I love Frozen Face, and it's everywhere I look today. My favorite product of an eight-degree morning, Frozen Face is that state just shy of frostbite where your face is still pleasingly pink, but you move it kind of funny because it's very nearly solid. Everyone looks a little bit like a malfunctioning Disney "It's a Small World" animatronic guide.
Needless to say, when you spend half an hour on a platform in sub-zero weather waiting for a train to arrive on frozen tracks, you get your kicks where you can find them.
My dad had to drop me off at the station today due to a complicated shuffling of cars around which ones had good snow tires, which ones my mom was willing to drive, and which ones would make it to Stamford where my brother had a hot date with a traffic court judge. The architecture of one's illusion of self-sufficiency crumbles so easily under the pressure of having to hop out of the passenger-side of your own vehicle at the curb, your parent waving from behind the wheel.
The excitement of the morning continued with my first company "town hall" meeting, which was run by the elusive, German, two-scarf-wearing CEO. He began the meeting by telling us he would be speaking softly because he had gotten a cold from his recent polio vaccination (side-note: what?
), and proceeded to speak in a barely audible, heavily-accented croak about financial figures I wouldn't understand in even the most perfect English. He paused only twice in the hour and fifteen minute session to ask if we had "inny kveschuns." I had tons, but most would put an abrupt period at the end of a very short career in publishing.
This weekend was pretty good, as it contained both the end of my Christmas shopping and the most festive pursuit of all possible seasonal amusement: a self-guided tour of another abandonded mental institution. Merry Christmas! Here's where they fried the crazy out of rapists! Ho ho ho!
Actually, Fairfield Hills (doesn't that name positively reek
of false hope?) is a beautiful place, full of these giant, castle-like brick buildings. It is palpably eerie, though. I'd like to think I was only creeped out by the mythology that's sprung up about missing people, murders, stabbings, the site of the first lobotomy in America (definitely, factually true, performed in the Yale Laborotory, which also served as the morgue), networks of underground tunnels (true), strings of suicides among the doctors' wives (possibly true), and hauntings (who's to say? I'm not gonna be the one to say "There are no such things as ghosts," and tempt whatever restless--and certifiably mad--spirits may be lurking around).
I don't think it was just the horror movie caliber stories getting to me, though. I'm not going to say I saw ghosts, but there's something sort of metaphysically disturbed going on there. Maybe it was just being in such a large and empty place on a very bleak day, but I'm inclined to believe that even the most skeptical, most level-headed and most un-seasonally-affected person would feel the oppressive strangeness of the whole place.
Anyway, I'll post pictures of it tomorrow. Creepy as it may have been, the trip yielded a couple of excellent photos of Kai which need to be broadcast to any and all possible suitors, each of whom should e-mail me a resume that I will evaluate for date-ablilty and, perhaps, if you are very lucky, pass on to the Mystic of Yorktown herself.
Much of the rest of the weekend was spent watching My So-Called Life
, the greatest of all high school dramas, and a little bit of Sex and the City
, which is essentially still about high school, except everyone's shot full of botox and has a platinum credit card. My So-Called Life
has ruined my entire adult love life, because whenever I get bored, or I'm sad, or I'm walking down the street and making a mental inventory of guys I find adorable, I'm always secretly hoping that Jordan Catalano is parked juuuuuuuuuust
around the corner, leaning against the hood, smoking a cigarette and combing his tortured hair from his tortured brow and tucking it behind his tortured ears.
I realize this is a Fairfield Hills worthy delusion, but I challenge anyone who used to watch that stupid show to honestly tell me that, every once in a while, they don't pretend they're leaning against their locker, and Jordan is walking down the hallway, and Buffalo Tom is playing, and you know that a primo car make-out session is going to ensue.
The problem is I will do this in public. It's all about committment to the vision, folks.