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

So far, 2K3 is shaping up well.

I will not even try to relate the events of New Year's, as any attempt to describe my perceptions of the evening will invariably fail, as my perceptions at the time were not exactly what one might call "unaffected." A blur of crescendoes, two packs of cigarettes, velvet, subways, fireworks, tequila, "Would it be change?," rushing down stairs in a hysterical-laughter sort of escape, three-minutes-no-two-minutes-no-twelve-minutes-no-3-2-1-Happy-New-Year countdowns, and the blastiest blast of an evening I can recall. Anyway, it was a tremendous amount of fun. Even the Party in Tribeca and its institutional-green-painted Smoking Hallway. Sleep did not occur until nearly sunrise, which (as far as I am concerned) is entirely proper for ringing in a new year.

I love my new mix-CDs from Finn SO MUCH that I have been shuttling them to work and back with me, so that I might enjoy the sheer listening pleasure that is his 2K2 Experience, no matter where I might happen be. It is like my ears are being touched in a down-n-dirty, harder-baby-harder, naughty kind of way when I play it -- and my ears like it. These CDs practically have sex with my entire head.

Tomorrow begins my latest cross-country odyssey. I fly to Burlington, VT, drive back to Brooklyn, pick up StyleGirl, and drive to Denver, where I meet with the son of the husband of a coworker, to deliver unto him his dad's old Saab. Then late Wednesday night/early Thursday morning, I fly from Denver back to good ol' New York.

Hopefully, this trip will do its part to assuage my jump-up-and-down burning desire to have an adventure. I am woefully short on adventure just at the moment -- I have not gone anywhere besides back to Colorado for almost two years, and as far as I am concerned, that is far, far too long to be stuck in one (okay fine, two) place(s). And although it is still just back to Colorado, at least there are all of these interim destinations to look forward to. Except Nebraska. I do not look forward to Nebraska.

P.S. Happy Eleventy-First Birthday to one J.R.R. Tolkien!

I am back.

As road trips go, this one was seriously uneventful, which can be a good thing if the events involved are being pulled over by the cops, but not so good if the events are things like picking up famous people who were stranded by the side of the road and need a ride to Wichita. Still, StyleGirl and I amused ourselves by buying magazines with pictures of Orlando Bloom (who was appointed Sexy Patron Saint of our trip), eating beef jerky, reading each other chapters of our dorky fantasy epic, and doing a lot of peeing.

The day-and-a-half visit with the fam is, I think, just about the perfect length of time. Although capping it off with a four-hour wait in the airport for my red-eye was not very exciting. At least I brought some joy to the lives of the airline clerks -- apparently my ticket had been tagged "Unaccompanied Minor," which set them all off into peals of laughter. They kept offering to "escort" me, which sounded vaguely licentious.

Warnings to other people attempting this drive:

Kansas is FREAKISHLY long. It will take you approximately three and a half years longer to drive through it than you will estimate.

Indianapolis does not serve liquor of any kind on Sunday night, even to people who have been driving for almost 12 hours and just want ONE FUCKING DRINK, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

When very large trailers carrying several cars start to change lanes into you, the appropriate response is a) to hit the brakes, but also b) to honk the horn loudly, as the driver of the trailer will be completely unable to hear you screaming.

Beware of the hordes of freakish people who will accompany you to rest stops. They are usually wearing some kind of sweat-gear, possibly embroidered with teddy bears, or a sports logo. If not closely watched, they will assimilate you and add your biological and cultural distinctiveness to their own...enormous ASS.

The St. Louis Archway Thing is pretty cool. You should go see that. Do not bother with their mall, unless you are a fan of Mary Engelbreit. There is an entire store devoted to nothing but Mary Fucking Engelbreit.

Emma Thompson was right. There really is no such thing as Dayton chic.

P.S. Confidential to Taylor: You are a genius and I bow before the glory of your dancing clothes. Seriously. Those rocked the fuck off of my face.

Whoof. Where the hell have I been?

Sorry 'bout that there extended absence thing. I will now make several pointed and extremely brilliant observations.

1) The first time I typed the previous sentence, I actually said, "I will not make several..." Never underestimate the vital importance of proofreading.

2) Gossip completely amazes me. J to Sea to Petit to Wang to Shiv to me, all in something less than a day. And miraculously, the Telephone-Game nature of these exchanges did not distort the message, which might be a first.

3) Good lord, but I do love endives.

4) Glue traps referred to as "mouse post-its" is very possibly the single funniest phrase ever uttered. I actually snorted, I was laughing so hard. I do love being the office freak.

5) I like to think that I am not the "office freak," actually. I much prefer "office eccentric."

6) When boys give one completely unsolicited, utterly thoughtful, and amazingly timely presents, chances are very good that one's heart will melt and dribble out of one's feet all over the floor of Grand Central Station. In a good way.

7) Robert Jordan can fucking suck. My. Ass. How can he in good conscience end a book (TENTH in an epic series, for god's sake) by saying, "She had been betrayed! But by whom?" Dun-dun-DUNNNNNN! And if I was not furious enough reading that, I realized shortly afterward that I will be at least TWENTY-SEVEN FUCKING YEARS OLD before I get to find out what happens next. Can you say, "Robert Jordan, will you please suck my ass HARD" with me? I knew you could.

8) For those of you unaware, I am currently a week shy of being twenty-five-and-a-half.

9) When observations 7 and 8 are combined, it means at LEAST a year and a half (and very likely much longer) until Book 11.

10) Oh, that sound? It was just my head exploding.

June 21.

One of these days, I am actually going to be smart enough to only read stand-alone books. No more of this infuriating sequel crap.

(sigh) I will still be at the bookstore on June 21, though.

So now I am making up for my earlier silence, with today's third entry.

LEO:
In the history of your relationship with togetherness, you've maybe never experienced a stretch as demanding as the one that's about to begin. The stakes will be high and the challenges daunting; and yet if you bravely venture to question everything you thought was true about love, you will break through into a radical new level of intimacy that is deep and playful beyond anything you've imagined.

You heard it here, my fellow Leos! Now get to lovin'!

I have been lamenting lately that nothing exciting enough has happened to warrant a diary entry.

Remind me to not lament about that again.

Here is a little backstory. For the past month or so, I have been seeing a fellow named M. Remarkably put-together, in the owning-houses-and-being-an-activist-and-driving-a-car-and-mentoring-children-and-being-far-far-FAR-more-stable-than-I-am kind of way. He is largely the complete opposite of anyone I have ever dated, which has been very interesting and challenging and fun to learn to deal with. Also, I was brought to his attention by the efforts of everyone's favorite sex-themed website, Nerve, and their personals.

Enter onto the scene a fellow also named M. For clarity, let us call the first M "M1," and the second "M2." (And yes, the M does stand for the same name. Simplicity is, in this case, rather confusing.) M2 also found me through the above website. His introductory letter was charming, so I wrote back, and being the conscientious person I try to be, I started off by saying that I was seeing someone, but saw no reason why that would preclude us being friends.

Cut to Saturday night. M2 and I meet up to see Chicago (the movie version, which was utterly HOT-TASTIC, by the by). As he is a waiter for a series of upscale restaurants scattered 'round the city, he suggests we go to one. I agree, as I have a few hours before I am due at a birthday party back in Brooklyn. One restaurant is noted for its seafood. Now, normally I am not a fan, but I am doing my best to cultivate a taste for the slimy water-dwelling creatures of the world, in order to facilitate learning how to cook them for other people to eat. Specifically, this restaurant is noted for oysters.

M2 and I suck down a healthy portion of these things. I learn that the ones that taste like cucumber have a "vegetable finish," and the ones that taste like tin cans have a "mineral finish." Honestly, I think it was the tin-can ones that did it.

Did it?

Did what?

Did make me throw up all over the street, that is what.

All. over. the street. Repeatedly.

Off I go to a hospital, to sit in a room throwing up and drinking bottles of electrolyte-water for the next few hours. Apparently this is not an uncommon occurrence at the hospital, and blessedly, they did not make me sit in the waiting room. Ridiculously, M2 and I were still trying to have a get-to-know-you conversation, that went something like this:

"HUUKKKKKKKKKKKKK!! So, where'd you go to school?"
"Arizona. Here's a paper towel -- you missed a spot."

After I had vomited up every single thing I had ever ever consumed, and seemed to be in no immediate danger of repeating this feat, we got in a cab and he escorted me home, to my wonderful wonderful bed.

As if all this were not absurd enough, the two of us ended up totally making out (after I had brushed my teeth not once, not twice, but thrice), seeing as how a) vomiting can really bond people together, b) it was 4 am, and c) he was really really hot. He also seems to be rather fond of me -- because really, watching someone try valiantly to make a good impression while throwing up must be kind of endearing -- so now it seems that I have TWO Ms on my plate.

At least I needn't worry about yelling out the wrong name in bed.

Were my life actually one of those Broadway musicals of which I am so fond, this morning would most definitely be a high-energy tap-dance number, performed while I sang about things like flying, twittering birds and sunshine. I am almost always a happy person -- now, granted, I have my periods of grumpiness and annoyance like anyone else, but nine times out of ten, a glance at me will likely find me laughing, smiling, or both. This is one of those rare and wonderful mornings where that everyday feeling of cheerfulness is exacerbated to the point of near-silliness.

Nothing specific brought this on -- I have seen neither M1 nor M2 since Sunday, ha ha -- it is more the confluence of several factors. I shall list these for you now:

-- M1 and M2, obviously. M2 is joining me and the gang for Buffy this evening, and M1 will be attending Shiv's show with me on Friday. This entire situation is so ridiculous, I am liable to burst into hysterical laughter at any moment just thinking about it. I mean, COME ON.

-- Discovering that two people I love are now dating each other, which was probably the most unexpected yet entirely perfect bit of news I could have imagined receiving this morning.

-- My bedroom shall henceforth be known as The Royal Bedchamber. This appellation is right and necessary due to the brand new, thick, red, velvet curtains, deep red flannel sheets, and coppery-gold duvet cover purchashed this weekend, and the deep red silk-paneled wallscreen located by ArtStudent shortly thereafter.

-- Sunshine.

--Flying, twittering birds.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have a song to sing about some very tasty coffee.

Perhaps you remember a lawsuit against McDonald's I mentioned a few months ago here. Super-sized, porky, fat-munching junky children claimed that McDonald's made them fat, and should be forced to pay restitution.

In a rare, strange, and altogether exciting twist of fate, the lawsuit has actually been thrown out because it was stupid. The judge in the case said, "If consumers know (or reasonably should know) the potential ill health effects of eating at McDonald's, they cannot blame McDonald's if they, nonetheless, choose to satiate their appetite with a surfeit of supersized McDonald's products." I quote him for the sole reason that I very much like the word "surfeit," and I am pleased to see it used. "Satiate" is a pretty good word too. Plus, he gets into some hot alliterative action, which I think is pretty Sweet.

P.S. If those sorry fuckers who write for Smallville do not get around to opening the spaceship like now, I will march right down there and kick their collective ass. Also, Mrs. Kent is stacked. Who knew?

Just because everybody else around here is, I should probably mention that it is fucking freezing fucking cold right now. Weather.com tells me that at the moment, my zip code is twelve degrees, but it feels like zero.

No, weather.com. It does not feel like zero degrees. It feels like minus-ninety-million degrees, because I swear that the fluid in my eyeballs froze solid while walking from the subway to my office. I literally lost the ability to see, and could only find my way to work by squinting through a blurry haze of icy eye-goo crystals. It is just CRUEL for the city to be this cold, when we also have a cloudless, sparkling blue sky and full-on sunshine. I shudder to imagine how cold it would be without our life-saving blanket of greenhouse gases, eh?

Also, today I look like a carnival. I am wearing my lime-green-, burgundy-, and navy-striped shirt from Barneys with a crimson-and-gold-striped scarf. It rocks.

So M2 apparently has a precocious twelve-year-old brother. The brother was shrewd enough to notice that M2 has spent a few nights at my house, and asked M2 about me.

"Well," he said. "He's got a mohawk and a tattoo of the AURYN."

"Fucking SWEET!" the twelve-year-old replied.

If I ever wanted proof that I have changed, drastically, dramatically, and very much for the better since my tapered-jeans-and-polo-t-shirts-and-bad-hair days, folks, well: that was it. I get to be the badass with a mohawk and a tattoo. I feel so hardcore, I could just spit. Honestly, if you had told me five years ago what I would be like right now, what I would be wearing and how I would be spending my time, I would have laughed right. In. Your. Face.

Also, I just went back and edited this entry, just to mention that the shirt I am wearing is from Barneys. That is sick.

p.s. Today is my half-birthday! Just so you know.

Newsflash:

M2 just called.

He has tonsillitis.

He wanted to be sure that if I developed a sore throat, I would go to the doctor.

And I had been worried about giving him my cold.

(cue muffled hysterical laughter)

Although...one cannot catch tonsillitis when one has no tonsils, right?

Sweeeeeeeet.

Cutting right to the chase: M1 is no more.

Although, I do not even know if I can rightly call it "breaking up." Whenever anybody asked me about this whole M1/M2 debacle, and asked if M1 and I were "going out" or "exclusive" or what-have-you, I could only reply that I did not exactly know. We had never had any discussion about it. I have not even seen M1 since before he went out of town last weekend, when having just such a conversation suddenly became important. But for simplicity: we just broke up.

I suppose it is what I deserve, after all, given the events of the last week. But, oh. I was looking forward to seeing him tonight.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to come up with some sort of reply to a break-up email.

We have traded a few emails now. We have come to the conclusion that he would like to get the book he accidentally left with me back. I have no idea what else to say to him.

I am very rarely at a loss for words, but anything I think of sounds pretty ridiculous.

I just wrote this entry once. Now I have to write it again. Damn it all.

Anyway.

I have several interesting things to report.

First, those adorable Danish songsters have struck another mighty blow for justice! Aqua gets to continue using their song, Barbie Girl. Color me pleased as punch. CNN, however, needs to work on their research department, as it's not, "I'm a blonde bimbo," but rather "I'm a blonde bimbo GIRL." Also, the judge involved is the coolest judge ever, as he concludes by stating that "The parties are advised to chill."

Second, I went to a Super Bowl Party yesterday. I decided to root for the team in red, as I liked their uniforms better. Also, the "Raiders" sound kind of...mean, while the "Buccaneers" sound like the sort of jaunty fellows one might see in The Pirates of Penzance. After the game, we were flipping channels and came across The Powerpuff Girls, a series on Gay Weddings, Trading Spaces, an Audrey Hepburn marathon, and a Two Fat Ladies marathon. It would appear that all the networks not showing the football game knew exactly to whom they were catering.

Third, the streets are engry with me. All four finger-knuckles of my right hand are missing skin-flaps that the road ate yesterday when I slipped and fell on it. Plus, this morning I almost fell down about ten times on my way to work. Remind me, please, to not fall on my ass today. I would prefer to leave myself unbruised.

And at long last, fulminous emerged from his cocoon, a whole new look, new graphics, and new colors shining all about him.

And lo! he did look at these things and think that they were good, but that he needed to think about them overnight before he could truly decide.

Already, he could see new colors for links would be required, and there were some serious funky spacing issues that would need to be addressed. Fulminous decided such issues could be dealt with the next day.

He did rightly thank Taydo for decision-making help and moral support.

I seem to recall threatening to change my "look" something like...oh, almost a year ago. Hoorah for Taydo for the kick in the ass.

You know that saying, "It's a small world," right? Yes. It is.

Years ago, my sister was dating a guy. He was artsy and liked museums and music. My sister also met a guy who was fond of watching football. She told me at the time that it felt like she was being given a choice between artsy-crazy and boring-stable. As she has a daughter, she opted for stability, and married the football-watcher (much to my chagrin).

She still talks to the artsy guy now and then. I even met him, several years ago, and we had great fun talking about New York over biscuits and gravy at Pete's Kitchen, in Denver. Yesterday she sent me a link to a few of his songs on mp3.com.

"Hm," I think to myself. "This sounds familiar. Why does this sound so familiar? Oh! Right! This sounds just like the CD that ArtStudent brought back from her last visit to Colorado!"

So I ask her. "Who was that guy on your CD?" "Oh. His name is Artsyguy." "Holy shit, I knew it! My sister used to DATE him!" "Holy shit. That's my ex-girlfriend's boyfriend."

Yeah. My roommate's ex-girlfriend is dating my sister's ex-boyfriend.

Is everybody's life like this?

I just bought a piece of lemon pound cake for a little bit of lunch-dessert. It is glazed with a lovely lemony frosting, and came wrapped up very tightly in plastic wrap.

I just spent upwards of two minutes trying to wrestle this plastic wrap off of my pound cake. For some reason, despite being otherwise perfectly capable of getting around in the world, I could not manage to find the tail end of a piece of plastic wrap.

When I finally managed to slip a fingernail under an invisible seam and yank it just so, freeing enough of that pernicious wrapper for me to unveil my bit of cake, I realized how I looked: My brow was furrowed; my tongue stuck a good half-inch out of tightly-clenched teeth, the tip just touching my upper lip. I had to invest that much concentration.

There are many reasons why I am happy my desk is in the back of the room where nobody ever looks at me. The fact that consequently nobody saw me making that face has just leapt to the top of the list.

It has finally happened.

Revisions. Redesigns. Conferences. Committee meetings. And finally. One little checkmark by the CEO, and it is a done deal.

My work website is undergoing drastic reconstructive surgery, with yours truly as the head surgeon.

As such, I have actually had to do stuff. Cutting up and coding and nudging, and generally proving my worth as the hottest HTML jockey this side of the...hell, on BOTH sides of the damned Mississippi.

I have felt tremendously productive for a change -- I have even come into work early and left late every day this week. I have scarcely had time to check my email. I am always so much happier when I have a tremendous, insurmountable pile of work sitting next to me than when I have one or two easily-managed projects. Someday I will figure out why I have this need to make things as hard on myself as they possibly could ever be.

A few comments that I have enjoyed lately, by the way:

Yesterday, a lady getting on the elevator paused to tell me that she LOVES my haircut. "I mean, I really love that! It's fabulous!" she says.

Last night, StyleGirl and I were discussing parental roles, and how there is a "mean" strict parent and a "nice" permissive parent. She forsees herself in the role of strict, and declared that I would clearly become the beloved, favorite parent. "What makes you say that?" I ask. "Oh, come on," she replies. "You're already the favorite. Everywhere you go. Everyone is all, 'Hooray, he's here!!!'" That is approximately the point at which I started glowing with happyjuice. For some reason, I still get surprised when people who have been my friends for ten years say they want to hang out with me. Some obscure bit of my brain is convinced that they are only hanging out with me out of some sense of obligation, and to have external confirmation of the fact that "You like me! You really like me!" is both touching and wonderfully good for my Leonine ego.