Biscuit: Tasty Doesn't Get You A Date To The Prom

Note 1: Yesterday I buckled. I yielded to peer pressure and bought myself a cell phone. It is sparkly and silver, so is also a result of my covetous desire for shiny things. I have already been spotted walking down the street chatting with Shiv, my mother, and my sister. I am learning where to download new ringtones (as the standards that come with the phone are so ear-rendingly terrible I refuse to leave the phone on for incoming calls just yet). (Secretly, the main reason I just bought a phone is that Apple just released its magical software that automatically syncs info from my beloved Cube with my soon-to-be-beloved phone, preventing the disaster I have witnessed several times: "Agh! I lost my phone and it had all my phone numbers and my whole LIFE was in there! Pardon me whilst I commit ritual suicide!" and I simply must have all Apple-related toys.)

Note 2: Yesterday someone hit me with a sledgehammer. Repeatedly. His name was Sheldon and he was my personal trainer for an hour. While he may have forgone using an actual sledgehammer, the result today feels very much the same. As I was trying to refrain from vomiting my lunch all over the already lurid walls of the gym, I repeated a mantra of calmness: "Never again. Coming to the gym was a huge mistake and I'll never ever ever come again." I think this phrase, along with the fact that my stomach was far too tired to engage in such a strenuous activity as a full-fledged heave much less a simple hhh, is what kept my food internal. Today, the painful memories are already being blocked out, and I am thinking about going on Thursday. Or maybe Friday. Of next year.

Note 3: I have, for some time now, been training my hair to take part in a stylish extravaganza known as the faux-hawk. Mohawky without the shaved sides, it has finally grown long enough that I can shellac it into a ridge running the length of my scalp. Taking solace in the fact that at least I look like I am having fun even when I need about a week of uninterrupted sleep and it feels like I am bleeding internally, I was very pleased when one of my supervisors casually called me "Mr. Beckham" earlier today. Besides popularizing the faux-hawk, David Beckham just may be the hottest man who ever was. (I am just putting that possibility out there, mind you. I am not claiming it definitively to be so.) Therefore, any comparison to the eminently lickable Mr. Beckham is not only just OK, it is to be actively encouraged.

Note 4: The Shiv (see link above) plays tonight. Add one more stepping stone to her path towards world domination. All Hail Sleepwalking. And Judd Nelson.

I have been surrounded lately by people not saying what they mean. For example:

Last night. The Shiv. Her show was a finger-snappin' delight, as usual. She was a vision, as usual. In truly rockstar feathered-hair style, no less. After her show, Two Chicks and a Casio started playing. Gyrating nearby, in charge of the video camera, was...someone icky. A hairy wrinkly creepyman who apparently is connected with the band (which consists of two very funny chicks and...well, and a Casio. I suppose I need not have explained that). He kept making very strange noises and dancing in the way that old people dance when they are pretending to be young people. Witnessed. At the end of the show he grabs a microphone and, in what was, I can only assume, intended to be a funny way of getting you to buy their CD ("You wanna take home Two Chicks and a Casio? Ten bucks!") instead sounded very creepy indeed. Particularly because he was not being truthful. Liar, Liar! What he truly wanted to say was, "I want to take Two Chicks home with me, so I will joke about it and then it's almost like I did! Ha ha!"

Again: A meeting this morning. About 401(k) plans. The sort of meeting that makes one want to scoop out one's own eyes with a melonballer and shove them into one's ears, just to stop the sight and sound of the interminable slideshow droning from entering one's brain. The kind of meeting where one wants to scream, "Stop trying to make jokes using financial-based puns! They are NOT FUNNY! And additionally, you're ugly." At one point, the presenters were discussing possible "investment scenarios" or some such term. One of them said, "Given the possibility of a geopolitical conflict with Iraq, something something." Geopolitical conflict. He used the same phrase several times, actually. Liar, Liar! What he meant to say was "war." A geopolitical conflict sounds like something I have with a roommate over where we store the coffee mugs. Refrain from using toothless phrases like that because you are afraid of a real word, please. Thank you.

And again. On the subway this morning, a man was talking about his life to someone. Talking about his youth, particularly. How he went to performing arts school and all that, because when he was young he wanted to try out the "acting thing." And how when he was done, he said, "I thought I'd go out to L.A., get some headshots, see what happened. You know, just for shits and giggles." Liar, Liar! Nobody tries to get into acting in L.A. just for fun. What you meant to say was, "I wanted a life in acting more than anything in the whole wide world and it didn't work out, so now I'm back in New York 20 years later with a job at a bank and I have to downplay the dreams of my youth as just a silly whim. Isn't that the saddest thing you've ever heard?"

Come on, people. Stop sitting on a telephone wire. Give them back to the pigeons.

I have added a new diaryring. It can be seen below, of course.

I am officially signed up. The way I see it, the more people who know about my little venture, the harder it will be for me to wimp out and back out of it later. Plus, while I am writing next month, I will probably want to whine and vent in here, and at least this way you will have a reminder of what, exactly, I am whining about.

So how 'bout it, little love bugs? We can write AND diaryring together. Oh, and you too. You know you want to.

It is almost 10:45 p.m. I am still at work. I have been here since 10 am. I will be here for hours more. My entire weekend has also been co-opted for work purposes.

I am certain you can see what is wrong with this situation.

It has finally happened.

I heard stories about it before. People would tell me the latest example of this delightful experience, and I would check every day for my very own -- but to no avail.

Until this week.

Suddenly, my little diary is getting its very own google hits.

Granted, the hits have little-to-nothing to do with my diary -- but then again, that is sort of the point. So far, my diary has been chosen by www.google.com as a link for the following topics:

"Barbieparty"

"SUBWAY RIDING WHILE PREGNANT"

"Whore"

"Whore"

"Whore" and

"Whore."

I shall do my best to live up to the lofty standards set by these searches. If the people want whores, I shall give them whores. I can say the word "whore" from now until the cows come home, provided the cows come home before I need a drink of water. Whore, whore, whore, whore. Pregnant, subway-riding, Barbie-whores.

In other news, perhaps you have realized that my work schedule of late has been remarkably hectic. 12-hour (or more) days plus my weekends plus the dreamtime that I lose to dreaming in HTML have not contributed to making me a very pleasant person to be around. Well, folks, rejoice! Version 2.0 (warning: very dull material) has been released to the public!

This does not mean, sadly, that my work schedule is going to lighten. Rather, we are already planning to release Version 2.1 at the end of the week, so insanity continues. However, following a congratulatory lunch featuring a seared tuna steak and four vodka tonics, I cannot bring myself to edit Help-section copy. I am wasting time like I used to, and am mere moments away from buggering off to walk around and have a cigarette.

I will pay for this laziness later. But for now? It seems just right.

I decided to walk up to Virgin Records in Times Square for my lunch break. I have recently been inspired by StyleGirl to acquire the latest and greatest in Garbage-related paraphernalia. In other words, I bought a new single. Or two.

I am currently rocking out to my beloved Shirley Manson. And trying. Not to think. About the fact. That I'm going to see them in concert in less than two weeks because my wonderfulwonderful StyleGirl bought us tickets today and I'm really just popping with excitement about the whole thing and WHEW I need to cool off.

Anyhow.

On my way there and back, I had my first visual confirmation of the actual existence of Naked Cowboy. I have no idea where I first heard of this silly, silly man. It was strange, though -- the complete and utter lack of surprise with which I beheld this underwear-clad guitar-strummer. Perhaps it was because he blended in to the rest of Times Square insanity. Perhaps I have just become jaded to shock and surprise (although, given my rather excitable temperament (see above) I rather doubt that). A lot of tourists standing on the corner were mumbling questions about what is he doing? and why is he just standing there? and is he really just wearing his drawers? A few concluded that he was looking for tips, and a few were certain that someone nearby was filming a movie. I think perhaps I was unsurprised to unconsciously, purposely distance myself from the tourists. One tends to do that while one walks through Times Square.

In other news: another first. The very first NEW episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation aired last night. I know!! I was floored! I had no idea there were new episodes in production! I admit to being a little perplexed at their choice of bringing back the older-style uniforms, as well as Dr. Pulaski, who until now had been a perfectly reliable indicator of a "Season 2" episode. Of course, the explanation that this was simply an episode that originally aired as part of Season 2 that I had somehow, some way, never seen before, is simply too preposterous to be believed. As soon as I realized that this was a wholly new episode, my jaw dropped, and my eyes glued themselves to the screen for the next hour. When I was finally released, I think I performed several very very silly dances of amazement and happiness across my living room floor, and unless I am much mistaken, I amused Shiv to no end in the process.

Friday was a me-holiday. The sort of very special holiday that only I celebrate. It's even more personal than a birthday, because on birthdays other people usually celebrate with me.

I did nothing special for the day. I went to work as usual, I had a slice of re-heated pizza for lunch. But it was definitely a holiday all the same. Well, more of an...anniversary, really.

Nine years since I came out to my mom. October 11, 1993. My junior year in high school. I had been planning what I was going to say for weeks.

Me: Mom. Did you know that, um. Some people think of today as a kind of. Holiday?

Mom (distracted by paying bills): Yeah, it's Columbus Day, why?

Me (completely taken aback and unprepared for the Columbus-Day revelation): Um. I mean, that's not the one I meant. I meant that some people celebrate. Um. It's National Coming Out Day. So I thought this would be a good day to tell you that. I'm gay.

After which, of course, her head snaps up, her eyes narrow, and she asks that question I've heard repeated in so many coming-out-stories: "What? How do you know?"

The aftermath of my pronouncement, besides me running away to play rehearsal (ha!), included my godfather/psych professor at a local community college (who I'd seen once in my life) coming over to ask me what it was, exactly, about men that I found attractive, and whether I was interested in oral sex, anal sex, or if I had actually considered vaginal sex. While my mother glared at me from the couch next to me. (In later years, I have often wondered why he was so very very interested in my sexual appetites. Seems a bit...overly prurient, no? Oh, and have I mentioned that he was a 45-year-old bachelor who liked showtunes?)

My mom also spent a good amount of time drinking a lot margaritas and panicking at my friend's mother, whom she had never previously met. My friend, B, had come out to her mom a few months before, and when my mom was not busy blaming her for somehow contaminating me (how does that work, again?), she was using her mom as a kleenex.

All this hysteria only lasted a week or two. I came home from rehearsal very late one night (I had been spending extra time away from home to avoid any additional, painful interrogations) to find a brand new Fiske Guide to Colleges sitting on top of the stairs, along with a note saying, "Sorry I've been weird." It was not brought up again for several years, at which point my mom stopped in the middle of hanging a picture to look at me and say, "If you get sick, I'll kill you." It got dropped again, and only recently are casual mentions of boyfriends being acknowledged by mom or sister, rather than completely ignored. It's getting there, folks.

Anyway, this weekend I was, coincidentally, hanging out with B, the same friend mentioned above. (Yep, this fall marks 10 years of our friendship -- another remarkable anniversary.) I asked her if she remembered what Friday was the anniversary of, which of course, she did, because that is the kind of superstar she is.

"Did you send your mom a card?" she asked.

"No, I was thinking of waiting for the tenth anniversary to send her a card -- and maybe a present."

"What kind of present?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"A bottle of margarita mix and my mom's phone number?"

I think that is a perfectly wonderful idea. Tenth anniversary, here we come!

It has been pointed out to me that my 200th entry, my second century entry, is fast approaching.

Look at that! It's here! (cue tootling horns! send in the dancers with really long feathers attached to their hands! pump up that hardcore bass beat! woooooo!) Time for an entry that touches on several previously-discussed themes.

By the way, I find myself very pleased with my stick-to-it-iveness. It comes at a lovely time, too -- just when I needed some confidence that I will, in fact, be able to write a novel next month.

In other news, I just made a reservation to head home. My mom is moving at the end of the month, which triggers my inherent duty to set her clocks and plug in her computer. I am serious -- that is all she wants me to do. There are professional movers doing just about everything else. Ah well. It gives me a great opportunity to monopolize my silly niece's time, give her presents, and take her out somewhere fun to play. I must keep up my reputation as the extravagant and really fun eccentric uncle, right?

As much as I love airports, though -- they have a distinct tendency to make me a) bitchy and mad or b) maudlin and depressed. I shall try to rein both of them in this time. Well, maybe just the maudlin one. I can be funny when I am bitchy. Sometimes.

As far as recent activities go, last night I saw Janeane Garofalo doing stand-up. Of course, it was tremendous and I laughed until I cried, but the important part was that I touched her! I love touching famous people. Of course, she was unaware that she had been touched by me -- as I edged past her on my way out the door after the show, I surreptitiously stretched out a hand and brushed a knuckle against the back of her right shoulder. I felt completely vindicated when I discovered my friend Kate had done the exact same thing.

I also have plans in the works to see "Spirited Away" this weekend, by the same lovely people who brought us the Catbus.

I just ordered ten boxes of Thin Mints. (Yes, ten fucking boxes. You have a problem with that?) And in the process, discovered that my beloved Samoas are called "Caramel DeLites" in NYC. Just as my Do-Si-Dos are known by the dull moniker, "Peanut Butter Sandwich."

And I smelled someone at work today.

Apparently nothing new is happening to me right now. I am just repeating past events over and over in some bizarre time loop the likes of which the Enterprise has never seen.

Now THAT was a tremendous concert.

Last night. Cher. AND Cyndi Lauper. Playing together at Madison Square Garden. ArtStudent (my fabulously fashionable roommate) and I, all decked out and coiffed and prettified, descended upon the Garden along with a tremendous number of fellow New York homos. I can hardly believe that someone just GAVE me two free tickets.

Too bad, then, that the tickets I had were not, in fact, for the Cher/Cyndi concert, but rather, for "Fruit Salad! A Queer Mix of Comedy!" that was playing in the mini-theatre just outside the main amphitheatre. We could hear Cher's bass pumping through the walls. ArtStudent, me, and a passel of old gay people. All of the comedians congratulated the crowd on being the only gay people in the city NOT seeing Cher at that moment -- and to be honest, I really wished they would stop rubbing it in. I would not have minded one teeny tiny bit, had I been at home. But knowing that I was THAT CLOSE, and not in actual attendance, was more than a little aggravating.

By the way: the mini-theatre at Madison Square Garden is so 80s nightclub, it is almost not funny. Glittery curtains, bad music, faux-deco. It was so much a scene in a movie. We even had this lovely uncomfortable moment where some guy who was there by himself asked if he could sit at our table. When there were several empty tables right next to us. Just so it would not look like he was there alone. The poor dear tried to start up conversation a few times before the show started, but ArtStudent and I can be remarkably insular. He never really had a chance.

Afterwards, ArtStudent flitted home in a cab, and I ventured uptown for a date/rendezvous of the kind that means I am wearing last night's going-out-clothes at work today. Thankfully, I took yesterday off, so I'm not repeating an outfit two days in a row. I almost had to do that once before, several months ago, but the intercession of an emergency pre-work trip to J. Crew and one tangeriney/rusty/salmony button-up shirt later, I felt sufficiently disguised. The irony of this situation is that I do not have my satchel with me. For those of you unaware, my satchel regularly contains cologne, deodorant, Carmex, hair wax, liquid silver glitter -- in short, any products I might need in a pinch to make myself presentable to the outside world. (Okay, the silver glitter is not really necessary to achieve this end -- but you might be amazed at how often it comes in handy.) The first time this little Survival Kit would have been particularly useful, and where is it? At home, of course. Lovely.

(p.s. YES, I said satchel. Messenger bag, HA!)

I am having an aftershock. A little, personal aftershock in which my stomach is all knotted up and nauseated. You know how sometimes, you have to say something to somebody but you really wish you could get away with not saying it? But you know that you have to say it eventually, and it is better to say it now rather than later -- because later, it would be an even more difficult situation and everyone involved would feel a lot worse about the whole thing. So then you end up saying it, even though you know the person you are saying it to is going to be upset, even though you do not want them to be upset, even though part of you wonders if you should be saying it at all, even though a whole lot of things. And it turns out pretty much like you saw it -- with you upset and them upset and you feel really horrible and guilty and you do not know how to say "I'm sorry" enough times, and you do not know how to fix things, and you do not know what to do, and your stomach gets all knotted up and nauseated. And you start doing really ridiculous things like identifying with Lana Lang of "Smallville" fame. (Okay, maybe that last part is just me.)

Right. I am having an aftershock of that.

And really regretting the choice of McDonalds as my lunchtime venue.

Thank you. This concludes this special "Serious" edition of Fulminous. Now, back to your regularly scheduled vapidity.

I am not an angry person. Excitable, yes. Flighty, certainly. But angry? As a rule, no.

Imagine my surprise, then, when last night, I *snapped.*

So it was bad enough that we (meaning StyleGirl, J, and I) were in the wilds of Long Island. Granted, we were there to see a concert (StyleGirl was there to see No Doubt, I was there to see Garbage, and J was there to see StyleGirl). But suburbia and I do not get along. I have lost my taste for all that open space and lack of coffee shops. I never really had much of a taste for standing in line with a lot of people who are considerably younger than I am -- many of them with parents in tow. I have a decided distaste for unhelpful employees who, upon sneeringly informing us that backpacks were not allowed inside, then offered the remarkable suggestion that J hide his satchel in a bush until the concert was over. (After he left, we performed an emergency transformation on said satchel, converting it to a large purse which StyleGirl sneakily passed off as her own.)

Now, a bright spot in all this standing about was that a very perky employee of VH1 singled out StyleGirl and I, told us she "liked [our] look," and wondered if we would care to be interviewed for a show airing on VH1. Always a pushover with the slightest bit of flattery, plus being an insatiable starfucker/fame-hound, I positively leapt at the idea that my little face could be gracing TVs the world over -- and talking about one of my favorite subjects, no less! A few interviews, release forms, "Oh god, I sounded so stupid!"s and several very shaky knees later, our intrepid threesome finds our way into the coliseum.

Our seats were nice. But we really sort of wanted to be down on the floor, mushed in with all the other people down there, instead of sitting. So I start wandering around trying to find a plce to swap our tickets for general admission ones, even going so far as to accost several groups of people to ask if they feel like swapping, which of course, none of them did. I'm trying to accustom myself to the fact that I'm going to be sitting away from the stage, when the first opening band starts. I bop around in my seat, as is my wont, and decide that the seats are not that bad, as it gives me a place to put my coat, at least.

Now, keep in mind: Garbage is my very very favorite band ever. I could (and often do) listen to them all day long. I have CD after single after B-side after remix. I am, to put it mildly, fucking thrilled to be at their concert. So, I express my excitement when they come on stage by standing up. Rock concert, right? I stand up. StyleGirl stands up. J stands up. We are very happy to be standing up. It is a rock concert, and we want to stand up and dance in our little aisle.

I did not count on them. They were a row behind us and about four seats to the right. And apparently they took exception to our standing. They started by yelling at us, and I think someone threw a piece of paper. I ignore them, because I am trying to get involved in the opening chords of Garbage's opening song, right? And then. One of them hits my arm and screams in my ear to sit down. I turn around, give a little dismissive wave, frown, and turn back and try to ignore them some more.

A second later, I'm being hit again. Someone is trying to push me downward, into my seat. What flashes through my head is this:

I am always always the considerate person and I let people cut in front of me in line and I open doors and I wait for people and I stand up on the subway all the time and when I drove I even kept my own car radio turned down so I wouldn't bother other people walking by and Garbage is my favorite and I just want to stand up and can't I be inconsiderate of this rude (insert sound of mental break here -- snap!) motherFUCKER WHO'S PUSHING ME INTO MY SEAT JUST THIS FUCKING ONCE GGRAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

at which point I turn around and scream "FUCKING LET FUCKING GO!!" right onto the face of this pinch-faced, bleach-blond sorority-girl reject, who responds by shaking her finger at me and screaming back about how three whole rows of people cannot see because of me. (For those of you who do not know, I am only 6'2", and this was some serious stadium seating. For me to block three rows of people would have taken either a remarkable feat of bending space, or some hardcore stilts.)

In hindsight, I have thought of several things I could have said. Something along the lines of, "This is a rock concert. If you want to see, you can get up off your fat white-jeans-clad ass and give some fucking respect to the performers, rather than trying to squash the fun of people who clearly are excited and paid just as much money as you did to get in here. If you want to sit down at a concert, go see Yanni." What came out was, "FUCKING STOP TOUCHING ME RIGHT NOW FUCK YOU, FUCK, NO, I SAID FUCK YOU WE DON'T WANT TO SIT FUCK STOP FUCKING TOUCHING FUCK YOU AAAAAAAA!!!!" And then I sat down. To be honest, I did not see many other options. I could keep standing up, and then she could go get an usher or something, because you know she would have. I sat down and I shouted a stream of invective and clenched my fists and glared and almost spit on the people in front of me by accident. God, I just hate her so much. And then, to top everything off, when I sat down all of her friends CLAPPED. I hate her friends, too. I hate them more than I would hate drippy disfiguring warts, which I bet they all have anyway. When they clapped I was so incoherent, I spun around, waved both arms wildly, floppily in the air, flipping them all off at once, threw my head back, and screamed "FUCK YOUUUUUUUUUU" as loudly as possible. I still fail to see what I intended to accomplish with this, aside from making a mean impression of a really unpleasant Muppet.

I spent the rest of Garbage's set fuming and practically foaming at the mouth, and I missed a large part of what happened because I kept thinking of things I could turn around and scream. When Garbage was done, I stalked outside, StyleGirl and J trailing behind, and I fumed for a few minutes over a few cigarettes, and finally started to calm down. I ended up buying a Garbage t-shirt featuring the title of one of their latest singles, "Shut Your Mouth," and I entertained fantasies of shoving it down a certain someone's ugly trap. By the time we got back inside, No Doubt was just about to begin, so we look at our seats -- and the entire section, hell, the entire arena, is standing up. So I go back to my row, and look down -- who are the only sourpuss bitches glowering at the crowd in the whole place? Oh, right, it is that group of horrible people who had to clap when I sat down, in an attempt to forget that they have joyless lives and suffer from explosive anal leakage.

When we got all the way back to our seats, StyleGirl leaned back and asked the girls directly behind us, the only people who might have been affected by our standing ANYWAY, and who never made a sound when we stood up the first time, if they would mind us standing. One of the girls says, "Um, it's a ROCK CONCERT. Aren't you SUPPOSED to stand up if you want to?"

Suffused with such a massive dose of vindication (and a surge of warmth for the very very nice girls behind us), J stood, StyleGirl stood, and I stood. I think I could not have been happier to be standing if my legs had been torn off in a messy accident with a thresher, surgically reattached, and then hung useless while I went through painful physical therapy, only to suddenly, miraculously regain feeling years later. THAT is how fucking insanely happy I was to stand up in front of the nasty, soul-crushing, bitter cretins. I angled my shoulders so as to provide the maximum amount of blockage, and jumped up and down. A lot.

Through the rest of No Doubt, I kept turning around to see them. And flashing them my biggest grin, and occasionally throwing in a thumbs-up or two. God damn, it is really the little victories. I am not often angry, nor am I often vindictive. But when I get a chance to be, even in so minor a way as blocking someone's view -- oh, I positively revel in it.

Funny, no? If this had not happened, you would have just been subjected to a lengthy play-by-play of an interview with VH1. Which reminds me -- keep your eyes out. If you happen to be watching VH1 and see some story or show about "chick bands," keep your eyes out for a boy with a faux-hawk, glasses, and a grey shirt, nervously saying something about how Shirley Manson is fierce and how he likes that she matches her outfits to her album covers. Yes, apparently that is the best I could come up with. I have spent a good part of today thinking of better things to say then, too.

Yesterday, to make up for not paying attention to Garbage while they were actually playing right in front of me on Monday, I listened to their CDs continuously. All day long. As as result, about the harshest thing I can handle today is the They Might Be Giants kid-album, "No!". Although that is kind of grating on my nerves too. I tried a bit of the Vengaboys earlier, but when I actually thought about "going to Ibiza," and how I bet it is very warm and lovely there with pretty people in pretty swimming trunks sitting on pretty beaches, I sort of lost my taste for the Vengabus too.

I hate not being in the mood to listen to what I have with me at work. I think what I really want to be hearing right now is someone playing Amazing Grace on the bagpipes. Or perhaps something involving a violin. Maybe the Carmina Burana will do the trick?

I love the ideas I have been sent regarding what I could have said to Monday night's wretched, syphilitic beast. I wish you had all been with me to give me ideas at the time, though -- I am not very good at this being-mad-and-yelling-at-strangers thing, and as a result I just exhibit that incoherence I related earlier. It takes a crack R&D team several hours to come up with comments on some offensive person's alleged explosive anal leakage, and even then they are used primarily for comic effect.

So tomorrow night is the flight to Colorado. Re-read that last sentence, stripping it of all excitement, inflection, and joie de vivre, and you might have a rough approximation of how much I am looking forward to the trip.

Well, in this case, it really was faster coming home. 5 airborne hours out, and only three when flying New York-bound. I still did not make it to JFK until 7 am, after which I had to get a cab home and pass out for approximately 2.3 seconds, before heading to work. I kept passing out in the car, and waking up with a rather disconcerting "WherethefuckamI?!?" start every time we hit a red light.

The trip home was fairly standard -- 'Zona picked me up at the airport, and after a thoroughly fruitless search for a late-night eating-place, he brought me to my sister's house. The next three days were taken up with moving couches just a little bit that way, setting clocks, plugging things in, horrifying my mother with my hairstyle, and in a reversal from the last time I went home, starving to death. I did get to buy some new shoelaces, and mom sent me home with a silver tea service, some egg shirrers, and a gigantic pitcher-sized cocktail shaker.

On the flight out, by the way, I watched an episode of Wolfgang Puck's little cooking show. He went to freakin' Siegfried and Roy's house to whip up some stuffed cabbage, and I wanted nothing so much as to have Art and Sea and company around to stare in uncomprehending horror with me. The screen full of Austrian accents was truly both preposterous and delightful, as was Roy's penchant for gesturing theatrically at any pot that Siegfried was stirring.

(Speaking of Sea -- expect a book in the mail soon. It is truly horrible and pretentious and arrogant and I think you just might get the tremendous kick out of it that I have. Oh yeah, and send me your address again.)

I am going to take a break from nodding off at my desk to tuck into my fantabulous Chipotle burrito. I flew all the way to Colorado to get one, you know.

I had a cut on my eyeball once.

Because of this, I could not wear my contacts. I had to find a Lenscrafters that took my insurance so I could get an emergency pair of glasses, as my previous emergency-glasses had disappeared, and were, therefore, no good in my emergency.

The eye doc (ophthalmologist? optometrist? I never really know the difference) told me that my prescription had gotten so much worse since my last exam that I should not wear my old contacts again, even after my eye healed. As a result, I have been a glasses-wearer since June. They are, in my opinion, fairly stylin' glasses.

This past weekend, when I went home, my mom saw my glasses for the first time. At first she was convinced they were the wrong size, which they are not, and then she started this incredibly annoying habit of reaching over and pushing my glasses up to the very very top of my nose, where they do not belong. At any time, I could suddenly be accosted by my mother's probing finger jabbing at my face. It was not a situation of which I was overly fond, as I am sure you can imagine.

So, when she offered to buy me some new contacts, I jumped at the chance. I went to my childhood ophthal/optom/eyeguy/whatever, and he set me up with a new pair. I come home from the appointment, and my mom starts gushing about how pretty my eyes are and how glad she is that I am not wearing "those glasses" any more. Now, I appreciate the compliment -- but when she starts talking about how bad my glasses were, well -- it translates in my head as "You look nice now, but the past 4 months? UG-freakin-LY." Ow. Just because it is the way my stubbornness operates, I immediately wanted to put my glasses back on, but to preserve family peace, I refrained.

I just went to Starbucks. (This is related, trust me.) I order my quad-venti-mocha, and a barista wandering by looks over and not only says, "You have really pretty eyes!" she actually calls over two MORE baristas to look at my eyes and comment on how pretty they are. I imperceptably opened my eyes a little bit wider (for easier viewing access and because I am a narcissistic bastard), tried to blush becomingly, grabbed my coffee, and got back to work.

I am, of course, feeling all happy about the unsolicited compliment, which has done much to perk up an otherwise ho-hum day. But the phrase that keeps running through my head is, "Damn it all. Mom was right."

I just witnessed an interesting morality play. Of sorts.

Being just before payday, I have nothing more to my name than a handful of quarters, and as such have not the wherewithal to buy lunch. In lieu of lunching activities, I decided to walk up to Times Square and back again, just to get out of the office for a few minutes.

On the way back, I heard a woman yelling at someone. "I don't need you any more! I've left you behind like the dirty little thing you are, and I'm happy! No, you're not going to change my mind. I have someone else already. Someone much healthier for me, someone who knows how to support me."

At first I thought this was just another standard New York scene where personal lives are often enacted for an audience. I had just squeezed past the Naked Cowboy to cross the street, mind you, so someone enacting a loud, crazy breakup in the middle of Times Square did not seem to ridiculous in comparison. And then I saw them. A woman, holding hands with a piece of gum. Screaming at a man dressed up as a cigarette. WIth a Nicorette truck nearby.

Now, as a piece of marketing, I thought this was tremendous. As well as being remarkably funny, as this lady yelled at a man in a cigarette costume. But still. I could NOT resist.

I walked back half a block, and lit a Lucky Strike. And walked back past them. And paused, and watched for a second. Ostentatiously smoking.

The cigarette stuck out his skinny little arms, wobbled a little, and gave me a thumbs-up while the girl scowled.

You know I had to.

OoooooooooOOOOOOoooooh.

My diary is spoooooooky because now it is HalloweeeEEEEEeeeny.

Humor me.

We had been instructed that today was, at minimum, silly hat at work day. I have no silly hats. In fact, the only hats I have are a) a really gay looking baseball cap from Structure, and b) baseball caps featuring logos of various sci-fi movies that I picked up as freebies at various Star Trek conventions during high school. Neither one, I felt, was up to the task.

Instead, I created a hair hat. My hair is shellacked straight back, and touching it is not recommended. Primarily because it is now one solid piece of hair and it feels kind of gross and springy. When I raise my eyebrows I can feel it on the back of my head.

Added to this lovely coif is a black shirt, thin black tie, black slacks, and a truly hideous cream-edged-with-black-braid-and-velvet suit jacket. One roommate thinks I look like a Mafia guy. Another thinks I look like a 50's crooner. I have decided to split the difference and announce myself as a Mafia man using 50's crooner as his cover.

p.s. Did I mention I am the only person in the office who dressed up? So much for mandatory silly hats.