Thursday, December 30, 2010

I Promised I Wouldn't!

But here I am. I signed a waiver saying that I would not blog from work, but that was where I did most of my blogging! Another waning hobby fades into my past...

I missed this blog! Did you miss me? See, that's funny, because even if I asked to your face, I would probably hear the same answer as I am hearing now. The sounds of screaming children...that's a decent excuse for disjointed writing. But an excuse for blogging after I promised not to at work, well...

Who uses elipses better than me? Really. Answer: anyone who uses them with discretion.

Soooooo... some year, eh? Crazy shit going down. I'll try to get back to posting, maybe even start posting from home in the new year. But to be honest, there's a chance that this blog may hibernate for even longer. I've got bigger fish to fry, people! But I will say that writing this blog has almost felt like sending a radio signal out into space with no hope of reception. I know who reads it, which is fine, and thank you, my truly beloved readers, but if I were to write something regularly, I would hope for more than my brother, boyfriend, and three friends to take in my words. You guys are a pretty specific audience. And I am not complaining, I just feel that this blog is a great example of how laziness does not carry talent (ahem) too far.

I've always thought that I could ride the wave of impulsive expression and see where it takes me, and I've been pretty satisfied thus far, but I wonder what it would be like to have a sea of unknown readers to entertain and confuse. I don't forsee that happening, um, ever. So thank you, my loyal reader(s?)/no one...I wish you a peaceful YEAR TWO THOUSAND ELEVEN! Maybe there will be more blogging to come, or perhaps you will have to personally seek me out to see what's brewing...time will tell.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Professional Unprofessionalism

NOT PROFESSIONAL:
(a) Blogging at work. Am I doing that right now? Yes.
(b) No business card every time I try to network! When will I learn?
(c) Picking my nose at work when no one is watching...but is that really unprofessional?

Professional:
(a) Having artwork on someone else's blog and having a professional artist comment on it (see below).
(b) Having updated one's blog several times since a well-known blogger last updated hers. What gives, Tavi? But she still kicks my adult butt.
(c) Having a job with a fancy title no one understands. I am one lucky lady.


Tuesday, October 12, 2010

How to Keep an Idiot Busy for Hours

...because you keep following the links...get it?...GET IT?!

Friday, October 1, 2010

Happy Rocktober!

Did you miss me? Well, that's because I've been WORKING. Enjoy this glittery pet rock- apparently, it's an art project! I am not even crediting the blog from which I swiped this picture...sue me, bitch! Haha...but really, how did our generation miss this fad? We're not even responsible enough to care for rocks...so sad.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Just Like Your Hip Twenty-Something Male Grandma Used to Make

So I've been wanting to get a meal at Torrisi Italian Specialties for over five months now, and being that my favorite person to take on a date in the Greater Little Italy Region is myself, I decided that today was my day.

There's a festival of sorts going on all the way up Mulberry Street, so it was hard to find this treasure of a restaurant that was praised so highly by critics throughout the city. It was blocked by a booth so I walked right by; I tried calling information for the address but that was a bust. So, as I was heading north, I asked a thin, well-dressed woman if she knew where the place was and she replied that she was heading there right at that moment. So I retraced my path to the place where I knew it should be and, alas, it was found.

It wasn't too crowded inside, and I don't know what I had been expecting, but all of the guys behind the counter were boyishly handsome and mostly blonde. And they were sassy! I asked if they had a sandwich menu (I already knew the deal with the prix fixe dinner), and I was pointed to a list of ingredients. When I asked one guy what I should get, another one said, "Chicken parm. Number eleven sandwich in the state. And that's biased. Biased against us." But I didn't want chicken parm. I asked what was good, and the first guy told me that he would get the turkey, but that wouldn't be ready for a while, so...I asked about the sopressetta, and how it was, and he said, "It's normal." Not sold. He started suggesting some stuff that sounded frankly boring to me, and I spaced out for a moment. Then he said, "You're getting the turkey." Okay! Bring it, boys.

I grabbed a cream soda--mmmm...corn--paid eleven-fifty, and took a seat. The decor in this place looked like a Warholian found-art installation: the walls were made of shelves that held repetitiously arranged canned tomatoes, Marino's Italian Ices, and other products reminiscent of the Mammaland. And then there was the huge black-and-white portrait of Billy Joel with boxing gloves aroung his neck: not Italian. Ya'll know brother's a tribesman. Speaking of the traditional Italian dining experience, I enjoyed the sounds of hip nineties mellow talk-music throughout the course of my meal- The Roots, Beastie Boys (aren't they from the same tribe as Billy Joel?), Beck, and my beloved Cake.

As I waited for my sandwich, I noticed a common theme: customer confusion. Is there a menu? Is there table service? (Answer to both: kind of...) When the server called, "Fifteen!" I squinted at a sandwich that looked like it could belong to me. I did not recall ever having received a number, but the guy taking my order must have been so charmed by my indecisiveness that he forgot what was going on, where he was, and how to do his job.

But I jest- the staff, snarky attitudes and all (in an Italian restaurant?! I know), was fine. And the turkey was sa-lamming. The petite tower that was my sandwich was piled with freshly sliced roast turkey, which was unbelievably moist. There was a mildly spicy sauce, I believe made with tomatoes and olives (not sure, really), and the regular fixings. But then, every few bites or so, there was the distinct taste of what I think was oregano, and it really brought the whole thing home...home meaning Italy, Italy meaning Little Italy. Good freaking sandwich.

On my way out, my counter guy checked in with me to see how it was, and I gave him the thumbs-up. They know they're good. But next time, I'm getting the chicken parm.

How About I Book YOUR Face?

I know why I hate Facebook so much: I'm jealous. I want all the friends in the world, and I crave attention. Facebook has more friends than anyone, and I am honestly convinced that it is the most talked-about thing in our culture. Why won't everyone just shut up and stop talking about Facebook and start talking about me, dammit?!This is in honor of that movie, by the way. Magazines inform my schema.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Text messaging...

...is weird. I won't get too in-depth about this, but I will say that, at least from my experience, one can basically project one's thoughts or emotions, or lack thereof, into a text conversation regardless of the relevance of these thoughts or feelings. I know this is kind of a "duh" statement, but as an emotionally sensitive and cognitively hyperactive individual, it's a bit of a mindfuck at times. So, moral of the story, try not to hang on to text messages too hard, or read to deeply into them, because it's highly likely that your interpretation of the message is a mere projection of your own state or expectations.

Wow, I feel like a really eloquent fourteen-year-old. Thanks, Tavi.

And oh! Thanks to the most important blogger, the woman without whom this blog would never have been born! Thanks and happy birthday!

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Bound for Greatness

This blog is. How do I know? Simple: master fashion blogger Tavi Gevinson started her blog (at the tender age of eleven) on my twenty-fourth birthday. And I started this blog on my birthday, which can only mean one thing: I am a child prodigy and the world is destined to know!

Clearly, this girl is a genius, or perhaps I am once again falling victim to interview lust: I read a profile about someone in a magazine and suddenly develop personal feelings about that person. Now, this is not nearly as intense as when I was dreaming about James Franco (but the dreams were kind of scary...), which is good, because we're talking about a pubescent girl, here. So, Tavi, you don't have to look so skeeved as you read this; I admire your pluck! Chick can write, for real. Granted, if you don't like the way that middle-school midwestern kids talk you may not want to get too into her prose, but I think I've found a new guilty pleasure.

Monday, September 20, 2010

At the End of the Day

So, it's this lady (Sophia Loren)'s birthday today. Not too shabby. What else...


I'm at work, and blogging, but I feel totally justified in doing so, since I did my work and am almost done with the day.
My disdain for the city has been reaffirmed, as I just travelled to Badassachusetts and it was beeeeautiful. But, alas, the city is my home...for now.
Summer is drawing to a close, and I'm actually ready for it. The season was brutal. I just need to get into a healthy physical habit before it's too cold to get motivated. Any suggestions? And keep it clean, please! This is a family blog. I know whole families who read this blog...all the time...I swear.

Thanks, comrades!

Friday, September 10, 2010

Sushi Roll Gets Punched in the Face by Chris Brown

Hey guys! So, I hear some of you read that last post...it's really long. I owe each of you (all THREE?!) a drink, or CPR, or something. It's good to see I'm not the only hipster on the internet with a sense of humor. Wait, funny hipsters are the lifeblood of the internet! What was I thinking?

So, yeah, I took myself to dinner tonight and i would yelp! about it but I don't do that but I just need to share the phenomenon: Kumo, (sushi restaurant on Cortelyou Road): every single time I have been there (which has been quite a few) I have heard the song "Disturbia" by Rihanna. I don't care for this kind of music, but if I am hearing the same song every single time I go into this restaurant, it can mean one of two things:
1. I happen to be there when they play the song, say, each day; maybe I always come around the same time.
2. They play this song at least once every hour. They may even have an hour-long song loop that plays ad nauseum. Poor wait staff. I wonder if they notice...

So this is really important information and I'm glad I got to share it with you. Why don't you go yelp! about it.

Monday, September 6, 2010

On Hipster

Every hippy is somebody's square. And don't you ever forget it. -Rev. Howard R. Moody, June 6, 1965

Hipster. The word sounds dirty to me, like mall did when I was a child- so ubiquitous and representative of the corporately-molded youth culture that I couldn't bare to utter it. I'm not saying that I was aware of this back then, but I heard teenagers say it on television and it just sounded like something I wasn't supposed to say. I'm not so much afraid of hipster as I am hesitant to use it, because of what it's come to symbolize. You say hipster, you think of a skinny guy with a beard and an "old" T-shirt, suffocating his balls in impossibly tight jeans, maybe some fancy shoes. But are they fancy? Or are they old and gross? And which would be more hip? Or, to misuse the term in its newfangled form, which would be more hipster? See, this is exhausting. This is why I want to give up before I start trying to analyze this idea. It's a classification of a culture to which I at least partly belong but am afraid to embrace. Or my friends like to shun. Or about which none of us really care, and people throw around this word and I get stuck thinking about it for days. Living in Brooklyn, being twenty-six years old, one notices the (counter?)culture and wants to form some sort of opinion about it. But before we start hipster-slinging at people who aren't so different from you or me, let's look at this word and try to understand what we're saying.

You could call someone a hep cat or a tell them what hip is or make them turn down that hippie shit and pump up the hip-hop; any of that banter will make it clear that this word was not invented for Generation Y. Some sources state that hipi is an African Wolof word, meaning, "to open one's eyes." This isn't a sure thing, but it's slang so it's fluid and I'm not here to split hairs. As far as I'm concerned, hip needn't be a dirty word, the question is whether one would want to be considered a hipster. Here's what I've come to: if you're hip, you are with it; you know what's up. You start the trends, or at least ascribe to them in a way with which you are and suits your own unique thing. Now, if you are a hipster, you essentially follow those who are hip. Like a slave to fashion, you sacrifice personal comfort to prove that you are unique--
WAIT! My argument is already flawed. Who is qualified to draw the line between a poseur who is pushes his personal tastes aside to stand out (or fit in), and a truly self-expressive individual who disregards practicality in order to make a statement? Does this line even exist? I have consistently claimed that I am hip, a trend setter, laid-back yet charmingly eccentric, but what the hell perspective do I have to judge myself as holier than thou, my hipster friend?

And while we're on the subject of judging, why don't we just get right down to it: when my friends and I use the word hipster, we are doing but one thing: hating. We're looking at people in our age group, making stinky faces and deciding that we are better than they are because we think that they think that they are better than we are. Because they wear vintage clothes (like me!)? Possibly. Because they are not from Brooklyn but say that they are (sorry, friends)? Maybe so. Because of ALL OF THOSE TATTOOS? Yes. And let's not even begin with irony. This is apparently the age of irony, which my literary criticism classes have taught me is sadder than tragedy, and we are all mere reflections of our time and surroundings. So the world is becoming so sad that it's funny, which is ironic, which is why we wear thick glasses and deliberately unattractive hairstyles (though this aesthetic seems to be fading...or maybe it's been adapted into a more attractive, or generic, incarnation of itself). So we, as a young, creative culture, are a mirror to the times, and I don't know if this goes for all hipsters, but my friends and I seem to believe that we are not a part of this, that we are not this thing. But if we are not, then why are we so compelled to criticize those who we deem to be hipsters?

Is it because WE ARE HIPSTERS? What could we do to avoid this tragic fate? Shop at Wal-Mart? Watch network television--- watch television at all?! Wait...relax. Maybe we can strive to be what hipsters are actually supposed to be in this new age: young, forward thinking people who ride bikes, make their own shit, listen to independent music, and quite possibly go vegan? Now, I'm not about to swear off my omnivoracity, but all of that other shit is cool. There is nothing wrong in letting your freak flag fly as you try to change the world because you are young and smart. If you are superficially emulating those who do this as you do nothing but watch youtube videos and, dare I say, go to the mall, then maybe you can take a step in the direction of putting your mouth where your image is. But to make everything a little less harsh, let's start by taking it easy with all of the label-slapping. (And the tattoos, well...that's for another time.) And one final question...

What does it matter? I try to stake claim to my own hipness with the assertion that I have always stood out, been a bit of a weirdo, and indulged in thrift-shopping. But maybe all of these Brooklyn kids have; maybe we've congregated here for a reason. If not, well, thanks to all the rest of you for catching on to what it means to be super cool. And all of you other kids in other cities and hip regions, congratulations for making it there. Self-expression in numbers is a beautiful thing. But to judge or even worry about what it means, well...
When I was brewing this essay up in my head, I went upstate and got some air. I went to the hills, saw swooping birds at sundown and heard the many voices of plummeting waters. And then I thought about this piece, and how unimportant it is to even care about this stuff. I understood why I had been compelled to analyze a minor cultural phenomenon and the use of a silly word, but I wanted people to remember that our humanness is what we have in common, and that we often use our similarities to create false divides. So, my hipster friends, stop talking shit about the other hipsters and be glad for what you've got. And if you find that too challenging, then maybe you should get out of the city for the day and regroup.
(Author's note: If you liked this piece, search the internet for more like it; I'm sure I'm not the only one with an opinion on this topic. And if you have an opinion, humor me and COMMENT!)
(Author's question: Why is the moral of half of my posts to get out of the city? I do not plan it that way!)

Friday, September 3, 2010

I've Got More Important Things to Do

...than flex my literary muscles right now. But I want to give you something, and I assure you that I will post something hearty and real sometime soon. I know, last time I promised to post something later that day, well...that was the last time I posted. So for now, feast your eyes on this:

My dear friend Adam snapped this of some slouchy broad back in Asheville, NC last summer. Good times! Verdant beauty, sunny days predating the relentless heat waves, southern comfort...makes you want to flee the city, no?

Monday, August 23, 2010

I'm Baaaack...hopefully

I've been a very bad blogger. It's been over a month since my last post, and that post was about how I hadn't been posting, so what is that? I wonder if I can keep this up. I mean, I began this blog at work, on my downtime, and I frankly don't think I should be blogging at work anymore and should instead be self-motivating. So I decided to start blogging from home (even if it's during my "work hours" at home...)when I'm feeling inspired. But I'm such a stubborn hippy-dippy luddite that I don't want to look at a computer screen when I'm feeling creative. It makes my eyeballs feel like they're burning holes in my skull! I want to paint or shake a tambourine or do some "spoken word" (this means talk to my friends about shit they could not care less about) or contemplate some new hobby...like STRING ART (thank you, Lauren)! Wait...I think I recently did claim to have a new hobby...oh yeah, nail art. Maybe I should get back to writing.

Once upon a time, I met a certain man of interest and he was impressed with my blog (SCORE! somebody actually reading it). Now, this blog is dusty and smells like mildew...gross. It's probably from all of those old images of foxy women in bathing suits. Anyway, what I need to do is resuscitate this mothafucka and write something ENTERTAINING. Will do. I'll post again, today, and it'll be good.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Where You Been?

I am a serial hobbyist: a Jane of All Trades, Master of None. Renaissance woman, if you will. Or, to put it in modern terms, I have Creative AADD (the first "A" is for "Adult;" you know that disorders get new names once grown-ups are diagnosed). What I'm getting at is that this blog is one of the countless short-lived projects that I have begun and let slip over a pretty short period of time. But I want to keep going! Which presents me with a challenge, as I don't think I should be writing this at work (I am now, but still).
So, here's the challenge: I need to take time out of my personal life to write essays, which irks me only because I usually avoid my computer at home. But we shall see. I've got some stuff brewing! And I apparently have more than one reader! Thanks, guys.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Summer Safety Tips

Happy Summer! I know it's been summer for nine days already, and in this neck of the world we've had enough heat and humidity for the whole summer, but it's now July! It's all downhill from here; before we know it, the leaves will be changing...assuming, of course, that seasons prevail and nature doesn't go completely haywire.
Really, though, I'm excited. Now is a good time to lay in the grass, read, sleep, eat potato salad, drink lemonade, eat beer, drink chicken, and get swimmer's ear. Worship the sun, but not too hard. Revel in it! Summer is really short. Eat it up, but make sure to chew, then swallow.
This is nonsense. Goodnight!

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

But maybe if we think and wish and hope and pray...

I love the Beach Boys. I ALWAYS have. As a very young child, I remember thinking: Beatles or Beach Boys? My answer: the latter. What child wouldn't be pleased by the harmonies of a raging madman? I think every baby should listen to the Beach Boys well into his or her sunset years. Meaning for life: start to finish.

So I found this list of things you may not know about Mr. Brian Wilson. Pretty good stuff. Dig it!

And dig this while you're at it.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer

Friday, June 4, 2010

Poetry Minute

Sweaty melty, melty me
clothes sticking
yicky yicking
June has just begun

I don't know how this can be
nose picking
fro-yo licking
Brutal springtime sun

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Hey, Sexy!

I'm not going to pretend that this is me, but I hope you know who it is. It's her birthday today; wasn't she adorable?
It's too hot to think of something legitimate to write, except that I FINALLY finished reading One Hundred Years of Solitude. It was a trip, but worth it.
I promise I won't completely fill this blog with birthday wishes to people I don't know, but it's so easy!

Thursday, May 27, 2010

I'm a Pretty Lady

I look GREAT in this picture, yet so confused. What is there to blog about? I told myself that I would only post when I had something good to say, but what about these days when I feel like writing but have nothing about which I may rant and analyze? Ooh...pretty.

So rumor has it that Uranus is entering my sign today and will be in it for a while. Uranus. Huhuh. Uranus. Stinky stinky!

But seriously, watch out: I will apparently be at the forefront of a cultural shift. I did not need an astrologer to tell me that.

And oh, did you ever notice the way that a corny, guilty pleasure, when stripped down to acoustic guitar, can move you all over again? Yeah.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Did U No?

Today is the birthday of Burmese polititian U Nu. U nu that, u say? I did not even know who he was until I searched for people born on May 25th and saw his name. What a great name.
U nu I would post something stupid? Oh, u!

Friday, May 21, 2010

Sunshine and a Bag of Leaves

As if it isn't enough that I live in (supposedly) the most compactly diverse neighborhood in the world, and work in an extremely lively area of the most diverse area on the planet (Queens: for real), I got to go to Flushing today for a workshop. That place is like Korea. And Vietnam. Maybe even Japan. Not that I've ever been to any of those places before, but they have a damn currency exchange across the street from the public library, so you know that people are arriving from afar on the regular.

So, I'll keep this brief: it was a beautiful, sunny day. Eighty-five degrees: nice. I ordered a pork dish from a Vietnamese restaurant: $6.75 (no tax!). Walked down the street to a store full of assorted dry delicacies: got a bunch of wasabi peas and six wrapped candies ("SUPER MILK CANDY" and sesame chewies): $1.50. Iced chrysanthemum tea: $1.50. I had the same lovely feeling as if I had traveled to another country in the best way.

When I went back to the restaurant to pick up my Vietnamese food, I thought they messed up my order. Turns out I just messed up my expectations: the rice was actually rice noodles, the pork meatballs were more like pork patties (soooooo gooood umami!), and (best part) the cut greens, mint leaves, and cilantro were served in a plastic bag. The leaves were full lettuce leaves. It was just a big bag of greens; I felt like a brontosaurus eating that shit. It was amazing. Highly recommended. Thank you, Flushing.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Too Much Rock for One Day



Townshend, you look just like my friend Timmy.

Ramone, nice shirt. I'm sure he's honored.
Happy birthday.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Overheard in Gym Class

So, I'm sitting in my office, which is actually part of a school gymnasium, which is actually part of the basement of a school, and my "office" is merely partitioned off by walls of fabric on wheels. What I'm saying is that I spend a lot of time listening to the sounds of elementary school gym class. A few minutes ago, some of the kids in class were addressing their teacher as "teacher," to which she responded:

My name is not "teacher." When I was born, my mommy did not call me "teacher." My name is Mrs. C-------.

Okay, lady, we all know that your mother did not give you your husband's last name upon birthing you. Let's be real.

Pretty soon after that, I guess one of the kids was burping, because Mrs. C------- delivered absurd diatribe part deux:

One day, you're going to be married. ("Ewwwww!") Well, hopefully, you will find someone and be married. And, I don't know, but if I burped like that, I don't think Mr. C------- would love me anymore.

Whoa. Mrs. C-------. These are issues to keep out of the workplace. I mean, damn, girl, the Mister won't let you burp? I understand that this was probably intended to teach the children a lesson about controlling one's oral flatulence, but is this your most clever means of spreading morality?

The moral of my story? Teaching sometimes makes people say crazy shit.

Monday, May 10, 2010

Zenxiety

Anyone who has spoken to me in depth recently or has been reading this blog will know that I'm trying to mellow out, and have been pretty successful so far. However, there have been minor roadblocks, some of which stem from my own neurosis. Now, the neurosis itself is what I'm trying to quash, and it's funny because something I've been worried about is losing my mellow. So basically I am becoming less zen by worrying that I will become less zen. That is so not zen.

So, let me restate that: I will not become less zen by worrying about becoming less zen. I have to use what I've been learning and take it into all facets of my life: as a peaceful attitude is applied to more experiences it will become more versatile and significant. Each individual possesses the power to determine the direction of one's mindset. So zen.

Are you still awake? Good.

So what's up with this weather? How's a person supposed to maintain balance when the temperature drops thirty degrees over the course of one week, in the springtime? I'm going to have to meditate really hard to counteract mother nature's confused grip on all of our chemistry.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

The Gringa Diaries

Feliz Cinco de Mayo! Today is the day I celebrate my freedom to pretend to be Mexican. Note the portrait of Ms. Frida Kahlo, and imagine my own visage; our mutual resemblance is undeniable. I love admiring woven, brightly-colored tapestries while sipping horchata and futilely attempting to quell my raging taco addiction. Hoy, soy Mexicana!

I have been accused of being "Mexican on the inside," but I believe that has mostly to do with my dietary choices. Mmmmm...I challenge you to eat a pollo asado cemita and tell me it doesn't change your life. But really, I work in a very Mexican neighborhood, and I love being immersed in the culture.

The two first paragraphs of this post were composed prior to my lunch break. I just returned from a delightful experience at my favorite taqueria. As I was finishing up my vegetarian burrito, a mariachi duo entered the restaurant and proceeded to play a song that moved me nearly to tears. It wasn't a sad song; they were just an especially good pair of traveling musicians and the song was beautiful. Every time I eat there, Asian DVD bootleggers come and go, but never before had I been serenaded by rich harmonies in the middle of the workday. This song that they played reminded me of possibility, that beauty can surprise you at any moment.

This morning, I didn't even remember that it was Cinco de Mayo. Now that the day is passing, I realize that this is my most relevant Cinco de Mayo to date. It's a holiday that could only exist in the springtime, with its vibrancy and...who am I kidding, tequila and cervesa. But, for me, it's not about getting drunk. Hell, it's not even about Mexican independence. I am celebrating freedom and culture, and the opportunity to embrace the cultures that surround me in my own free state.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

I'm Taken

Here's the one who stole my heart. This photo is reblogged from an awesome music blog.

Monday, May 3, 2010

Giving Up the Ghost, Part II

What a tease. The country was beautiful; the mountains serene, everything I hoped for. I got what I wanted: to sit on a precipice, look a long way into the verdant distance, breathe clean air. But then I had to return to the city the next day! That was the plan, and it was refreshing, but disorienting.

There was something unsettling about seeing Manhattan's skyline as I returned from the mountains. No one is trying to compete with nature upstate, no one trying to blow anyone up; buildings weren't boasting and people were happy to sit still. I know this exists in New York City, too; we have parks and beaches and people do relax. And I am happy that I got away for a couple of days; I'm just not entirely happy to be back. I love my job and am so grateful for it, but I need more green. I don't really want to be here, inside glass, concrete and stone and whatever else surrounds me. I want to know what it is: grass, trees, moss, stone, water...

I have not entirely given up the ghost. I gave it a breather, but it lingers. I'll admit that my brief excursion has brought me closer to where I want to be, spiritually, etc., and I'm knowing more and more how I want to feel and behave and live. I hope to find more peaceful balance in nature, but I can center myself in the center of the universe, too.

Friday, April 30, 2010

Giving Up the Ghost, Part I

Today is a beautiful day; the sun is shining, sky really blue, air dry (that's a description, not a directive). I am ready for the trip upstate.

I used to go up to Ulster County a lot, but I haven't in a minute. And you know I've been in the city for too long when I use the word "minute" to signify a long stretch of time. There's this lovely guy who sells breads and pastries at my neighborhood's farmers' market every Sunday, and through some small talk we realized that he attended the same college as me and still lives up there in Ulster. Every weekend when I walk by the market we smile to each other, wave, sometimes chat. Last weekend when I saw him, I expressed my longing for the hills, the air, the (to quote a friend) Upstate State of Mind. "Give up the ghost!" he said. I asked him what that meant, and he explained that it basically meant to just do it already.

And I am so ready. I just took a break from writing this to talk with the custodian where I work; I told him I was going upstate, and he asked what people do up there. "Chill, hike, chill..." He told me that he would go by the lake, [...], go to sleep...yeah. I really like sleeping outdoors. Let the wind wash my face, scratchy grass at my back: bring it. The sun can pour over my body, open my eyes to infinite leaves on trees; the mere thought inspires me. Onward to the Hudson Valley.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Crazy-Making Machinery

"The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." -Albert Einstein

This quotation seems pretty valid. I mean, Einstein: he was smart. But, computers...what the fuck? My internet connection at work has, literally, driven me insane.

When I turn on the computer at my desk in the morning, I try to get the internet to work, or go to a certain website (this one, for instance), and the site appears- for a second. Then it blinks out, reappears, and then there's be some bullshit error and the page vanishes. Over and over again. Leading me to do the same thing, over and over again, and expect different results. Until, finally, the internet works.

How do I get it to work? By doing the same thing, over and over again. (Or maybe just waiting...) But it is maddening! How am I to know which time it will work? There's no method to it at all; I just try repeatedly until it decides to correct itself. It's like gambling without all the fun of addiction.

This is only one of many trials that have led me to believe that computer technology is capable of enraging individuals in ways that only a machine can. There's no remorse, no reasoning, just cold, robotic frustration games.

I may fall particularly victim to this brand of annoyance due to my own lack of patience and understanding when it comes to new technology. My solution for most computer problems is: click repeatedly. But I don't care! I don't want to be friends with my computer- or maybe I do, but I don't want to work for the friendship. Why should I? Computer is here to serve me.

(I'm all smug now, but computer has all of these words inside of it. And when the day of reckoning comes, I could just see it now...the robot army asking me if I recall writing a certain blog...me, quaking with fear....laser beams...puppies...what?)

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Vague Return to Real Life

I thought it would be funny to find a picture of a room in a psychiatric ward with padded walls, post it on this blog, and caption it, "More Cushion for the Pushin'," but it's really hard to find a good old fashioned funny farm photo on the internet these days! Plus, my browsing history already says, "Recent searches: padded walls," and I'm at work, so...
Anything to make you people laugh.
I'm somewhat delirious; I'm a little bit sick (physically) and would rather not be at work, and I returned to a decent workspace, but I do sometimes wonder if people are capable of completing essential, mundane tasks without explicit hand-holding direction. I won't go there, though, that's not the purpose of this blog. But really, just a note: if you ever questioned your work ethic or professionalism, do not worry about it. I'm starting to believe that anyone who even considers his or her quality as a worker is probably a good one. Because some people just aren't, and I doubt it crosses their minds. I'm not saying I don't have a good staff, but after stepping up the chain of command, I can see that some folks are just confused.
On another note: I said this already, but I cannot wait to go up to the country. I need some fresh air before I lose it. Mini road trip! I need a vacation from life, and I'm not talking about death, I just mean that I need to get away without the stress of an actual vacation. I do not want to get on a plane, I don't want to spend all of my money, I just want to stand on a hill and look very, very far. It's good for the brain.
Staying home sick after the weekend can be disorienting. I am back at my desk, and I must admit that I'm grateful for this job and for the fact that I'm not in a room full of insane thirteen-year-olds. I was stressed about calling out: the entire night before last, all I dreamt about, over and over, was calling my boss to let her know that I was sick. The dreams would not cease until I made the actual phone call! I had to cross that fine line between my sleeping and waking life...
We take it for granted- the divide between our free time and our obligations. But once we get back into the grind, even if it can be a total drag, it can sometimes align us and encourage us to relish in our freedom when we do have it. I want to be able to blur this line- to feel free even when I am at work of fulfilling any of life's requirements, and not dread having to return to "real life," when my weekend's drawing to a close. I believe that with this sort of continuity, one can feel more centered, more whole. But then what of having a separate, professional self? Do these things need to contradict each other? Ahh...too much introspective nonsense. Need to go home and lie down.

Friday, April 23, 2010

Songbirds

Generally, I am partial to older music. However, I've found that much of the newer music that I enjoy is bird-centric. Look:


-Andrew Bird


-The Bird and the Bee


-Bowerbirds


-Mynabirds






Wassupwithat?

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Grow Up, Baby Mouth

That granola post was just skimming the soy-milky surface of the food topic. What I really have to say about food is simple: eat it. But I don't just mean to eat like one or two things. I mean really EAT food.

See, some people have a serious problem. It's called being a "picky eater," but that is a very generous term. These are ignorant and deprived individuals. You may be thinking, "Miss Blogger, you aren't usually so staunchly opinionated." Well, that's because this is an important cause, and it is our responsibility as open-minded, open-mouthed, thinking people to stop this epidemic.

First, we must seek out these sad louts. You may find them near McDonald's, eating fries (never a "fish" sandwich), or perhaps in the park indulging in a cheese sandwich or chicken cutlet on NOTHING with NOTHING on it. These people like chocolate chip cookies but are afraid of sauce, with the exception of ketchup. They actually LOVE ketchup, because it creates the illusion of flavor on their unlearned taste buds. They enjoy grilled cheese, but will not eat a Reuben. They damn better well like pizza. Don't even think about approaching them with curry.

These food-pussies (pardon my French) are terrified of raw fish (and, for the most part, are grossed out by cooked fish, purportedly due to "the smell"), disgusted by the texture of flan, and find spicy foods traumatizing. Essentially, they have the palates that many people outgrow by the age of seven. Not me, though, I've been indulging in shrimp and olives since I've been able to strip 'em and pit 'em. I'm not saying that we all should have been ravenous for exotic delicacies from day one, but come on, we're adults here. If we have access to delicious, mind-expanding foods, we should chomp on the opportunity!

So, here's your assignment: find one of these food-bigots, hold his or her nose, and forcibly introduce that hidebound fool to the pleasures of fine dining. Escargot, perhaps? Swiss chard, maybe? Anything that has some color or an etymological origin in another country's tongue. It's not right for these people to be missing out on such a vital visceral and cultural aspect of life in the free world.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Silly Hippie, Granola is for Everyone!

So, my last post was a bit of a cop-out, but I was listening to that great Fleetwood Mac song and wanted to post something to share my experience, so there you have it. To riff off another post, let''s take a look at dictionary.com's word of the day:

agrestic \uh-GRES-tik\, adjective:
Pertaining to fields or the country; rural; rustic.


Yes! How apt. I am dying to go to the country. I love the city, but I am beginning to unravel as spring fever sets in thicker and I look around without a hill to be found. Take me to the mountaintop! Okay, here's an anecdote of me going crazy/being funny/being a freaking hippie:

I was at the food co-op with my dear friend in the Fun Section (where you can scoop anything from colored pasta to jelly beans into plastic bags), and there were no bags for the scooping! I stood there, in the middle of the rice and the granola and the nuts, looking back and forth, trying to see if I was overlooking the obvious. But there were no plastic bags! I then exclaimed, "Am I nuts?!" I was thrilled with my cleverness. I was standing in front of nuts! Asking if I was nuts! Rich.

I was already quite pleased with myself at this point. A woman then handed me a plastic bag, thank you, and I proceeded to determine which granola was most worthy of my selection. My friend said, "How about this Goji berry granola? It looks good," to which I responded, "I don't want any of those gross hippie berries." I didn't want none of that hippie shit. Because I'm scooping granola at the food co-op. I'm no hippie.

The moral of the story: I find myself incredibly amusing, but I also may be losing it a little; hence, I need to go upstate and take a breather. Otherwise, I'll just continue my psuedo-culinary endeavors in which I try to make rice and accidentally make rice pudding with rice milk on top (yum!), or I try to steam soy milk and instead fill my apartment with soy smoke. Take it easy, zen master, you're not quite there yet.

Monday, April 19, 2010

Second Hand News


When times go bad
When times go rough
Won't you lay me down in the tall grass and let me do my stuff

Friday, April 16, 2010

Do My Dreams Feel Like Yours?


Word of the Day for Friday, April 16, 2010

oneiric \oh-NY-rik\, adjective: Of, pertaining to, or suggestive of dreams; dreamy.

Oneiric comes from Greek oneiros, "dream."

A little more on dreams, as I was thinking about it and realized that when we talk about our dreams, we never really do them justice. One can describe a dream- the sounds, the visions- but one can hardly reproduce the experience in the mind of another. Is it as important to accurately convey a dream to another individual as it is to convey a waking event? Because a dream is an experience of the mind, but waking events are largely mental experiences as well.

So, what I'm wondering is: that feeling that we have while dreaming, the mood of a dream, so to speak- is it universal, or unique to each individual? It's kind of like that question of, "Does my green look like your green?" As far as I know, there's no way to measure this, maybe through some deep discussion, or some of those neuro-electrode-thingies. I don't know. But when we talk about our dreams, there always seems to be a missing element of the narrative; at least that's the case for me. Perhaps that something is a blanket of thought, composed of other mental activity occurring during the dream, creating a kind of dull atmosphere, a residue of unconscious energy. That blurry, other-worldly experience that we vaguely recall with varying frequency and precision, what is the root of that sensation? And why do some dreams feel more "real" than others? I may have to expand upon this at a later date. Please, feedack is welcome.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Slip Inside the Eye of Your Mind

What a wonderful surprise: not only are people reading this blog, but I received a topic request! Keep 'em coming. And such an apt topic. So, here we go...

Dreams. I slept so much last night; I went to sleep around ten or eleven and woke up around eight. I swear, when I sleep too much, my dreams begin to fade into reality. I've had experiences when I've woken up and have gone downstairs to find that things were just as I had been dreaming them. Even today there was a very blurry line between my dreams and my day. This may have been because I was conscious, in my sleep, of what I should and would be doing in an hour or so. But when my dreams predict events that are not in my own control, well, that's just a little psychic.

I had some intense dreams last night. I hate to get all personal here, but I will for now, because the topic was a request and these dreams are really lingering. It bothers me when people publicize their personal journals, and I'm about to publicize a dream journal- even worse.

So, I'm recently out of a relationship, and I'm happy to be single, seriously not even considering ever getting back together with the unnamed ex. I've moved on, despite some ugly stuff that was experienced. I must be working it out in my unconscious, though, because in the past couple of nights I've had these dreams where we're back together, and it feels good in a way, but I know what I'm doing is wrong and I really don't want to be there. I could interpret this in a couple of ways: that I'm working out my past decisions and facing the feelings I was truly experiencing then, or that I'm living out my fears/desires in my dreams. Thank you, Freud.

But I had a few more visions last night/this morning. I dreamt that I was facing some contention with my mother, which seems strange, because we mostly get along great. I think this could have to do with my facing up to myself as a woman, growing into an adult, and seeing my mother as another adult. Because, in the dreams, our arguments spring out of my reaching out to her for help when I'm feeling smothered by others, men in particular. There was another part of this dream where I was fleeing people and falling missiles that were being dropped from planes. By the end of the dream, there were unwanted people clinging on to me, like the sickly people who reach on to Jesus in that scene in Jesus Christ Superstar. (I'm sure that scene's in the Bible, too.) So that felt pretty suffocating.

The final, and most liberating, vision I had was that of a trip to the mountains. I need to go upstate! I'm even dreaming of it. And in my dream, I remember saying, "I've been wanting to go to the country, and now I finally am," or something like that. And just as I type these sentences, the song "Are You Leaving for the Country?" comes onto my random hypem.com mix. You see? A sign. I've got to head for the hills.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Homework


So, I'm starting to think no one is reading this blog. And by "starting to," I mean that I don't think many people have been reading this from the start. So I'm going to give you all (being NO ONE) a homework assignment:

- read about Carl Sagan on wikipedia

- watch "In My Language" on youtube

Internet homework! How much fun is that?

Extra credit: Research the work and, more interestingly, the life of Nicolas Tesla. Much better than online shopping/fantasy football/porn.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

I'm taking requests...just not Freebird.

Well, hello there. I hope that if you are reading this you are feeling comfortable and happy. If you're not, please turn off your computer and go outside for a walk or something. Or light some candles and do some deep breathing until you decide what it is you need to do to feel nice on the inside.

I've been trying to do that sort of stuff and it is definitely working. It may not be that exciting to read about, but it's true. It's not easy to find stuff to write about every day that is blog-appropriate. I'm referring to stuff that:

- doesn't ramble on about my personal life
- isn't incriminating
- is family-friendly...ha!

But, really, this would probably be much more engaging of a read if I were to write about my personal encounters, but then who would get to read it? I could write about the crazy mom who went off on me yesterday at work (oops!), but then what if someone at work were to read this? Or I could write about...nevermind. You see? But I'm content bringing my readers along with me on my personal journey to contentitude. Feel free to join me...

I'm finding that certain facets of my life are settling into a more peaceful place as I allow myself to drop my defenses, relax, and appreciate certain people. For instance, my father. The more I spend time with him, the closer I feel to him. This is a closeness we've been cultivating for years, that I don't think either of us were particularly comfortable with all the time. But we're really similar, and when we just chill together, it's pretty nice. So I'm grateful for that.
I also have extremely lovely friends. I'm talking about very beautiful people. This is something I've been working on for a while: meeting people, forming bonds, bringing people together. I'll boast that I am quite good at bringing people together, although I used to get jealous when those people would then form bonds with each other. I'm pretty sure I'm over that.

Wow! This is completely a personal rambing. I'm breaking my own rules, not surprisingly. So let me bring it back to my metablogging. What can I write about that will be entertaining without being incriminating? How about this: if you are reading this, please leave a comment with a topic. I will write about that topic. Anything! This'll be fun.

Friday, April 9, 2010

No one, I think, is in my tree



That was the original title of this blog, a lyric from the Beatles' "Strawberry Fields Forever," my personal favorite. I've already explained why I changed the title; does it really need explanation?

I was singing with some kids today, fourth graders mostly, and I played the song for them. How did it make them feel?, I asked. One of them didn't like it because it sounded sad, and I couldn't argue with that. Then another said he didn't like it, and when I asked why, he replied that the "theme" didn't sound right, that it sounded "creepy." They're right. It is a sad, creepy song. That's why it is so great!
Ever since I was in fifth grade, I have been intrigued and bewildered by this song; I remember sitting in front of my parents' record player, listening to the Magical Mystery Tour album, repeating this track, scrawling the lyrics down in confusion. Why? Because the Beatles only included the B-side lyrics in the liner notes, or at least in my mom's copy of the record. This fascinating poem was nowhere to be found.

So I remember writing, "Always no sometimes think its me/ but you know I know and it's a dream/ That is a no I mean a yes but it's all wrong/ That is I think I disagree." What? What is John Lennon talking about? As an inquisitive eleven-year-old, I was forced to accept the nonsense and inconclusiveness of Lennon's lyrics, which were gripping in their musical context of haunting strings and backwards flutes.

Click on my Hype Machine widget to the right of this post, and you can hear various versions of this song, none of them the original release (there's a classical guitar interpretation, the Beatles' studio version sans vocals, and a Spanish ska (reggae? rocksteady?) cover, featuring Debbie Harry). I believe that they each capture the song's essence, but the instrumental Beatles one is the most powerful.

Choosing favorites is difficult, because different pieces of art serve different purposes in one's life, but this song has been with me for a while, and I won't let it go. Have I heard better songs since my first listen to this gem? Maybe, but there's something about Strawberry Fields that I'm attached to- even if its magic were to fade, I would feign it out of nostalgic love.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Chew On This


Striving for balance seems to be an ongoing quest. What I mean is that, at least in my short experience, finding a calm place within oneself while staying motivated and stimulated is something of a slippery slope, but as long as one accepts the perpetuity of it, some kind of peace may be established. I find myself feeling good, peaceful, balanced, and thinking, "I don't want to screw with this." It's tempting to stay in a my little happy place, but I can't be afraid to move forward out of fear of tampering with perceived zen. I think I need to find a comfortable pace and create a solid home base so that I may travel through life knowing that I have something safe to return to while still taking risks.

I believe that I've been a little trapped by jumping to conclusions and viewing things in absolutes. Pushing past that, or at least trying to, has been exciting thus far, as has sharing this experience and voicing these ideas. Even if it has been obvious to many people for a long time, it's grounding to remind each other that this is a shared experience. Looking around the subway in Queens, the most diverse place on the planet, it's comforting yet confounding to find commonality with strangers who may appear to share nothing with me. But we're sharing a space, showing each other respect, participating in humanity.

Oneness in nature is easier to recognize than it is amongst people: the overlapping of tree branches, the soft green tide of leaves of grass pushed by the wind, the shared, brief blossom of magnolia trees. They all know when to act together; we are slightly more resistant. I try to focus on the patterns of nature, outside and within myself, before I allow myself to be tripped up by my thoughts again. Thinking, rethinking, analyzing, distorting- it's an alluring trap, but as I push my way through the tangled bakery string of neurosis and allow myself to fall into the rhythm of openness to the unknown, I approach calm.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

This is why...


...I trust Cadbury more than Joyva.

Monday, April 5, 2010

I am the Cosmos


I am feeling pretty far out today. The past few days have been a whirlwind of energy and, at the risk of sounding crazy, the vibrations are shaking me in a new direction. Now, this blog is not to be about me me me me meeeee, so let me just say that I am the cosmos, and we all are, so if this spring is moving me, it must be moving others. "I Am the Cosmos" also happens to be the name of a song by Chris Bell, go to hypem.com to listen to it, or click on my sidebar----->.


The name of this blog is changing, because I was tired of saying the former name aloud, and this name is by no means permanent. It's a reference to the Van Morrison album "Astral Weeks," and it's also in honor of the ever-shifting nature of our lives and the simple fact that we're part of the cosmos. So, if you are reading this, please take a deep breath in, let it out slowly, and know that you are one with the universe.

Friday, April 2, 2010

Holy Sweets!


Mmmmm Easter candy. Nasty, sticky, finger-staining conjoined baby chicks and smushy bunnies. Hollow rabbits with hard sugar flowers stuck on their heads. Chocolate eggs that look like real eggs made of pure sugar on the inside! Thank you, Jesus. And Passover candy...mmm...chocolate-covered matzoh. Chocolate-covered marshmallows. And my personal favorite, chocolate-covered jelly rings. Okay, passover candy ultimately consists of chocolate-covered anything kosher...or does it? Perhaps I should say anything deemed kosher by anyone who possesses the authority to deem something kosher, and the pious Jews who try to get right with God around this time of year are at their mercy.
I'm Jewish, but did not grow up in a kosher home. Long story short: I came home one break from college, only to find there were labels inside the kitchen drawers and cabinets: "meat" and "dairy." When I asked my mom what was up with that, she realized that she had forgotten to mention that our home had gone kosher since I had been there last. Kosher shock. My mother had her reasons (spritual inclinations, etc.), and my stepfather (aka: The Enforcer) loves to bring plans to fruition before one can say, "Well, maybe I don't want that wall painted avocado..." They made it happen quickly, and have kept a kosher home ever since.
Every Passover, the house manages to get even more kosher: my mom and stepdad clean everything out and replace all the food with food that is expecially kosher for Passover. Blessed food. Like, no high-fructose corn syrup; hence, Coca-Cola is made with sugar instead around Passover, which is great. So of course one would feel it is safe to assume that any candies produced for Passover by Jewish companies would be KOSHER FOR PASSOVER. Au contraire, mon frere. This year, I found an interesting disclaimer on the back of the package of my beloved jelly rings, something along the lines of:

Please note: Legumous extracts, i.e. corn syrup, are deemed parve (kosher for Passover) for both Ashkinazim and Sephardim (the two main sects of Judaism) by the renowned Rabbi blah blah blah and the preeminent Rabbi whoever.


Okay, so I don't recall it verbatim, but I assure you that the words "preeminent" and "renowned" were used on the back of a box of candy, which is absurd unto itself. Now, at the end of each of the rabbi's names was the abbreviation for rabbi, like, the way that M.D. finishes off a doctor's name. So it must be very, very official. Their blessings or approvals or whatever have
the magical power to contradict kosher law. My mother wasn't even using olive oil on this holy day as per her rabbi, meanwhile the sneaky Brooklynites at the Joyva candy company were pushing corn syrup.
Springtime holiday candy is still the shit. I would just love to sit in a bed of freshly blossomed daisies while being pelted with Peeps and smothered in Cadbury creme eggs. But please don't shit on my head and tell me it's raining, Joyva jelly rings.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Bending Time



Time flies like the wind. Fruit flies like bananas. --Groucho Marx (1890-1977)


What is time? A construct? An illusion? All we have? Don't think too hard about it; it's the way we break down our spinning course through space, or whatnot. It's a litte bit like Frankenstein's monster, in that man created it but often seems to be battling against it. No wonder we take such pleasure in the bending of time.

We can bend time in a "copy and paste" sort of way, a la daylight savings: steal an hour from the spring, get it back in autumn. This changes our outlook, giving us that nice extra hour of sunlight in the evening, a renewed sense of freedom after work or school, hope for summer hours. And we of course can stretch out the hours by indulging in the likes of traffic court or standardized testing, or watch time dash by when we're with entertaining people such as yours truly.

But what about music? The way music can move a person, not merely through heartfelt lyrics or soulful solos, but the way a delay in rhythm, the time between verse and chorus, can change your heart rate. The first time we hear a song that shakes us from the inside, we step outside of time, and each time we hear that song again, we try to regain that initial experience. Time slows down, and the way that we measure the moments is in the hold of the song. We relish each beat, not wanting it to end, but try not to relish too deliberately, as this will rob us of the authentic experience. We escape time by immersing ourselves in music, which robes time in sound.

Art can make a statement through its message, or strike one with its beauty, but only music can manipulate time, and that's what makes it so powerful. It pushes us viscerally, literally shakes us, and when vibrations catch us in an unexpectedly pleasing pattern, well...

Anticipation, accumulation, release- music provides this by way of rhythmic interplay and melodic changes. The ticking of the clock, the metronome, they beg to be tinkered with; time pleads to be challenged and molded by music. Poetry can do this, too; anything that toys with rhythm can capitalize on our construct of time. But only music can meld the elements of words, feeling, sound, to grant us the pleasure of slaying time in its embrace.

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

wow.


I never thought I'd do it, and maybe it's better if I keep this a secret, though anyone who knows me knows that would be impossible. I claim to be a luddite, but who am I kidding? I am starting a blog.
(Note: I dreamt of a winged kitten last night, or a creature resembling one.)

Today is my twenty-sixth birthday, and I was once told that it's bad form to tell people, "It's my birthday!" But it is my birthday, and I want people to know; I only get to say it once a year, and I practice "bad form" in plenty other facets of my life, I'm sure. So, happy birthday to me! Here's my gift to myself: a creative outlet that actually suits the century in which I live, though I'm sure blogs will be outdated by the time I get really into it.

I should provide some guidelines for this blog: this cannot be some diary; I'm not going to tell the internet what I do everyday- fuck that. This will not be all about me; I am trying to be less self-absorbed. Of course I may forgo these rules for the sake of entertaining writing.

Wait a tick- starting a blog on one's twenty-sixth birthday? The equivalent of buying a Lamborghini on one's fiftieth, if one is a rich bald guy? No, no, I am not striving jump onto the hip band wagon of the younger half-generation, I just have some extra time at work and lots to say. And, yes, rule number three: this thing mustn't interfere with my work. Which it won't.

So, welcome to my world, nobody.