I'm Just Not That Into You

Remember obtuse dude? Of earlier post fame? Well, like Johnny and the scary guy from The Shining, he's baaaack.

The gods decided that weeks and weeks of successful avoidance must be punished with a little face time, so he happened to be hanging around the lobby when I left the building yesterday.

I present to you Our Encounter: A Short MetaPlay.

[Scene 1: Lobby. Julia is wearing a polo shirt and a skirt. Obtuse Dude is wearing an undershirt pulled up onto his shoulder on one side to show off his tattoo. Obtuse Dude's internal monologue is not decipherable, (author's note: perhaps there is none?) but Julia writes hers on a blackboard behind her head. Such writings are in italics. ]

Obtuse Dude: Hey! I haven't seen you in a while!

Julia: Yes (Thank God for small favours. Actually, huge gi-normous favours. The kind you have to sacrifice a goat for usually)

Obtuse Dude: So when are you moving out? We'll have to hang before then.

Julia: In a week or so (Please please PLEASE don't follow through on that threat. Then again, I can find handy excuses for a week, dammit! I'm resourceful! You can't frighten me!)

Obtuse Dude: Will you come back to live in New York?

Julia: No, I have to go now [walks towards door]. (I ain't telling you whether I'm moving back. You'd probably want to be roomies, because apparently, you think we're tight like that. But no, my friend, just no. I may even have extensive plastic surgery to avoid you. I've always wanted to look more Armenian...)

Obtuse Dude: It's really hot outside. Are you sure you want to wear a polo shirt? You're gonna burn up. I'd suggest wearing a tank top.

Julia: I have another shirt in the car. Bye (Umm... that was odd. And don't tell me what to do. But number one priority: dont' be odd.)

Obtuse Dude: [shouted at retreating back] I'll come by your room later!

[scene]


O, Obtuse Dude, I hope the girlfriend you're always prattling on about is real, because she is obviously someone who can stand you. Marry that girl, Obtuse Dude, she is your salvation.

And don't come by my room later just because you know what number it is because my mail got put in your box accidently. That wasn't Fate putting my mail in your box. And If I Ever catch the clumsy bastard who put my mail in your box, I'll kill 'im.

Dream

One dream episode: I dreamt I left some of the yogurt i bought 2 days ago out of the fridge. Then I tried to put it back in, but it got mixed up with the yogurt that had not been unrefrigerated and then I couldn't figure out whether I was eating maybe-spoilt yogurt or perfectly fine yogurt. Then I cried a lot over the yogurt mixup.

It's stupid anxiety-ridden dreams like the yogurt dream that I could do without. What was that all about, subconcious? Was it really necessary to have me wake up in a cold sweat about spoiled dream yogurt? Why not a little axe murderer action? (we had an alleged one of those in court today). And I have the lame yogurt dream after I read about 200 pgs of The Historian before I went to bed last night. For those of you who've read it, you know I should have had more disturbing-content dreams than a bunch of sour yogurt.


Yeesh.

Time to Start Worrying About the Bar!

One question was on everyone's lips today- obviously a memo had been sent around: "So, young Julia, where are you going to take the Bar?"

[silence- the silence of the newly-panicked me. I've recently begun to think that I'll want to move around for a little while and I'm trying to think of a job that will let me do that. The whole Bar thing is the thorn in my plan's side. The Bar likes for you to settle down, take a load off, practice law in one place. And reciprocity doesn't seem to be an option anymore in my perhaps-states. Realize that while I'm thinking this, I'm completely silent]

"Are you coming back to NYC?"

"I think I'll stay in Virginia for a couple of years and maybe transfer"
[Really, it all depends where I get a job. I've always found that planning the future is just an unpleasant time-waster]

"You should take multiple bars simultaneously- You'll never be that sharp again."

[Great, so what I decide now will determine the rest of my life? I really needed that pressure.] [that last thought was sarcastic]

Then we'd move onto old war stories (actual and courtroom) or "Do you remember Buddy McRandom-Dude?" "Oh, remember when McRandom-Dude did [funny thing usually involving drinking or working the system]? That was great. I love McRandom-Dude. His daughter's in the DA's office now."

I guess since it was my second-to-last day of fun-summer-work in my entire life, it was time to trot out the big guns and question what I was doing with my career (eek!). But to think that in a year it could be me sitting at the behind-the-scenes conference table arguing "that's mine, this is yours, please visit your children occasionally because they miss you" frightens me.

I'm just a big ole wimp. Tell me what you think I should do about the Bar, or what you're doing. C'mon, I know at least 3 lurkers who should delurk and come to my aid. Please, I'm beggin' ya.

The Misadventures of Team Intern*

Half of the guys I work with peaced-out today. I'll follow in another 3 days and then poor Chris will be left all alone to do the work of 4 (ha!). With their imminent departure, we reminisced about the little blunders of the summer, which i will share with you now. Names disguised to protect me from having retribution visited on my head for exposing them to outside ridicule.

- On the Sing-Sing trip, Intern A showed up late (being the designated ride for Team Intern) and went up to the guy who had just finished giving us a little lecture on what we were going to see. He stuck out his hand and said "Hi, I'm Intern A, and you are?" to which the man responded "Judge ____", as he was the judge in the courtroom next to ours (Judge ___ had not had any trials, so Intern A had not seen him). Intern A, very smoothly for someone who just totally crammed his foot in his mouth, said "Pleased to finally meet you" and then turned to the rest of us and mouthed "Did I just do that?" We were all trying too hard not to laugh to give him a good answer. (for the rest of the day, Intern A was stuck driving behind Judge ____ or sitting next to Judge ___- it was like fate was trying to punish him).

- Intern J leaned over to me (keep in mind I am a lass, and a heterosexual one at that) in the middle of jury selection and said in a stage whisper "That Juror has very large breasts." In another proceeding, he leaned over and said with the same loudness, "That guy across the aisle looks like he could take us all out." O, Intern J...

- The lobby of the building has both a revolving and regular doors. Intern C had just gotten in one of the revolving door sections and Intern A (apparently not thinking) jumped in with him. Both Interns are over 6 feet tall and not gangly, so it was quite a tight fit. Intern A bumps Intern C so that Intern C steps on Intern A's foot and bangs his head on the glass in front. This situation is made all the more awkward by the fact that Team Intern had only met a week ago, so we all got an odd impression of Intern A in the beginning.

- Intern J, sitting in the auxilliary judge's chair in the back of the courtroom, was busy saying "Objection Overruled" and pointing like our judge when our judge came strolling into the courtroom.

- Today, there was another fire drill. Since there are fire drills all the time when the building gets too hot, we ignored it (with the blessing of anonymous court worker). When after 15 minutes, the alarm went off, we all emerged from our hidey hole and walked out into the passageway, where 7 court officers caught us. We were really up a shit creek until anonymous court worker came out, and took charge of Team Intern, steering us away from the angry Court Officers. Once Team Intern and ACW got into the elevator, we all giggled like pranksters.

- Intern J, after the Sing-Sing trip, offered me a ride home. We all said goodbye to Intern A, who was driving us, and was just about to head up to Maine for the weekend. When Intern J and I got to his car (5 flights up) Intern J realized that he had left his keys in Intern A's car. Intern J's spare keys were in Long Island, Intern A was completely unreachable, and needless to say, I got home much later that night while trying to help Intern J find a ride home. To Long Island. From Westchester. I bet that was a long-ass drive home.

-When we were waiting in the backcourt conference room (our judge and clerk and the parties and their lawyers being in the court room) I took the opportunity to check out what crap was being stored in there. I found a "Big Mouth Billy Bass" on top of the coatrack, and Intern M (a new addition to Team Intern) said "Press the button." In the second I thought about it, that seemed like a good idea, until Billy started his raucous anthem in a voice so loud that putting it under my jacket did absolutely no good at all. Keep in mind our proximity to actual court goings-on. Then I had the Bright Idea to put him in the bathroom, the floor-to-ceiling tiled surfaces and door adjoining the courtroom making this the worst of all possible ideas. [ETA- I was talking to Intern C today, and he said "You put it in the bathroom and shut the door like it was just going to go away, but then it was louder and you were freakin out and going to take the batteries out when it stopped. But you know that if the judge had said anything about it, we would have said "O, it was [Other Intern] totally." Hehe :)] Billy's song is not terribly long, and Team Intern recovered from the giggles by the time we were called into the courtroom. Our esteemed clerk gave us a look, however.



This is just a flavour of our hijinks. For court interns, it really makes us sound dumb as a box o' rocks. But luckily, none of this goes on our resumes. Hurray!

*I think I called us Team Intern because of The Life Acquatic, but I can't remember if that's what the interns were called. But here are some fun quotes from the movie that relates in some ways to our plight as interns:

Steve: Don't point that gun at him, he's an unpaid intern.

Steve: Anne-Marie, do all the interns get Glocks?
Anne-Marie Sakowitz: No, they have to share one.

One last thing...

I'm tickled pink by all the Fall-Out Shelter signs I see in NYC. They look so forlorn and faded with age. I wonder if there still is a shelter for every sign. They've probably been turned into apartments.


Really really safe apartments.

Don't Walk in Flip Flops in NYC. You'd think I would learn this lesson.

Today was the perfect summer day. 80s, blue sky with those tiny perfect cloud wisps, a slight breeze when it was needed. I even tanned! Me! Fishbelly white chick!

Senor Pod stayed charged all day (i turn off the backlight and put on the dial lock for about 4.5 hours of pod action). I only got lost once (Amsterdam confuses me). My feet- well, the feet did turn black again, but I filled my water bottle at a fountain and then went to a grassy area in the park to wipe the dirt off, then a couple hours later I went to my parent's timeshare building and nonchalantly visited the fancy lobby bathroom (i find that confidence is the key ingredient when masquerading as a guest/club member/podiatrist at the Hilton for a convention (I've said too much)) to degunk my feet. How do the people of New York keep their feet clean??? I know that if you spray hair spray on fake flowers it keeps the dust off. Would this work for feet?


Because days like this should be spent entirely outside, that's what I did. Six hours of walking, enjoying the pretty buildings, thinking little random thoughts. Thus the events of my day are quite mundane, but guess what! I will insert in the facts one thing that I did not do and I defy you to guess which one it is. The game is afoot!

I had planned to go to Lincoln Center (see earlier post that I don't feel like linking to), but when I got to Lincoln Center it was awash with old ppl all fancied up. The Jean Nate "perfume" kept me at bay, so I just wandered around LC enjoying the little fancy shops all around. I visited the American Folk Art Museum Shop and toyed with the idea of culturing up with a quick museum tour, but did I mention the lovely day? You only get 3 days like that in a year- it is not the time for looking at old crap inside. (I really do like museums. Just not on days like Saturday). I also visited Fishs Eddy, for the elusive soup bowl of my dreams. Didn't find it, but it was worth the look. Man, sometimes I wish I were Jewish, but not enough to convert without additional weighty reasons. I doubt they would appreciate it if I went in and said "Yo, I'm down with your faith because the mennorah is really neat as an accessory and I can get these cool juice glasses with the Heroes of the Torah on them. And Yiddish is a kick-ass language. w00t!" Though if I were looking to go back into the loving arms of a God-construct, I'd consider Judaism and Unitarianism, for very divergent reasons that require a completely different post to hash out. A post that will probably never be written. And now I will move on.

If I had gone to Fordham Law, I would have been right in that neighborhood. And prolly about $40k more in debt than I am, so all in all not worth it. (suckers) Though I do prefer the Fordham mascot to the Richmond one. Though both are better than my middle school, which didn't seem to have a mascot unless you count the head of Ben Franklin that adorned our day planners. So unofficially, we were the Dancing Ben Franklin Heads. Though now that I think about that, that's a better mascot than both the ram and the spider. Kinda Futurama-esque.

Really, I can't say enough how lovely the day was. You know that feeling you get the day after you overcome the flu, like your body has just become twice as alive as it was and you want to skip but you're too drained of energy (and old- unless you can find somewhere to skip alone) so you just smile weakly? Take away the weak bit, and that's what the day was like. It's days like this that tell you how damned oppressive the humidity really is. Humidity is evil, folks! Satan's weather!


I ate lunch at Gray's Papaya, which is a New York institution, if only because of the odd name. The eponymous Papaya is a papaya drink that they have, but as I have never been able to tongue-member which fruit in the exotic fruit cup is the papaya, I bypassed the drink. Also, I don't drink juice- the one exception being Jamba Juice and then only when I have skipped carbs for a meal and I get the lowest carb drink they offer. And I say to myself "Vitamins! So many vitamins! And I'm thirsty! Thirsty for vitamins!" It's my Jamba Mantra. You gotta know that Jamba Juice is good if it gets me to temporarily lift my no-juice-and-that-means-you-too-mr.-smoothie ban (and to boldly go and split my infinitives).

Then I just wandered and looked at the pretty buildings and came to the decision that I would totally buy a virtual reality program entitled "a walk in NYC." And I dont' think I'm alone. I could do without a olifactory component however- while the play "Urinetown" is not about NYC, it so could be. On the bright side, this restaurant smelled delicious and was so inviting-looking that I felt hard-pressed to keep moving.

All the while I listened to Podcasts on Senor Pod, and I really enjoy Cinecast and the Slate articles, but then there are a ton of "throw it at the wall and see what sticks" podcasts out there. Y'know how there are people who just talk to revel in their own ability to make sound? Unfortunately, the podcast was a siren's call to all of them.


A few of my random musings, some of which are questions that I invite you to respond to (yes! you! Dearest reader o' mine)

• I'm very ready to be done with school. Though it would mean putting off the job search a little while longer, if you told me there was an additional year of schooling after my 3rd, I would quit now.
  
• I want to keep a running tab of something with my blog, which is really the first journal i've been able to stick to for more than a week. Y'know, like Bridget Jones and her weight? Only not something so ... lame? Maybe the price of gas, or what I ate for lunch, or something else. Please suggest things. I think it might be fun.
  
• I really have no problem with other people screening their calls. It does not bother me at all if you choose not to answer my phone call. In fact, I never think that someone is screening my calls. That's something I'm not paranoid about, and I applaud myself for my mental health in that aspect of my life. Hurray!
• If you know someone who you think is neat, but then all his/her friends are complete douchebags, what does that say? Anything? I find it hard to believe that a genuinely awesome sort would choose to associate exclusively with asshats. Especially asshats who like to talk about the relative fatness of Britney Spears in her pregnant state. Hello! She's pregnant! And judging by your extreme skinniness probably have problems keeping weight on, so really who's the freak in this situation??? The insecurities of boys are sometimes so apparent that it is ludicrous that they aren't more aware of what they're putting out there.
  
• The Housing Market is ludicrously out of proportion as compared to what it was in the beginning of the century. (I have nothing to back this up, it is just a general feeling I get after reading 30 bzillion articles about 36 ppl living in a 2 bedroom house in Queens, all of whom have full-time jobs and yet can't afford to live in, say, a 2 bedroom house with only 14 people in it. Living Wage, dammit!)
• Would you move to an area to pursue a relationship? Is that romantic or foolhardy? I don't think I would without the promise of marriage and a job to support myself in case that fell through, as well as an appreciation of the area I was moving to... And reading over that sentence I realize that I would move based on the last two factors, so really the relationship would not prompt an otherwise unjustifiable move. This is not me growing cynical in Divorce Court, because I discussed it with my mum and she was also very much opposed to such situations. I think I've just known too many people who have done so and been totally screwed over.
  
• It's pretty well-proven that genuinely funny people have to be pretty smart. So why are the comedic arts always second to the dramatic when it comes to doling out praise and awards? I'm sure smarter, more articulate people than I have written on this fact.
• Senor Pod really likes the Steve Miller Band, considering that I have one cd (greatest hits) of theirs and everytime I put him on shuffle, he breaks out some "Jungle Love" or "Jet Liner" or "Abracadabra" within the first 50 songs. It makes me think I should rename the band to screw him up a bit. He also really likes Tenacious D's "Kielbasa" but nothing else from the cd. It's quite odd. Wing's written something far more scientific on the vagueries of the ipod.
  
• Here's the situation: I get in an elevator to go to the bottom floor. A woman with like 5 kids gets out. One of the little darlings has pressed floors 5-8 (I'm on the 3rd), so I have to go up to 5-8, then back down (there is only one elevator and the stairs are super creepy). When I get back to the 3rd floor, the woman + her gaggle of miscreants are waiting to get on. They then ask me where the Target is. I say I don't know, but I think it's in the subasement. She does not thank me. Should I have said to this woman, "And I'd like to thank you for allowing your children to press every button so I had to visit all of them instead of going directly down. Obviously, your children are learning valuable courtesy lessons." The reason I didn't was a) because I couldn't prove that the children were the ones to push all the buttons, and not some children who had been in the elevator previous to my boarding and b) it's an elevator, and it's best not to piss off someone who might have the children trained as an attack squad. But really, it was a terrible Terrible example for the young children, who will grow up to be the next generation of surly New Yorkers. New York is a great place, folks, why are you all so pissed off?
• NY has some really impressive court houses. Geez Louise. If you brought the misbehaving youths to just look at the size of these buildings, I bet they'd get a little fear of God in 'em. I have the fear of God looking at these buildings- makes me want to confess that I have lusted in my heart or some other such misdeed.
  
• I've lost touch with a lot of people. Should I remedy this by trying to find the more interesting ones or should I just focus on not losing touch in the future?
• I always thought that I had an average amount of wander-lust, but I think that's just in relation to my family. I travel a hell of a lot more than the average person. Hopefully I'll keep this up. Also, I need to go to Switzerland before I'm 30. And now I'm thinking about Children of the Corn. Don't ask why.
  
• It always surprises me when I find out that people have tattoos. I recently found out that one of my coworkers has a huge back tattoo and a couple on his arms, as well as both ears pierced (earrings taken out for work). I can't help but to see him a little differently now- not bad different, but just like if you found out that someone you knew had a Harley or over 2000 cds. Acquisitions such as those add another layer to your persona- how you present yourself. At least to me. If I got a tattoo, I'd want to get Xavier Roberts scrawled on my butt. I'm obviously not mature enough.

That's about it. I did an incredibly boring walking tour on Sunday, which I left early to walk around on my own, and that was about it. One last observation: I far more frequently get hit on when I dine alone. Maybe it's New York and the men aren't at all particular, but I totally got some tofu cheesecake courtesy of the host, provided that I let him join me. I despair for myself sometimes, though, as my first thought was a whiney "I really just wanted to finish this chapter in my book and go." It is a brave and fearless man who attempts to hit on me when I'm reading.

Want an Earworm?

I just saw a tiny bit of Anchorman again, and now I have "Afternoon Delight" stuck in my head. In that I tend to whistle between my teeth when I'm alone and not really paying attention to myself, I bet my across-the-way neighbors now also have "Afternoon Delight" stuck in their heads. And you, now that I have mentioned the song, are softly singing "Gonna find my baby gonna hold her - DAMMIT" (that "DAMMIT" was not softly sung, but instead yelled in a grumbly baritone).

I'm like the Typhoid Mary of Bad 70's Music Earworms. Anyone up for a little "Wildfire"?


Speaking of 70's songs*, I was walkin along Central Park South today, rockin out to my ipod (on the inside), and there's this woman in front of me walking at a pace that would more befit a tiny geriatric in heels. From what I can tell of her from behind, she's not pushing 80, but she ambles about the pavement as if she were avoiding goose poop** and it's Holding Me Up. I don't have anywhere to be, so I put up with the wandering for a little while, but after a half-long-block, I side step her and stride ahead (hopefully suggesting in my walk the sentiment "I have nothing against you, but your walk pace disagreed with my own. Do not allow my actions to be seen as walk-pace-censure." I like for my body language to be polite). As soon as I lap her, I notice that she looks super-familiar but I really can't place her for a moment. Then the group of tourists that are consulting a map on the corner start rushing towards us, asking "Ms. Simon" if they can take a photo with her.

I have nothing against Carly Simon, but as the only Carly Simon song I know is "You're So Vain" and I'm kinda meh about it (clouds in my coffee? does that phrase really need to be repeated?), I decided to be super-NY and just keep walking. I'm no oogling yokel.

Unless it were Mos Def, either White Stripe, or any other artist for whom I have respect and a tiny interest in seeing how tall s/he is IRL. Then I'll muster up a brief oogle and then pretend to be trying to read a street sign with my patented wow-i-need-glasses squint (squint + furrowed brow + slightly open mouth does the trick).


I'm so smooth.


As I polished off the Guggenheim and the NYPLibrary today, I will be heading over to Lincoln Center tomorrow and the environs. Now to find all relevant shoe shops within a 2 mile radius of Lincoln Center. Everyone take a little time out to appreciate the marvel that is the internet. 10 years ago I would have had to consult a phone book or something equally lame and smudgy. Hurray for Al Gore!





*look at that segue! It's a thing of beauty, folks. Me rite good today, ma.
** I often must avoid goose poop when out for a stroll/jog. If only goose poop were good for something, like curing lupus or cleaning rust stains. But no, the sole purpose of goose poop is to make you work on your running-while-looking-down-and-zig-zagging skills, a skill only useful for avoiding goose poop. Actually, it helps you avoid poop of all kinds. But as I have quickly gotten from interesting sidenote to straight-no-chaser-brain-ramble, I ask you to politely return to the main text. We were just learning about the ambling non-octegenarian...

unexpectedly good movie (+ etcereras)

I'm watching Spanglish at the moment (it's pretty good) and i LOVED this comment:

"Lately your low self-esteem is just good common sense."

Somehow that strikes me as Bob Dylan-esque insult, which means it's the best, most-cutting kind. And thank GOD they didn't put more Tea Leoni in the movie. I was watching the deleted scenes which are all scenes with more of her, and if I were not a rational sane upholder-of-the-law type, I would declare jihad on that woman. I know she's just playing a role, but I saw her interviews for the movie, and she did not seem aware of the egrigious behavior of her character. Those are the worst kinds of people.


The other night, I was driving back from the grocery store and Senor Pod played two versions of "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright" back to back despite the fact that he was on shuffle. I have 4 versions on the pod: Dylan & Baez (oo! the levels!), Indigo Girls (... meh), Kingston Trio (very weird because I associate them with Charlie on the MTA) and Johnny Cash (the one that makes me cry).

Everyone covers it because it's so layered- one moment it's heartbroken and mourning the end , the next it swerves into bitter sarcasm and back and forth all the way til the end. (the wimpy Kingston trio sings the last verse then sings the 3rd verse again, but I think you need to end on the "You just kinda wasted my precious time." To do otherwise is to undercut the song). O, and the last line- so barbed to both the singer and the sung-to. I don't think you've had enough relationships until you can feel both sides.

But anyway, twice in a row at night is too much for me, so i had to skip ahead until I could find a song that didn't mention interpersonal relationships at all (I found Lunapop- Vespa Special K) and I no longer felt the urge to cry while alone in my car at night. Really, I must get the crying in check. I am not a crier! Strong, I am, and resilient! Like a Viking!



(When I was little, I had a Hagar the Horrible comic book, and the only cartoon I remember from it goes something like this

First Panel
[Hagar dressed in medical gown (despite the anachronism- just go with it, ppl) talking with his doctor]
Doctor: Hagar, you're going to kill yourself if you keep up like this. You need to give up feasting, pillaging, drinking, etc.

Second Panel
Hagar: Well, it's a good thing I'm a Viking
Doctor: Why?

Third Panel
[Hagar springs to his feet, unsheathing his sword and holding it aloft, placing a conquering foot on the doctor's bench]
Hagar: (in Gothic typeface) Because Vikings Never Give Up!

This, I admit, is not an overly funny cartoon. But for some reason, it tickled me pink at the time, and still does to this day. I often say in my head "It's a good think I'm a Viking" and then giggle out loud, which probably causes many ppl to think I'm laughing at them, but no, it is the Ghost of Hagar Comics Past rippling through my mind.

A few years back, my dad found out he has this weird blood disease call hemachromatosis
a genetic disorder you only get if you have Viking blood in you. Despite the unfortunate implications of this (as all of my dad's ancestors are Irish, so there must have been some raping/pillaging back there), the news made my day. And then my mom got me a bunch of bumper stickers from the Norway Travel Bureau saying "Take a Liking to a Viking" and that completes the rundown of all of my Viking anecdotes. That's it, I'm cleaned out, go get your Viking anecdotes elsewhere from now on. )


Wow, so many topics, such weak segues. I swear I'll try harder to be cohesive next post.

Joe

My friend Katie and I took this class called "Emerson Nietzsche & Freud" in college (fabulous class, I speak of it often) with a charming array of other students. In our many discussions (this being a very vocal yet interest group o' students), we all got to know each other's views of the war, favorite Nietzsche passages, and secret ambitions (mine: carpenter; byrd's: dinosaur). And Katie and I met the perfect man.

Logically and rationally, I know that there is no such thing as the perfect man. But as Katie and I would talk on the phone for about an hour a day, a passing remark such as "Joe's cool" or "Joe made a good comment in class" would be enthusiastically agreed with and heightened to "Joe is so nice and thoughtful- he really is a decent human being" to be retorted to with "Decent!? Joe is perfect down to every little hair on his beard!" escalating to the tippy-tops of our affection with an "All Hail Joe the Magnificent!" (We don't have much conversational self-control)


So from that point on, we would go into class and just admire how neat Joe was in all his Joeness. So cuddly, so hiker-y, so bearded. Then we'd run home and phone each other to say "Did you hear what Joe said to me today? He was like 'You are a lovely person'" and then we'd both swoon. Joe had a way of being so that everything he said sounded like the best compliment, case and point being when he called Katie (from Waynesboro) a "mountain girl" and she didn't want to slug him.


You might think we would scare the boy with our attentions, but we kept our devotions on the inside. We didn't want Joe all to ourselves, and we weren't covetous of his attention. We understood that we must share Joe with the world. To say we understood is to imply that we had to do so grudgingly, but we did it gladly. We wanted to share Joe with the world- Joe without the world interaction would be meaningless. Our mutual crush on Joe was asexual and nonpossessive (though Katie's first comment on me rementioning Joe is "the beard was hot") (her admiration of beards was where the "mountain girl" comment came from).


Occasionally, when iming each other now, we talk about Joe and how hot the beard was. And then we try to google him, but as we know his views on the war but we don't know his last name, it's kinda tricky. Which is a good thing, I think, because it's nice to have the thought of a perfect man when you are feeling anti-male. As I was tonight when an asshat in my dorm would not hold the secure door for me when i was 5 feet away with loads of heavy groceries. I needed a reason not to hate people. So I thought of Joe, and the thought of him restored my faith in mankind. Thanks Joe :)

It took me a moment to realize how subtly subversive this cartoon is. teehee to that guy and his coltish moppet.

It's weird, and not very Lost-y, but I'm taking a bold stance and coming out in favor of this Lost promo. I love Portishead's Dummy album, I like Dave LaChapelle, I even like runny eye makeup and resolve to try it next time I feel like doing something funky to my face when I go out. Also, did you see Kate's (Evangeline's) arms? Damn, those are some guns! (the promo also drove home that there are no two-women-one-man love triangles on the show. THat should totally change. I mean, three love triangles and they're all 2m1w? what about 2w1m or 3w/3m or 1w1cwwamws1m* or 1w1m1mimoig**?

But it is that much closer to new Losts, when wednesday will cease to be boring hump day and resume its Lost Day crown! (I watch Lost like it's my job/going out of style, can you tell?)

*crazy woman with a mysteriously white smile
**mysterious island monster of indeterminate gender

I was listening to "The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins" today and one of the lyrics struck me. "They [the Hobbits] don't like to travel away from home/ they just like to eat and be left alone." That makes hobbits sound awfully depressed, individually holed up in the Shire with their comfort foods spread out on their little snack trays while they stare remotely at the wall because tv does not exist there. To check the lyrics out yourself, feel free to watch the video, but keep in mind that the rockin' tuba solo in the full length version is missing from the video. there's another video with much more convincing hobbit-actors and the tuba solo, but I can't find that one. Bummer.

Due to the crazy amount of rain yesterday, both the library and Target were closed today. There was this little kid, prolly about 8, sitting on the library steps and resting his head on his fists when I walked over there today. As I approached the doors, he said completely dejectedly "It's closed today." I almost wanted to go buy him a book to make him happy. THen I figured he might just want to use the internet or spend some time in an air-conditioned place that's not gonna get him killed (*ahem* galleria mall *ahem*). I would have invited him over to the court-house, but as he would have had a choice of a murder trial, a nasty divorce, or a hell's angels weapons charge, I didn't think that would be age-appropriate.

As the girl on Team Intern, I think it will fall to me to organize the present for our boss. We don't wanna get him desk-crap or something else super boring like that. A part of me wants to get him a bit of carpet for his new (old) office, but that's completely unfeasible. What do you think?

Inventions

Those of you who know me know that I am very much not a petite. I don't think women who are 5'11' could put on a petite-anything without busting a few of the teensy-weensy seams, let alone me, with my never-need-shoulder-pads shoulders. Heck, I'm tallish for a man. I actually have a weird heart condition that supposedly stunts your growth, so all the people at my pediatric cardiologist's office would make jokes about how tall I would have been had I not been blessed with a ventricular septal defect. (someone once mentioned Andre the Giant, and then I would have to be a wrestler but then have a small but charming role in a classic children's film) So summing up, the point of this paragraph is to establish that I am not a petite, and I know it, because I have been tall for my age for all of my ages.

Yesterday, when I was driving around Connecticut (why, you ask? why the heck not?), I found a stand-alone Lord and Taylor* and went in to do some minor shopping. I enter the store and browse for about 5 minutes before I realize that I am smack dab in the middle of petites. And Not only that, there are only petites and men's clothing on this floor. Given that fact, I can't pretend I was looking somewhere else for regular-sized clothing, huh-uh, now I'm the delusional giantess who will try to put on the brown polka dot dress and when it jambs awkwardly about my torso, blunder outof my dressing room, stiff arms waving, yelling "Noooo! Me no likely little dress! Me scare tiny women and knock mannequin down! Arrrhh!"

I have issues. That doesn't mean you can't laugh at them.

My mum and I share this gripe (she is smaller than me, but still not petite), and always feel awkward when we accidently stumble into the petite section. Over the years, we have tried to come up with solutions to the petite-section problem. I shall present to you the several that I find most compelling, hoping that some department store manager somewhere will one day realize this and make my life a slightly happier one.

1. Method of the Future! In the future, we will all have some sort of chip implanted into us (I just know it, and it will be like a bank-card or something and make purse/wallet carrying a thing of the pass). On this chip, we shall be able to pick our department store designator, like "Petite only/ Sometimes Petite, Sometimes Regular/ Petite? [Snort!]" So when a "Petite? [Snort!]" person accidently wanders over the line into the petite section, a little voice will say "yo! petites!" and that person, who is not delusional about her size, will curve swiftly back to the regular sizes.
   
2. Big Burly Petite-Section Guards Method: 'Nuff Said.
   
3. Color-Coding/Other Marker Method: For those of you who want a solution that a) doesn't involve cutting you open and b) doesn't involve the hiring of new employees or weightlifting, I present another method. Instead of subtly and smally printing "Petite" on one wall that may or may not be connected to the petite section, maybe all petite section carpets could be light blue instead of industrial taupe. Or maybe everything could be about a foot shorter. I would notice that foot, and I doubt the petite women would mind. Maybe even put a subtle velvet rope around the section, so the petite women could feel special as they unhook the end and travel in towards the clothing specially made for them.

This all said, I'd like to offer my condolences to the people of Connecticut for their ludicrously high gas prices. The lowest price I saw once I crossed the border was $2.76! $2.76! You can get a gallon of Starbucks coffee for $2.76! If you're willing to pay premium price, I bet those starbucks ppl will put in that extra-shot thingy!

Ok, now I gotta get back to work. Ahh, the sweet sounds of lawyers being falsely outraged.



*stand alone department stores fascinate me. If one day I am very very rich (or the black plague comes around again for another large swath of humanity and leaves me be), I will perhaps buy one to live in. One with very large windows on at least one floor.

This Weekend I will...

Since last week(weak)end was a bust and I did very very little besides lie on my bed and moan, this weekend has to be doubly awesome so that I wash the taste of last weekend out of my experience-mouth. (to top off last weekend (as yesterday and the 3 days proceding it shall be known) I bought what I thought was diet cream soda because I love diet cream soda, and drank half a liter's worth before realizing it was regular cream soda. I was wondering why I was putting up maudlin posts and crying during the simpsons, a commercial during family guy, and extra extra hard during grey's anatomy. Consequently, I'm writing an angry letter to the Mug Cream Soda people to tell them that they need to make the difference between the diet and regular bottles for those of us who probably need glasses but are content to squint for the time being.)

So! This is the O, What I Have in Store This Weekend! Post, and I shall be adding to it during the week. Envy away, all you who live somewhere that is not New York!

• visit my favorite chinese restaurants and eat their soy sheets and green beans (It's literally just soy sheets, soy beans and some sort of broth, but it's the most delicious bland food out there. Bland may be a negative connotation for some of you, but I like bland better than comfort as a descriptor.)
• take a tour of lincoln center (to visit the lovely chagall paintings) and bum around in that area of town
• go to fishes eddy because I need a soup bowl
• MoMA? mebbe.
  
• maybe also some shoe shopping... (some chuck taylors. I have no chuck taylors. and comfortable but cute flats)
• Get tons of postcards
• Columbia circle

that's all for now- I must consult a tourist book and local events calendars for more. feel free to suggest stuff!

Meh

So i've been on a fabulous four-day vague illness streak that is not one cohesive virus/bug/genetic disorder, but instead a variety pack of internal crapiness feelings and external clumsiness injuries. Most of the time I deal with illness by saying "At least I feel ok (diabetes)" or "At least I'm not gonna die because of it (pretty much everything else)" but yesterday I had a really wicked low (monitor claims it was 58 but since monitor later said it was still 58 after about 30 quick carbs, I claim 40) and had a panic about the fact that if I could not get this soy milk open quickly, I would die right there in the middle of the Nordstrom's shoe sale. That feeling, btw, is only about 60% melodrama, because the salespeople were very very busy and probably would not notice me until it was too late. So then the rollercoaster of blood sugar screwed with my head and stomach and zapped all my energy and made me miss the curb and cut up my knee. Sometimes, despite the fun paraphenalia and the ability to freak people out by sticking needles into myself in public, juvenile diabetes really sucks ass.



Hopefully I will have snapped out of this body/brain funk before tomorrow. Or maybe the sun will come out. After all, if a new Harry Potter book couldn't lift my spirits for more than a day, it's gonna take some great weather or an unexpected bit of good news. Anyone engaged? Or desparately wanting to pay back my loans?

Who wants to die of toxic sap poisoning?

awwwwwwwwwwwww!


excuse me while i get myself to the hospital for some antidote.

Update: Antidote.

Inadvertant Lesson of the Harry Potter Books

Incest is a really bad idea. Really Really bad.

Christmas in July

O man, go here and witness the awesomosity that is other people's Christmasses. It makes me reflect that the second most exciting part of Christmas day for my family is when my mum makes the traditional post-present egg-cheese-tomato frittata/omelet thing complete with english muffins and the third most exciting is when we all get to open our crackers and put the Jughead-like paper crowns on our heads.

Gentility has its drawbacks.

random links

handicapping 20 c. classic novels.

some lore:

• well, are you?
• check out #4 for my personal favorite (and does this mean i'm not an actual youth?)
• because haven't we all wondered what it would be like to date voltaire?
  
• heck, just check out the whole brunching shuttlecocks archive yourself. because i'm sure you have work to do.

I came home about an hour before I wanted to today, because I looked down at my feet and saw that they were black with street dirt. Think working 9 hours in a coal mine in your bare feet black. I guess that's what you get when you walk around in Chelsea in flip-flops. If there's such a thing as podiatric gonorrhea, I have it.


Also, Park Avenue is just one long stretch of loveliness- I have yet to stumble upon a bit of it that isn't spotlessly refined. I guess that's why it costs so much in Monopoly.

Nerd Herds All Over the World Gather Tonight

A couple years back when the last Harry Potter book was coming out, my parents and I stumbled upon a very interesting phenomena completely by accident.

We were coming back from dinner somewhere past Fairfax around 10pm, and noticed that the Borders was ablaze with lights. While we're not an overly spontaneous bunch, curiosity forced my father to pull into the parking lot so we didn't have to lay awake in our beds wondering what the heck had been going on.

Night makes otherwise ordinary occurances different.* In the Chemistry Auditorium during the day? Normal. Being in the Chemistry Auditorium at night (playing capture the flag)? Slightly naughty, a little exciting. A walk during the day? Normal. A walk at night? Romantic and/or Creepy. Balancing your checkbook during the day? Normal to the point of mundanity. Balancing your checkbook at night? well... a little pathetic, but at least I was watching Fletch while doing it. (don't judge me!)

So when an otherwise not-night store is open at night (unlike Harris Teeter- the most fun grocery store EVER), something odd is going down. Never were those words so apt as to describe the Borders that night.

After parking miles away from the store (minivans as far as the eye could see), we walked in on a Borders in a state of slightly organized chaos. Chaos in which many people wore funny hats and capes and other black or purple flowy clothing. I had not seen that many nerds in one place since Quiz Bowl Tournaments in High School (I admit it. I was not only on "It's Academic!", I was also President of my HS team. Laugh all you want, but do you know George Sands's real name? Or the order and method of death for all of Henry VIII's wives? I am masterful, bitches, and can crush you with the triviality of my immense knowledge. We're moving on.)

My parents and I gawked at the scene. Hopped up on sugar and the second wind of being up part their bedtimes, children ran amok screaming. Someone was regularly shouting into the store microphone that a) this was a midnight party for the latest Harry Potter book, b) different sections of the store had different events going on and c) would ____ ____'s parents please come and scoop up their tiny darling who was just destroying the "____ for Dummies" section. Borders employees were wheeling around dollies stacked high with the book, batting away people (a majority old enough to know better) trying to grab one.

Intrepid people that we are, we waded into the frenzy to see the extent of the madness. There was owl-cookie-decorating and pointy-hat-making and Hagrid-drawing galore. You could also stand around discussing the latin roots of the spell words if you wanted, but you had to really want it because once you made like you were at all interested, a nerd would grab you and with a crazed gleam in his eye, talk your ear off like his mother had forbidden talking about it while he was living in her house. The shouting over the microphone regularly reminded us that the costume contest in the back was for CHILDREN ONLY. Which was only fair, because the children had no attention to detail.

Past middle school, a nerd is often defined by a fanatical interest in something that it is not socially acceptable to be fanatically interested in. Usually something fantasy, or sci-fi- Dungeons and Dragons, Star Wars/Trek, or Lord of the Rings. (I argue that ppl who know sports statistics or the full cast lists of old movies or other obsessions are also nerds, but slightly more acceptable bc their obsession is related to something mainstream. Sci-fi or Fantasy is nerd to the core). With the publication of JK Rowling's books, a new nerd culture flourished. Those flourishing burst all over the Borders that night. The nerds were more excited than the children because they were among their kind. Each one was surrounded by people who also knew the burst of joy when realizing that "Diagon Alley" is really just diagonally broken in two, or who had ardent views on who should get togther: Hermione & Harry, or Hermione & Ron? And what about Krum? O, it was all too wonderful for the nerds. And the kids enjoyed it too.

This was all very amusing to us three bemused spectators, especially the near-fight between mothers over who's kid was a better Harry (my money was on the girl-Harry, if only because she had the glasses and the scar and other kid was just in a black graduation robe that pooled around his feet with a straight-ish stick) (also, girl-Harry's mom was small, but fierce).

My mother, who has not read the books and has never understood the whole Harry Potter obsession, turned to Dad and I and asked if we wanted to stick around to midnight and buy a book. But after a moment of consideration, we decided we could wait until 10am the next day. Or the day after that. After all, I'm proud of my nerd heritage, but I want to at least seem normal. And spending two hours listening to nerds talk about the intricacies of the plot-lines and their internet Ron-Hermione-'shipper fan-fic might totally blow my cover.

Tonight, the Barnes & Noble in town is having a Harry Party, but I don't think I'm going. If I've been to one, I can claim it was a fluke. Two, and I'll have to reregister at nerd headquarters. (and also because of the crime. White Plains is totally Yonkers-ing up, yo! It ain't safe!)


*(this equation doesn't work for everything- drinking during the day is less acceptable than drinking at night, same for eating dinner or sleeping).

On the Harry front, you gotta go watch this.

UPDATE:
Today I bought my HP book (I was walking past B&N on the way back from shopping, I swear) and even though I did not attend the midnight party, I still got the party pack. What's in this party pack, you ask? Why, I'll gladly tell you so that you can be green with envy:

• A cookie (option of sugar, chocolate chip or peanut butter) from the B&N cafe (actual cost: prolly $2)
• A poster of all the cover illustrations (which i promptly bent when tripping over the curb in front of the shopping center. A lovely woman from new jersey (at least that's what her accent and license plate said) stopped her car to help me up and apply bandaids to my scraped hands, so a special Ft. Awesome 21 (imaginary) gun salute goes out to the Garden State!)
• Some rockin' Harry Potter round ugly glasses without lenses (in case anyone needs them for a halloween costume)
• A green bracelet in the vein of Lance Armstrong's yellow bracelet that everyone wears. This one, instead of having an inspirational message enplasticed into it, just says "July 16, 2005" which will now forever go down in Julia history as the day the phrase "good samaritan" became "good new jerseyite."
• About 70 coupons, most of which are for cold stone creamery or ben and jerry's and therefore are complete useless to me as I hate ice cream from either place. Which is a really really good thing, because I already have an ass the size of south america.
  
• And last, but certainly not least, actually first in my book because I plan on using it the moment I stop writing this: a lightening bolt tattoo.
  

I have to say that for $17.41, I made out like a bandit. This was almost as enjoyable as going to a very cheap used book store and buying 17 one-dollar books. Maybe I'll do that next weekend. Now I must eagerly await my weekend visitor.

Musing

Dick Francis has daddy issues. (had? is he still alive?)

ahhh mcsweeneys. realiably amusing

Obscure news articles that point out how depraved ppl are. And none of the pesky NSFW stuff that fark always has.

I think the most newsworthy fact about this article is not the scalding, but that there are white castle's up here. crazy!

I also very very randomly found this site. Be prepared to be afraid.

Vexing Inaccuracy.

Why is the contraction of husband "hubby"? There's an "s" in between the u and the b. IF you say, "Julia, why do you care? So everyone skips a letter, so what?" I'll tell you what. If the omission of one letter doesn't bother you, then it's a tiny slide down the slippery slope before you start skipping two letters, then mixing the letters around, then adding a letter and suddenly the lebanese are being called lesbians because "hey, it's close enough" and the grandchildren of Danny Thomas suddenly are no longer married and can't pay for Danny III's heart medication because the health benefits don't carry over to lesbian partners and their plaintive cries echo in the night "But I'm Lebanese!"


Of course, all that would be spared if the gay were allowed to marry. But as the U.S. is not as advanced as Spain and all other lovely countries whose leaders realize that no one would actively choose to be discriminated against if it were a choice, the lebanese will suffer just as the gays do.


Which also makes me think of the interesting tangent: If a man were from the island of Lesbos, and declared that he was a Lesbian on his official U.S. documents, that would cause some raised eyebrows and perhaps a few amusing miscommunication hijinks occasionally. Hey, I think I just wrote the next high-concept sitcom pitch for NBC! Hurray!


Sidenote: I'm so Puma's bitch. Look at the orange ones with the pink puma bursting off the picture-plane that is the sneaker! And these are also fabulous but in a conan-"in-the-year-2000" sort of way! these, however, are a grave error in judgment. Stick to sneakers, Puma designers.

Note on the side of the Sidenote: My dad made me business cards a while ago (which is actually really easy in these days of fancy schmanzy printers) but I tend to forget to pass them out (sieve-brained as i am). But today, since a lot of people were internship-hopping to other jobs (team intern stands strong, though) I was handing them out like a stranger with candy. And regardless of what their mommies told them, everyone accepted my vital information and was very impressed. I think it was the little colour law school icon that did it, though it may have been the finely ribbed paper. So mad thanks to my dad! Three cheers and all that!

Should I just chuck it all and become a carpenter?

Websites like this rouse my inner carpenter. When I am older and richer, I shall have a garage filled with saws and planers and other things that I don't know the name of right now. But I will, and I will use them oftenly.


for those who are like me.

Thoughts Today While At Work

- Word Perfect was created by fascists. Right after Mussolini was overthrown, his cabinet went underground, created computers and wrote the software. "Il Duce may be hanging by his heels in the square, but the spirit of fascism shall live on in the program we shall call 'parola perfetta' Long live Il Duce!"

- Can't you see that she is totally uninterested in talking to you? And what do you think the court computer lab is, an ice cream social? It's been 10 minutes of you nattering on about how you *magically* show up at the bar that she works at - "It was such a coincidence!" Yes, at the first mention, we all thought it was a coincidence. Now we think that you know where she works, where she lives, and the name of her cat who died when she was 8. Save yourself some face, man, and sit down for the love of mike!

- Happy Hour on Tuesday. A work night. hmmm... well, my license doesn't say "Can only drink from Thursday to Saturday."

- I wonder if the library has any Henry Mancini cds. or Beulah, I'm not picky.

- If no one committed any more crimes, I wouldn't have to be writing this. That is a strong argument for world peace.


BTW- The enemy forces have overrun my resistance! the jello strike is over! dance, little jello cup, dance!

Cardboard Cut: The Reckoning

I blame Jello. Stopping by the Ultimate Stop n’ Shop for my 2-week water jug (it’s so heavy I make a separate trip), I noticed that the products of Jello are on sale. O frabjus day! O time of great joy for the world! I reach in to snag myself some Jello packs and pull it out with a MASSIVE cardboard cut on the fleshy mountain of my middle finger.

You may not know the cardboard cut, but I’m certain you’re acquainted with his insidious little cousin, the paper cut. Cardboard cut combines the decisive slicing power of his father with the unfortunate beefiness of his mother Olga (which made it hard for her to find a husband), and therefore is deeper, wider, longer.

I immediately squeeze the bottom of my finger to MAKE THE PAIN STOP and the blood spurts out of my WOUND my GUSHING WOUND. I resort to making those noises of the three stooges when one double-eyeball pokes the other while doing the mincing dance of the full-bladdered child. Who cares what the people think of me- I am DYING of PAIN and BLOOD LOSS. I look around to see if there’s an implement for cutting off my finger at the ready- a buzz saw or ginzu knife or meat axe or something. You may think I’m being drastic, but very few rational thoughts run through my head when I’m experiencing finger anguish. I attribute this to the thousands of little nerves in my fingertip, all currently screaming, "MAKE IT STOP! FOR THE LOVE OF DIGITOS THE FINGER GOD MAKE IT STOP!" The tiny voices are so distracting. If a buzz saw had been whirring away feet from me, I would have never flipped the left-handed bird again. (not that I’ve done that before, I prefer other gestures).

Now you may think I’m being wimpy about pain. But no, I know pain. I’ve broken both arms, most fingers, some toes, sprained my ankles more times than I can remember, had hideous gashes, including the glass-in-foot wound of earlier this year, and let’s not even go into the 5 and a bit years of the lancet and needle type of diabetes. Pain and I are well acquainted, and just between you and me, I think Pain really likes Cardboard Cut because he pours so much of himself into each one.

Once I got over the spurting issue and the pain lessened o-so-slightly, I ran to the bandaid aisle, squeezing gently on the sides of my finger to close the slice, my cart forgotten in the pain fog. One thought that made it through was “Oo, Curious George on sale.” I swaddled my poor finger in bandaids (a barrel of monkeys swarming on my finger) and returned gingerly to my shopping.

But herein lies the insidious nature of the wood-pulp-product cut. The sustaining of the wound is only a fraction of the pain that lies in your tiny little slit. The pain gone, you take off the bandaids, you forget about the cut, then you run your fngers through your hair and BLAMMO! the pain comes back with a vengeance. He leaps out, squealing “HAHA! I’m Back, Lady! Did you miss me? Didya didya didya?” Again, the hasty squeezing, the spurting, the bandaid applicating and the gingerly-returning to what you were doing. Repeat liberally for the next couple of hours.

Showers also presents a challenge. I chose the pretend-you-have-one-arm method tonight, which resulted in dropping my shower caddy on the bridge of my foot. All the pointy hard edges have made a distinctive bruise that looks like … a very distinctive bruise. (when I’m grouchy, I’m not creative.) Obviously the PYHOA method is a loser. Tomorrow I might try the wrap-hand-in-many-plastic-bags method, or the use-all-fingers-but-the-afflicted-one routine based on how fast the little bugger is closing up.

And until then, I’m going on Jello strike. I’m not buying any more of your too-delicious-to-be-true products until my wee little finger is back to the land of the unscathed. Jello Executives everywhere -feel my consumer rage against your sharpened edges and bloodthirsty packaging! I also bite my thumb at your mothers! (don’t worry, jello executives- I only expect this to last a halfweek or so).

Two other notes, as the world continues to spin on its axis in spite of cardboard's malicious attacks:

~I talked to a friend tonight and he commented that my blog was all the fun of talking to me with none of the pesky interaction. I can't decide if that's good or bad. I do so love to talk to you all, but I am looking forward to the day when I can retreat to my little hermit cave and do my little hermit chores like sweeping the dirt around and growing a beard. Perhaps that day is sooner, rather than later.

~Special note to a certain Californian I know: Guess who has a fall show, Tuesdays at 9 on ABC? Your one and only Donald Sutherland ;). Mmmm crusty old dude.

question, complaint

Is paper microwave safe? I know it didn't explode, but will it affect my soup?

If I'm on a two lane road, and I can't get into the right lane because it is jam-packed, don't ride my ass for 2 minutes, speeding up til you almost hit my bumper then slowing down until you are a safeish distance from me only to speed up again. You should be able to see that I can't do anything, I'm going 20 over the speed limit and we're on a curvy hill.

Also? I indiscriminately hate SUV drivers. You all suck.

Quote from Underrated Show I Love

[Reading cards from the complaint box]
Dave: "You suck." "You suck." "Howard Stern rules." "If you can read this you are a dork." "Coupon for one free kiss from Joe if you are a girl." "We need more complaint cards." "Coupon for one free kiss from Joe if you are a guy."
Joe: Hey.
Dave: [pulling out a fortune cookie slip] "You will go on a journey, happy long time." "Matthew is a moron." "No I'm not." "Yes you are." "No I'm not infinity." "Yes you are infinity plus one." And this one, "I have doobie in my funk," which I assume is some sort of reference to the Parliament Funkadelic song, "Chocolate City." Uh, "You got peanut butter in my chocolate. You got chocolate in my peanut butter. Together they taste like crap." "Matthew has been staring at me all day... and I like it." I don't think I get this one, it says, "I try to be good hard-worker-man, but refrigemater so messy, so so messy."
Lisa: I think that one's probably from Milos, the janitor.
Dave: Oh. Refrigem... oh, then that one's legitimate.
[continues reading the complaint cards]
Dave: Uh, "Who's the black private dick who's the sex machine with all the chicks."
Bill, Beth, Lisa, Matthew, Joe: SHAFT.
Bill: I thought we'd all enjoy that.
Dave: [reading one last card] And, "Help, I'm being held prisoner in a complaint box," which is actually kinda funny.

Sing Sing Part 2 (it's long! but has a delightful palate-cleansing story at the end!)

In that I've had a couple of days to think about my visit to Sing Sing, this is going to be a contemplative blog.

I'm living in White Plains for the summer, WP being a small city outside of NYC. Recently, WP has been the site of several disturbing crimes. Two weeks after I got here, one level 3 sex offender* who had just been released from prison ran up to a woman, grabbed her baby and ran off. Luckily, lots of civic minded folk stopped him, the baby was returned to the maternal bosom and the guy put back in prison, but it's certainly not a heart warming tale.

Then about a week and a half ago, another level 3 sex offender (who had served 23 yrs in jail on a 7-21, the extra 2 because he attacked another guy in prison with a pitchfork) stabbed a woman in the parking lot that is right across the street from where I work. Actually, that makes it sound tangential: all the interns in my building park in that lot, we eat lunch at that food court everyday, and as he stabbed her around 1, we saw the police cars speeding up into the parking lot as we were walking back from lunch. Supposedly he came out to the street and was hiding in an alley that we would have passed walking back. So to paraphrase, things hit close to work that day. More specifically, too close to me for comfort. (the offender is claiming that racism made him want to kill a blonde, blue eyed white person and that he let several ppl pass before he selected the 56 yr old grandmother. Read the 40 bjillion articles about it here)


I got to go to Sing-Sing because I work in court here, specifically in the criminal section (for the moment). In my job, I've been privy to what exactly Mr. Jones did to get him into court today, and since we only handle felons and up, it's usually disturbing. That first level 3 sex offender, the one who snatched the baby, was in my court the morning of the baby-grabbing (my court, like i'm the judge or something). But when he was in court, there were 5 burly court officers strategically positioned around him and the judge and the rest of us, so the criminal element was identified and kept in its rightful place. Right?

And in the aftermath of the Mrs. Russo-Carriero's death at the hands of a know-to-be and admittedly violent sex offender, the DA is calling for a Civil Committment act in NY like they have in 17 states already (Kansas and Washington being the vanguards- but Washington's has an incredibly high standard, so ppl usually point to Kansas) (hey, I had to research it for work). In such an act, the sex offenders would be evaluated and those who were not deemed to be safe to live amongst us law-abiding folk would be civilly committed after their prison sentence. Supposedly, this will demarcate who's redeemable and who's not and make the rest of us safer. Right?


In my first and second hours at Sing-Sing (and we were there from 9-3), I was petrified. It was hot, yes, and I was wearing a suit and a turtleneck, and there was no air conditioning, but I was sweating more than I have ever sweated (I have never sweated from my knees and elbows while standing up, arms unfolded) (elbows, people!) We had kicked off the morning with that wonderful little video about how the COs get attacked right and left with shivs, shanks and the occasional cup full o' poop, and then without skipping a beat, they just lead us right in to tour the various blocks of hardened criminals. You (a felon, not a law student) (necessarily) don't get to Sing-Sing unless you have at least a year sentenced, and Sing-Sing is maximum security. You don't get in there for insider trading or perjury. While being vastly outnumbered by criminals is somethign the CO deals with every day, I would have appreciated a little more warning, and perhaps some additional self-defense training. LIke a kung-fu death grip or secret taser-watch or something.


But then I calmed down a bit, because I can't stay on constant alert but pretend like I'm perfectly at ease for that long. And we started to talk and joke in the corridors, and it became more of a historical tour when we reached the river-side of the prison. (quick note: Sing-Sing is bisected by a railroad (metro north to upstate- but you can't see the prison from between all the barbed wire and slight tunnel action around it) There's talk of turning the lower part into a museum like Alcatraz, because it has the original building (now a shell as the center was torched by a disgruntled food service dude in the 80's) and the death house (julian and ethel rosenburg died where now prisoners conduct small motor repair classes) and other interesting things, I'm sure, but we had run out of time and had to hightail it to Valhalla. The Norse Warrior Hall. (Nah, that was just a joke for all the ppl who suffered through Beowulf as many times as me).


But as I was rolling the experience over in my mind and fitting it into my summer, and several moments popped out in my head and made me see it in a new light. As we waited to be frisked in that morning, one of my fellow interns said that the COs sometimes weren't all that different than the prisoners. The CO who led us around was so very insistent about the new attitude towards prisoners: if you respectfully treat them as individuals, they'll behave like respectable individuals. There's an honor block in prison: the prisoners who obey the rules and are model prisoners are harvested from the general population and regain some privileges like staying up later or watching tv. (which reminded me of being in 8th grade, but these guys probably didn't get to 8th grade [hand gesture that finished that thought off]) The prisoners kept telling our judge (once he'd introduce himself) that they were innocent and they'd send him proof. Efforts such as the Innocent Project have made it difficult for me to brush those claims off as easily as our judge did. None of the prisoners attacked us, and we ladies were no more objectified than I was today in the section between the East Village and China Town. Prisoners arent' so different from the people policing and observing them, they aren't uniformly incorrigble, they aren't all guilty.


What I'm slowly, agonizingly trying to say is this. I went into prison and left it thinking "green jumpsuit: bad guy; anything else: good guy." In court, I think "guy surrounded by court officers: bad guy; all the rest of us: good guys." In city court, I think "guys in suits: good guys; guys in civilian clothes: probably bad guys." But that's too black and white. Prisoners are just the people who got caught. ** I'm positive that some of the people I know and think well of can rival some of the people I see in court for misdeeds. I bet most the guys on the honor block are better than the guy who snatched the baby, and probably most of the guys in Sing-Sing are more moral than the man who killed Concetta Russo-Carriero. The BTK killer was a cub scout leader, there are 4 souless people for every 96 of us with a conscience, and my advice to you is NEVER let a non-family grown man babysit your children. You can't lock up all the bad people and throw away the key because a) most of them aren't completely rotten, just from crappy environments and b) do we really know who all the bad people are?

For the last week when I've walked to work, I've been hyper-aware of the people around me, taking care not to linger in front of store windows or pull out my ipod or close my eyes for more than a blink. Somehow, in the presence of hundreds of hardened criminals, I felt a little safer. At least I had a CO there to protect me or at least to call for backup.


*level 3 sex offenders are the most aggregious offenders. you have to be a really really evil bastard to get a level 3 designation.
**and if you're in California, didn't have the money to pull off a three-ring circus in the courtroom to dazzle the jury into dizzied compliance.


And a small note on the legal system: I've watched snatches of trials this summer, and one full one. Once, after I had seen the closing arguments of a trial (where several facts didn't quite add up, but I figured they did had you seen the whole trial) I was told all the facts that the jury didn't get to hear, and it was a completely different situation. I still agreed whole-heartedly with the verdict, but it was such an artifice.

The jury missed very little of the evidence in the fully-watched trial. In the time between the charging of the jury and their verdict, I thought about how it was so weird that this guy was either going to walk away or be locked up for a very long time and for him right now it was basically as arbitrary as a coin-toss. He had done the crime, he admitted it right away, but did his defense exculpate his action? He went to prison that afternoon, but had the facts been slightly more in his favor, he could have walked. This summer I've really felt the tension in criminal law between deciding who's bad then throwing the book at him and couching the offense in the circumstances, massaging the facts for the jury, using the law to throw out prejudicial material and ending it all with a carefully scripted monologue in which the charm of the speaker matters as much as the facts coming out of his mouth. So I can't rely on the legal system always to make the right determination. I know that we lock up most of the guilty ppl who process through everyday, but sometimes it's a little random.


Hope you enjoyed the written evidence of the death of my idealism :D Well, just the maiming.

PS- an amusing nibblet to lighten the mood: My grandma likes the occasional stuffed animal (nothing sick, she has about 10 and they're from various parts of the world and if you make fun of my grandma I will hunt you down and give you a fat lip). My mum had seen a bear that was right up her alley- you can see a wee pic of it here. She was visiting me in C-ville at the time and I was being bratty so I said that it looked a little threadbare to me and she shouldn't get it. But as I was obviously wrong, she found it a couple weeks later in NoVa and bought it anyway. So I had a little bit of a vendetta against the poor bear. The bear's name is Auntie Pam, and when my mother told me this, I came back with "More like Auntie Mange." (a play on Auntie Mame from the movie Mame and the disasterous Lucille Ball musical Mame! which should be sent to Kim Jong Ill because he deserves to be hurt by song and dance.) My mum laughed despite herself, but wasn't particularly pleased with the nickname. But I will do anything for a laugh and a little bit of displeasure can't stop me, so everytime I visit my aunt-uncle-grandma's house, I wander into the formal living room and say hello to Auntie Mange just to make myself laugh. As my dad says, I'm the funniest person I know.

Here at my blog, we're always trying new things. Or not. But I wanted to try this and heck, why the hell not with the results of my book quiz. Ah tain't never done nuthin like this afore, so lemme git it raight.

You're Love in the Time of Cholera!

by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Like Odysseus in a work of Homer, you demonstrate undying loyalty by
sleeping with as many people as you possibly can. But in your heart you never give
consent! This creates a strange quandary of what love really means to you. On the
one hand, you've loved the same person your whole life, but on the other, your actions
barely speak to this fact. Whatever you do, stick to bottled water. The other stuff
could get you killed.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

By jove, it was as easy as the quiz ppl claimed. I really must read this book. I think I read it a long time ago, but when I was little I would read classics because I felt silly just reading books aimed at tweens. I'd always make sure to get one classic for every 2 dumb kid books. I was probably an insufferable child with a large and wrongly-used vocabulary.

The Trouble With Febreze

I recently bought some Febreze for the first time, and I must say that I am slightly trepidatious to use it.

Part of me thinks "It's ok- it wouldn't be on the market if it was a silent killer" but part of me, the part of me that is the loudest and most nagging, has martialled several arguments that defeat that logic.

1. Yes, it doesn't kill you immediately, or even within 4-5 years (I feel since everyone else has used it for 4-5 years and there have been no reported Febreze deaths, it is safe to say that) but what if it's like DDT? You remember those videos from the 60's where the pregnant mothers have DDT being blasted at them and they're all quieting enjoying the DDT-fresh air, talking quietly amongst themselves and having a smoke? And then we find out that DDT causes all sorts of cancers and those women's babies are now mentally stunted individuals who probably all voted for the same person in teh last election whose name I shall not say because I'm OVER IT yes I am. What if Febreze is like that?
   
2. Febreze reminds me of Scotchguard, which they recently took off the market. I always thought Scotchguard was safe too, and it was sprayed on many a family furniture piece. And now it's not safe?
1. on a related note, they should never take things off the market. They should just one day stop selling them, assemble a strike team of cat burglars and all the receipts of all the purchases ever, and then come into your home and quietly take the product, leaving your valuables alone. Then they should erase that portion of our memories with a fun and fruity drink specifically designed for that purpose. It can be the official drink of a new national holiday and so the day after St. Forgetscotchguard's Day we will all wake up, rub our eyes blearily and go find a cure for our fruity drink hangover. And definitely not think about the product that once prevented stains on the couch.

Given the time to think, logical brain fires back the arguments of "you are paranoid" and "when it's your time to go, it's your time to go." I have to say, that last argument is always the one I find most convincing. Off to Febreze my smoky clothes.

is there such a thing as sleeping too soundly?

According to my phone, it rang for at least three separate intervals last night after midnight, but as I only stay up late when I have to get up early in the morning (bc I'm so logical), I had already hit the hay. It's a little disturbing that three raucous salsa choruses (chori?) do not penetrate my sleep-coma. I've never been a light sleeper, but I heard the 2am fire drills during college and I hear my alarm in the morning (after a while). One thing I've never been able to sleep through is my dad's snoring, even if it's from down the hall and all the intervening doors are shut and my pillow is over my head.


I wonder if I can get a phone that has dad's snoring as a ringtone choice.

The Wonderful Thing About Jello

Is Jellos are wonderful things. No, that doesn't even make sense.

Really is that you can go on a sugar-free jello bender- eating about 20 ounces of it- and feel no eater's remorse afterwards.


And it wiggles so delightfully. Excuse me while I play with my food.

There but for the grace of God...

Today I went to Sing Sing. Half of you are prolly thinking "eek! prison!" and half are prolly thinking "neat! prison!" or maybe all of you are thinking both. Because I thought both when they proposed the field trip a few weeks ago at work. However, I quelled my nerves because would they really bring us into the prison if there was any chance that we'd be hurt?

Turns out that question was not as rhetorical as you might think.

This morning, we all arrive a little early in front of the building and get counted up and then divided into the various cars to drive to Sing Sing. (One of the other interns in my office goes up to the judge (after being late) and says "Hi, and your name is?" This judge presides over the courtroom next door to ours. oops) The funny thing about it was that Sing Sing is not isolated at all. It's like house-house-house-house-Sing Sing! And it's right on the Hudson (river front views) and bisected by a train track that runs the metro north. It's seriously weird. (Sing Sing is its official name which surprised me bc i thought it was just a nickname. But no)


The first hurdle was getting into the prison. I go through metal detectors and an x-ray machine everyday to get into work, but Sing Sing is waaaaay more serious than that. We had to pair off, sign in, have our driver's license checked, get a special numbered visitor's pass, and walk through the most sensitive metal detector I've ever been through. It picked up the 2 inch metal spike in my heel and the buttons on my partner's jacket. The only thing we could bring in was our driver's license and the clothes on our backs. Keep in mind that the clothes on my back and the back of all other females were copious- up to the chin and down to the toe. (Sing Sing is sparsely air conditioned) (and you all know how i feel about the ac).

Then we went into a little conference room to have a wee chat before our tour. Did I say wee chat? O, I meant a couple of war stories from our judge (this is a public blog, so i'm keepin 'em to myself unless you call and ask about them) about a trial against some escapees just a year ago and then a lecture from the Corrections Officer who would be leading us about.

Y'know at the beginning of Criminal when you spend a day discussing why we imprison ppl and you learn about the four or so main reasons (punitive, rehabilitative, something and something else) (I should know that... hmmm)? Well, the CO should teach that day of Criminal, because it made so much sense how he was explaining the application of such theories to his behavior. You really got the sense that he was into the rehabilitation of the whole thing. I was impressed how strongly he emphasized treating the prisoners with respect and courtesy, though I know you guys are like "that's what he says to you idealistic law students." But this wasn't an abstract speech, and I can usually tell if someone is putting on a show. Such as every lawyer in the damned courthouse. But anyway.

He told us his war stories (which were awesome!) and that the COs don't have any weapons because those weapons could be used against them. Even their patches have to be machine sewn on a special way so that they can't be ripped off and shoved down the officer's throats. Dude, that's a cold way to take a guy out.

THEN! we saw a video. Now, if they show this video to the potential CO's like they say they do, the COs must be reeeeeeeeally into being COs. I won't regale you with the whole video (as it was a 6 hr visit, I'm tryin to parse bits out) but there are two parts that ... made an impression, let's say

Does anyone remember the SNL episode with Queen Latifah where they were fake-selling a Supreme-like group's greatest hits and the lead singer ends up in prison at one point so she writes a song called "I'll cut you with my shank"? Well, when they broke out the shanks and shivs, that song went through my head and i almost giggled. But I didn't. But dude! the shanks and shivs and etc! pretty much anything that can be filed down has been made into a weapon- they went through like 30 makeshift weapons on the video. It was like evil McGuyver (tm karl tarrant) was working overtime.

This was the grossest thing I have ever heard. And I know the urban legend about the lobster. In the early 90's, it became a prisoner vogue to throw urine and feces at others- the other prisoners, the COs, anyone within poop-throwing-range. They explain the health risks of this to us (it was sandwiched in between the Communicable-disease introduction and the AIDS-from-prisoner-bites sections of the video) (bad verb choice). While the voice over is telling us about what you can get from poop-flinging, they show a real-live video of a prisoner throwing a brimming cupful at a CO. 4 TIMES! The CO initially threw up his arms for protection, but then took them down really quickly (it mainly hit the top of his shirt) and went for his emergency button pager (you get the ERTs out there- more about that later). Now I know that seeing a video of poop throwing is about 20 times better than seeing it in person, and 140 times better than having the poop thrown at you, but seeing it on video was enough to make me throw up a little in my mouth. And I'm not exaggerating (for once). 4 TIMES. [shudders and washes hands many times]. When I called him tonight, my dad already knew about this, and bless his heart that he never told me about it.


So with visions of poop-flinging and dancing shivs filling our heads, it was time to go into the prison! hurray!

First we hit up the infirmary. Now remember that I was under the impression that we'd maybe be in a hallway when a prisoner would be passing through, but no more than that. The Infirmary looks like a college student health center with tiny radiology, dental, and blood depts in it. The doctor talked about the diseases (again) and told us that in his 20 yrs of private practice, he didn't have any law suits, but in his 5 yrs at Sing Sing he had been named in 21 law suits. 18 were dismissed as grounds-less, but 3 were going through the motions. Of course, there's a video camera on every inch of the infirmary so that there are records that the doctors are not abusing the prisoners. Prisoners, as you will come to know, are a very litigious bunch.

But it struck me, faintly, that the people wandering around in green jumpsuits are probably prisoners. Prisoners who have proved themselves worthy of working in the infirmary, but I know what it takes to get to Sing-Sing, and it's not just stealing candy bars. Call me prejudiced, but I don't feel all that comfortable around felons.


Then our CO took us to the "Honor Block" where the prisoners had earned the right to live in a nicer section and have more tv privileges and the right to stay up until 2 on weekends and holidays. So we walk in, and we group up about hmm, 2 feet or so from about 15 jumpsuited guys. I know I'm stupid, but I really thought there would be bars between us and prisoners the whole day. My logical brain had to keep repeating to my freaking-out brain that a) these were model prisoners, b) what would attacking me get them? c) they would lose their privileges if they attacked us, d) the COs were far more exposed than this every day of their lives e) it's been at least 30 seconds and they haven't attacked yet e) repeat a-d, adding 30 seconds to d each time. Prison blocks look just like you think they do (maybe because old prison movies were filmed at Sing-Sing back in the day)- 3 tiers of cells with an atrium in the middle and rails (for the honor block) or chain link (for everyone else) on the outside of the upper levels. We had been told not to make prolonged eye contact or any at all, if we could make it seem natural, so I only looked around a couple of times. It seemed oddly incongruous to see a commercial for Downy on the tv on the wall. I guess I was expecting to see a commercial aimed towards the prison population- soap, or discount shanks, or something.

But then we went to Cell Block A, the largest cell-block in the US (an oft-repeated fact). By that time, I was a little more ok with the thought of being unseparated from prisoners, but these were not the model prisoners, so I was prolly about as freaked out as in the model block. It was a trade-off. Now these guys started with the talking to us. Most of it was "hey- who are you people?" and several of the lads on the trip were graciously informing them who we were, and they requested our legal services and we had a little chuckle together. And then there were the catcalls and the "hey you, you in the suit, you fine, mama, let's have a conjugal visit" (which is quite funny even now). On the flip side, there was also the creepy stuff which was the weird sucking noises (i know, you'd think it would be cliche after Silence of the Lambs, but it was a little different. I just can't really describe it properly, but apparently it's something they all know how to do) (i'm not up on my prison sucking-lingo) and the "this is real, bitches, gangsta, prison sing-sing style" (yes, sir, we're aware that we are at the real sing-sing. thank you for taking time out to inform us of this). It's a weird environment. The cells are tiny- 6x6- and it's all unairconditioned, but there are huge windows from about 10 ft up to the ceiling with river views of the hudson. Lots of the prisoners had books, which was heartening.

Then we went to Cell Block B, which is pretty much the same. Our judge kept engaging prisoners in conversation and they were all like "I'm innocent! I'll send you documents- what's your name again?" Later, our judge was like "I love it when they keep the faith in prison." But anyway, an hour on the inside makes you a wee bit more comfortable around the prisoners. My shoulders were unclenching, and I felt that I could talk very quietly in between cell blocks. Those corridors in between the cell blocks are scary places, tho, all darkish and un-videoed. I would not like to be a prisoner in there. Heck, I didn't like being a non-prisoner in there with an escort.

But I'm making very frequent spelling mistakes, so I must go to bed now. I'm the only intern who will make it in tomorrow- must make a good showing for team intern. I'll finish this tomorrow, yo- excitement to follow! No poop-flinging, tho.

Dude...

... I read so much now that i don't have a tv at the ready. Somehow that extra 20 feet and risk of public interaction has returned me to my first love. Laziness and natural introversion- an educational combination.

Please comment with your book recommendations- I usually go to the library and pick up a book by an author I have vaguely heard of and then the book by the guy next to him and then a book off of the books-to-be-reshelved (because someone else found them interesting) and then a book on cd (because i can load 'em on my ipod and listen while i'm working out) (and then delete them promptly, bc i don't have that much space on the pod to be having books on there).

I'm an indiscriminate reader so recommend anything. But I'm not really into hard core fantasy or romantic novels. And I LOVE murder and corruption. But really- anything.

Sunday (not last sunday, but the sunday prior to that)

As it is one week + one day from the day that I promised I would post about, I must get down to it or never get down to it. Because I have an unreliable memory and sunday is ebbing away into the ether. So it may be sparse or spotty, but what can you do about it?


Nothing, that's what. You'll take what I give to you and be damned happy about it.* Now hold on, I just remembered I need to send my poor sick brother an ecard.

K, done. Now down to business.


Now before I knew my parents were coming into town, I had seen the Renegade Craft Fair advertised and thought "oo- I always like the 20% of a craft fair that's not middle aged ladies knitting cat sweaters that say 'bless this mess' and is instead things that I would actually buy" and the renegade craft fair looked to be 100% of that 20%. If that makes any sense at all. So I was super jazzed about going to the craft fair (and Brooklyn! I feel that I neglect Brooklyn, but I never have a reason to go. So yay! reason to go to Brooklyn!).

But then The Parents needed to be entertained (see below about how I enjoy entertaining my parents) so I kinda mentioned it, but knew I couldn't do that to them. I mean, my dad is a lovely fellow for finding something to interest him in non-traditionally-male places, but in a renegade craft fair? Even he is not that flexable.

And yet, there is another factor in this story. Since I have come of a sensible age, I am now trusted to make interesting day-excursion choices (and bc now I can't be bossed around as much) (not that I ever could be bossed around, as i have been a stubborn minx from the moment of my first breath). And my dad had invites to a variety of barbeques from family/friends in the area. Hence at one point, there was a definite possibility that I might be going to the renegade craft fair, mother in tow!


Since this has led to a complicated state of affairs (everything's more complicated when the youngest member of a party has a say in what happens) let's round up what's on the scales:

Pro Fair Factors

• Julia trusted to make intelligent day-trip choices (not to immediately scream"Kings Dominion! Disney World! FAO Schwaaaaaaaartz!")
• Mum did not arrive with ready-made plans (perhaps because I have all the NY tourism books from home)
• Dad has barbeques to go to instead of being tortured by patchouli scent and grrrly little craft thingys all day

Anti Fair Factors

• The Heat (same as Saturday, and it's hotter in the city)
  
• The Almost Certain Outdoorsyness of the whole affair
• It's a craft fair. Craft fair v. Museum is not a fair fight in the minds of my parents
• Dad heard it was in Williamsburg ("Oh.... that's not a good place [I raise objection to that characterization- heck, it's not Yonkers].... Well, it wasn't a good place when I lived in NY..... [let's just say that a tree my 5 yr old dad planted in the front yard of his childhood home in riverdale is a gnarled old oak whose roots disrupt the pavement, and he left NY around age 21] Well.... I guess it's ok. Maybe. But maybe I should come along.")
• The nut doesn't fall far from the tree. Owning to my current occupation, I know that many many MANY felonies are committed in Yonkers and I have used it as a topic of conversation with my parents because it shocked me a bit. Yonkers is such a fun name for such a dangerous town. So for the weekend, it was a running joke that Dad would exit the Bronx River Pkwy at Yonkers and roll down the windows talking loudly about all the expensive jewelry I was wearing if I didn't behave, or when he mentioned that Williamsburg was unsavory, I said "what is it? Yonkers?"
  
• The very long train ride from White Plains to Brooklyn.

Well, you see how this went. 5 factors to 3, even without weighing the relative persuasiveness of the factors, is pretty damning. And knowing my heat weakness from the day before (I was hurtin, folks, linen doesn't BREATHE, yo) my mother said "well, maybe we should go to the Cloisters. They have air-conditioning."

O the magical words. Air conditioning. I was putty. And also we could drive and park at the Cloisters. At that point, the hills were alive with the sound of Cloisters. The craft fair was to be regretted, surely, but had it been the place for me, it would have had air conditioning and been less than a 20 minute train ride away.

But I was tricked, cruelly tricked, dear readers. Not by my dear ancesters, the aged p's, though I believe they were a little too eager to play up the wonders of the Cloisters. But I do have one question to pose to the assembled party reading this:


WHO IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY MAKES A MUSEUM WITHOUT AIR CONDITIONING?

There are a number of people at the end of this page who are somewhat to blame. If it were law-suitable, I'm sure I could drag all of their asses into court in some way. But alack alas, the lack of air conditioning is not something you can sue over. ** Though I doubt that the Unicorn Tapestries are too happy with the hotitude of their circumstances. "We are world-famous pieces of art!" they cry in their squeaky, french accents, "Zere are ties bearing our eemage. TIES! We have earned you ze money! Give us ze air conditioning!"

The Cloisters is lovely, as you can see, and we got the little audio tour headsets (and I had my own headphones with me- score!) (because they gave better sound. I'm trying to be less germophobic, but this substitution served more than one purpose). But by the time I had seen 17 bjillion Christ childs and admired the medieval plants in the courtyards and examined finials which protrayed the naked naughty folk being swallowed whole by Hell, I just wanted a little heat relief.

There is one room which is airconditioned. And the airconditioned room is equipped with a guard who keeps a tight seal on the room. He was fanatical about that door. You got in quick, no dilly-dallying in the corridor. You got out quicklier, because by then you knew the score and that he would just snap if you didn't obey. And no one wanted him to snap. Let me outline this for you: the AIRCONDITIONING is more guarded than the ART, ppl. And I'm not ashamed to say that on that day, I thought THAT was the WAY GOD INTENDED IT TO BE.


Heat messes with my priorities.

I spent as much time with the art in that room as was possible: I examined every inch of every tiny piece of art in there, I read all the little placards including the materials placards, I listened to all the stories on my headset, I looked out the windows, I discussed the art with my fellow patrons, but eventually I had to leave. A said minute indeed, when fanatic guard locked me out of the tiny cloud of cool heaven in the broiling maze that some sadistic curator decided to fill with mother-enticing art.

Anyway, the Cloisters is lovely and I highly reccommend it on any day that is 80 degrees or below. But above 80 and forget it. It's experiences like these that make me think that I'm gonna move to Vermont or Nova Scotia or Quebec City when I finally figure out what I want to do with my adult life.

So after the Cloisters, it was time for linner/dunch. Being up in the upper upper upper Manhatttanees, we swung by my dad's birthplace (a hospital which is now a co-op) and tooled around that area for a wee bit.

Then we journeyed to Bronx's Little Italy, to the restaurant where my dad's prep school holds its annual reunion. Dad always comes back from reunion night as you would expect a man to come home after a reunion with all his irish and italian catholic high school buddies. Phrases such as "an' we're gonna tell that sunno'abitch jus' where he ken stick it" have been uttered with much ... well, as close as a grown man can get to giggling. So we knew that the bartenders were good and the owners are a tolerant bunch. Dad swears that the food is fantastic (but drunk food is always good).

It was fabulous. I've never been to a bad italian restaurant in NY. This one wasn't the best, but it certainly beats any italian restaurant I've been to in any other town. But that was not the remarkable part of the evening. We ordered our meal, and they brought everything out, but the entree my mum had placed in front of her was not her entree. When the waiter realized this (I think my dad said "you had spinach in your dish...") he insisted on bringing out the other entree as well. "Just a taste, Just a taste... You have to taste it. It's what you wanted" he said in that wonderfully italian way when we all protested (as after we had enjoyed some bread, we were all not feeling equal to the food already threatening the table's joints). So we had four dishes, plus a huge side of spinach (don't ask why, we don't know). We tried our best, you know we did, but it was impossible to make a significant dent in the food. So I took home the better portion of 4 meals to my tiny little fridge. Luckily I had guests coming in that night, (though they didn't help, as they kept showing up all fed and ready to sleep) so we used that as an excuse to the dissapointed waiter who really thought we could eat it all.

But there was no way to do that. Unless we wanted to invite a couple of hollow-legged teenage marathon-running boys to our table. 3 people are no match for 4 entrees + bread + a heaping mound of garlicy spinach. mmmm.... spinach.

Anyway, then we drove back to White Plains to drop me off, and then my parents drove to a barbeque for the rest of the evening (eschewing all food, as we all were feeling slightly ill at that point.) At Legal Sea Food on Friday, I first became aware of scrod, which is amost horrific combination of letters for a most benign sea creation. In the grand Julia tradition, scrod became my adjective of choice: "man, it smells like scrod here. Roll up the windows" or "I got some scrod on my shoe- gotta wipe it off." When I got home, due to the heat and my valiant efforts with the food despite the heat, I felt a bit like scrod. And saying goodbye to my lovely parents also causes some scroddy feelings, so I was glad when my guests showed up later. With Futurama DVDs. I have good, tasteful-in-all-areas-save-me friends.

Next post: Rehash of week. Interesting stuff going down in life of Julia. But Julia is lazy and it takes a long time and a lot of concentration for me to write this up. So send ritalin and love and repeat-song suggestions. Tonight's broadcast was brought to you by the latest white stripes album. I know I'm supposed to like the more seriouser songs on it, but my favorites are Little Ghost and My Doorbell. Especially My Doorbell. Oh yeah.


*I'm kidding :D
**that is, until Jultopia becomes a reality. Although it will be unnecessary, given the general temperate nature of the weather in Jultopia, lack of air-conditioning will be a trespass punishable by revocation of summer-weather-clothing. From that point on, the perpetrator shall be forced to wear flannel and turtlenecks and fleece-lined pants and ski hats with wee little pompoms all over. O, I am serious about this, folks.