I've decided I really need to get going with this tanning business. It's now officially summer, and I'm still morgue-quality pale. I know, it's shameful.
Unfortunately, I no longer have the luxury of a roof deck on which to drench myself in UV goodness. Like most amenities at my last apartment building, the roof deck was nice in theory and a little low-rent in practice. It had fake grass, lots of oversized wood furniture and essentially looked like the lawn & garden department at Home Depot. I haven't been up to the roof of my building now, but I suspect that it's probably not somewhere I want to be while scantily clad. That being the case, this summer I'm left with laying out in Central Park, where the trade off for real grass is being ogled by tourists from Minnesota. Ah, well, so be it.
This afternoon, during my regular Duane Reade run, I realized that I need to get some sunscreen. I'm a fan of the current trend in spray-on suncreen because it meets the needs of the independent sunbather quite well. Maybe other people are capable of oiling themselves up between their shoulder blades, but quite frankly, if I could bend that way, I would have more lucrative career options.
As it turns out, spray-on sunscreen is available in the following degrees of coverage:
SPF 4 - probably just Pam cooking spray in a different package, no?
SPF 30 -the new standard in bare minimum sun safety. Remember when just 15 was OK?
SPF 80
Wait. SP5 80? Really? Have we really lost that much faith in the ozone layer that Coppertone is making what amounts to a spray-on shirt?
I managed to find a spray in SPF 10. I like to live on the edge of danger. Here's hoping that I'm not immolated on the Great Lawn.
It's a sad day. George Carlin is dead, and somehow there seems to be a little less honesty in the world.
As previously mentioned, he was responsible for my earliest realization that simply pointing out the ridiculousness of everyday life could be funny. Thanks for that, sir.
Yesterday afternoon at work, Jenny and I were discussing how we would like to be disposed of after we're dead. As you do.
"I think I'd want people to eat me," she announced. "Like, you know, have a big dinner and eat me. They could have roasted Jenny or rack of Jenny or Jenny burgers."
This is extra awesome because Jenny is vegetarian. Her original plan was simply to be buried in her black & white polka-dot Betsey Johnson dress.
I had never really put all that much thought into specifics, although I definitely don't want to be buried. Or eaten, for that matter. Although for some reason, the indignity of being stuffed, dressed and put on display in an expensive box before being left to rot seems worse than having my remains marinated and pan-seared to be served with au gratin potatoes.
The preciousness with which dead people are treated has always confused me. We are, in the simplest terms, just sacks of meat with a temporary sparkle of consciousness. The whole ceremony behind the disposal of the meat-sack - whether it be to bury it, taking up (as George Carlin once said) valuable land space that we could put to better use, or burn it and keep the ashes on display somewhere to be revered - is weird and a little cultish.
So as these things go, the concept of being made into jewelry is no less dignified, I suppose. But really? Who comes up with this stuff?
What is a LifeGem®? The LifeGem® is a certified, high-quality diamond created from the carbon of your loved one as a memorial to their unique life, or as a symbol of your personal and precious bond with another.
So in fact diamonds could literally be your best friend, assuming your best friend is dead.
The whole site is completely bizarre - moreso because they are Totally Not Kidding - but my favorite bit was in the "how to order" section.
Separate out NO MORE THAN 8 ounces (about 1 Cup) of the cremated remains and tightly secure in a plastic bag or other plastic container. DO NOT send all of the remains unless you have chosen our additional scattering option or return option. We only need 8 ounces to produce all of the LifeGem diamonds on your order.
Just to clarify - they want you to MEASURE OUT a cup of your loved one's ashes, put them in a Tupperware and mail them off.
Here's something YOU oughta know, VH1: I'm going to have a seizure if I hear that Duffy song one more time.
Maybe it's not really fair to complain, though, since any small gesture by the mainstream entertainment overlords to promote up-and-coming artists should be encouraged. I have over 700 hours worth of music on my iPod, and even I'm bored. Given that I'm inundated with new music on a regular basis, I can't imagine how people with real jobs and no access to free album advances manage to stumble across anything other than what the marketing monkeys dangle in front of you.
Ah, but there is a way. Music supervision to the rescue. However, they will only take you halfway there. Like all good things, you have to work for it.
Generally I have very little patience for car commericals since (along with erectile dysfunction medication) there are few products that I'm less likely to buy, no matter how hard you sell it. I do have to applaud Kia, though, for a clever concept as well as for introducing me to Joe Purdy.
After seeing the commerical for the 30th time, I realized that I found the song endearing rather than annoying and did a little research online. Having an intense fondess for gifted songwriters, I promptly added all of Joe Purdy's albums to my collection. I can't imagine I ever would have heard of him otherwise, given that he is unlikely to collaborate with Timbaland and my refusal to watch Grey's Anatomy.
One afternoon there was a marathon of that short-lived Dick Wolf experiement Conviction on SleuthTV (yes, it's really a channel, and I feel sorry for you if you don't have it - Simon & Simon reruns!). I got sort of suckered into the show itself, but after 12 hours of hearing the theme song, I was intrigued enough to find out who it was. The song was edgy and electronic and not really the sort of thing that you'd think would lend itself to a show about 20-something Manhattan ADAs and their wacky hijinx. Oh but it works! Thus my introduction to Syntax.
Streaming episodes of Conviction are archived here, for the curious - it's really pretty entertaining.
More recently, VH1 was running an ad for it's trifecta of trainwreck narcissim featuring Rock of Love, My Fair Brady and Scott Baio is 45...And A Tool, using the inspired choice of (thanks for the chyron in this case) Ben Lee's "American Television." Solely through pop culture osmosis, I knew two things about Ben Lee up until that point - a) he is Australian and b) he once dated Mandy Moore. While I wasn't totally in love with the album after I finally listened to it, there were certainly enough good songs to make it worthy of downloading. As a matter of fact, I apparently wasn't the only one who realized there was a possible marketing opportunity here (really? you think?) - about a month after the ad stopped airing, VH1 added the actual video to its limited rotation of music video programming.
So this is how it's going to be now, I guess - we're forced to use commercials for things we don't even want as our introduction to new music. I just hope the cold hard truth of that inspires the creative use of lesser-known artists. I'm proof that it actually will entice people to purchase music by the artist in question. It does take the extra step of digging around on the internet sometimes, but when your iPod has 10,000 songs that you don't want to hear, isn't it worth it?
You know how we always hear that once you unleash something into the wilds of cyberspace, there's really no way to effectively kill it? It just spreads and mutates like that virus in Resident Evil, except maybe with less reanimating of the undead. OK, fine, bad analogy - shut up.
Anyway, when I was in college, I maintained a fansite for Rockapella. Yes, really. Lo and behold, I discovered this morning that it still exists.
Contrary to what everyone might think about my cold black heart, there are very few things I actually, legitimately hate. I can't even think of what they are right now because they usually hang out in "Inoffensive" territory until they try to get all up in my face and I have to bring the drama. Hating things takes too much mental energy, and that's time I can spend watching "Law & Order."
First of all, there's a distinct lack of purpose in Times Square. No one really has anywhere they need to be. No one is motivating with focused intention toward the ESPN Zone, I promise you. There's a lot of aimless wandering, a lot of being distracted by shiny objects. Look, there's the big Cup O' Noodles with REAL STEAM, holy shit! And I don't mean this purely as a standard rant on tourists who at least have the excuse of New York City being a novelty or sorts. (Although, PS, this is not Disneyland, my out-of-town friends - I don't come and stand in your driveway back in North Dakota and impede your getting things done, do I?) There's also plenty of people who live here who get in my way. Believe me when I tell you: I walk with purpose. Even if I don't have somewhere I expressly need to be, I walk like I do. I have long legs, I walk quickly (plus, it's hard to hit a moving target). Respect the natives and those with purpose - move aside.
The other reason Times Square is even more off the list than normal is something I discovered rather accidentally. After enjoying a Henry Rollins talking show at Town Hall one night, my roommate and I went in search of something to eat. It was 11pm. On a Thursday. Late for some, sure, but this is the city that never sleeps! This is Times Square! The neon-lit, corporate-owned tourist trap where anything is possible! Surely some chicken fingers and a Diet Coke at one of the fine franchise restaurants is a reasonable goal. Sure, we were going to have to pay $15 for it, but we made peace with that. First stop: the Olive Garden - closed. Fine, ok, although I could have rocked some (unlimited) soup, salad and breadsticks like a hurricane at that point. Next stop: Heartland Brewery - closed. Seriously? What is this shit? Ok, enough with the chain eateries - we head over to Ellen's Stardust Diner. Open! Score! Although only serving dessert. It should not be this hard to get some actual food at 11pm in Manhattan. If you're going to incite the huddled masses to breathe free, at least have some potato skins waiting for them. We finally ended up at Applebee's, whose kitchen miraculously closed at midnight.
So I am done - DONE - with you, Times Square. It's bad enough that I have a lot of Stupid And Useless in fanny packs preventing me from getting where I need to be at my usual speed. But to nearly deny me edibles at a perfectly reasonable hour, oh "center of the universe"? Unacceptable. You officially have nothing to offer me, and I will cry no tears when the remainder of you that isn't owned by Disney is converted into NYU dorms.
One of the most distinct memories that I have of growing up under the care of my dad is his favorite Hank Williams Jr song. We used to listen to this particular album on cassette (I know - old school) over and over in his car. I can't believe that I still know all the words to this day.
Like most little girls (and the occasional little boy - hi, Chris), I was obsessed with all things equine, unicorns in particular. I had a vast collection of My Little Ponys. I pretty much wore out our VHS copy of "Legend" (although, to be fair, Tim Curry as Satan almost trumps the unicorn factor on the scale of awesome in that movie). I'm fairly certain at one point I made myself a horn out of an old paper towel tube and some glitter (I mean, really, who didn't?) and wore it around the house.
So you can imagine my utter glee to find out that the big selling point of the Barnum & Bailey Circus in 1985 was...are you ready...a real live unicorn. I'm totally not making this up. I was so excited by the mere concept that I almost had a heart attack while sitting in the nosebleed seats at Madison Square Garden, waiting for a glimpse of The Living Unicorn. There is also the distinct possibility that I was wired on the sugar from too many Cracker Jacks. Finally, finally at the end of the whole fiasco, with lots of dramatic fanfare, a single spotlight illuminated a creature in the middle of the center ring - and it was an alpaca with a plastic horn strapped to it's head. I think it was the most anti-climactic moment I've experienced thus far. Would it really have been too much to ask that they use, oh I don't know, a horse? I have been disillusioned with the circus ever since.
Fast forward 20 or so years, and this is kind of like that. Maybe slightly more biologically valid, but come on.
OK, I admit it - I have a complicated relationship with Barnes & Noble.
For one thing, the only books I ever buy these days are blank. I like to have at least 2 or 3 blank journals on deck at all times, for some reason. It feels good to have them sitting there on the bookshelf, waiting for the future to be scrawled on their pages. Of all the chain bookstores, Barnes & Noble really has the best selection of journals. So much so that I had a hard time choosing one this past weekend - there were several leatherbound versions that I really liked. Although one of them had a big brass medallion on the cover and looked like it ought to contain some kind scripture from the Priory of Sion, so I passed on that.
I can often spend the better part of an hour picking through the assortment, since I have rather particular requirements. I do prefer lined to unlined, but that's not a dealbreaker. It probably goes without saying that I have no use for anything with inspirational quotes or fuzzy pink covers. I also pass up anything with a page count less than the King James edition of the Bible - since I can burn through an average journal in 3 or 4 months, bigger is better. I have visions of trying to store these things in 10 or 15 years, and finding the space for a series of mismatched little notebooks with 6 weeks worth of entries.
The downside is that going to Barnes & Noble also means facing my deep-seated issues with my own unrealized potential (according to other people, anyway). The Union Square megastore in particular gives me a minor anxiety attack - it is mind-bendingly huge, the stacks rising like monoliths on all sides. Being confronted with that much reading material at once is overwhelming - it always makes me consider the fact that there are more books in the world that I could ever read in a lifetime, even if my reading habits weren't limited to the time I spend waiting in airports. And, quite frankly, books make me feel bad about myself.
Someone commented to me recently that it was funny how musicians need almost no incentive to be creative, whereas writers need to "force" themselves to write. I can't speak to the former since I'm only musically employed, as opposed to musically inclined; however I certainly can attest to the defeatist struggle with words. It's my own fault (as most things are, at the end of the day) for simply sitting around, thinking about writing instead of actually doing it. There are some nights when I even have to force myself to write in my journal. I can generally only muster the willpower for that because (to paraphrase my friend Jenny), if I don't write it down it's like it didn't happen. But when all is said and done, my journals end up in the trunk in my living room. I'd really like to write something for public consumption, and it's been an albatross I've carried around for a good long time.
"You should really do something with your writing," people tell me, as though its an antique lamp that I let lanquish unused in my garage. Sometimes I get motivated and think "They're right, I'm going to sit down and really be serious about this." Then I generally stumble into a Barnes & Noble and immediately feel defeated by the idea that any book I would write has already been written by someone who wasn't an unmotivated procrastinator and with a better vocabulary. Sigh.
I need to go home and confront my journal tonight - I didn't write anything last night, although I had plenty to record. It was after midnight by the time I got home, and I simply didn't have it in me. As for writing things that other people might actually see, I'm working on that.
The surreal world of pet ownership, courtesy of my mother.
Flower108055: all the boys seem to be adapting to the new food MuseGrlNYC: what new food? Flower108055: oh Flower108055: i forgot to tell you Flower108055: the vet said that dave is most probably allergic to the food that he has been eating since forever MuseGrlNYC: oh wow Flower108055: so he wants me to give him this new food made from rabbits MuseGrlNYC: wait...what? Flower108055: made from dead rabbits Flower108055: rabbit meat Flower108055: so on the way home, i'm thinking: how can i just give dave this food and not the others - i would have to keep him locked in a room so he couldn't get to the other food dishes downstairs, have a separate litterbox Flower108055: that's not going to work Flower108055: so then - duh! - i decided that everyone was going to have to change their food MuseGrlNYC: so now they're all eating dead rabbits Flower108055: yep and loving it Flower108055: has to taste better than that diet food MuseGrlNYC: that's just a scary state of affairs Flower108055: speaking of rabbits, our little rabbit is back - the one that eats the grass outside my backdoor every nite MuseGrlNYC: well, now the cats are going to want to eat it
There is a roach in the hallway outside my office. It's large, it's a little confused and it's a resounding endorsement of the idea that roaches are The Terminator of insects.
Tony and I first saw it this morning on our way back from Whole Foods. We haven't really had a vermin problem here since the Great Mouse Epidemic of 2004, so I was genuinely eek!ed to see Exhibit A: Large Roach. It was lying on it's back in front of the ladies' room, legs and antennae flailing. It was sort pathetic and yet still gross.
"Step on it," Tony told me with the subtext being Because I'm not going near it, ew ew ew!
No. Thanks. And besides - it looked like it was having enough trouble without me crushing its exoskeleton with my Payless flats. I did wonder, though, how a roach comes to find itself the wrong way up on the floor and not smashed or otherwise still hanging in there for good measure.
"There's a roach outside the ladies' room if anyone wants to check it out," I announced to the office. Perhaps not surprisingly for my office, someone did.
A couple of years ago I would have said that it appears to be true that roaches are like Reagan - the just refuse to die. Man, that was such a good joke - I used it for a long time and, and it had so many hilarious applications. Then Reagan had to finally up and kick it. So annoying.
When G and I were coming back from getting lunch at the deli, I was quite surprised to see the roach again - it was cautiously crawling across the linoleum, past our office door. We sidestepped it yet again, since I really don't see any reason to get yuck on my shoes. Also? Ew ew ew!
I have to admire that our friend the roach managed to not only right itself (I assume no easy task) but stumble all the way down to the hall to the offices of the UNITY church. While it did seem disorientated and unsure as to why in fact it was not dead, I assume it has found sanctuary somewhere since it was no longer in the hall when I went to the trash chute just now.
Then again maybe someone from the UNITY church decided that all God's creatures aren't equal after all.
What is it with southern California and fire? It's just not a day out there unless something's going up in flames - trees, houses...or Courthouse Square from Back To The Future. I mean, have you people no sense of decency?
Apparently the Universal Studios backlot burned down earlier today.
A couple of years ago, when Chris was working on the lot at "Crossing Jordan," we commandeered a golf cart and did our own little private tour. Our main motivation was (obviously) that golf carts are really fun, but there was the added bonus of getting to see most of the sets, evidently for the last time.
So here's to you, Universal backlot...that fake plane crash was pretty sweet. Bummer.
