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!


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.

breakfast, Antonioni is dead, Sartre, none of it makes sense.

He’s the one.

No, I mean not THE ONE. THE ONE is Serge Gainsbourg. And he’d already been dead. And also a slut.

I mean he made everything ok. I mean everything.

I feel genuine sadness as opposed to my normal vague, irritation sadness. It’s alarming – something like wetness behind my eyes but not quite fulsome yet, my body is unaccustomed to emotion.

According to NYT’s lofty tribute, he went around “inspiring intense measures of admiration, denunciation and confusion….” Like, my life’s goal? And now it’s gone, and he’s gone.

I didn’t even get to see him or touch him or make out. He was 94.

Hell is not having anyone around when you find out Antonioni is dead:

Luckily, didn’t have to experience hell for long.

“How are you?” roommate comes in from the outside world, bearing lime seltzer.


“Yeah, dead. The day after Bergman, too.”

“GOD. Can you believe it?”

“It sucks.” Flops down on the couch across from me. He understands.

“I’m actually – really sad. It’s weird. I don’t even get death, and I’m sad.”

“Uhhh,” sip of lime seltzer.

“Well, I’ve never known anyone that’s died, so you know, I can’t really understand it,” I hastily explain, not wanting to sound like a sociopath.

“Well I’ve known people who’ve died, and it’s still wierd,” he says, twirling the lid of his lime seltzer bottle.

“Oh. ok. Cool.”

“How cool is Blow-up?” he says. He moves the air conditioner dial to Cool.

“He basically…changed my life.” I say to my roommate, not really knowing what this means. “L’avventura, La Notte, L’eclisse – I wasn’t the same after those.”

Luckily my roommate’s phone rings, breaking us out of our stupor. “You’re phone is ringing,” I tell him.

“I know. How are you anyway? How were your exams?” he asks.

“Ugh, ok.” I tell him about my excellent egg sandwich in the morning being responsible for my wierdly smooth ace of my exam on Kate Chopin and Willa Cather who have nothing to do with each other, really, I’ve realized.

ok, time for the long tangent: Because I want to deny hunger forever, I never eat breakfast – but the thrifty Korean in me said ‘yes’ when Kklov jauntily asked me whether I wanted an egg sandwich. Wasn’t prepared for this break in my routine, but, shrug. I put it in a tupperware container but couldn’t find the top which i had had in my hand just a moment before. So I walked out carrying it topless exposing my ketchup habits. I jammed bits of it in my mouth on the J train feeling like a normal commuter for once, to the horror of two Polish teens across from me wearing color-coordinated outfits.

Because At (roomie) looks interested, or it could be his personality is muted because he quit smoking, I go on to tell him about my latest texting disaster (as in someone not texting back) and my renewed conviction that those closest to me will devastate me. “I’ve never been dumped,” he muses as I relay to him my one experience of being dumped, which was so sad (but not as sad as Antonioni dying).

We’ve gotten so he asks me how I am and I actually answer because I get the genuine sense that he wants to hear. Is it because he’s from one of the Dakotas, as in North or South? Is it the great frontier, ala Cather, that does this to people and vice versa, streamlining brains into a continuously frank yet distinct treatment of self vs. world? Like, as At says to everything and anyone, “awesome?” I can lean in and tell him things, exercise spontaneity in the morning when we are blind without glasses/contacts and bump into shit, I can even be without affectation in the eve, albeit usually sharing the now absent cig with him. How strange. How contrasting with the shroud of gloom and dissociativeness that comes over me in my general social environment.

Then again when I woke up this morning (I fell asleep at 6 am) at 10, I dreamt I stood up on my loft bed ladder, and my entire bed fell to the floor, slow motion. It was all quite normal in the dream.

“I think medication is making me really obsessive,” I say, as I realize I’ve been obsessing aloud.

“You have been obsessing a lot,” he says. He’s alarmed, not because I’m crazy but because his phone’s buzzing. His text message reminder and phone calls have the same ringtone. “I get really tense when my phone buzzes because I have to wait and see if it’s a phone call so I don’t pick it up.”

“Why don’t you change the tone.”

“I can, I should, but the real problem is me getting so tense when I get a phone call. I experience like 5 seconds of tenseness as I wait to see if it rings a second time.”

It rings a second time.

Ok, this is making me mad. (no, not you.) I literally said and wrote all of the above, then, after roomie went to sleep, I began hunting for Monica Vitti pics as I do occasionally and particularly now, and I came across this article , which basically says everything I just said, or “I was a college student when I saw ”L’Avventura” for the first of many times, and it changed my life.” Fuck. It changed MY life. And mine only.

Wait a minute – searching longer for Monica Vitti pics, I come across this Village Voice article using the same Sartre pun I used and then disc NYT used!!! What !! “Seeing and Nothingness” J Hoberman called it.

Sartre 3x in this post? Life sucks.

Village Voice article written June 6 2006. NYT was June 4th. Coincidence? Whatever – here’s a pic:

It was hard to find a good one of her and Alain Delon – they’re all so dramatic too, I like this one ‘cus they’re laughing and Alain Delon’s my boyfriend.

Anyway, article accurately expressing many things and neatly haunting in bringing us back to what really matters: Antonioni’s death.

pure misery in candy colored blasts [now with new improved failures in self-politisisation] !

or rather in the tiny, tiny imperceptible.

notes from the underground, i wish: I’m supposed to be learning the cure for cancer for my biology exam tomorrow. But I suppose I must get something down before I do that. btw, I know you probably know, but did you know some Japanese dude made it so now we don’t really need embryo’s for stem cell research and with just the addition of four genes, we can now make embryonic-like stem cells out of skin cells which is good ‘cus they’re undifferentiated and can grow up to be disease free cells that replace the bad things in one’s body. NYT’s soft news coverage.

Various Sevedox: Revelations is Sevedox’s favorite chapter. Being in school makes you discover facets of people you’d never even know was a facet to have. “I like Ecclesiastes too,” he says.

the ’summer action film’ possibly

…after I watch Il Grido, the Antonioni film I haven’t seen, now that I finally have a night free slash we just got rejected from a bar because our new underage friend’s fake id didn’t resembe her in the slightest bit. I left Mar and Ar – new underage friend – at Broadway after performing the duty of photographing them in hot poses like we’d been painting the town lez, therefore making Ar’s ex-girlfriend jealous.

When in reality all we had was a shitty stamp on our wrists for a bar we couldn’t get into and gastrointestinal pain from slamming white wine at Mar’s earlier, which was actually, the best part of the night.

O Antonioni. The point is, I haven’t seen Red Desert but I’ve been told it ought to be seen on the big screen, so I’m saving it for a BAM retrospective which I’m sure is going to come any day now.

Anyway, death on the mind – my moment of silence for Antonioni is forcing myself to concentrate on a 15 inch screen for two hours of cinema – which means I have beforehand I read everything on Slate and listen to JT remixes and Tangerine Dream first, because I don’t do things when I say I’m going to do them. By the time I do do them I’m swept under the onslaught of a bunch of crap that I’ve never heard of or seen.

Oh yes, The Bourne Ultimatum – I never read reviews anymore because I hate them – but this Slate article has got me all excited. Besides the fact that Matt Damon and Franka Potenta together constitute my idea of real and enduring affection. A difficult materialization on my part, after reading The Great Gatsby with my newly adult mind, or rather I’m a large baby. I guess not as difficult as losing your loved one, your memory and having to kill people and people wanting to kill you. Or that’s my life, minus technicalities.(Ug, who says that?)

For I’ve never lost a loved one, because, as I was discussing w Mar the other night in our moments of self-congratulatory couch-lounging with Miller High Life’s, love is what – a familiarity, delusion, sickness that snakes its way into your life by some bizarre vehicle, but is no realer than any other choice or random incident, no realer than my fucked up caffeine addiction or the fact that I conceive myself primarily as a teeth-grinder. No realer than anything, basically, although one could make the argument that some things have intrinsically more import.

All I care about is my cat, at this point. And getting into X-Party tomorrow night with an underage girl. It’s 3:54AM and I ought to construct my NightGuard, which involves boiling water and me out of here.

It’s 5 07  time, and it’s kind of insane in my head. But I did so want to acknowledge this film and that my roomie said action films haven’t been so good since Die Hard, which means nothing to me. He’s seeing it a second time on Sat and I”m “coming with,” he said- dread – I do so hate new experiences, although I did have a mini burger with two different kinds of sauce today in a place called Dash on the lower east side, which means I’m evolving. I’m passed out on the keyboard as I write this. It’s disgusting and unnecessary.

Week in review: it’s never over, and thinking is hard.

P.s. I’m writing more these days because I have a really long study break. FYI.

Cameltoe as coping mechanism: Thursday is the last day of school for me every week. I get up every day at ungodly hours. Today for example I got up at 7 am. My state was atrocious; eyes bugging out, back curled in the remainder of a fetal position, me falling over while putting on my strangely skin tight stretchpants that prompted my roommate to go “Buns!” when he first saw me. (It’s a sociological experiment; how does it feel to wear bordering-on-cameltoe, 60$ stretch pants – one feels self-conscious, yet protected by the stealthlike leanness. I bought them at Barneys in a fashion emergency and they’re actually worth the money. Moreover, they make my legs look better. I walk around and it’s like god is routinely scooping me up in a velvet fist and throwing me about. Cool feeling.)

Morning coffee is not so easy: I go to the grocery store where the Indian dude already knows me and gives me a two dollar discount on my “large coffee with two shots of espresso please.” The first time I asked him for double espresso, he glared at me, took forever, and charged me 3.50$ for it, ignoring me as I grumbled in shock about it. Now he gaily greets me as I tell him “I need to be awake today. I have a test” or some other academic emergency. “I understand” he says and quickly gives my coffee order to the coffee bloke, in the knowing, businesslike sense of “I know no one has ever conceived of double shot espresso large coffees in this here World Famous Deli, but it’s happening, she’s a regular, deal. How many sugar, milk?” He always asks. I don’t have the heart to make him reach for Equal. “Two sugars and cream, please.”  I take that moment to contemplate whether I will be more satisfied by the Chocolate Crunch Rice Krispie treats or Caramel Crunch Rice Krispie Treats.  Today I got a banana instead of Rice Krispies, because I’m a better person. Or more like the not sleeping till four, total maximum caffeine at 7, has removed my appetite.

This is how I do: My schedule for this week has been as follows (this is my blog, I get to detail worthless things): Sunday night in bed with my Art History book that’s bigger than anyone’s head. Study Ancient Greek, Byzantine, Hi-Gothic. Scribble things on index cards. Want to cry because I know I have Early Italian Renaissance and Hi-Renaissance ahead of me and there is no respite till Tuesday night by which time I’ll just want to crash instead of celebrating and getting drunk like I used to when completing a test was the equivalent of saving babies, when I didn’t have a quiz every week that I have complete herculean tasks for, which means it doesn’t end, there’s no reason to celebrate, this constant state of stress is just…normal.

Red, red, red: Monday I go to class late even though I’m coming from the Upper West Side which is only 15 minutes away from my school. I run into the teach, who’s also late, and wearing three shades of red. One of the reds is sparkly, and one is a pair of red velour running shoes. “I like the color combo” I say, because I know she’s making a statement and it needs to be affirmed. “I didn’t know if it worked” she says cutely. “Sure it does” I say breezily, as if I know.

Because life is stupid, Starbucks: On break I order a Starbucks Light Frappucino thinking it’ll solve the breakfast ish, and the dude gets made because I try to take some other girl’s Frapp and he says snottily “That’s a Light, miss” and I say “I did order a Light” and he doesn’t listen because he’s mad I tried to take the other. Finally, he hands me a Venti Regular which looks like it will kill me. I ask “Is this a Light?” And he says “Light doesn’t have whipped cream, miss and it has 1/3 less calories.” as if I’m dumb. “Oh. Is the lack of whipped cream the only distinguishing feature? In which case I don’t care if I have a regular.” He repeats the same information to me, takes the Frapp, dumps it dramaticaly in the trash, and tells me he’s going to make a Light because “that’s what you ordered, miss.” I keep saying “I don’t mind, I don’t mind” and he says “You ordered a Light, miss, I’m going to give you a light.”Pure bitch. I grab my Frapp and by that time I’m late from break.

likes being challenged, hmm: Luckily I’m funny when I get back and use the Frapp as a gesturing prop. Cheerleader girls laugh and I think to myself, wow, being 27 has its benefits – cynicism has made me droll. Some of this funniness however, has a lot to do with my inability to control my obnoxious quips. I say to the teacher after class, “I feel like I’m being abrasive.” Aka the lesbo fiasco last week where I looked at her coolly and said “what’s wrong with that?” when she said a hetero girl putting a pic of herself kissing another girl on Facebook is unseemly, to which she responded “Hey, I’m a feminist!”

She says “you challenge me. I don’t mind being challenged.” Kind, kind woman.

No phone causes psychological distress: Monday night is bad because I think I’ve lost my phone at Mar’s birthday party. I had left bloke that morning with no plans to meet up even though we had made tentative plans to watch Anchorman and I get mad because there’s no attempt to book me, and that’s always a sign that things are going downhill. Things were all cute over the weekend when I was in my party personality – gold eyeshadow, whiskey, cig, and smacking people in the arm. Flitting about with random bouncy gestures seems to have the effect of making people think I am somebody, or something.

(Oh yeah Sunday after the party boy was in my hood for once. He got to sit in our music “studio” and roll out his beautiful musical imagery that is more evocative than any normal phrase; my roomie walked around with his brilliant capital “F” tattoo emblazoned on his chest and little boy shorts, listening while tying an amp onto the loftbed post, which I protested against, and both insisted it was ok. The two worlds of home and boy united, I felt giddily integrated as we went up to UWS where boy became very concerned about my inefficient way of getting ready.)

Anchorman, because he’s schooling me on American humor, the general project of unravelling me and putting me back together in a form I can hardly recognize. I’ve already shown him my British favorites: Alan Partridge and Spaced, but it’s not something movie nights are made of.

But no communication for two days, and by Wednesday I’m a wreck. Prep for my Art history exam, surprisingly, drives me batty. I thought I was over the whole wanting to succeed thing. (So Asian.) I had sat at a poorly lit rickety wooden table Monday night sucking in Marlboro UltraLights and straight vodka till the wee hours, spending 1.5 hours talking about late 80’s early 90’s pop music with my other DJ roomie who has encyclopedic knowledge of all sorts of music, esp cheese. Of course I had to hunt around for classic freestyle songs and Prince and create definitive playlists with Donatello and Bruneschelli glaring at me on the side with their thousand year old mathematical precision and celestial visions.

Index cards don’t work: The spectre of thousands of words integrated with glossy photographic images flanked by historical timelines is enough for me to maintain denial through the night that I’d have to finish the Renaissance. By Tuesday evening I was still getting down the details of how the hell Bruneschelli built the Florence Cathedral Dome (by building it on the drum and not the rotunda, or something), the largest dome ever made at the time. And promptly forgot everything no matter how many times I flipped through my index cards shamelessly on the subway. I had all the dates rolling off my tongue. The one thing I neglected to study was the Hagia Sophia which also happened to be one of the two questions on the exam.

Flashback to 6th form in England when I almost pass out from the dizzying action of taking my index cards out of my breastpocket and going back and forth till I knew nothing of who I was or where I was, thinking perhaps death was preferable, in fact a happy place. Remember why I was so scarred by trying to be a brilliant student – because I’m crap at studying. I really am just crap. When I studied for AP in high school, I stayed up all night to the chagrin and disgust of my mum (who surely had a structured way of learning un-poisoned by emotional investment), with a pen and three different colored highlighters, lining the book to shreds to try to understand every psychological, historical minutae of Western European History. My brain bursts into strained pus, and the only option is to clean-slate it and become complete insane.

A few years to recover, and my ginger re-introduction to thinking again, is usually preceded by reading a couple of bad, visceral books. I get convinced my habits and mind are clean enough so knowledge will seep through me like runny waters of gold, but no, now, instead of sugar, it’s cigs and coffee I’m cramming into me to blunt the force of self-doubt and muddled writhings of illogical shit.

I wanted to share this activity with you and you had to go eat ice cream. I party on the weekends, and do homework in the wee hours at the precise moment that I am officially doing it the wrong way – all to postpone fears of intellectual inadequacy, which is unbearable – it is preferable to deprive myself of sleep, snap at people, and think of suicide.

Because this pace is hard to keep up with, I try to have my tiny bit of chill, except it’s every night. I think in a moment of radical hope, that watching Anchorman with you is something I can fit in, I can do my NYT reading while watching that, sure, and beforehand too, I’ll be behind the stone kitchen counter smiling while you bread pork cutlets because that makes you feel connected to me, I need to connect with you, because I’m lost, my day is held together by desperate considerations of ideal behavior, guilt, guilt, regret.

And who am I to turn down a bottle of Oregon Pale Ale you had someone bring me off a plane? Must stand still and enjoy the complex bubbly hops while you look at my face to drink in the mixture of surprise and pleasure. I’m keeping it together and if that means putting aside Current Affairs and “what’s Fatah,” “How’s Iraq doing these days?” “Who’s Mitt Romney?” to ask you how you’re breading the pork cutlets and wherefore why so, so be it. A little hour here or there not glued to school, to afford me a kind, sympathetic smile, unfettered by political, distancing, ejecting interfaces,

melts me – I sink into a sofa and let myself go to coos, close-knit jibes and American humor video. Responses to my smiles. Everything’s ok.

“I’m surprised you don’t read the paper” Boy says. “People are really surprised when they find out I don’t know anything, because they think I’m smart.” This after I say, having just read the paper for my current affairs test tomorrow: “People are getting killed in Palestine right now – like – A LOT.”

“You are smart, that’s why I’m surprised you don’t read the paper.” “If I’m smart, it’s accidental, it’s hereditary. Meanwhile I do everything to not support it.” I don’t like concentrating, thinking, trying. This is further proven when we play music for each other, and I reach for Prince and Ace of Base, and he makes me listen to Autechre and Bjork, the more obscure albums, and I only like poppy Autechre and early Bkork. When we get to the track with the Eskimo warbling I want to hurl. I don’t like going outside my aural comfort zone.

I never want to get out of any comfort zone. I don’t like working out, I don’t like walking, I don’t like uncontrollable things. As a consequence I’m a complete control freak and completely dependent upon rituals and safety warnings.

Guess I won’t get to Wednesday in this blog post, or whatever. I have to study.

I knew it! HQ exists.

I’ve missed my journalism class for the past two days due to my head aching for real, not just the demons – my prof asked me for a doctor’s note otherwise I will – gasp, harsh, over – be penalized. I told the truth : I have no health insurance. So not posh.

I have no notes or excuses. I could break down her door crying, but that may not achieve the result I want. Flattery will get me nowhere. Neither will baked goods. I’ll just have to work hard, or something.

Bad grades or not, the class is forcing me to read NYT every day and I love it. I actually know what’s going on in the world, and it doesn’t hurt. For instance, crux: my social class is totally apparent (I thought I could hide it)

Your class, Payne says, determines everything: your eating habits, your speech patterns, your family relations. It is possible to move out of the class you were born into, either up or down, she says, but the transition almost always means a great disruption to your sense of self. And you can ascend the class ladder only if you are willing to sacrifice many of your relationships and most of your values — and only if you first devote yourself to careful study of the hidden rules of the class you hope to enter.

Nice. That means my sense of low self worth and metaphysical discomfort around the UWS Ivy Leaguers is real. Can I cross the threshold? Perhaps only by playing the clown.

Must get back to expanding my mind even though it won’t change the fact that I’m not a contender for HQ. I’m not doing to well in the expansion department either. No genteel poverty here. Frankly, this whole summer intensive thing is killing me. No sleep, paranoid delusions, too much coffee and frozen treats and ruined relationships all around. Sorry, world. I guess it’s a matter of Posh or Not.

Monday’s mulling over*: cheese, Chelsea and cereal come with the territory

First, cryptic exchange:

girl: “Sorry about…you know.”

bloke: “It comes with the territory.”

girl: “Of what?”

bloke: “Of dating.”

girl: “You mean this is normal?”

CHEESE: They put on a mini concert in Pierre’s backyard. It was too early but that earliness combined with the insecurity of partythrowers and the general scrambling into one’s empty hipster posers on the concrete ground in front of these glasses wearing button up shirt dudes focused as naturally behind the Casio as anything, as the shirts bound their bodies in repose, created a series of fizzles and pops as the rain stopped and started and I could see bloke wiping the keyboard with his checkered sleeve as he played a sweeping, too lush rendition of Talkie Walkie…I tried to acquire an umbrella from random bystander to cover it but God made the rain stop and made the hipsters stop spilling out onto the street to request a Doogie Howser song.

Gay boyfriend gave me massages, aghast at the “gristle”, I sat on Mar’s lap to protect myself from the empty hole that was the concrete spot that wasn’t being danced on. Her lap was surprisingly sit-on-able. We wore grey Uniqlo jeans and black tops, matching but not, and she didn’t want to dance except they played the first notes of the Beverly Hills Cop song and she jumped up as a matter of course. It was when the bright spots of Mar’s sister and her wide-eyed bf from Indiana strolled in, one in magenta, the other in emerald green, bumping in time with the end of a song that Mar shrieked with laughter and the party began to gell into the Casio and the Casio into it. By the time the Cupcake cafe cupcakes arrived everyone was involved.

Mar said “You missed the Ace of Base” to incomers, fully establishing the Casio’s existence and later on Kklov asked bloke why he didn’t record it on tape. It managed, by good intention and high class, to become an event of sorts, however short its inception and delivery dampened by drizzle. It hadn’t occurred to me to sound record since I was busy photographing. I hide behind photographing, that became sure at the party.

Mar was worried about a “corporate” coming that evening from Wall Street world. “This party is so hipster. I don’t know what to do! He’s going to get scared!” I was secretly proud, because both Casio boys were from uptown and had only been in Williamsburg once in their entire lives, strange speciies that smell of star lilies and fresh Ernest Sewn jeans. Their every move is sharp and dictated by something.

Post mini concert we threw around the pretty cupcakes, gay bf mashed one up against my BubbleYum jaws. The party happened before one could feel awkward. In some moment of vague unitedness between me and the boy up to the second floor, Mar came up to me on the rickety threshold separating the party and the real world, after looking inside the giftbag she’d cursorily opened pre-party just to say “Did you actually buy this bag?” and I “Yeah, it was 4.50$ can you believe it?” She couldn’t, or could, didn’t matter really. (Our poverty isn’t so much matching these days, but i can’t keep up). She rummaged in the bag and looked at me with big eyes “I didn’t look in here before but miso, this stuff is really expensive!” “A lot of it was on sale,” I offered. Bloke elbowed me and said “Don’t say that.” “Why not?” I had spent much time selecting the precise beauty product that would fit into her life – including contemplating the purchase of a fragrance combo called “Deeply Mysterious.” but I settled on something more practical, namely a bunch of random stuff. “Yeah, the story’s better,” Mar said.

Lots of people mingled like it was a proper backyard party and tequila and whiskey. iTunes experienced its heyday. Huge plates of cheese and raw food, the latter for the [famous hair company] people who wore tight highwater hot pants, bathing suit tops, and oversize sunglasses. Upon purveying this corporeal audacity, I felt triumphant that I could carry on gaudiness even though I have been so reviled for it for most of my life by black-grey-and-a-touch-of- neon aesthetes.

Anyway, they’ve lost a lot of weight doing it raw. Cigarettes bound all types of food-eaters together, a bloke taking it to a new level with tobacco in a pipe. Shernoff broke out his sunglasses and was the living embodiment of the movie Knocked Up. Me and Bloke went separate ways to understand ourselves in new social relations including talking to the opposite sex, ending up on one of Pierre’s strange mini sofa chairs in the bathroom line where I had to do something predictable like straddle and coo until another distraction came along. Mostly that distraction was some crazed spectacle or Mar’s emeralded sister bumping her shoulders up and down to music. Somebody got to say loudly “I farted!” Tall people got to accuse other tall people of “vibing” each other. I got to flex some iTunes prowess but mostly I lost my cellphone or rather someone stole it.

At the end on the stoop boy walked out to discover Sevedox freshly landed from a plane from India, with a sombrero on his head, holding a bottle of Sauza and a cellphone holder from Nepal for me, in which my cellphone should’ve ended up but didn’t.

You may have gotten the gist of it, but the party was for Mar’s birthday. She is a year closer to me and I am closer to nothing, except my meds, which will run out in a month and I don’t know what to do, because I have no health insurance now, as a full-time student. My mental health I care nothing for, but the sleeping I have issue with. I have no idea how I will sleep. I’ve been an insomniac for most of my life so it was a relief to discover there were things that I could take that would nonaddictively make sleep my friend. No longer did I have to conduct massive rituals to create the illusion of ease before my bed. No longer did I have to guarantee the absence of person next to me, sound, or bacteria.

Funnily enough my dreams have ceased to be about flying. They are now about boats, sex, space, all things that frighten the hell out of me.

CHELSEA, and a bunch of raw shit:  The week has been eventful. Chalk another one up for the Hating Miso club. Of course I am always paranoid about people hating me but when it actualizes it is more a curious event than one to be truly lamented, mostly because one doesn’t know what to do when faced with someone one fears constantly. I know I feel that way around fish. Part of the drama is due to the endemic wack particles of the situation, like timing, temprement, dress sense, body types, word choices, stances, principles, childhood baggage, tendency to cloak insult in offhand comments, tendency to read insult in offhand comments, the emotional insufficiencies of either party – and a lot of it my own isues – but the relative normalcy of the other things in my life lessen the dramatic impact of the hatred directed towards me.

On lying as HQ: Stephen Glass in Class

In the cafeteria, eating my frozen treat. I have a herculean art History book to read. It’s unopened, too big really. Somebody should’ve thought of that before they made it so…

Yesterday: “What are the dates of the Pyramids of Giza? Menkaure? Khafra?” repeated over and over. flash cards out the window. Wine did nothing. I’d be told the dates of Khafra and asked it again one second after, and I’d forget it, because I have fog in my brain, like I have now, which can only understand frozen treats, can’t see index cards although I do remember the cherry red lips uttering the dates of Khafra, Kufu, the Temple of Hatshepsut, over and over again, grilling me – then we watched Hell’s Kitchen (the Gordon Ramsey reality show) and that was good.

Last night: I twisted in bed in many configurations, even with 1.5 glasses of wine down (they don’t like me to drink it ‘cus I get red in the face, but God, my thoughts…) but “inspired” I said but really wired, by spending time with overachievers. The Korean in me connects with that, the displaced in me kicks myself multiply throughout connection, for not being like them. I want to wear a Johns Hopkins shirt. I want to have a Juilliard messenger bag. What I will have is lavendar hair, because of gay boyfriends. I will have soap operas because of fucked up friendships, multiplied by fucked up self and fucked up town. I will have a funny family that kills me, and not the loving mother and father that provides too still of a launching pad.

I love dinner parties.

Hipsters Being Dead is Dead to Me

The past 24 hours have been rough on us. By us, I mean hipsters. Embrace it. Skinny pants are over.

Feministing disses on the white hipsters for trying out ghetto fab. ‘Cus that’s a privilege.


Time Out’s Hipster Must Die article that broke the mouths of hipster hell. (quote attrib Mar) I haven’t read it yet although people are screaming in my ear about it. I say, “Am I going to be so furious I won’t be able to sleep or do anything?” They say: “Maybe you’re not ready.” I brace myself, set aside a few Buds, rest up my feet, antioxidant tea for later, ciggs.

Houseboy promises massages: “Did you read the article yet?” shake head. “Not going to read it?” Silence. “Don’t you think you should read it?”

Five hours later, be still my apathetic heart, comment wars consumed between my ironic chops, I’ll be a Yipster when I’m done. Or worse, corporate.

Somebody take me back to a New Jersey mallstrip. I’m outie.

A Hard to Resist Invitation

…after you’re so over. (Listen to this week’s shortbus incredibly synthy, disco set and be hopeful)

So I get into work remarkably well rested and feeling good for the 1st time this week – I’m gungho, don’t even need a caffeine pill but take one anyway just for the hell of it. I’d woken up to Alana helping me with my outfit and its possible matching bikini tops and stirring her oatmeal -a girly sort of morning.

Yes, I have plans, I am dressed up for a reason, any reason would do,but this time being a hard to resist invitation:

People of vast and exanding intelligence,

It feels to me as if I have not seen a core contingent of such lovable
characters as yourselves for some time now. Why not bust this bitch
ass slump by eating booze and food. Tomorrow I am actually preparing
to die because I am 26 years old, which is a really silly age to be.
Forget death actually; let us be convivial and cheers me to another
year of purely coasting on fading charm. To augment intimacy and
decrease funding I nominate the beautiful ** to host the
dinner at her house. I know this is last minute but it is also low
key so make it if you can and fucking die if you can’t.

Nobility, a mindset.

Rude awakenings

The XXX has taken it upon himself to text me at 10am with I would love to buyu a cafe. Upon my “Why,”He answered No reason, I just thought it would b nice. i have always thought u r talented woman but was never ur friend 2 support u. The funniest thing I heard in ages.Last night, talking to thetherapist about my childhood (upon her request, I’d rather bitch about current events) – she asked, after I described a few incidents, “Why are you laughing? It’s not funny.”When you look at things in the past they just seem pathetic, funny, maneagable. And she said “I’m angry for you. I’m feeling what you should be feeling but you’r’e not, for some reason. You should be feeling something.” She’s going to help me feel what she’s feeling.

I am feeling the buzz of guarana, which is something. I also have a new project to work on! A. Foundation’s “Speak out against Domestic Violence” grant…due on August 1st, Tuesday. That’s how I like to do – last minute! Chaos! Back to the DV, in all forms

Research is for Pussies

I’ve always wanted to be a slice of data, a dataset, a sliver of silver.  I’ve been lucky enough to be in the position to do research this past week or so, scouring for anything to prove that ENY immigrant kids are f**d.  There’s a lot of anecdotal stuff but not a lot of hard facts. I need stuff like: White people x times more likely to commit suicide and definitely binge drink more than Hispanics. But nothing on the side of the immigrants except for those fiery Koreans boy, you better watch out for them…

What’s hard about going through the ACS, Dept of Mental Health, for delightful pictures of the misery of New York-kind, is that I’m confronted with myself as said immigrant, as bitch, ho, troubled one, abused, etc. Everyone’s a statistic in a sense; but it’s brutal to have to research yourself as the subject of govt sponsored study. Like, the govt knows their shit, & shit – how important mental health is to saving tax dollars, etc. The ACS website looks the shit, the DYFS website looks the shit – nyc.gov/health makes pretty health profiles for communities that tell you exactly how many people in a certain zipcode want to off themselves.  The solutions are to eat right and look people in the damn eye.  The solutions are to smile more often and get thee a boyfriend or a girlfriend to watch t.v. with and get fat with.  They did not do anything for me, these places.  These places get so much money – Safe Horizon, for instance.  The one time I called them I got a jacked, impatient sounding girl who told me to call back later after I called the police.  Now that’s not nice. That’s simply not professional.

So forgive me if i’m a little cynical as to the efficacy of these organizations that may be just a cover for the govt really fucking up, or people fucking up, or whatever it is in the water that’s fucking us up.  As statistics show there are gazillions of people – or rather,

6% of New Yorkers who report having clinically significant emotional distress.  Persons with this distress often experience depressiion….blah blah…substantially interfere with a major life activity, such as eating, maintaining a household, working, or developing and maintaining personal relationships.  A person who is very depressed or anxious may be more likely than others to engage in behaviors that contribute to poor health, such as smoking, getting no exercise and eating a poor diet.

These telephone surveys are jacked though.  Who do you know that’s ever done a telephone survey? I conducted one once with the people in South Dakota or something for a MoveOn initiative involving persuading people to vote for Kerry, but that was pretty ridiculous.  What I got out of that was learning how to make mojitos.  (It was a mojito calling-people-to-vote-for-Kerry party).  Anyway the point is, if the aforementioned counts as depression pretty much everyone is depressed, innit. Except for my dad who pops chlorophyll pills and has never damaged his body more than his eyeballs looking at unpretty things. That is one not-depressed person!

states of research: I haven’t slept much for a week – 3 hours last night – and doing copious amounts of research which will probably come to naught since I have very little influence in my place of work, research on issues in which i already have very intimate knowledge of – or should i say anecdotal – which I wouldn’t be able to use here in these 300,000$ proposals, no it simply wouldn’t do – furthermore i haven’t seen my therapist in 2 weeks.  I’ll see her today thank god, but first i have to go to a Staff/karoake/dinner meeting in which we will get down with the chicken drumsticks.  How hilariously fun, bonding, lovely.

The harddrive was for naught, and so was my work, all in a day’s love: So the New Orleans video for the church I went down with, did not even take place yesterday as planned.  I was happy enough to receive the tall pastor’s assistant’s apologies, and the very typically beautiful Chris picking me up and hugging me so I got to be lifted off the floor for a few minutes. I arrived late, sweaty, shaky from a caffeine pill, panicky from hunched over a computer working with fraction second increments of video. Everyone was already there – John, who looked somehow radiant, if a guy could be – sat there with an inexplicable role of plaid wrapping paper in a CVS bag, and Ian and Mary sat looking fashionable and bored out of their minds (but supportive). JL came right behind me, distastefully beholding the Jesus aspect and the fact that I kept spilling stuff on my inappropriate striped Rainbow tank dress. He in contrast was smooth in his Brooks Brother’s shirt, plucky and shaved.