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

Fiddlesticks.

I have been trying to get into my email all damned morning and I, apparently, cannot. Such are the vagaries of electronic communication.

As such, I have decided to use this as a means of communication to tell/ask the following people a few things:

Finn/Petit: Hey! Where were you on Saturday? Everything okay? You missed my PVC-backed, red plaid spankypants and the debut of my "Fuck The Pain Away" sleeveless Peaches t-shirt and my attempt to look like a rockstar and/or groupie and/or Chelsea boy. It ended up being one of those delicious until-5-a.m. kind of parties, full of Israeli girls, bourbon, and M&Ms.

Shiv: I miss you and want to you be in Not Texas right now. You missed a tremendous evening last night that stands out as one of the best I have ever had -- Shabu Shabu for dinner, and then saw Spirited Away, and then off to a sake bar that is clearly one of the most incredible places in the New York, seeing as how it is, in fact, a ripple in the space/time continuum that drops one directly into a little underground bar in Japan. We will be making repeat appearances, fear not.

Freyja: Didja get it yet? Didja get it yet?

Blueapple: Are your legs tired? 'Cause you were running through my dreams all night. I mean, really. I had a dream with you in it. Running.

Everyone: What do I want to eat for lunch?

p.s. Have you all noticed that now I have gone to another new color? Hurrah for hexcode!

So I am supposed to be writing some kind of novel or something.

And I would be, too. If I could come up with the faintest hint of a starting idea. I'm falling way behind and everybody else I know who has signed up is already writing and doing things and has characters and plots and chapters.

Also, I slept for thirteen hours last night. Maybe if I stopped spending so much time sleeping, I could come up with something to write about.

I have also been at work for 7 hours today. Maybe if I did not spend so much time at work, I could come up with something to write about.

It is also 5:14 and it is pitch black outside. How is anyone supposed to concentrate when it is so dark so early? Maybe if the damned sun would stay up a little longer, I could come up with something to write about.

I am clearly, clearly, incompetent and foolish and I am going to die homeless and penniless and no one will ever love me.

Maybe I can write a novel about that.

So the good news, my fellow NaNoers -- I am back in the game. Oh yes. I am so back in the game, the game is SCARED of me. Well, technically I still have not written a single word. But I have a plot! I found my idea and I have been giggling about it all morning.

The bad news is that I will be killing myself shortly, to save myself the pain of having to watch GWB gloat, and to forget that I apparently live in a country populated by morons.

Here, presented for the first time for your viewing pleasure, is MY WORK SCHEDULE FROM YESTERDAY! Yaaaaaay!

10:35 Arrive at work.

10:35-11:45 Check my email, read d-land, catch up on my online comics, read news articles that make me vaguely ill.

11:45-12:35 Check my email several more times.

12:35 Realize the office is approximately ninety kajillion degrees.

12:36 Decide to have lunch.

12:37-12:55 Have a brief political discussion with some people in the office, in which I learn that there are some people in my office with whom I should never have a political discussion.

12:55 Head downstairs.

12:56 Call Petit, see if she will meet me for lunch. Agree to meet at 1:30 at the Howard Johnson's.

12:57 Decide that I do not feel like waiting upstairs for half an hour.

12:58-1:05 Walk to Times Square, dodging camera crew filming something for a local news station.

1:05-1:15 Wander through Virgin Megastore.

1:15 Dodge a camera crew filming something for MTV.

1:16 Head outside, dodge camera crew filming something for ABC.

1:17 Cross the street, dodge Naked Cowboy.

1:18 Answer questions re: Naked Cowboy for laughing, annoying tourists.

1:19 Turn down offer of diamond watch from man in street.

1:21 Turn down offer of drugs from different man in street.

1:22 Buy absurdly overpriced ($8.10!!) pack of Luckies.

1:23 Turn down offer of tickets for Thoroughly Modern Millie.

1:24 Watch several male strippers walk into their job at The Gaiety theatre. Shudder.

1:25 Turn down offer of tickets for Lion King.

1:25-1:30 Glare at any and all passersby, just daring them to try and sell me something.

1:30-2:15 Eat lunch at HoJos. Said lunch includes the worst margarita that has ever been created -- smelling vaguely of ether and tasting vaguely of grody. Eat "Ultimate Nachos." Pay $22.00 for lunch at, have I mentioned, HOWARD JOHNSON'S. Still, great conversation.

2:15-2:25 Stalk back to the office. being thankful that the tourists are now all inside matinee shows and not blocking my path.

2:25 Realize the office is still ninety kajillion degrees. Wilt.

2:25-5:55 Stare at my screen and pretend to work. This is accomplished by clicking the mouse every few minutes. Do no actual work. Stick my head out the window every few minutes for a breath of life-giving air.

5:55 Mumble something about "taking work home." Stick a few random folders in my satchel.

5:56 Go home. Ignore folders in satchel for the rest of the night.

After several hours of glaring at the TV screen and watching some admittedly terrible television, which for some reason I adore beyond all reason in the same way that I adore Aqua, I felt much better. I had intended to write some NaNoStuff last night, but it would have been far too gruesome if written in the mood I was in. I am feeling much more perky today, and can only hope that my favourable mood prevails until after I get home and sit in front of my keyboard.

I am in an absurdly good mood right now. I actually a) accomplished something worthwhile at work, b) stood in a patch of sunshine that was NOT reflected off another building for a few minutes while at lunch, c) am in a climate-controlled office that is neither baking nor freezing me, d) have been listening to Happy Hardcore Chapter Six all day long on continuous repeat, tapping my feet and bopping my head to the unrealistically fast beat, and e) am wearing my dress shirt with the occasional silver metallic threads.

a+b+c+d+e combine to make me one happy little thunderer.

I forget, sometimes, just how important sunshine is to me. Every year I react with surprise that immediately after we all set our clocks back, I start falling victim to bouts of foul temper, glowering and glaring at anything that crosses my path. These symptoms mysteriously vanish as soon as we "spring forward" again -- although unfortunately, that seems to be a long way off. Remind me to spend more time standing in sunny spots, would you?

Haha! I am on a bike at the gym right now. TEchnology--crazy, huh?

So in keeping with the "Guess what I'm doing!!" theme started in my last entry, in which I was typing on a touchpad of a stationary bike at the Crunch Gym on 38th and Broadway, I thought I should fill you in on my current activity.

I am sitting in my underwear, my skivvies, if you will, being told to put my hand down my pants. Not in an Al Bundy way, either -- I mean, in a full-on, grab your package kind of way. By a girl.

After last night's entry, I feel compelled to remind you that I have taken to calling one of my roommates "ArtStudent." Because she is, in fact, an art student. Specifically: a photography student. A photography student often in need of models. So my foray into the realm of girls-telling-me-what-to-do-when-naked was not a radical change in my personal ideology of sexy, as much as it was my roommate needing someone to take pictures of. So, somewhere in the world now exists pictures of my naked behind in the shower. So much for a career in politics.

In other news: yesterday Word crashed. While I was writing my novel. I lost a full two-thirds of my novel to date, which was a crushing enough setback that I had to take a break and go be a model for a few hours. Now, granted, to that point I had only written one full page, and had only been writing for somewhere approaching fifteen minutes. BUT -- it was still two-thirds of an entire novel-in-progress. I am heartbroken.

Also: I am reading China Mieville's latest, "The Scar." Followup to "Perdido Street Station," which everybody in the universe must read as soon as possible.

It is shortly after 11 am on Monday morning, and I have yet to accomplish anything more strenuous than making a pot of coffee. I am creating my own art form, I think: a delicate ballet wherein I spin my way between various websites, deftly hiding my email behind official-looking documents with a single, efficient click of the mouse, and then just as adeptly, pulling windows full of diaries, wacky news, and prices on a new PowerBook to the forefront, creating a pastiche of time-wasting electronica in but a moment.

Not to be underestimated: the value of reading all these random news stories. I recently learned, for example, that drinking seven cups of coffee a day reduces one's risk of developing diabetes by 50%. Yes, seven cups a day. I am assuming that one could also drink 3.5 cups of coffee and reduce the chance of diabetes by 25%, but I have no concrete evidence to back this up. As such, I am doing my best to drink my way to healthy blood sugar: I am already on my third cup. In reality, this probably has less to do with my desire to stave off diabetes (although I know some very nice diabetics) than it has to do with the fact that I am hoping the caffeine will keep my mood artificially elevated enough to counteract the lack of cigarettes in my life right now.

(Yes, once again, I am playing the "How long can I go without food" game, while I wait for my paycheck. Friday, Friday, Friday: I can eat on Friday.)

That reminds me: I wonder when my girl scout cookies will arrive -- I bet I could survive on ten boxes of Thin Mints for...oh, at least an hour. If I rationed them very strictly, perhaps an hour and a half.

Apparently neither the Danish nor the Dutch are well-known for imbibing in moderation.

The same area of the world that produced my earlier-mentioned report that seven or more cups of coffee per day reduces one's risk of diabetes by 50% released another study regarding a drink's effect on dementia.

Here goes: People who drink up to TWENTY ONE GLASSES of wine per week have a lower risk of developing conditions such as Alzheimer's disease. Yes, twenty one glasses of wine per week. They also conclude that beer drinkers have a HIGHER risk of developing dementia, but a higher risk than what is not mentioned.

Someone clearly needs to develop a caffeinated wine, to kill two healthful birds with one intoxicating, buzz-inducing stone.

One of the girls in my office is getting married. We passed around a card to say congratulations, and then we all looked at her ring. It was fun.

She stopped by my desk today to ask how much design experience I have. I admit to having "some," and so she fills me in on her secret plan.

Apparently the reception place, some music hall in Massachusetts, has a website. A website she really dislikes. So she is trying to see if they will let her redesign the website in exchange for a discount on renting the place out. If I did the work with her, she would give me a cut of what she saved.

"Oh, how frugal!" I hear you exclaim. But no. The reason for all this? Apparently, she does not want guests to go to this music-hall-website for directions and see anything ugly. She wants it pretty, like her wedding.

Sometimes, I am even more grateful than usual that I ended up liking the boys. Here is a short, incomplete list of the benefits that immediately spring to mind:

1) Far fewer worries about pregnancy.

2) Sharing clothes with significant others.

3) Better (in general, I admit, so please refrain from lambasting me for my stereotyping) fashion sense than straight boys.

4) Gay boys are way easy!

and

5) No panicking and overplanning and weird cultural pressure to put up the "perfect wedding."

Good GRAVY, dealing with the periphery of my not-even-that-stressed-out-sister's wedding a few years ago taught me that I never, ever, ever want to be part of one of those but-I-want-a-golden-goose-egg-and-a-bean-feast-so-give-it-to-me-NOW kind of nuptial ceremonies. Gimme something fun with our friends and a bunch of wine and some cake and maybe some paper plates. Maybe on a beach somewhere. Maybe on a white sand beach. I could probably import a bunch of white sand from somewhere, and make my own white sand beach, you know, for my wedding. And all of the guests have to wear matching outfits, so they all look right and nobody clashes in my photos. (I can send out diagrams of what each person should wear if that helps them plan -- as a matter of fact, why don't I just start with that?) And everyone has to have responded at least 2 months in advance with what they want to eat for dinner, and no changing your mind either, because I only have what everyone already said they wanted and if they change their mind everything will be ruined because then someone else won't get what they ordered already, nd the temperature on the beach has to be between 75 and 78 degrees so I don't get sweaty, and I only want actual tulips actually imported directly from Holland, and I can have little bottles of bubbles hand-decorated with each guest's name and tied with a single strand of silver wire and --

HOLD THE PHONE, EVERYBODY -- I HAVE AN ANNOUNCEMENT.

THE COOKIES HAVE ARRIVED. I REPEAT, THE SIXTEEN BOXES OF GIRL SCOUT COOKIES I ORDERED HAVE ARRIVED.

I have already sucked down a tube of Thin Mints. I got them five minutes ago.

This terrifies me in some obscure Girl Scouty way. What also terrifies me is the prospect of carrying these cookies home -- they will not fit in one shipping box. It will require the use of one large cardboard box AND a shopping bag. Plus me, my overstuffed satchel, room for a book to read, and (here is the real problem) a mob of other commuters.

I really do not understand.

By far, the most common Google hit on my website involves a word I do not want to actually type, as it seems that would only exacerbate the problem. Suffice to say, someone (or several someones?, I suppose) keeps searching for that holiday that is on December 25, except without the "t" in the middle of it. I am continually returned as one of the top results.

I find two things particularly intriguing about this.

1) That mis-spelling appears NOWHERE in my entire diary. Even when spelled correctly, it is only mentioned twice.

2) That word also serves as a very common nickname for me among my friends. It just happens to be a convenient concatenation of my first and half of my last name.

How in the name of Pete did Google find out about my nickname?!? Color me completely confused, amazed, mystified, and very, very curious. Clearly the people at Google have been employing the services of some particularly puissant psychics. Who knew?

Also, I keep turning up for searches regarding that really hot, David Beckham-eqsue hairstyle I favor. That is, in a word, bad-ass.

In other news today:

I am incredibly excited about this. Something wonderful is coming to New York. And it opens today.

Hopefully you have heard of, or are familiar with the interior of, a Target store. I have no idea why I feel this intense loyalty to Target. I love Target more than I love IKEA, and that, that is really saying something. Maybe it is because of all the times I went there with my mom when I was quite small. Maybe it is because of all the times I went there during college to buy fans and plants and pencils and picture frames and CDs and fake trees. Maybe it is because of that perky bulls-eye logo. I do not quite know. What I am sure of, however, is that Target is the best place there is.

Imagine my sadness, then, having to live in a city without easy access to a Target. On the other hand, imagine my happiness when I discovered a new Target within my very very easy reach. And then, continue to expand your perception of my happiness until it is as large as the Hindenburg (pre-crash, that is), as you learn that this is no ordinary Target. It is a Target Boat.

Yes. A boat. A boat with a Target in it. A Holiday Target Boat, floating sedately, floating majestically, even, off the Chelsea Piers. Complete with a marketing campaign of big posters around the city containing the Target logo and copy reading "Nearest Target: 1.42 Nautical Miles." Get it? Nautical miles? Because it is a motherfucking Target motherfucking BOAT.

Whoever invented the concept of the Motherfucking Target Boat needs to receive a Big Motherfucking Raise. I want to kiss them and have their tiny red bulls-eyed babies.

I am currently eating the best lunch ever, in the entire worldwide history of lunches.

It is the leftover bits from last night's dinner: beef bourguignon. Julia Child's beef bourguignon. I cooked it all myself and it has sauteed mushrooms and it has braised pearl onions and it has carrots and wine and all manner of incredibly tasty little beefy bits. That I made. Me.

The other people over for dinner all said it was really good. At the time, of course, I had to mumble something about, "Oh, thanks, I try, it's not bad, mumble humble mumble." In the privacy of my own diary, however, (despite the fact that several of them will be reading this anyway, but at least I am not saying it out loud in person,) I can admit that I think this is one of the best things I have ever ever cooked. At moments like this I think I can cook anything in the whole world and that the world is, in fact, just waiting breathlessly for me to open a restaurant so they can all come and feast at my table. I will be King of Culinarytown, and I shall rule over my adoring subjects with a wise, just hand, dispensing delectable tidbits of food to the masses.

It sure is fun to be egocentric sometimes. And oh, so easy.

Fiddlesticks and pish posh.

I just had a very nice entry apologizing for the silly hubris of that recent narcissistic food-related frenzy.

It has been, appropriately, eaten.

Damn.

I had said something to the effect that I know people who draw things. I know people who sing things. I know people who photograph things. I do not really create...well, anything (aside from what you are reading right now, anyway). I think the whole food thing is my creative outlet. Even making webpages does not provide me with artistic latitude: I am largely limited to the choice of whether to put those extra five pixels here or here, which you probably might imagine, equals about as much creative input as none at all.

Then I think I said some other stuff about food and how neat it is, but I no longer recall exactly what. I am sure, however, that it was profound and spoke directly to something that makes a deep emotional connection with everyone reading this, in a very personal, intimate way. It might even have made you cry real tears. Now I bet you are crying because you will never get to read it, right?

Right?

Anybody?

My verbal sparring skills have certainly been getting a workout lately.

We have been spending weeks arguing about the requirements for the next version of this website I spend my days working on. Some people think it should work one way (also known as the klunky fucking stupid bad way,) and I think it should work another way (a.k.a. the user-friendly intelligently-planned good way).

I find that being the youngest person at the table, and for some reason being the most argumentative, (like I have taken on the mantle of Defender Of The Everyday User as if it were a sacred trust of some kind instead of being a pointless scuffle trying to pre-determine the needs of some random git sitting in his cubicle plotting graphs of electricity usage) is a strange role. I have no idea why I decide to argue so vehemently. Bits of me realize that I really do not care. Other bits of me revel in that flush of victory I feel every time I get someone to realize that a decent user experience is more than randomly hurling a save button and some mismatched fonts on the screen. To this end, I have been trotting out my big words, and even using some of those words that I hate -- crap about "leveraging existing assets," and "componentizing the homepage." I shudder every time I hear myself say it, but some of these businesspeople will only be swayed by words they recognize as their own. I feel like I use these phrases as familiar bait, planting the sneaky seed of my usability rebellion inside, hoping they will bite.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have some Girl Scout Cookies who are living in my drawer. They are crying out to me to end their suffering. I must away.

I worry sometimes that my employers will decide that any impression of helpfulness they may have received from me at one point or another has been pure farce. I rolled in to work today at a few minutes to noon -- yes, I called to say I would be late, and nobody seemed to care, but I am still troubled by this little niggly bit of anxiety that 'I'm gonna get in SOOO MUCH TROUBLE' or something. When do I get to stop worrying about getting in trouble, for heaven's sake? Like they are going to shake their fingers at me and call me a bad person or something. Ah, well. Some habits, it seems, are hard to break.

That last statement applies equally well to the concept of slacking off. Even after I go through all this feeling guilty for coming to work late, I have spent my afternoon reading up on Robert Jordan and the Wheel of Time series -- book 10 due out on Jan. 7, which is, incidentally, when he will be signing books in Manhattan, praise the day! And just a very few days ago, Tor Books released an excerpt. Chapter 1 of the upcoming installment in what I think might be the most tremendously long saga ever in the history of reading. I just spent 20 minutes reading it. Twice.

Let me clarify, by the way; I do get done everything that needs to get done. I am not neglecting my job...very much. I just choose to allocate my time so that I waste a lot of time, and then squish my work-related activities in to the smallest, most jam-packed, deadline-ridden, stressful bit of the day. I find things are much more enjoyable that way. Keeps me on my toes.

Proposed House Rule: If you feel your clothes are smelly, dousing yourself in a thick, cloying, sickeningly sweet, overwhelmingly floral perfume that fills the entire household and gives people headaches and makes them gag the moment they open their eyes in the morning IS NOT THE RIGHT THING TO DO. Particularly for two days in a row.

Perhaps you have already heard this lovely tidbit from the newspaper: following in the footsteps of a man who sued a bunch of fast-food chains for being unhealthy, a group of teenagers are suing McDonalds for making them fat. Apparently they are under the mistaken impression that Ronald McDonald held them at gunpoint and forced them to eat McDonald's. Perhaps a kamikaze Hamburglar snuck into their homes at night and hooked them up to a Big Mac I.V., dripping special sauce directly into their bloodstreams.

I honestly do not understand how they expect anyone to take this seriously. Clearly these kids actively chose to eat at McDonald's every day.

My favorite part about this story thus far, however, has to be the writeup in the New York Post. I share this here for those out-of-towners who may not have access to this incredibly hard-hitting source of journalistic integrity:

"Super-sized kids - including a 400-pounder - who ate at McDonald's nearly every day sank their teeth into the Golden Arches in court yesterday, claiming they didn't know cheeseburgers and fries would turn them into porky, fat-munching junkies."

Let me repeat: A major metropolitan newspaper just called these kids SUPER-SIZED, PORKY, FAT-MUNCHING JUNKIES.

Like, ow. Maybe these teenagers can sue the New York Post for making them cry.

And everything seemed so normal.

After writing my last entry, McDonald's sounded really good, so I went there for lunch. Maybe they will secretly decide to make me fat too, so I can sue them. I could then use the money I received to get liposuction and a really hot personal trainer, so really, I would win on all fronts. I should probably set up a camera-trap of some kind to take pictures if Grimace sneaks into my bedroom while I am sleeping and makes me eat hot apple pies all night.

The trip was, all in all, fairly uneventful. So I get back to the office, I sit at my desk. I do some work. I stand up to get coffee. I almost fall down.

Apparently between sitting down at my desk and standing up again, something traumatic happened to the muscle/group of muscles that attaches my right leg to the rest of me. I cannot move that particular bit of me without some particularly exciting lances of shooting pain going on.

I limped my way about the office, and I somehow managed to limp my way to the subway, and miraculously survived what is probably the most crowded subway ride I have endured in a long time, and that is really saying something. (At one point some girl had her ass shoved right into mine -- to the extent where I think I could tell that she was not wearing underwear.)

I have been limping around my house and making pathetic little whimpery noises now and then. Miss Monkeypants from across the hall has recommended a very nice doctor, and if this continues, I shall visit him in the morning.

I feel like Kerri Strug. Can I get a gold medal for heroically making it up the stairs to my bedroom?

My hip has been downgraded from sharp stabbing pain to dull aching pain. I still look very silly walking up and down spiral stairs, which I must do both at home and at work, and which is becoming very inconvenient.

In other news, planning for Thanksgiving continues apace. Shiv and I have been hammering out menu items, and while things are not completely set in stone, this much I can say with certainty: I am going to have a fucking BLAST cooking this stuff. And I hope I have enough room in my fridge for all of the cheese and cream I will be buying. Holy cats. This will be a Very Dairy Thanksgiving. I am getting a little worried that turnout will be light -- a bunch of people can only attend after family obligations have been tended to, say 10 or 11 pm. That will be great for the after-party, but the idea of having as much food as I am making just kind of lounging about with not enough people to eat it right away makes me very sad.

Tomorrow I have a lot of things to attend: Z's birthday/Burning Man Decompression Party, E's birthday, and Chad Allen (a.k.a. my soon-to-be-boyfriend)'s off-Broadway play. I do love to juggle. Hopefully I will be doing a little less limping and a little more gettin' down.

In work-related news, the product manual I have been working on for a month has just been scrapped. Yes, scrapped. The 2.0 version I have written is now worthless and is to be replaced by the 2.1 version. Funny, I seem to recall making that exact same leap in logic about a month ago, when it was ignored. Color me homicidal. And now I just want to take the person who told me to write 2.0 anyway and KICK HIM IN THE JUNK.

Current activity:

Getting smashed at work.

Current mood: Fan-fucking-tabulous.

Sometimes there is just too much to explain. Sometimes you have to try anyway.

So you may remember an earlier-mentioned plan to go see a particular play and meet a certain person in this play who I do not want to name for fear of showing up in Google searches related to this actor's name and then his fan club will find out about my diary and they will hate me because I am about to say that they are completely freakish, which they were.

One of them was this 16 year old boy. Who almost made me cry. Why cry, you ask? Because he was easily the most stereotypically, overdone gay person I have ever met in my entire life. It was like everything he did and said was specifically calculated to make himself seem more gay. During my coming-out phase I did things, like buy a set of pride rings, that I would not do now (pride rings do not go with any of my clothes, ha ha), all of which were probably an attempt to help me define myself. I never really had to go overboard, though, as in what I now see as an incredible stroke of luck, my high school's atmosphere was remarkably tolerant. I never had that homophobic opposition to fight against, I suppose. The only reason I can think for this kid's attitude is that he thinks he has to behave that way (in self-defense? in defiance? in only having Hollywood stereotypes to look up to?) -- which is what makes me sad.

Add to him a gaggle of other freakish flustered fluttering fans, all wearing matching logo-marked sweatshirts, and who all flipped out when the actor in question arrived. When this sixteen-year-old boy invited me to hang out with the rest of the fan club that evening, driving around in their rented limo, and included the whispered excited phrase, "the limo even has drinks inside!!!", I politely declined due to two birthday parties I had to attend(which was true), but under my breath I muttered something to the effect of "I would rather stab myself in the face."

Rather than risk being vaguely associated with these fine folk, I just gave a quick handshake, congratulations, and a comment that the show was good, and then I was out the door. Result: plan to get an actor boyfriend derailed, but I really think I'm OK with that.

I went from there to Birthday Party # 1 (BP1) to pick up ArtStudent. BP1 ended rather abruptly as soon as I got there, which was a little bit disconcerting (was it something I said?) but apparently they had all been waiting for me before disbanding. ArtStudent and I went to the other party, BP2 -- also known as the Burning Man Decompression Party, in what has to be my least-favorite-named-neighborhood, DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass). Comment to whoever names these things: ENOUGH WITH THE ACRONYMS for fuck's sake.

I do not think my descriptive talents are up to the task of talking about this event in detail. Provided for your amusement, therefore, are a few flashes:

Naked boys on rollerblades shouting anti-war slogans.

A big air-puffed bubblehouse to walk around in.

Kneeling inside a dark tent to a king and queen (only of the tent, presumably) to receive the blessing of Jagermeister.

A bra made out of candy.

ArtStudent being perilously (and hilariously) close to exposed penis.

A bed of nails.

"This place smells like fruit and fuck."

Naked granny-ass wearing (appropriately, I suppose) a fanny pack.

Scottish people inviting me up to dance on a platform.

Projection screens on every surface.

40-foot ceilings and musings on what we could do with the space if we lived there.

Impromptu informal crazy jumpy-hoppy dancing with another guy, spinning around each other in crazy-jumpy-hoppy circles for an hour, followed immediately by utter dehydration due to excessive sweating. My thighs are still in excessive amounts of recovery-pain.

The Manhattan skyline directly across the water.

Hearing a couple have sex in the stall next to me.

Seeing a couple have sex in the corner.

Merry-go-rounds.

Big wooden swings.

A Coat Check right next to a Soul Check.

More naked breasts than I could comfortably shake a stick at.

Riding the subway home with Shiv's roommate as the sun came up.

I ended up sleeping until 5 pm Sunday -- after which I spent an hour and a half chopping sage and thyme and parsley for herb-butter for my turkey. And then I went back to bed in my (are you sitting down?) CLEAN BEDROOM. With clean, flannel, winter sheets. And I slept in the single most comfortable bed in existence.

Wow. I think it would have been very difficult to describe Saturday night in a less exciting fashion than in my last entry. Sometimes, I suppose, it is not possible (for me, at least) to write about an event and make it seem as vivid and fun and memorable as actually being there.

Plus, I forgot to talk about the part where I found twenty-two dollars. That part was really cool.

We just finished a Company Thanksgiving.

Everyone brought a tremendous amount of food. (I brought my bourbon-cranberry sauce and some bread toasties and some brie, and a ham/endive/gruyere gratin. Mmm. Me likey.) Everyone is in a sleepy little stupor. I have declared today to be a vacation day in which I do nothing at work -- and what makes this different from other days, is that today I have decided not to be guilty about my lack of productivity. We cannot be expected to eat that much food and still do anything worthwhile for the rest of the afternoon.

Besides, dessert is in half an hour. Pie. Piiiiiiiiiiie.

Good lord, I do love the word "pie."

You know what else I love? Happy Hardcore CDs. I have been listening to this one for the past week straight. It's sick. Somehow I cannot muster the energy today to bob my head to the beat, though. I am, instead, sleepily lowering my eyelids to the beat. I probably look really stoned.

And before I forget, my H.R. lady once again completely rocks my face. She organized the Company Thanksgiving and is just about the sweetest thing on legs.

In other news, I just took a "Who's Your Inner Gay Man" test. I am loath to disclose my results -- but in the interest of honesty, I suppose I must: Jack, from Will & Grace. I may never live this down.

Today's To-Do List:

1) Engage in a frantic flurry of activity ALL DAY LONG.

2) Do more of 1.

I was having problems deciding what to wear to work today. I finally settled on a stretchy, long-sleeve, pullover black velvet DKNY shirt and my flare jeans. I feel very hip-urban-homo.

The best part about this outfit? One of my bosses was asking me a question, and then stopped in the middle to say, "Wow. Nice shirt." He reached over and touched it (as it is velvety, of course,) and said, "You're going to have all sorts of girls trying to touch you."

Then there was about half a second of pause, and he kind of shifted his feet, and said, "I mean, if that's what you're going for, of course." Another half-second pause...and he walked back to his desk. I laughed. And he still hasn't come back to ask me to do whatever he was going to ask.

Due to circumstances entirely beyond my control (thank you, Valmont), I will very likely have no internet access during this extended holiday weekend.

My CEO has also just sent out an email telling everyone to go home. I think that is a splendid suggestion.

As such, this is my last chance to wish everyone a very happy Thanksgiving! I am off to buy a coffee maker, a roasting pan, and a whole mess of vegetables. Picture me with a gleeful smile on my face, chopping shallots, and drinking a glass of wine, for pretty much the next 28 or so hours. After that, just picture me with the smile and the wine. I think I'll make a toast to all of the people I have met on here over the last nine months -- people who are interested in what I have to say, people who say things in which I am interested, people who do things I have never done but get to live vicariously through, people who do exactly the same things as me but in a slightly different way, people who are brilliant, who are hilarious, who are talented, who are just plain weird (just like I like my friends). You all do a tremendous job at rocking the socks off of my face.

Happy Thanksgiving!