkers on for the past two weeks, and that gives me shivers -- ah, serendipity)

back with a whimper not a bang

2005-10-07T01:31:00.000-04:00

Putting off writing Hi-you-don't-know-me-but emails for this fucking grant has led me first to change my settings on Friendster to re-enable my stalking (mmm mmm, secret Friendster boyfriend Phillippe, how I've missed you when I couldn't view your profile because then you'd see mine) and now to blog. Pa. The. Tic.

Ah, well.

What've I got? Not much except an empty 2.5 gallon fishtank and a long neck High Life, and I don't want to fucking write these fucking emails! Grrrr.

At some point in the past few days (sleep-wake-write emails-revise draft-sling hash-sleep-wake-write-eat-file bills-sleep-wake-revise-eat, ad nauseam) I had the somewhat inappropriate thought that it's not out of the realm of possibility that I could in the distant mists of the future, birth a boy child, and that, as his mother, I would be free to name him, oh, Gerrard Rafael Last Name, or Rafael Gerrard Last Name, and not a soul except SA would know why, and this thought (of the name, not of the hours of gutwrenching labor required to bring said moneypit into the world, nor of the 21 subsequent years of sleepless nights) filled me with far, far too much joy. Ahh.

Slurp, slurp, blog, blog, now I'm tired and it's not as if I can just not write these before going to sleep and it's not as if I don't have almost every hour booked tomorrow. Hrmph. Grrrrr (note the first 2 letters...)

j'adore ...

2005-05-19T17:05:00.000-04:00

One day I will write amazing things like this, for them.

Guardian Unlimited.co.uk: The Fiver

CAN YOU HEAR THE SILENCE?

Have you spotted what's missing from the build-up to Saturday's FA Cup final? It's not team news, since we've all heard that Thierry Henry is out and Gabriel Heinze is, like the existence of a tasteful suit in Jonathan Ross's wardrobe, very doubtful. It's something else.

It's certainly not opponent-baiting, because not only have cantankerous old codger Roy Keane and dive-happy Patrick Vieira been waving their knobbly sticks at each other all week, but today theirrespective managers have been at it too. And just hours after SirAlex of Taggart claimed that Arsene Wenger was lying when he claimed Henry definitely wouldn't figure, Wenger retaliated: "We're not liars, he can prepare his team to face Henry if he wants, but I can assure everyone that he's not going to play."

Even ruinous in-fighting is present and accounted for, with details emerging about proceedings at the Ashley Cole tap-up hearing: Lahn's Lahn En'n' Stannah claims that Cole's relationship with Arsenal is"at breaking point" as he's incensed that Gunners vice-chairman David Dein testified against him and reckons the club's lawyer "fed questions to the Premier League prosecutors". Their prediction? Cole,whose advisors also claim that Arsenal reneged on an agreement to bump up his wages to GBP60,000-a-week, could leave in the summer.

So what's missing, sadly, is this: the sight of an uncharacteristically vindictive Rafael Benitez laughing lustily as he whips out a machete and slashes through the hype to explain the true context of the rinky-dink eggcup on offer in Cardiff. Four months ago, Benitez was snootily told he was "arrogant" and "didn't understand English football culture" when he fielded a feeble team in a third round defeat to Burnley. But now, as Liverpool's well-rested troops prepare for the final of the only cup competition that really matters to big clubs any more, it's more obvious than ever that Benitez got his priorities right. Isn't it?

(I mean, isn't it? really?)

Jumping on the Banksy-wagon

2005-05-19T16:35:00.000-04:00

Subversive guerrilla art or Hoxton wank? asks Londonist.

May I live so long that the same question will one day be asked of me!

And may I be so aware of the work I want to do in the world, and may some of that work take place here.

Nil-nil DOES have a certain ring to it

2005-04-14T12:40:00.000-04:00

The stats tell you it wasn't a particularly pretty game. Six yellow cards -- four to Juventus and two to Liverpool. Four shots, none on goal, for us. Juve came close, very very close, several times -- and we had a couple of good touches but nothing threatening. Astonishingly (or perhaps not, considering Gerrard's absence, since I believe he is a good set-piece architect -- case in point being that low to the ground, high powered bender from last week's match) we failed to convert any chances from corners or free kicks.

But it was enough: Hyypia playing tight in back, stuck to Nedved like white on rice; Finnan kicking the ball endlessly up the sides; Baros doing his damndest all alone near the half-line or further into Juve's end; Dudek keeping calm on his line; it was enough. It was enough -- we held our breath for the full ninety minutes and then some, and it was enough to go through.

Of course we got kicked around, especially Luis Garcia, poor dear, and we all held our breath for Xabi Alonso, who hasn't played since New Year's Day, when this happened. (I feel about Lampard the way I once felt about a certain J Adler -- finding them treeeeemendously foxy, and then feeling guilty and a bit nauseous -- I think this may also be where I end up with Toxic Type, but watch this space -- then again J Adler and TT are twins separated at birth!)

David Maddock wrote a better match report as he always does, and you can find it here.

And this is one reason why I love English football.
And this is another.

Sure it's adolescent and puerile, but a girl can dream, can't she?

Can be? Can it possibly be?

2005-04-04T10:07:00.000-04:00

Oh, wow. Even just the thought of it makes my toes tingle. Even just the idea that this could possibly exist in the world amazes me. Wow. Heaven, I'm in Heaven, and my heart beats so that I can hardly mooooooove ...

And Liverpool beat Bolton at the weekend.

(I'll be out of town until at least Tuesday)

2005-03-22T16:52:00.000-05:00

Emily Ocock Nielsen
July 6, 1911 -- March 22, 2005




Now i lay(with everywhere around)
me(the great dim deep sound
of rain;and of always and of nowhere)and
what a gently welcoming darkestness--

now i lay me down(in a most steep
more than music)feeling that sunlight is
(life and day are)only loaned:whereas
night is given(night and death and the rain

are given;and given is how beautifully snow)

now i lay me down to dream of(nothing
i or any somebody or you
can begin to begin to imagine)

something which nobody may keep.
now i lay me down to dream of Spring

-- ee cummings

Take Courage

2005-03-16T14:30:00.000-05:00

It struck me halfway through the closure conversation last night that THIS part is the hard part. Breaking up, though painful, especially in the moment of its occurrence, isn't often particularly hard. You know what to do: if you're the one being dumped and you're not at home, you leave. You wait for the other person to finish what they are saying (although really, isn't it all just extra throat-choke icing on the newly-single cake after "I think this isn't working ...") and if you have a smart and snappy comeback, you say it -- and then you leave.

I had no such comeback on Sunday. I was incredibly glad I had clothes on, because I felt raw and exposed, and I sat there mute, listening, staring at the wall, at the stereo, at the floor, at anything other than his face, and then I smoked a cigarette that I really only wanted three drags of but felt compelled to finish, and then I think I said something that wasn't too bitter, and then I left.

I spent the next two days and nights trying to get drunk, failing miserably, then waking up with nasty hangovers. I know St Pat's is tomorrow but I'm taking a week off from drinking -- it's not doing me any favors.

And then, last night, being the Southern Gentleman he is, he rang --I guess to check up on me and make sure I wasn't contemplating any sort of Ophelia move. I don't know why he called, really. It's been so fucking long since I've done any part of this entire thing that I have no basis of comparison for why anyone does anything. Is it customary to call two days after you've told someone you don't want to date them anymore? I haven't a clue. It's all a total mystery, and it has been since the beginning, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

We had an ... amicable (?) conversation -- I think we may have even laughed about something at some point. And it sucked. It blew big mf-ing elephant meteor sized chunks of ass. It sucked more than anything else had the past two days -- it sucked more than realizing I'd left my phone in his house about forty minutes after I'd left that morning, going back to try to get it, no one answering the doorbell, going home and asking Ellie to call him and him bringing it by and knowing that I couldn't go get it and hearing his voice downstairs; it sucked more than searching for some medication in the morass of clothes and paper that is my room at the moment and not being able to find that, but of course finding the postcard he sent me from SF, and the autographed drumstick that says "Rock On, Hannah!", and the thousand and one books we talked about; it sucked more than gathering up all of the loans (the DVDs, the books, the whatevers) that got lent without thinking, at the time, of how they might have to come back, and it sucked more than putting them into a big manila envelope and then stressing for more than one but less than three hours about whether or not to write a note to go with them and if so what should it say, etc. It sucked more than all of those things, having this conversation with him out on my balcony at eleven pm last night.

It sucked because this part is the hard part, this is the part I don't know how to do. I know how to be single and bitter, and I know how to flirt, and I know how to extend a late night beer into three, but I don't know how to have this conversation, this closure conversation, especially as the one who'se been let go. I mean, I am not often without words -- maybe not meaningful words, always, but words that can at least fill the awkward interstitial moments between -- I know how to buffer, but there's no way I can buffer my way though this.

So he calls, and I feel struck dumb. I don't know what to say. I got nuttin. The yawning chasm of possible mistakes stretches out before me. It mirrors the beginning of a relationship in a way -- you feel cautious, you don't want to give too much away, but you want them to know how you feel -- except in this case maybe you don't want them to know how you feel, that makes you vulnerable, maybe you wish you could be a superhero Ice Queen, and you can wish and wish and wish and it gets you nowhere. I want him to know that I don't hate him, that I am still fond of him, but I don't want to seem pathetic. But I don't want to be mean. But I don't want to cry, but ... gaaaaahhhhhhrrrgghghgh.

And it kills me, it absolutely fucking strikes me dead that here we are, being awkward, second-guessing everything we say, reconsidering the implications and ramifications of what comes out of our mouths, and seventy-two hours ago, we could have said anything to each other. An abridged list of topics that are now off-limits:
1. sex (obviously)
2. family, his or mine (too personal)
3. basketball (since I never cared about it until we started hanging out, therefore to bring it up refracts back into the now defunct relationship)
4. ditto music/his band
5. ditto football (although it refracts in the reverse)
6. England (when we first started dating it seemed so crazy that we'd done all these similar things, like we were fated, or something, and now that it's over it sucks to remember all that)
7. books, and ....
fuck.

At the very least, though, he called, which means, I suppose, that he does still care on some level, that I'm not meaningless. It was quite clear that We. Are. Not. Getting. Back. Together. So poof! go those fantasies, and now I know the work that needs to be done is the moving-on work. I don't feel pissed beyond the usual why-does-this-always-happen-to-me being pissed, I mostly just feel sad, really sad that it didn't work out, sad for him and sad for me, sad that as much as we're right for each other, the whole thing isn't right, knowing that there's nothing I can do about it, there's nothing I can change, and resigning myself to the situation.

Having been single for as long as I had before the Southern Gentleman, I had gotten good at resigning myself to that -- knowing that flirting and fucking may occur on an irregular basis, but at the end of the weekend you're usually alone in bed, and no one really gives a shit about whether or not your football team won the Carling Cup (they lost, by the way -- Gerrard breaks my heart, each and every day). I am not ready or eager to go back to that, and it really scares me, it frightens me down to the core, how quickly I gave all that up, all that hard-won hard-heartedness: how easy it was to have someone to call, how much it comforted me to not worry or think about flirting with other people, how much pleasure it gave me to see cute boys and think, "Oh, but they're not as cute as my boy" and have that be the end of it. I know I fought that surrender some of the way -- I remember talking about it with G, about how scary even contemplating the surrender was. But for all its scariness, I did it, I let it go, I let him in, I exhaled, and now I really -- really -- wish I hadn't, because I don't want to build it back up.

I wish that there was a way I could just go to sleep for a week and then wake up and not feel this way any more, that I could wake up and it would all be sorted out and filed away in the cortex and I could go on. Sure, it would ache a little when I heard Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, or if we were to run across each other in the Wunderbar, but I would be strong and wearing great lipstick, and we'd cheek-kiss (how Faux-ropean!) and give each other wistful smiles and go on with our lives.

This is the hard part: acknowledging that this person, who I thought was going to be around for a while, will not be -- acknowledging that grief, that loss not only of him but of who I am when I'm with him. This is the hard part: knowing that the rest of the conversations we have will be a foregone conclusion where we both know the result. This is the hard part: whereas incorporating him into my life was a joy, finding all the niches his leaving has emptied is a misery. I don't know how to do this part with any kind of grace.

Damn.

more boring, pretentious stuff you don't want to read

2005-02-07T10:40:00.000-05:00

Anfield's Injury List (thanks to the Mirror, 27 January 2005)
-Djibril Cisse (striker) -- broken leg; expected back next season.
-Chris Kirkland (keeper) -- back; expected back next season.
-Xabi Alonso (striker/midfield) -- broken ankle; expected back by the end of the season.
-Florent Sinama-Pongolle (midfield) -- knee ligaments; expected back by the end of the season.
-Steve Finnan (defense) -- groin; expected back next week.
-Josemi (defense) -- knee; expected back this week.
-Sami Hyppia (midfield) -- hamstring; expected back next week.
-Harry Kewell (midfield) -- ankle; expected back end of February.
-Vladimir Smicer (defense) -- ankle; expected back in two weeks.

Yet they played well this week, and beat Charlton and Fulham. They've told Gerrard they want to build a team around him in an effort to keep him from Chelsea which wants very much to purchase him over the summer. It'll be an interesting end of the campaign -- especially the derby with Everton next month, sicne Everton are currently ten or so points ahead of them in the table.

In other news, Bolton is in SIXTH -- yay Bolton!

For Posterity

2005-01-27T13:20:00.000-05:00

Don't worry my darling SA, I anonymized it ... just didn't want to lose it to the Internet ether, and wanted to share so that others know how brilliant you are!

If you are reading this for the first time, imagine that it's the week before Inauguration (20th January) and you get an Evite with these charming verses:

Twas the day after the Inauguration and all through
the city
Not a liberal was sober, not even P. Diddy.
The vodka bottles were empty, thrown around
without hesitation,
In hopes that John Kerry would magically refund
our donations.

The inconsolable were nestled all snug on the tile
floor,
With visions of tequila shots making them snore.
And what-was-his-name in his underwear, and I in
a bit less,
Had just settled down amongst all of this mess.

When out of my window there arose such a clatter,
I stumbled from my Ikea bed to see what was the
matter.
Away to the window I crawled past a champagne
glass,
Pushed open the window and lit my spare hash.

The sun shined off the dumpster six floors below,
And gave me a glimpse of rats eating leftover snow.
When, what to my eyes should appear after last
nights bender,
But a lost motorcade and eight presidential
contenders.

With a little old driver, so blitzed and looking quite
sick,
I knew in a moment it must be Senator Kennedys
sidekick.
As wrecked as a California hillside they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by
name;

"Now, Clealand! Now, Dorgan! Now Harkin, and
Wyden!
On, Boxer! On Clinton On, Obama and Byden!
To the top of the building! Near the satellite dish!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away tout suite!

As I rubbed my eyes to understand this event,
I thought how this might discount my rent.
So up to the roof somehow they flew,
With a trunk full of booze, and John Kerry too.

And then, I heard their chatter up above,
And I feared that someone might give Hillary a
shove.
As I took another drag, I managed to turn around,
And through my front door, John Kerry came in
with a bound.

He was doused with French cologne, I could tell
from the start,
And his couture was all tarnished and stained by
Pizza Mart.
A handle of vodka he hid in his Dior knapsack,
Made him look like a mendicant savoring a six-
pack.

His eyes -- how frazzled! But his wrinkles were
disappearing,
Which made me want to ask if he might be
botoxing?
The cigarette hanging out of his mouth was all
aglow,
And the stubble on his chin was as dark as old,
grey snow.

He looked exhausted; I worried about his health,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of my drunk
self;
As he opened the Grey Goose with the twist of his
hand,
I knew Id soon be drunkenly returned to dreamland;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And after filling all the empty glasses; he turned
with a jerk,
And what can only be deemed quid pro quo,
John Kerry took the last of Dubya's leftover blow.

He sprang to his limo, to his posse gave a whistle,
And away they all drove as quick as an Iraqi
insurgents missile.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,
"Come to SA's birthday and start the next four
years right!!

(I think that "Dash Away Tout Suite!" might be our generation's rallying cry ... especially whent he draft starts).

Musing, and missing

2005-01-27T11:34:00.000-05:00

A lovely afternoon at SA's mountain aerie -- first pb & j (& b! who knew!) and then he was so generous as to let me watch the football -- Liverpool v Southampton, at St Mary's. Then we watched some SITC, as is de rigeur for an afternoon with SA, and then I had a lovely little interlude with Mademoiselle L, and then it was up 18th St for a Tryst/DCAC rendezvous with the artistic side of my brain, and others'.

A few days ago, I was somewhere, and damn my eyes, I can't remember where, and it smelt, for the briefest of instants, like London. Now I am well acquainted with phantom scents -- downtown, in the pit of summer, melting asphalt mixing with the exhaust fumes of thousands of inadequately upkept city buses and taxis, the air lying low and heavy, pregnant with rain -- that scent is a dead ringer for Santo Domingo. I've gotten used to that one. There were even a few times in London that it smelt like Sto Dgo -- or maybe it was more that the London skyscape echoed its fellow capital to the south -- bare bright blue, strong clouds edging round. However, I had yet to encounter a phantom-London smell. Anywhere. Yet here it was, on some anonymous street corner in DC. And I'll try to describe it, but it's a bit like looking at a star -- you can't look directly at it, you have to look to the side, sniff around a bit, get a sense of the boundaries of it.

It's a wet scent, but not the wet of Rock Creek after torrential rainfall, not the wet of bark and leaves soaked through and through. It's the wetness of granite that's been rained upon for centuries mixed with the wetness of the river, the salty riparian waves and the fresh raindrops mixing together. Throw into the alchemy the exhaust of all those bloody cabs, Black and mini, the buses, the cars -- congestion charging be damned -- and the refridgerated mayonnaise air coming from the Tube vents, and don't forget about the cigarette smoke that hangs around all the time, just over our heads. The London smell has a bit of a bite to it as well, it's not chewy, it's not tangy -- it's a clean snap of the jaws, in your nose. Pavement's got a bit to do in there, as well, and grass, and tile -- those gorgeous centenarian dark green tiles in Regents Park Tube and the bright white tiles and futuristic steel of Canary Wharf. A quintessential urban smell -- not the smoky chemical deepness of an industrial scent, not the warm ripe fecundity of a rural scent, and not like New York City, where you smell the people more than the place. London.

I wonder if it will come again and visit me. I made the mistake of looking at TimeOut online -- oops. I lost about two hours in melancholy. I've been reading this lovely site all week and been fine -- even fantasizing about writing for their football page -- but clearly I'm going to have to make TimeOut off-limits. I don't miss it as much as I used to, or something -- scar tissue over the gaping wound of my heart, etc -- but then I'll get a little glimpse and I'm back in the maelstrom, missing Brixton Brixton Brixton, missing the bridges, the Oxo Tower, the pelicans in St James Park, walking in the hordes on Oxford Street ... I 'll stop.

The Reds lost to the Saints, two-nil. We're still fifth, but barely. Apart from the total crap of losing to Soton, even if they started Jamie Redknapp, cheeky popstar-marry-er that he is -- apart from that is the awful fact that Everton is on top of us in the table, in fourth. Everton. The irony of this -- the sheer bloody bollixsieness of it -- is lost on nearly everyone reading this page, so I won't harp on.

EVERTON?!?!?!

In other news, G downstairs has safely returned from his long weekend in Paris with his amour -- and he even brought me a choccie from Heathrow! A Yorkie -- It's Not For Girls. Brilliant.

Curioser and curioser

2005-01-15T01:09:00.000-05:00

Another similarity between work and footy: the utter specificity of the moment and the consequent blurring together in memory. I can no better remember an amazing game in its entirety than I can remember everything that happens during a shift, even if it is exceptionally good (=lovely tables, not too busy, good tips) or exceptionally bad (=everyone in a foul mood, unhappy with their food even though it's gorgeous, no respite, and crap money). Sure, moments stick out: Rooney's brilliant backpass to Beckham in the England v Turkey game, Spring of 2003, or Pat Carroll's woeful mishandling of the ball in last weeks Man Utd v Spurs match (Spurs were ROBBED!); the guy that was all pissy we wouldn't let him stick tables together, or the couple that waited for an hour and never complained once, etc etc. And when you are in it -- in the work or in the experience of watching the game, you are completely absorbed, all of your sensory and intellectual needs are being challenged. Then, the minute you leave it, it vanishes except for the extraordinary bits.

I don't imagine everyone is like this -- I frequently had the experience of watching a match with Dan in the Hobgoblin (sweet sweet Brixton!) and then listening to him on the phone with his mates shortly afterwards, describing the game, and having the odd sensation that we had watched two completely different matches, so complex was his analysis. See also Fever Pitch, in which Mr Hornby manages to re-live (and intelligently comment on) matches from thrity-odd years ago as if they had been permanently seared into his brain.

It's still like watching Shakespeare, for me, football is: it takes me a long time to get inside, past the passive shell, and even when I sense I'm in it, flowing along, there are still universes unfolding, entire subplots and passes and fields of play evolving of which I am not even slightly aware, so wrapped up am I in what's immediately before me. A bit like the forest for the trees, I suppose: and I just haven't yet learned how to see both. I can see the forest, or I can see the trees, but it'll be some time before I can intelligently comment on tactics and strategy, how different substitutions will affect the flow of play, or even note (eeep!) who is playing on which side. Yay for wanting to learn things. Oh heavens, somebody get me a job and stop me spouting this crap.

mediation XI (an early Valentine)

2004-12-29T04:35:00.000-05:00

Also, Karlos has Fox Sports World so I´ve been happy as a little pig in some glorious mud watching EPL whenever my greedy little hands get the remote. Today I saw Man U beat WBA one-nil. WBA played well, maybe even well enough to deserve a goal, but cést la vie. Also Liverpool beat Southampton one-nil (thank heavens!) -- Sinama-Pongolle in the first half, which made me happy since I think he´s quite an asset. He´s young, and French, more´s the pity, but he has great energy and an eye for passing as well as for scoring, which is more than one can say about Cisse (not to speak illof the injured). They didn´t broadcast that game, however.

I have this to say about watching good football, and in particular, Man U today (Rooney was back, bless his thick thuggish neck) -- it is an immensely satisfying experience. It has all the elements of a good day at work: it requires concentration, it requires a sense of humor, there is a need for honor and balance (and when it´s a good game both of those abound), and the energy flows just as much in the languid moments as it does in periods of intense activity.

Graham Poll officiated, bless his heart, which always tears me apart the tiniest bit because he takes himself so seriously (they make ironic T Shirts with his silhouette and the caption is "The Graham Poll Fan Club: He´s Making Good Decisions!") -- but I´ll say this for him -- he knows how to keep a game going.

Watching them play together is just an absolute joy. It´s different than watching a Liverpool game -- my heart is always in my throat, then, and although I think on balance Benitez is doing quite well, the Reds still play as disparate parts (the Armada, Stevie, assorted Finns & Frogs) that sometimes come together as a team, rather than as a team, full stop.

Ah, but to watch Manchester United in fine form! Giggsy running like a Welsh Tasmanian devil (he scored). Scholes is always, always, always a treat -- plus Rooney, his truly massive, still-adolescent, fleshy chin jutting out from under his tiny deepset eyes, still eager to prove he was worth the money. Rio knocking everyone back towards the middle -- I´m not a big Rio fan, but he does his job well and I think he´s a good captain. Pat Carroll stunningly magnificent in goal -- kiss Old Trafford goodbye Tim Howard, they don´t need you anymore (is there a curse on American keepers in the EPL? Brad Friedel´s a menace to Blackburn´s tally sheet as well). O´Shea, jumping about, with a lookof perennial disappointment on his face except when someone else scores (how Irish!), and Alan Smith -- didn´t get much of the ball actually, his one attempt bounced off the crossbar, but he´s so cute and blond, what can I say? Ferguson brought on Keano in the second half, which always makes me happy, although I wonder how many seasons he´s got left, and that makes me sad. Ronaldo and his metallic boots I can take or leave but he played well, Heinze too, Nevilles first and second -- you know, your standard Man U lineup when no one´s injured -- but ah, what standards to have!

I love it. I love it with my whole self, all my cells and axons (I know that´s redundant), with my fingernails, my toenails, my eyelashes, my bellybutton, my tastebuds, my synapses come alive, I love seeing them charge down the field almost abreast, Giggsy and Scholesie and Keane, the Old Guard, passing it all around and up to Rooney, to Smith, the present and the future of English football together, all breathing the same fire, all looking for the same sweet spot, be it hit by their foot or someone else´s.

Say what you will about hairdryers and throwing boots and hyperactive mastication, but the Scotsman bloody well knows how to put a team together. If Rooney can avoid the fate of Gazza, and here´s hoping he can, it´ll be due to his mum, Coleen, and Sir Alex. Well, probably not Coleen, actually. She´s a bit pikey. Probably just his mum and Sir Alex.

And ... I´m spent. I would hyperlink it all, but I´m on Karlos´computer and I don´t quite know how the keyboard works (it keeps making this "ç" and I don´t know why or how to stop it).

So, in case I don´t post again before New Year, here is a summary of what I´ve blogged so far:
Ethiopian food, go-go, Red Sox, A Grand Don´t Come For Free, Wonderland, EPL = good.
InDecision 04, strange behaviour from any corner, travelling sans earplugs/discman = bad.

Tra-la!

P.S.

2004-12-29T04:33:00.000-05:00

the car broke down on the way back from San Felipe. But it wasn´t on the highway, it was in the city, and it´s not completamente jodido, solamente falta liquido del clutch o algo asi, and Alberto´s dad is a mechanic. Talk about a silver lining ... Booyakasha!

Aventurando en Mexicali

2004-12-29T04:26:00.000-05:00

Al fin y al cabo llego a las ocho y media de la noche, after a too-long Greyhound bus ride spent as an unwilling listener of the exchange behind me between a 19-year-old Marine recently back fromIraq ("Travis") and his seatmate Regina (twenty years old, from suburban New York but in school in Arizona, fake blonde,well-manicured nails). Conversational highlights included:

Regina: Why don´t you have a cell phone?
Travis: Cell phones are for gay guys.
Regina: Everyone has a cell phone. All my guy friends have cell phones.
Travis: Why?
Regina: So I can talk to them on the phone, for, like, four hours. Youknow, sometimes you want to talk to someone and you´re in your bed and you don´t want to leave... etc etc

And:

Regina: Did you ever feel bad? About killing people?
Travis: No, they´ve killed innocent people.
Regina: I know, the twin towers ...

That almost had me out of my seat, but I didn´t want to cut my visit short with jailtime. And then they talked about how they both voted for Bush. Imagine three hours of that, with no discman or anything.Yick.

AFORTUNADAMENTE that´s been the absolute low point of my trip so far. Karlos and his lovely gentleman friend Alberto met me across theborder (the pedestrian border crossing from Calexico to Mexicali is literally one turnstile) and we went out that night to a dance club,for amateur strip night. At least I hope it was amateur night becausesome of it really sucked. My particular favorite was this guy named"Edgar En Accion" who had come all the way from Tijuana to take off his clothes ... to the tune of "In Da Club." Not sure how 50 Cent would enjoy his breakthrough single used as backup for an ever-so-slightly hirsuite Mexican man, but I thought it was brilliant. He had not only a fedora but also chaps with side zips. Having never before seen a pair of black leather chaps with side zips, I gotta admit, that´s pretty classy.

Karlos´s grandma (who is doing Navidad in Mazatlan with the rest of La Familia Guzman -- so it´s just the three of us here in the house, plus Gogo the fluffy white dog ... very cosy) called the neighbor who got her husband to come over and replace the battery in Karlos´ car, only he doesn´t know how to drive, so, until me and Alberto teach him, we´ve been the chauffeurs the past couple of days while Karlos sits in back with Gogo. I must say, not only am I most happy to be able to drive a stick, but that driving in Mexico isn´t nearly as odd as driving in Ireland, although the distinct lack of lane markings can be disconcerting. Knowing which side of the road to pull out onto counts for a lot, eh? At least they´ve got left turn arrows at major intersections.

Last night we ate Christmas dinner at Alberto´s house (his mom made turkey with raisins in the stuffing ... yum ... they asked me if I wanted a beer, I said yes, and then I got a Bud Light in a can. How´s that for insane imperialist culture? Not that I´m hating on the Bud Light ... St Lou 4-eva!) and then we came home and drank some disgustingly sweet white wine and watched "Dirty Pretty Things" and some of "Love Actually" so it was Chjwetel Ejiofor-in-London movie marathon. Watching them together was a really wierd trip, I must say -- one is super sparkly and snuggly, one is the polar opposite, they both deal with reality although on completely different levels. If I wasn´t about to go to sleep I would expound more on this topic. Ask me for further thoughts on my return if you´re interested.

Today we got up late and I made banana pancakes and then Alberto drove us all to the mountain range outside of Mexicali called "La Rumorosa."By the time we headed back it was dark and the moonlight was incredible on the rocks. Every now and again there would be a white cross someone had put up, which sent shivers down my spine. It´s a pretty serious desert here, so the mountains are huge mounds of dustand rocks and scrub brush. And the dust/sand gets everywhere -- I´ve had a cough ever since I got here and I can´t wear my contacts for more than four hours without them itching the bejaysus out of me.

Tonight we also had tacos al vapor -- yum! and then went to see "·LosIncreibles" dubbed into Mexican Spanish. Beerlarious! Tomorrow we´re going to San Felipe which apparently is a tiny town onthe coast with the Gulf. Both Karlos and Alberto are working thenight shift tomorrow at the Red Cross so we are getting up early (I pushed for a trip to Ensenada instead, G, just so I could take apicture of The Road To Ensenada, but no dice). Then it´s only a couple more days before back through the turnstile I go and it´s MF-ing ON BABY; ON! to sunny/foggy Cullyforynah.

Finally

2004-12-20T17:04:00.000-05:00

The digital camera which came into my possession sixth months ago has now been all set up just in time for the trip. Yippee! I am stoked.

Reality Check

2004-12-14T02:58:00.000-05:00

In which I realize that the "Friends" theme song accurately describes my life:

Your job's a joke (check)
You're broke (check)
Your love life's DOA (check)
It's like you're always stuck in second gear (check)
When it hasn't been your day (check), your month (check), or even your year (double-check)

But they make it sound so goddam ... peppy.

explanation, please

2004-12-05T02:10:00.000-05:00

I met this guy at Tryst last month, the evening before the election. Randomly -- I sat at his table because there was a spot free and his ashtray was full and I wanted to smoke.

We talked about London and Madrid, about politics, about quirks. He was tall and had dark hair, and I pretty much thought he was lovely, and we had a nice conversation. Okay. He left after bumming a few stogs, and after introducing himself to me.

I was confused. It seemed to me like we were hitting it off, and then he just left. So I chalked it up to the Great He's Just Not That Into Me in the Sky, and managed to let it go.

Fast forward to tonight (this morning). After dinner, Elissa and I watch some Freaks and Geeks, and then go to the Wonderbar to meet up with some other peeps.

We're there, we're dancin', we're drinkin' -- and guess who walks in -- that's right, Mystery Man.

I find him at the bar. Buy him a drink (well, I tried to buy him a drink -- but they comped me -- woo hoo!) We talk. He introduces me to some of his peoples -- they're all friends with the DJ, very nice. We go downstairs to have a smoke, then I go back to my folks, he goes back to his. Okay.

For the next two hours, off and on, we sort of meet up and go away from each other -- two or three times. He buys me a drink, he gives me a smoke, we see each other upstairs and downstairs, we have several more conversations. I do not seek him out, but he comes up to me at least once.

Then I'm upstairs and I'm dancing and I see him go downstairs. I don't follow because I'm dancing and it's my last song and I'm about to leave. Then when I get downstairs, I don't see him -- maybe he's in the bathroom? I say to one of his friends (very politely, he introduced me to everyone), "Oh, please tell X I said goodnight" and she says, "I think he's already left."

So.

I know, I know, He's Just Not That Into Me. But if that's true, then why talk to me again, AFTER the first conversation (the one I started) has ended? Why? If you're Not That Into Me, why talk to me more than once? Why make faces at me across the dance floor? Why tell me, "I'm delighted to see you here?" Why buy me a goddam drink? Is there some secret man-woman code for which I am missing the bloody key? I didn't want to throw myself at him, but I could barely fucking stand whenever we were near each other, I was so shaky, and then he just ... left.

I am mystified.

I look to my Eskimo friend

2004-12-04T19:03:00.000-05:00

I am sitting on my couch. Elissa is coming over for rice & beans in half an hour. I've started on the rice.

I am listening to Damien Rice -- Graham had his CD downstairs, which I listened to 24-7 in Ireland and then promptly lost when I stayed at Dan's before leaving London.

Earlier today, at P & P, I was skimming through Jamie Oliver's latest opus (I love to ick him) (ick ick ick!) and there was a picture of him buying some veggies at Borough Market, and I just teared up. Almost fucking lost it right there in P & P. The last time that happened was when I read Nikki Giovanni's elegy for Tupac.

Then I get home and I get an email from my friend Emily, who I met in Galway but is now back in the States with her English boyfriend, Mark. And she tells me they're getting married, which is great.

But oh God, I want an English fiancee to take me away from here. I want to go to Borough Market for ostrich burgers and massive eggplants and ice skate at Somerset House, and I want to make the pound, not the grotty dollar.

I've been back more than a year, and that scares the bejaysus out of me, and before I left I really didn't want to come back because I was scared of getting stuck, and I have totally succumbed, and I don't know how to stop.

Now I've got fifteen minutes to smoke a fag (sorry SA but give me this one anglicism, just once, please) and pull myself together before Elissa gets here. Maybe I can blame it all on cutting onions.

NY to the C

2004-11-21T17:39:00.000-05:00

(so this post is horribly out of date but thought it might amuse anyway). (just imagine it's the middle of November). (thanks for your indulgence).

Two days in the city that never sleeps with the Brits -- my dear friend Tanya and her gentleman friend Adam, who both make googobs of the cold hard at a 1.85 dollar to 1 pound sterling exchange rate in the LDN, as chronicled through the food we ate:

-Monday morning at their hotel (the Helmsley no less) -- Tanya and I had corned beef hash with poached eggs (delicious!), Adam had granola with raspberries, then bacon and eggs. Coffee, oj, brown toast.

-Lunch: first, a round of hot dogs from a vendor on Park Ave (mustard, ketchup, onions), then on to a lovely Italian hole in the W 73rd St wall ("Let's have a lovely boozy lunch!" said Tans -- so we did). A bottle of Pinot Grigio. Cold asparagus dressed in a vinaigrette and chopped hardboiled eggs. Prosciutto that could serve as butter -- that creamy and fantabulous, with mozzarella di buffalo and a little oil & balsamico. Adam had veal carpaccio (I shuddered, and then tried it -- it tasted like dry roast turkey) with a nice tuna & caper sauce. Then dessert -- a not-too-sweet, not-too-coffee tiramisu, and pistachio gelato with tiny little bits of nuts. La, la.

-a campari and soda in the hotel bar before it was off to Soho to dine with Adam's mate from Oxbridge, Dan. Now, Dan, bless him, in that balding, roundish Anglo-male way, can never look anything but a bit rumpley, and has a lovely smile. Then I found out he writes the scripts for Grand Theft Auto ("Bitch, gimme my money!!" wtf?). We ate at a Korean/Japanese restaurant. It was a relatively slow night, and the owner, or somebody else important, waited on us and we had an AMAZING meal.

When English people of reasonable (or drunken) means, in my limited experience, "go for an Indian," or any other non-English, non-Continental meal, tend to order pretty much anywhere between two-thirds to three-quarters of what is on the menu. The number of people you are dining with is irrelevant. None of this wimpy American each-person-gets-one-thing-
and-maybe-you-share nonsense. You might talk about what looks good before you place the order, you might say what you will or won't eat depending on your dietary needs, but it all goes out the window as soon as the server approaches your table.

"We'll start off with some ...
oh, and we'd better get some of that...
and let's not forget that ...." etc etc etc

Unbelievable. T and I shared a bottle of white (well, Dan had one glass, but otherwise the boys drank beer).

We had: Grilled eel (takes me back to Tokyo) on skewers. Spicy tuna roll (& spicy it was!). steak tartare with a raw egg -- the steak so cold you could almost crunch the ice crystals with your teeth. Crispy sauteed beef. Mountains upon mountains of yummy sushi and sashimi of every kind -- a veritable rainbow of pouisson. Cold spinach arranged into wee little mounds with a tangy sesame dressing ("Oh, there's our greens, then," sighed Dan). Luckily no miso soup, since it tastes like old socks to me (I really want to like it, I really do, but it tastes like old socks).

And the awesome thing about it was that I took Tanya's lead and just had little bites of everything -- she looks like a bird and she eats like one too, except for breakfast, bless her heart -- so I tasted everything but I didn't eat mountains of food like the boys, which would have made me feel quite ill. They can really put it away though -- reminds me of my father in his prime. Gotta love some rangy tall metabolism.

Tuesday morning we got bagels & lox -- yum.

Then we went to sushi -- again. Bear with me. "We can't get good sushi in London," they said. "We're going to some odd Mexican/Thai restaurant tonight," they said (the name of the restaurant was Blue Chilli -- what else could it be?). So we had some more -- admittedly, incredible -- sushi. Tuna tartare with a raw quail egg on top. Spicy tuna roll. Rock shrimp tempura. Salmon skin roll -- that was brilliant. More of that lovely cold spinach thing. A sashimi platter -- salmon, yellowtail, mackerel, prawn. Gorgeous.

Then it's off to the shops -- Tans was on a mission to buy Seven jeans (lord forgive me) so we went to the Barneys co-op, and then to Diane Von Furstenberg's boutique, where she paid -- I kid you not -- two hundred dollars for a SHRUG (it looks stunning, & I'll be the first to admit that, but come on) and then I took her to the Strand, which is my particular shopping mecca. We bought de Bernieres and Frayn and Lethem and Ridley and Butler and Alexie, and then cabbed it back to the Helmsley for a restorative Baileys.

Blue Chilli was not, as we had thought, a godawful Thai/Mexican fusion catastrophe. It was, rather, a very swank Japanese restaurant (!!! I haven't eaten this much raw fish since Tokyo!). We were joined for dinner by the aforementioned rumpley Dan (who's name, when pronounced in Adam's accent, sounds like "Diane", which was the cause of quite a bit of personal confusion for yours truly), and their mates from college Rowan ("Rone"), India ("Ind-ya") and Yen ("Yen"). India has Barbie's body (sized down -- she's only about five feet tall) and Barbie's long blonde hair and Patsy from AbFab's bangs, poochy-out lips, voice, and mannerisms. Needless to say I couldn't get enough. She'd already drunk two saketini's by the time we arrived and spent most of the night standing up, making her chair fall over, striding about, interrogating Tanya and Adam about their relationship, and making pronouncements such as "I never drank when I was married, but now I'm divorced, and I drink all the time, and it's lovely." Bless.

A repeat of the amazing food from before -- only now with a plateful of raw oysters as well, plus steak, plus some sort of fish, which was lovely. Thoroughly stuffed and watered (three or four cocktails I believe -- which would not have been a problem had I been in practice as I was living in London or Ireland, but here -- jeez), I cabbed it waaaaay uptown for a quick glass of wine with L and new new beau, who I thoroughly approve of, before nodding off.

(Fast forward to tonight when Dore wants to go to dinner and suggests Japanese (she's pining, poor girl) and I really, really want to do this thing for her, but I. Just. Can't. So I suggest Whole Foods. Why not, really? She can get her california roll on and I can go buckwild with some latkes. Yum, yum, yum).

Best Site Ever!!

2004-11-09T23:13:00.000-05:00

Or will be for the next four years.

It's so true.

Update bo bup date

2004-11-08T15:45:00.000-05:00

First, I want to plug Chris Kaminstein and Max Goldblatt's new musical "The Terrible Parable of Leni Riefenstahl" which debuted this weekend at Wesleyan University. Now I was in DC debuting my own show and as such was unable to see it, but come on. You can't go wrong with those two lovely young gentlemen and that title.

So, it's been a while. Last post was 30 October. That night I dressed up in Ellie's pink cable knit sweater and pearls and house slippers and an apron and was Drunken Housewife for Halloween. I don't remember very much about the night other than that I screamed a lot when DB came in, and Amber was there, and we were in Mount Pleasant and I had a martini glass that my minions were very good at keeping filled. Also, the next morning I received a text message from an unknown number: "Restaurant & sex still an option?"

So I gather I was rather on my game.

31st I got up and took a cab to work (how horrible). Luckily it wasn't the busiest of Sunday brunches because I would not have been able to handle it. Walked home. Laid on the couch and then managed to briefly rouse myself and put in an appearance at Adancito's birthday party (make your own pizza?!?!) and then came home and laid on the couch some more.

The first I have what I did no idea except I found out that we didn't have to be in the theatre all day Tuesday as I had previously thought, which angered me because I would have gone to Philadelphia to knock on doors. Which is where Ellie, the troupiest of troupers, comes in. Monday night we had a frantic drive to Philly, stayed at J's lovely abode, woke up early in the am, connected with the MoveOn people, and spent Tuesday morning knocking on doors. Mostly cute little old Italian nonnas, and one crazy anti-Semite. Then we went to Shanks and had the best sandwich ever and went to the market and bought amazing cheese and drove home in time to vote and get to the theater. Yay! What a lovely impromptu adventure.

Well, yay until Tuesday night anyway. I piled on Ellie's bed to cry and freak out, then G came home and joined us, and then K and Z came home, and we had a nice albeit apocalyptic snuggle before going to our respective sleeping quarters to fitfully doze through the wee frantic Ohio morning.

I am still in shock and inarticulate about the entire hullabaloo.

Wednesday the third it was a blessing to go to the theatre and have a routine and be able to have to physically move, not just walk around in a little heartbroken shell. The crowd wasn't great in numbers but was indeed great in spirit, and that's what we needed, anyway.

The daytime of Thursday the fourth is again lost to me; the show was good -- Rachel and assorted Wesheads came. Then Rachel and I went to the Wonderbar, and had a delicious kielbasa and managed to not depress ourselves too much. Ellie joined us for a beer, and we made a new and I believe to be a strategically important friend. It was a late night, but supremely enjoyable, if I do say so myself.

Friday morning I got home around 7:30 and laid on the couch -- watched the last ten minutes of Tom Jones, Finding Nemo, The Knack (an awful movie, never rent this), and -- of course -- Bridget Jones. Tried to decorate my room in time for Leana and Heather's visit, and was unsuccessful, although I did nail the corkboard up and it looks quite lovely.

I thought Friday night was a good show. We were in the CityPaper, and it was our first sellout crowd. A really lovely crowd -- got many of the jokes and little bits that had theretofore gone unnoticed.

Saturday I had brunch with my parents and my aunt who was in town for the weekend. Missed the Liverpool-Birmingham game (they lost 1-0 at Anfield... it's going to be a long and tough slog to fourth place). Went and got the girls. Leana and I hung out in the afternoon and then I dropped her off to meet Heather for dinner (I had a 6:30 call).

It's so wonderful when really good friends that you don't get to see that often come for a visit. It was so brilliant to be with the girls. They both seem to be doing well in NYC. After the show we went home, the three of us and AB (be still my beating heart), and drank & smoked a little and then went to Wonderland with G and Ellie and David. Yippee!!

It was packed and smoky and the people-watching was fabulous. Max bought the first round and I bought the second and then G bought me a beer right before he left. It was one of those lovely evening when some you time your eating and beer intake perfectly right so that you are happily drunk for a long time, but never too drunk, and never tired. Excellent. I ran into two regulars from the restaurant -- two regulars that I even like, which is the best -- and one of them remembered my fake name for him, which made me very pleased. Good music as always -- Superstitious, and that Radiohead song I can't remember the title of that goes "Transport, motorways, and tramlines ..."

I challenged G to a mission and was sorely disappointed in his efforts and his ultimate failure to succeed in said mission, but all was well. And AB stayed for not just one (as he had previously mooted he only had time for) but two beers, which was nice. I am trying to not read too much into that.

We went home and went to sleep and in the morning Heather's brother came by with bagels and bagel accoutrements, and we had a too-short footie chat (I hadn't known about Santini leaving, yikes!) and then he drove the girls to the bus and I went to catch the last half of the Manchester derby. Can't imagine that the United-Yankees parallel can go on much longer if they keep playing like that. Which isn't to say that City had a good game, because they didn't, really, leaving Richard Dunne's excellent defensework aside. Anelka was nowhere to be seen. SWP had a few good breakway runs, but they were ultimately stymied. United -- what is going on? Giggs was trying to make it happen, Keane was trying to make it happen, Scholes and then Rooney -- and no follow through. Most frustrating. Of course Poll was the ref. Of course. He wasn't as bad as he's been, though. Smith definitely deserved to get sent off.

It was strange to have the last show -- I think we were really starting to breathe into it. Of course I forgot things on the last night, of course. Overall, not bad. Had a lovely post-show beer and burger at Tonic with AB, Sabrina, S, the irrepressible T, and the cocky faux-Parisian. Riotous, actually. The kind of table I love having as a waitress.

Which brings us to today, and What Comes Next.

What Comes Next?

The Seaweed Is Always Greener

2004-10-30T01:21:00.000-04:00

There is a more extensive Boston report upcoming; suffice it to say that the foliage was most charming and so was the company. I did take the time to walk around Fenway Park, which, although empty (since they were playing in St Louis by then) shimmered with the energies of many thousand prayers since answered. Wednesday night, back in DC, saw the phenomenal Dresden Dolls, and got home in time for the last of the Champagne.

Since then I've been working back at the place and pretty much loving it, although I know that I need to make some serious long-term plans soon. How bloody boring does that sound, eh? Shouldn't there be some way for me to profit from my love of football and my encyclopedic knowledge of the lyrics to "Under the Sea"? ("when the sardines begin the beguine/ it's music to me ... what do they got, a lot of sand?/ We got a hot crustacean band ...")

And tomorrow -- Liverpool at Blackburn -- cross your fingers that Stevie'll be back.

Fairplay but who can I rely on then?

2004-10-22T13:35:00.000-04:00

Might I suggest "A Grand Don't Come For Free" as the soundtrack to your next errand-running excursion? It's forty-five minutes of first-person drama, and I have found that it dovetails quite neatly with the petty bullshit of life (seeing as the content of the album consists of pretty much just that). As you leave the house, the dreary yet triumphant thumps of It Was Supposed To Be So Easy lend quite the swagger to your hips -- the only problem I have found with this brilliant 3.5 minutes is the timing at the beginning is a little too slow for one full step in between -- you kind of half to stutter as youn walk. It's good though -- just imagine you're wearing massive white sneakers and a tracksuit.

So you're off, striding purposefully towards the bus, absolutely bloody well sure that you will, unlike Mikee, accomplish everything you set out to do -- even dropping the DVDs off into the mailbox at the appropriate lyric. You gaze soulfully at the handsome youngish/oldish hipster on the bus during Could Well Be In, imagining him buying you a pint, and you play with your hair. He doesn't notice, of course, but it doesn't matter because by then you're off listening to Not Addicted and fantasizing about footy -- can you believe Everton is now above Man Utd on the table? What is the world coming to? Is it a new curse -- Curse of the Rooney?

Then you're off the bus and Blinded by the Lights and half-walking half-dancing, you pick up your last paycheck, you deposit it, the world is beautiful and you Wouldn't Have It Any Other Way, and you fight your way through the CVS line to buy rat poison -- Get Out of My House, rodents! and feminine products. On the walk through Dupont Circle you notice the hotties of all sorts sunning themselves (Fit But You Know It -- so effing true, there oughta be a law!) -- and the dude cuts you off at the crosswalk -- Such A Tw*t.

The walk to the bus stop -- What is He Thinking turns you cynical -- reimagining old hurts and new faults. You see a happy couple on the bus and you wonder how long it will last. One of them at least will need to Dry their Eyes before long. Ha. And then you're off the bus, on your way home, that charging challenge of Empty Cans -- If I want to sit in and drink Super Tennants in the day I Will, no one's gonna fucking tell me jack -- oooh, even just typing it makes me feel mean and powerful and all kinds of pisssed off.

But it switches at the end, it does, that masterful sleight of hand, and so you unlock your door and you bound up your steps with a smile and your housemate is there at the top with something warm and sweet-smelling, and the second season of The Office just came in the mail, and as the rain starts pounding the roof in, you get to sit and drink hot chocolate and laugh, and this is start of what was.

Spectacular Soxtacular

2004-10-21T13:48:00.000-04:00

I get home from the first night to a roomful of people, rally caps, beer, peanuts, and extremely wary smiles. Sox are up by 4 -- to nothing. No one wants to acknowledge the fact that this could possibly be happening. I take a seat and join, leaving occasionally to change, wash my face, grab some food, some beer, etc. The game seems to drag on and on. I take up Ellie's habit of chanting "Fuck you, Jeter!" whenever the camera focuses on him. It's really fun -- I highly recommend it. At one point, we chanted, and he seemed to nod his head at us, as if he had heard, which made us exceedingly pleased.

They put Pedro on the mound and we all freak out. They take him off and we are happy. We refuse to actually refer to what appears to be happening on the screen until the game is actually over. Wow. Wow. Amazing. I have many more interesting thoughts about this that I would love to share when my head is not quite so foggy.

So the people who don't live at my house go home, and Ellie, G, and myself stride purposefully towards Wonderland, eager for more drinking, more celebration. The bar, thankfully, had the perfect level of occupation -- we were the main event for a moment, bursting in with our elation, and then everyone turned back to their respective drinks and conversations . The cutie cutie bartender (oh, what a nose on that man!) made shots of some red concoction for us on the house, and then we each have a drink. G allows as to how he still can't quite believe it -- that he keeps thinking that somehow they will find a way to rejigger the score so that the Yankees actually won. Then he buys a round for the entire bar, which was truly awesome, as I had previously seen that done only in movies.

Then we go home and play some more, and then we brush our teethies and go to sleep. Yaaaaaay!

It is now 2:20 pm. I have a five o'clock call. So far today I have: made coffee, read the New Yorker, organised our massive recycling pile, and made lunch. My head is not among the fleetest at the moment, and I sit on our lovely couch in my sweatpants writing on Ellie's laptop, wishing that I could magically fix the television so that I could watch Pepe Le Moko on DVD. This is so fun. I cannot even tell you. I write that unironically.

Ellie and I want to figure out a way to sell playing at home for a day with us. We could make so much money. People would pay to not go to work, and just come over to our house and make yummy things to eat (apple turnovers yesterday and cupcakes today, if we ever get out of the house to purchase food coloring for the frosting) and watch DVDs and wear sweatpants and have fun. It is so fun! And it's not even that expensive. But don't tell that to the people who will be queueing up to pay us to come and play!

This post is much like my brain: wandering, slightly incoherent, ebullient, but confused. Just there, I actually kept typing condused instead of confused, and I think that "condused," as a word, much more accurately conveys my mental acuity at the mo.

Tra-la! It's off to the yummy Indian import store in Langley Park!

You know you want to come!

Perhaps We Have Turned A Corner?

2004-10-14T14:53:00.000-04:00

So I came home last night after a somewhat tense rehearsal (we open in less than a week and I feel pretty safe saying that no one likes how much we've got to get done, or how little time we have left -- still, I think it will come together) to two massive tv's in G's front room, one blaring the final debate and one showing the Yankees-Red Sox game (shed a tear). And lots of lovely people and lovely food.

Yadda yadda, debate's over, sportscaster volume goes up and pundit volume goes down. I'm in the kitchen putting the pain au chocolat bread pudding* I had made the night before into the oven to warm up (say what you will about Nigella -- I know she isn't everyone's cup of tea -- but she can be pretty damn inspiring at times) and I start talking to this dude. We're just talking and laughing -- you know, the us. (Is there a proper way to spell the first syllable of "usual?" The only thing I can work out is "yoozhe," but that doesn't quite cut it. Please help).

So we're getting along, and doing that eye-contact thing, and it's really great. I mean, not your run of the mill, garden style flirtation, but the kind of thing where you're not nervous or anxious or weird or sharp or mean about it (how I usually flirt for those of you who haven't had the pleasure and would like to be able to call it when you see it). You just feel kinda happy and warm, and not worried, having a good time smiling at this other person who smiles back at you. And you keep discovering things you have in common, and you laugh at each other's jokes, and it's just like this little sweetness falls into your life, this little window of "Oh, right, I don't always have to be this bitchy schlub who says inappropriate things at inopportune times."

I haven't had any of that in quite a while. Partly because I've not been going out, I've been staying in and pining for my last greatest love, partly just whatever, my energy has not been focused in that arena, you know? We hit it off, I thought he was cute, he thought I was cute, it was fabulous. So of course he lives a continent away, and I'll probably never see him again, sniff, sniff, but it was like this little reminder from the universe that there's still some magoo left over for me somewhere. So, yay. I was even wearing my specs, which just goes to show that even Dorothy Parker can be wrong sometimes.

In unrelated, yet always important, footy news, England beat Azerbaijan 1-0, thanks to a header from everyone's favorite diminutive bolsador de alfombras, Michael Owen. I won't even go into the most recent Bx fiasco -- the less said the better (although Oliver Holt always gives good scathe). Looks to be an excellent weekend as well now that folks are back in Blighty -- the baby blues against the pinko blues (Man City v Chelski), Liverpool v Fulham (just imagine if those Thais had gone through with their deal from the summer -- then it would be the Thais vs El Fayed and Baby-Face! Franklin Foer would have had a field day), Man U v Birmingham City (and we all know City's biggest fan, and City's biggest fan's biggest fan**) and I won't be seeing none of them, since I'll be in the theatre. Damn you, tech week! (etc, etc)

*I tried to find a recipe to link to, but they're all crap and way too involved. It's really not hard -- a regular bread pudding recipe but use pain au chocolat instead, or regular croissants with chopped dark chocolate. Delish. Bless you Nigella!
**err, ah, that would be me.

Umm, yes.

2004-10-13T15:11:00.000-04:00

Sometimes your friends know you so well, it's scary. I got this email today:

I just saw on your Friendster site your blog address. You have a blog. You are so cool :) I will now be reading it occasionaly, as I have several blogs I peruse and I'm sure yours will be among the best. (X)'s is full of rambles about love and bad poetry but yours has letters about mice and transcripts of messages from Daniel. I'm hooked. Do we have a little too much free time now that we've quit our job?;) K

On a related note: watching G's enthusiastic swearing during the 8th inning last night -- reminiscent of Dr Fish Poop's reaction to Manchester United games, but with less furniture-throwing -- has made me a Red Sox fan. A johnny-come-later, ill-informed Red Sox fan, but a fan nevertheless. (Related since the writer of the above message is from outside Boston, and not only a Red Sox fan, but also once witnessed the aforementioned Dr Fish Poop's fever pitch madness. May we all be so .. err.. lucky?)

And I never even thought I liked baseball. Well, I don't really like baseball -- doesn't have the flow and build of the beautiful game, plus baseball uniforms do not make anyone's butt look good (I'm just saying) -- but I did go to that game in Santo Domingo once. Tigres de Licey vs. Leones del Escogido. That was pretty hott: like the Mets playing the Yankees, Everton playing Liverpool, or Man City v Man U, inter-city games (or "derbies" if we want to be anglo) are always a good time.

For the record: the job doesn't end till Friday, so get those file-folder color preferences in to me fast.

No Alarms and No Surprises (Part 1)

2004-10-12T15:41:00.000-04:00

I apologize for the blatant typos in my previous post. I usually have a bit more of an eagle eye for that sort of thing (seeing as I did win the Spelling Bee in sixth grade as I've told anyone who has spent more than three hours with me -- yet I still have difficulties spelling "trouble" out loud, ah well), but it was late in the day.

We had a pretty bitchin rehearsal yesterday. I am feeling positive.

Dramarama

2004-10-11T17:07:00.000-04:00

Nine days from the show, and we've just lost one from our ranks. Twenty-four hours prior, there were five players, and now there are four. It's the right thing to do as far as I'm concerned -- four committed players will be better to watch than five with scattered energy -- and I think that the partying of ways was achieved not-too-acrimoniously, but it means quite a bit more work now than the already-considerable amount we have now. Eeek.

So far, there are two movement pieces to re-choreograph, and quite a bit of fiddling with other bits to do. One of the more significant piece still has to be created (luckily there are only three of us in that one) -- and my piece is taking a hell of a long time to incubate. I got some work done on it this weekend in NYC, but I'm having a hard time finding the voice of it. Apparently when my muse is left to herself, she gets quite mawkish. So ... now more than ever ... wish us luck. Give us money. Come see the show.

I did have a lovely 24 hours in Gotham. Greenpoint, thanks to B & E, treated me as well as El Barrio ever has (maybe we'll get luckier with Rah next time L & D!) -- and I look forward to tearing it all up next month with Tanya, who takes no prisoners on her side of the Atlantic and who, I would assume, wouldn't have it any other way on my side.

Change Is In The Air

2004-10-08T13:52:00.000-04:00

In 24-hour period (yesterday), my house -- my beloved, slightly ragged house -- became equipped with:

1. cable (oh noooo! Ellie and I have promised each other that we will only use the cable for the watching of The Daily Show. I amended that slightly to include the rebroadcasts of EPL matches on Wednesday nights once F&C is over. Yippee!)

2. wireless internet (how sexy is it that you turn on your computer and the internet is RIGHT THERE? No wires, no cards, no fuss, no spillage. I think I need to buy new lingerie)

3. a working washing machine (thanks CL ... we had to drive out to the wilds of Virginia (not one of my favoritest places in the world) to pick it up -- but it only cost ten dollars. that's right -- one of the most brilliant inventions of the twentieth century, for less than a ticket to the new MoMa! also, G looked uber-fine as he hooked up the plumbing)

4. a brand spanking new recycling bin. It's heavy-duty plastic, maroon, and so foxy we totally forgot that we actually had to fill it up to get picked up this morning and have now spent over a month without recycling -- the beer can tower is getting a little precarious. Ellie braved the endless office corridors and bewildering quasi-regulations at DC Sanitation HQ to get it. Thanks Ellie! Have a good weekend at the Sandwich Fair!

Unfortunately, the roofers still haven't sorted out the roof, so the ceiling continues to fling little bits of itself down to us whenever there's a moderate-to-heavy rain.

But, dude -- cable! Did I pick an excellent time to be unemployed, or what?

Thanks, L. and T.

2004-10-07T17:47:00.000-04:00

I quit my job. Huzzah!

(I will, however, be there until the 15th of this month, so please get in touch should you like me to pick up any office supplies or individually-wrapped foodstuffs -- Goldfish, granola bars, Rice Krispy Treats, the like).

This is Smart, and Not Too Long

2004-10-07T10:57:00.000-04:00

one of the wonderful things about this shite temp job (it's not shite, really -- no place is when you get free White Cheddar Cheez-its -- it's just mind-numbing) is that I have a lot of time to surf the web. I could, theoretically, be looking for a real job -- but come on.

So I'd like to point you to The Black Table, in case you don't already know about it. It's is fresh each day and is quite amusing -- at times even poignant. I would in particular like to draw your attention to this article, which dissects the Bush (mis)administration's "promot[ion of] the appearance of leading ... rather than actually leading." I know, I know, we've heard it all before -- but it's very well done here, and (I've said it before and I'll say it again) not too long.

Ain't Nobody Out Here Playing Cans But Us

2004-10-06T13:08:00.000-04:00

To explain the subtitle:

In 1988, a go-go supergroup called the Go-Go Posse (composed of Chuck Brown and members of EU, Rare Essence, Lil' Benny and the All-Stars, and various other go-go glitterati) released a single and an album, both called "DC Don't Stand For Dodge City." At the time there was a lot of violence on the go-go scene, and the song was part of a concerted effort by both bands and fans to make the scene about the music again, rather than about neighborhood beefs. (If you want more: an amazing oral history or this site, which has always tickled my fancy, as well as Big Mike's Go Go Joint which has dope music available).

I like that it references an old Western and I like that it is anti-violence, and I like that it refers to my hometown as DC rather than Washington (the DCeiver gives good rant about the DC vs Washington thing in light of the recent baseball blah blah -- scroll down to "Ladies and Gentlemen, We Have Baseball").

The thing is that DC really does stand for Dodge City. In two ways:
1) DC per-capita murder rates are still among the highest in the USA (thanks for trying to repeal the gun ban, House of Reps! and thanks for letting the measure die, Senate! how about letting me get a vote in Congress?)
2) I've been back here for almost a year (eeep!) and I still feel as if I am dodging -- not bullets, thankfully, but Real Life. Bear with me for a moment -- I know that "Real Life," as a concept, is a massive mindfuck. I feel as if I and almost everyone around me -- a pretty homogenous group, I'll admit, given that it's composed almost entirely of college-educated lefties in their early/mid twenties -- lives in an almost-constant state of low-level freakout about direction (or lack thereof) in our lives. Call it Quarter Life Crisis or whatever (although I've always thought that QLC is a bit too pat).
I know this feeling is not limited to DC. What is limited to DC (in my opinion) is the ubiquitous presence of what my dear friend R has termed "striving strivers striving to succeed" -- members of the aforementioned group who Have Plans and Goals, who are Climbing The Ladder (be it the ladder of wonk-dom or the ladder of ngo-dom). These people are the ones that bring on the Dodge in the rest of us. There's only so much Strive available in DC. Someone has to pick up the Slack. I feel the difference when I leave DC and find myself among the same subgroup of folks -- in NYC, in London, in Galway, in Madison, WI -- and all of a sudden, I feel less stressed. Sure, people are freaking out ("you mean people sit in offices for the rest of their lives? hell, no!") but there is a sense of perspective, an acknowledgement that we will find our way eventually. Meanwhile, we non-strivers, unaware of other identities, feel we must dodge and dodge fast, otherwise, before we know it, we'll have been waitressing for 15 years. As if. We avoid the Strive, thereby bringing on the slacker stress, and then we dodge, because let's face it, the constant questioning and wondering and second-guessing is exhausting.

Am I mixing my metaphors? Better stop now. Comments/ideas welcome.

PS. look here. Nice touch, no?

Smell You Later

2004-10-06T10:11:00.000-04:00

Rat crisis solved. First we thought we would borrow Farrah's cat, but that ended up not working out. Sad. So we went to Giant and bought rat-catching things. We distributed them about the house and went along our merry way. Later that day I got this:

Subj: In the style of McSweeney's
Date: 10/4/2004 11:34:31 AM Eastern Daylight Time
From: Eleanor Davis

An Open Letter to The Mouse I Just Drowned

First of all, well done. You did your little mousey family proud. Forgoing any unnecessary squeaking or struggling, you saved your energy for the long ordeal you knew was coming. This strategy paid off when, using my roommates tongs and hiding behind the back door, I tossed you into a Le Creuset stock pot full of water on the back porch. After slamming the door and running away like a little wussy girl, I retuned five minutes later to find you treading water! No matter that your entire lower body was immobilized by tar-like adhesive gel, you wiggled your little head hard enough to float the entire rat-sized glue trap towards the side of the pot and keep your little head out of the water. Then you just sat there looking all wet and sad as I kicked the trap back in, squealed with disgust, and put the lid on.

Sorry about that, by the way. Not for putting the lid on, cause you were fighting a losing battle and its probably better that you just move on to mousie heaven (or mousie reincarnation if thats your bag). Im sorry for the whole situation. Now, Im sure you dont really want to hear any excuses. Who am I kidding, youre running through fields of peanut butter and checking out all the little mousie virgins that await those who die as martyrs, what do you care about my guilt or innocence. But Im going to tell you anyway. It will make me feel better.

In the past four years I have battled your many, many forbearers for the control of my kitchen counters. There have been ups and downs. In the summer of 2002 I abandoned ownership all together and just ate out for two months. That was probably the golden age of your little mousie civilization. At other times, my roommates and I waged war with a variety of weapons. We tried to starve you out by improving our food storage techniques, became experts on the many types of snap traps (classic wooden, cheese-pedal TM, black plastic), and occasionally poison (like most weapons of mass destruction, only as a last resort.) Most of the time we were in a pleasant state of detante, our borders guarded by a minefield of traps. We never used glue traps because everyone says they are cruel, and we are progressive lefties who dont believe in cruelty.

Then it all changed.Im sure that you will agree with me that rats are really gross. You probably sit (I mean sat) around with your little mousie buddies griping about how they get all the good trash and hideout spaces and stuff. So I dont have to explain how freaked out I was when I came home late at night and found my roommate huddled on the futon mumbling about a rat in our kitchen. This was a whole new ball game. Not content with the odd toast crumb or forgotten plate of spaghetti, this mofo bit holes in the lid of my Hersheys cocoa and sucked the almond milk out of a box Dracula style. After several late nights stalking the rat with an umbrella and a rake, we decided that we couldnt just chase it back out the way it came. The supermarket only carried one rodent-killing item that was hearty enough for a rat, and so we compromised out values and put out glue traps. What else could we do? It was a rat!

My deepest apologies,Ellie Davis

PS As I was writing this, one of your little mousie friends scampered out from under the futon in the direction of the back porch. I stamped my very heavy clog-shod foot, and he took cover, maybe he was coming to say a little mousie eulogy over your pot or something. Im sure that hell tell your family what happened, and maybe later, when Im at work, theyll all come back and toss little flower wreaths into the pot or something. Actually, I think Im probably going to throw you and your glue trap into the neighbors yard before I go to work, but they should probably just stay in the nest where its safe anyway.

__________________________________________________________________

Now know that the above references a mouse, not a rat, but at the same time, I must say that we have not heard or seen hide nor hair of Mr Rat since putting out said traps. My slipper got stuck in the remaining glue trap yesterday and let me tell you, it was pretty darn sticky. So perhaps he got the message? Let's hope so.

Third Time's the Charm?

2004-10-01T14:50:00.000-04:00

So I am new to this and have somehow erased what will hopefully, eventually, be on this page, at least three times. Hold your breath.

Why don't we just make units of three the theme of this post? Oh, do let's!

Onwards:

1. Spent some time with F & C co-conspirators Sabrina and Joseph last night, watching silent movies and picking up tricks. Also, eating yummy Ethiopian food. Thanks, Joseph! Then I went home and they went to put together press releases.

The show is fast approaching: October 20th is the first night. eeep! Check out the performance space here. Note we're not yet on their schedule -- I'll remedy that. There should be a wee box somewhere on this page you can click on to give us cabbage. Please do -- we promise to spend it on Velly Important Aht -- costumes, paint, mailings, the myriad of bits n pieces that putting together a show entails. If you are an eager beaver and you want to purchase tickets please email thefleshandcandor@hotmail.com. You'll be rewarded, I promise. Plus we'll put your name in the program. Lovely, lovely, lovely.

2. I got this message on my voicemail (imagine it in a Bristol by way of Oxbridge accent) (no, I can't either, but just try, yeah?):

Hey Hannah, Daniel speaking. Just watching Kerry-Bush on TV. My god, your country is in a bad way, man. Umm. [brief pause, you can hear the debate in the background] Aww, fuck me, it's terrible. Anyway, it's twenty past two in the morning, and I'm going to go to bed soon. Ah, it'd be great to hear from you, thanks for your text the other day. Wayne Rooney is awesome. Liverpool'll come good though, trust me. Cheers Hannah, all the best. Bye.

I mean, how bloody sweet is that? Ringing me from London. He must have been quite soused to be up that late on a worknight, but regardless. The encouraging words re: the Reds' latest debacle were much appreciated indeed.

3. Monsieur Mouse and family have been joined in the enjoyment of night-time delicacies from our night kitchen by Signior Rat. Ick. I saw him. He looks like this, but brown. Any ideas on getting rid of him -- and fast -- would be v, v welcome.

Okay, so I'm gonna click "publish." Cross your fingers...

We Like Puns. Also, Rhymes.

2004-09-30T13:15:00.000-04:00

Subject:
House Party: Dal & Dahl

Message:
This Saturday night, 2 October, at Overeducated and Underperforming House, in the deep dark heart of Columbia Heights.

Eat some dal (that yummy curried lentil stew).

Read some Dahl (Roald of course ... bring your own selections, and we'll have some juicy ones here as well).

There will also be beverages with alcohol contents varying from zero to mucho.rsvp, questions, directions ... Over&Under House is on 11th St between Spring and Otis, one block from 13th St. Ten minutes walk from the Green Line and mere moments from our beloved 50 and S buses.

We'll start around eight (come earlier if you want input on the dal's cilantro content) and we'll end after party o'clock, but with enough time to get ready for church on Sunday (just kidding).

Bring anyone you think would enjoy the pun; Oompa-Loompas are especially welcome.