my long day

i could/should be at some loft party now, but i just went home after getting turned around on Bleeker and shlepping past McDougal, dazed by the bright lights of the glittery jewelry stores that are opened until unexplicable hours, while what i really needed was Broadway. T., whom i have not seen in a while, just called, he was at some party, and bitched me out for calling it an early night, but i am just so tiiiired. i got up really early today, then went to the taping of "Conversation Between Howard Zinn and Woody Harrelson" (courtesy of remsavarem (where i talked for a while to Howard Zinn's wife, and she is the nicest, coolest lady, like, ever). also--Woody Harrelson? i am impressed. he was very intelligent, and their dialogue was not scripted, they just talked about the war and the controlled media, Woody Harrelson kept posing these really thoughtful questions kind of infused with a conspiracy-theory ethos which is totally justified and appreciated by me at the moment, and Howard Zinn was putting it into historical perspective. then A. called; she was in town for the night and we went to dinner at some place on Broadway that i pass every day on the way to school; it's called the Silver Spurs and it has the most insane menu that literally made me feel crazy and challenged my ability to read, much less choose anything because what how the hell do you deal with the fact that the most prevalent items on the menu are "frenchies" (which for reasons i still don't understand are potatoes rather than french fries). continuing their inexplicable fixation on diminutive suffixes, Silver Spurs menu offered "tomaties" instead of tomatoes, and well, just, like, try and deal with this menu selection, coming at you all at once. seriously, click on the damn link. milk there is called "cow juice" and the Snapple offering features a following elaboration: " hey hey whatzmatta? Wenoaveevery flavor, little Bunkies!" eventually i just ordered the appetizer platter more out of the complete grand alienation affect that the menu induced than out of particular desire for greasy fried goods, but so it went (in addition our waitress had a completely impossible to place accent and difficulties with English, and aside from the fact that for personal reasons I have trauma with waitresses with heavy accents, trying to communicate with her about that particular menu just made me feel like i was in some movie that bunuel would have made if he was on crack and possessed by the spirit of andy kaufman).
afterwards we went to the Lion's Den b/c A.'s boyfriend's band (The Worry Stones? or something like that) were playing there. i stuck around for a while but A. was as she put it "morally obligated" to dance, which i don't really do, except in rare instances and this was not one of them, and T. was taking his sweet time, and i remembered that constintina at my request was taping the SNL premiere with Jack Black hosting and that the window in the living room was finally closed so it no longer felt like the North Pole there and all of a sudden my very long day caught up with me and I heard the siren song of our imported-from-the-70s-via-time-warp couch. The L train came right away and by the time I got home I was nearly falling over from exhaustion. I just put my PJs on and I have a bottle of lemonade and an oatmeal cookie. In a little while I will be in the land of dreams where I am a sushi mule.

everyone read this

I have a very schizo relationship with New York Press, because they seem to be an example of the "left" hand not knowing what the "right" hand is doing, and not knowing that they are on the staff of the same publication. and it's not that they are just just libretarian which such mixture can imply in the cases of the British, sane, often pleasing Economist. But I also really really enjoy reading the New York Press in the way that I don't even enjoy The Voice (although don't get me wrong, I love the Voice, but that's an uncomplicated love). New York Press runs great articles sometimes, like about urban scuba diving in Gowanus Canal, which sounds beyond horrifying, and features a quote by some hipster writer about how the said canal is the only body of water in the world that's "90% guns."
and occasionally they get the political stuff right, narrated with their particular flair. so today i am pimpting a New York Press Article that I think everyone should read, I am not even going to link to it, I'll just put it right here ( Read more... )

another dream--my unconscious is on a roll

in the dream, first i was in this amazing center for children, like, educational center. first i walked up to it. outside there were two people with a kind of willy wonka ethos about them, on extremkely tall ladders extremely high in the sky trimming the very tops of extremely tall trees. (we are talking really exaggerated heights, that happens in my dreams sometimes, like i will have a swimming pool in a dream that's the depth of, i dunno, i skyscraper, with the perimeter to match the depth, so by tall i don't mean "redwoods" tall). except one of them is unhappy or anxious about the job. then i walked through the gate and there was a garden where little girls were playing with makeup, etc. then i walked into the house, it was a sunny beautiful house, with lots ot educational props. i went into the basement where there were computers. in the dream i "knew" that they were for ages 3 to 59 but it was still all the children in that room; they seemed to be a little older and using the computers for learning. i think i was there to volunteer, but then i looked at who the other volunteer was and it was Sara M. (nuncstans and constintina, you know who i mean) i said her name, displeased, and she looked at me but did not acknolwedge me and i walked off. then i was looking at some books with nuncstans and (this part was probably apropos our conversation yesterday) the whole point of this part of the dream was seemingly to prove that you can't read in a dream, because we were looking at some book that had pictures with captions under them, and i knew what all the captions were supposed to say, but when i "read" them they looked completely different and sometimes morphed; i was asking nuncstans what she could read, and her "reading" was completely different from mine. then the dream changed and i found myself simultaneously watching a student film with a one-word title that does not exist in english, and being in it. it was shot/existed in Sepia color, and originally it seemed like it was going to be about the El Train in Chicago. i watched as several people boarded the train, except the train station was atop a very high grassy embankment, and the train was little and silver and strange and one of the guys climbing atop it said that he loved that there was a big step that he had to climb on to get to the train. i remember thinking--how would someone like my grandmother get onto the train? then we were all inside the cabin on the train that was more like little lifts in the Alps than a normal train, and it turned out that one of the guys climbed out of the window and out of what seemed like a macho impulse (at these points this was like watching a movie, so there was obvious character motivation, and sometimes narration) decided to hang from the rails and just barely avoid the train cars passing him by (there were "close-up shots"). i was still in the train, but i was a little girl by that point. we arrived at another train station that, out of one side of the window, looked like 40s gangster Chicago film noir, and out of the other side it was the same continuiing grassy embankment, the same type of nature that was happenning at the education center earlier. in the meantime, it was "shown" (the same movie style) that the guy got scared and crawled along the rails, following the train, and then fell off these extremely high rails. i knew that he was supposed to die in a sad way that you know someone in a movie is supposed to die, but in the dream it was ambiguous whether he was dead or not. his boss arrived (turned out all the men in the car were involved with the mafia, and it was a mafia movie) and was questioning the other man in the car about the actions of the possibly dead man; it turned out he had been hanging off the rails because he was afraid of something job-related. it was very confusing. i tried to listen and piece it together and make sense of it, but the other woman in the train car, who was very tall and had dark blonde hair with heavy bangs walked out with me onto the grassy embankment and started talking to me about studying and how when she had a lot of studying to do she just immersed herself in it and did not allow "silliness like that" (pointing at the men still sorting out their business) to distract her.

interpretations??

Mrs. Shrub etc.

Instead of covering Israel bombing Syria, which is the important story of the week, AOL overlords decided to run, in lieu of real headline news, a weird article about whether Laura Bush is The Shrub's secret weapon (political, of course, not WMD, hahaha), apropos her address to UNESCO and Chirac planting a "gallic kiss" on her Lady-Macbeth-by-proxy hand (Dubya is Lady Macbeth, btw. Not Laura. Hence about the proxy). yep, get a load of this ( Read more... )

And to make sure that your head explodes and thus your brains are easier accessible to the zombies, they added a typical insane AOL poll:

Whose political style do you prefer?
George W. Bush   
Laura Bush   

oh my god, that question should have a "death is not an option" caveat in front of it, like the one that would precede particularly nasty, alcohol-fueled variations on the "who would you rather fuck?" game

Will Laura Bush be a political asset to her husband in the 2004 campaign?

Yes, people like her personality   
Possibly, if she takes on a larger role   
No, Americans don't feel like they know her   

where is the fourth option that says "no, because i saw the picture of Laura on the cover of Ladies' Home Journal along with a dog that looked like that dog from The Omen and there's a reason for that "?


in other news, last night my mother asked me how i liked the CDs that my uncle sent. i said they were really good. then she said:

"After you put them on your teapot, you should give them to your father and me."
"After I put them where?"
"Your teapot."
"My...do you mean my iPod?"
"Ummm...whatever."

Happy Yom Kippur everyone. I hope it was a peaceful day for everyone individually, if not internationally.