Those look like kneepads

Jason Mraz played at the Beacon Theatre last night on his Curbside Prophets Tour with Makana and an amazing one-man reggage/soul/jazz band Raúl Midón. He is the trumpet minus the actual brass instrument. Not surprisingly, the theatre was filled with hundreds of screaming girls. Maybe even more disturbing was that these girls were mostly 13 year-old uptown rich gals trying to emulate Britney Spears. Those who were not, were not music lovers really--you can certainly dislike someone's music, but stop being such a stuck up, negative bitch in the women's lavatory line. Looking other women up and down while we're all waiting to urinate doesn't make you cool; it makes you freakish in that gimpy sort of way.


When Jason finally took stage at about 930, the stampede of teeny boppers to the stage begins. Did I mention this was a theatre? Meaning my seats 8 rows from the stage were like seats, not standing room. So security had to ask the girls to return to their seats. And after 10 minutes, they'd come back; the Sisyphusian myth in action. They'd stand to the far right of the stage at least so my view was not obstructed. One older, I'd say 40-something and her husband cursed out a 15 year old about 4 rows ahead for standing up and dancing during "You and I Both." Hello, people, this is a concert--I'm sure Jason would have loved it if we all stood up and danced. Alas, they continued to curse her out and she danced until she was happy. I'm sure she felt kinda guilty though--that knot in her stomach. Alas, they could have stood up since they were sitting to the far right. Hey, shut your eyes and take a cue from Raúl Midón (who is happily blind) and just listen to the music.

But the most curious moment had to be the heart-throb honeys, at the denoument of "You and I Both" or maybe "The Remedy" tossing their bras and panties onstage. After a few more songs, Jason makes comments about his percussionist being the only woman on tour with 16 guys and regales us with his "ew, a bra on the floor" story. That's when he says, "oh hey, that is a bra." He picks up one of the gifted undergarments to show us all. It must have been the Ultimate WonderBra promising to quadruple your cup size. After remarking how he could probably eat his cereal out of the cups (I think it makes a better sling for boulders), he looks again at them in disbelief and says, "They look like kneepads." Couple songs later, he tosses it out into the audience. Some poor guy probably got slung with it, but just as it's flying through the air into center orchestra, row 6, a squeaky voiced 13 year old standing at the end of my row screams out "Wait, that's my bra! I need it back!" She's wearing a halter top and I can only imagine how she looked wearing that bra, because it was ironing board heaven on that girl. When we were leaving, we saw her go back to find her endowed-unendowments with some girlfriends. The things you teeny bopper girls do. This is why my daughters will never dress like hoochie mamas to rock concerts if I even let them go.

Jason proved himself a performing pro: maybe because of his musical theatre training. He had tons of stories and knew exactly how to interact with the audience. Witty and smart and the kind of ingenuity Justin and Britney only read about in fairy tales, he's your ultimate musician who treats his audience like intelligent human beings he genuinely wants to share stories with. I hope he never gets so big he has to play Madison Square Garden. I know, bite my tongue, but I prefer live theatre to mega-blockbuster geared concerts. At least I can say I experienced it: like Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds at Berkeley Theatre. Alas, why not more boys out there with as much wit, humor, talent, and a voice the heavens envy--all out of Mechanicsville, VA.

Shrek it out--on DVD

This weekend, to add some levity to my lethargic and busy life, I went to see Shrek 2. After a four hour rehearsal, I pitter-pattered myself to Union Square to catch the 5:40pm showing of Shrek 2, but upon discovering the 6pm was digital, opted for that showing instead. I plop myself about 8 rows from the front of this tiny theatre and it is nearly empty. I realizing, as the sounds of conversation start coming into focus, this is a cartoon... which means there will be children. I love kids, but there are two places they shouldn't be taken without a "if you don't behave we're gonna leave you there" speech: airplanes and movie theatres.

In an airplane, you're stuck in a confined space until you arrive at your destination and a kid can get antsy. Kicking seats, making obnoxious comments, being loud, and crying for attention are unacceptable behaviors. I understand a baby that cries while the plane descends (I have a couple of times wanted to do the same the pressure was so bad on my ears) or a baby for that matter if traveling across country, in a place. But a four year old can have a certain amount of decorum to keep his or her shit together. I flew all the time as a child and got tons of free things from crew member for being polite and quiet. Maybe that's incentive. A movie theatre, however, is not an acceptable place for a baby. Even some children should be left at home and unlike a plane, you cna actually pick yourself up and take your child out of the theatre. Any child under 4 years of age, pretty much, is a DVD watcher. But, this Sunday, a couple was retarded enough to bring their maybe 18 month old daughter to see Shrek 2... this isn't Teletubbies! The movie did fill up with children, but when the previews started, they all clammed up. Not a sound from a one of them, not even a cell phone went off--which was better than when I went to see Troy and some chick's cell phone went off with some stupid ring--no, not a classical music ring--think of the most anoying ring ever--got it: that's it. However, once the previews ended and the movie begun, the young kid in her stroller in the aisle, presenting itself as a ire hazard, begins the annoying cry. Not "wah! wah!" but a high pitched nasally "eeeehhnnnnnn!" Through the first 15 minutes of the film, rather than taking the child out of the theatre to quiet her down, they just turn to her, in her stroller and try to soothe her. Then they take her out and hold her, trying to soothe her again. The people in front make a comment--so would I!--and after 5 more minutes of "eeeehhnnnnn!" they leave. And all is quiet but the flick.

The flick was a parody of all those recognizable pop culture staples and blockbusters: Mission Impossible, The Fifth Element, The Simpsons, The Fabulous Baker Boys, Ghostbusters, Beauty and the Beast. Alas, it wasn't enough to keep me enthralled. There were only a few items that kept me interested. One was Prince Charming played brilliantly by Rupert Everett (I think he'd be a dashing James Bond, gay or no) and drawn with that momma's boy perfection with Burger King-like crown on head after getting his Happy Meal-like order from a fast food drive thru. Fairy Godmother, played by Jennifer Saunders of AbFab fame--too delicious. You love her, you hate her, you don't know whether to kiss her or hit her, but both kinda excite you. But the one character they are and will continue to talk about it the only character worth watching played with the precision of a voice master (and what a voice it is) and drawn to the characteristic T of a real feline: Puss In Boots, aka Antonio Bandera. I cannot say enough about this animated drawing and yet, no words can convey the artistic and creative flair Mr. Banderas took to impart such endearing and cat-like qualities to this character. You can't help but want to hug him--and then, like a cat, you've just opened yourself up to his claws of peril. Beware of the doe eyes. It is worth the $10.25 to see Puss, but only a one-timer film. If you're saving your pennies, wait 6 months for the DVD or Pay-Per-View.

And on the Sopranos (here's the spoiler if you haven't seen it) poor Adriana can't keep her shit together and the stress has caused her to have colitis. Yummy. She also gets caught in a murder cover-up with a guy who deals drugs probably for terrorist funding and almost gets choked to death by Christopher. He can't do it, but Silvio can. Now, she can fly to LA and film "Joey" for NBC.

Tonight, Tonight: Jason Mraz at the Beacon Theatre for his Curbside Prophets Tour with Hawaiian slack-key guitarist Makana.

Things fall apart

Talk about disenchanted. During Monday's rehearsal, our director cut out the joke Rosencrantz makes about "a Christian, a Moslem, and a Jew" because she feels it would be inappropriate. Inappropriate? Let's burn some books while we're at it. I'm really disgusted with that choice; especially because she chose to keep his "A Hindu, a Buddhist and a lion-tamer" line; it is now completely tangential and not funny at all. Either cut both lines out or keep 'em both in, but cutting the first because of the stupid political climate--come on! And I don't mean to play director, but the line where Rosencrantz yells "Fire!" and then says "they should all burn in their shoes"--that's directed to the audience and then not; in a way because R&G have no idea where they are or why. It somehow, gets lost. We've got 2 weeks to pull it together.

I spent a good part of Monday complaining to Verizon about problems with my new cell phone. Mike, my sales representative, is a moron. He mucked up my order, gave me false information, and refused to return or answer my calls. A nice woman from customer service named Landa ironed everything out for me. I'm writing a letter to Verizon Wirless Inc about Mike and his compulsive lying. On the positve end, I have come out of the dark ages and my friends will be happy to learn I can now send and receive text and picture messages, IM, and make lovely phone calls from my new phone.

Last night, I had dinner with Liane who is in town for her brother, Alan's graduation from Columbia College at Columbia University. To deafening silence, Rachel and I lectured her (I hate doing that) on dating older divorcees with baggage. She's not 100% happy with the current slob who uses her apartment like a slum lord's tenement. She's no squeaky-clean either, so to hear this, he must be a total louse who can't pick up after himself. Maybe it is because he is French which is why he so ineloquently expressed it was her duty to clean up after him and is a completely jealous freak. Unless he lets his divorce baggage go and starts realizing he's dating an American woman, I think his reign as her boyfriend will be usurped by someone else... or he'll get thrown out via a Liane uprising. Rachel and I continued with our love for being single (though we are both unhappy with the dating scene in New York which is like trying to cure stupidity--impossible) and how Liane may actually enjoy it out in LA with all the young, available, and intelligent men. Granted, Liane is kinda a status whore herself since she wants someone with a college education (too bad; that rules out billionaire Virgin mogul, Richard Branson), an excellent portfolio and retirement plan, and who will adore her and shower her with goods and attention. She and I are completely opposite in this manner. Not saying those things wouldn't be icing on the cake for me, but NY is filled with those types and it only causes me agita or maybe it was heartburn. And could they send out anymore mixed and confused signals?

We ended our dinner at Pipa with chocolate brownie and ice cream and headed for tea at Rue 57; all the way uptown. I got home, exhausted and Aurora, my little girl, got fed. Unfortunately, for some reason, she threw up her food. I'm not sure why and I'm concerned because about a month ago she did the same thing with wet food she didn't want. This was her normal dry food; came out like sausage without the casing. I felt so bad, but she was able to eat the rest of her food and she was fine. There was nothing weird in her vomit (aren't you glad you're reading this entry) and she was fine later. Still, I'll have to keep an eye on her--she's doing so much better since her antibiotic treatment and only a few more days to go.

Tonight, I saw Kill Bill Vol. 2 again with Alex. Awesome flick--you don't realize, but Tarantino writes women really well; I mean whole, complete, saavy women. I like a filmmaker who treats his audience and his characters like real adults, not stupid ninnies.Tomorrow, more rehearsal, work, and hanging with my talkative kitty.

Meatpacking mayhem under the deep blue sea

Saturday night, Cyndi and I ventured out into the Meatpacking District after months of not hanging out for various reasons and plans that fell through. Decked out in my new fedora and a flirty white linen skirt, we headed to the Maritime Hotel to kick off the evening.

When I arrived at the hotel, a clap of thunder struck and the rain came pelting down. I meet Cyndi under the awning of the entrance and am informed we can't go to the bar through the hotel but have to walk, around the block, in the rain, to use the bar entrance because this *special* entrance is for hotel guests only. We couldn't even stand inside the glass doors to stay dry. I have immense dislike for this hotel. While standing there, for a good 20 minutes, a British woman, wholey drenched, is turned away by the door guy and she makes a complete scene. She asks for the manager who lets her in and we, still, just standing there. The door guy, I decide, is a putz and this greater-than-thou hotel is not so great. Do not patronize this place unless you're one of those hoity-toity types who likes to run from the entrance in the rain to a car to buy your drugs and bring back to the hotel, as we saw one older gay gentleman do.

We take ourselves two blocks south to Gaslight where my fedora starts working its magic and the compliments and introductions start rolling. We are first approached by two very drunken man-boys or boy-boys, whatever, who want to entice us with a game of "let us guess your age?" Just a note, boys, this is *not* the best way to pick up a woman. They could've been smarter about it and just complimented the hat and her jewelry which I thought was very mod and lovely. No, instead they guess she's much younger than she is and I'm much older than I am. That pretty much started nailing their coffins. Then, the blondish guy talking to me... whose name is forgettable, starts chatting to me up about how his buddy Dave, the birthday boy, is his best friend and the greatest guy ever. Yadda, yadda, something about suicide of a friend, how he's awesome. Then, he pretty much buries himself when I start asking questions about him and he just shakes his head because he doesn't want to talk about the three things he's passionate about. He starts, but only give superficial answers. He gives me a really perplexed look and says, "You're challenging, I like that." Not two minutes later, "Why do you have to be so challenging?" Um, I'm sorry, just because you had 10 beers which gives you alcohol-induced confidence, I'm supposed to lay down and spread 'em? Oh please. I don't ask what he does, because I figured, he's some money-monger who parades his benjamins like a soldier with his stripes and am justified by this when he say, "Now listen to me: Dave and I are VERY SUCCESSFUL PROFESSIONALS." Professional what--liars? morons? drunks? I've become annoyed by him, even more so when he places his beer on the bouncer's stool even though it is labeled reserved for the bouncer; I find that rude and classless. He finally gives up and goes away.

Cyndi and I recap our first sad encounter, a couple more fedora compliments walk by, and two older 40-somethings decide to collect themselves and entice us. We're the most pizzazzy girls they have seen in this place. Pizzazzy? I'm ready to go, but can see Cyndi is digging tall, dark, and handsome (not to mention classy) gentleman while verbally incontinent hand-roamer is still trying to get me with pizzazzy. The rain lets up and the four of us head to one of my preferred places, Rhone, where they buy us drinks, but we've established that we're showing these out-of-towners (Miami) the Meatpacking District nightlife--we're not their pick-ups. Touchy-feel-me is the more obnoxious one. Tall-dark is the gentleman. I spot a tall, cute boy in a red shirt about 20 feet away and use the "bluebird in the nest" signal (don't ask) to alert Cyndi, I found a cute boy. I manage to slip past him later and say hi. I've made enough eye-contact to get a fleet of rescue planes to spot me in fog and so has he in about 10 minutes, but alas! all I get is a "bye" as he leaves with his group of friends. Bye? That's what I get for liking them young. Young and spineless.

Cyndi has grown more attached to tall-dark and they want to go to Lotus. I do not. BUT, I'm the best wing-woman, so I go with. I hate Lotus. Cyndi and I meander, somehow lose the older gents as tall-dark helps verbally incontinent find a chicky for the night. We leave after she has hit on the bouncer and a 24-year-old tries his hand with her.

I have to acknowledge, Bridget Harrison's article in the NY Post on how men in NY act like kids in a candy store is true in many ways. But it isn't like they are guys who want the L.A. Burdick mouse truffles; they only want Hershey Kisses or M&Ms. That is, they want it cheap and easy yet can satiate their current desires. Anything that involves investing time for quality apparently needs to have 36C bra size and be blonde, 5'9" and 110 lbs. Keep dreaming. I am extremely wary of people in general who think that things in life shouldn't be a challenge. Who'd want to stay at a job that doesn't challenge them? Don't we strive to overcome difficult tasks in order to feel they are worthwhile? And for her girls are mean response to her previous article: yes, they are. Many are--without a doubt. They tout how the current boy they are dating makes this much, got his MBA at Harvard, and takes the company jet to the Hamptons over the summer. I think there are tons of money-grubbing, status-seeking, social-climbing harpies who make it hard on the rest of us gals who want a nice bloke who doesn't parade his cash, job, or degree around like medals. Personality is underrated as a result and you get these mindless, colorless clones of financial analysts and lawyers trying to fit in a mold that is similar to the mold many women try to fit in with their anorexic bodies and huge breasts. I'm not saying I want to date Quasimodo; attraction still has to exist, but I don't need any bling-bling to make me happy. If I lose it, then what?

Sunday, I helped finish painting my godson's new bedroom in the city. Shenan and Alex are moving in this weekend and there are so many handsome boys in their building. This could be a good omen or just more drunken successful professionals. The theme of the room: under the sea. Doesn't it sound like a prom theme? It is lovely and we used some Ralph Lauren textured paint (River Rock) to do the sand part of the wall--very good and looks exactly like sand! That kid is one lucky baby.

This week, I've got more rehearsals (we need work), a haircut, my new cell phone coming in (Thank you Mike at Verizon Wireless--the best customer service), Liane in town though briefly, Shenan and Alex's big move, and Aurora's last week of meds. Also, if you haven't already, go check out Troy. Forget Brad Pitt. Eric Bana is this movie's gorgeous creature. As the brave and admirable Hektor, he's the man every woman will want to drool over. All those Aussie men... how do they do it?

Watch It: Troy with Brad Pitt, Eric Bana, Orlando Bloom, Peter O'Toole, Brian Cox, Sean Bean, Brendan Gleeson, Julie Christie, Diane Kruger, Saffron Burrows, Rose Byrne.

Go Spartans!

I don't watch American Idol--I think it is a silly show; a very silly show actually. I have friends who have tried out for it and believe me, the best singers do not always make it on--as is obvious by the preliminary tryouts with the "Like a Virgin" ninny and his 15 minutes of infamy (but it was well worth it to see that guy). Add to that, my loyalties only carry over to my closest friends who I would even consider giving a kidney to (I said *consider*). This year, however, AI made it over to Hawaii and a seventeen year old named Jasmine Trias is on the show, competing for a record deal. And while I am as fond of my high school experience as most people would be fond of acquiring ebola, she is a student at my alma mater, Maryknoll, so I have to show my support.

I have a need to address this issue with her making the top three however. I know people think it is very "wrong" that La Toya London got voted off and not Jasmine, but hey, tough spam musubi for you! If anything, it shows that Hawaii isn't just a couple of specks in the middle of the ocean, but a force to be reckoned with. When it comes to supporting one of our own; yellow, red, green, orange, white, brown, black, or paisley, we come out like a flaming homosexual (maybe not the best analogy, but I like it). There is something to be admired about the people who stick to the team they favor. Boston Red Sox and New York Yankee fans are rabid. New York Mets fans, probably the most loyal--even when their team sucks. What you have to admire is, win, lose, draw, or suck, they stick behind that team.

If you are one of those Britney Spears fans, you don't have much place to argue that Jasmine can't sing--have you ever heard Britney TRY to sing a note? There is a reason why she lip-syncs. Plus, they have computer programs now that can take a very shakey song and "fix" the bad notes. So if Britney is off-key half a song in the studio, this handy little computer can fix it and you, the sick, all-consuming public can buy it. Blech!

Elton John can take a valium with his "America is racist" attitude when the Three Divas were in the bottom three. Um, hello? Jasmine isn't white! Or do your colored shades blind you from seeing she's kinda brownish. Scientifically, we're all just a shade of brown anyway, but I digress. She's Filipina-Spanish-Chinese. Stick that in your proverbial hat. To my knowledge, the last four all look pretty ethnic to me. Can we please leave the race thing out of this though? It is so retarded when that is all you have to go to. People didn't vote for the loser; maybe s/he wasn't endearing enough, maybe not enough energy. Britney keeps 'em coming back and I still don't know why, but I dug her debut single (so embarrassed) so there must be something to her marketability.

This isn't to say Jasmine sings like Britney. I'm just using BS as an example. I think, and I only karaoke occasionally, that Jasmine's got a pretty great voice that a little more time and training and practice will help her develop into a great songbird. And she's gotta stop singing those songs with a low range. She's more on the mezzo/soprano side than alto. If she needs to change the arrangement or key, do it, make it your own, but don't try and copy the original. Go with what your voice can do.

So, with that rant, I just have to say, GO SPARTANS! Jasmine has faced quite a daunting task by being ridiculed on national television and still coming back to do her damnedest. I have got a lot of respect for someone who keeps on going, who doesn't give up, and who gives it her all. That's all you can do with the life you're given. She needs to stay on that path and keep doing her best. Win or lose, that's what counts.

To search for the truth is the goal we have in life
To hope, trust, and honor the faith that we believe
To share with each other, the ideals of Maryknoll
That love is the greatest gift in life

Reading: Jailbird by Kurt Vonnegut
Listening: Poetry and Aeroplanes by Teitur

Ruined travel plans made anew

Now that travel to anywhere outside the US makes me a target of sexual assaults thanks to the intelligent servicemen and women who humiliated those Iraqi prisoners, I have to suspend travel plans to Europe, South America, definitely the Middle East... pretty much anywhere outside the US until next spring when I head to Japan. This can be seen as either immensely inconvenient and boring, leaving me to US travel destinations this summer... I still have about 38 states to visit; or it can be seen as a creative challenge. Where can I go? As it turns out, I've never been to Canada. What's in Canada besides Canucks? I've always wanted to go to Nova Scotia; it has the highest tide on Earth at Fundy Bay in Minas Basin: anywhere from 12-16.5 meters. During low-tide, you can walk the ocean bottom of the bay: how cool is that? When the bay is full, sail off and catch the whales playing during the summer including the very rare Northern Right Whale, Humpback, Minke, Finback, Sei, Blue, Killer Whales as well as Bottle-nose, Saddle-backed, Striped, and Atlantic White-sided Dolphins. How about the lovely landscape and geologic architecture? I'm thinking of Evangeline Trail for a lovely little hike and Briar Island for amazing views--to replace my jaunt to summit Mt. Fuji. The cliffs rise off the sea and produce spectacular views of the Bay. And if I can't go to Ireland, I can go to Cape Breton Island where the Scottish and French settlers came and Celtic culture thrives to this day.

After some math, I realize, I'm going to have to pick maybe one or two places to visit as the drive from Halifax to Digby is a good 3-1/2 hours! I figure, I'll have to keep myself in one main area over a few days which means driving to Digby when I arrive for a 2 day stay, perhaps to Cape d'Or (a 3 hour drive from Wolfville) for 2 days, then back to Halifax (2 hour drive) for one day and fly out of Halifax back to NYC. This trip requires I take someone with me so I'm back to trying to find someone who wants to travel with me to someplace they have never gone during the lovely summer months.

What spurred this on? I have wanted to go for a couple years now, but lame boyfriends and limited finances due to hefty airfares left me waiting... until now, when my lovely American Airlines has 3 non-stop daily trips to and from Halifax, Nova Scotia, starting June 10 (I'm American's unofficial spokeswoman; they should pay me!). So, while I learn my Japanese, I can plan my trip to Nova Scotia for this September. Any Nova Scotians should feel free to e-mail me and tell me what I shouldn't miss. This is your land, you know it, so you ought to tell me where to go.

Reading: Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk

Don't judge me

I think I'm on number 26 in regards to the number of people I know who are engaged now which, in addition to the number of people I know who are married, ups my grand total to 42 smug couples. As is my running topic, I'm looking at the number of smiling couples planning their nuptials and feeling that pressure--more so this week after talking New Year's wedding in SF for Susan and seeing all my married/engaged friend this week. I've succeeded in keeping clear from fiancé status by meeting and pursuing emotionally unavailable (also known as stunted, immature, retarded) men. While they can be altogether unfulfilling and dissatisfactory in many ways, the one thing that I fear is the engaged/married couple judging me and my single lifestyle.

I went to a concert last night with Shenan and Alex, my two closest friends who are married. We hung out and danced and chatted ourselves away. Also present, Jamie and his fiancé Lauren, and Raman and Jess who are also engaged. So there I was, the free-wheeling single gal feeling out of place in this group. Everyone coupled up with one another and me, the sixth toe. It isn't a bad situation so much as a lonely one; like everyone is in on the joke but you. What makes this worse is the silent or very vocal judging my friends knowingly or unknowingly do. A passing or off-hand comment in which they've gone from "you're so cool" to "what the hell is wrong with you?" For some reason, I am judged based on my single status, the type of men I date, the type of social activities I engage in, specifically the late bar nights. They may not know they are doing this, but it is pretty obnoxious.

Now, I know that you're married/engaged and I'm happy for you, but please, dear Lord, don't ask me when I'm getting hitched. It is as if your moving on to married life means you have somehow achieved the next level of enlightenment. Oh please, sometimes the step after that is divorce. I'm single, let me be. As for the fact you've decided to stop dating recklessly, that doesn't give you the right to suddenly decide that because I haven't makes me weird or weak or sick or somehow less of a person than I am. Don't tell me what's wrong with the guys I date (I probably already know) and don't think you can somehow solve it and usher me into coupledom with someone you think would be "nice" for me. Likely, he's not my type. And I like to go out late and have fun with my few single friends left so you're telling me how empty it is does not make me want to stop doing it. I'm happy you feel your life is somehow magically fulfilled by another person (god-forbid divorce happens to you!), but maybe I have other things to fulfill my life that do not revolve around another person. It grows immensely disconcerting when former single turned engaged/married friends try to take advantage of my single status when it helps them, but can't be there for me in return when I have angst over something or want a buddy to hang out with. Stop the hypocrisy and the judging. No, your life is not more important than mine because you have more tax breaks than I do or will have 12 bridesmaids or are expecting a baby. Just remember, when you do get divorced, you're going to need support from your friends, and if you weren't there to support us and be nonjudgmental, don't expect us to be. You made your bed, you sleep in it.

Is that slight bitterness? Probably. After someone implies I don't have much of a life due to the lack of a relationship status, I tend to get a bit pissy and want to kick 'em off their high-n-mighty ass. This is why I spend much of my time traveling and making myself unavailable: for some reason, it is more acceptable than me having free time and not dating anyone. It is a practive in self-meditation: I'm perfectly fine just the way I am; people who judge me are unhappy in someway and need to make themselves feel better by putting my lifestyle down. Poop on you!

Bartonella or Cat Scratch Disease

What causes cat scratch disease and gingivitis in cats? Bartonella: a happy little bacteria that poor Aurora has had since I adopted her--her gingivitis has only gotten worse, but all her teeth are still in her mouth. A run of antibiotics should clear her by the time we retest her for it in 6 months. Poor kitty. Bartonella causes cat scratch disease in people--that weird swollen thing that some people get after a nasty scratch from a cat. Good thing: once you get it and are cured, you are immune.

While kitty was home play petri dish, I went out to enjoy the glorious day. I spent the morning in Barnes and Noble reading and studying my Japanese. Arisu wa namae desu. Hajimemashite. Doozo yoroshiku. Thank god I can still read hiragana and katana! Then, I strolled through the Asian-American Heritage Festival at Union Square, got a couple CDs at Virgin Records (Matt Nathanson and Teitur), wandered to Mavi Jeans, and then headed home to hit the gym and play with sweet kitty. What a gorgeous and spectacular day. I love the spring.