Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Tonight: Low of 36

What the fuck, November? When did you get here? All of a sudden it’s that kind of weather where I do a 180 on my position on tights, from “I hate you, you make me hot and itchy” to “I hate you, you’re not nearly as warm as you should be.” Also, since everything I own is too big, I’m having a ball trying to come up with outfits that are warm enough for the weather without reeking of Little Edie Beale. If you see me in tights, a hat, boots, cutoffs, legwarmers, and an enormous scarf looped over a t-shirt that’s way too big, two hoodies and my roommate’s leather jacket, please be kind. It’s not Fashion. I’m freezing.

I’ve spent the last couple of nights retreating hibernation-style to my apartment with just a (digital) pile of new records to keep me company, under a billion blankets because I can’t get the furnace to turn on, candles lit for warmth so the house accidentally smells like vanilla.

I’m basically the classiest grizzly bear ever.

Secretly, though, I’m kind of stoked that it’s getting cold. I like putting up my hood and pretending I’m faceless because I can’t see anyone else’s features. There are few better feelings in the world than sitting on the F and knowing you’re nothing more to anyone than a pile of fake fur trim and the wire to your headphones.

The summer is for yelling. Not in a bad way, it’s just the time of the year when your legs are bare and your hair is stuck to your forehead and it feels good to say shit loud. Ditto for getting belligerent. Or sitting on stoops. Without foliage and all the rest of the stuff I didn’t think I would ever really miss about the suburbs, fall flips by like a commercial about pumpkin-flavored coffee.

And then suddenly it’s winter. And winter’s about being quiet. Winter’s totally for secrets, because everything is one—have you ever watched a stranger walk into a restaurant, or a coffee shop or something, and take off their winter stuff? Every vaguely human-shaped lump of wool and goose down is hiding some kind of inscrutable someone underneath a peacoat, a hat, a scarf, gloves, and three sweaters.

Monday, November 10, 2008

All I've Got Left to Say About the Election

Since nearly a week has gone by since the election and I’m just now getting around to saying anything about it, the poetic/melodramatic/patriotic/emotional/political creek ‘round these here internet parts has pretty much run dry. And yet, because I write for basically masturbatory reasons, I’m still gonna chime in these $.02:

1. Prop 8 is garbage. Get it together, California.

2. I get off the C/E at Spring Street every morning, and I use the far exit that dumps you out on Vandam. There are three turnstiles. This should be plenty for the approximately 30 people ever exiting that end of the train, but every day—every single day—someone refuses to wait and slams through the emergency exit and sets off a violent alarm that’s enough to provoke you to homicide when you’re A) tired, B) on your way to work and C) ascending stairs that invariably smell like bum piss. (And I do mean bum, like, tin-can-bean-eating rummy bum.) Yet every day I get off the train and think, “Maybe it’s today. Maybe today is the Day of No Assholes,” and sometimes I get to the top of the stairs with a certain amount of faith in the general patience and goodness of my fellow commuters intact. Then BAM, alarm, someone couldn’t wait three seconds and, extrapolating to a larger sample population of humanity as a whole, Anne Frank was wrong and people are basically dirtbags who piss me off.

Anyway, this has a point. The Day of No Assholes? November 5, 2008. Thank you, President-elect Barack Obama. That is change.

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

Ghouls, Goblins, Ghosts and Losers

I liked the banana, but I really liked Luigi.

Also, I talked to a Dogma-style angel who might’ve been an okay guy but, probably owing to his pantslessness, was broadcasting some very subtle creep vibrations. My favorite, though, was the sailor who hit on everything with ovaries (from the jellyfish to Carmen Miranda to Dorothy) like he was competing for immunity on The Pickup Artist 3: Night of the Living Dead.

I love Halloween.

And I love Halloween parties even more, because it gives you permission to use sentences like the ones above. “That zombie is super cute.” That’s something I only get to say once a year, unless of course the end of days comes sooner than expected and the graveyard across the street from my house is filled with eligible dead guy bachelors.

Google Maps apparently shares my enthusiasm for the holiday and sent Kai and me out past Transylvania Road on a hunt for Amity Street. On Halloween night. In the middle of nowhere. It took us three hours, two sets of directions from nerdy teenage boys, a bag of Lays, a Sour Patch elementary school of Sour Patch Kids, and a disgusting amount of licorice allsorts (don’t judge me and my increasingly geriatric candy preferences) to get to the Yale School of Forestry Halloween party. The third member of my teenage coven currently goes to school there. When I got her invitation, I threw together a costume (I was a riotgrrrl, which my regular wardrobe shamefully accommodated) and took the Great Paul Hunt to the Ivy League.

Sadly, the only Paul I was able to turn up was my friend’s ex-boyfriend and he looked like Jesus. I mean that he was both actually dressed in costume as the Messiah and that he physically resembled Jesus Christ and, on either count, I’m not really looking to get down all Nazareth-style.

The Paul hunt is not going well, and, shut up, I’m aware this is due to the fact that my friend made him up and I am something of a psychopath. But when you receive signs from the cosmos, you either start taking your lithium or you give in and follow wherever they take you. I prefer the latter. So, what I'm saying here is send any and all available Pauls Kathyward and I promise you at least a verbose blog recounting of our undeniably awkward meeting.

The best thing about this past weekend was that Kai found and passed on a relic from our teenage years that, to me, is every bit as good as finding Paul or the Holy Grail or the Dead Sea Scrolls or Tut’s tomb or whatever.

Yorktown, my hometown, has only ever produced one punk. He was fucking badass. He was a few years older than me and he was far too awesome to have any idea who the fuck I was. Except, once, he randomly sat down with me and Kai at a coffee shop and hung out for a few hours, eating our sour gummy worms and bullshitting and making me so nervous I’m pretty sure I did actual damage to my cardiac muscles.

I can’t remember what any of us said, but when he left he tore apart his empty box of Marlboro reds (BAD. ASS.) and wrote two phone numbers, his name, and “that loser from the coffee shop” on the back.

We never called it. We thought about it. Constantly. But we never even got near the phone with the numbers, let alone for one of us to actually dial, actually listen to the phone ring, actually have to come up with something to say to him.

Anyway, Kai knew she’d never thrown the numbers away, but when I got in her car the other night and I saw the square old piece of Marlboro pack sticking out of a book she was giving me I got so excited I think I actually rubbed it on my face like it was a kitten, or something.

The sad thing about life, now, is that you can Google people who probably should’ve been able to disappear into the ether of suburban legend. Last thing I’d heard about this guy was that he was tattooing somewhere down south; a Google search, however, turns up an interview he recently gave a free daily in Canada about being a crack addict. I’m sadder knowing where he is than I was wondering if I’d ever hear about him again, and I think maybe that’s the shit of it—maybe it’s better to look for a mythical Paul than meet a real one, and maybe liking the living is less fun than lurking a zombie for a few hours.
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