how he
What makes someone sexy? Looks? Skills? Talent? T-shirt and jeans? Try to avoid the obvious attributes and hone in on the habits, idiosyncracies and movements that go unrecognized even by the do-er. That's the sexy stuff- the conscious-less, habitual qualities. People's reflexes.
How he grips objects. How he palms a cup and his fingers wrap around the entire cylinder. How a leg slides back when he bends over to open a bottom drawer and his back slopes long and hollow. How he rubs his head front to back to front as his wooly cap comes off. How it takes a lot to get him to laugh at his own jokes. How a man of his capacity walks the city by getting out of others' ways. How his eyes sit heavy until after breakfast. How his middle finger leads his gesticular hands. How he never smiles when he sings. As if he's serious. How he laughs at my jokes but never really gives it up. How he softly roams a museum. How his hands come together behind his back when he leans towards a piece. How he never starts a phone call with "where are you?" How he could win a staring contest with a statue. How he comes up from behind me but I can see his towering shadow cast over mine moments before causing my body to slightly crouch in preparation. How he leaves a third of a dish then tells me that he saved me half. How he reads four books at a time. How he can only talk to one person at a time. How he looks up from his cello on longer notes. How he picks herbs straight off the bushel, blows, then chews. How he can go without a plate for some foods, how he places crackers right on the tabletop. How he isn't afraid to reach for flowers, jewelry and unicorns. How his body twists when he throws a frisbee. How he crouches with his legs stationed and hand in mit in the in-field. How he smiles more with his eyes than his mouth. How he shoots a smile at you over dinner when there are no words. How he grabs a handful of nuts then cups his face to eat them. How he sends group photos with unflattering shots of himself in it: shaved-head, pony-tailed, mustached, bearded, in a dress, in a uniform but in all of them, I can still see him. I can see what he did to get into that pose, how he chuckled or shook his head right after. How he sees himself in photos, smiling or sighing. When you see someone see themself with clarity and security, that's sexy.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
movie blogammentary
Ain't that some sh*t? This years best movie (drama) award is a Western Gay flick by some Chinese guy.
American cinema rules.
Fobs give the greatest acceptance speeches. Terse, extremely grateful, unknowingly funny and whenever the audience laughs, they laugh too. Sweet bunch. Ang Lee, what a rock star.
American cinema rules. Though, I just saw Motorcycle diaries and I haven't seen cinematography like that in American films. Landscapes and horizons like that aren't shot here. Someone in pottery said that the backgrounds in Brokeback Mountain are truly like that in Montana and Wyoming. It was filmed in Canada but I'm Asian and it's a class so I don't speak.
Some of the best American movies were not filmed domestically. Why is that? Money? There was a class at NYU called the Politics in Hollywood, I wish I took it.
American cinema rules. It's the only country so devoted to rigorously categorizing movies into genres. The one thing all American films have in common is that they all belong to a genre. Aside from documentaries (and even they have an identifiable tone), you look up any American movie and it's either comedy, drama, horror, or thriller/suspense. Even biopics fall into one of those as if someone's life was entirely humorous. Lately, due to cable and home box office, the line between comedy and drama is being blurred yet a sense for one still prevails and the movie is labeled as such. We've been conditioned this way that we even movie hunt with the categorical sentiment, "I feel like a comedy tonight." It is an art that we methodically classify. The pure irony of organized art. For people who know little about a type of art, typifying it makes it easier to consume.
Ever look up 'art' in the dictionary? I just did. There were 22 definitions. One of the defintions is: what anyone defines it to be.
No other country is so relentless to presribe a nomenclature to their motion pictures. Cheers, tears, and jeers, a movie is made with less concern which way it will be labeled in other countries. Some people might prefer this type of indiscriminate film making. They're called jazz people. No true understructure of melody, rhythms are flexible, improvisations of chords don't always lead to a pattern yet it all somehow harmonically comes together. And like jazz, foreign films ultimately do fall under a genre but they make it and then label it whereas American films label it then make it.
American cinema rules. No other country incorporates and delivers satirical messages the way American movies do. Our affinity for rancor and wry humor is boundless.
I do, however, also appreciate Bollywood, Hong Kong, and Latin films. I took a one credit elective course in college on Bollywood. Bollywood films, pretty funny stuff. I watched a lot of Hong Kong, Chinese, Taiwanese films growing up, my brother was a fanatic. They're well-crafted in their choreography and their acting is heavy. Latin movies redefine sensualities and what's sexy in a simple existence. They also show shots of The Americas that makes you want to buy a Vespa, some goggles and hit the open road. A major Hollywood producer once said, "if the film has no money, then the actors really have to act."
When asked the ever-so-common question, 'what kinds of movies and music do you like?' There's the ever-so-safe answer of 'I like them all. I listen/watch all kinds.' I do too, however, American cinema rules.
Ain't that some sh*t? This years best movie (drama) award is a Western Gay flick by some Chinese guy.
American cinema rules.
Fobs give the greatest acceptance speeches. Terse, extremely grateful, unknowingly funny and whenever the audience laughs, they laugh too. Sweet bunch. Ang Lee, what a rock star.
American cinema rules. Though, I just saw Motorcycle diaries and I haven't seen cinematography like that in American films. Landscapes and horizons like that aren't shot here. Someone in pottery said that the backgrounds in Brokeback Mountain are truly like that in Montana and Wyoming. It was filmed in Canada but I'm Asian and it's a class so I don't speak.
Some of the best American movies were not filmed domestically. Why is that? Money? There was a class at NYU called the Politics in Hollywood, I wish I took it.
American cinema rules. It's the only country so devoted to rigorously categorizing movies into genres. The one thing all American films have in common is that they all belong to a genre. Aside from documentaries (and even they have an identifiable tone), you look up any American movie and it's either comedy, drama, horror, or thriller/suspense. Even biopics fall into one of those as if someone's life was entirely humorous. Lately, due to cable and home box office, the line between comedy and drama is being blurred yet a sense for one still prevails and the movie is labeled as such. We've been conditioned this way that we even movie hunt with the categorical sentiment, "I feel like a comedy tonight." It is an art that we methodically classify. The pure irony of organized art. For people who know little about a type of art, typifying it makes it easier to consume.
Ever look up 'art' in the dictionary? I just did. There were 22 definitions. One of the defintions is: what anyone defines it to be.
No other country is so relentless to presribe a nomenclature to their motion pictures. Cheers, tears, and jeers, a movie is made with less concern which way it will be labeled in other countries. Some people might prefer this type of indiscriminate film making. They're called jazz people. No true understructure of melody, rhythms are flexible, improvisations of chords don't always lead to a pattern yet it all somehow harmonically comes together. And like jazz, foreign films ultimately do fall under a genre but they make it and then label it whereas American films label it then make it.
American cinema rules. No other country incorporates and delivers satirical messages the way American movies do. Our affinity for rancor and wry humor is boundless.
I do, however, also appreciate Bollywood, Hong Kong, and Latin films. I took a one credit elective course in college on Bollywood. Bollywood films, pretty funny stuff. I watched a lot of Hong Kong, Chinese, Taiwanese films growing up, my brother was a fanatic. They're well-crafted in their choreography and their acting is heavy. Latin movies redefine sensualities and what's sexy in a simple existence. They also show shots of The Americas that makes you want to buy a Vespa, some goggles and hit the open road. A major Hollywood producer once said, "if the film has no money, then the actors really have to act."
When asked the ever-so-common question, 'what kinds of movies and music do you like?' There's the ever-so-safe answer of 'I like them all. I listen/watch all kinds.' I do too, however, American cinema rules.
Friday, January 20, 2006
back roads
Ever since Penny Lane took off to Morocco, I've wanted to do the same. Also, Jaime Foxx does a pretty good job of selling 'Africa.' And also like her, I'd want to hit the back roads of America first.
One of these days, I'm going to do it. Load up a car (not RV) of comfort clothes, sunglasses, CD's and trail mix for the mix of trails. Stop by 7-11's to fill up on big gulps then drive to trucker diners to eat at the counter next to a revolving pie fridge. Buy hoodies and hats from gas stations. Drive on highways not freeways. Drive on paths where the horizon is endless. Encounter four way intersections on farmlands that all look alike. See the greenest grass in the Northwest. Check out a plantation and roll with the tumbleweeds in the south. Plow through the Rockies in middle America.
I have yet to travel to Europe or Africa or most of Asia but I haven't even seen my own backyards. People who have done the cross country road trip and back pack trip say that it's incredible what we don't often see of the rest of the states. I have only had bi-coastal residences, it's time that I see the in between that I've made fun of for so long.
Ever since Penny Lane took off to Morocco, I've wanted to do the same. Also, Jaime Foxx does a pretty good job of selling 'Africa.' And also like her, I'd want to hit the back roads of America first.
One of these days, I'm going to do it. Load up a car (not RV) of comfort clothes, sunglasses, CD's and trail mix for the mix of trails. Stop by 7-11's to fill up on big gulps then drive to trucker diners to eat at the counter next to a revolving pie fridge. Buy hoodies and hats from gas stations. Drive on highways not freeways. Drive on paths where the horizon is endless. Encounter four way intersections on farmlands that all look alike. See the greenest grass in the Northwest. Check out a plantation and roll with the tumbleweeds in the south. Plow through the Rockies in middle America.
I have yet to travel to Europe or Africa or most of Asia but I haven't even seen my own backyards. People who have done the cross country road trip and back pack trip say that it's incredible what we don't often see of the rest of the states. I have only had bi-coastal residences, it's time that I see the in between that I've made fun of for so long.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Friday, January 13, 2006
joe schmoe in the city
Fridays at work are group lunches, music sharing, and sharing of weekend plans. From today's Joe's Pizza delivery lunch chat with co-workers I've come to the idea that East coast New Yorkers aren't very New York. East coast New Yorkers regularly dash home on the weekends to Connecticut, Rhode Island, or some other original colony, even Delaware. This is especially true of the summertime. I'm often greeted with blank stares of what I did or will do over the weekend. Bars, restaurants, exhibits, sales don't always ring familiarity. I suppose it's the equivalent of when people came to visit San Francisco and they'd ask me how to get to the Golden Gate Bridge or where to get on a trolley, I have no idea.
I hope I continue to be a west coast New Yorker. I want to live here with the intrigue and enthusiasm of a visitor. Although, I'm starting to get tired of Joe's Pizza and I'm looking out the window right now at Washington Sqaure and the performances appear redundant and there are too many damn pigeons in my view. Maybe I should get out of the city more.
Fridays at work are group lunches, music sharing, and sharing of weekend plans. From today's Joe's Pizza delivery lunch chat with co-workers I've come to the idea that East coast New Yorkers aren't very New York. East coast New Yorkers regularly dash home on the weekends to Connecticut, Rhode Island, or some other original colony, even Delaware. This is especially true of the summertime. I'm often greeted with blank stares of what I did or will do over the weekend. Bars, restaurants, exhibits, sales don't always ring familiarity. I suppose it's the equivalent of when people came to visit San Francisco and they'd ask me how to get to the Golden Gate Bridge or where to get on a trolley, I have no idea.
I hope I continue to be a west coast New Yorker. I want to live here with the intrigue and enthusiasm of a visitor. Although, I'm starting to get tired of Joe's Pizza and I'm looking out the window right now at Washington Sqaure and the performances appear redundant and there are too many damn pigeons in my view. Maybe I should get out of the city more.
rain rain, come and stay
With all the rain, I'm thinking about museums.
I'm bummed I missed Russia! at the Guggenheim, yesterday was the last day (things change so quickly in this city and with no warning). 'The Palace at 4am' at PS1 is being raved about and 'The Bodies' finally made it to New York from LACOMA (Los Angeles Contemporary Museum)- surprising order. The Met's facelift is finally done and it's handsome. I saw Van Gogh there weeks ago and I've never seen Mr. Vincent's work before that. What an exhibit. What a nut. Kevin Bacon provides audio commentary- he's like the ultimate voice over.
The rain also has me drinking another cup of coffee at brunch, actually hang out at a friends NYC apartment, and wait 20 minutes for a seat at Barnes and Noble in Union Square but once I plop, I have afore me Australian Vogue, special edition Wallpaper, atlases and maps (the more you look at them, the smaller and more possible the world seems), and all of Joan Didion's essays and novels at your fingertips. The rain has got me learning where Brussels is and where the Dakotas are.
With all the rain, I'm thinking about museums.
I'm bummed I missed Russia! at the Guggenheim, yesterday was the last day (things change so quickly in this city and with no warning). 'The Palace at 4am' at PS1 is being raved about and 'The Bodies' finally made it to New York from LACOMA (Los Angeles Contemporary Museum)- surprising order. The Met's facelift is finally done and it's handsome. I saw Van Gogh there weeks ago and I've never seen Mr. Vincent's work before that. What an exhibit. What a nut. Kevin Bacon provides audio commentary- he's like the ultimate voice over.
The rain also has me drinking another cup of coffee at brunch, actually hang out at a friends NYC apartment, and wait 20 minutes for a seat at Barnes and Noble in Union Square but once I plop, I have afore me Australian Vogue, special edition Wallpaper, atlases and maps (the more you look at them, the smaller and more possible the world seems), and all of Joan Didion's essays and novels at your fingertips. The rain has got me learning where Brussels is and where the Dakotas are.
hummm...
At a cafe in Cali over the holidays, a conversation from four ladies who lunch.
Girlfriend #1: I always swallow.
Gf #2: I never.
Gf #3: It depends.
Me: On?
Gf #3: On how serious we are.
Me: So if he gives you a ring, you give him one he won't forget?
Gf #3: Nod
Gf #1: Have you gotten a ring yet?
Gf #3: No
Gf #1: Maybe you should reverse your order then.
Gf #2: (shake head)
Me: check please
I miss them.
At a cafe in Cali over the holidays, a conversation from four ladies who lunch.
Girlfriend #1: I always swallow.
Gf #2: I never.
Gf #3: It depends.
Me: On?
Gf #3: On how serious we are.
Me: So if he gives you a ring, you give him one he won't forget?
Gf #3: Nod
Gf #1: Have you gotten a ring yet?
Gf #3: No
Gf #1: Maybe you should reverse your order then.
Gf #2: (shake head)
Me: check please
I miss them.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
for the fellas
You'd be surprised what the deal breakers are on a date for women...and how many there are. Seldom done but here are some tips for the fellas. We have Sex and the City, weekend brunches, two hour phone calls, so I'm just trying to balance the universe, align Mars and Venus.
Do not split the bill on the first date. Dutch is such a turn off, might as well tell her that you used to go to that restaurant with your ex-gf. If you must, pay for dinner then let her get drinks or dessert after. (I'm sure this is bonus points for her if she does). I don't care how independent or self-sufficient she appears, we all like chivalry.
Start off the evening with a compliment. She spent a good deal of time picking out that outfit and she used primer, body oil and tweezed, tweezed, tweezed.
See her get in the cab first. If you get into a cab first and she sees you off, I guarantee that she's hailing a cab with one hand and reaching for her phone with the other so that she can call a girlfriend and tell her that she just had another fal (first and last) date.
Emily Post propers no longer prevail but some stood the test of time. Of the past: getting up from the seat when she does. In the present: opening the door for her.
No need to wait a week to call her. In fact, bonus points for calling from the cab right after the date if you two had a good time. True, waiting to call a girl who's not that into you can cause her to think about you...she wonders why you're not calling and then once you do, she stops thinking about you so all you've done is counted 6 days for nothing. In another words, if she likes you, calling anytime is fine. If she doesn't, then playing games will maybe string her along for a couple dates but that usually isn't enough to 'get some' anyway so what's the point?
Tuck her inside the sidewalk. It all gets taken into account.
Reminder of a scarf or gloves during colder months as you walk out the door, well done.
Pay attention for anything new/different, bag, jacket, manicure, and the ever-so-important, new hair style.
Confidence. Obvious? Yes but hard to do. If someone catches your eye, go up to her directly, don't have your buddy, 'the bait', go up to her. The rule of pussy: either be one or get some.
Confidence, incidentally, can make all that you do appear sexy. A sense of self is hot. Audaciously state your interests and you've just made cats, gardening, and the color pink hot for men. But draw the line at pink drinks. We don't like for our men to drink pink.
Ask her about her.
Ask following questions about answers that she gave from previous questions. We can tell if you're listening or not.
Want to to get close? Inhale her. Take a deep breath of her from the neck/shoulder/nape area. "What's that you're wearing?" is titilating.
Be generous. It's not about the money, it's about care and courtesy. If you get up to get another drink, ask if she'd like another even if she's on her first and if her friends are there, do the same for them. All of this is noted by her then acknowledged over brunch by her friends.
Avoid phrases like "I'm the type of person." Okay, maybe this is just me, but it's annoying and makes for a weak start of a sentence. The 'type' of person you are can't be put into a sentence, 'type' is an overall sense. That phrase during the first few dates is the ultimate commonplace for conversation starters. Yawn.
Put the moves on by the third night. No later. After that, we start to realize that we should have known better than to go out with a guy who needed to send his 'bar buddy.' Also, in this city, don't let us wonder if you drink pink. A stand up kiss on the first date, nice.
Recently, I've been asked by friendboys, "how do you know when a girl is into you?" It's palpable. Contrary to popular notion, I think when it comes to dating, it's women who are the assholes. I've seen guys oblige themselves to dates and calls for a short while because they didn't have the heart (more like the balls) to turn them down. Women, on the other hand, make shit up really quickly, "Oh, I'd love to but I'm about to make something up really good, and convincing so that you believe me and I mislead you because that's what assholes do."
It's okay to let assholes walk along the edge of the sidewalk.
You'd be surprised what the deal breakers are on a date for women...and how many there are. Seldom done but here are some tips for the fellas. We have Sex and the City, weekend brunches, two hour phone calls, so I'm just trying to balance the universe, align Mars and Venus.
Do not split the bill on the first date. Dutch is such a turn off, might as well tell her that you used to go to that restaurant with your ex-gf. If you must, pay for dinner then let her get drinks or dessert after. (I'm sure this is bonus points for her if she does). I don't care how independent or self-sufficient she appears, we all like chivalry.
Start off the evening with a compliment. She spent a good deal of time picking out that outfit and she used primer, body oil and tweezed, tweezed, tweezed.
See her get in the cab first. If you get into a cab first and she sees you off, I guarantee that she's hailing a cab with one hand and reaching for her phone with the other so that she can call a girlfriend and tell her that she just had another fal (first and last) date.
Emily Post propers no longer prevail but some stood the test of time. Of the past: getting up from the seat when she does. In the present: opening the door for her.
No need to wait a week to call her. In fact, bonus points for calling from the cab right after the date if you two had a good time. True, waiting to call a girl who's not that into you can cause her to think about you...she wonders why you're not calling and then once you do, she stops thinking about you so all you've done is counted 6 days for nothing. In another words, if she likes you, calling anytime is fine. If she doesn't, then playing games will maybe string her along for a couple dates but that usually isn't enough to 'get some' anyway so what's the point?
Tuck her inside the sidewalk. It all gets taken into account.
Reminder of a scarf or gloves during colder months as you walk out the door, well done.
Pay attention for anything new/different, bag, jacket, manicure, and the ever-so-important, new hair style.
Confidence. Obvious? Yes but hard to do. If someone catches your eye, go up to her directly, don't have your buddy, 'the bait', go up to her. The rule of pussy: either be one or get some.
Confidence, incidentally, can make all that you do appear sexy. A sense of self is hot. Audaciously state your interests and you've just made cats, gardening, and the color pink hot for men. But draw the line at pink drinks. We don't like for our men to drink pink.
Ask her about her.
Ask following questions about answers that she gave from previous questions. We can tell if you're listening or not.
Want to to get close? Inhale her. Take a deep breath of her from the neck/shoulder/nape area. "What's that you're wearing?" is titilating.
Be generous. It's not about the money, it's about care and courtesy. If you get up to get another drink, ask if she'd like another even if she's on her first and if her friends are there, do the same for them. All of this is noted by her then acknowledged over brunch by her friends.
Avoid phrases like "I'm the type of person." Okay, maybe this is just me, but it's annoying and makes for a weak start of a sentence. The 'type' of person you are can't be put into a sentence, 'type' is an overall sense. That phrase during the first few dates is the ultimate commonplace for conversation starters. Yawn.
Put the moves on by the third night. No later. After that, we start to realize that we should have known better than to go out with a guy who needed to send his 'bar buddy.' Also, in this city, don't let us wonder if you drink pink. A stand up kiss on the first date, nice.
Recently, I've been asked by friendboys, "how do you know when a girl is into you?" It's palpable. Contrary to popular notion, I think when it comes to dating, it's women who are the assholes. I've seen guys oblige themselves to dates and calls for a short while because they didn't have the heart (more like the balls) to turn them down. Women, on the other hand, make shit up really quickly, "Oh, I'd love to but I'm about to make something up really good, and convincing so that you believe me and I mislead you because that's what assholes do."
It's okay to let assholes walk along the edge of the sidewalk.
Friday, January 06, 2006
Thursday, January 05, 2006
happy old year
New Year resolutions are daft claims that usually do not make it past MLK weekend. No one says that they're hitting the gym in May because it was their new years goal, we say that bikini season approaches so it's time to trim. That is why I started mine in 2005 and the goal for 2006 is just to continue it. It's my pact of no more packs, of cigarettes that is. At $7 a pack, I'm saving about a hundred dollars a month. That's $1200 a year. That's enough to:
-to see a Broadway show a month (including Ave Q and Wicked)
-take a short trip to Costa Rica
-grab grub at Prune, WD-50, Clinton Fresh Food, Rosa Mexicana, Bao 111, Woo Lae Oak, Salt, The Grocery, 360, Tabla, Blue Ribbon, Otto, Milos
-or dine at Masa three times
-or eat 60 lobster roll sandwiches at Pearl Oyster Bar
-hit a sample a month and buy every other month
-ski at Vail, Heavenly and Killington every weekend of the season
-go shopping in the Meatpacking: Stella, Chloe, Proenza Schouler, Yigal Razouel..and buy from every other one
-rent a bike from that over-priced bike rental shop in Central Park for the summer
-take pottery for a year, including wheel-throwing
-get your hair cut by Frederic Fekkai..twice
-climb high in Switzerland then get high in Amsterdam
-buy unlimited ride Metro Cards for the year and have leftover to buy a pair of Hogan sneakers...
so that you can walk around and see all that this city has to offer. Who knew that one resolution could lead to so many. Now, a minute to reflect on 2005 and, for once, I can't complain. I...
-traveled outer borough more, went into Brooklyn like a handful of times.
-laid on many islands including: Puerto Rico (is there anything more spectacular than pink clouds), Fire (yikes), Coney (bigger yikes), and Long (Robert Moses knows his horizons)
-partied an adequate amount- enough not to be labeled m.i.a. by girlfriends but not enough to know bouncer names
-checked out a new brunch spot almost every weekend of the summer (courtesy of Monica)
-tried some of that emotional expression stuff
-cried and laughed a lot (my two favorite vents)
-didn't have to fail any students
-had cranberry sauce from scratch for the first time
-rode a ferris wheel for the first time
-paid off my already-spy-wared laptop
-tried some of that sexual exploration stuff
-cried and laughed a lot (during and after)
-saw some art: Sufis, DUMBO Art, Van Gogh
-made some art: a fruit bowl that holds one banana and two apples
-learned a little about the professor/author book publishing industry (lesson learned: education, like all else, is a business...still want to write though)
-unrolled my yoga mat about five times
-ate at McDonalds less than five times
-checked out a couple Fringe NY shows
-rollerbladed to the theater
-kissed a boy at midnight
Kissing a boy at midnight...who knew that the year would have finished with that? Let's leave it at that sweet sentiment, please don't ask me about the sexual exploration stuff, it's all behind me now.
New Year resolutions are daft claims that usually do not make it past MLK weekend. No one says that they're hitting the gym in May because it was their new years goal, we say that bikini season approaches so it's time to trim. That is why I started mine in 2005 and the goal for 2006 is just to continue it. It's my pact of no more packs, of cigarettes that is. At $7 a pack, I'm saving about a hundred dollars a month. That's $1200 a year. That's enough to:
-to see a Broadway show a month (including Ave Q and Wicked)
-take a short trip to Costa Rica
-grab grub at Prune, WD-50, Clinton Fresh Food, Rosa Mexicana, Bao 111, Woo Lae Oak, Salt, The Grocery, 360, Tabla, Blue Ribbon, Otto, Milos
-or dine at Masa three times
-or eat 60 lobster roll sandwiches at Pearl Oyster Bar
-hit a sample a month and buy every other month
-ski at Vail, Heavenly and Killington every weekend of the season
-go shopping in the Meatpacking: Stella, Chloe, Proenza Schouler, Yigal Razouel..and buy from every other one
-rent a bike from that over-priced bike rental shop in Central Park for the summer
-take pottery for a year, including wheel-throwing
-get your hair cut by Frederic Fekkai..twice
-climb high in Switzerland then get high in Amsterdam
-buy unlimited ride Metro Cards for the year and have leftover to buy a pair of Hogan sneakers...
so that you can walk around and see all that this city has to offer. Who knew that one resolution could lead to so many. Now, a minute to reflect on 2005 and, for once, I can't complain. I...
-traveled outer borough more, went into Brooklyn like a handful of times.
-laid on many islands including: Puerto Rico (is there anything more spectacular than pink clouds), Fire (yikes), Coney (bigger yikes), and Long (Robert Moses knows his horizons)
-partied an adequate amount- enough not to be labeled m.i.a. by girlfriends but not enough to know bouncer names
-checked out a new brunch spot almost every weekend of the summer (courtesy of Monica)
-tried some of that emotional expression stuff
-cried and laughed a lot (my two favorite vents)
-didn't have to fail any students
-had cranberry sauce from scratch for the first time
-rode a ferris wheel for the first time
-paid off my already-spy-wared laptop
-tried some of that sexual exploration stuff
-cried and laughed a lot (during and after)
-saw some art: Sufis, DUMBO Art, Van Gogh
-made some art: a fruit bowl that holds one banana and two apples
-learned a little about the professor/author book publishing industry (lesson learned: education, like all else, is a business...still want to write though)
-unrolled my yoga mat about five times
-ate at McDonalds less than five times
-checked out a couple Fringe NY shows
-rollerbladed to the theater
-kissed a boy at midnight
Kissing a boy at midnight...who knew that the year would have finished with that? Let's leave it at that sweet sentiment, please don't ask me about the sexual exploration stuff, it's all behind me now.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
entourage
The posse looks good. Some are looking into real estate, some are slowly trading in their stilletos for running shoes and exploring all the Bay Area has to offer and some are still heading the party track like the city in Sex and the City is San Francisco. All in all, everyone's filling into their own shoes. There seems to be less apologizing for calling it an early night, for opting to see lovers over friends, and actually spending the entire Christmas Day with family. Pretty cool that no one would miss this night though. We'll fly in from DC, we'll fly in from NY, we'll leave fellas behind, and gather to see new haircuts, talk shit about boys, and ro-sham-bo to see who'll tell Miss K where the back door is.
The posse looks good. Some are looking into real estate, some are slowly trading in their stilletos for running shoes and exploring all the Bay Area has to offer and some are still heading the party track like the city in Sex and the City is San Francisco. All in all, everyone's filling into their own shoes. There seems to be less apologizing for calling it an early night, for opting to see lovers over friends, and actually spending the entire Christmas Day with family. Pretty cool that no one would miss this night though. We'll fly in from DC, we'll fly in from NY, we'll leave fellas behind, and gather to see new haircuts, talk shit about boys, and ro-sham-bo to see who'll tell Miss K where the back door is.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
ashes to dust to falling
Trouble sleeping. Sometimes the lonliest feeling is when you're laying next to someone in bed. Just finished. And now laying. My eyes keep flipping open to the ceiling, my legs is wrapped around the comforter and I'm bothered.
I am the call back girl. I'm sure this rings familiar for many women. Notorious for hearing from old flames, I get indiscriminate calls weeks, months, years later. My pattern thus far: meet boy then sparks which leads to fires which leads to burn outs. As soon as I think all is extinguished, there's an attempt to rekindle. Because I'm too much of a pussy to say it over the phone as we catch up on life in a four minutes, I have moved on. The fire is out. Ashes.
Why couldn't you have been there when you were there, when I was there. Why does it always take men a gap of time or distance to reckon with their feelings. I'm not opposed to the gap. Time apart does not necessarily mean things are inactive. In fact, it could be the most productive way time is spent for two people. Thoughts. Clarity. Heart. Pain. Longing. However, at my rate, it's leading me to sit on my fire escape for a little self introspection. Why has it been: meet boy, hang out with boy, separate from boy, then voicemail.
What about me let you let go? Why weren't you there when I was there? The irony, they can finally start to see you when you're gone. I want to be with someone who doesn't need rupture to start feeling. It's not about mr. right, it's about the right feeling. 'I want ridiculous, inconvinient, consuming, can't live without each other love'. All else will be worked out. But that knot in the gut, my heart still hops a little when he enters the room feeling is what will sustain it though the years, through dates, through the night.
I know I'm overreacting, they were calling just to say 'Hello...How's New York...let's get together when you come home for the holidays.' I don't know that I would make that call. No one wants to put an expiration on feelings but I figure the post break-up I still want you sentiment has perished if you didn't get one of those mass emails titled 'new contact' in your inbox. So, if you have to call my family's house to get my 917 number, turn around. Do not excite my mother like that, I haven't brought a boy home since high-school and that was to pick me up for the Homecoming Dance.
I wonder if the one I lay next to will become just another recorded message. Break ups are awful and they take a while to recover from so when I am finally able to dust myself off again, I'm ready to fall again. In another words, I can't rekindle old flames because I'm out there, ready for a new burn.
Trouble sleeping. Sometimes the lonliest feeling is when you're laying next to someone in bed. Just finished. And now laying. My eyes keep flipping open to the ceiling, my legs is wrapped around the comforter and I'm bothered.
I am the call back girl. I'm sure this rings familiar for many women. Notorious for hearing from old flames, I get indiscriminate calls weeks, months, years later. My pattern thus far: meet boy then sparks which leads to fires which leads to burn outs. As soon as I think all is extinguished, there's an attempt to rekindle. Because I'm too much of a pussy to say it over the phone as we catch up on life in a four minutes, I have moved on. The fire is out. Ashes.
Why couldn't you have been there when you were there, when I was there. Why does it always take men a gap of time or distance to reckon with their feelings. I'm not opposed to the gap. Time apart does not necessarily mean things are inactive. In fact, it could be the most productive way time is spent for two people. Thoughts. Clarity. Heart. Pain. Longing. However, at my rate, it's leading me to sit on my fire escape for a little self introspection. Why has it been: meet boy, hang out with boy, separate from boy, then voicemail.
What about me let you let go? Why weren't you there when I was there? The irony, they can finally start to see you when you're gone. I want to be with someone who doesn't need rupture to start feeling. It's not about mr. right, it's about the right feeling. 'I want ridiculous, inconvinient, consuming, can't live without each other love'. All else will be worked out. But that knot in the gut, my heart still hops a little when he enters the room feeling is what will sustain it though the years, through dates, through the night.
I know I'm overreacting, they were calling just to say 'Hello...How's New York...let's get together when you come home for the holidays.' I don't know that I would make that call. No one wants to put an expiration on feelings but I figure the post break-up I still want you sentiment has perished if you didn't get one of those mass emails titled 'new contact' in your inbox. So, if you have to call my family's house to get my 917 number, turn around. Do not excite my mother like that, I haven't brought a boy home since high-school and that was to pick me up for the Homecoming Dance.
I wonder if the one I lay next to will become just another recorded message. Break ups are awful and they take a while to recover from so when I am finally able to dust myself off again, I'm ready to fall again. In another words, I can't rekindle old flames because I'm out there, ready for a new burn.
Friday, December 09, 2005
screen bunny
Today is the first real drop of snow. It's measurable. The first day is a sight to see: thick, white, pure, fluffed. However, unless there's a board or poles involved, I'm an indoor snow person, I'm no snow bunny, too Californian for snow frolic. Snow outdoors is paired with sleds (I'm small but I'm grown), snowball fights (I'd rather get hit than throw one. I'd rather a snowball bust on my waterproof Northface than chill my hands through my wooly gloves while making one), snow angels (I don't do this either unless my hair is up), and the curb corner slush is bad for denim ends. Snow indoors evokes ideas of a blanket, blended frothy hot coco,and classic movies. It's always movies, isn't it? Rain out: movie. Date activity: movie. No date: movie. But what about TV? I suppose it's because now the airwaves are filled with people eating slugs for a hundred grand and former kid stars coming out of rehab or going on a group diet. Not all is bad on TV (albeit, the savior comes mostly through HBO) Wired, Six Feet, Oz, then there's also Lost, My Name is Earl, Prison Break, Everybody Loves Raymond (all 840 emmy's won are so deserved), Amazing Race, Will and Grace, That 70's Show, Arrested Development, Nip/Tuck. But there aren't 'lineups' anymore. Remember that anticipated eight to ten o'clock block?. It was four episodes back to back of solid entertainment.
My childhood TV favorites: Cheers, Night Court (if all judges could be like Harry and where did John Laroquette go?), Who's the Boss? (Brooklyn meets Connecticut, bound to succeed), Too Close for Comfort, (Remember Monroe? The original queen to hit the airwaves. Now, HE was way before Jack Mc Farland, Will Truman, Sanford Blatch, and Carson Kressley (Ted Allen, the food and wine conossieur is who really should be leading the queer eyes), Bosom Buddies (I always wanted to my hair to wave like Donna Dixon's. And, I didn't know what bosom was when the show was on so I asked Angela Wynstra, my second grade best friend, to be my bosom buddy. Now, I have buddies, I just need a bosom. Fortunately, I can now wave my hair for attention), Head of the Class (Eric and Simone, great couple. Alvin and Dennis, greater couple. A show about a high-school class of 'too smart for cool' and the zip code was anonymous and J.Crew didn't sponsor them), Mr Belvedere (the dude was a plus size Mr. Rogers with a British accent, does it get better than that?), Perfect Strangers (when Angela and I played flight attendants, I was Jennifer and she was Mary Anne and I'm almost certain that Mr. Twinkasetti has guest-appeared in every relevant sitcom show), Second Chance (ooh this is a good one, one that went under the radar. Matthew Perry stars as Charles, aka Chazz, and he gets killed in a car accident. He's too good for hell, too bad for heaven so the show's about his limbo. Each week he goes to correct mistakes from the past but the best part was that sometimes he doesn't change anything. He thought not everything he did was a mistake. So he's chillin' on the bench right at the pearly gates. Brilliant), Family Ties (Malorie is a stunner, Nick was a high-school dropout artist, Skippy would have been a good match for Monroe and Alex P. Keaton, I kept a Tiger Beat issue in my desk of Johny Depp on the cover because there was a corner photo of Micheal J. Fox) and the parents were hippie liberals that went to UC Berkeley...I say no more), Roseanne (Lanford rules. The Hobo Lounge, they didn't even try. The episode where the Roseanne, Dan and Aunt Jackie get high in the bathroom. One of the best television sitcom scenes ever done).
Shows I wish I got into: WKRP in Cincinnatti, Cagney and Lacey, Mork and Mindy, Knots Landing, Northern Exposure (John Corbett's debut, holler) and Hill Street Blues.
On days like this, I aim to watch a movie. I open the red envelope, set the DVD on the tray and slip under the down. Then, it takes about two hours to start the movie, I can't seem to hit the DVD button right away. What might I be missing out on the tube? I shall explore until the Food Network changes to shopping and Conan goes to Carson. It's really coming down hard out there, thank God for two in one remotes.
Today is the first real drop of snow. It's measurable. The first day is a sight to see: thick, white, pure, fluffed. However, unless there's a board or poles involved, I'm an indoor snow person, I'm no snow bunny, too Californian for snow frolic. Snow outdoors is paired with sleds (I'm small but I'm grown), snowball fights (I'd rather get hit than throw one. I'd rather a snowball bust on my waterproof Northface than chill my hands through my wooly gloves while making one), snow angels (I don't do this either unless my hair is up), and the curb corner slush is bad for denim ends. Snow indoors evokes ideas of a blanket, blended frothy hot coco,and classic movies. It's always movies, isn't it? Rain out: movie. Date activity: movie. No date: movie. But what about TV? I suppose it's because now the airwaves are filled with people eating slugs for a hundred grand and former kid stars coming out of rehab or going on a group diet. Not all is bad on TV (albeit, the savior comes mostly through HBO) Wired, Six Feet, Oz, then there's also Lost, My Name is Earl, Prison Break, Everybody Loves Raymond (all 840 emmy's won are so deserved), Amazing Race, Will and Grace, That 70's Show, Arrested Development, Nip/Tuck. But there aren't 'lineups' anymore. Remember that anticipated eight to ten o'clock block?. It was four episodes back to back of solid entertainment.
My childhood TV favorites: Cheers, Night Court (if all judges could be like Harry and where did John Laroquette go?), Who's the Boss? (Brooklyn meets Connecticut, bound to succeed), Too Close for Comfort, (Remember Monroe? The original queen to hit the airwaves. Now, HE was way before Jack Mc Farland, Will Truman, Sanford Blatch, and Carson Kressley (Ted Allen, the food and wine conossieur is who really should be leading the queer eyes), Bosom Buddies (I always wanted to my hair to wave like Donna Dixon's. And, I didn't know what bosom was when the show was on so I asked Angela Wynstra, my second grade best friend, to be my bosom buddy. Now, I have buddies, I just need a bosom. Fortunately, I can now wave my hair for attention), Head of the Class (Eric and Simone, great couple. Alvin and Dennis, greater couple. A show about a high-school class of 'too smart for cool' and the zip code was anonymous and J.Crew didn't sponsor them), Mr Belvedere (the dude was a plus size Mr. Rogers with a British accent, does it get better than that?), Perfect Strangers (when Angela and I played flight attendants, I was Jennifer and she was Mary Anne and I'm almost certain that Mr. Twinkasetti has guest-appeared in every relevant sitcom show), Second Chance (ooh this is a good one, one that went under the radar. Matthew Perry stars as Charles, aka Chazz, and he gets killed in a car accident. He's too good for hell, too bad for heaven so the show's about his limbo. Each week he goes to correct mistakes from the past but the best part was that sometimes he doesn't change anything. He thought not everything he did was a mistake. So he's chillin' on the bench right at the pearly gates. Brilliant), Family Ties (Malorie is a stunner, Nick was a high-school dropout artist, Skippy would have been a good match for Monroe and Alex P. Keaton, I kept a Tiger Beat issue in my desk of Johny Depp on the cover because there was a corner photo of Micheal J. Fox) and the parents were hippie liberals that went to UC Berkeley...I say no more), Roseanne (Lanford rules. The Hobo Lounge, they didn't even try. The episode where the Roseanne, Dan and Aunt Jackie get high in the bathroom. One of the best television sitcom scenes ever done).
Shows I wish I got into: WKRP in Cincinnatti, Cagney and Lacey, Mork and Mindy, Knots Landing, Northern Exposure (John Corbett's debut, holler) and Hill Street Blues.
On days like this, I aim to watch a movie. I open the red envelope, set the DVD on the tray and slip under the down. Then, it takes about two hours to start the movie, I can't seem to hit the DVD button right away. What might I be missing out on the tube? I shall explore until the Food Network changes to shopping and Conan goes to Carson. It's really coming down hard out there, thank God for two in one remotes.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
guns and gobblers
There's something synonomous about Thanksgiving and Connecticut and, as it appears, for evidential reason.
This year, Thanksgiving fish, white rice, seaweed salad, tofu cubes and kimchee was replaced with a sixteen pound gobbler, russet mashers, cranberry pineapple marmalade, squashed squash and greens. And rather than a table for five with muted sounds of a football game in the background, it was a rounding of eight with sounds coming from the table. I was invited by the suitor to a traditional Thanksgiving feast with his 'rents and bros in Connecticut...and I live to tell about it.
Meeting the family is like going to see the movie of the book you've been reading. The pictures in your head are realized true or "the book was better." Reactions range from, "the mom DOES bake one hell of a pie" to "he's not THAT much taller than his twin." But unlike a book-based-movie, it's not about comparisons, it's about witness.
To bear witness to the relationships between the one you've been getting to know and the ones who know him best exposes you to a part of someone's world that cannot be learned through words, mostly because they've been forgotten or censored. But someone in the family always remembers your actual most embarrassing tale and censorship isn't exercised when it comes to love, fights and spit bombs. Intimates and idiosyncrasies naturally display in the private viewing of a home. Childhood nicknames, slip-ups of the former gf, dad's muscle flex gun-show jokes and yelps from a pillow fight with his eight year old niece are shared. Sculpted pieces from his nine year old hands, where the bunk beds once stacked and the lawn where the tent pitched during summer nights are shown. Photos of old girlfriends, big hair and rented formal attire are opportunely seen. Driving past the baseball field where practice was held, the church that named him an altar boy, and the movie theater that gave him his first job and first beer are toured. These are the inners of someone's life that have to be seen, they cannot be read. Thanks for a ticket to the show, the gun show that is.
There's something synonomous about Thanksgiving and Connecticut and, as it appears, for evidential reason.
This year, Thanksgiving fish, white rice, seaweed salad, tofu cubes and kimchee was replaced with a sixteen pound gobbler, russet mashers, cranberry pineapple marmalade, squashed squash and greens. And rather than a table for five with muted sounds of a football game in the background, it was a rounding of eight with sounds coming from the table. I was invited by the suitor to a traditional Thanksgiving feast with his 'rents and bros in Connecticut...and I live to tell about it.
Meeting the family is like going to see the movie of the book you've been reading. The pictures in your head are realized true or "the book was better." Reactions range from, "the mom DOES bake one hell of a pie" to "he's not THAT much taller than his twin." But unlike a book-based-movie, it's not about comparisons, it's about witness.
To bear witness to the relationships between the one you've been getting to know and the ones who know him best exposes you to a part of someone's world that cannot be learned through words, mostly because they've been forgotten or censored. But someone in the family always remembers your actual most embarrassing tale and censorship isn't exercised when it comes to love, fights and spit bombs. Intimates and idiosyncrasies naturally display in the private viewing of a home. Childhood nicknames, slip-ups of the former gf, dad's muscle flex gun-show jokes and yelps from a pillow fight with his eight year old niece are shared. Sculpted pieces from his nine year old hands, where the bunk beds once stacked and the lawn where the tent pitched during summer nights are shown. Photos of old girlfriends, big hair and rented formal attire are opportunely seen. Driving past the baseball field where practice was held, the church that named him an altar boy, and the movie theater that gave him his first job and first beer are toured. These are the inners of someone's life that have to be seen, they cannot be read. Thanks for a ticket to the show, the gun show that is.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
sorry for apologizing
I apologize for too much. Often, I preface sentences with an "I'm sorry." "I'm sorry but is this seat taken?" "I'm sorry but could I get by?" "Sorry to bother you but your shoelaces aren't tied." The other day someone walked in on me in the bathroom and I apologized to them. The door swings open and I say, "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm almost done." Why do I think I need to be apologetic for peeing? If I'm on the phone and the person on the other end is talking and a call comes in, I could never interrupt and ask them to hold a moment. I can never turn down brunch 'catch-ups', "Candy, it's been forever, let's catch up over eggs. I'll tell you all about my new job, boyfriend and apartment." Just right now someone stepped on my bag that fell by my chair and I was contrite, "Oops, sorry about that."
Sorry for this post.
I apologize for too much. Often, I preface sentences with an "I'm sorry." "I'm sorry but is this seat taken?" "I'm sorry but could I get by?" "Sorry to bother you but your shoelaces aren't tied." The other day someone walked in on me in the bathroom and I apologized to them. The door swings open and I say, "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm almost done." Why do I think I need to be apologetic for peeing? If I'm on the phone and the person on the other end is talking and a call comes in, I could never interrupt and ask them to hold a moment. I can never turn down brunch 'catch-ups', "Candy, it's been forever, let's catch up over eggs. I'll tell you all about my new job, boyfriend and apartment." Just right now someone stepped on my bag that fell by my chair and I was contrite, "Oops, sorry about that."
Sorry for this post.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
favorites
1. The visibility of seasonal change in New York via trees. Green in the summer, reds and yellows in the fall, bare in the winter, and barely there buds in the spring.
2. A seat in a theater with no one on either side of you. One chair for your bag, the other for butter-soaked napkins.
3. Two cups of coffee on weekend brunches. First cup with milk and raw sugar and second cup black.
4. A front and center crease on slacks. Sharp.
5. A cluttered shower with products: bath gels, beads, body scrubs, loofas, exfoliators, masks, leave in treatments, neck pillow.
6. Musky candles in the winter.
7. Havana cigars.
8. Sandalwood.
9. Girl skateboarders. Rare but there are a few girls gliding the handrails in Union Square. What badasses.
10. Fog outside and steam in the bathroom.
11. Six Feet Under marathon. I would love to sit for dinner with Peter Krause, Michael C. Hall, Frances Conroy then get high with Laura Ambrose and Rachel Griffiths.
12. Wooden chessboards. (I don't know how to play chess)
13. Braids and buns. Pretty and proper. It's a shame that girls don't 'do' their hair after a certain age.
14. Bagged drycleaning hanging from your closet door.
15. Watch fobs.
16. Wrist gloves.
17. Classic Wranglers... but I'd never wear them.
18. All-American breakfast: eggs, bacon and toast. Rye.
19. Buds and suds. That's smoking a joint while soaking in the tub. Finishing touch, an amber candle.
20. Purple. Childhood favorite.
21. Amore lotion. A Korean brand lotion, it's the smell of my mom right before going to bed.
22. Hat racks. Vintage fedoras.
23. La Perla camis worn as a top.
24. Grilled Colby Jack Cheese and tomato. On Rye.
25. Emack and Bolio's off of Houston then taking it to Washington Square Park.
26. West Village afternoon, $2 slice from Joe's and a $7 scoop from Cones.
27. Goose down anything. Comforters, pillows, jackets, vests, sleeping bags.
28. Loose tea in a glass Bodum pot.
29. Halloween. Every year I go as the same character just different covers. Roller Girl got a lollipop. Roller Girl turns 12. Roller Girl kicks ass. This year, Roller Girl goes takes it back to the Derby.
30. Audio slide show of Fashion Week covered by New York Times Style reporter, Cathy Horyn. Her voice is both soothing and commanding. She attends all four fashion weeks: New York, Milan and two in Paris. She has my life.
31. Gold heart locket necklace. Classic.
32. Craigslist's: rants and raves, misssed connections, apartment listings (during August).
33. Netflix. An entire season of Entourage in one night.
34. Upper Manhattan to see the leaves, lower Manhattan to see the water.
35. Butternut squash soup, apple cider, macaroni with four cheeses, crumb pies.
36. Crispy fries, half-popped kernels, folds in my chips.
37. Smell of my hair when I take it down from a bun. If I washed it that day.
38. Faceburn from his stubbles from a night of kissing.
39. Bed picnics. A tray topped with stone crackers, cured proscuitto, brie, olives, melon, ginger ale. Remote nearby.
40. The 'Matrix Approval' in New York magazine, high brow/dispicable and low brow/brilliant quadrants are the best.
41. The point from the reservoir in Central Park where you can see all of Fifth Ave, Central Park West and the A&E Biography Building.
42. Airmail envelopes, officially called envelope #10, white envelopes trimmed with red and blue.
43. Cucumber water, clay mask, tweezer, Tracy Chapman, lavendar eye mask, toe separators.
44. High heels, red lipstick, prescribed kickers, Prince.
45. Holiday baskets: fruits, chocolates, breadsticks, cheese log.
46. Oils: rose, egyptian, ylang ylang, tea tree.
47. Proenza Schouler, Guy Laroche, Carolina Herrera, Lanvin, Yamamoto, Rochas.
48. Thanksgiving: family, friends, food, football, fight, funny, feet up, fall asleep...food.
49. Summer night, sitting on a stoop in Brooklyn, ice cream from a truck. Rooftop parties, Manhattan skyline.
50. Forehead kisses.
51. His hand on my thigh in the theater, while driving, as we're looking at a menu.
52. Big hands.
53. Astor subway station, reading the covers of papers, IPod, peanut M&M's.
53. So I Married an Axe Murderer, Sweetest Thing, Suicide Kings, Office Space.
54. Sitting next to him, plane rides, train rides, cab rides (on him).
55. My pajama drawer. Flannels, soft tees, boy shorts, college sweatshirts.
56. Berkeley Marina. LOTS of memories there. This could easily go on the 'least favorite list' too.
57. San Francisco Union Square: art expos, expresso wagon, cool air, sun. Gay Pride Parade, alley cafes, Vesuvios.
58. Sitting Indian-style under a tree in Washington Square Park, watching the crowd watch Tic and Tac.
58. Hollywood, Sunset, Pink's, Nacional, Star Shoes, Farmers Market at the Grove.
59. The flight to San Francisco. The flight to New York.
60. Sleeping at the desk. Blogging at work.
61. Holiday windows, limited time holiday lattes at Fourbucks, gift receipts. Waking up to a good song on the clock radio, a Whitney morning is a good morning. Crowd exits from the Met, Lincoln Center and West 27th St. Mom's perfectly peeled apple coil. Good eyebrow day. Barber shops. Soul food. Trying on cocktail dresses (never been to a cocktail party), slipping into display shoes (they always display a size 6), sitting on the stoop in a dressing room, adding things up. Making lists. Adding onto this list.
1. The visibility of seasonal change in New York via trees. Green in the summer, reds and yellows in the fall, bare in the winter, and barely there buds in the spring.
2. A seat in a theater with no one on either side of you. One chair for your bag, the other for butter-soaked napkins.
3. Two cups of coffee on weekend brunches. First cup with milk and raw sugar and second cup black.
4. A front and center crease on slacks. Sharp.
5. A cluttered shower with products: bath gels, beads, body scrubs, loofas, exfoliators, masks, leave in treatments, neck pillow.
6. Musky candles in the winter.
7. Havana cigars.
8. Sandalwood.
9. Girl skateboarders. Rare but there are a few girls gliding the handrails in Union Square. What badasses.
10. Fog outside and steam in the bathroom.
11. Six Feet Under marathon. I would love to sit for dinner with Peter Krause, Michael C. Hall, Frances Conroy then get high with Laura Ambrose and Rachel Griffiths.
12. Wooden chessboards. (I don't know how to play chess)
13. Braids and buns. Pretty and proper. It's a shame that girls don't 'do' their hair after a certain age.
14. Bagged drycleaning hanging from your closet door.
15. Watch fobs.
16. Wrist gloves.
17. Classic Wranglers... but I'd never wear them.
18. All-American breakfast: eggs, bacon and toast. Rye.
19. Buds and suds. That's smoking a joint while soaking in the tub. Finishing touch, an amber candle.
20. Purple. Childhood favorite.
21. Amore lotion. A Korean brand lotion, it's the smell of my mom right before going to bed.
22. Hat racks. Vintage fedoras.
23. La Perla camis worn as a top.
24. Grilled Colby Jack Cheese and tomato. On Rye.
25. Emack and Bolio's off of Houston then taking it to Washington Square Park.
26. West Village afternoon, $2 slice from Joe's and a $7 scoop from Cones.
27. Goose down anything. Comforters, pillows, jackets, vests, sleeping bags.
28. Loose tea in a glass Bodum pot.
29. Halloween. Every year I go as the same character just different covers. Roller Girl got a lollipop. Roller Girl turns 12. Roller Girl kicks ass. This year, Roller Girl goes takes it back to the Derby.
30. Audio slide show of Fashion Week covered by New York Times Style reporter, Cathy Horyn. Her voice is both soothing and commanding. She attends all four fashion weeks: New York, Milan and two in Paris. She has my life.
31. Gold heart locket necklace. Classic.
32. Craigslist's: rants and raves, misssed connections, apartment listings (during August).
33. Netflix. An entire season of Entourage in one night.
34. Upper Manhattan to see the leaves, lower Manhattan to see the water.
35. Butternut squash soup, apple cider, macaroni with four cheeses, crumb pies.
36. Crispy fries, half-popped kernels, folds in my chips.
37. Smell of my hair when I take it down from a bun. If I washed it that day.
38. Faceburn from his stubbles from a night of kissing.
39. Bed picnics. A tray topped with stone crackers, cured proscuitto, brie, olives, melon, ginger ale. Remote nearby.
40. The 'Matrix Approval' in New York magazine, high brow/dispicable and low brow/brilliant quadrants are the best.
41. The point from the reservoir in Central Park where you can see all of Fifth Ave, Central Park West and the A&E Biography Building.
42. Airmail envelopes, officially called envelope #10, white envelopes trimmed with red and blue.
43. Cucumber water, clay mask, tweezer, Tracy Chapman, lavendar eye mask, toe separators.
44. High heels, red lipstick, prescribed kickers, Prince.
45. Holiday baskets: fruits, chocolates, breadsticks, cheese log.
46. Oils: rose, egyptian, ylang ylang, tea tree.
47. Proenza Schouler, Guy Laroche, Carolina Herrera, Lanvin, Yamamoto, Rochas.
48. Thanksgiving: family, friends, food, football, fight, funny, feet up, fall asleep...food.
49. Summer night, sitting on a stoop in Brooklyn, ice cream from a truck. Rooftop parties, Manhattan skyline.
50. Forehead kisses.
51. His hand on my thigh in the theater, while driving, as we're looking at a menu.
52. Big hands.
53. Astor subway station, reading the covers of papers, IPod, peanut M&M's.
53. So I Married an Axe Murderer, Sweetest Thing, Suicide Kings, Office Space.
54. Sitting next to him, plane rides, train rides, cab rides (on him).
55. My pajama drawer. Flannels, soft tees, boy shorts, college sweatshirts.
56. Berkeley Marina. LOTS of memories there. This could easily go on the 'least favorite list' too.
57. San Francisco Union Square: art expos, expresso wagon, cool air, sun. Gay Pride Parade, alley cafes, Vesuvios.
58. Sitting Indian-style under a tree in Washington Square Park, watching the crowd watch Tic and Tac.
58. Hollywood, Sunset, Pink's, Nacional, Star Shoes, Farmers Market at the Grove.
59. The flight to San Francisco. The flight to New York.
60. Sleeping at the desk. Blogging at work.
61. Holiday windows, limited time holiday lattes at Fourbucks, gift receipts. Waking up to a good song on the clock radio, a Whitney morning is a good morning. Crowd exits from the Met, Lincoln Center and West 27th St. Mom's perfectly peeled apple coil. Good eyebrow day. Barber shops. Soul food. Trying on cocktail dresses (never been to a cocktail party), slipping into display shoes (they always display a size 6), sitting on the stoop in a dressing room, adding things up. Making lists. Adding onto this list.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
wild
Unbelievable. I just got a song sent to me. I knew the music. I had heard it before, younger, riding in the back seat after school, my mom humming along to it. It would be played over and over and back then, it meant rewinding, playing, rewinding, and playing the casette. Then one day we sold the car with the casette accidentally left in the deck. My mom didn't know the name of the tune or artist. I recall her being sad when she learned that she no longer had that song. Later on, I learned that it was a mix tape that was made for her by her first boyfriend when she came to the states.
So, I just got this song, played it and it all came back, rides home from school with my mom singing along, swaying to it in her seat with oversized sunglasses on and one arm out the window, elbow on door, hand on roof tapping to the beat. I sent the song to her and she played it and teared. My mother is nostalgic about nothing. Doesn't hold memories to cherish, no gathering of keepsakes, no stories of love and war so it's a rare instance to see her touched, moved the way she was when I played the song. She softly asks, "How did you remember? How did you find it?" I reply, "I didn't. It just came to me." It's a Wild World.
Thank you Stevens.
Unbelievable. I just got a song sent to me. I knew the music. I had heard it before, younger, riding in the back seat after school, my mom humming along to it. It would be played over and over and back then, it meant rewinding, playing, rewinding, and playing the casette. Then one day we sold the car with the casette accidentally left in the deck. My mom didn't know the name of the tune or artist. I recall her being sad when she learned that she no longer had that song. Later on, I learned that it was a mix tape that was made for her by her first boyfriend when she came to the states.
So, I just got this song, played it and it all came back, rides home from school with my mom singing along, swaying to it in her seat with oversized sunglasses on and one arm out the window, elbow on door, hand on roof tapping to the beat. I sent the song to her and she played it and teared. My mother is nostalgic about nothing. Doesn't hold memories to cherish, no gathering of keepsakes, no stories of love and war so it's a rare instance to see her touched, moved the way she was when I played the song. She softly asks, "How did you remember? How did you find it?" I reply, "I didn't. It just came to me." It's a Wild World.
Thank you Stevens.
Monday, November 14, 2005
el caribe
Ever dance for someone in the middle of a Spanish fortress in the pale moonlight? Light a Puerto Rican rum cigar for a non-smoker? Feel an island breeze whipped by a ceiling fan only to gaze up at cockroach? Eat rice and beans for four days straight? Oh, and plantains. Get bit all over your legs only to lay next to someone with spotless legs? Get drenched in the rainforest? Go to second base in the rainforest? Oh, and touch third. Walk on 16th century blue cobblestone to walk into a Benetton store? Share snapper, halibut and tuna with someone over votive candles and Bomba music? Been the only ones at a beach under a pale moonlight and go past third?
Puerto Rico, our version of the Corona commercial.
Let the holidays come, I'm relaxed.
Ever dance for someone in the middle of a Spanish fortress in the pale moonlight? Light a Puerto Rican rum cigar for a non-smoker? Feel an island breeze whipped by a ceiling fan only to gaze up at cockroach? Eat rice and beans for four days straight? Oh, and plantains. Get bit all over your legs only to lay next to someone with spotless legs? Get drenched in the rainforest? Go to second base in the rainforest? Oh, and touch third. Walk on 16th century blue cobblestone to walk into a Benetton store? Share snapper, halibut and tuna with someone over votive candles and Bomba music? Been the only ones at a beach under a pale moonlight and go past third?
Puerto Rico, our version of the Corona commercial.
Let the holidays come, I'm relaxed.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
beautiful back
I have a beautiful back. It's smooth to the touch, usullied to the eye, olive all over and the curves around the waistline are ready for grip. From the nape to the thighs, it glides with flow and symmetry. I lay with my knees dotting the mattress and ears pressed into the pillow as if the bag of down is a conch speaking to me, now my profile is a still wave. One arm above my head, a fist molded around the bed rail, head on its side, chin careening upwards, and my hair flowing over my shoulders past the blades. Wave. The other arm into the mattress, elbow trapped beneath my stomach and hand caressed between my thighs. Wave now set in motion. I lay on top of my comforter, it pleasures me to think of my back exposed, open to the air.
My fingers start a wave down there, the way a player rolls a coin down his knuckles. Ripples. The tips of the fingers start gentle then ascend to a rub. I allow my entire weight to collapse into the palm of my hands, my back, a plateau shifting around like a trowel smoothing out the sheets. My other hand, gripping the post, tightens into a white fist. I'm moist in my folds and cracks. I can smell me. My sprays and lathers from the morning have worn thin. Only residuals of the scents remain and those whiffs are fused with MY smell. A smell that cannot be bottled. I am attracted to me. My breath, my quiver, my hair falling into my gape. But it's not enough so I evoke pictures. Behind my tight shut eyes are flashes of him. His touch, his smell, his wave planing against mine. His weight is yielded onto me and I feel secure. Even in my sexiest thoughts I yearn for security. Security is needed to feel free, and I do. I feel free on my bed, I feel free in my mind and my back, my beautiful back, feels free.
I have a beautiful back. It's smooth to the touch, usullied to the eye, olive all over and the curves around the waistline are ready for grip. From the nape to the thighs, it glides with flow and symmetry. I lay with my knees dotting the mattress and ears pressed into the pillow as if the bag of down is a conch speaking to me, now my profile is a still wave. One arm above my head, a fist molded around the bed rail, head on its side, chin careening upwards, and my hair flowing over my shoulders past the blades. Wave. The other arm into the mattress, elbow trapped beneath my stomach and hand caressed between my thighs. Wave now set in motion. I lay on top of my comforter, it pleasures me to think of my back exposed, open to the air.
My fingers start a wave down there, the way a player rolls a coin down his knuckles. Ripples. The tips of the fingers start gentle then ascend to a rub. I allow my entire weight to collapse into the palm of my hands, my back, a plateau shifting around like a trowel smoothing out the sheets. My other hand, gripping the post, tightens into a white fist. I'm moist in my folds and cracks. I can smell me. My sprays and lathers from the morning have worn thin. Only residuals of the scents remain and those whiffs are fused with MY smell. A smell that cannot be bottled. I am attracted to me. My breath, my quiver, my hair falling into my gape. But it's not enough so I evoke pictures. Behind my tight shut eyes are flashes of him. His touch, his smell, his wave planing against mine. His weight is yielded onto me and I feel secure. Even in my sexiest thoughts I yearn for security. Security is needed to feel free, and I do. I feel free on my bed, I feel free in my mind and my back, my beautiful back, feels free.
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