Muses

Tuesday night was Jamie's 27th birthday. It was a double celebration as I lose another singleton to, yes, that's right, marriage. He and his muse are engaged. Sigh... Doesn't anyone stay single anymore? I think they were also trying to set me up with one of Muse's co-workers who thought I was cute. From what I hear, said co-worker is still married... as in, not yet divorced but in the middle of proceedings. Why? Apparently he wants to settle down while his soon to be ex wants to still go out and party. Do I even seem like I'm ready to pop out babies? I need to make sure Aurora makes it to 3 years old before I will even consider getting a dog. I'm working my way up the chain of simple to more complex multicellular organisms. Plus, after I met him, it appears he's utterly shy. He didn't even talk to me! I guess I'm not that cute in person. Jamie got a glass of Macallans 25 from me. It was delightful.

Afterwards, I headed to Rockefeller for some ice skating with Dana. I hate going late: the ice is so choppy and I, haha, fell and have, once again, matching bruises on either knee. This wasn't what led me off the ice. The skates Dana brought me were a bit too small and I was losing feeling in my right foot. Oy. We decide to grab drinks and head to Citarella's Restaurant. I get a Titanic Martini with champagne sorbet--soooo good and highly recommended. After drinks, as it was raining, we grabbed a cab back to his truck.

As we open the cab door, we see a cell phone. Having the luck to have not ever lost my cell phone and in need of some good karma, I take it upon myself to return it to the rightful owner. I call the last number dialed and get the owner's friend, Ty, who takes my daytime information and says he'll relay it back to said owner whose name is Joe. Today, I get a call from a gentleman from, what sounds like, the NBA and he thanks me for finding Joe's phone and returning it. We chat briefly and he says he'll send a messenger over to get it. I say I'll leave it at reception to be picked up. Then he says, "Hopefully, Joe will be back in the NBA next year and we'll send you some tickets to a game." I'm befuddled. Turns out, this is Joseph Forte's phone, of the Seattle Sonics. He entered the 2001 NBA Draft after his sophomore year at North Carolina and was the 21st pick in the 1st Round to the Celtics. They traded him the next season to the Sonics. He suffered a string of unfortunate injuries including a sprained right ankle and back spasms and got into a bit of trouble with the law over drugs, gun possession, and an altercation during a pick-up game of b-ball last year. Ah, the pressure of fame. Hopefully, indeed, he'll get himself together and be back in the game. He's a talented player, but needs to get his personal life together. This is why I'm against high school kids going into the draft--the pressure of fame and having all this money and freedom tends to lead some kids with little guidance into trouble. Sure, at 18, they are adults, but maybe not with the skills to keep it together--especially with all eyes on them and a pile of cash. Hope Joe remembers his phone next time. It was a pricey little limited edition Nextel thing.

A side note: John Mayer's place as my musician of lust is in threat of being usurped by Adam Levine of Maroon 5. The lead singer of this band with a rockin' single out now called "This Love" and a video with Adam half nekkid is H-O-T. Plus he's got amazing eyebrows to go with his amazing pipes. I have something for guys with really well sculpted eyebrows. Seth Green still has the best eyebrows ever. Adam's songwriting is inspirational and carries many a double-meaning. This Shakespeare buff loves that. So, Adam, I imagine you're like John and have too many tour dates and muses to write songs for, but I'm here in NYC. Still single.

Reading: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead by Tom Stoppard

Miami Vices

Jano's Golden Birthday could only been done right in Miami Beach. We were excited for sunshine, beach, and hundreds of gorgeous gay men in tight swim trunks, slathered with sunscreen and tanning oil as their glistening biceps and pecs roasted in the sun. Sigh. Friday we were exhausted from just being exhausted, but rallied to head out to Score, which proved disappointing. Jano, his sister Maia and Babs, and I ventured out to the club de le creme, Crobar. Or so I heard. In reality, it was over-rated, over-priced, and overrun with testosterone. Babs, Maia, and I used Jano as a shield most of the night as guys tried their damnedest to get on us. Upon hitting the dance floor, some tall, very white boy tags along with me--he's not really fun looking--kinda over-zealous. Jano, in all his good judgement, grabs the guy by his white t-shirt (in a club??) and tells him "she's taken!" Said boy apologizes profusely and walks away. We all proceed to dance to a mediocre DJ who has too many breaks between music changes... one every song and it drove us nuts--especially for electronica and house music. My god, where did he learn to DJ? School for the deaf?

The only light I managed to ignorantly squash was a cute, tall boy who Babs was trying to get me close to, but I assumed she was still talking about over-zealous boy. At one point, she physically moved me next to him and I (so stupid) moved her in my place and didn't even look at said hottie. Sigh. You know what they say; if a girl makes eye contact, it means she's interested and after the slew of not worth batting a lash at, I didn't think this guy would be worth it. So, I was chastised later by Babs and Maia for turning down my only promising XY. Alas, will the bad luck not end?

After an afternoon sunning on the beach and ogling hotties, we had dinner at Joe's Stone Crab, one of the 1000 places you need to go before you die as the Stone Crab Claws are to die for! We had a chipper and fun waiter named Jorge. He obviously was fed up with the uppity crowd that flooded the place and was happy to tease us and make jokes. You could tell he enjoyed waiting on us. He freaked me out at one point as he flirtatiously tried to show me how to eat the crab claws. He grabs one of our claws, breaks the claw from the arm, tears away the shell until the meat is sticking out from one side of the claw and dips it into my mustard sauce. At this point, Maia, Babs, and Jano are looking on partially in horror, partially in anticipation, and partially in amusement as they are trying to figure out where is Jorge going with this? Was he going to eat it himself and force us to ask him to bring a replacement? Uh, no. He proceeds to feed me the crab claw. It felt like food porn. But he was so jovial about it, you couldn't help but laugh at it all.

  

We then ventured back to the hotel to get prepared for our last night out in Miami and Jano's actual birthday celebration. We head to Twist. This huge club was exactly what I think we were all looking for. The music was inspiring the bass was so strong, my heart rate changed up with it. The go-go boys were beautiful, just glorious. I don't think I've seen so many beautiful men in one place before... and none on my team. Oy! The highlight for me was being sandwiched by the hot gay men. Of course, there was one 5' tall straight black man about 50 years old who kept trying to accost me. He was given his dues when a short gay Hispanic man was bumping and grinding behind him. I heard him yell, "Don't touch me or I'll call the police!" The Hispanic guy left and (how about this for irony), even though I had pushed short, straight geriatric away, he came up behind me again! I should have threatened calling the police I guess. Instead, I pushed him away (even tho I probably could have said the word to Jano and the horde of men after him and they would have dashed the man's brains on the dance floor) and punched him. He gave me one of those "ouch! that hurt" look and I gave him my "I hope you die of gangrenous testicles" look. He walked away. Now here's the perplexing thing: if you are a straight, homophobic man, what are you doing in a gay bar? I guess some of them think that all the cute straight girls go there to dance with the gay men: it being non-threatening. But if we want to go be with gay men, we don't want to be with straight men. See? If we wanted straight men, we'd go to a straight bar. Any professed straight man at a gay bar (I've discovered) is just in the closet. You don't go running around with your shirt off, bumping and grinding with other boys unless you are gay... or a woman. Serves short geriatric perverted black man right to get grinded by a gay man. And the irony is that it was an unwanted advance and yet, he proceeded to advance upon me when I made it blatantly clear I didn't want him. I had five, six-foot plus, thick men surrounding me. Why in fortune's name would I want some short little old man? Sometimes, I know, common sense is in short supply. Like height. By 3:30 am, the girls were beat and we left Jano to be adored on the dance floor by the men we could never have.

Sunday was spent at the beach where I acted like a stupid beach tourist and turned Crayola Crayon Red. Yup, I'm still paying for it, but I am tan, so I guess, even though it is painful to walk and move my arms, I'll live. We had a lovely time and the winds died down Sunday versus the hurricane winds of Saturday. We sat on our chairs with our umbrella and soaked it all in. Maia eventually left at 3:00 pm and we walked her back to the hotel: wishing her well back in Minneapolis. The three of us then headed to Nikki Beach for gazpacho, tuna tartar, yellowfin tuna, lamb sausage, and mojitos. And more lovely boys for our eyes to feast upon in the cool breeze and warm sun. We were supposed to meet cute Jochen (one of Jano's lovelies), but we missed him by 30 minutes. At 5:00 pm, we headed back to the hotel to get to the airport (an adventure in itself), and return to New York where Jano and I are taking on the town before he returns to Cali to jump start his new and exciting life in San Diego. Ahhhh! Ed Gorey, I'm coming your way!

As an addendum to this post, upon arriving at the LaGuardia Airport, prior to our trip to Miami, Jano regales me with his visit to Hawaii and how my parents took him around. This is when I discover that I duped myself into believing I am more Irish than my father says I am. Apparently, after Chinese, I'm mostly Hungarian--about one-quarter to three-eighths. HUNGARIAN! MAGYARS! That is followed by German and then an imaginary mixture of maybe Irish, maybe Swedish, maybe Tanzanian. Alas, my imaginary Irish brethren, I thought I was one part of you. Now, I have to seek out Hungarians to bond with. Where the hell am I supposed to find Hungarians? In America? Did they ever migrate to any place other than Upstate New York? And they don't have any holidays like St. Patrick's Day! How do I explain my reddish brown hair? Hmmmm. Those silly Hungarian gypsies. I was saddened to learn I am as Irish as I'm Native American. If anyone knows what the hell Hungarians do, what famous Magyars there are, and what the hell kind of culture I have, I'd appreciate it. All I know at this point is that St. Stephen is Hungarian. In the 5th century, he led the Hungarian tribes out of the Urals to settle the Carpathian Basin. This explains why my father and brother are named Stephen. At least this means a trip to Budapest is more appropriate as opposed to a trip to Dublin. And now I need to learn Hungarian. Sajna!

Reading: Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason by Helen Fielding
Jamming: Songs About Jane by Maroon 5

Free animals to a somewhat good, though not necessarily stable home

I am taking this from Gawker which took it off craigslist which has since deleted this post. Probably the most amusing ad I've seen in a while (not involving weird encounters in the Food Emporium frozen food section). This would make a good short story.

I have four free dogs. Two of them are large sized, about up to my waist. One is brown and the other sort of milky grey, with a large black patch of hair on his belly. The "black hair patch" dog has a limp, as it was stepped on by a truck driver doing a delivery one day. But he's very kind. The other two dogs are about the size of a bowling ball, but not round like that. One is more round and the other pretty skinny. I don't know the breeds, but they have scratchy hair. You may have seen me with them because I walk them all together usually from Lexington to Central Park and I like to go down 80th street. I also have a monkey but he looks sort of sick. I think you'd need a vet for him. I got him in New Jersey about three years ago. All of these are free and I have individual bowls for the dog and a leash for the monkey. I have to get rid of them because I need an operation in a week that's pretty serious and I don't have anywhere for them to stay. They all get along great except for the monkey and the larger small dog. But I'd hate to split them up. Serious inquiries only. I would rather that they didn't go to the Bronx or Staten Island. Nothing personal.

I'm off to Miami later today. I'm meeting Alejandro at LaGuardia (it's been 2 years!) and then we're off. I anticipate many fun stories out of this. Maybe not as funny as this ad, but who can beat four dogs and a sick monkey.

I almost sliced my finger off

Ah, I forgot to mention that I sliced my finger open last night as well. About a 1/2 inch of skin about 4 mm thick is hanging off my middle finger. I was doing the damned dishes and washing a pot top. There was a metal ring that wasn't pressed firmly against the glass and with one swish, it cut cleanly through. It didn't hurt (I usually interpret that as bad since papercuts feel so painful) and it bled for a good 15 minutes. I took a picture of it, but it came out all blurry. I apologize--it looked gnarly. Instead, I will post a picture of my friend's head with 3 staples in it. He fell off his chair backwards last week and hit his head on the corner of a table. It turned his bleach blonde hair red. Ha! Ha! Oh, that's not funny.

Realm of dadaist possibilities

Tuesday was like an episode straight out of the Twilight Zone--or perhaps the people I met were out of the TZ for a visit to normalcy. The day was like any other except I missed my train into the city from Westchester and had to catch the 8:58am to Grand Central. That seemed alright. The workday went fine and at the end of the day, I headed back to GCT to catch the 6:38pm train back to Bronxville. I'm sitting in a two-seater reading On the Road   when a tall suit throws him coat on the rack over my head and rather brusquely says, "Excuse me," and gives me a look. I acquiesce and move my bag so her can plop himself down. This is when I get the feeling he's an ass with no manners. He must be wearing an YSL suit with a Pink tie. I'm annoyed. He fumbles through his NYT and I continue to read Kerouac.

Eventually, the doors to the train close and the conductor comes around to collect tickets. As he approaches our two-seater, Mr. Suit starts a whiney declaration of how he forgot him monthly pass in an attempt to get out of paying the $10 one-way ticket price to Bronxville. The conductor gives him a look and takes my ticket, punches it and takes my cash as I'm on a peak train and the tickets I have are for off-peak. Suit continues about how he ALWAYS takes this train and has seen the conductor before. The conductor replies with a, "I don't know any of these people, I don't know you." And how can he be expected to? This is a peak train that is over-crowded and filled with different faces. Maybe if he talked to this patron daily, but I had a feeling Mr. Suit doesn't talk to anyone "below" him. Suit gets belligerant and says he shouldn't have to pay because he just forgot his ticket at home. The conductor says he'll be back and Suit straightens his paper out.

At this point I'm thinking, what a shit! He OBVIOUSLY can afford to pay for this ticket. It is his own damned fault for forgetting his ticket. And the conductor is trying to do his job. Suit could be lying afterall. Who knows? People are strange. This is when Suit addresses me, curtly asking, "Am I right? I mean I just forgot it, he should give me a break and wave me on." I'm of the opinion this guy was spoiled rotten as a child or is so high up wherever he works, he doesn't have a clue about life's little ironies. I answer, "He's just trying to do his job. He can't be expected to know everyone's face. If it were you, you'd be trying to just do your job too." I thought this would make him see more clearly, this wasn't a personal affront; the conductor is trying to collect his fares and I have a feeling, this jerk would be an ass if the shoe were on the other foot. I imagine him treating his secretary poorly, yelling at her and speaking to his subordinates like boobies. I can see him processing this but then discarding my logical answer and retorting, "Well, I guess we'll just agree to disagree." Ugh. Blah. I'm not going to agree with him on anything unless it is that he was being an ass. Don't people take responsibility for their actions anymore? Hey, don't forget your fucking ticket ass! Blah blah blah. When the conductor returns, Suit pays for the fare (see, he had the dinero) and goes back to reading his paper. A few minutes later, he makes a call to someone and audibly relays the story of him forgetting his monthly pass.

This is when I realized the conductor gave me the incorrect change. I'm a dollar short. In all the hoopla with the stingy miser, the conductor was flustered and gave me $2 instead of $3. I'm now furthered annoyed at the bad karma Suit has put in the world and hope retribution comes swiftly. Maybe as a benign lump in his right testicle.

Later, I go to see Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind    with my friend, Dana. Now that is a film of it's own vein. Erasing painful memories to be happier in life. It answers the question, what if you could erase memories of the loved ones in your life and the events involved in those relationships? Lots of people want to after bad relationships. So this movie takes it to that step of how they'd do it and what would happen. It was genius, pure and simple. The fact is, erasing those memories probably don't make it any better for you. If anything, it makes you realize, as they are getting wiped clear, there are some special memories you want to keep. Not all relationships are bad. There are moments, like when Jim Carrey as Joel and Kate Winslet as Clementine are under the sheets talking. She goes on about how she always thought she was ugly as a child and has obviously not grown out of it. Joel sees this, her need for affirmation in her bare skin and tells her she's pretty, over and over. The techies are about to erase it when Joel realizes he wants to keep this memory, something so simple and sweet and fleeting as him telling her how beautiful she is. But he's unconscious and the tech's don't know he wants to stop the procedure, and that memory is lost. That poignant moment speaks volumes about how important one seemingly insignificant memory can be, how intricate it is to making you feel good to remember it. How indeed. The bigger message being that with the bad, comes the good. To erase all the bad and everything relating to it would be to erase the good and to change who you are as a person. Those things make up who you are and help you grow. Pain is as necessary as joy. Otherwise, how would you know the difference? No one knows how their relationships will turn out. It is likely there will be things that you won't like about the person you're with, that they'll get on your nerves and make you crazy, they'll make you want to strangle them and say mean, awful, hurtful, terrible things that you don't really mean. But if the fear that things will likely turn out badly, that it may not work out, that you'll want to leave each other keeps you from venturing forth, you will be missing out on all the things that could make you happy, and smile secretly over a cherished memory of a fleeting moment. Also, the other message I'll convey but not ruin the flick; there's no way to wipe your memory clean--there are always reminders.

This film really helped me address the rejection issue. And that all bad memories come with good ones as well. And it should be those fleeting moments that you take with you as tiny treasure boxes of joy. I guess I need to couple this with the movie 50 First Dates   which I saw Sunday and how your memories are really important--the good and the bad. And if you could have your memory wiped clean on a daily basis, there will always be lingering remnants of those fleeting moments of joy that will come from your subconscious and manifest themselves in ways that people didn't think possible.

And finally, let me dig myself out of philosophical realm, there is such a thing as a second (or third or fourth) chance. They don't come very often and sometimes they aren't whole chances, but half or quarter chances; opportunities to make it right or take it a step further. When you have it presented to you, take it. It is literally a gift and those rarely come by, even in the land of karma. Even if it will end the same way possibly, there is that chance that maybe it will end better than before. But that is the ENFP in me speaking regarding possibilities. I do believe in no regret, in second chances, in the good and bad going hand in hand, and that you never know what could happen which is why you have to take advantage of every opportunity given you because it may not come again.

I like it really Gorey

You know that intro to the PBS show Mystery!   with the black and white animated drawings. Those were done by the artist and writer Edward Gorey; a peculiar man with a penchant for the morbid and weird. I was turned onto his works when I was very young, though I didn't know it was him, when I read those John Bellairs books with the funky drawings on the covers. It wasn't until I started dating this boy my freshman year in college that I could put a name to the drawings and stories I relished. And even more interesting, that his name was Gorey. Hee hee. I've got the entire collection of Amphigorey books and read them when I need a pick-me-up; it makes me gleeful.

After all this travel to San Fran, it looks like I'll need to make another trip out the Cali, but to San Diego this time. SDSU is having a special exhibit of Edward Gorey's work through May 31--the largest collection of his drawings, stories, and bric-a-brac ever in one place. So now I need to find someone to stay with and maybe go with who enjoys this stuff (Jano, are you moving to SD or what? Someone, anyone interested?). Gorey's an amazing artist and if you like dark humor, he's your man. I'm sure you've seen The Gashlycrumb Tinies. Drawings of those horrible deaths 26 poor little children meet. Kate with the axe is my favorite, Neville: who would want to die of ennui?, flying Titus, Xerxes and his escapist mice. The drawings allow you to let your imagination run wild. How did Kate meet her death? How long does it take to die of boredom? How will Titus blow up? Will the mice nibble Xerxes to death or what? Then you realize, "wow, I'm pretty sick to think these things!" It is the fact that you are imagining the details from one drawing that disturbs certain people. They don't want to think these things and think they are bad people for doing so. I always say, better to imagine than to act. I've decided my soul mate will relish all things Gorey with me, or at least not make an appointment for me at Bellvue for liking them. Aside from the obvious subject matter, the attention to detail and the mood these drawings have is incredible for black ink drawings. It takes a certain eye and emotional depth to set a scene that will exist as one image for all eternity. Like a great cinematographer, Gorey can capture the beauty in a moment, in an image with whimsicalness that very few artists can convey.

Thundercats! Ho!

A few posts back I mentioned SoftClaws, those vinyl nail covers for cats to keep them from destroying carpet, furniture, what not. Well, I don't have that problem with Aurora Borealis, my lovely tabby with a patch of red hair slightly askew on the top of her head as well as random splotches here and there and one right on the very tip of her tail; hence the name. She's a good kitty who doesn't scratch furniture. So, to her dismay, I purchased a pack of these items and attached them to her front paws. After an unfortunate nail clipping (she hates those), Shenan selected purple press ons and I had to do the dirty work. After much growling and squirming, Aurora got a set of 8 lovely purple nails which she proceeded to lick and ganw at. I had to follow her around like a hunchback to make sure she didn't chew one off and then swallow it. Of course, she'd have really nice looking poo then. Very stylish.

According to the website, these are supposed to make her more attractive to other cats. I think Zuppe is a good test subject since she hates Aurora. I came to find them sitting about 5 inches from each other with no growling or hissing. I think these purple ones must put Zuppe at ease. Aurora has also seemed to have gotten used to having them on. Huh. Her manicure is better than mine. I got gnarly fingers and toes compared to Aurora's dainty little claws. We'll see how long they last. I was going to make each nail a different color, but I didn't want people to think I was turning her into a clown. Ha ha! Like these purple ones don't make people think I'm a little cuckoo already. I do have to admit that these things work. When I picked her up to see if she ate them off, she tried to claw my face off. She'd done that once and got me really good on my neck a couple weeks ago. But today, it was like nothing. And I laughed at her, "HA! HA! HA! You can't hurt me anymore!!!" I'm like a liberated abused wife. She reacted to this by giving me dirty looks, baring her teeth at me, and flipping me off with one of her purple nails. Ah well, I'll just give her a new mousey toy to play with and all will be forgiven.

Where are the fighting Irish?

St. Patrick's Day, McSorley's had a line that I wasn't going to wait in. Every tourist and wannabe was waiting to get in. I decided it would be best to return on Puerto Rican Day. So, we tried Swift Hibernian Lounge but that line was long and filled with NYU undergrads. Starving to death, we dropped into a sushi restaurant next door. Then, we wandered west and had cupcakes at the famous Magnolia Bakery, grabbed a Beamish at a small Frenchie restaurant, which was like a fifth course, and I was getting annoyed at this point. Not an Irish pub had I entered. Cyndi finally called and we made a plan to go to Puck Fair--my last visit there was on my birthday. We entered and saw MANY Irish men and women. This was exactly what I was looking for. Guinness, Strongbow, lots of dancing and Irish guys everywhere. Two 6 foot plus Irish carpenters who said things I could barely comprehend, but it wasn't because they were drunk. I went with Aurora to the second floor to attempt to find her some beads--kinda like Mardi Gras beads, but Irish beads. Instead, we find a Canadian guy who was acting like it was Canadian Pride Day. On top of that, his first name was Obnoxious and his last name was Ass. After about 2 minutes, I discovered his middle name was Naked, as in doufus was getting naked. Security came to tell him to put his shirt back on as it was offending--thank heavens. My hat was a big hit and I nearly lost it to many drunken folks who wanted something green. Ha ha! Get your own damned hat!

As I swing down the steps I pass by a DJ/drummer just arrived from Ireland who's playing the drums in beat with some obnoxious Barry Manilow song (He's not Irish!). Talk about thick accents--took him 3 times before I figured out he was saying his name was Joel. It reminded me of the visiting Irish rugby team at Stanford and how I felt like even though we were all speaking English, they sounded like they were speaking a whole other language. Maybe it was Gaelic. It is so crazy to think that an accent can have that much effect on a language. Hoo wee! Maybe it was because they were a rugby team, maybe they carry marbles in their mouths. Whatever the case, the accent and the sense of humor goes a long way to make up for the incomprehensibility of their speech... as long as you can get the humor through the speech.

I've decided I'm more Irish than I think I am. Mostly because of my sarcasm and wit and how well I get along with the Irish folk. I've always had this affinity for the Irish and I'm not sure if it is because of the green or because of the red streaks in my hair, but on St. Patrick's Day, I feel all Irish. I want to frolick outdoors and have a pint with someone and self-deprecate. Ahhhhh! Ya gotta love the Irish; god bless us, everyone!

I'm cute, therefore I must be Irish

In celebration of my Irish heritage, I'm taking my liver out to the pubs tonight and will hopefully be able to drink some Guinness with some Irish folk--and not American Irish folk... REAL Irish folk. Ever since my youth, and reinforced by my time in Oxford and my experience with a visiting Irish rugby team at Stanford, I've been enamored with the Irish. Their sense of humor, their conversation, their great personalities and kindness that only the few and proud could understand and love.

Speaking of Stanford and the Irish, a group of researchers have settled the dispute over whether Guinness bubbles float up or down--they actually are floating down. It's all here in this CNN article. I'm happy to see research time and monies being spent to solve these mysteries of life. And especially to see Stanford being a part of it. No, I'm not being sarcastic this time. I'm very serious.

Cheers to everyone, have a pint or two, and sing an Irish drinking song! Here's to everyone on this St. Patrick's Day! McSorley's, here I come!

snowing and depressed

After a gloriously warm and sunny weekend in San Francisco, where I procured some color sitting in Golden Gate Park and hanging with lots of cool people, I am now back in NYC. The weather here has been kind enough to mirror how I'm feeling: depressed. It is snowing and gray and 32° F. I was hoping for 50 degree weather, something that would announce spring and lift my spirits. Instead, Old Man Winter seems to be hanging around and will not relent this maddening precipitation. They predict snow through St. Pat's Day. Great. I can't wait. Thank god for alcohol to warm the soul.

As for my mood, remember my blog entry on rejection a few days ago? Yeah, apparently I've gotten over my fear of rejection; I now welcome it with open arms. *sigh* I've taken refuge in Westchester with my cat. She was furious with me for leaving her alone all weekend. Now she has the run of Shenan and Alex's house. Shenan made me a chocolate cake to cheer me up upon arrival, you know, all those great chemicals in chocolate. But unlike other people who get depressed and eat a gallon of Haagen Daz, I lose my appetite. In case anyone was wondering why I looked so anorexic in high school, it was stress and depression--the two states that cause me to go on unplanned diets. Booooo. But as is like me, I'm not planning on this lasting too much longer. It's been a while, so I think I'm due for a bout with depression now. I think that if something causes you to feel sucky, you should inhabit it fully, saturating every corner of your being in it so that you won't have to go back to it again.

Apparently, this is a part of my Myers-Briggs Type Indicator: (E)xtraverted i(N)tuitive (F)eeling (P)erceiving. I have a need for intense emotional experiences which is why when I feel a certain way, I want to marinate in it. But I always come out feeling more alive once I'm done. Here are two descriptions of my personality type: Champion and Inspirer. The Inspirer description is actually a really good description of me–especially the following through part and need to be excited about what I'm doing and change. I also checked to see if I'm in the right career: apparently, every career choice I have made has been appropriate to what my personality type is good at. Every item on that list has been a path I have either toyed with or am considering getting involved in. Eerie. You can take a short online test and find your MBTI personality type too.

Junkie science

The state school board in Ohio approved a new and improved lesson plan for teaching evolution. Apparently, to appease all the Jesus freaks, they are going to not only teach evolution but a critical analysis of the theory of evolution which I think is fine, except the so-called critical analysis is a pot-head theory called "intelligent design." Oh yeah, rather than criticising Darwin's theories using other scientific facts and observations, intelligent design says that a higher being was involved in the creation of life. HA! HA! HA! I'm not saying it isn't possible, but it isn't science. That, my friend, is what we call religion and faith. Biology 101 is here; Intro to Christianity is on the other side of campus. The school administrations, teachers, parents and students all applaud this decision. My god! Rather, my Darwin! This is as bad as the whole Scope trial and everyone in the Bible belt who is still trying to eliminate evolution from science textbooks. Do they realize that, surprise, surprise, they actually teach evolution in college? *grumble* I'm so fed up with these freaks who think that god is the big scientist in the sky. Haven't they heard of Occam's razor? Given a set of data and observations, the simplest answer is usually the correct one. I want to gnash my teeth and beat a Bible-thumper. They are going to teach these poor kids crack-pot science, not real scientific theory. This is like that teacher who sent her student to the principal's office for saying a bad word and then, the student getting suspended for it. Oh, do you remember this? This is the kid who said "lesbian" when he told his classmate "my mom is a lesbian." Some people have to get off their ultra right-wing conservative, Jesus-Mary-Joseph-loving, nonsensical faux theorectical high horse and grow a brain. Please. I understand common sense is in short supply, but use it if you have it, share it if you can, and whatever you do, don't send your kids to school in Ohio.

Meow Press-On Nails

Once again, the Japanese have invented something useless that I'm tempted to buy to see if it's a hoax. SoftClaws: colored nail caps for cats. They are smooth, vinyl nail covers that you apply some adhesive to and then put over your cat's nails to prevent them from doing damage when they claw your furniture. They come in 5 fashionable colors including pink, red, purple, blue and clear. They fall off naturally with the growth of the nail, about every 4-6 weeks. Apparently, it will also make your cat more attractive to other cats. That may be good, since Shenan's black cat, Zuppa, hates my kitty, Aurora.

Who came up with this brilliant idea? I mean, I understand if you don't want to declaw your cat. However, if you are already trimming Pussy's death nails, why in god's name would you want to try putting these things on her paws? It's hard enough not to have Aurora want to claw my eyes out without have to glue something to them. She freaks out enough if she gets tape on her paw, but a brightly colored piece of plastic? Do they even have cats in Japan?

That said, I have purchased a pack because I just have to try these things. Aurora will hate me, but they have 12 pages of photos of cats with these things on and they all look, well, fine. Except for the black cats with the red nails. If only they made orange Softclaws for Halloween.

Read all about SoftClaws. And if you want to test it out, buy SoftClaws here.

rejection, fear, guilt

*Disclaimer: Blame all my waxing philosophical on PMS.


Recently, I've been grappling with rejection. Why we do it, how we deal with it, why some people are better rejectors than others, how rejection can be cushioned, why fear of rejection causes us to not take chances. Things like that.

As an actor, rejection is a very common occurence that I've had to deal with at a majority of auditions. You are bound to get rejected about 90% of the time so you build a thick skin and realized, it isn't personal, it's business. Like any job interview, there are more applicants than positions and sometimes, someone fits the bill better than you, for whatever reason; experience, education, nepotism. After years of that, I took that thick skin and pretty much applied it to everything--I'd ask guys out without the fear of being rejected because, hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I've met amazing friends by putting myself out there and just letting it rip. Rejection was not one of my fears. I had been rejected so often, I kinda felt that anything other than that was a strange response.

Over the past year, however, I've come to have a growing fear of rejection. Not just my own rejection, but a fear of rejecting other people. I've seen so many people deal with rejection so poorly, why would I want to cause that much unhappiness and self-doubt? Even when people say that rejecting them is okay, you know it really isn't. I've been on both sides of that fence this year, many times, and I'm trying to figure, what am I supposed to be learning from this? At first, I thought it was some kind of karmic return for something I did in the past, but I'm pretty sure I would've been hit by a bus for something karmic. Then I thought, maybe this is my lesson in knowing how it feels to be the rejectee for all the rejecting? No, that wasn't good enough. After many possible theories about this, I realized why all this putting myself in a position to be rejected when I personally feared rejecting: guilt.

Guilt is a funny little gnome. Guilt, a distant cousin of karma, is self-induced karmic retribution. It is when you feel so bad about something you did, you feel like you need to punish yourself for it. Sometimes the guilt is founded, sometimes it isn't. But in all cases of guilt, people put themselves in a position, subconsciously, to "be punished" for whatever wrong they (think they) have committed. The problem with this is that with karma, once you pay yours dues, that's it. With guilt, you will continue to inflict pain upon yourself until you let go of the guilt or are strapped to a bed with a nurse administering a sedative to calm the demons in you head. In some cases, that's good, in others, I think it is a result of self-victimization.

I'm hoping my rejection issues are going to wane soon so I can get on with my life. It really puts a wall up towards individual growth. And I can only deal with so much rejection myself, so when my guilt subsides and I stop playing the role of the flagellant, I think I'll feel much better and will have much more unadulterated fun.

Super Lemon

Japanese candies have always been these anomalies. Odd little things kids eat with poor spelling on the package and strange flavors and names. I've tried so many in my youth, but my favorites were the sour candies. But never, in my life, have I had, nor do I think I will ever have sweets as sour as the Super Lemon. They look harmless, like lemon drops which are sugary sweet with a lemony flavor. Looks are the only similarity.

Super Lemons are atomic bombs. Each bag contains about 22 individually wrapped candies. They are small spheres with a white powder which I can only liken to a hot chili. You pop the tiny sucker in your mouth and in about 3 seconds, the true nature of the powder reveals itself and all the hairs on your body raise as the sour flavor registers in your brain. It is intense and incredibly satisfying in a way. As I crave the need for intense feelings, I once went too far and had an entire bag in one sitting: about 30 minutes. I could feel my eyelids sweating. I thought my face would melt. But the masochist in me just kept popping them in my mouth and letting them settle on my tongue. By the 20th piece, another flavor entered my mouth: salt. Ah yes, 20 Super Lemons resulted in my tongue oozing blood as it couldn't take anymore. Rather than take this as a sign to stop, I figured I might as well finish the last two; I was always rather stubborn and hard-headed about those things. A few days later, my tongue was fine and I was forbidden to eat them again by my mother.

15 years later, I wish I knew where I could find these little morsels of torture or if they even still make them. The li hing mui I eat like the lemon balls, just don't do the same thing those little candies, deceptively innocent looking, did. Here is my call, to everyone, please, if you know where I can find them online or a store that carries them, please email me. I really would like to see if they still make them as excrutiatingly painful as they did in my youth.

Troilus and Cressida

My friend Esther is a part of a theatrical group putting on Troilus and Cressida. It got a great review. If you are in NYC and want to catch a great Shakespearean play, please check this spectacular show out!

Troilus and Cressida
Clemente Soto Velez Cultural Center
Milagro Theater
107 Suffolk Street
Tickets: 212-868-4444

READ THE REVIEW
BUY TICKETS ONLINE!

Are bloggers socially challenged?

Whitney Pastorek published a story in the Village Voice about how blogs seem to be ruining people's lives: particularly Whitney's. Why? The claim: that it prevents people from having person-to-person interactions. While I can see how this could be a possibility, I love having a blog and being able to read my friends' blogs. In this age of everyone being too busy to make a doctor's appointment, it allows me to catch up on my friends' lives and what they've been up to, where they are going and also, helps the blogger think through things going on in their lives. Sure, it means we spend more time in front of a computer, but how is it different from sitting and writing in your journal? Not much. Just more public. While I resisted the blog when I first heard about them and Jano started one, I'm now a blogger. It really is a good way for people, especially folks who don't keep in regular contact or live across the planet, to be abreast of what their friends are doing. I don't think it makes me anti-social. If anything, it allows me to be social in a different way, with my peers and similarly technologically enhanced friends. People also happen to use blogs to announce parties and other special events. Whitney, just deal, this is a techie world, and I'm a techie girl.

Post apocalyptic L.A.

When I was trying to decide between moving to New York and Los Angeles my senior year in college, the only knowledge I had of New York was what I read, heard, or saw on television and the only experiences I had in Los Angeles were Disneyland and when I went to audition for the BFA program for NYU. I wasn't fond of LA. Having passed the La Brea Tar Pits in 1995, I thought it was an odd place. Think Mad Max--so weirdly spread out. I felt that if I yelled, it would echo. So, I decided I needed to give LA one more chance before committing to moving to NYC, the only place I'd never even visited. After one week in LA, I decided NYC couldn't be anywhere near that bad. I was definitely right. So visiting LA this weekend, I wanted to try and find what everyone loves about it so much. I figured 5 years may have changed me and LA enough to find some common ground. There's nothing like affirmation that you were right the first time around.

LA is a pit. At least downtown LA where Sunset and Wilshire run. I always thought people in LA sucked, but they can be downright anti-social. Now, this is probably a result of having gone to Needless Markup and hanging out at Asia de Cuba where people go just to be noticed. I don't want to be noticed; I have enough problems. First, at NM, Liane asks one of the patrons about her maltese and where she sent her for obedience training and grooming. First, this woman is wearing a strange fur coat that looks like several animals pieced together. She's got her auburn red dyed hair in a french twist under a hat, and her lipstick matches her hair color. I probably wouldn't have noticed that except her lips were the size of ladyfinger bananas from all the collagen. They were the scariest things I have seen in a really long time. Rather than stopping to answer Liane, she continued shopping and giving Liane a rather brush off answer. "I don't know, my assistant makes all her appointments." Um, for a dog? I felt like someone had just vomited all over me and I had to leave.

I made a rather big faux pas in telling my friends to meet me at Asia de Cuba for drinks. First, it was rather difficult to find if you had no idea where it was, even with the address. Second, it was filled with wannabe actors/models/nobodies. The waitstaff was great--our waitress was sweet and funny and probably not from LA. The patrons were those people who leer at you to see what season your shoes are from and why you decided to pair that top with those earrings. Let me note that Flashdance must have been re-released in theatres because 3 women were wearing heels with leggings. A horde of women walked past us thinking they could dress like Halle Berry or Madonna: not these forty-somethings. And I knew LA was the plastic surgery capital of the universe, but I've never seen so many fake breasts, lips, noses, eyes... you name it. And decked out in labels. Ugh. And once again, everyone, just leering at me and my less than endowed torso. "Hey, at least I won't sag to the ground or harden like a rock!" For some reprieve, I went to the ladies room only to see a swarm of women primping–it was something out of a movie. Plus, no one was kind enough to alert me my stall door was slightly ajar after someone had slammed a neighboring door shut (damn locks!) and just stood there and watched. Um, hello? Common human decency, are you there?

At this point, I needed to be saved. Only one of my friends, Jay, came out and he brought his buddy, Brandon. Understanding my disgust, he took us to Zabumba in West LA, a Brazilian club with live music and a DJ and a cool and mellow crowd. I felt like I was in an East Village bar. The people were cool and friendly and the atmosphere was absolutely delightful. We danced and had interesting Brazilian cherry flavored sodas in lieu of ginger ale. Jay was having difficulty keeping his eyes open when we took our pics. Eventually he managed to be wide-eyed in one. Then, tired from shopping and bopping we headed home.

I felt like the weekend had been salvaged by one club. Maybe LA was not as bad as I presumed. Maybe, as Jay said, it was just where I was hanging out. Sunday, Liane and I decided to lunch at The Griddle, recommended by Brandon. At this point, all that was salvaged was lost. I put my name on the list with the host, a short man in a blue tee with Buddy Holly glasses, and after 20 minutes of waiting, realized that people who showed up after me were being seated. Liane brought this to said vertically challenged host's attention who promised us the next table. 3 more pairs of diners were seated before us; I was ready to leave. Liane convinced me to wait as she confronted the host who admitted his failure to call my very legibly written name and seated us immediately. The food was good, but I was ornery at this point. Mostly from hunger and aggravated by shorty's oversight and failure to apologize. As we got up to leave, the host came over and thanked us and put his hand on the small of my back in some semblance of apology. I'd rather he just have apologized than touch me. I just gave him my "drop dead" look and said curtly, "thanks," and walked away.

I was anxious to get back to NY at this point. So it's cold, at least the people are normal and friendly and don't treat you like poop. So, we head to the airport. After seeing zero movie stars, on our way to LAX, on La Brea between 1st and 2nd Street, I spot a bleach blonde Giovanni Ribisi with a goth girl crossing La Brea. Since we were stopped at a light, I looked right at him and catching me, he looked back. It was odd. Now, the adventure begins.

Apparently, the LA Marathon was Sunday. Rather than there being any signs up alerting us to closed roads (as they usally post them in NY), we have to find out as we approach a blocked road and have to turn down another street that is utterly congested. This makes LA drivers even worse than normal. While NYers don't usually follow lanes because you can't see the lines in the road, so they meander from one possible lane to another, or just make their own, LA people totally disregard the very obvious and needed lanes. I've decided it is because everyone still drives while on their cell phones. That might be too generous however. Let's say they're just dumb as a box of rocks. We managed to save ourselves from several possible side-swipes by very expensive cars and their dim-witted drivers. "Retard" is now cemented in my vocabulary due to this weekend's driving adventures.

So, finally, at the airport, I manage to make my plane just before they shut the doors by sprinting from security. I never felt so much relief as we crossed the US, getting closer to New York. And when we land, as I hear it is 40 degrees and drizzling, I feel happy. I go to baggage claim D2 and stand with a man 2 feet away on his cell phone, waiting for the conveyer to come on and bags to go by. I'm exhausted. As people start coming around, I start people watching, one of my favorite things. This is when I notice the guy I've been standing next to, with an NFL cap on, is Tom Arnold, claim to fame that he married Roseanne Barr. As any typical NYer, I notice it is him, but don't say anything. Why would you? After 5 minutes, some guy makes a beeline to stand right behind Tom and waits for him to get off the phone. This guy, definitely from LA, proceeds to say "Tom Arnold!" and puts his hand out to shake Tom's. Let me mention it is 12:30am and we just got off a 5 hour flight. Tom looks tired. He shakes the guy's hand and the guy proceeds to try and start a conversation in his uppity car salesman voice, "I'm Joe Blow with FOX!" Tom: "Oh, yeah, great." Tom, not so subtlely walks away and sits with his back to everyone so he can continue making his business calls. The guy, with egg on his face in front of everyone, just stands there. What a retard.

I'm not sure what it is about LA that makes me shudder. Brandon ventured it has something to do with the city's layout. Everything is so spread out that it isn't conducive to relationships or bonds. He's right, nothing seems to fit together--everything is just kinda there haphazardly declaring, "I can be here if I want to and if you don't like it, tough." No harmony. And the people are out there to just get famous or make money or be rich or be noticed or get plastic. Brandon said some Japanese woman tourist was shocked he gave her directions because the dozen people she asked before him either brushed her off, ignored her, or said "Fuck off!" Holy Jumping Jimminy Cricket! Why not give her directions? To your city? NYers are always more than willing to stop and give directions to anywhere as long as they know where it is--this includes subway directions ("Take the 6 train downtown to 59th street, transfer to the N or W going downtown and get off at 5th Avenue") and explaining the avenues (East-West: York, 1st, 2nd, 3rd, Lexington, Park, Madison, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th, 10th, 11th, 12th).

I've always said that you're either an LA person or a San Fran person; I'm obviously the latter. And, sadly, LA and I still can't have any kind of relationship. We're going to have to agree that I'm normal and it isn't. I have also come to understand why so many Hollywood types are so lonely and unhappy and why others commit suicide like Jonathan Brandis. Once you've fallen off your ride to fame, no one cares about you. They shrug you off and don't give a second thought as to whether or not they've hurt your feelings or pushed you over the edge. With that kind of treatment towards the once rich and famous, how does that bode for the average person who isn't after all that fame and fortune hub-bub? Not very well. That's LA. I've only ever been satisfied being on the coast of LA like in the Palisades, so maybe I can visit there, but not LA proper, never again. So, this is me, shrugging off LA, AGAIN, the 12th level of hell, the pit, the void, absent of interesting people to talk to, and I'm not giving it a second thought.

Life imitating art

As a huge movie fanatic, I've seen all the lovely sappy romantic comedies that chicks see. I also see the action flicks, but I'll expand on that when I visit Tunisia. Today, in Los Angeles, it was like Love Actually morphed with Pretty Woman. You know that last scene in Love Actually, the montage of actual greetings at the airport the director took, with all the people hugging and kissing and what not. I felt like I was watching that at the Los Angeles airport as I waited for Liane. Unlike the flick, no one was allowed at the gate, so the greetings took place at the curbside pick up area. All the young folks came out of baggage claim and as their ride pulled over, there was a huge smile spread across the arrivers face. As the driver approaches there are either squeals of joy, huge hugs and longing kisses, or hi-fives and those strange manly bump-hugs--whatever they call them. And then, off they go, onto the LA road. It was really a joy to watch--you never realize how amazing it is to watch other people go through the spectrum of anticipation, joy, elation, and comfort. It makes you all warm and fuzzy inside.

Cut to Pretty Woman. I'm dressed in jeans, sneakers, a long sleeve jean jacket, and a scarf around my neck, walking to the Kodak Center with Liane who is dressed in jeans, flats, and a long sleeve sweater jacket. On our way there, chatting about food and her dog, an SUV drives by with the passengers yelling, "$5 to lick your pussy!" and "Hooker? Hooker?" I felt like I should have been in that scene with Julia Roberts and Laura San-Giacomo walking down Hollywood Boulevard, but I wasn't dressed for it. Dear god! I'm now thinking hookers in LA don't dress like hookers anymore. From what I saw, all the clubber chicks now dress like streetwalkers and I'm assuming, the streetwalkers dress like...normal people. Must make it hard for people to distinguish between them. On top of that, I've never been yelled at like that anywhere (except for Kansas City, MO, when I was leaving a formal event and dressed in a cocktail dress... guess no one dresses nicely there)--not even New York, not San Francisco, not Hawaii. People must be hard up for sex in LA. Is this what they do for shits and giggles on a Friday night here? I'm now certain my decision to move to NY over LA was probably the best decision I've made in my adult life.

I love me some care packages

This is my ode to Jano

Land of rock and ice,
Sexy boy, oh so nice.
Tiny bits of joy in muslin.
Liquid glass, three times lightning.
Vicarious inhabitance chills me through,
McMurdo vest, how I love you.

I asked for rocks from Antarctica, any tiny piece of earth. I used to have many boxes of rocks filled with quartz, volcanic whatever, you name it, when I was a kid. I loved to play with them all and look at the different layers of color and shiny flecks. Jano brought me back to my days of yore when he sent me a care package with 3 bits of Antarctic rock. A beautiful black stone, another that could be a huge shark tooth with a stripe of red through the middle, and an off-white quartz-like stone with flecks of black. I'll keep them with me always. And hey, what's this? McMurdo Station items: three shot glasses, a hat, and a vest. Sigh.... You're my hero. I knew that trough of cookies and goodies from Hawaii would be enough to guilt you into sending me some cool stuff. Jano is my hero and I can't wait to go to Miami to check out all the hot guys with him.

What's the world coming to?

While I have put law school on hold as I try to determine whether or not I want to attend, there are always those few news stories that light that fire for me to go. I'm not talking about the Martha Stewart trial. That just makes me wonder how sick we are as a society to have propelled some people so high in the limelight and financially and then revel in their demise. I'm talking about all the sickos in this world that roam the streets and prey on little kids. In prison, they are the scum under that filthy dirt bottom beneath the layers of urine and feces that maggots won't touch. I'm shocked these people have the balls to do what they do.

I was reading on CNN.com about 2 seperate pedophiles. One in Belgium who lured and kidnapped six young girls into his basement with a specially built holding cell where he "raped, abused, and murdered." Four girls were killed including two eight year old schoolmates: they were starved to death. Two others were drugged, wrapped in plastic, and buried alive in his backyard. The other two girls were rescued. Overlooking the fact that he was dumb enough to bury his victims in his backyard, this guy is a sick and twisted animal. If he doesn't have a psychiatric problem, he better come up with one, because no human being can possibly think this was an okay thing to do. But could anyone be any sicker? How about a 41-year-old Sacramento man who sexually assaults a two-month-old infant, takes photos of him performing said acts, and distributing them over the Internet? Holy bejesus! Now I'd just about say the distributing over the Internet has to be a cry for help, but man, try and see a therapist before committing a crime on someone that was a zygote a few months ago!

Reading these stories just makes me want to head to law school and prosecute some sick puppy ass. And my friends wonder why I'm for the death penalty. There are some people we just can't rehabilitate or who have committed such depraved acts, I don't see why we should. And while a hospital for the criminally insane seems to be a good place for these people, I question why my tax dollars need to be spent on caring for individuals who will bring nothing good into this world when it could be spent on education, the environment, or the Mars Program.

While many of my friends think I'm just a trigger happy bitch wanting to electrocute anyone who shoplifts a Tic-Tac, I'm not. I just think that there are some crimes that are unforgivable. But if lethal injection is too much for a child molester, I'm all for castration. A former YMCA camp counselor in Texas underwent voluntary castration to control his sexually deviant behavior today. He still faces a charge of sexually assaulting a 5-year-old day camper. Blech! Castrate them! I know we can't force castration, but medically speaking, it works. It has been shown to help curb the aggressive sexual behavior of male rapists, molesters, and other sexual deviants by decreasing the testosterone in their system.

I often wonder if sexual deviance of this nature is a result of the industrialized world or if it is a result of the modern world. Do you think it was normal for neanderthal men to attack younger women and help them bear fruit? Even in the animal kingdom, the males have to court the females and show that their genes are worthy of being passed on. *sigh* If anyone has the answer, please let me know, because I can't fathom how you could explain a 41-year-old and an infant.

Party like it's 1999

This year will be my 5 year college reunion. I have these feelings of anticipation and trepidation resulting in expectation which is probably a bad thing (see my entry for February 13). I wonder what people will look like, what they'll be doing, and what they'll think of me which is ironic since I usually don't care much what people think of me. People will reminisce and regret and wish they spent more time on their diet before showing up. So my weekend in San Francisco felt a lot like a college reunion.

First, how about meeting with a college professor for lunch with full discussion of the current class subject: the trial of Dame Alice Kyteler, a medieval Irish witch, or so they say. It is nice to have discussions with an intellectual after years of not being in school. It reminds you that at one time, you could have those thought provoking and deep conversations on anything and that now, you can't.

When class is over, it is time to play, so how about dinner with friends I haven't seen from 2 weeks to 9 nine years ago but with a full on bar. Or, how about 4 bars? It was just like a night out in Palo Alto except in the Mission. We ate, we drank, we were obnoxious and funny and met new people and made funny poses in front of very interesting murals of a topless woman bartender at the back bar of the Mission Bar. I bought two bottles of champagne for our group to celebrate Susan and Damien's recent engagement (another sign I'm aging and another singleton, lost to the breach). People flaked or missed trains which resulted in us eating an hour and a half later.

And then, the bars. We went to Art for coffee to wake ourselves up and meet up with Melissa who I unjustly lost on our way to Club Latin Americain where, after many cell phone updates to Steve, Nate finally got in to drink himself silly and Shanna and Liz surprised me. This was followed by the aforementioned mural at the Mission Bar when Nate ditched us for the Elbow Room. Ahhh! Just like school! It was down to Susan, Damien, Shanna and her boy, Steve, and me by the time last call came at 2am, so we stumbled out into the brisk Bay Area air and headed home to Sandman Land.

Much like a Saturday morning back in school, I slept in late due to the long night before. I was up in time to fill my day with the crab festival though I mostly ate octopus and oysters, coordinate dinner for 8 people and then, what night wouldn't be complete without a frat party? Okay, it wasn't exactly a frat party. It was a house party with the cream of the Silicon Valley crop: programmers, engineers, and techies to the max—all trying a little too hard and not knowing what to do with themselves. It was a great house and the jacuzzi was very popular. It wouldn't be a real party unless the fuzz came to break it up which they did under the guise of bigamy or some random statute they thought of, at which point we piled ourselves back into Tom's tiny sports car and headed back to the city.

After my latest jaunt to San Francisco, I'm a bit more hesitant to attend my college reunion. Honestly, the people I want to see are the people I probably keep in touch with. Do I really want to know what happened to that guy I dated freshman year or whether he finally came out of the closet? Or what about the girl down the hall who cursed me out for wanting grapes in my dining hall? Or reminisce about my underwear that got stolen along with my dirty laundry (who does that and do they actually wash it and then wear it?). What about my draw mates who for one reason or another wanted to decapitate me with a rusty, dull knife? Or the boy I pined over but lost my chance (rather, I probably threw it away) who now thinks I'm the scourge of the Earth (or worse, is indifferent towards my existence) so I can relive that very exciting time? With all the changes on my campus, it probably wouldn't even have the same feeling as when I was there. And the people you really want to see, the weirdos who would make reunion worthwhile probably won't even show up. Damn you all! If there was a list of people that told us who was coming and whether or not they would be performing that night (either improv or prepared) it would make the trip more rewarding and probably more enticing. I want Chris Carey to re-enact his tryout for the Tree (notice I didn't say relive Big Game when he got trampled by disgruntled Berkeley students) and maybe even Andy Bradley in his Chariots of Fire run around the claw.

I guess reunions are meant for misty-eyed moments and reminiscing about the younger, fitter, more popular you with more hair. But I have issues marrying myself too much to the past and would much rather move on toward the future. You can always look back and feel regret over that boy or girl, that missed moment, that lost opportunity, but I'm a firm believer in everything happens (or doesn't happen) for a reason. And regret is a dirty word. I try not to regret anything and take as many opportunities as are presented to me. Carpe diem! Carpe diem! I've noticed with age, the desire to be adventurous and take chances wanes and people try to be more calculating, though that could just be the logistical programmer in me. I'm trying to break free, to be passionate, to say what's on my mind and rebirth the me that I used to be—open like a book and honest like Simon Cowell though maybe less abrasive. Maybe that's what reunions are really for: to remind you of how full of life and idealistic we were about the future and give us a jumpstart to do something different and follow the passions we left behind for responsibility and retirement plans. Whatever the case, I still advise everyone to get a good personal trainer and work off the pounds you might have gained since graduating—if nothing else, people will judge you by that.