B&H, blackberries & beyond the coin toss

B&H:  I hand out with this bloke, let’s call him SC – tall, skinny, pinstriped suit guy of a million transactions and titles at the corner of B&H (I first met him at Zach’s party on Saturday where he tried to guess my profession and came up with Lawyer. Genius).

He looked relatively calm and normal, ala Marvin Gaye shirt. He takes me to the video section and talks a mile a minute about all these technicalities that I don’t know about immediately deflecting the snotty B&H people who talk abruptly and don’t bother to hide their eyes, bantered cruelly with them about the relative goodness of this or that tripod. “I wouldn’t get that one,” deigned a cute Hasid looking like he was coming out of a Nirvana shell – what was his name? Marni – lisped “I’m in Williamsburg too.”

So I come away with 100+ dollars worth of stuff which SC has spotted me because I don’t have enough on my credit card: in 15 minutes I know more than I did before I stepped into B&H, namely that I needed a better tripod, a windscreen and how to twirl and expensive camera.

I’m pretty damn happy because frankly I had a sore throat, a headache, and very little sleep all week and the idea of learning something was frightening.   He gives me two fat books on digital filmmaking and I think I’m in heaven.

Time Out New York: Evidence of a Past Relationship

How you get bloody gift cards: Me and X went to a Basquiat exhibit awhile ago – and got photographed by target. Song calls me at work and I’m barely alive ‘cus I have a sore throat, what with dentist’s ramming their hands in there and caffeine pills and lack of food.  She says she was looking at Time Out and saw this “cute girl, i liked her skirt, and you know i never look at ads” and then saw it was me. (I was flattered that she said i was a cute girl. In the olden days perhaps she would not have been so forthright with compliments, because of her stressing of realness…which must preclude fluffy commendations of beauty…)

anyway…we’re in this month’s issue of Time Out New York in a Target ad.

I remember that day, we sat on a bench and I was exhausted as usual, overdressed, completely patronizing – I bitched about the exhibition and i was pleased that Cole felt the same way…and then Target started snapping away and what do you know, we get gift cards. Upon hearing the news, Mary said:

Are you going to like, kill yourself?

I’m advised to “cut him”:  He never did respond to my email about what the hell his new record label was.  On Saturday, his big night, he texted Ian to tell him to come to his release party and ian texted him back saying – knowing it was fairly evil –  ”I’m going to a party with Miso”….and X says “have fun…”  Oh yes, much fun involving a Where’s Waldo book, group puking, painkillers, screaming at inept cab drivers and my poor defenseless English roommate, a rave on a hippy boat on Gowanus Canal – and staring into the night over the gooey waters remembering his first night djing at Rififi and I bought him some carnations and the smile on his face was so huge, so ridiculous I felt embarassed.
*a good friend* said in response to his behavior:

what a bitch. i’ll cut HIM!

do this: http://www.jacksonpollock.org/

it’ll make everything better.

How to Make Pasta

a bloke wrote:

The key to the dish you made last night is you need to go get some yuppie Parmesan reggiano; mainly it calls for garlic.

Make your pasta, al dente, in advance if you like but reserve some of the salted pasta water (always add salt to your pasta water and NEVER add oil).

In a saute pan with medium heat, add some olive oil, then the garlic, make sure you don’t burn the garlic, add some crushed red pepper and the broccoli. When broccoli is good add the pasta and salt to taste to the pan, then some of the reserved pasta water.

When the pasta is good and hot, plate and then add more crushed red pepper if you desire and throw on the cheese; garnish with chopped parsley.

me wrote back:

thanks for the tips. i will follow them if i have guests. i actually did put some cayenne in there…see i’m really lazy, i wouldn’t saute broccoli separately. i steamed it with the pasta and drained it. and i wouldn’t use a chopping board. i break apart the broccoli with my hands. there would be no knife involved; hence no chopped parsley.

i am literally the laziest cook you’ve ever heard of. why? I cannot explain this. when i grew up my mum spent literally hours making breakfast – homemade bagels, donuts, and baked granola – dinner would be a similarly time-consuming affair with a Korean banquet – later it would slow down to leftovers – but still, you’d think i would’ve learned the art of careful and loving cooking…but alas, my idea of food is two pieces of bread, mayonnaise, and cheese stabbed with a plastic knife.

Holla, holla, holla, JANE

When did i EVER use the word Holla. Why is the word HOLLA all of a sudden totally representative of every utterance I use?

So I emailed Jane my latest blog post and they literally put it up in 5 minutes. What’s going on? Is it my pheromones?

But check it, ‘cus I sorta edited a video that i made with my phone and it’s really crap, ‘but it’s kind of funny.

Urban Dictionary definition of “Holla”:

holla 32 up, 25 down

1. To show a romantic interest in an individual esp. with exchanging of one’s personal information. Flirt.
2. An expression of joy or jubilation.
3. An affirmation to a question requiring “yes” or “no”, usually in a positive context.

1. Can I holla at a girl?
2. Holla! I won the game!
3. Are you going to the club tonight? Holla!

OR

holla 192 up, 86 down

1. A way for a brotha to say he wants to get in your pants
2. A pimp ass way of saying ‘what up’
3. May be used to end a conversation

1. ‘Ay, my boy right here wanna holla at cha’
2. ‘Holla, what you be doin’
3. ‘I gotta go, buh holla back.’

The Appropriate Amount

The cleanser I got from Missha yesterday, says to squeeze an appropriate amount for your body.

The Korean emphasis on propriety is a killer. What’s the appropriate amount? I use like, a lot for my body. Probably too much. Missha says “To give the enjoyment for the skin”. Hyperbolic yet honest. Those Koreans. Does not do much about the fact that this morning after hallucinogenically dreaming… that people were planning to cut my pet rats (I have no pet rats) apart and my boss was calling me saying : “I know you guys enjoy the pot, but that doesn’t mean you can be late!” and being woken up at 7:30 in the morn ‘cus my new roomie who looks like Lolita can’t get in the house even though she “knows doors” – a fuckin’ bummer to be alive. I was all regaling myself with : Self-Destruction is ova! over the weekend. Alas it tends to rear it’s overly serious head on a Tuesday morning after memorial day – maybe it’s all the cavorting and squeeling over meat barbecues in commemoration over the people’s death that is fucking me today.

I have two proposals due, I look like trash because it’s hot and i’m wearing little clothes, I just ate breakfast which I never do and vow never to do again, some Spring Fling guest got charged 3x accidentally by Network for Good and I just got peeled by the assistant exec – and face to face with the development department who’s already busy photocopying stuff, i suddenly feel like i have to: cover my tracks, use appropriate amounts, modify myself, soothe my surroundings, lick down my hair, get everything into HAPPY DAY order The godlike satisfaction of yesterday in which I conversed with feminist law students who pored over my “funky style”, who even said “You have a very sexual vibe” despite my protestations of bad posture, followed by grand ideas of world domination, has come crashing down to form a more than mediocre existence in which I’m just NOT PROPER. And I’m sick of it. It is quite sickening. Moreover, the blokes in the grocery store who look at me and say Momma, who stare at me as if they’ve never seen a woman before, really doesn’t do much for my self esteem – I’m realizing they are not responding to anything in me or my body – it says more about them and their unfamiliarity with other forms of women who don’t shout at them and order King Cobra’s at 10 in the morn – whom they perceive as haughty and out of reach – because i am as stern as possible to deflect them yet I try to be kind since they’re job is sorta thankless…I always say “Thanks, I don’t need a plastic bag.”

I thought the fact that I didn’t know my health insurance covered my hospital stay back in February was responsible for this nagging, worrying feeling that I’m slipping through the cracks of sanctioned citizenry, but perhaps what it is, is spending much of my life howling through the cultural clash cracks of a schizm’ed ethnic violent household…maybe that necessarily sends you into a doubtful spiral where the simplest daily tasks call into question one’s worth.

St Mark’s Street High

high school was hell. i think i can’t identify with anyone who still has friends from high school. how could one have adapted to society that early? like this bloke michael said, at 27 he got more confident; like henry rollins said, in his late 20’s he started to like himself.

in self-loathing, one cannot be truly oneself. therefore high school, is a shadow of reality.

maybe i should’ve not moved around so much.

Friday night: walked down st marks this weekend in a crappy search for a karaoke bar to replace the boarded up village karaoke in our quest to ironically overturn irony. to no avail. me and song sat on opposite sides of the stoop of sing sing. blokes in flannel shirts and shoulder-length hair loudly occupied the sidewalks. needless to say, i hated everything. this asian dude bounced down next to song. song who looked tragically hiply tragic with kohl-rimmed eyes, chin in hand. he started wooing her; his fat friend sat behind rooting him on, unwilling to come near me who had knives for eyes. somehow song, even in her sadness, can look innocuous. the dude said, one step above Song, “Is it better on that step?” I suppose being a radical. Later as they kept talking in my earshot, debating on what he should’ve done to get Song, I asked “Can you stop talking?” Sir Dave and Cassidy rolled up.

Then, Grassroots Tavern: I almost passed out. ian has the remarkable ability to talk despite the odds. the odds being my snarling and song being bored out of her mind and mary awkwardly relieved from the non-happening of karoake. “real dave” rolled up drunk as shit and asked me if I had any adderall. I looked at him quizzically. “I mean, on you”. he clarified. “No” I said. I sipped Ian’s cranberry vodka with the vague hope to obliterate the current situation of aimless rebounding.

Back to high school: So it’s not just me:

In every high school there are students who are culturally and intellectually superior but socially aggrieved. These high school culturati have wit and sophisticated musical tastes but find that all prestige goes to jocks, cheerleaders and preps who possess the emotional depth of a cocker spaniel. The nerds continue to believe that the self-reflective life is the only life worth living (despite all evidence to the contrary) while the cool, good-looking, vapid people look down upon them with easy disdain on those rare occasions they are compelled to acknowledge their existence.Â

These sarcastic cultural types may grow up to be rich movie producers, but they will remember their adolescent opposites and become liberals.
They may grow up to be rich lawyers but will decorate their homes with interesting fabrics from the oppressed Peruvian peasantry to differentiate themselves from their jock opposites.
In adulthood, the former high school nerds will savor the sort of scandals that befall their formerly athletic and currently corporate adolescent enemies — the Duke lacrosse scandal, the Enron scandal, the various problems that have plagued the frat boy Bush. In the lifelong struggle for moral superiority, problems that bedevil your adolescent opposites send pleasure-inducing dopamine surging through your brain.

Similarly, in every high school there are jocks, cheerleaders and regular kids who vaguely sense that their natural enemies are the brooding poets who go off to become English majors. These prom kings and queens may leave their adolescent godhood and go off to work as underpaid sales reps despite their coldly gracious spouses and effortlessly slender kids, but they will still remember their adolescent opposites and become conservatives. They will experience surges of orgiastic triumphalism when Sean Hannity eviscerates the scuffed-shoed intellectuals who have as much personal courage as a French chipmunk in retreat.

Because these personal traits are so pervasive and constant, Republican administrations tend to be staffed by people who are well-balanced but dull, while Democratic administrations tend to be staffed by people who are interesting but neurotic. Because these rivalries are so permanent, nobody has ever voted for a presidential candidate they wouldn’t have had lunch with in high school.

The only real shift between school and adult politics is that the jocks realize they need conservative intellectuals, who are geeks who have decided their fellow intellectuals should never be allowed to run anything and have learned to speak slowly so the jocks will understand them. Meanwhile, the geeks have learned they need to find popular kids like F.D.R. to head their tickets because the American people will never send a former geek to the White House. (Bill Clinton was unique in that he was a member of every clique at once.)

The central message, though, is that we never escape our high school selves…

The Spelling of Wack

Wack is not “whack” according to the urban dictionary. I am ashamed to say that I didn’t know that.

What I do know is that the skinny bar last night was asianned out: involved a grinning fat white dj with a samurai headband on, paper-mache geisha dolls, videos of madonna in tokyo and a bunch of big haired japanese on the top floor. There was even a dude doing pretend karate chops (ironically enough, Gabe, the bloke we were with, had gotten kicked in the eye during his taekwondo lesson as was sporting a glistening eye-wound next to us).

Fucking wack.

What’s even more wack is that this didn’t bother anyone.

Do you need a cultural studies degree in order to even be remotely bothered by this? It’s not like PC-ness is only in the realm of the studious elite. I used to find PC-ness annoying – once being a recipient of brandished Bard student’s teeth – now i think it’s necessary, even underrated. Much like straight-leg jeans. People have strict indices for their aesthetic and moral judgments – why not PC-ness? It is informed by different sets of beliefs, sure, but I don’t think that makes it less superior.

We do want to stay away from the oppressiveness of jumping to conclusions, to calling people racist or sexist without giving them a chance to elaborate or defend – such is the joy of debate – while at the same time highlighting things that seem to be the result of a casual way of thinking that offends you, personally – much like this pulled-out-of -the-arse unnecessarily dimwitte approximation of eastern culture- i don’t think it could be harmful for wanting to and actually erecting modes of dialogue to express something that doesn’t fulfill your need for articulation – namely me grimacing at the origami “swan” -we only run into harm when we try to define somebody or something wholly by our labelling them as one thing or another.

Anyway what’s up with these hi-falutin’ “we’s?”

the backlash against PC seems to be motivated by a need to be transcend definition – par example (i’m going downhill)on the JMZ there were these fake-hipster blokes regaled in white-trash wear calling people mongoloids. “What is Social Studies?” they asked, wielding that popular inversion of smartness, this anti-specific school of nihilism. they waved their hands emphatically with one hip cocked, their jackets a little too small, their hair newly done and skin unmarked by blemish or scratch. “Like, history, cultural studies stuff like that. It’s a bunch of stuff thrown together that doesn’t really make sense. I’m like, so bad at grammar. I like, failed English”.

i wear my acne like a proud working-class scar.

but i’m not a hero. luckily. maybe i’m a mongoloid. Two days ago i was saying i was bad at grammar. Maybe i’m just mad at being caught out.

i’m sick of sarcasm. and of backlashes. all backlashes are an attempt to be “post”–which is stupid because nobody can truly be “post”–one is necessarily caught in the flux of meaning, which means, that one can’t run away from it.