They Sell Awareness There

En route to this last weekend's adventure in the Catskills, I unexpectedly spent the night in New Paltz, where I have never been before. I learned that they have a mountain there, and that The College Students are back. In what I believe to be related incidents, the local hostel (featuring a lot of handmade ceramics and a front-garden fountain) was full, and a minivan was pulled over on Main Street, apparently for having approximately 14 bicycles attached to it, some of which were completely blocking the back window. Since there was no room at the inn, I thought we should go the whole Biblical route, and sleep in a manger, or manger equivalent, like the car. Then one of us (I vote Patrick) could give immaculate-conception birth to Jesus, or a Jesus equivalent, like the car. Ha! Honestly, I can't think of a Jesus equivalent as easily as a manger equivalent. But that's irrelevant because Patrick stonewalled that suggestion in favor of "87 Motel." The 87 Motel was a wonderful experience, and the neighboring Nature met and exceeded expectations for loveliness. I just noticed that Motel 87's website cheerfully advertises a variety of animals in the area, including "numerous funky bugs, which are easily visted during your stay." I'm pleased to report that we didn't "vist" any bugs of any kind.

New Paltz is also home to the Convenient Deli, and an establishment called The Awareness Shop. I can't stop wondering whether the dearth of convenience in New Paltz justifies the Convenient Deli's apparent silence on the subject of popular deli features like freshness, Italianness, or "homestyle." I'm suspicious when a food-selling place highlights a completely non-food attribute as its greatest asset.

The Awareness Shop was closed, so I don't know what sort of awareness is available for sale, or if it is competitively priced. I'd like to know what sort of awareness is so valuable or rare that people pay for it in a retail situation. Awareness is basically knowledge, right, lots of which is available free of charge. If you wanna pay for knowledge, normally you go to college. Not a strip mall.

Overheard In Brooklyn

Walking on Lorimer Street on my way to Pete's (can't stop linking Pete's. There's too much love.) to pick up my wallet, I passed a woman who was saying into her phone, "I'm still really proud of the toilet seat."

I don't know if the toilet seat recently graduated from college, or if maybe it just celebrated a year clean and sober. Maybe she made the toilet seat herself, from nothing more than bits of broken glass, bottle caps and a dream. Or more prosaically, perhaps she simply installed it herself. Above; toilet seats to be proud of. They can help you re-create the authentic, manly feeling of peeing directly onto the sort of painting or wallpaper one might find in a hunting lodge. Go ahead and buy one, they're still available on E-Bay.

Pete's Valentine Comes Early

Big, big, love to Pete's Candy Store, best bar pretending to be a candy store, ever. Pete's, I love you for being only a few blocks from my apartment, I love you for your X-mas lights, I love you for the Williamsburg Spelling Bee, I love you for your backyard, your adorable stage, your wall-paintings. And now I love you even more than before for:

1. Finding my wallet on Wednesday night
2. Saving and protecting my wallet
3. Emailing Jen to tell me my wallet was there
4. Leaving everything in my wallet; all my cash and my prescription for attractive drugs

Pete's, by being so kind and trustworthy, you have taken our relationship to a new level in a really suave way. Don't do the dishes anymore -- I'll do them all. I want to. Really. Hey, you don't need to get up, I can bring you breakfast right there, in bed. Waffles? Hang on, I'll go put on that really cute flight attendant outfit, bring you the paper, and then I'll get started on the waffles and coffee. OK?

Little Daily Blessings

If I had to generalize, I would say that today sucked. However, there are a few things that keep making me giggle (other than the squirrel enjoying a Guinness) and these are them:

The guy who seems to genuinely enjoy coming in my office several times a day just to make sure that all trash cans are completely void of contents (even paperclips and tiny bits of paper) and that everything is really clean (often warmly insisting on inconveniencing me to clean things whose current level of dirty is totally fine with me) initiated the following exchange with me before leaving the room this afternoon:

Him:(jauntily) "Enjoy your weekend!"
Me:(trying to match jauntiness) "Oh, you too!"
Him:(resignedly) "I'll be here tomorrow."
Me:(of course he will, today is Thursday, um, but that means--) "Oh, me too."
Him:(unfazed) "Well, see you then."

I don't understand how that conversation makes sense, but it did to him. I smiled a lot during the conversation, so I think I'm in the clear. Today Shara reminded me of the spontaneous, implausible lie I expelled when confronted by a sidewalk salesperson on my way home late Tuesday night. In a clever selling ploy, she opened with a question that I would have an affirmative response to, to get me in the "saying yes" mood.

Her: "Do you wear mascara?"
Me: (anxiously blinking mascara-ed eyes) "No, it makes my eyelashes funny. Sorry."

That's going be my new all-purpose deflection-line. "No sir, you may not have my phone number. It would make my eyelashes funny to provide it."

At Tuesday night's Throbbing Brains, Dilip was on "Team Mounds," and Patrick was on "Team Necrophiliac Social Tub." After being competitors they had the following exchange:

Dilip: "Patrick, I was so looking forward to having you on our team!"
Patrick: "Yeah, but I have to hang out with the necrophiliacs, you know."
Dilip: "Hmm, yeah, I don't mingle with necrophiliacs too much."
Patrick: "Really? You should."
Dilip: "Yeah, maybe when I'm dead."

Daniel J Boorstin, Librarian of Congress

(On why he writes at home from 6:30 to 8:30 AM) "I write to discover what I think. After all, the bars aren't open that early."

Speaking of bars and writing, I neglected to mention that I was again the guest-blogger of the spelling blog on Monday night. It was a warm and wonderful crowd, though somewhat diminished in esprit de corps by the absence of Tim Moyle and Greg Hannahs. This time I managed to capture more of everybody's names, numbers, and words, but I think the trade-off is that it's a bit less sparkly. I just felt so bad before about always missing those central details that I was determined to get them this time, no matter the cost. Oh, and fair warning: there are a kajillion (I counted) typos and misspellings in my coverage. That's an awful lot. As I kept pointing out in my ongoing metatextual commentary, I was somehow unable to get the spell-check function to work for me, and now I don't have access to the blog to go in and clean it up. But I'll definitely pursue this further.

Fun highlights: We were alerted that the next bee (September 12th) will be the first anniversary bee. Some notable words: gibbosity, menticide, hamartia, barbicel, rasorial, farriery. . .and many more. We ended up needing an Elimination Round, and that always cranks up the excitement. Our first-placer this time was fresh-faced newcomer Josh Malamy in the adorably stripey shirt, who spelled his heart out, all the way to the $25 bar tab. My friend and associate Dilip Babu elegantly smacked down a whole bunch of weird words, and pulled way ahead of me for second place. (I earned the third-place sandwich prize.) I think we need to ferret out a way to ensure that we get more photos for the spellingblog. Something about the haze of spelling, camaraderie, and bar lighting makes everything and everyone seem so lovely and photogenic.

Another Day Older, A Day Deeper In Debt

Just so's you know, Dave Chappelle (who featured in two different quiz questions last night) is celebrating the anniversary of his birth today. Yes he is. So now's the time to send warm, rejuvenating, stop-resting-and-start-writing happy birthday vibes to our number one national half-baked crank-yankin' disco cabbie undercover brother, biotch.

"Work Is the Curse of the Drinking Class"

--yes, Oscar Wilde. Well, good grief, I am so behind on documenting the minutiae of my daily life! A whopping bunch of minutiae have swept past in the last little while, most especially last night at the Throbbing Brains at Southpaw finale. That's when I discovered that someone (Erin) is actually reading this bologna, and to her I say "Cannibal! The Musical."

We rose above sound system difficulties for a jolly time, best
quiz ever. Congratulations to the Rusty Trombones and to Team Braindead, you each brought down worthy competitors. In response to the several people who asked when or where Throbbing Brains will be revived; maybe in a couple months, maybe in Williamsburg, definitely with more tunes, possibly with lyrics to the theme song, and more excitingly; maybe with a "physical challenge" component (look Team Mounds, great minds do think alike).

Thanks everybody (especially Richard who was the most inconvienced, Tom and Jen who were the most unwell, Shomit who did the most above-and-beyond helping, and Andy without whom none of this would have happened) for being like exceptional lionbots in a Voltron of an evening. So much love, so much laughter, so much learning. Now we all know: the name of Huey P. Newton's autobiography, who should never have switched from scotch to martinis, what Tone Loc was looking for at the mall, on which project Dave Chappelle and Mel Brooks worked together, who co-wrote Beyond the Valley of the Dolls with Russ Meyer, and Deepak Chopra's job before he became a New Age author and speaker.*

Oh, and to the lively guy who has been at all of them (Jay?) oops, I didn't get your email. I was no longer on my A game at that point. Go ahead and send it to me now, and I'll keep you updated on anything fun going down.

* "Revolutionary Suicide," Humphrey Bogart, "gear to buy," "Robin Hood, Men In Tights," Roger Ebert, endocrinologist.

Frontal Lobe Polka

As Rod Stewart says, "Let me pour you a good long drink, ooh baby don't you hesitate, 'cause tonight's the night. . ." Specifically, it's the Throbbing Brains Finale, and it's gonna be alright. So, no updates or changes, sign-up at 7:30, thrills and spills commence at 8pm, Southpaw, 175 Fifth Avenue, Brooklyn. For directions, click here. I couldn't excavate the pinata dress, but I think I've done it one better; I have a sparkly dark disco-serpent dress instead.

In other news, I added another New York Moment to my catalogue today: while I was waiting in a small crowd at Universal News for my coffee this morning, a concerned man rushed in looking distressed and asked the Counter Fuehrer if he'd seen his girlfriend yesterday. Although I've only recently been frequenting Universal News, I've seen this sort of inquiry several times before.

As the Counter Fuehrer is responding, he is still stuffing bags full of bagels and coffee and shouting orders to the sandwich guy, because the show must go on. He tells Concerned Man that yes, his girlfriend was in the day before. Concerned Man seems relieved, and then quickly explains (quite audibly to the quiet, impatient, shifty people waiting for their breakfast) that she was fired from her job yesterday, hasn't been home since, and a Missing Persons Report has been filed.

I noticed how much Universal News was like an iconic Law & Order set, and that this was a familiar L&O scene, despite the fact that the inquisitor was a non-cop. I thought about how happy my mom would be that I was having a Law & Order moment. Then, as the Concerned Man is finishing his "Missing Persons Report" sentence, a bombastic guy in the counter line starts trumpeting "You're slowing us down! You're slowing us down! You're slowing us down!" sounding like a belligerent car alarm.

Can you believe that some dude thought that his missing girlfriend who was just fired from her job might be important enough to risk marginally slowing down Bellicose Guy's coffee acquisition? The audacity on that schlub.

Subway Grate Sitch

I have spent all day nervously avoiding subway gratings and strong breezes, because I rashly wore a puffy pleated skirt today. Somehow, having my skirt reaching for my ears has not been as insouciant and glamorous as Seven Year Itch led me to believe.

Shall We Dance, With Bananas?

The Film Forum’s double feature of Busby Berkeley’s The Gang’s All Here and Robert Siodmak’s Cobra Woman imparted some timeless wisdom and prompted me to repeatedly wonder if I was somehow dangerously, perhaps permanently, worlds away from sobriety.

Fortunately, the main point of "The Gang’s All Here" is gargantuan dancing fruit, since the central romance made traditional seduction and romance seem less appealing than smelly summertime subway delays at rush hour. Apparently the Land of Love is rich with boring people, tedious conversations, and lots of duplicity. Perhaps that’s not untrue. But we also learned that romance is just a consolation prize for suckers who don’t live in an enchanted world of enormous, undulating bananas.

When the lines of Cadillac-sized bananas frolicked through one another like a dolphin ballet at Sea World, and then did The Wave several times, I was breathless with delight and awe. In fact, I was later told that I was clutching my mouth and shaking my head with incredulity. When the Polka-Dot Polka dance number closed with a close-up of a girl’s frilly, polka-dotty cuff, which morphed into a creepy disembodied cuff-and-hand-shaped cake-looking thing (that also resembled a ham) which then morphed into dancing, glowing hula hoops I knew that this was a transformative experience not just for the cuff-cake-hoops, but for me. The epic closed with disembodied heads singing from polka dots that were swimming around the screen.

Between screenings, after my friends had evaporated to other areas of the theater, an intense-looking man came over and sat behind me and asked me if I could offer any insight onto the Polka-Dot Polka number. He wondered if the assertion that the polka is passé, but polka dots are here to stay was true. I immediately wondered if he was somehow a stalker – of all the strangers in the movie theater, he managed to pick someone who was writing so very recently about this very topic?

He repeated some of the lyrics and then asked if I could remember any others. The social situation was odd, but I gradually became less cautious, and told him about how I’d just been thinking about that very thing, assured him that polka dots really are making a big comeback right now, and that polka music will be next. I told him there have been editorials about the polka dot phenomenon, and that the renaissance of klezmer is the harbinger of polka’s resurgence. He seemed a little freaked out by my zeal, which reminded me how weird the whole conversation was in the first place since he was a total stranger, so I suddenly shut myself up and ended the conversation, and sat there staring at the empty screen praying for my friends to hurry back. It’s not fair to eccentrically start polka conversations with strangers, and then act like they’re the weird one. As he vacated his seat before the second show he thanked me for my “insights.”

The “evil” (human-sacrificing) twin sister in Cobra Woman taught us all about confidence and conviction. She spent much of the movie capping her directives with the announcement, “I have spoken!” I’d like to begin incorporating that into my life. Maybe I’ll have greater success when I call Payroll. “Listen, this woman hasn’t been paid in six weeks, and I submitted her last timesheet myself, so you’d better keep looking until you find it. I have spoken!” My favorite moments from the "Cobra Woman" show:

1.) When the Queen explained the social and moral decay of the Cobra People, saying “Fear has made them religious fanatics!” prompting the entire audience to erupt with applause.

2.) Once the bad guys were overthrown, the new High Priestess announces in her robotic accent: “Hatred and oppression have been ended here, forever.” This provoked widespread giggling, and in Dilip’s case, explosive cackling.

3.) To close our morality tale on the struggle between good and evil, and the importance of loyalty and love, the camera inexplicably closes its eye in the final shot on a close-up of a stowaway monkey surreptitiously mending a previously non-existent hole in the rear of the shorts Kado’s wearing as he leans over the back of the boat.

Cumulatively, I learned that heterosexuality and human sacrifice are abominations, friendship is important above all else, except for squads of gigantic fruit dancing in sync, which is the most important thing of all.

Despite New Publicity, Lungs Still Resentful of Breasts' Gloryhogging

Despite being "the most devastating of all malignancies" lung cancer can't seem to get the press that breast cancer does. Lungs are not as popular as breasts, and probably never will be. Cancer gets attention, but nowadays it's all about target marketing. Breast cancer has pink ribbons, plus actual breasts -- and that's tough to beat. Lungs need a marketing campaign before great swaths of people will care about their cancer. Slim Goodbody with his creepy bodysuit (Silence of the Lambs and Ed Gein anyone?) was certainly a pioneer of this initiative. But in good conscience we can't stop there. Model lungs are available on E-Bay from around $50, perhaps we should all purchase one and display it prominently in our home or office, rather than (or perhaps in addition to) the heads of animals we slayed, or pictures of loved ones.

We could certainly wear shirts with images of lungs on them -- or at the very least Mink Lungs t-shirts. Or we could cultivate and spread lungs-based analogies. Rather than saying "Although she was not a blood relative, Alice was clearly the heart of the Brady family" we would now say "...the lungs of the Brady family." Do it for Peter Jennings. I really liked that guy. (Although frankly, you figure if he was really juiced to help raise lungs' profile he would have done so.) Do it for lungs, the underappreciated underdog of the internal organ world.

Hoofs, Roofs, Leafs

In the context of reading something else, I read something recently about the triumphant toughness of the hockey team the Toronto Maple Leafs. What initially struck me wasn't the amusing age-old observation that hockey, one of the most violent televised sports, has plenty of teams with friendly, jolly names, like the Mighty Ducks, and the Penguins. (Penguins is a great name regardless of context -- the birds themselves are so jaunty.) I adore the incongruity of guys knocking out each others' teeth in honor of sweet things like leafs and penguins and ducks. I like the idea of it going the other way, too. For example, if I ever start a knitting circle, it could be named "Needles of Mayhem," or "The Needle-Wielding Wildcats." Or we could have a book club called "Skull Crushing Tomes of Absolute Authority." Mmm, or maybe a book club called "Read It and Weep." I like that. To really ramp up the paradox, it could be a book club where we only read cheery fare like "Calvin and Hobbes," or Neil Simon plays.

Anyway, so why aren't they "Leaves"? I mean, whatever floats their boat, and when it comes to proper names, I'm pretty accepting of unorthodox language choices, I just really want to know why. I've researched it and come up with nothing. Did "leaves" sound too formal? Did "leafs" seem more salt of the earth, gritty and relatable? Was it an accident? Please get in touch if you know. I mean, in no other context would it be cool to say "leafs." Nobody will ever say, "How 'bout this weekend we head to the Berkshires to ogle the lovely changing leafs." If you were in some sort of jazz-performance situation, and accidentally called "Autumn Leafs," everyone would laugh at you. Suburban dads are not shouting at their children, "Stop playing in the leafs! I spent hours raking those leafs into piles!"

Oh, and in my fruitless reasearch, I learned a little about one of the Leafs' amicably named rivals, the Red Wings. (Ed. note: their logo is sweeeeet!) This reminded me of my friend whose surname is Akahane, which he told us means "red wing," which is pretty cool. (Although, admittedly, still not very thuggy or tough-sounding.) However, he made the mistake of also telling my brother David, on a different occasion, that "baka" means "stupid" in Japanese. (His translation, not mine. He's Japanese, I'm not, I'm taking his word for it.) So, of course, from then on David called him StupidWing, or "Bakahane."

Sock-wearing Hippo Kills Time

I love wacky language overlap, especially when it's largely nonsensical. "Kill" means "stab" in Japanese. And hippopotamus is almost the same in Turkish, Kerem tells me it's pronounced "hippo-poe-TAH-moose." As mentioned before, I recently learned that a group of hippos is formally termed a "herd" or "bloat." I have no idea what the groups are in Turkish. Did you hear the one about the Peruvian woman who goes to a department store looking for socks? She asks the salesman repeatedly for calcetinas, and he's at a loss. He walks her through the whole store trying to help her find what she's looking for. Finally, they're in the sock section, and she points to the socks and exclaims, "Eso, si que es!" And he responds, "Well geez, if you knew how to spell it all along, why didn't you do that before?"

Cheerleaders Aid Cops By Totally Ripping Me Off

I've been trying really hard to not click on the headline announcing "Cheerleaders Help Cops Nab Crash Suspect." I figure "They" have done some sort of market research that pretty much guarantees that headlines with the words "cheerleaders" and "cops" get clicked on way more often than those without. I just didn't want to be such a predictable, Pavlovian easy mark. ("You write 'cops and cheerleaders'; I immediately click!") I weakened today, and discovered that a team of cheerleaders basically did exactly what I did about 2 years ago, except that I was acting alone and in intimidating circumstances, and it wasn't all bouncy cheery teamwork fun. Oh, and they actually helped catch a wanted criminal. Whereas I didn't, but did behave a little bravely. And stupidly.

In my case, I was walking down the main strip on the way home. Two girls slightly ahead of me paused on the corner and then entered the crosswalk, which was marked with a stop sign, and began to cross. There was a car approaching at a rapid clip, but from a significant distance. As it approached the intersection, we could hear the driver yelling and cursing at the two girls. After stopping his car with its nose in the crosswalk, he continued gruesomely insulting and threatening them. Surprisingly to me, I found myself yelling back, "They have the right of way!" Because that's totally going to be persuasive to an enraged man who yells at young cute girls who are trying to cross the street in an empty crosswalk with a stop sign when his car is (though speeding) half a block away.

In order to continue the altercation, the man made a squealing right turn and drove a block the wrong way onto Bedford Avenue, a single-lane, one-way street. He hopped out of his car bellowing at me (and the girls) that I wasn't so tough now that he was right there, that he was going to kill all of us right now, etc. His erratic behavior was made more garishly bizarre by the fact that there were plenty of people walking by -- it was pretty early in the evening, around 8 o'clock.

Again, I was a conduit of nerdy girl-scout outrage, and found myself responding to his fairly credible threats by yelling his license plate at him while fumbling for my notebook, in which I wrote down said license plate (to remember it). I never actually said anything else to him, I just stood there angrily screeching his license plate at the top of my lungs. After writing it down, I didn't receive any new commands from the Justice Crusader who had unexpectedly taken over my body, so I just stuck with what I had and kept clearly yelling his license plate at him as he leaned into my face waving his arms and threatening to break, maim, and kill me and the two girls whose choice of crosswalk helped launch his manic ire.

He seemed baffled by my behavior (hell, so was I) and appeared to gradually recognize that a Scene was being caused, and that as a large, angry man looming over and loudly threatening to hurt, humiliate, and kill a fairly innocuous-looking girl, the onlookers were probably not on his side. Even if the girl looks like a certifiable weirdo, screaming "F1Z-5N83!!" over and over again. Here in New York, we don't kill people just for shouting weird stuff on the street. We kill them for their sneakers. Innocent-looking weird girl trumps belligerent fugly harassment man for public sympathy, so he suddenly lunged back to his car and resentfully executed a three-point turn before speeding away the right way up Bedford Avenue.

Sheesh, somebody should tell those Michiganian youngsters that using chants/cheers as a mnemonic device for license plates is sooooo 2003.

Give Me the Cobra Jewel!

Although all the adventures of the last few days have been laid back, there has been such a constant onslaught of stimuli and sense of adventure and newness that I just really, really, really want to have several hours to lie down and think in someone else's cool, tidy apartment. The sort of apartment featured in the IKEA catalogue. I don't know of any apartments like that, but I'm confident that much deeper relaxation and insight are possible in such a setting.

Last night Adira Amram thrilled me again with another addictively offbeat show. She talks to pigeons in the park, she talks to them 'til after dark. And she does it. . . for you. This girl is the voice of a generation. A generation of shape-shifting pegacorn flashdancers raised by Betty White and Tina Turner. Her upcoming show at the Knitting Factory on August 17th with Schaffer the Darklord is not to be missed.

Also not to be missed: Busby Berkeley. The Film Forum, bless them, is giving us the opportunity to see "The Gang's All Here" and "Cobra Woman" on the big screen. I need more musical numbers in my life, don't we all?

See the Rhythm of My Kicking Hair

Last night I was a hair model at Rumor Salon, which was a great experience. For the first hour or so I was reading some hip magazine, which featured an endorsement for the dude who designed the ring pictured here. I really have no relationship with drum machines, but I wanted the ring so bad.

The nomenclature (one of Grampa Rudesill's favorite words) of unfamiliar trades is fascinating to me. While I was there, I heard things like "If you overdirect here, you can't see the rhythm of her hair." Later, "Let's look at the bang. Do you see how it's kicking?" Rumor Salon is an amazing sanctuary. Soothing, understated, hip, unflinchingly modern. [<-- Sentence fragment. A list, really.] I got a Graduated Bob, the most challenging haircut to create.

This Just In!

Me, Dilip, Peeps.

Odd but Appreciated Gallantries

Thank you to the nice man in the truck whom I delayed while crossing the street this morning (in the crosswalk, in a totally legitimate way). On my way across the street I gave one of my signature tiny squeaky double sneezes. As he drove through the crosswalk he leaned out his window and warmly barked "Gesundheit!" I love when people go slightly out of their way to be kind and gracious to strangers. This incident was particularly touching, since typically morning drivers try to intimidate or collide with me.

Also appreciated: the adorably reticent roughneck teenager who pulled the subway doors apart for me so I could get to work 10 minutes earlier. I wasn’t acting demanding or desperate, and had wanly accepted that I was about 8 seconds too late to catch the train, so I was surprised when he insistently pulled the doors apart. As they kept trying to snap shut I was afraid to get too close because I was very impressed by the MTA publicity campaign about the dangers of getting caught in the doors. (His determination ultimately trumped the steely bureaucracy of the train’s operation and I quickly bounced in next to him.) He was very sweet, although I suspect he was at least as motivated by the adventure of battling the train as by philanthropy.

You Had Me At "Bee"

My ever-buzzing bee-brain is starting to frantically forage for new bee-related information. While innocently surfing the information superhighway, I was uncontrollably drawn to the headline: "A.J. Foyt attacked by bees." At the time, I didn't know who A.J. Foyt was, and the fact that the bees were capable of attack made it clear that these were not Spelling Bees, but I love spelling bees so much that I read the whole article anyway. I was impressed by Mr. Foyt's self-posession and determination in the face of a 200+ bee attack which left him stung "dozens of times." He managed to fling himself away from the dangerous swarm and into the safety of a nearby stream, and after being treated at the scene passed up the option of going to the hospital. That's some admirable unflappability.

Chinchilla Confessional

I've been confiding in Monte, the chinchilla I live with, for months. When I need to get something off my chest he comes to the front of his apartment and listens attentively, sometimes leaning one of his front paws on the wires of his wall or winking solemnly to show that he gets where I'm coming from. I felt that these conversations, while clearly reinforcing our social bond, were largely one-sided, and that although he seemed hip to what I have to say, that he was sympathizing with me in a sort of big-picture, non-language based way.

Last night Dilip and I were kicking it with Monte until pretty late, admiring his acrobatic dust-bathing style, relishing the way he clutches almonds in his minuscule hands as if they were corn on the cob or a sandwich. He wasn't interested in striking any of his poses for Dilip (The Buffalo, The French Prisoner, etc.), but I was really more eager for him to demonstrate his "Leap Through A Narrow Hole to His Second Floor" maneuver. He was ignoring me while I pleaded with him to do his big precision leap. He was absorbed in sniffing around for stray almonds. I finally said to him, "Look, if you do the precision leap through the hole onto the second floor, I'll give you an almond, OK?" Immediately, Monte walked over to the hole, and leaped through it, landing on the second floor. Dilip and I were pretty much dumbfounded, and I immediately gave Monte the almond I'd promised him, because now that I knew he understands English I was seeing our relationship in a whole new light. If I'd known he actually understands spoken English, I might not have been so candid with him in the past. But as far as I know, he still doesn't speak or write English, so I guess my secrets are safe with him. At least as long as I keep the almonds flowing his way.

Catachresis, My Old Friend

I've come to talk with you again. In the delirious post-bee afterglow, in discussing memorable observations of nonstandard English, Jonathan Lill treated us with his sighting of an extermination company's truck that proudly blared out along its side "TERMINATE CONTROL." The popular dance music exhortation to "lose control" is taken to the next level -- control must not merely be misplaced, it must by eliminated. We imagined that perhaps it was a kind of New Agey extermination company that instructed clients to "be free" in order to rid themselves of roaches. "Look man, as long as you've got this uptight micromanagement vibe in your apartment, the roaches are gonna be here because they feed on that negativity. If you want them to go, you need to terminate control, embrace hegemony, really be free, man. When you can just let go you won't have this problem any more. Terminate Control!" Although the "terminate control" sighting gave us all a lot of laughs, it was clearly not nearly as important to Jonathan as his recent shiv sighting. Apparently, somewhere in the East Village, a butter knife which has been sharpened on both sides, and whose handle has been reinforced with tape, has been abandoned in the gutter. And Jonathan sighted it.

On a tangentially related note, I have recently become aware of the Cockroach Hall of Fame Museum.

What If It's Too Loud or Bright to Sleep When I'm Dead?

It's been a fun weekend. Dilip and I went to the Improv to see an HBO showcase featuring Jen Dziura, whose surname, I just found out from the very nice guy who sold Dilip a laptop before the show, means something in Polish. Jen's set was great, as were the sets of a notably high percentage of her fellow performers. After the show we made friends with the outstanding, infamous blogger and assassin Brian Van and his two companions. By "made friends with" I mean we couldn't leave things at giggling at each other in the brightly-lit bagel shop -- we knew we had to take the next step of hanging out at Union Pool swapping stories until Dilip nearly died of jet lag. Above, you can see us posing in the eerily bright bagel shop. The photo nicely documents how effortlessly and understatedly hip Dilip looks in his Peeps shirt.

Given that we didn't hit the hay until around 5:30, Dilip and I were pretty haggard campers for our journey to rendezvous with Friend From Japan Kevin at the M.I.A. show. I loved DJ Rekha, and M.I.A. was definitely worth the wait. I guess I should have known I would run into a gazillion people I know at the show and on the way back, and that one of them would shake me down for beer money. The city's not as big as we like to pretend. Despite the fact that I was pretty useless, polka practice was super jolly that night. Perhaps it was the fancy international beer.

But seriously, there's still work to be done before Spelling tonight -- to be blogged by superchamp Jonathan Lill!

"Snark" Gene Not Recessive

I was just reminded that the hat is not all I got from mom. I received a wonderful email from her today, in which (among other things) she said she just had to tell me about the most recent time she wished I still lived at home. She was reading an article in the San Jose Mercury News with delighted disgust at the degeneration of television and society -- the article was covering Hugh Hefner's new reality series. My mom did a double-take when, toward the end of the article, one of Hef's 3 live-in girlfriends, "well-educated Bridget Marquardt, 31, who is working on a second master's, in broadcast journalism," is quoted as saying: "I think there's two main adjectives people think when they see us: bimbo and slut."

Although people say that nobody ever misunderstands you like your family, I think this amply illustrates that sometimes nobody really relates to what makes you tick in the same way family can. I know that whenever there are typos or catachresis in the paper, my family fondly thinks of me. My mom wants to know whether Lynn Elber, who wrote the piece, deliberately included the quote in order to illuminate the fact that the best-educated of Hef's current girlfriends seems to be confused about the difference between an adjective and a noun. Marquardt probably just remembered that in elementary school she was told that adjectives are "describing words." Although "bimbo" and "slut" are not adjectives, they are words we use primarily to describe, so I guess we can all try to sympathize with the misunderstanding.

Oh, and in cleaning my apartment recently, I found some pages from an old "Word A Day" calendar that I had saved, and "catachresis" was one of them. I stuck it to the fridge to remind myself to give it some exercise -- and so soon there has been an opportunity!

Words Secretly Funded by Cosmetics?

"The fingers of your thoughts are molding your face ceaselessly. -Charles
Reznikoff, poet (1894-1976)." This was at the end of the A Word A Day email I just opened, and rather than making me reflect on the human condition or whatever it reminded me that I forgot to put firming skin cream on my face before bed last night.

I've Got Mom's Hat

Well, I think it's a hat. It's definitely a sturdy head ornament that is not a barrette. I just found some photos that JC took of me. I really like this one. He's a very fun guy, and a cool photographer to work with. Check him out here. This reminds me of a story Lainie told at a party recently. She was in Grand Central, arguing with a friend of hers who grew up in another country and was asserting that she didn't know who Jay-Z is. Lainie couldn't accept that, and assured her that everyone knows who Jay-Z is.Trying to settle the issue, Lainie turned to a man next to them and said "You know who Jay-Z is, right?"

"Of course," he said. "Jesus Christ."

Both girls were obviously nonplussed. "JC...Jesus Christ," he repeated.

Beset (By Evil)

I just finished writing a business email, and closed it "Beset, Megan." Fortunately, I caught my typo before sending it, but it made me reflect that I do feel kinda beset. Freudian typo? Yes, that art is really entitled "Beset by Evil."

Kickboxing & True Love

Every day on my way to work I pass an ad for something on Spike TV which snarls at me "SEE HOW IT FEELS --- WHEN IT'S REAL!" These words are in a jaggedy typeface, floating behind two dudes who seem to be kickboxing. Or fighting in some way that involves flying in the air and kicking each other while wearing very little. Anyway, the main effect of the ad is that I start every day with my brain shouting "What you find-AH! What you know-ah! To be real! Ooh, your love's for real now! You know that your love is my love, my love is your love, our love is here to stay!" Thanks Cheryl Lynn. It got me thinking that the very same tag line, "See how it feels -- when it's real," could just as easily be used to sell romance novels or weepy gurl movies. Sex. Violence. Realness. Apparently all very important in the world of marketing.

Electric & Blue Technology

Sometimes I get a little anxious about the fact that I am entirely ignorant about most of the devices that give me the lifestyle I rely on. To do most of what I do I need a computer. But I don't know how to build or fix one, or even explain how one works. While I believe that the earth is round, I couldn't explain why it's true. My whole world-view and experience is basically faith-based and ignorant. I keep worrying that we're getting all 1984, and someday I'll be forced to live underground as a menial worker-pet for all the pretty people who understand technology and live aboveground. Which is my other fear, that maybe we're also getting all HG Wells "Time Machine."

Speaking of technology, I am lovingly fascinated by the little blue plasticky sheets that absorb oil. They are for cosmetic purposes, to dab against your greezy face. They are so sophisticated that oil makes their blue coating disappear, and they become clear which is rewarding in the way a blackish cotton ball is after you astringent your face. They also utterly ignore all non-oil. I tried drying my perspiring face with one, to no effect. Oh, and is it really gross and wrong to save and re-use one if it's still mostly blue? It's not like a dirty hanky or anything.

Sinister Snuggles (monkeypox!)

Paradox, contradiction, discordant combinations; all funny and intriguing. Hence the vampire bunny in the Monty Python movie. Hence lots of stuff like that. Unrelatedly, I love rodential creatures. I adore the big eyes and tiny toes combo. I'm weak for it. I was therefore intrigued when I read about the pet hampster believed to be responsible for 3 human deaths. Apparently she (or he) was carrying some bizarre-o disease (lymphocytic choriomeningitis, or "LCMV") and infected her (or his) caretaker. The LCMV is not much of a big deal to people with normal immune systems. However, when the hamster's caretaker died (in a way utterly unrelated to the hamster or LCMV), her organs were donated. Three recipients of said organs understandably had weakened immune systems, and apparently the organs they received were rich with LCMV. They developed flu-like symptoms and died. Apparently they don't have a commercial test for LCMV. What a strange world, where adorable animals are harbingers of death. I can't help but imagine the Grim Reaper we know from pictures actually showing up looking like a Powerpuff Girl. Oh, and the article reminded me of the monkeypox outbreak from a while back, brought to us by pet prairie dogs. Oh soft, scampery, alert little creatures. I guess you can't be purely good.

By the way, groups of hamsters are properly termed a horde of hamsters. The male adult is called a buck, the female adult is called a doe. The babies are pups.