One final note

Yeah, I broke my own rule. But I've got some thank-you's in order.



Thank you, Travioli, for the best amazon purchases and subsequent email pen-pal friendship a girl could have.



Thank you, Two G Dred, for reconnecting me with jazz, rap, and all the soul goodies from my babyhood. If I could be that little kid talking to the adult me? That's what it feels like. Tania's got something solid with you. True spirits will always find each other.



Thank you, JWe, for waking me up, shaking me to my core, and making me examine the love, the sorrow, and all inbetween from 1976 to now. It's not just the ice, it's the person that chooses the sport. I was losing my love, but you handed me back to me. My heart beats in my chest once again. Eternal gratefulness to you. Rest that foot for Nationals!



Thank you, all my readers, for keeping up with me thru this here blog and informing me of your comings and goings. I appreciate the cards (email and snail mail), the mp3's, the cds, the phone calls, the jokes, the silly cartoons, the commentary (good and bad), the whacked out opinions, and anything else you may throw in my digital kitchen sink!



Tonight will not be the same without Dick Clark, but I'm willing to see Regis either soar above the shadow of Mr. Bandstand or sink horribly like that time David Letterman did the Oscars.



2005 will certainly be different.

See you in '05

Well, kiddies, the spirit just ain't here this year.



I won't be back until 2005 is here.



D'angelo, Dexter, not even G Dred can help me. I just don't feel the holidays this year. And former coworkers are doing much better than I am. I just found out money does go to money--to the tune of half my education and double her former salary. That's roughly 70K. And me? Puhhhlease, I'm tired of the payouts. Tired. I work in order to pay other people. I could barely write out Christmas cards this year, the acid burning in my stomach is just too much.



So, to keep my sanity from folding sideways like a crooked table, I won't be blogging about anything until January 2005.



Don't even bother to click, because I ain't writing!



Ciao, meow, and I'm out.



Maybe I'll hi-five in '05?



I've got doubts...

Armageddon's NOT here?

Well, you wouldn't know it from last night's weather report. Snow, slime, and hell was supposed to erupt and we were all supposed to die in a vat of oversized salt purchased at Home Depot.



THESE WEATHER/NEWSCASTERS/METEOROLOGISTS CAN GO SUCK MY ASS.



Where else do you make tons of money, have a hair and makeup team, a teleprompter, a scriptwriter, a green room, and about 3 hours worth of work everyday to lie outrageously to the public? (No offense, Mr. President.)



How do I get that job? In fact how do I get any job that doesn't ride me like friggin' Seabiscuit for taking a few days off? Once again, the SLOB who will remain nameless has caused great problems. I have also heard from a very reliable source that he is pissing off almost every guy in the mailroom--and those guys don't mess around--and they are about to explode. My theory, confirmed this past weekend with one of the newer hires, is that the SLOB has no power at home. He is hen-pecked within an inch of his life, and frankly is damn lucky to have found a woman who'd have him as a spouse, so he tries to flex whatever flabby muscle he can afford at work, his brilliant domain. He reminds me of a security guard in the mall--essentially, he's a toy cop in a suit, instead of navy blue uniform. The only security guard I remember who had any fun was a guy named Joe Lopez, and he worked at Alexander's back in the fall of 1986. He was Dawn's ex-boyfriend, but we got along so well I kept him in my life even after she disappeared. He, unlike the SLOB, actually knew how to tweak situations to get humor and solid work out of people. He made more friends than enemies, and that was a wonder to see. He had a knack for talking to anyone, anytime, anywhere.



Example: a real snowstorm hit in January 1987. He took orange stickers and placed them on the bags of incoming people who had not bought anything wintery (gloves, hats, scarves.) He tipped off other employees in the store via walkie-talkie to descend on them. Some of them actually bought new things, because they were shocked to seemingly have Saks 5th Ave. service in Alexanders! Another time, he asked passersby how many guys had the name "Joe". That was funny. He was so likeable it actually was shocking when he caught a shoplifter. That's when he went "Commando" on their asses. Awesome to watch. I loved watching him, he was just so damn good. He later went to a cushy Wall Street job, and was there the day black Monday happened later that year. He was the only security guard to get a huge party and a truckload of gifts when he quit. They were very, very unhappy to see him go. I don't think I'll be able to say the same for the SLOB. Joe married a lovely girl named Caroline. He was also the DJ at my graduation party. The SLOB doesn't have a picture of his wife anywhere, he probably sees enough of her at home.



God, I dread going outside. But, I must. It's off to the gym for me.

Deer Santa

hello



this is dexter.



Beehold my deer santa letter.



Deer Santa:



I have ben gud all yeer. I have not attakt that tree, eether. It's there and big and green, but I have left it alone. That takes streength even frum an honerary panther like me. (hss hss hss i'm so funnee) Muffin got a few whakks, but she deeserves it: she tuk my spot on the window and I cant see my pidgjons at all.



I am gratefull for my two-legger and would like her to make moor stake for us. 9 Lives does get boreen. What I reely want, Santa, is a batch of new catnip toys and a pat on my head from Hallee Bery. I didn't reely like Gothikka, but Catwoman was ok. If you cud get her to visit with thoze catnip toys? I'd purr for the rest of my life. Im not eeven goeen to ask for sooshi or yarn like I did last yeer. Just Hallee and a new mouse.



If yoo've got time, of corse. I kno you are bizzy rite now with toys and theengs.



Thank you for reeding this! Emayl and bloggs are fun.



love



dexter

Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells

Jingle all the...you get the idea.



I wish my tree did. The lack of proper branches up top has left my star in a precarious position. Sadly, it's leaning towards one side. I'm going to have to take string or twine or something Kashi would eat and wrap up two or three of those branches to get the star to stand up. The lights are on, but I have no hooks for the ornaments. I just ain't feeling Christmas-y this year, kiddies. Tonight I'll be at Connolly's after work, hoisting a glass to silliness and cheer (sigh), and tomorrow is the Christmas party I've convinced all the "underlings" to attend. No one, and I mean NO ONE, wants to go to this thing. Why, I don't know. I say free food tastes better. I also say that my black sweater and pants would look nicer if Muffin hadn't sat on them, but that's just her way. Cats say "I Love You" by sitting on your clothes. Or maybe they just say "Screw it. It's warm."



10 days to go. Macy's is a zoo, and I'm not impressed with Rock Center's tree this year. It's a shorty: only 72 feet. The first year I was there it was the highest ever for that decade: 96 feet. I even played Snoopy last night and nothing. What's gotten into me? Blah, humbug. Maybe if Linus could quote scripture to me with a blue blanket, would all be right in my world? I wonder.



All I can say is I live for Starbucks's Peppermint Mocha. It's heavenly. What's a holiday without proper beverages? Even Huey, my favorite comic strip character, is struggling to find purpose this year. Jazmine is back, and he's telling her Santa is a fugitive stuck in a Hungarian jail. Gotta love that Huey. So political for a 10 year old. Good thing he'll always be 10. When I was 10, my Atari 2600 was what I lived for. Q-Bert was the best game ever. Can't say I understand the playstation and XBox mania. My new tv and answering machine have made nicey-nicey with each other. Now I can go from tons of videos to tons of DVD's. I've made the switch. Lucky me.



Why am I so Grinchy? I just can't shake it. Ugh, and I need to buy scotch tape. I have to get those gifts out in the mail. Maybe I should buy a Bratz doll for myself.



Feh.

Not quite so Christmas-y

Ok, so the tree is up. It's tall, and filled with cats, sap, and all those good things. Except water, so I will pour some now.



Be right back...



Wow. More sap on my hands. Nice. And I tried to go to sleep earlier, but the huge dinner I had just wasn't cutting it, so I got up and watched this metalheads show on VH1. Funny!



Tomorrow consists of grocery shopping, the post office, laundry, and more ridiculous emails from various folk (wink, wink RD). Particularly these weird Christmas thingies.



They're so weird I can't do much except delete them. Now someone's instant messaging me. I think it's Mr. Comedy with the green eyes...so cute he is!

I remember it like it was yesterday

Wow--24 years ago we did not have John Lennon anymore. And it snowed, too. Just like it looks right now.



My CRM meetings went well, and now the roll-out. All is good. Shout-outs to J, Nancy and Mr. Comedy! As for Avi and Eshon in the mailroom, you guys cracked me up yesterday. That Christmas party is going to be fun, fun, fun.



I'm staying home the rest of today, and fighting the sniffles. Oh, RD? The name of that singer is Samuelle. I sent you the email. I think it's the dust. My couch is still scaring the hell outta me, and Pimpin' Boy is in there, too.



Yikes! Tomorrow my Christmas tree is arriving!!!! Oh, god--lights, tinsel, Kashi eating everything. Good God, I'm afraid.

Back in the swing of things

Like, wow. It's still raining, but not in my heart. Yes, I've jumped back into the dating pool with both feet. I've just decided I need to get out there, and things are looking up. Or maybe it's all a delusion. RD has no faith in me, but that's just his way.



New people and the allure of the Christmas season is kind of strange, but I feel like I got a jump on my January. New Year's resolutions are actually being worked on now. I've joined the gym to conquer the chunk I call my hips, I've cut the Jessica Simpson messy hair, I'm seeing yet another doctor to conquer the hormonal hell, trying to sleep more, and basically being thankful for the new people in my office. These are good hires, thank god. If I start now, January won't be the tip of the mountain from which I'll fall. Change is inevitable and change is good.



Yes, if you're too open-minded your brains will fall out, but there's also that sense of just taking a chance. One step, one day, one moment at a time, and that's all it takes. Maybe it's not all a conspiracy to bite my head off. Maybe it could be something for me to look at from a different angle. Acting, not reacting? Wow, there's a thought.

The True face of NY

Can be found in the bins of "Dear Santa" letters inside Manhattan's main post office. I dare you to pick some up and not get a catch in your throat. Are we supposed to honesty believe a six-year-old wants a winter coat instead of a toy?



What really kills me is the parents write, too. The two winning letters I chose yesterday were Jocelyn and Rosaria. Jocelyn wants an easy bake oven (they're microwaves now, I think), and Rosie wants a Bratz doll. Off to Toys R Us I go. I had enough icky and almost-not Christmases to know toys are much better than wondering if the gas bill is going to be paid. I was heartened to see the long line when I went in: lots of New Yorkers (and a few tourists I learned) are out there willing to pitch in. It also makes me think of a few things...



With everything being so expensive in NY as it is thanks to Bloomberg the asshole and George "I'll Bring Back the Death Penalty" Pataki, why is the sales tax on clothes still here? People (particularly non-yuppies) aren't going to walk around naked when it hits 20 degrees come January. Albany's soaking everyone, but particularly those in need. Yes, I can be a cold-hearted bitch like the rest of 'em and say "Fuck these people, they're welfare queens," but from the 30 or so letters I read yesterday? Some of 'em are just folks who are down on their luck. Now, I know someone--who's probably just purchased her seventh DVD player on my tax dollars--definitely fits the description of "welfare queen" to a T. Thankfully, I didn't see her kids writing in those bins, and I know all their names.



So, this is my thought of the day: money is like love. You'll never get any back if you don't give any away. Maybe that's a lesson both Albany and Dawn need to learn. There is accountability in the universe as well as karma. It will come back and zap you in the ass.



But never mind, I'm going to have a ball when I go into Toys R Us.



(This post was modified since RD can't see anything he doesn't understand. Is it good enough now????)

Thank you Maria and Jenifer

That would be the two principals who put on a fine Nutcracker this evening. Maria is divine at 5 ft. 7 and silent as she leaps like Kashi chasing a string. The men matched, if not outshined, the women this evening. Many newbies applauded in strange spots, but it's nice to know a new generation is watching this ballet. This marks my 25th year. A quarter of a century with pink, purple, and mint green! My god, I never tire of it.



Adventures at work include music and more music. My first workout at the company gym went well, my doctor will be happy to hear. I haven't been eating food lately, I've been eating music. Between J next to me, and Greg and RJ in the mailroom, I've been inundated with really great stuff. Right now, I'm playing Res--this sorta cool black chick that's halfway between reggae and rock. Different is the word. Catchy and fresh. I dig it.



As for what I thought was a typical psoriasis breakout, it's actually infectious rosacea. Translation? My immune system's gone batty again. Oh well, off to the drug store tomorrow to get yet another cortisone cream.



Bernard Wright's Who Do You Love? is blasting right now. For those of you that don't know, he's Roberta Flack's son and this has been out of print since 1987. Very rare and very fine.



The hunt for the christmas tree begins next week when RD is feeling better. That's good, too, because the corner drugstore has a nice bottle of Jontue I'm thinking of purchasing.



(RD will keel when he reads this. LMAO!!!)

Adventures in Pig-Hacking

Yes, that's the title of today's blog entry. It was brought to you (and me) courtesy of my ex, Jeff, and his sound studio stories about how certain effects actually made it onto soundtracks of films you've actually seen, kiddies!



For one particular movie (which bombed so bad I won't mention it lest I get sued), soldiers trampling through the mud weren't really getting that "glurping" sorta suckling sound that you'd think mud would make. So, the producers called in Jeff and his crack team of "specialists" to physically HACK into a pig carcass placed under a microphone. Messy, maybe but it worked! The sound was recorded, it was blended into the editing, and the stomping of soldier's boots was instantly authentic. Oh, that poor piggie.



I found the Anita Baker cd sitting on my shelf whose jewel case once hung outside this studio. Somehow, it made its way into my collection along with Prince's Black Album(a nifty bootleg) and his Crystal Ball box set--now out of print-- when he became that unpronouncable symbol just to piss off the execs at Warner Bros. Prince was something of an alter-ego for Jeff, whose staid and stoic ways did not scream FUNKY or SEXY, just dutiful and pedantic. Needless to say, I've playing a lot of funk, soul, rap and yes, Prince which of course, brought back these memories. I've been filling my iTunes with tons of goodies as I look at my radio/cd changer questionably. Was there a time I didn't play songs through my iMac? I can't think back that far.



Wow--Miki Howard. God, the obscurities I'm blasting! And my new ATM card arrived, so I have access to cash without waiting on line like a dork at my bank.



Well, it's off to Ohio Players. FIIIIIIIIIIRRRRE!!!!



(Oh, RD? It's time for more Johnny Guitar Watson. Just letting you know.)

Gobble, Gurgle?

Wow--raining again. Not a good setup for tomorrow's balloons. SpongeBob might not be able to make his Macy's debut. Smart that I bought a new umbrella in Duane Reade. Let's see if I don't do a "Mary Poppins" and fly down the street with this wind.



A new team is in place, and my modus operandi is to work around the Geminis. I mean go sideways, under the cracks, over and completely subvert them. I've mastered the art of sidestepping those that don't see me. This weird talent goes back to 1978, when I got to Visitation Academy, a school in which I didn't belong. In terms of what they already think of me and my work, I expect more of the same. I'm biding my time to get off the floor, if that's what this new system does for me. All sorts of implementations and changes are taking place, so let's see if I can do it. The various management intimidation tactics will not work on me. It's narcissist overload, anyway. I can read these cockroaches like a book.



And once again, all these damn vacation days. I think two days off per month will be what I do through 2005. No more princesses, Gucci purses, shopping, diamond rings or bullshit. I've got no patience.



This week's read? The 48 Laws of Power. Good stuff, kiddies. I recommend it if you're trying to navigate the quagmire of stupidity. Useful, wonderful stuff.

Well, here's a thought

Thanks to Meg!



"As democracy is perfected, the office of president represents, more and more closely, the inner soul of the people. On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart's desire at last and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron."







-H.L. Mencken, journalist and satirist (1880 - 1956)



(In light of things, dealing with morons is becoming my speciality.)

Everybody wants to be me

How do I know this?



SOMEONE ATTEMPTED TO USE MY ATM # 150 TIMES TODAY. I had a nice chat with my bank about it.



There are four unauthorized charges that I spotted--THANK GOD--right before I left from work tonight. Turns out someone in North Carolina made some charges through a luggage website. I also received an email from eBay that my account had been tampered with. When I tried to sign in? They wouldn't accept my info. I had to go through a special link. Sure enough, my secret question was changed, and it said "Anne" not "Anne Louise" on the account. Now, anyone who knows me, knows how rare my name is. There are probably hundreds of women with my name, we're like Smith for chrissake! So, someone's having fun at my expense. I hope they get cancer of the eye.



The guy from Sharon Luggage in NC told me he saw "decline" on the 150 attempts, which tells me it was probably some new-fangled electronic device that got the number. The bank gave me his number, then the fraud department canceled my card #, which makes it impossible for me to click onto my online banking page where I see everything. How nice. Inconvenience from some asshole who deserves to stabbed in the eye with a steak knife.



Now the big question: will this stay in dispute or will I get my funds back?



My life is just never boring, is it...

Russell, now rest

I awoke to Mariah's Fantasy this morning, with that fabulous cameo. Scorpios always go down in flames, it seems...





And He would have been 36 today



P Diddy can go scratch, he'll never be as entertaining ODB.

Whose World is This?

Drifting late and low with Nas in tow...good remix thanks to my ebay searching for QTip's second album. Tip's label had no faith in this record after Clive Davis plucked him from 1999's ether to give him a great solo debut. Tribe was great, but we must move on. This is a great second effort, with a few remixes, such as the gem I've got on repeat. Jazzy, defiant, guitar-filled, and typically uncategorizable, if that's even a word.



My moment with QTip was brief: March 30, 2000. I was in the Sound Studio at 936 Broadway waiting for my then-boyfriend Jeff to join me at Duke's, a southern joint around the corner. And as I sat, Tip (aka Kamaal) passed by. He was like a spirit passing by, I could feel him. I couldn't speak, watching him in a hat, glasses, a long black coat, blue jeans, and a cd walkman in his hand. He was plucking the earphones to talk to someone. I couldn't speak, just a breath escaped. I honestly didn't know what to say. I've been a fan since 1989 due to his brief vocal appearance on De La Soul's Me, Myself & I. What do you say to someone who's kept you alive, smiling, and happy? 'Hello' and 'thank you' just isn't enough. Not to mention how absolutely beautiful this man is. Mark looked like him, now that I think of it. Now he's in Montego Bay running his family's business now. Maybe he'll be able to get back here when Ashcroft steps down. I hope so. We fell apart but it wasn't really us. 9/11 had its own ugliness, including anything that came with immigration.



In other news, I managed to get a decent haircut, and chopped off most of the Jessica Simpson madness that has plagued me since June. I figure the more grows out? The more I'll cut. This is a cute cut, although I freaked during the blow-out. I resembled a psychotic newscaster, but this layering will grow out nicely and keep the thinning spots just right. It's all good.



And the strangeness of Christmas trees already. This year, I'm ready for turkey and stuffing. Trees seem too soon. Let's see how next week goes...work is getting stranger, but hey, I've seen worse. It can only get better.



(I hope.)

OK, I give up

I just have to go with the damn flow. Three people this week have asked me why can't just chill out? It's not in my nature, but it's Friday, I'll try.



Replacements have been ordered for various factions in this parts, let's see how this goes. I have scary visions of teased-hair nightmares right out of Working Girl, but that ain't my decision.



We're inundated with new bells, whistles, thingies, whooziwhats and systems. I am too cerebral for this place and it's making me emotional. Like I said before, kiddies, alcoholism never looked so good.



They could get rid of me next, and there ain't a damn thing I can do so I just need to deal. Fine. I'll try.



RD, thanks for the psycho teddy bear email. Very funny. I'll pray to Angie Stone and D'angelo to get me in a better groove, but I doubt it will help much. It's the not knowing that's killing me. Anyone with a pressing need to send sympathy, wacky messages or chocolate ganache? Now's the time. GO TO IT IF YOU MUST!



The most I can do is dance with Dexter and curl up with a nice bubblebath. I'm so tired, I might doze off and drown, but then I'd be a mermaid, a childhood wish. My wishes just ain't comin' true these days...



Somebody shoot me...

I think you need to relax

And with these words, fury is born.



Yes, kiddies, there's yet another doctor who canceled on me at the last minute. My yearly screening due to PCOS came and went, I put it off, rescheduled, canceled and then rescheduled. Yesterday was supposed to be it. Except my office calls and tells me they just called. To cancel. On me. Again.



FIVE BLOCKS FROM THEIR OFFICE. I'M WALKING THERE. IT'S OF NO USE. THEY CANCELED. AGAIN. FUCK OFF, ET TU?



I call, after rooting my legs into the concrete because--let's face it--I do nothing lately except run to hurry up to wait then sprint to stand still. Wasteful energy expenditures can go kiss my Irish ass. I take off half an afternoon due to the typical HMO bullshit--I can't get another doctor because they're "out-of-network" which means $375 per appointment--and then I go to reschedule. I try to explain in a broken, frazzled tone that my schedule is at the mercy of the hirings and firings at my job and we've been downsized (fuckin hate that word) from an office of 14 to about 5. I'm stammering, cold, and utterly lost at this point. And her response?



"This is none of my business, but I think you need to relax."



And with that, CuChulainn erupts.



"RELAX??? YOU TELL ME I HAVE TO HAVE THIS TEST NO MATTER WHAT, I LOSE HALF A DAY OF WORK, AND ALL I NEED IS TO RELAX?? I'M DOING THE WORK OF FOUR PEOPLE PLUS MYSELF, THERE'S NO FAMILY OR SUPPORT SYSTEM TO CALM ME DOWN OR EVEN HELP ME WHEN I GET SICK, TIRED, OR FRENZIED AND I JUST NEED TO RELAX? YOU'VE GOT A CUSHY RECEPTIONIST JOB, A HUMONGOUS DIAMOND, A HOUSE, A CAR AND A HUSBAND TO FUCK [that was co-opted from RD] AND I JUST NEED TO RELAX??? WHAT THE FUCK DO I HAVE TO DO TO GET AN OUNCE OF UNDERSTANDING ?? GET SHOT? STABBED? MURDERED?"



***enter awkward 'oops i said the wrong thing' silence***



"Um, we can put you in for next week, same time. We can also give you priority."



"FINE," I growl into the phone.



My next appointment is 6 pm, next Wednesday. I'm polishing my halo so nothing seems wrong. If someone wants to fuck with me, I fuck them back until they're dead.



Women like this need a solid smack in the mouth. Oh, wait. Wrong meeting. That's right--she doesn't know I'm not a princess. I actually do things like work, and play sports, and get my hands dirty. I don't fear breaking nails or sweating a bit. I also don't have the fantasy that someone's going to save me because I'm feeling pissy or bloated or PMS-y. I was never allowed that fantasy in my life EVER and that's why she deserves to be shoved face first down a long flight of stairs.



Next week--same Bat time, same Bat channel. I'm going batty.

He is too much, and yet never enough

Johnny won NHK! And without the quad! Gotta love a purist who resists the trends. The new judging fits him to a "T", and I got to see the short program first back in September. How much do I love this guy? This is all the skating in the 70's I loved all over again. And he adores NY City! That's reason enough for me to stay put.



Passion in Flight



(and it's an AP photo, so I can purchase this today in Wide World Photos! YEAH!!!)

Get Yourself in Gear, Keep your Stride

....brighter days will soon be here/take it from me/someday we'll all be free...



And with these words, Donny soothes me. Not Osmond, kiddies, Hathaway. When I'm low and feeling confused, his voice calls me out of the darkness and I am found again.



I decided not to go into work this afternoon because I spend all of my time there anyway. I might go tomorrow, or maybe I'll just say fuck it until Monday. I conquered that stack of contracts yesterday and it felt really good. I might take in a yoga class tomorrow for extra relaxation.



Well, the holidays are just 3 weeks away and it looks like I'm going to be stuck in that damn office the Friday after Thanksgiving, which is typical. My other coworker is being shoved out the door, but we work for Geminis, so I wouldn't expect anything less. All you have to do is show them what kind of pattern you fall into and they put you in a corner. The lack of workflow given the current situation is driving me nuts, though. I certainly hope I get some backup soon or I will collapse. Jury duty didn't do anything for me except give me stress, but this office situation certainly has shown me to be on my toes and trust my instincts.



In other news, I've managed to find a pair of black suede boots with a tiny heel that were not only affordable, but very "1988". My L'Amour days came rolling over me as I saw them. I tried them on, and POOF! A purchase was made.



I think it's time to come out of this depressive bullshit cocoon I've been in and start taking what's mine. RD calls me "manic", and that's simply insecurity rearing its ugly head. I'm witnessing what happens to insecure people at my job, so I think it's time for warrior mode. Things can only get better.



Or at least less chaotic. Time to summon the Druids and crack some skulls.

Part of you pours out in me…

In these lines/From time to time, as Joni sings.



Now that our president has been chosen—and what a death sentence it is—I can only hide my heart from harder times. I feel beat, kiddies.



Outlasting princesses, yuppie bastards, corporate lingo and trying to juggle doctor’s appointments in the midst of my work mess (it’s no longer a life), I’m lost as to prioritizing. It’s really difficult to carry everything and even harder to care when everyone else around me lives on the surface. I will resist my typical ACOA leanings by saving these people’s asses and let them sink. If mistakes get made? It’s proof that I cannot, will not, and am not made to save the world.



I had a nice sobering chat with one of the bureau guys this morning as he joked about someone taking a vacation. I jabbed back with “I haven’t had a decent vacation in five years.” The laughter stopped. I got stone-faced silence. No jokes allowed in that department.



RD jokes that I need a “beating”, but that’s exactly what I’m getting. This is not going to get any better. Proof? The scourge of my DNA has begun. That’s right! Psoriasis patches have popped up. Stress always brings it out. I had a tiny one in January 2003 when the PCOS hell began, and now I’ve got two patches on each elbow. There’s goes short sleeves—I look like a junkie with crap furrowed into each arm.



I lost my mind-body connection a long time ago. There aren’t even dinners when I come home at night, strangely enough. I look in the fridge and ask what’s the point? I make oatmeal that I can never finish and endless cups of tea. It’s just not making sense anymore. Even my skating is going to hell. Is this the beginning of madness? When it all goes gray and itchy and I ask why I should leave the house? Tomorrow I’ll be back here at my desk. I figure the only way to catch up is to give one voluntary Saturday per month to catch up with everything. I’ve got a lot to say when a certain boss returns. They’re treating people like chattel around these parts, and mark my word—I AIN’T GONNA BE NEXT. The Asshole Academy taught me not to settle or put up with any crap, and suddenly it’s popped up again. This is a replay of what’s become too familiar in my life.



And suddenly I explode. My temper and temperament can only take so much before BAM! It blows up. Sleep, as always, is illegal, and my time has become a break for when I have to go back to the office. Maybe this will take ten years off my life.



I don’t know what the fuck I’m living for, anyway, lately.

Bush wins, Breslin Quits, and I need a huge glass of vodka

Well, that's that, kiddies. This country has stuffed its head up its ass again.



Bye, bye middle class! Book your ticket to Bombay and Taiwan, that's where your jobs are going. Anyone of color can basically kiss their rights goodbye. If you're a woman, put on your burqa and carve out your ovaries because it won't matter if you're sick, raped, or saddled with a dangerous pregnancy. You don't count. If you die in childbirth? Hey, fuck you, it's God's will. Shut up and let your husband do the talking, since "them little women" don't have "real opinions." If you don't have a husband? You're probably a penis-hating lesbian who "cain't get no rayle man" (emphasis on Texas accent.) Republicans rule, so shut up about it. You don't count.



If you're gay? You're a freak who doesn't deserve love, rights or healthcare. And forget about getting married. Why do you deserve happiness? You should be struck down dead according to these fuckwits.



I am really, really afraid now.



And I can't even read Jimmy in Newsday.



How big is the drink I need? Four more years of corporate bullshit and the class war is on. Does my vote count? Apparently not. I don't live in swing state.



Schumer the Asshole won again, too. He's been selling NY down the river under the "guise" of caring for NY, but being nothing better than an apologist when it comes to facing and standing up against Republicans. More soldiers will die in Iraq (GOD--I hope Tommy Casatelli is alive and well), and the poor will get poorer and the rich get richer. I will now hunt real estate in outer Pennsylvania and perhaps Virginia because Mr. Monkey Assbrain is about to gut Section 8 housing. If you make under $100K---BEND & SPREAD! You don't count.



At this point, you can either find me clutching a statue of St. Michael praying feverishly, or in a bar continuing my family's beautiful Edgar Allen Poe legacy of drunkenness. With all this going on?



Alcoholism never looked so damn good.

Didja Vote?

If so, goodie for you. I won't preach, sneer or yell at you. You made your choice and so go live with it.



If you haven't yet, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU READING THIS FOR???!!!!



GET TO THE POLLS AND VOTE, DAMMIT!



ahem.



We will now go back to our regularly scheduled programming...

Should the beatings continue until morale improves?

Hmmm... maybe not.



Once again, Rob Brezney has given me a profound thought. And my other Rob--RD--has me dreaming of J&R's marinated steak. Like, wow.



Evil is boring!



DEAR SLY OPTIMISTS, BENEVOLENT PRANKSTERS, AND DISCRIMINATING PRACTITIONERS OF BEAUTY, TRUTH, GOODNESS, AND LOVE,



I must confess that early in my career, I was proud of my well-crafted cynicism. Like most novelists, poets, journalists, filmmakers, lyricists, talk show hosts, and critics, I subscribed to the dogma that evil is interesting and good is boring.



You can imagine my dismay, then, when my muses began to nudge me in the direction of sly optimism. "It will ruin my image!" I complained to them from the depth of my worried meditations. "I refuse to write shiny happy propaganda! I will not turn into a dopey Pollyanna bereft of all critical thinking skills!"



But the muses were immune to my protests. Slowly and inexorably, they reconfigured my coyote angel rebel clown persona to serve a new master: PRONOIA. The opposite of paranoia, pronoia is defined as the sneaking suspicion that the whole world is conspiring to shower you with blessings. (Terence McKenna had a slightly different angle on it: "I believe reality is a marvelous joke staged for my edification and amusement, and everybody is working very hard to make me happy.")



To their credit, my muses managed to pull off this alchemical abracadabra without annihilating my native skepticism. If anything, it has become more robust, anchored as it is now in the thrilling quest for fascinating good news.



Dear readers, I invite you to invite your own muses to nudge you, too, in the direction of pronoia. In fact, I welcome you to join me in a supremely subversive quest: Let's infect everyone we know with an attraction to beauty, truth, goodness, and love.



I won't lie to you about our mission. Ignorance and inertia surround us. Cynicism is treated as a supreme sign of intelligence. Evil is regarded as inherently more interesting than good. Beautiful truths are dismissed and demeaned, while ugly truths are eagerly believed.



No, I won't lie to you about the work ahead of us. We will have to be cheerful rebels fighting against all odds. We will have to joyfully and exuberantly resist the temptation to swallow thousands of delusions that have been carefully crafted and attractively packaged by Very Self-Important People who act as if they know what they're doing.



We will have to buck every system and go against every grain -- even as we stay true to our vow to have a lot of fun. We will have to be relentlessly skeptical and sweetly innocent as we overthrow the sour, puckered hallucination that is mistakenly referred to as reality.



But we will succeed; I guarantee it.



With rowdy blessings,



Rob



That's certainly different from my usual "doomsday" crap, ain't it?

Happee Holloween

hello



this is dexter.



today is a grate day! becauz it's Holloween! Witches, candee and cats. And a big shout out to Carmine, Andrew's buddee. Weel go flyeen on the broom later.



Holloween is the offishal pagen festival before those damm puritens ruined it all by comeen over on that bote. It's about hideen from evil spirits by dresseen like someone else so they wont find you and take your sole.



as an offishal emblem of that time (and beeing a pretty sexee familiar myself), it's a day for all black cats to be more than reviled creatures. we do not turn peeple into toads, we do not breeng plague, suffereen, or dizeaze. that's Laura Bush's job hss hss hssss i kill me i sware.



we simplee wish to enjoy the costoomes, the kids, and the occasional peece of buttered popcorn that falls in our path (well, i do anyway. hss hss hss)



many of our two-leggers wer hung, drownt, and burnt at the stake simply out of that sillee histerria in the 1600's. some of us got it, too. if you see someone doeen sumtheen rotten to a black cat today? bite them, plain and simple. Tell them dexter and carmine sent yoo.



today is about candee and fun, so hug a black cat and bob for appels!



well, the dorrbell is ringeen. i have go act cute so i can get some popcorn frum dresst up kids.



carmine, letz do sooshi later this week?



love,

dexter

Babe let one slide...

But it's ok.



I say Congratulations, Boston. You've waited long enough. To Susan and Mike in Staunton, Mass., I know you're loving this. And rightfully so.



Winning constantly can make a team sloppy. Complacent. And who wants a mediocre champion? Not New York.



Like the Mets in 1986--and last night was the 18th anniversary of Buckner's goof--it can only improve morale and make a better team for the rest of the competition. Something my floor seems to be doing. Out with the old and in the new, I say.



Have fun and don't take anything for granted. But take just a tiny moment to shine.



1918 no more, way to go 2004.



(The Yanks WILL get 'em next year.)

More thoughts on those damn bagpipes...

It came to me over the weekend: my continuing curiosity regarding Everlast. I really have a thing for this man. How odd is it that I foolishly, feverishly, moronically adored a guy whose huge hit was a song I could barely tolerate until I downloaded it last Thursday? The story, as I recall, began in 1991 or 1992.



Once upon a time, there was a thing called the Video jukebox. It basically churned out all the videos MTV and vh1 wouldn’t touch. You called in, paid your $2.99 per request (added to your phone bill), and waited for the “song” to show. Just like a real jukebox.



1991-92 was the time of my CUNY switchover from Staten Island to Brooklyn College. It was also the time of chicken pox, flu, Epstein-Barr and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome—in that order—so my memory on the exact time might be waaay off. I do remember clearly seeing two videos that were constantly requested almost back-to-back: “I Got the Knack” and “Swingin’ With T.” Every day for about a month, they came on at around the same time, 4 pm or so. With my afternoon classes ending at 2:15, I always made it home to catch the new “tune” of the week. I jumped at the chance to request plenty of goodies, much to the dismay of my mother, who plainly had a conniption with the added amount on the bill. Never mind the fact that I paid her in cash for when I called in. She blocked me from calling, plain and simple. Oh well. No more videos for me. This wasn’t a problem until I found myself anxiously awaiting 4 pm to see that guy in that video on my tv. I still can’t figure out what it was. The face? The swagger? The humor? Those damn green eyes? It sure was something. All I knew is there was never any videotape in my VCR to tape this guy. I also felt extremely stupid asking friends to call up for me. I didn’t want to share my crush with anyone, particularly not Terri or Janet, my two girlfriends at the time.



Embarrassingly enough, one day I missed my bus home. I ran in at 4:30, sweaty and exasperated. I flipped on the tv like a junkie waiting for my fix, and it did not arrive. I’d missed it. No video. Couldn’t request it, either. Mom's phone block. Terri, Janet and a few friends were going to a local hangout that night called Muffins. Terri’s friend, who we called “Germin”, was playing darts. “Why not go watch?”, Terri asked. “Ok,” I agreed, but at this point my day was utterly ruined. It was Friday and I’d have to wait until Monday again to see that video. My theory on why this never showed during weekends is that it was probably a high schooler who’d requested it while Mom/Dad wasn’t around. I mean NEVER showed. My weekend was empty. I went out as planned. No video. I sat. I pouted. I sulked and moped. No video. Terri, Tina, and Janet all looked at me and asked what was wrong. I told them sheepishly that my tv was not working very well. They looked at me like I was nuts. I did not say anything about that guy in the video. My night, and subsequent weekend, ended in a sea of disappointment.



Finally, this video began to fade. That highschooler probably got caught for adding to the phone bill just like I did, and it was barely played anymore. All good things come to an end, I thought. I moved on. No more guy from the tv.



Fast forward to 1992 when the sound of furious bagpipes surfaced in a song called Jump Around. The group was House of Pain. I heard it on the radio and promptly covered my ears. The repetitive screech was a bit much. My friends loved this song. I hated it. Those damn bagpipes! The banshee instrument! “TURN THAT OFF,” I begged when we went to bars, clubs, even drove in Tina’s car. My ears hurt. My head hurt. I could not escape that song.



Apparently, I couldn’t escape my crush. “Who the fuck sings that song?” I demanded.



“Some guy named Everlast,” was Terri’s reply.



“EVERLAST???? ARE YOU SHITTING ME????” I squealed, my heart rate soaring.



“What the hell’s wrong with you? Don’t you watch the Video Jukebox? That song is on every day. Stop squealing, you sound like you’re possessed!!!”



You got that right! My guy from the tv was BACK. No more 4 pm rushing, I just kept the damn channel on until Jump Around surfaced no matter what time it was. And then, it happened. The screech I hated. I took a deep breath and luxuriated in my seat. There he was. Looking like a mean hooligan. Sneering at the camera. Like he'd bite someone. (Let it be me?) The video is a series of St. Patrick’s Day images in black and white, if I remember correctly. Stuff I normally complain about, particularly little shamrocks painted on faces (ugh). But there he was. Goatee, green eyes. Intense. Deliciously menacing. I wanted to slather him in honey and put him on toast. And not just me—it seems most of the girls I knew all drooled over him, too. I felt superior, however, due to my previous Jukebox devotion. (Ok—OBSESSION.) I saw him first. Nya, Nya!



The song continued to annoy me, but I didn’t hate it that much knowing it was his song. He faded for a few years and then resurfaced in 1998. I saw a photo of him in Rolling Stone. My heart skipped a few beats. Still does. Some guys just do that to ya. It’s one of those “hell-if-I-know” things. And now who’s the hot white rapper of the day? Eminem. Cool guy, but let’s not kid ourselves about who did it first. And does anyone remember my guy from the tv (other than for his big fight with Eminem)? I wonder. Clear Channel owns everything, so I’m not expecting his newest digs to explode on the radio. If you’re over 25 and not pop, you don’t get airplay. The Video Jukebox is long gone, so once again, we are at the mercy of Britney and Justin on MTV and the flavor of the week show on vh1. It just sucks.



And I still hate bagpipes, always will. But, oh, those green eyes. Thank god for the internet. And memories. And iTunes. Wow-there goes my heartbeat again...

It's Just me against the world

My thuggin' continues...god I love iTunes.



Well, there's no way I'm rushing today to get my Amazon packages out. I hate the 88th Street post office more than words, always have. It's nice outside, cool, feeling like Autumn. I'm going to bother Andy and Ann later and maybe roam over to Wollman to say "hi" to David.



I also feel a Barbie jones coming on. I think the new holiday selection's out, so it's Times Square today, too. So, I can stop by the 33rd street post office and get these books out to their new homes. I figure I've held onto this stuff for so long, I'm probably depriving some high school student of literacy. Do I really need to keep that copy of "Animal Farm" I read twice back in ninth grade? I don't think so. Let someone have it for $2.



My cds are selling, too. Do I really want that old Sarah McLachlan Jeff gave me? No. I've played it once, get it out of my house. Out with the old, make space for the new.



Let's see how Monday goes. The half-and-half shit begins.

I'll serve your ass like John McEnroe...

and if your girl steps up I'm smackin' da ho...LMAO




Yes, kiddies, I've found that little House of Pain gem known as Jump Around from 1994? 1995? How far back does that song go? I remember being bombarded with that in every bar, every club, even the Video Jukebox used to kill me with those damn bagpipes every 10 minutes. Good God, I hated that song. Didn't stop my crush on Everlast (even cuter than Eminem), but I was waaaay sick of that song.



Nothing cheers up a tired gal like some thug rappers, I'll tell ya. Between Erik B and Rakim's Don't Sweat the Technique now being used in a Target advertisement, the straight selling potential of a strong hook with some thumping bass is not lost on commercial America. I saw the Target commercial about a month ago, and my jaw dropped. I completely forgot about that song. They are boxing in the ad, too, so "Everlast" is everywhere. That got me reminiscing, too. About those damn bagpipes. My mind's been frazzled, I need to galvanize this anger.



I went home last night, after a truly agonizing week, and went straight to iTunes. 99 cents a song? I got me some House, some Cypress Hill, some Rakim, Tupac, and some Q-Tip, the only non-thuglet in the bunch. A scalding hot bath, a few $$$ later, and I was ghetto fabulous in my tub, with Dexter (the Original Gangsta) standing guard at the door. I took the phone off the hook, turned off the cell, and soaked for a good 40 minutes. I feel absolutely renewed.



And now, for my latest rant...(deep breaths, kiddies!)



Ain't nothing going on today in the office, except maybe fraud. There’s an incredible rumor that PB is getting an office. How in hell, I don’t know. OH, wait! I get it: incompetence, stupidity, and the enjoyment of bossing other people around. That makes for good management. The less they do, the higher up they go. My lips may be chapped, but certainly not from kissing anyone’s ass. Never will be either. Let’s see if I ever get to $40K in this place. I will now shamelessly admit I’ve starting buying lottery tickets. If I win? Good luck finding me, kiddies. There will be no reaching my cell phone, because I won’t need one anymore.



And now, she’s supposedly not here next week. I’m left with all the undone contracts, the changes for our legal department, the filing, the shit that’s been sitting here since the end of September. Nice.



Of course, I get a lame “thank you.” Such crumbs are considered nourishment around here. I guess my Strawberry/Old Navy/Conway digs and three-year-old PayLess shoes ain’t cutting it. If I were a competitive bitch who can’t spell with Dior perfume, I’d have two assistants by now.



Makes me wanna Holler.



Whew! I feel cleansed having said that.



But the headache is temporarily gone, and my legs don't hurt today.



Maybe I'll hunt for some Pete Rock and C.L. Smooth tonight. RD and I are taking a lovely trip for some mushrooms. (Portabello's, not Cypress Hill.) And we'll laugh. We always do.

Drift in the eyes of the ghost again

Well, the drowning man has visited again: out of the sky and into my body.



I awoke in such pain this morning I could barely move. Knees, elbows, joints, legs on fire, lower back. This is called fibromyalgia and it's a slow form of hell. They (the Doctors) want to put me on painkillers, but I am hard-wired to get hooked on those pills, thanks to my lovely Eugene O'Neill DNA. Hydrocodone scares the living shit outta me. Straight up. Taking care of this banged-up body means uncovering all the illnesses my predecessors ignored. Thyroid problems (which I have) and PCOS (which go hand-in-hand) have a dark connection to a soft-tissue disorder called fibromyalgia. For a woman who's spend 28 years on and off the ice, it frightens me to feel like I'm on fire. I am burning inside and out and it ain't passion, kiddies.



I am home instead of deciding like a good juror because I could barely get out of bed. It felt like little gnomes were stabbing me with ice picks. I didn't know whether I should report at 9 or 10, but I wasn't getting there until 10:30, which I did. I truly didn't care today. 32 and I'm hunched over like a strega? Dear Lord, help me.



So, I get there. I walk through the holding area and didn't recognize anyone. I knew I was in trouble. I limp past the security guard into the "main office". I am told to wait. Waiting without a chair is not good. "Is she ok?" I hear someone ask. The answer is NO NO NO, but now I'm getting attitude. I beg the woman to check my name, I'm worried, I'm not feeling well, and I don't want to come back because I don't want to lose my job and I get snapped with "oh, THAT'S WHY YOU'RE NOT FEELING WELL, YOU DON'T WANT TO BE HERE. BACK OF THE LINE!"



To which I think, silently burning (my legs, back and SOUL now in fury), "What the fuck do I have to do to be treated like a human being?" I can feel my anger raising. This is sooo not good.



I am told to go upstairs to the third floor. I am now lost on the elevator. 8th floor, 6th floor, 2nd floor. No third floor. 20 minutes have gone by. Finally, I get to the third floor. More attitude. I also know they are looking for that missing juror. I can't even remember the case name. I am ready to keel.



"Well, then, you need to go back downstairs so I know what room." I completely lose it. And not in my usual manner. Tears are streaming down my face now. The security guard knows I am not kidding. I proceed to break down completely. I show her my pills, I grab a chair and scream "I CAN'T DO THIS I DON'T FEEL WELL WHY CAN'T YOU JUST BE A HUMAN BEING????" I tell her, another judge, and a clerk that I simply can't do this. After waiting two weeks of bullshit, going there two days, going back to work, coming back a third time, and then being told to come back a fourth time because we "might" have a judge, I give up. Then I get a phone call--PB wants to know if I'm in Thursday, Friday and next week. Of course, she doesn't call me herself. Why would she? Get someone else to do it. She's the boss. She's tired of backing up my work. She's leaving next week, so once again, IT'S MY PROBLEM. Never mind the fact that I'm working myself to the fucking bone--the burning on fire bones--but she has to have my schedule while she does damn well what she pleases. Yes, I'll be in because I'm tired of fixing her fucking mistakes. I was put here to figure out my lot in this world, not to kiss her ass. I hang up the phone. "I'll be back Thursday, regular time." I go back down with another guard, looking like I won the Courtney Love lookalike contest (mascara smeared in 12 directions), and am told to wait again. 15 minutes tick by.



I am now getting pitiful and discomforted looks from the other jurors in the lounge. I am a freak. I am distraught. Devoid of connection, empty of logic. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home.



Dismissal. Four more years before I am inconvenienced again. Small comfort. I walk out into the rain, the story of my life.



I catch the bus. I'm drenched from the spraying rain. My umbrella is useless. So am I, today.



Tea, out of wet clothes, Kashi. Umbrella near radiator to dry. Led Zeppelin on the radio.



And I sit writing this, wondering how I got to this point.



Sure as hell ain't enough room to write that down.



=^..^= ???

How to Work with Four Year-Olds

Leave it to Irving Berlin to describe my work situation. Come to think of it, my last job was like this, too. Hum a few bars and join in...



Anything you can do,

I can do better.

I can do anything

Better than you.


No, you can't.

Yes, I can. No, you can't.

Yes, I can. No, you can't.

Yes, I can,

Yes, I can!


Anything you can be

I can be greater.

Sooner or later,

I'm greater than you.


No, you're not. Yes, I am.

No, you're not. Yes, I am.

No, you're NOT!. Yes, I am.

Yes, I am!



Get the picture? Oh, I'm ready to get my gun, all right, as Bob Verlaque would say.



And I'm off two days this week--follow up to my jury case (the judge recused himself), and my magical day off--RECOGNITION THANK GOD--for coming in VOLUNTARILY on a Saturday. Next week is adventures in the new car with RD. That's Friday, PB's last day. HA!



Someone send me a roll of quarters, I'll call PB when I care.

Today is a first...

I am writing this from my desk at work. YES, ON A SATURDAY. I volunteered to do this not to kiss ass, but to NOT be interrupted every five minutes with stupidity, phone calls, gossip, hello's, crap and overall headaches. I was going to do this without telling anyone, but then I sat with one of my bosses, and decided, what the hell? Throw it in and mention I care. Why?


1) Because I do. Despite my commutes from hell, I actually enjoy my work.
2)I am tired of getting interrupted.
3)There is an urgent deadline Monday, and I understand that this is important and I'm tired of being disorganized.
Having said that, I am enjoying a Diet Coke with lime and a chive-sprinkled chicken salad sandwich on wheat. I am also blasting Rufus's Do You Love What you Feel? as I type this. If you're not familiar with this song, check out iTunes or Windows Media for a sampler. It's a jammin' doozy! Wait, it's the bridge--let me twirl in my chair.



(twirl)



Ok, that felt good. This is what work should be every day. Loud music, no interruptions, and fun. But there's this thing that keeps getting in the way: other people. Oh well. I'll just have to deal. Onto Sade now. Thank God for RealPlayer.



Well, kiddies, that's my fun for now. Thanks to RD and Mom for calling me to give me moral support. Andrew's missing in action. I wonder if he's preparing for Halloween or something. I must bother him later.



As Dexter would say, Tuna Out!

Christmas Elves are killing me in my dreams…

That’s just an example of what little sleep, no play, and all work does to yours truly. Yes, that is not just an eye-grabbing headline, it’s really REAL. I dreamed a bunch of Christmas-y looking gnomes jumped off a huge tree and began to march towards me with daggers in their hand. Instead of stabbing me with daggers, they held them like shotguns and little bullets shot out directly into my chest. I awoke, startled, with Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas (the Perry Como version) fading somewhere in my mind. Have I lost it? (That’s purely rhetorical, I’ve known the answer since third grade.)



In other news, the debates are over. Retard Monkey Boy Bush and Lord of the Rings Tree Face Kerry are finished. Anti-Union politics will prevail if our presiding Chimp wins again. But don’t tell that to RD, who brazenly protested doing scab work in the casino where he’s employed. Asked to work the bar to cover striking union members, he promptly took his $20 in tip money to the picket organizer so the bunch could get donuts. The CEO and all the managers are laughing their asses off, making $$$ hand over fist, and all these people want is a decent wage. This is another example of fascism at its finest. $20 for donuts---that’s why RD’s a “mint guy”, to use Lawn Guyland vernacular. He told me he couldn’t have possibly kept any of that money in good conscience. And I agree, both my parents were union. Domino Sugar, Rheingold, and Utz have all gone the way of BetaMax.



Proof of this mentality is the fact that I will be coming in this Saturday to sit at my desk, just to catch up and get some peace. I’ve been on a deadline, trying to complete one year’s worth of work into two weeks. What I'm doing now used to be the work of a team who got fired due to their old age. Anyone past 40 is not allowed to eat, live, or have a paycheck, so I guess I'll be employed for about 7 more years. I'll enjoy it while it lasts. I'm only living to pay bills. Wish I was a princess, but oopsie, no silver spoon or rich family do I descend from. Feel free to gloat, but only if you're an asshole. If you are, I'm probably ignoring you anyway.



Last night I got home at 8:30, having worked until 7:05 p.m. Did I mention I only get paid for 8 hours worth of work? Those new overtime rules Bush passed apply to us, so I’m not eligible for overtime. How does this benefit me? It doesn’t. But the “economy” is getting stronger. My vote “counts.” I will be “prosperous” again in no time.



See what spin does? I sound like Bill O’Reilly. Oops, was that not nice? Sorry. Maybe that’s why those elves came after me…

Tears of Sorrow, Tears of JOY

Well, my day started off in a fit of tears with the news of Christopher Reeves's death. His accident on May 28, 1995 reminded me of another accident: same day, three years later. For those of you that know, I am talking about Harryetta Peterka. She was one of the few people I admired at the former hellhole acting school. Her life was shattered on May 28, 1998, only three weeks after I had come to the school. A bicycle messenger hit her from behind and she never regained consciousness. We said goodbye to her on June 2, 1998.



What's so ironic is that Harry (as she was called) and Christopher worked together at one point during the 70's. The name of the play escapes me. Both of them are now free to discuss their work, their lives, their joys, and catch up on old times. More change, hard as it is. But another angel to watch us? Maybe. Chris, you'll always be my Superman.



My tears of joy came late in the day: Princess Brat is leaving the office. She will be out of my hair, and on another floor. The true platinum plated balls involved in all of this is an email I shouldn't have seen--she wants more money. No college degree, not even an associates! But she wants more money. And they'll probably give it to her. I've got an associates and a bachelor's in a dual major, and I guarantee they won't give me more money when the time comes. Still, the headaches, the shitpot mess, the spelling errors and mistakes will no longer be my department's problem. I couldn't possibly be happier. There's no chance for me to run into her, either. It's an entirely different floor with different work. No mixing, no mingling. THANK GOD, HEAVEN, AND ALL THE SAINTS!!! Now, I won't come in to 9:05 a.m. emails about going to lunch, who said what and why did they do this, gossip, bullshit, Gucci bags (Ghetto Cow loved those, too), and inane laugh (Fran Drescher's is more pleasant, trust me) will be a thing of the past.



Once again, I will howl with mirth and glee at some of the better spelling errors PB has given us:



Diddo (ditto)



Responces (responses)



Wernt (weren't)



Resime (resume)



Woudn't (wouldn't)



and



hey there (not as fun as Jeffrey Tambor's Hey Now!, but you get the point)



Stupidity has a new home!!!! And it doesn't even have a degree!!! How do I know this?



SHE LEFT HER RESUME ON THE PUBLIC DATABASE. I SAW IT. Can't wait to show it to the powers that be should I hear, "She was such a good worker."



HAAAA!!! Excuse me while I wipe some tears, I'm rolling on my ass HOWLING right now.

In the words of Sir Duke, I Love You Madly (TK 1935-2001)

my father moved through dooms of love

through sames of have through haves of give

singing each morning out of each night

my father moved through depths of height



this motionless forgetful where

turned at his glance to shining here;

that if(so timid air is firm)

under his eyes would stir and squirm



newly as from unburied which

floats the first who,his april touch

drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates

woke dreamers to their ghostly roots



and should some why completely weep

my father's fingers brought her sleep

vainly no smallest voice might cry

for he could feel the mountains grow.



Lifting the valleys of the sea

my father moved through griefs of joy;

praising a forehead called the moon

singing desire into begin



joy was his song and joy so pure

a heart of star by him could steer

and pure so now and now so yes

the wrists of twilight would rejoice



keen as midsummer's keen beyond

conceiving mind of sun will stand

so strictly(over utmost him

so hugely)stood my father's dream



his flesh was flesh his blood was blood;

no hungry man but wished him food;

no cripple wouldn't creep one mile

uphill to only see him smile



Scorning the pomp of must and shall

my father moved through dooms of feel;

his anger was as right as rain

his pity was as green as grain



septembering arms of year extend

less humbly wealth to foe and friend

than he to foolish and to wise

offered immeasurable is



proudly and(by octobering flame

beckoned)as earth will downward climb,

so naked for immortal work

his shoulders marched against the dark



his sorrow was as true as bread:

no liar looked him in the head;

if every friend became his foe

he'd laugh and build a world with snow.



My father moved through theys of we,

singing each new leaf out of each tree

(and every child was sure that spring

danced when she heard my father sing)



then let men kill which cannot share,

let blood and flesh be mud and mire,

scheming imagine,passion willed,

freedom a drug that's bought and sold



giving to steal and cruel kind

a heart to fear,to doubt a mind,

to differ a disease of same,

conform the pinnacle of am



through dull were all we taste as bright,

bitter all utterly things sweet,

maggoty minus and dumb death

all we inherit,all bequeath



and nothing quite so least as truth

--I say though hate were why men breathe--

because my father lived his soul

love is the whole and more than all





e.e. cummings, 1940



A short and tender life. A laugh bursting forth. A tear, a memory, a dream. I see you now as you could not see yourself. Up into the silence the green silence with a white earth in it you will go...

Happy B-day, John

Yup, John Lennon would have been 64 today. Q104's doing a Beatles block later. He and Scottso are having hilarious conversations, I'm sure.



Chapman's still rotting in jail, thank God. I say put him in General Population and watch him get shanked in about a week. That would be justice. If prison is anything like Oz, that wonderfully evil show on HBO, he wouldn't live past, oh, next Thursday.



Some things are unforgiveable.



The cold is a bit better, my cough is not as painful, but the congestion is still throwing me for a loop. I will venture outside to get a paper and more teabags.



So much for an exciting Saturday. Oh, and joy! More hair will fall out due to my fever. Fuck it all, I'm shaving my head...

Tissues, tissues, and...tissues?

That is the only thing that defines my existence. I am really sick with a head cold. But what did I expect? The back and forth stress of trains, office, jury, jury, office is a bit much. There's also 40 zillion germs hanging around the vending machines, the backs of chairs, even the computer mouse I used in the lounge. All I have to do is touch and then touch my nose or my eye...and WHAM! I get a cold.



I anxiously await people's reactions next week when I tell them I have to go back for the actual trial. Everyone else is allowed days off except me. I get evil glares if I'm not there, as if I'm going for a Best Performance with Germs Oscar. The court officer did give me a letter stating I had to come back, so that will be my "note", not unlike the sick kid in Heaven Help Us. There's a movie you've haven't seen in a while, huh?



It's moments like this I realize there are choices: the choice to get up and go where the action is (and probably get even sicker) or to sit it out, rest, and take stock of the quiet moments with phlegm filling up my head, not to mention my thoughts. My best days are behind me, anyway. All those people are gone. Am I willing to go out and find some half-assed bunch to share old stories with? No, not at all. I'll cherish the times I have with those who still remember. It's quality, not quantity that has defined this year so far for me.



The headaches, gossip, bullshit, and games aren't going to affect me either in the office or at home. It's the times I could make an exception that are so far away. Yup, I realize I can count my friends on one hand, and it's less than five fingers. But that's ok. I drew that long line in the sand a long time ago. I know what to say, what to do, and how to fight. Having a cold is just a minor setback. It's a basic thing telling me to rest, recover, and sleep. It's not like there's anyone to take care of me. That's a choice, too. I am firmly convinced no one could possibly help me except me. Being weak and lightheaded certainly drives the point home, but like I said, it's a choice.



I'm not about to run myself ragged for anyone who's truly beneath me. I did that in that shithole school I suffered through with sneers and rumors, I even suffered through that hellish rink with Prospect Park's shitty management. I think I need to be kinder with myself. Doing marathons and saving the world is someone else's job. I quit, kiddies. And in doing so, I allow myself to get sick. To take a day off, to rest. And those who challenge that? Well, my famous temper is always at the surface.

Princesses abound, as do bullshit artists, liars, psychopaths, and other personality-disorded vermin. It's part of the world, part of life.



Like grabbing tissues as I sneeze in the dark is. My heaven is filled with bathtubs, and books, and the purr of a kitten perched on a zamboni overlooking a perfect glass-cut ice rink.



When I'm no longer here, that's what people will remember: a cat, a skate, music, a book, a ballet slipper. These are the things that come to mind inbetween cold tablets and nightsweats. At least I have perspective.

Runaway Jury

I'm STILL on jury duty.



I am also sick. The back-and-forth of trains to State St. and then NYC to my job have upped my stress levels considerably. So, in typical change-of-the-season-I-can't-fight-it-anymore fashion, I started sneezing last night. I officially woke up to a cold this morning only to be told that there's no judge for the case. Apparently, the one we thought we had is "unavailable", whatever that means.



So, now it's back to work tomorrow in yet another parody of "Are We Having Fun Yet?" I'm ready to keel over. And tomorrow I probably will. Dust, itches, sneezes, and 70 degree days to 58 degree nights---these are a few of my favorite things. NOT!



And my shoulder is still killing me from my little skating mishap last week: I went one way, the blade went the other. My shoulder got stuck in the socket for about 10 seconds, and the back of my leg is bluer than an asphyxiated Smurf.



Whoop Dee Doodle Doo, kiddies.



The farmer's market near the court was nice, though--a tiny open batch of upstaters selling apple cider, pumpkins, apples and fresh veggies. I bought some tart Sparton apples, and a baby pumpkin pie. It's nearing Halloween, so pumpkins are de rigeur, I guess.



The cats are surprised to see me home so early. I'm going to list some books on Amazon, burn some cd's, and wait for my cold medicine to kick in.



What was I doing this time last year? My god, I don't remember. That means the cold medicine is working.



Zzzzzz....later.

Heh Kahm Da Judge!

Yes, kiddies, I'm on jury duty. I'm back at work tomorrow, because it took forever to actually find alternates. So, I'm in then I'm out then I'm back in for the case Thursday. (????) Yeah, I feel the same. Confused. The judge took a break from taking a break to take a break, I guess.



I'm also totally bewildered at not having the right cables for my new DVD player. I bought the damn thing, while laughing at my 1989 t.v. Yup, 1989. The entire cast of Harry Potter was born that year. Christ, I just felt gray hair grow in.



And, of course, it's cold as a witch's tit in a brass bra since it feels like OCTOBER, not June like a few days ago. Let's see if my cheap new bastard landlord gives us heat this winter. Asshole runs a small office out in Lake Success, Lawn Guyland. They make Donald Trump look poor.



Dexter's happy, since it's a black cat holiday very soon. I bought him a rubber mouse the other day, and he's "killing" it as I type this. He jumps high for an 11-year-old.



So, now the big question: WHAT THE HELL DO I WEAR??? Tweeds are too heavy, wool will make me sweat like a pig, boots will knock me out like Tyson going after Mitch Green. I love/hate/love this time of year.



I should decorate my door or something. Unless there's a law against that, too. Bad enough I pay for my own window, we can't sit out on the stoop anymore, and my neighbor was ordered to take down his surveillance camera. Yup, that one. The one the cheap Lake Success bastards won't let us have in the lobby where it belongs. If I put a black cat on my door, will I come home to Dexter (a real black cat) taken hostage? I wonder. They're sneaky. We've got a total of 12 tenants gone. I think they're going to bleed us dry, fix nothing, go co-op, then evict. I watched this happen at the other shitho...apartment I lived in. I've got the San Andreas fault going on in my living room wall (a nice 5 ft. crack), my hallway's ceiling is cracking like dead skin, and paint flakes are falling like snow. If I drop dead from lead poisoning, send someone to pick my body up. The super's got a key, kiddies.



And let's see the mistakes I go back to tomorrow. I'm too tired to look. One day back is not going to help me catch up.



Do I have milk for hot chocolate? I should look.



Yup, I can pretend I'm snug and cozy under the San Andreas fault.



Ugh. I need to play some Stevie Wonder.......

I Just Wanta Hang Around You...

every day and night....hang around you...



And with those words, another unlabeled cassette from 1985 comes back to life. Wish I could. The song I'm referring to is a George Benson creation from 1984's 20/20. Great album. Less jazzy, more bluesy. I'm feeling quite bluesy today.



An embarrassing incident last night made me frazzled: a giant cramp made me forget about $10 worth of Duane Reade purchases in either a Starbucks (thank god for the bathrooms) or in a Petco. I was too much in pain to realize I'd left it behind until I got home. So, now, in typical brick-to-the-forehead fashion, I'm out $10. Nice. My pockets must be filthy, because there's always something to clean them out.



Weird dream, too. I was watching a bunch of Dyker Heights-esque houses--lawns, stairs, trees. One of the trees was growing out of a tiny pool. The concrete, as I came closer, was actually earth. There were koi swimming in it. A black cat who I instinctively knew was female stepped into the water, hovered for a second, whimpered, and began to sink. I lunged forward to grab this creature and pull it close to me. I asked all those around me where I could go for help, but no one answered. I was invisible. As I ran down the block, the cat turned to stone. I dropped it and it dissolved into ash before it hit the ground. I woke up with a start.



The cat is me, no doubt. Am I turning to stone? That debate could take up an entire blog in itself.



What amazes me is that this time of year for children is always about beginnings. The school year, obviously, is a fresh start for many kids. For adults, it's different: we are thinking about the end of the year. With roughly 2 weeks vacation, the average adult in this country can only track the seasons by how many days off we are given. One day blends into the next, with very little stop inbetween. Even RD mentioned how strange this past week felt: it's a sort of slow, dark I-don't-know-what feeling. It's not a beginning as much as a beginning of the END kind of feeling. The days darker, colder, more narrow. Fighting for light, maybe? We will turn the clocks again in a few weeks.



I must already be doing that if I'm playing old cassettes from 1985.



The ice is going down in Rock Center, and I am not there. We will soon be fighting when the Hudson Hawk bites come November. That wind? I could take an umbrella to work and fly like Mary Poppins. Scary.



Tomorrow is the St. Finbar's Flea Market. Frenchy Poliseno, a long-time resident of my old neighborhood, was shot dead after being robbed right near Bay 20th this past week. The priests of St. Finbars all knew her. She dragged herself to the precinct and gave a description of the attackers (who followed her from my old block, the Daily News noted), before dying on the way to Lutheran Medical Center. I was stunned to read this yesterday afternoon. 2 blocks from a police station, and they were that brazen to take an old woman's life? Not the neighborhood I knew.



Weird, weird, and weird. I've got a bad feeling, kiddies. Pray it goes away.

The voice of my youth is gone

Oh, how this hurts. WNEW plays only love songs now. Oh, my aching head...



Goodbye, Scottso

BEHOLD THE MESSIAH!!!

I kid you not, kiddies. The following is a cut-and-pasted email from someone I knew in college. His wife has given birth, but this takes it a bit too far. I believe I mentioned that his baby shower was at Grand Prospect Hall last month?



"Welcoming to the world Benjamin Alexander Cyrus Ho.



We had a healthy baby boy at 9:34 p.m. Tuesday. Delivery was by unplanned c-section because of stalled prolonged labor - ultimately we found the baby was in a difficult face-up position and could not come out any other way. Both mom and baby are doing well. We came home from the hospital Sunday night.[Too Much Information? You betcha!]



Despite the unexpected problems, Marsha was very strong and did exceptionally well using her hypnobirthing skills during the about eight hours of labor.[Is there a scale to measure this? Or is this just bragging?]



Benjamin was born 7 lbs 4 oz and 21 1/4 inches long. His Apgar scores were 9/9.[What the FUCK is an Apgar score? Oh, wait...more bragging.]



He came out instantly kicking and screaming without any prompting.[That's what happens when the baby is alive. If something was wrong, there would be silence. Duh.]



He is the center of attention with visits from aunts, grandparents and great-grandparents.[Really David? It sounds like you're the center of attention. The next paragraph will prove my point. Take a deep breath before you read on. Let me highlight it.]



The birth was filmed by A Baby's Story and is scheduled to air on The Learning Channel on Oct. 25. Hospital public relations is already planning a local promotional campaign - he's not a day old and he already has press releases written about him. [that's because Daddy needs to show off.]



Mom and dad are slowly recovering and trying to rest. There will likely be little of that for some time.[Never trust people who refer to themselves in the third person. It shows signs of mental illness. I will gladly discuss the summer of 2002 if you don't follow what I'm saying.]



Pictures to follow soon." [Why do we need pictures? You can just send us the press release, and the free DVD recorder for all of us when the show comes on.]



Have you ever? Is this the height of narcissism or am I fucking crazy? I can assure you he wasn't kidding about the tv show because he works for Cox News, a major Media outlet. They are also a frequent collaborator and client of the AP, where I work, and he once did. He quit in 2002.



I am stunned by the clear ridiculousness of it all. Women give birth all the time, but a tv show? That's the height of hubris.



Yes, all new parents go a bit batty, but that's usually the lack of sleep. This child isn't even a week old yet, so the craziness had to be there before. Ahh, narcissistic supply. Sorry, I gave at the office...

One ballerina? That'll be $750, please.

Well, thank god for stoop sales.



A nice Alex Schloss original painting fell into my hands free of charge on my way through Park Slope last night. Darling Swan Lake corps member, teal background, tutu poised, shadows of silver and white. Just sitting there leaning against a tree. I picked it up--even though that's not my favorite ballet--and decided I'd keep it. It's worth knowing its value.



A quick call to RD netted me the following info: it was painted by local SoHo artist Sir Alex Schloss. He is also the curator for the Plaza Hotel gallery. That's nifty. Did I mention most of his ballet painings from the 70's (of which this is obviously one) fetch upwards of $2,000 or more? Apparently the person discarding it doesn't know its worth. Ha ha! Now I do!



If I could only figure out who the dancer is. Schloss went through a phase while he watched various dancers at Harkness House. Most of those dancers were from American Ballet Theater, my beloved Gelsey being a frequent subject. For a quick guess, I'd say it was Marianna Tcherkassky, Eleanor D'Antuono, or Jessica Lopez who was a soloist from 1974-1981. If it's Jessica, the price won't be too great, despite the fact that $750 is etched on the back in pencil. The person who threw this out really REALLY doesn't have any use for it. Which is sad, since most dancers eventually are discarded, too.



Well, if he's still near that fountain, maybe I'll go in and ask him exactly who it is. I can talk to anybody, so this might be fun!



Now, to conquer laundry. My days teeter-totter from the glorious to the mundane...

Lie not in wait...

against the home of the just man,
ravage not his dwelling place;
For the just man falls seven times and rises again,
but the wicked stumble to ruin. ---Proverbs 24:15-16




An incredible book has fallen into my hands. It's a book that has moved from place to place. My mother sent meAngel Power by Janice T. Cornell. It constructs an incredible portrait of the Nine Choirs of Angels and their place in modern life.



The Seraphim, Cherabim, and Thrones are the Angels of Pure Contemplation. The Dominions, Powers, and Virtues govern all the cosmos. And then there are the "celebrities" that govern all the world: The Principalities, Archangels, and Angels. Each choir is actively engaged in the mission of helping humans gain entrance to the Kingdom of Heaven. They come where and when they are properly invited, you might even say 'welcomed.' Over the years, I'd have to say Gabriel has visited Mom a few times, while my life is filled with recurring images of Michael. A recent incident uncovered the seemingly "threaded" links of Michael in my life.



The advent of Ann and Andy coming back into my life brings with it flashes of armor, swords, fire, and a fascinating sense of the unknown swirling in my head. I cannot help but think of these things when I speak to either of them. Ann reminded me of my old living room in 6B (truly a haunted place) when she kept turning around while we sat at my dining room table. "Is there something there?" she kept asking me. I asked her what she felt was there, and her reply was, "I sense someone. A boy maybe." I thought nothing of it at the time, although Roger Pratt, a gifted psychic and good friend of my family, always told me there was a blue-eyed, blond, curly-haired boy who was tall and rather serious, with me when darkness came. When I asked him what he meant by "darkness", he said to me plainly, "Your apartment is much different at night than during the day." He was correct. I came to terms with strange noises and footsteps in the middle of the night. He told me to purchase a red candle and acknowledge Saint Michael in my bedroom. This was a few weeks before Ann visited me back in 1997.



The history of that apartment came to me over the years as one that seemed to attract chaos. The previous tenants had a history of domestic violence. There were holes in the walls, and one of the closets had scratches etched into it as if there were an animal hidden inside. The landlord at the time had a devil of a time getting any tenant to rent it for over 2 years. Well, in 1982, the next family was mine. We were not without our own disturbances, given my own parents' volatile relationship. What this dungeon didn't count on was my family's spirituality: relics of Mary, Jude, and Anthony graced almost every room, and with my later occult volumes added to the hall closet, well, we were certainly prepared. I knew instinctively that to live in the light, I had to understand the darkness. One creepy incident that I recounted to Roger was when the door became unlocked in the middle of the night. Don't ask me how. Roger told me that if that should happen again simply say, "Spirit be with me," as I re-locked the door. I scoffed, but that place was starting to warp my nerves. I was half-way through college, and had two roommate prospects leave Brooklyn to get married. I was 22 at the time. I had no where else to go.



I began a devotional candle to Michael on a particularly rainy night, and kept buying these candles from a tiny Bodega. One side was in Spanish, the other in English with a gold overlay and an image of the sword piercing the demon. An incredible feeling took over that room. Even my father noticed, and he hadn't set foot in a church since Vatican II took away his beloved Latin mass. "Did you clean in here or something?" Apparently I did without knowing it.



Well, this is my third apartment since then, and I haven't felt the need for any angels. I did make a trip a few Fridays ago into (lo and behold) St. Michael's church around the corner from where my job is. I walked in, looked to my left and was entranced with a full life-sized statue of Michael-- curls, armor and all. What is so striking about this statue is that the sword is forged out of metal, not marble. I don't understand how the hand "grips" this sword, since it's solid and heavy. If you kneel under this statue and look up the sword points to your heart, and his face looks right at you. It's an incredible feeling.



Perhaps entering this church was not the whim it looked like for me. A reminder that Mike's still there? Well, that's good--who else checks up on me? A few people, but not many. What a change, though, to know that I am not being used and slandered anymore. My energy is not being wasted on stupidity. Not in my job, not in my life. I can find my armor, and maybe I don't even have to wear it. I am never alone.



Then war broke out in heaven; Michael and his angels battled against the dragon. The dragon and its angels fought back, but they did not prevail and there was no longer any place for them in heaven. The huge dragon, the ancient serpent, who is called the Devil and Satan, who deceived the whole world, was thrown down to earth, and its angels were thrown down with it. ---Revelation 12:7-9

Psych 101 at Orwell Inc.

Another long week here…quiet, but weird as usual. My particular peeve this week is insecure people. How in hell they get through their day being so scared is beyond me.

Half my floor is filled with power-mad, decision-lusting executives, the other half is doormat mice who cower at the slightest stress. Not even their Vuitton bags or Jimmy Choo heels can make it go away. Phones are constantly attached to ears, as if a minute of silence will nihilate them. The whispers and giggles just don’t stop. It’s funny I was going to be a teacher, because this is just like working with third-graders. Only the lunchboxes are Gucci bags, and the saddle shoes are 3-inch heels. Work is not the order of the day, it’s how they look while they look like they’re working. It’s quite amusing.



I have started to count how many times one individual’s cell keeps popping up on a particular line. Yesterday, I counted to 6 within 3 hours. A family member, no doubt. Six times? How can you NOT notice the same number popping up six times? If I see it, the higher-ups must see it, too.



Neurosis rules the day. People who do not like each other pretend that they do, sniping behind their backs when the other is not present. Birthday/holiday gifts are given to people who really don’t deserve them after turncoating and lies weave themselves through the weeks and months. I find this to be pathological and rather contradictory. Perhaps some nice volumes of Piaget, Erickson, and Freud would do well on my desk? I’ve got some shelf space, kiddies.



My particular favorite flavor of the week is a man I’ll call Nandy. He is routinely rude and curt with everyone around him. Yesterday I was told to stop what I was doing and call downstairs. I dialed the number from my phone, handed him the receiver and asked, “Why don’t you try and reach her? I’ve never met the person you’re talking about.” The look of bewilderment was priceless. Minutes later, I got a call from his assistant asking me why she saw my number and then heard his voice. “I was teaching him how to be independent,” was my reply. She cackled with laughter.



Since I know how much he loves the spotlight, I have stopped giving him any attention at all. I routinely leave my desk (“ladies room” excuse) without looking him in the eye when he stops in adjacent offices. When I do glance his way, he is usually staring right at me, probably wondering why I am not bowing to his corporate omnipotence. He’s an immature child from what I’ve heard, and one that would slit my throat, that’s why. Been there, done that. It was called My Previous Job. I protect me since no one else cares to. That in itself is a full-time job. There are people who bow to Nandy, though. The ‘insecurities’, I’ll call them. They fear this man as if he’s got a gun in his pocket. HA! He gets lost trying to get to Penn Station, and that’s only two blocks away. And people ask me why I don’t have kids yet? Puhhlease, I work with them. This place is turning into romper room with Nino Cerruti suits. All we need is milk and cookies and maybe a sandbox to complete the transformation.



No wonder mid-life crises come about—all these people running around trying to find status as opposed to authenticity. It’s just a job, kiddies. You can’t take it with you. They know the price of everything (to impress each other) and the value of nothing. They’ll never have my sympathy. Not even with that proverbial gun to my head.

That's just what Bela Karolyi said...

Another witty snippet from Rob Brezny...



To achieve your dreams, writes Chuck Klosterman in Esquire, you shouldn't obsess on cultivating allies. The two most important characters in the life of any successful human, he says, are a nemesis and an archenemy. While I don't wholeheartedly endorse this exaggerated position, Pisces, I do recommend it now for your temporary use. Nothing will sharpen your wits so much in the coming weeks as competitors and people who don't agree with you. They will be catalysts who'll provide you with all the motivation you need to leap to the next level of excellence.



Bela had said in a 1989 interview that he (and I paraphrase) 'personally wanted to shake the hand of every enemy' he'd ever had. They did him more good than encouragement to motivate him. A Western Bloc mentality, indeed, but I can see the value.



I always thought a nemesis and an archenemy were the same thing. Now I'll have to study the difference. The lack of clutter and positive changes this year will help me distinguish between the two.



I just wish I could find my copy of Ghostyhead to clear the mental fog.

Mids. Beginning to End

Well, I was right. Sarah Hughes is deferring a year and going on tour with Stars on Ice this season. They usually sign a one-year contract, so that means she'll go straight through rehearsals (which start about now in Lake Placid), start in November, and the tour ends in April. Her sister Emily, won the gold at SkyRink. It was easy to see why, even in warm-up!



They look alike from a distance, and have almost the same body type. Layback spins are in the family DNA, Em's is just as gorgeous as Sarah's. Only difference is Emily skates counterclockwise, like most skaters do. She came out in a gorgeous powder blue Tania Bass dress to selections from Sleeping Beauty. It was definitely a first not to hear Swan Lake AT ALL THIS WEEKEND. Hallelujah!!!



I saw a mix of pairs, junior men, intermediate ladies, and a really strong senior ladies bunch. The Skating Club of New York really had it together this year. Turns out I didn't have to volunteer at all, everything was smooth with fewer volunteers than years past. So, I walked around, chatted, sat in the stands, and caught up with old friends.



A quick trip for coffee netted me a nice moment with Johnny Weir, this year's US gold champ. There I am pouring in half and half and boom! I told him I had something for him, and he smiled. I had two performances of his coach when she was amateur. (I was waiting on a third reel from Seattle to transfer to video, but the guy lost it.) I also explained I didn't know where to send it since he's been back and forth from Connecticut and Delaware, so could I hand it to him Sunday? He said yes, since he'd be handing out the memorial fund prizes. Cool, I thought. He'd never seen it.



Then it was off to the junior ladies. There's nothing more entertaining than little pixies zooming around the warm up like sequined waterbugs. Some solid double axels out there and really strong music choices. No Swan Lake, thank god. Britt Adams came out in a lovely mint green dress and knocked us all out. Saturday night, she placed first, and was in today's exhibition.



Scanning the crowd along with Judy and Robert on Saturday, we noticed more "glitter" than years past. It was a veritable who's who of skating: Viktor Petrenko (1992 Olympic Gold); Maia Usova (1993 World Gold Ice Dance); Johnny (2004 US Gold); Peter Burrows (coach of Elaine Zayak and husband of Katherine Healy); Robin Wagner (former coach of Sarah and presently Sasha Cohen); and Slavka Kahout (coach of Janet Lynn.) Things ran pretty smoothly, and I think Sid Morgan not being manager there anymore had a lot to do with it.



I caught Johnny's attention, and handed him the videotape during the men's warmup. He confessed how nervous he was since two of his students were up later Saturday night. Judy later commented that she had followed his coach's career since she had grown up in Boston. I found out that Judy no longer skates, due to a compression fracture in her lower back. I said it was a miracle she can still walk! Another one of Sid's screw-ups: one of his "students" did crossovers lengthwise and slammed into her. That would explain why she's not on the ice on Thursdays with me anymore. We enjoyed ourselves, particularly with the fact that a certain senior men's competitor practiced in shorts! That's the kind of irreverance I cherish. He later came out decked in black velvet and popped off a triple/triple much to the crowd's delight.



I decided to return today to see if the volunteer team needed me (turns out they didn't), but I did get to watch the champion's exhibitions. Prize money was awarded through the Will Sears Memorial Fund. The gold medal winners are as follows... (you might see these names at nationals verrry soon...)




Juvenile Girls: Sasha Lanser
Juvenile Boys: David Sorenson
Juvenile Pairs: Gabrielle Friedenberg & Brett Dunie-Newstadt
Intermediate Ladies: Jane Ruan
Intermediate Pairs: Kara Vick & Joseph Navarro
Intermediate Mens: Alex Zahradnicek
Intermediate Dance: Ilana Morse & Jackson Rainey
Novice Ladies: Katrina Hacker
Novice Mens: Schulyer Eldridge
Junior Ladies: Britt Adams
Junior Mens: Michael Solonoski
Senior Dance Exhibition: (and good friends of Will) Loren Galler-Rabinowitz & David Mitchell
Senior Ladies: Emily Hughes
Senior Men's Exhibition Only: Johnny Weir.



Here's the straight truth: if Emily Hughes gets her triple lutz and flip in order? You'll see her win as much as Sarah did. Mark my word. Johnny's short program is to Rondo Capriccioso. It's dazzling, but you can't expect anything less from him. He's simply magnificent. Now I can say I know, having met him.



Well, it's off to dinner, kiddies. A great weekend it was.