It's a long season. It's a long season.
I don't mean the season which seems to have descended on us with barely any warning, that is to say, fall, although it has. And how. I am used to my changing seasons being slow fades, not slamming doors. This is, shall we say, new.
I mean the season like the baseball season. My dad always says "It's a long season" when the Diamondbacks start screwing things up terribly towards the beginning of the year. They gave him lots of reasons to say that this year. I picked it up.
It's a mental thing players have to develop so every strikeout isn't the tantrum-throwing bat-breaking end of the world.
It's a long season, I told myself tonight. Although this was less like a strikeout and more like a pop fly, which is almost worse. A waste of breath.
You made contact. The ball sailed. You ran. But right now, you're still headed for the dugout.
It's a long season. You wonder if that's a promise or a threat.
Dude, ain't nobody burnin' down this library. I was in here again tonight doing painful Writing The Essay homework, and what should greet me but one of those fire drills I love so well. Actually, now that I think about it, flashing lights and beeps won't really prevent anybody from burning down the library. They should consider incorporating guys who pop out of turrets and shoot anyone attempting to take a matchbook to the Literary Criticism stacks into their fire preparedness plan. Which, after having to incorporate completely unrelated academic journal nonsense into an already nonsensical assignment this evening, I just might fuckin' consider.
Just kidding, Internet Arson-Implication Police. Really.
I'd just consider it less if I knew some guy was going to pop out of a turret and tag me before I even got the red-headed twig to the strip that says "strike here."
One of the only good things about cold weather, like the kind that's outside tonight, is that if you're lugging around a jacket but you're not wearing it, 'cause you're, aww, I don't know, doing a laborious "exploration" of some art piece in the well-heated library, when you're walking somewhere you can sling it over your shoulder hinged on a couple of fingers, Rat Pack style.
Which brings me to the story of me finding my red jacket, which I had given up for lost as recently as a week ago. Settle in, kids, this one's an epic:
I walked into my closet. It was hanging on a hook.
In all fairness, I don't remember putting it there.
Following that thread, the jacket inspired me to write a free-verse poem in my head this evening. It will now go from my head to yours thanks to the miracle of the Internet.
do you really need
five scoops of ice cream
one from each bucket
placed in your mug (they're all out of dishes)
with an ice cream scoop
that has grown cold and inefficient
i was just done with dinner
slid my tray in the slot out of which mariachi music blares
and went back unencumbered for some ice cream
one flavor, one scoop, plus chocalate chips
snagged a cone
and got in line
only to realize that my red jacket was back at the table
but i didn't want to give up my place
figured it'd be there
i'd be back in plenty of time
and now the scoop is moving
from bucket to bucket
neopolitan to something with pecans
because you failed to consider
were too busy being a glutton to realize
that somebody in line behind you
is an idiot
In the theme of uncapitalized italicized strangely spaced words, here is the conversation two people, a guy who doesn't go here and a freshman girl, were having in the computing stall next to me, or at least the fragments I could parse when I wasn't typing too loudly.
even if you want to go to law school it doesn't matter
i don't go to law school
but the library's not open today
but I get to use the gym
the gym and the...here
where do you live
washington square park, right?
where you from
I've actually lived out here for five years
where do you live
where else you gonna go
get to live in the place I grew up in
my mother's family were Iraqi jews
he's just kind of bumming around
there were about 200,000 people who were Iraqi jews, who all got kicked out or whatever
she was conceived there or whatever
a lot of people tell me America's motivation wasn't pure, but it doesn't matter to me
there's obviously obstacles, but in the end it's all working out
you never know
it was nice meeting you
Now they're exchanging numbers. I wasn't initially going to mentally approve of you going out with this much older guy, girl in computing stall next to me, but this guy has his head on his shoulders. He knows more about the Iraq situation than all the shrill park protestors who claim to have his and his family's interests at heart combined, by virtue of actually knowing people who were there before and are there now.
Fuck the New York Times.
i think the other issue is the extreme economic oppression forced on the Palestinians by the Israelis
Wait, fuck you too, girl.
Now he's telling her off, in hushed tones. Watch her sheltered root cause house of cards collapse.
She's never been there, she says, "Look at the poverty."
He's been there, he says "Look to the mullahs."
I just had to go talk to them, so I did. Now I feel less guilty about recording their conversation, since I made myself a part of it.
My pictures tonight correspond with their subjects. Don't expect that to ever happen again.
Today was a lonely sort of day. I woke up at twoish and took a shower. When I got out of the shower, I had two messages on my phone. I dealt with them in turn...Hammerkatz (the sketch group) wants me to interview tommorrow to join the writing staff. One of the things that makes Hammerkatz so great is that there's a real focus on quality writing, not just whatever material they can throw together to get the show on stage. Part of this process is having an actual staff of permanent writers, who, while they aren't the only ones who are writing for the group, will work with other people who are submitting stuff to make decent material better. I haven't seen it in action, but from what I understand, everybody wins. And based on the material I submitted, they might want me to join, if all goes well tommorrow at one.
Then I went to the library and descended into my subterranean computing den, intent on blogging but I ended up just reading people's blogs, livejournals and the like, and left when I realized I was burning daylight.
I finished Charna Halpern's Truth In Comedy sitting in the park. I got it last night, finished it this afternoon. It's an excellent manual for improv, if a little liberal with exclamation points, name dropping, and example scenes that aren't all that funny. Watched squirrels. Went back home.
Ate dinner at another dorm, because ours isn't open on weekends, or at any reasonable hour on the weekdays, for that matter. Read another book, Moneyball. Realized I was having a rather lonely sort of day.
Ended up seeing a movie tonight, American Splendor, with Dent and Catherine and Catherine's friend Rachel. I think it was Rachel. It could've been Laura. Those two names are, for some reason, interchangable to me. I liked it a lot.
It is important to have someone who, when they call you on your way home from a movie, your step lightens just a little bit.
Originally I had planned to buy a pack of really nice cigarettes, like Dunhills, and smoke one every time I finished something for Dramatic Writing, like a play, something monumental and worth celebrating.
My reward has gotten less hazardous and what I have to do to earn it less monumental.
I just finished writing a not-bad sketch, my first of the year (not bad or otherwise) for Hammerkatz (the sketch group I'm in) and now I want a falafel. It's three AM and I'm hungry again and I feel I've earned it. I'm afraid I'm establishing a dangerous precedent, but it's so cheap. And close. And chickpeatastic.
I'm going. Fuck y'all.
I really miss my friends and family. As you might imagine.
Elissa says nice things about me
Want to find out what the fire alarm in the NYU library sounds like? No, me neither. But the guy on the intercom says I have no choice. He says at this late hour they're going to test the fire alarm and this is only a test, he repeats, this is only a test.
And it just started. Wow. This is exceedingly lame. All the flashy red boxes on the walls, the ones that used to intimidate the fuck out of me for some reason, with their screeching and their promises of imminent disaster, back in elementary school, start flashing and then there's some beeping, not too disimilar from the beep that preceded the announcement that warned me about this drill. I was expecting whooping sirens and a switch to auxilary red lights that would lower from the ceiling. For a second I wanted to feel like I was blogging from the interior of a sinking submarine. I guess that will have to wait 'till I intern with the German navy next semester, for a cramped and tension-filled webjournaling experiment I have tentatively titled Das Blog. This light/sound combination does not say "fire." This says "minor misshelving incident on Floor 3."
I guess this is part of a university-wide evening festival of fire drills. Emilie and I were in the Dramatic Writing lounge, reading this screenplay that was required for our Craft class tommorrow, when her cellphone rang. It was Adrian, who lives in Emilie's dorm. I eavesdropped.
"Let's watch porn later," said Emilie. "Have a good fire drill."
A few minutes later, my phone rang. My roommate Ryan locked himself out of our room and wanted to know when I would be back. He left in such a rush because of, you guessed it, a fire drill.
A clipping from this evening's edition of Fake NYU Newspaper I Publish in My Head:
The New Yorker Festival gets all the ink, but one of Manhattan's most underrated cultural events is NYU's Night of Fire Preparedness, in which a series of alarm tests and evacuations sweeps the campus like an unceasing wave of safety conciousness. Be sure to pick up your commemorative t-shirt at the bookstore.
Less popular is the University's Wanton Arson Evening, whose calendar proximity to the night of harmless drills has kept the NYU Health Center burn ward a veritable parade of disfigurement since the Evening's inception in 1977.
The article gets kind of ridiculous and jokey from there.
I saw Rufus Wainwright at an in-store performance/signing tonight at Barnes and Noble. I'm not really sure who out there that's supposed to impress, I'm just kind of tossing that out there hoping to make someone envious, because I am the pettiest person I know.
He kicks ass, by the way. But I always thought he was British. I was wrong.
Katie the Pirate gave me ten smackeroos through Paypal (see right.) I told Emilie reading that screenplay, which is from the late thirties, tonight, that I was going to start calling dollars "fish" like the corrupt politicians in said script. She told me that was a bad idea. "Smackeroos," though, I think, is a much worse one. Oh well, whatever you call them, Katie Hall gave me ten of them, not one, not five, but ten. Katie has already been doing a lot for me lately, whether or not she knows it.
You see, long ago she wrote something about how she hates her ass. Hard up for subject matter that night, I wrote some one-off about how my ass is really hot, so hot in fact it has declared independence from me and treats me like its bitch. I liked it enough to use it for a monologue in my Dramatic Writing Colloquim this week. So, unconciously, she prevented me from having to write a new monologue (horrors!) and then quite conciously hit me with the sweet cashola. She's like some wonderful young hard-drinkin' partyin' rock-and-roll mixtape making aunt of mine with a kickass website who I've never met. (Not like Rhonda, the aunt I've never met whose website sucks, mostly because she had to take most of the pictures down after she forgot to check that all the performers were 18.) No aunt of mine has ever left me a complimentary stoned comment on my blog, though, which Katie has, adding to the list of things she's done to make HFT the Arguably Fine Blog It Is Today.
Katie, in short, you rock, and way to find true love and land that bearded sucker before he could squirm away.
I lost my red jacket. I can't find my umbrella. Today was one of those ass rainy days where I needed both. If I continue losing shit at this positively third-gradian rate, I will return home for Christmas with one suitcase, containing only socks, none of which will match.
In ominous-parallel-to-my-constant-losing-of-things-news, I'm getting a laptop. My dad ordered a used one from someone online who sells that kind of thing. Quite exciting. I'll probably never take it out, after all, they used to say I'd lose my head if it weren't so obscenely huge and full of useless knowledge about eighties cartoons.
Oh, PS, Guillermo, coolest cat with the blog everyone's talking about, gave me $3.14, in a strange homage to pi. His roommate Mai said in the attendant e-mail that I should get a haircut. I disagree, and so do several girls I know, like the one who emerged from the crowd after my Writing the Essay lecture last night and said "I like your hair. It's good."
"Thanks," I said.
So should I keep the money? I plan to.
Ladies and gentlemen, if you will permit me, I would like to say a word or two about realness.
Realness is often discussed at every level of our society. "Reality" is expounded upon at length in many of my lamer classes, by people who make lots of hand motions and have "Question Everything" and "Bush Lied!" buttons on their backpacks, people who have convictions because they smell too bad to have friends. You may have also seen reality, more specifically its slippery nature, used as an excuse for the swiss-cheese plot of The Matrix: Reloaded. This is not what we're talking about. We are talking about realness.
Realness is not necessarily to be found in phat beats and platinum chains, although those who are said to have karats in they grille tend to ponder the nature of realness more frequently than the rest of us. It is not always dropping dope rhymes, or jocking the bitches.
Realness is many things some of the time, but it is only one thing all of the time.
Realness is Alecia.
Because Alecia is hotter than you and your five hottest friends.
Because Alecia smokes you out and joins you in eating tunnels through birthday cake.
Because Alecia has excellent taste in movies, books, and music, and lets you make out with girls in her bed when she's downstairs getting some of her own.
Because Alecia, who for as many bad habits as she had, is always in the process of quitting at least one.
Because when she's there you'll be drinking with her and when she's not you'll be drinking to her.
Because wherever she is in the world, you can be assured she is the realest person in a five-block radius. Even in the heart of Realsville, she temporarily takes a spot in the top ten.
And most of all, because Alecia hit her boy up with five of her hard-earned fondue dollars in the Paypal jar.
And that, I think we can all agree, is pretty fucking real.
Now I'm off to spend two of those dollars on falafel.
So now I'm in a sketch comedy group bringing the total number of comedy groups I'm in to two reducing my total amount of free time I have by a lot. Thank. Fucking. God.
Free time is overrated. I'm not talking about your weekend evenings, of course, which are sacred and should be epic long things with rotating casts of characters and filtered through a variety of substances, I mean these killer stretches of afternoon I have. The worst part of it is I don't even have the basic modern tools for frittering away the lengthy bastard hours between classes and going out: computers, Instant Messenger, cable, Nintendo. So that makes me feel even more like I ought to be doing something productive, but more often than not I just end up sleeping in the Kimmel Student Center in two of these fantastic chairs they have there.
I felt very much like writing last night. I felt very much like writing right now, but I had nothing to write about then and I'm not much better off this afternoon. I find the worst things you'll ever write you write when you're feeling particularly "writerly," when the act itself supercedes the neccesity of something to be told.
On one of the first days I was here, we were meeting with the Dramatic Writing faculty and one of the chairs said something I thought was very wise. "Real writers," he said, "hate writing. They hate writing but they love having written."
I came down here this afternoon with the intention of banging out a sketch. I want to have written a sketch; one, in particular. I just don't want to write it.
Today is an NYU Open House, there are all these (I would assume) twelfth graders wandering around with their parents, holding purple folders, going to various catered events in various school buildings. It's downright cute.
Thursday is, I don't know if you've heard, the college Friday.
And so naturally, even though I had one class today, last night was Friday night.
What then, you ask, is tonight?
Friday night, dumbass. No one in their right mind would pass up the opportunity to have two of those in one week.
So last night was Friday night, see also: the Captain, the hookah bar, the roommate passed out hugging my toilet at four AM when I woke up having to pee like a motherfucker.
If you have never smoked a hookah at 1 AM in Alphabet City with two people from your floor and a girl from the floor below, offering hits of your strawberry watermelon sheesha to the bar employees, who blow epic clouds of scented smoke over your table and get everybody clapping to the ethnic music, while Hurricane Isabel rages outside, you missed out.
She's supposedly moved on to Canada, the hurricane that is, but it's still a windy bastard outside. They were recommending we close our windows, as my residence hall apparently has a history of losing them when gale-force winds pick up. My friend's roommate was ten feet away from losing his life to a falling potted plant yesterday.
I finally broke down and added a PayPal button to the sidebar over there. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the concept, PayPal is a way for you to pay your favorite bloggers for what you've always gotten for free: their mildly amusing largely self-indulgent recaps of their days, commentaries on pop culture, and takes on world events. Lileks uses his to pay for bandwith, and any overages he donates to charity. You won't be so lucky with me. I pay five bucks a month for bandwith. If ever the sky opens up and the holy trumpets blare and somebody donates more than five bucks, there is no way charity is getting ahold of that sweet sweet green. Unless "Coke and Hookers" is a viable non-profit organization.
But seriously, if you dig the site and there's ever an extra buck or two burning a hole in your checking account, please don't hesistate to drop it in the tipjar. You can use any major credit or ATM card, it's fast, easy, and may one day enable me to purchase food that isn't spooned out by a grimacing dining hall employee.
Thank you for your time.
The good news: I got cast in an improv troupe I tried out for on Monday. Bi-weekly shows, more long-form, the whole deal. Very exciting.
The bad news: Somewhere between Craft of Visual and Dramatic Writing and dinner in the Weinstein dining hall, I lost my handsome yellow Elvis Costello pin from the left strap of my backpack. I am thinking of e-mailing Gawker and having them put out an APB.
Wendy's on Sixth Ave. update: Last night they were out of Frostee. You know, the stuff you use to make Frostees. Just out. Truck's coming in tommorrow, the guy at the counter said. Depressing as all hell. This is of course the Wendy's that, the other night, was out of lettuce and tomato, as well as chili, which was disconcerting, even though I wasn't planning on ordering any. It's just nice to know that if I need it, it'll be there. And in the case of the Wendy's on Sixth, it most certainly was not.
The guy at the counter told us there was one on Bleecker and Broadway, so we walked there, but by the time we had put several blocks of Manhattan underfoot, it was closed. Midnight. A Wendy's that closes at midnight, I'm sure you'll agree, is no Wendy's at all. I hope the ghost of Dave Thomas renders the New York Wendy's franchise managers infertile, or at the very least, blind.
Mike on my floor told me tonight that there's one a couple blocks north on Fifth, which is closer anyway.
Three Wendy's in a two-mile radius. Center of Western Civilzation? Check.
PS - It's not like I'm just eating fast food and dining hall fare here in the culinary heart of the world. Last night dinner was two falafels from Mamoun's. Plus fries...from Wendy's.
Macs read the Internet like I read stupid Slavic essays comparing the proposition that all humans are deserving of some basic level of respect to a popular European egg-shaped candy: with a stupified slightly angry expression on my face.
Macs make the Internet, especially my site (which many consider to be what gets the Internet out of bed every morning) look bad. Not bad like incompetent bad. Bad with intent. Like they're making it purposely hard to look at and use and read for very long. The fonts are all off, the defaults are strange, the type is tiny. It doesn't read Moveable Type's automatic line breaks (when I put a space between paragraphs, MT takes the hint and puts one in without me having to code it) and when I put in an actual line break tag it reads it like one of God's "days" in Genesis. Really, however the fuck long I want to make it, says the Mac. If you've been reading this site for a long time on a Mac, I apologize. I am not the HTML equivalent of a masochistic child-murderer. Your ergonomically pretty but functionally retarded box just wants you to think I am.
I'm also mad at Macs because the girl's computer onto which I downloaded all my pictures was one of those obscenely nice IBooks, which can do everything but remember when my camera says pictures are supposed to be oriented horizontally or vertically, one of my beloved Canon's nicest features. So I have to go through and flip each one of them if I want to show them to you without you tilting your head.
I know. The fact that there are slight differences between one type of computer and another IS the worst thing that has ever happened.
Some kid leapt from the 10th floor of this library, in whose basement computer lab I'm dwelling currently, onto the black-and white tiles of the atrium yesterday. Two girls on my floor came down here to see what had happened, and when they got back one of the girl's roommates had dressed down their gawking on the white board on the door of their room. "It is good to know," she wrote, " that suicide is not a spectacle on this floor. You make me sad."
This is a girl, from what I can gather, who wanders around looking for things to make her sad. (Previously only the Pixies reuniting had given her the chance to write something on the white-board.)
This library doesn't make me sad per se. It's just not the most inviting cavern of obscure knowledge, bad 60's architecture, and uncomfortable fucking chairs ever, is all.
Anyway, if you can't tell I'm in kind of a crap mood because A) aformentioned girl, Emilie, is doing homework tonight and B) I SHOULD be doing homework, namely a two-page essay on an art object, the one I talked about a while ago. I already wrote an essay about it, but if I'm to understand my professor I will be writing about it 'till the cows come home, and when I milk said cows, they don't squirt milk into the bucket, but instead a thick disturbingly-textured paste of artsy-fartsy-touchy-feely liberal arts over-analytical bullshit, that seeks not to be good or great, because what is "good" or "great," besides vestigial archetypes of a patriarchal society, and don't seek "truth" because what, really, is "truth," but instead only wants to be impenetrably obtuse and confounding because that, somehow, is...
Is it sad that there are girls with which I discuss this particular class, and they say, "Oh, I love it!" and I want to say, "Of course you do," in the same way that there are people who like Evanscence and it just seems to make a lot of sense that they would?
But what is "sad"?
In other news, my financial aid package contains no work study, which makes it much harder to get a job on campus, which is what I really want since they are usually well-paid, nearby, and easy as fuck. So the good part of that is I don't have to turn any money I make over to the bursar like I would with one of those silver-spoon on-campus jobs. The bad part is that I have to get a real nuts-and-bolts job job if I want to expand my range of social activity beyond eating in the dining hall and studying quietly in my room. Not that I haven't done that already, it's just that soon I'll be doing so at a deficit.
I saw Phillip Seymour Hoffman walking with his wife and baby down Sixth Avenue when I was coming out of a play I got to see for free thanks to my well-connected Craft of Dramatic Writing teacher. I called Emilie to brag and she told me how she talked to Colin Quinn for a half an hour tonight and he gave her a hug. Then I stopped into Wendy's for a little taste of home, except at home the Wendy's has lettuce and tomato, and quarter pound double stacks are on the 99 cent extra value menu, and the bathroom hasn't been locked up for the night and the girl at the counter doesn't stand there yelling into the kitchen "Still waitin' on that Junior Bacon Cheeseburger" in between telling the customers that came after you that they are all out of chili.
Truly this Manhattan is a strange and wonderful place.
I'm trying out for an improv troupe and hopefully a play as well tomorrow. And I have Dramatic Writing Colloquim and the lecture portion of the Writing the Essay class, which is taught by a guy who makes art seem cool, rather than impenetrable and existing only for the sake of its own smugness, which is how the recitation portion makes it seem.
Emilie called me a minute ago but because I'm deep within the recesses of the library I didn't get it. I went out into the lobby to call her back.
"I have class from 11 to 6 tommorrow" she said.
"That sucks," I said.
"But I have class from 4 to 6 with you," she said.
- James Lileks, who is the finest writer on the Internet
Yesterday was a great day.
Had my first meeting of Classic Drama. Looks to be a really really good class, despite reading all those Greek plays where everyone calls each other "son of ______" and speaks in invective-y monologue. You know, like the Illiad, something else I have to read for a class I like a lot less.
Then as I was coming out of the building, there was a guy offering passes to go see the new Coen Bros. movie, "Intolerable Crueltly," which hasn't opened yet and won't 'till October. I beat him up and took them all, or would have, if he hadn't just given me one and told me and the girl I was with to be there at 2:45.
We ate lunch, then she went off to track down her brother, who she knew would want to go. I took a train to midtown, where I asked for directions for the first time since the first week.
Anyway, long story short, they didn't do a very good job of getting what you'd call a demographic cross-section of New York. Everyone in line in the lobby of the building containing the Universal Screening Room was a gawky lilly-white film student, save for me, a gawky lilly-white dramatic writing student. Girl walked in just as they were leading us to the elevators.
They didn't have us sign anything or fill anything out, they just checked our bags for recording devices and let us into the screening room. The lady said we were the first audience to see it, it was a rough cut and the color wasn't corrected, and enjoy the film. We did.
The Coen Bros. are by far my favorite moviemakers, and they let me, based solely on my ability to be in the right place at the right time, have an advanced look at their new flick, so it sucks to report that it's just not very good.
That's not right, actually. It's a very good Hollywood romantic comedy, with just enough odd Coen touches and Clooney charisma to keep me in the seat and laughing. But I don't want to have to judge Coen Bros. movies on the scale of "When Harry Met Sally" and "How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days." I'd prefer to compare them to things like, you know, the Parthenon.
The Parthenon, though, was not produced by Brian Grazer, shepherd of all movies highly successful and painfully mediocre. Intolerable Cruelty was. And thus, it can only ever be so good. Not to mention the fact that it was co-written by some other writers, who I don't want to call hacks, but compared to Joel and Ethan, everyone's a hack.
Anyway. When it comes out, whenever it does come out, go see it and bring a girl. Just don't expect "Fargo" or "O Brother, Where Art Thou." And unless you're a lilly white dramatic writing students who gets to advanced screenings an hour and a half in advance, that probably won't be a problem.
Girl and I (who I am for some reason hesitating to call her by her real name, for no reason now besides just wanting to stick with the conceit) went to her dorm and talked about movies and music and her family and mine. Talked for hours. Didn't. Like I said, great day.
The day would've been capped if I would have finished writing a short silent film like I was supposed to, but thanks 'till late night revelations about other homework for classes I have earlier, and spotty access to these strange-adding machine contraptions they want you to print your work out on, I waited until this afternoon to finish it. It's due in class at six, and is being copied by a scrappy team of Indian printers at this very moment down on Waverly.
The print shop was advertising stamps. When I go pick up my script, I think I'll buy some.
At what point does it officially become college?
At the point when you're sitting at two AM, in your underwear, in a room with two sleeping roommates, trying to scrape every last bit of peanut butter out of a jar with a knife you stole from the dining hall, and not placing that peanut butter on some bread because you don't have any, but just eating it, and since there are no lights on you hold up the jar towards the window and peer down into it with one eye closed, letting the glow of New York streets outside filter in and tell you where there's still peanut butter and where there's just jar, and as you scrape, the pilfered knife making little lines at the bottom, you start to think that these lines, their pattern, maybe because it's two AM, look not unlike an artist's rendering of a vagina, like some modern feminist peanut butter sculpture you might have seen at the Whitney the other night, and for some reason then you start to think about the kids you're going to have someday, and telling them about your glorious years in the big city, and somehow this moment, and its silence, its underwear and socks and implications of female genitalia composed solely of peanut butter and streetlight, seems important to remember and relate.
That's when you know you're in college.
So this morning I was feeling pretty euphoric. It's two in the afternoon now and the feeling continues. I'm staked out in the library and today I got brave and brought the USB cable for my camera because I'm sick and tired of not being able to show you things, things like a night in Williamsburg and how Gotham looks from Brooklyn, and a Yankees game where Anna Kournikova threw out the first pitch, and my cluttered little domicile that is now entirely and sadly free of peanut butter. Lo and behold, the library Mac does not want to recognize my camera. So that was a bummer. Oh well. Soon enough, hopefully.
Like anywhere else in the world, Manhattan gives me mood swings. There are times like this morning when I'm in love with my life and the sky couldn't be bluer, and times when I'm in shit moods and missing my family and wonderful stoned-out-of-their-brains-on-their-nineteenth-birthday friends. But in other better news, I can literally feel my mind expanding, and I really do love this place.
Now if only I could show you, photographically, just how much.
Off to read the Illiad in a big comfortable chair. Have a good one.
PS- I'm writing an essay on this video piece I saw at the Whitney. You can see it here. It's worth it, I promise, it was the best thing in an exhibit full of wheezy anti-American sentiment. Turn your sound way up, you won't be disappointed.
UPDATE:I accidentally typed in the link to Alecia's blog as http://screechbone.blogPOT.com. Coincidence?
I'm dyin' not having a computer. "Dyin'" as in extremely incovenienced and annoyed, not in the same way a gut-shot cowboy is said to be "dyin'." In some ways, my version is worse, namely since I don't have a cool hat or a horse. It wasn't such a huge deal at first, in fact, a little time away was nice, but it's gone from slightly pestering to major actual hardship as classes have actually started. The times when I'm at my best writer-wise are not the times when computer labs are open, which sucks since I have to write a ten minute silent film by next Wednesday. I can use my roommate's laptop, and have, on occasion, but obviously, it's his, not mine, so his desire to watch Rocky that he downloaded off Kazaa supercedes my desire to type furiously long into the night.
I am not used to these long unoccupied stretches of time. I need a job and a play and a comedy troupe. Right now all I have are naps in the student center and required reading.
Oh well. I'll live.
Today, by the way, was absolutely friggin' glorious, weather-wise. A Phoenician has never been quite so happy to see the sun.
I used an umbrella today for the first time in recorded history.
I still don't have a computer (I think I've explained that predicament already) so today I had this grand fantasy of sitting down on one of the nice Macs in the subterranean Bobst Library computer commons, popping in a CD, strapping on my comically large headphones, swiveling the swivel chair to my heart's content, and getting reaquainted with my old friend the Internet.
So I got down here, only to find that every other computerless schmo on this, the first day of classes, had the same idea. Place is packed to the gills, I stood in line by the doorway shooting "BE DONE COMPUTING NOW" suggestion-rays into the backs of people's heads with my eyes. Finally, someone got the hint. So here I am. The sound has been disabled by some meddlesome librarian, probably deaf and thus jealous at my ability to type and Rawk Out at the same time. Deaf people: What's their deal?
Moving backwards in time like all my favorite new-wave authors, at noon I had a job interview at a Jewish charity in midtown. Basically I call people and shake them down for money. It's supposed to be okay because these people have already been shaken down. At the beginning of the script you say, "Hi, this is _____ from..." and the lady running the interview said we can change our first name to sound more Jewish, if we want. All lines are open if you have a Hebrewlicious suggestion, although I can't promise I'll use them because I have to go to two more interviews.
I figure if I sell out early into some dignity-free college job, nothing I have to do in my twenties will seem that bad, or at the very least, worse.
I had my first class this morning. A Western Civ type deal, with professor Mumbles McQuiet. I'll be sitting up front next time.
One of my roommates looks like a Dominican Tony Pierce.
I really have to pee. Goodbye, sweet congested Mac lab.