On a High Horse
During February, however, you better watch out for this girl. I got "the Devil," which apparently means general mischief and mayhem for me and everyone I know. Kai explained that even if I'm still working where I am now, I'll be "the office bad girl...you'll be the one staying out late and sleeping in late, and people will be talking about you." Hey, I'll take it.
As for the direction of Cupid's arrows, it looks like he'll be aiming elsewhere until possibly the spring. Woe! Fie! Blast! Drat! O, Fickle Phantom of Love!
I'm not one to take fortune telling too, too seriously. However, Swami Kaileen Farrell, the Mystic of Yorktown, managed to predict my entire first two years of college in one sitting. I wrote down everything she said, and every once in a while I'd find the piece of paper folded up in my desk. Everything happened to the letter. To. The. LETTER. So, I pay Attention-with-a-capital-A when she hauls out her deck.
Now, for the obligatory holiday update: Thanksgiving was nice. I slept in until at least 1:30, woke up and realized it was only 9:00, and cursed the system that has made me a "morning person." My dad was out in the driveway wrangling my car's broken CD player (can CD players be bulimic? It seems to really relish vomiting out every album I feed it), so my mom and I watched the parade. The undisputed highlight was the Blair-Witch style shot captured by the cameraman clotheslined with a high-school marching band's banner.
My not-so-favorite part of the parade was an excerpt from the musical Bombay Dreams starring American Almost-Idol Tamyra Gray. Don't get me wrong, I think Tamyra has an excellent voice and I'm very pleased that she has work. I just have a bone to pick with whomever it was that cast the show, and knowing Broadway, it was some old, white guy. Apparently it's okay to just throw anyone vaguely brown in a musical about Indian Bollywood movies, because, hey, you know, as long as people aren't white they're all the same, right? Tamyra is the star, with a crew of dancers that appeared to include several Puerto Rican guys, one or two Asian women, and one guy who, I swear to God, I think was Italian and had a visible self-tanner line. It's not that I expect the show to feature only Indian performers; it just seemed that the multi-cultural blend of dancers were there not because of a principle of inclusivity, but because of an ignorance of their differences. This kind of cultural blending seems to happen only when the roles being filled aren't traditionally white. I mean, when was the last time you saw a whole lot of Black orphans in Annie? All performers who are people of color shouldn't be lumped into some kind of general "ethnic" category to be dealt like a deck of cards into different cultural identities depending on what rich, white, New York tourists want to see on stage.
Like an asshole, I left my phone on my desk all weekend. I was so surprised when my boss told me I could go at 3:30 on Wednesday that I just ran blindly for the door before she changed her mind. So, I missed a call from Andy, who was home for the weekend. I would've really liked some company, too, because I went by myself to the first free Friday of the new MoMA. It wasn't a big deal, because I actually like going to museums by myself, but it did get a little lonely and cold waiting on the two hour line to get in. It bears mentioning that I was surrounded by foriegn couples, all of whom were speaking beautiful romance languages and keeping each other's ears warm with their adorably mittened hands, so my solo status was somewhat magnified (at least in my own head, which is the only place that matters when you're by yourself).
The museum is astonishing. I forgot just how many insane things they own. I may have to bite the bullet and pay the twenty clams to get in on another weekend, though, because there were so many people there during the free hours I had trouble really seeing anything for more than a second. On one hand, I was really happy that so many people were excited to see contemporary art and would even drag their kids out with them. On the other hand, at certain points I wanted to indiscriminately open fire on the crowd. Yes, MoMA owns Starry Night. Yes, it is very famous. Yes, I suppose you have "seen all there is to see now, so let's just hit the gift shop." No, that painting you're pointing at is not a Van Gogh self portrait, mostly because it is a Matisse. No, it's not okay if your kid dances around in front of the projectors showing the video piece I wanted to see. No, even if something is a sculpture and it's installed on the floor, you can't touch it. And for fuck's sake, you instantly lose all of the points you get by suavely answering your phone "Yeah, I'm at the museum," because you ANSWERED YOUR PHONE (WHICH HAS A NOVELTY RING, A GODDAMN NOVELTY RING) IN A MUSEUM.
I started my Christmas shopping yesterday, meaning I bought three things for myself at H&M, but then bought Brad a gift and got his family a housewarming present. Although, really, one of the small things that makes up the housewarming care package is also for you, Brad. It's something you wanted, except there are FIVE. And they're MINIATURE. It's strange that I can find something you like, and be reasonably assured that you'd like to recieve it as a gift, but if I find it in miniature I know that you'll LOVE it.