speaking of crazy...

...i'm all over on wordpress now. It's my permanent home. Visit me?

go crazy.

I was spying on Facebook today. Be warned: I do this A LOT. This time though I was spying on a former co-worker's photos of her new life in Nairobi. "I wanna do that! Or, something like that," I said (in my head). Something where I pack up, leave behind everything, and fearlessly start something new. And she's in her 30s--like me! This further adds to the growing body of evidence that you in fact do not have to be a 20-something with a pack strapped to your back to go crazy and start something new. 

I've gone crazy before. Just not on the Nairobi level. Not even close to the Nairobi level.

I continued to skim through her albums, half curious, half concerned about whether she'd settled in and was enjoying life there. By the way, if she ever somehow found this post, I'd be partly flattered (she found my blog!) and partly embarrassed (she happens to be one of my dozens of FB friends I don't have a real friendship with.) I'd post one of her beautiful, green, palm-treed photos here, if...well, if I was completely shameless. I'm shameless. Just not completely. Not yet.

I want to plan something crazy. I have given myself a deadline of two more years in my city. Two more years to grow up. Two more years to settle in and enjoy.

x

p.s. This is my 2nd day of posting, and I have little to say, but I'm happy to be getting my groove back. Now off to figure out how to add those little follow-me-like-me widgets.

i came back.

to reclaim my "roots." well, that's a lofty expression and not at all entirely true. Here's what really happened:

I was sitting on the subway, chatting with a friend about starting a new blog. Something that incorporates my day-to-day hodgepodge with pieces of my city that make me stop. open my eyes. drop my jaw. reconsider why-the-hell-i'm-here-in-the-first-place. As I write this, I fill ready to burst at the prospect of coming back to something I once gave my heart to daily. But back to my story. As I was telling the story to my friend of wanting to start something new,  something great...it dawned on me that I had something great already HERE. My something old, so to speak. I had love here already. Large amounts of it. Truth. Beauty. Happiness. Pain. Reflection. Energy. All that here, if I wanted it. And to leave it for dead...well, a waste beyond tragic. Pardon the melodrama. If you love something, you always love it. And if it serves a purpose in your life, you welcome it back into your life, in some form or another. When you're ready. I (think I) am.

I'm going to unpack now, lay out my stuff, take inventory, and start new—or start old. And I might need a fresh coat of paint. Stick with me, if you like.
x

p.s. This is the most beautiful thing i've seen all day.

i moved...

i really love everything here, but i wanted a change. it took a while (I had to pack and all), but I'm practically all moved in now. Just need a new coat of paint (maybe) and some rearrangements. And the walls are much to bare right now. Still, I hope you'll visit :-)

Oh, I almost forgot, here's my new address.

something new awaits...

well, less "awaits" and more "comeths." Or something like that.

I'm more than well aware that my heart and brain have not been plugged in here. I think I'm evolving--or progressing, or channeling something. I have no idea what's going on with me, but I do know today's random post is steeped in hormones (so says the inconvenient pimple on my forehead). So i'm choosing this opportunity to tell you rather cryptically that I'm working on something...something new...just waiting for the right title to pop into my head and then I can spill.

Until then...xo

ms. parton.

So, a woman I work with drops her iPod in our gym locker-room...wait. I'll back up a bit. A very stoic, type-A, super career woman who has most-certainly given me the cold-shoulder a handful of times in the hallways—having met my twice-daily "hello" glances with silent bristle and possible ire, drops her iPod in the gym locker-room. (Yes, we have a gym at work...it's my one-and-only counterargument to the eyebrow raises I get when I describe the horror that is my 1-hour-plus commute to work.) The earphones pop out and all us half-naked ladies get the pleasure of hearing her iTunes. And will you guess what's playing? Nevermind, you won't. Dolly Parton's "I Will Always Love You." Yes, Dolly did it first (love you, Whitney).

Anyhoo, I love Dolly so dearly that I instantly forgave this woman's blatant oversight of my charm. What IS that? Have you ever done that...forgiven or fallen slightly and unexpectedly in love with someone just because their musical tastes align ever-so-nicely with yours?

p.s. Speaking of half-naked ladies, who knew Dolly did Playboy? Hmmm..kinda sorta curious...

love is a smoke...

...made with the fume of sighs.

- William Shakespeare

Complicating matters more...

I 'd like those words silk-screened onto a T-shirt. Size Small. Seriously.

So lately, I've rambled on and on about my minor but constant 'struggle' with thinness...or skinnyness, if that's a word. Or rather, the over-awareness of it by the 40-ish women I work with.

At work today, I took a tooth-brush break in the ladies room after lunch. As it happens (to me), I couldn't find my toothbrush, so i went with the toothpaste-on-the-finger approach to dental hygiene and fresh breath. I'm in the ladies room, doing just that, when one of my editors walks in. She stops and stares at me for a second with shock and horror in her eyes just as I'm applying finger and toothpaste to my tongue. uh oh. My first thought: "damage control." I quickly remove the finger from my mouth, spit the foamy residue into the sink, and say "Ohh, hi! The chicken I ate for lunch was SO garlicky, and I can't find my toothbrush, so the finger will have to do!" Which is the truth. She laughs, perfunctorily. And then said...Wait. I don't know what she said. It was a mumble of nothingness, as she stood there staring at me for another 30 seconds that felt like 5 minutes, with a mother's concern in her eyes. I wanted to say "I'm OK...even though I'm sure it looks like I'm purging. ha ha!" That didn't happen. She walked into the stall..and I finished up, reapplied my lipstick, and made haste.

I'm still thinking about it, obviously. And wondering just what she was thinking when she walked through the door. Something a thin girl never wants to be caught doing is poking her finger toward her throat. But perhaps this is my overactive paranoia sculpting some form of irrational hyper-vigilance. It's likely, this woman walked in and saw me finger-brushing my teeth, a somewhat private act, in a somewhat public restroom and was skeeved out. yeah, that's probably it...

when you have the opportunity...

...to carpe diem and enjoy these first days of Spring, do it! Choose a day in the middle of the week, and call in sick (or take off in advance, if you're more responsible than I am). Don't log onto to your email (though, you can log onto your blog if you must). I insist.

And if you live in or frequently visit NYC, check out the sunbathing seals and boat rides in Central Park, take the bus down 5th Avenue (it's the cheapest tour you'll ever take), buy a good book for park-bench reading, try the Vanilla Rum gelato (skip the Guinness-flavored one. Yes, Guiness, the beer) from Il Laboratorio Gelato, and kiss someone (be sure to ask first).

Work has allowed me no time to think full, free-flowing, unscheduled thoughts about...well, whatever... so today, I had no time for work.

p.s. Il Laboratorio Gelato is opening a larger shop this summer, and this, my friends, is a very good thing.

p.p.s. RIP Alex Chilton. 59 is way too young to die :-(

Photo: keanerdotnet

blame it on daylight savings time.

"I have my own insecurities, I don't have the wherewithall to deal with yours, too" ...is what I should have said. I almost regret posting yesterday, only i don't believe in regret. Still, I say this because almost immediately after hitting "publish," I felt my insecurities being splashed across the computer screen like wet paint. Insecurities are that way...they stain us...they stain our world, and if we blog, at times, they stain that, too. If we let them.

That's really all I wanted to say.

oh! how i try hard to keep my karma clean...

...and not to routinely think terribly rude and unkind thoughts about others—not counting nyc subway riders. But today, I need to vent. Here goes:

A woman who works with me, in a senior position, came into my office for a meeting during which the conversation trailed off into a discussion about her gym and how she's not sure she'll keep her membership because the people there are muscley, crazed maniacs. Then she says, "I hate the women at my gym. They're all skinny. Just like you."

Hmmmm. I wouldn't take offense, except I hear a different version of this almost every week from a woman at work. It's not-so-much that it's offensive, but more that it makes me considerably uncomfortable when someone comments on my body—unless of course, we're good friends or sleeping together. So, what if I said something like, "I really don't like the women here. They're all pretty fat. Just like you."

It's not at all me to say something like that—I'm much much more likely to comment on a woman's shoes or hair—not their weight. But, just to prove a point, would that be wrong?

On a side note, I'm no idiot... I realize that many cultures (and fashion magazines) regard "skinny" as the ideal body type, so perhaps she meant it as a compliment. And perhaps it's the negative connotations that come to mind when I hear the word "skinny" that chip away at my self-confidence. Growing up, in a black neighborhood, with black women and black relatives drilling into my psyche that "skinny" wasn't a good thing...wasn't healthy... wasn't the ideal—I admit to having unresolved issues with the word. Yet "slim" or "thin" or "svelte"—don't hurt one bit...in fact, I prefer them. I need to think on this more, and perhaps consult with some of my slim-thin-svelte girlfriends. Or maybe even Randy Cohen.

Stay tuned. Oh, and tell me what you think!

I just ate a half-melted section of Kit Kat from my purse.

But in my defense, it was still in the package, and there were no visible lent or dirt particles present. Is that gross?

Anyhow, speaking of defending my indiscretions ...

I truly-deeply wish life will slow down a bit...so I can post! And by "life" I mean, work. At least 90 percent of my life lately is work. The other 10 percent consists of time-spent-with-loved-ones/sex/yoga/eating/going to the bathroom...oh, and sleeping. How sad is that? If only I could blog about myself for a living.

Speaking of which, I've watched all but the last 10 minutes of Julie & Julia, and even if you don't love/admire/respect Julia Child (and I do), you should see it. I mean, if you like food, particularly, rich, gooey, drippy, buttery, meat-centric food, I suggest you click-and-add it to your Netflix queue. Of course, I can say a little more after I finish watching it. WARNING: It will make you hungry.

But again, I want to post. That's my uppermost goal this week...and I have at least 2 juicy ones in the pipeline. And by juicy, I mean love-speckled and slightly sappy. So, until then, I bring you the Oscar-winning animated short Logorama. It's truly brilliant and worth the 16-minute chunk out of your life. If you watch it and think otherwise, tell me why...because I can't imagine who could hate this film....well, except maybe Ronald McDonald.

post this on a wall...

...where you can read it and refer to it regularly. And  by "this," I mean this. I'm printing out these 40 life-isms as we speak/type/read, and highlighting numbers 5, 8, 9, 12, 13, 20, 22, 25, and 28 in pink. Which of these will you highlight?

p.s. In honor of National Pancake Day—I wolfed down 5 yummy banana silver dollars (not the ones below, unfortunately). However now I. CANNOT. MOVE. So I strongly urge you to not follow in my footsteps. Choose your own pancakes, but tread lightly. Don't eat 5 all at once and perhaps skip the butter and syrup, oh—and the side of bacon, altogether.

Photo: D'Arcy Norman

on being a teeny-tiny bit fearful to fully commit...

...hannah had this great advice for me...and while I can't post the entire email (out of respect for her/my privacy), I posted the eloquent and supportive little snippet I loved most of all...

...perhaps it's the expectation that may be getting in the way. maybe when we tell someone something about the past, we expect that "chosen" person to then be so affected that they'll be there forever, as a blanket to cover us, as love to protect and house us, so we'll belong... we're all like this... everyone's heart gets broken because that's the inevitable progress to adulthood. people break promises and sometimes they leave and disappear, but you'll always have you, and the universe, and the love in it. and sometimes that love brings people back to you as well.

p.s. This week is National Eating Disorders Awareness Week. What will you do to promote good health and acceptance of all bodies? For me, it'll be iyengar, followed by copious amounts of comfort food, a few glasses of Cab Sav, and lots of dancing (hello, cardio!)...because in my opinion, being healthy isn't always about moderation...it's about harmonizing the extremes.

in my mind, i'm a ballerina...

Unless you're one of the lucky few, everyone has an alter-ego, make-believe job. Or that magical artsy career you always wanted when you grew up that never happened because you opted for a "real world" grown-up degree in Poli-Sci or Journalism over the Theater Arts one. Feel free to blame your parents for that one.

In my magical-artsy-career mind, I've always been a ballerina. And although I've never taken a class (hopefully that'll change soon), my-friend-Peter says I move like a dancer...and another friend once remarked "are you a dancer? Because you have very strong toes." ;-) At 32, I'd have to say it's a little too late for me to pirouette or plié on the New York City Ballet stage...but one can dream. And by dream, I mean play dress-up...

I came across this skirt today on the UO sale web site (damn them for those sale reminders!). How lovely for Spring! My first impulse was to go for the pink for the sake of fantasy and flair (plus, anything goes in nyc, right?). But on second thought, gray might be more practical, more down-to-earth, more suitable for real life. What say you—gray or pink?

I typically don't post pictures of naked men...

...on my blog, but I'll make an exception today.

On my way home from yoga class a little bit ago, the sneakiest smile crept onto my face thanks to this 100-foot high billboard of sweat-laquered loveliness. The oiled-up gentleman is Parisian model David Agbodji—and I don't think I care or need to know anything else about him (the ad speaks volumes, doesn't it?). I'd like to thank Calvin Klein for giving ad space to the beautiful specimen that is darker-skinned gentlemen. Of course, he could very well be simply capitalizing on the fashion industry gimmick trend of shining the spotlight on models of color. Either way, I now feel the way men must've felt when they had the pleasure of looking up in the sky at Eva Mendez's deliciously barely-covered bits for the past year.

If you'd like to see more of David, here's a handful of pics of him in the Spring 2010 Calvin Klein campaign (fyi, includes a NSFW backside shot I really didn't need to see). Of course, if you live in NYC, get down to Houston and Lafayette for an up-close-and-personal drool-worthy ogle fest of your own.

I guess now the burning question is who was the lucky person who had the painfully tedious task of shellacking this guy (oh, and has he been shellacked everywhere?)—and where does one apply for such a job?

p.s. Happy Chinese New Year—year of the Tiger.

Photo: Vanity Flair

"I want women to look stronger"

"I grew up with three older sisters, and I saw them go through a lot of shit, I always wanted to be able to protect them. They would call me up to their room and I'd help them pick out clothes for work. Just, you know, what skirt with what cardigan, but I was always trying to make them look strong and sheltered."

"I design clothes because I don't want women to look all innocent and naive, because I know what can happen to them. I want women to look stronger..."

"I've seen a woman nearly beaten to death by her husband. I know what misogyny is...I want people to be afraid of the women I dress."

—Alexander McQueen

in your nightmares...

...that's where you find monsters like these. Or in a dark Tim-Burton fairytale. You've really gotta wonder what goes on inside the mind of a person who brings this theatrical goth-erotic sort of imagery to the runway...full-body leather butcher's suit...blood-splattered waistcoat...sickly, ashen faces.

When hannah emailed this slide show last Fall, I watched the entire thing right then and there. Only two weeks ago, I shared the same slideshow with two fashion-loving girls at work, and "how vampire-ish!" "so Johnny Depp" and "wow, so dark. i love it..." spilled out over email.

There will be a little less beauty (the hauntingly terrifying sort) in the world now. farewell alexander.

Photos: New York Magazine

please don't touch me with your pork bun.

There's a reason I'm smiling on the subway today...and it's not because of the stellar cup of coffee with hazelnut agave (you must try it) I'm holding—it's the near-certainty of a full-fledged snow storm tonight in my wonderful city. And when it snows here, all city workers have to slip and slosh in to their lofty Manhattan offices, but not me. nope. I work in Westchester County—and when it snows here—even if it's only 5 or 6 inches, we get a snow day. So for a day, I love Yonkers, better known as the armpit of Westchester, also known as "an unimaginable fate far worse than death."

Make no mistake, it's not the warm cinammon-sugar-flavored civility of suburban life that forces resentment into my heart during my 1-hour-plus trek to work everyday—it's my 1-hour-plus trek.

Oh the horrors of my smelly, claustrophobic commute. Today I had the divine pleasure of watching a teenage boy devour a greasy, fleshy pork bun in front of me. yum. Add the wondrous olfactory sensation of stale vitamin odor, which was very likely just old piss, and we've got a winner of an F-train ride today. We don't really need to mention the man who at this very moment is leaning over my shoulder watching me write this, or the guy sitting across from me with his knees spread so far apart, he's likely to give birth to his balls at any moment.

I get emotional and my left eye twitches a bit when I speak about my commute, and people who work on 34th Street or drive up the FDR to work don't get it. Three weeks ago I burst into my apartment in a fit of tears after a 300-pound Hasidic "gentleman" sat on me. Not next to me—but literally—ON me. After a shiteous day at my 9-to-5, Schlomo mistaking me for a Lazy Boy was the icing on my catastrophic cake.

Yet and still, the things I detest most about the almighty MTA on some days become the things I love on others. Like when the train car morphs into an elbow-to-elbow jam-packed tuna can and I get to hover 4 inches away from my morning-rush goth-boy crush, picturing what he might look like sans the long face and leather arm cuffs, and umm, naked. ahhh... Where was I? Oh yes...if all goes well tomorrow...oh nevermind...just buzz me when the snowmageddon starts...

Photo: taniworld

what i love most today...

...is this coffee cup sweater. Really—I cannot stop ogling it and feeling warm and snuggly about it. Damn it, I don't know how to knit, but I will learn ASAP if only to create adorable little knit wonders like this one. I MUST have one...and apparently, I can get one right here on Etsy for the low-low price of 10 to 15 bucks. (Gotta love Etsy.)

The only downside I can see (for me) to having one of these cup Snuggies, is that it might very well cause me to wolfishly absorb more than my 2 to 3 cups of coffee a day—which could result in even stranger behavior than usual—and perhaps an increase in my already high level of nervous energy. Oh well...sometimes one must sacrifice sanity for art—or in this case, arts and crafts.

Photo: Design Sponge

downward facing dog.

I'll be doing a lot more of those from now on--along with some planks, trees, baby cobras, and savasanas. Today, I just closed my eyes, handed over my credit card, and joined an amazing yoga gym where all the women look like they don't need yoga. It's okay, if all goes well, I'll be there soon enough. But, it's about mental well-being, right? Riiiight. No really...I'll explain.

Several months ago, I "dumped" my therapist. I'd learned so much from her, like how to identify patterns--the negative, self-sabotaging kind. But there came a point when i felt the learnings slowing down, and that was my cue to move forward. At times, while I appreciated her insight and understanding, I really needed some instruction, someone to tell me not to jump off that bridge. Like many relationships, this one ran its course, and ended.

Several times since the "break up," I've given thought to what I'd do if I needed to resume therapy sessions again. Looking for a new therapist in New York is a daunting process--there are so damn many, and they've all written books on "loving YOU more," "winning at love," or "getting the love you want." Time was when it seemed all my friends here had therapists...now not so much. People don't have jobs, so they don't have health insurance, or maybe they're just finding other ways to cope with anxiety, addiction, loss, painful childhoods, and love woes.

It turns out my "other way" is yoga. Nothing new there really...I've always loved to practice, but after trying a week at this new-ish yoga/pilates/full-body-conditioning "ahhh come in, we love you here" studio in my neighborhood, I felt something different. Not sure if it's the lavender-scented mats, the huge multi-purpose rooms (lotsa props), or the super-human instructors, but I've felt this tangible sense of all-consuming happy energy after each class. I think they call it a "high." The type that you want to break in half and share with someone you know could use it. This must be how my-friend-Mer feels about her daily run, or another dear friend feels about ballet. Whatever it is, I feel good all over (channeling Stephanie Mills), and less inclined to run down aisle-hogging shoppers in Trader Joe's with my cart.

Another thing: During yoga, I don't think about my workday, or bills, or even what I'm going to be when I grow up. I'm in the moment...completely. And of course, trying not to focus on what the guy behind me thinks of my bum (which is also, by the way, very excited about the weeks ahead).

...this morning i woke up...

...late. Missed my 11am pilates class. But it's ok...no worries. Lately on the weekends it's rare that I sleep past 8am...call it ADHD, call it too many obligations, or call it an addiction to coffee. But today, I slept in a bit and finally listened to the Patti Smith interview with Terry Gross that my-friend-Rachel recommended to me last week on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Rachel knows a lot about Patti Smith...I know very little. Only that she's a poet and her music was a huge deal during the punk revolution of the 70s and 80s, she was part of that generation of Chelsea-Hotel artists, and that she's got this easy no-makeup just-woke-up androgynous manner about her. I'd love to look like that. Give me Tilda Swinton any day over say, Angelina Jolie (though I do heart Angie).

Anyway, Patti is promoting her new book "Just Kids" dedicated to her friend, onetime lover, and soulmate Robert Mapplethorpe whom you may know for his erotic often sado-masochistic style of photography. If you listen to this interview, you can hear two things in Patti's voice: 1)She's cool-calm. If you're like me you'll want to know how you can figure out how to find her and soak in some of it. 2)She fiercely loved and believed in Robert...they fused their passions and hunger and found a purpose for art and life together. She had this to say about how she found peace after the pain of Robert's death in 1989 of complications from AIDS:

The idea that time heals all wounds is not really true. Our wounds aren't really ever healed. We just learn to walk with them. We learn that some days we're gonna feel intense pain all over again and we just have to say 'Ok, I know you. You can come along with me today.' The same way that sometimes we start laughing out in the middle of nowhere remembering something that happened with someone we've lost. You know, life is the best thing we have....and I think it's very important to not be afraid to experience joy in the middle of sorrow.

If you can carve out 46 minutes and 16 seconds to listen to the interview--do it. It'll make you feel good...and we all could use a couple more things to make us feel good, right? As for me, it's already past noon, so I'm off to hunt down coffee, donuts, lavender soap, and brown eyeliner (so much for the "easy no-makeup just-woke-up androgynous" look, eh?).

Photo taken in 1976 by Robert Mapplethorpe

...i was just passing through...

...and decided to stay a while. I needed to, and yes, for good. I needed to figure out a clear purpose for being here, in this space. And it needed to be something I could sincerely commit to, at least for now :-) So after much thought, several months worth in fact, i'm giving in to my inner voice and dedicating my blog to love--the idea of it, perhaps the meaning (oh, I could write a book!), loss of it (at times, hopefully not often though), acts of love, you-name-it. Why? Because love is something I so earnestly obsess over, and know so much and so little about. It's something I can share with you--that is, if you still like me. I promise not to be boring.

Anyway, this calls for a re-design of sorts. Sorry I'm not more prepared--I just decided to sit on my bed, open my laptop, and sign-in b/c I knew that I could not go another night without writing something here.

p.s. when I signed into my account tonight, I hadn't done so since August **tsk tsk tsk**. I finally read and approved some extremely lovely and supportive comments. Thank you so much for those. Now to bed with me...xx

p.p.s. If you can't sleep, here's something silly to keep you up for a little--or maybe a lot--longer.

so, the Chinese super of my apartment building...

...doesn't speak English. And that's totally fine with me since I've hardly really needed him for anything crucial other than the two times I stupidly locked myself out of my apartment. In one case, he called the landlord, who translated, and then allowed me to climb out of his bedroom window, up the fire escape, into my bedroom window. (If anyone is reading this now and thinking it's easy to climb into my bedroom window, be warned--it's now locked.) In the second case, he wasn't home.

I run into him 3 or 4 times a week, and he always greets me with a "hello," and a nod, and I do the same. Then we share 15 to 30 seconds of awkward silence. If not for the language barrier, I'd say things like "So, how's it going?" and "Love the paint job in the hallway. The gray was a lovely choice." Or even, "What's with your love of boiled cabbage? You're a nice single guy--but the smell HAS to be just a little off-putting to the ladies." And I'm sure he'd say things like "Why do you keep locking yourself out of your apartment?" and "Why does your neighbor insist on smoking in the hallway even though there are 'no smoking' signs all over the walls?" Or maybe even, "Look, you seem like a nice, respectful girl. But would you and your lover mind toning it down at 3 in the morning? It sounds like you're gonna fall through my ceiling and I really need to get some rest."

But alas, those conversations will never happen. OR WILL THEY? Well, I have a mustard seed of hope.

On Saturday, I ran into him as I was walking up the stairs to my apartment, and he paused, as if calculating something life-altering in his head. And then, like a child with a slight--almost undetectable--speech impediment, but with remarkable eye contact--he blurts out "Hi. How are you?" I responded in my usual sweet manner, "I'm well, thank you." I didn't realize until I stuck the key in my front door that the super and I had just had a conversation. Yes, "Hi. How are you?" is a casual phrase that people pass around so frivolously that it's rather meaningless in most cases. And he could very well have had the ability to say it all along, and maybe felt that I hadn't yet--until now--earned the right to the "how are you" portion of his day-to-day greeting. I say all this to say, it was more verbal communication than I'd had with him in the whole year and change I've lived there--and a sign of respect, I suppose.

Anyway, it gave me great pleasure, so I figured I'd share. When I see him again, I'm going to stop him and say "lei ho ma?"--the Catonese version, of course. Let's hope he doesn't speak Mandarin...or get offended...or think i'm trying to flirt with him. Uh oh, I think, I mean...I hope, I mean I'm almost certain I locked my bedroom window...

a little reggae music...

makes for a lovely end to a steamy July weekend. this post is meant to honor reggae and dub legend Lee "Scratch" Perry. I prefer to avoid the overused phrase "the one and only" yet in Lee's case, the shoe fits. Anyway, this was my first time seeing him live (what a show!), and likely the only time in either of our lifetimes. He's 73...still horny (he has a song that uses the "P" word about 35 times *blushes*) and shamelessly eccentric--think bedazzled baseball cap, layers and layers of gold chains and rings, and a fuschia beard. Love it.

a lil bit o' good news.

I'm not Irish...but today I'm lucky. My company just voted to NOT do lay-offs. Just as I'd figured out how to make the most of being dirt poor in NYC while struggling to pay rent on an overpriced, tiny (err--cozy) apartment--I can now resolve to continue making the most of living as usual--and perhaps saving for what may come down the road.

In honor of no lay-offs, I'm grabbing a couple of my dearest girlfriends for an all-night dance-(and flirt)-a-thon.

Have a lovely weekend all!

p.s. And Nichole...if you're listening "CONGRATS" to you.

last night i dreamed...

...the wars ended
and strangers danced in the street
waving flags from trees

I made a feast to celebrate
but you never showed.

even in the best of times,
i have learned, though slowly
you are not there
and i do things i typically would not
like make a feast

now i have learned, to not do the things
i typically would not--to begin with

snow in july.

hello, global warming. If this isn't a sure sign that the climate is in distress, I don't know what is. Take a look at pics from my office's parking lot after last night's hail storm. Shocking, right? In case the photos don't give you a clear visual, those hail stones are the size of marbles. ouch! Of course, the whimsy-seeking kid in me thinks it's pretty darn cool to have a little ice on an 80-degree summer day :-)

waiting is hell.

when you're waiting for the lay-off list to land under your office door, you begin to consider how great life would be without the obligation and stress of a nine-to-five, and how dismal life would be without that stuff that makes the world go 'round. and how temporary everything is...jobs, income, layoffs, office doors, stuff (maybe even stress--if i so choose).

p.s. i whole has passed. yes, i'm a bad blogger. i know. i don't deserve the title "blogger." don't hate me (if you're at all even reading this).

at first glance, one might think...

...this hardly qualifies as art. but, everything on this earth deserves a second look--except for the toothy little man that yelled "hey sweetie" at me repeatedly from his truck as I was leaving my apartment this morning (though, at least i got an 8am giggle out of it).

art is "the quality, production, expression, or realm, according to aesthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance." And might I add, if you can't stop staring at it, it's art. but who cares what I think. I love this piece here by Michael Bilsborough. His first NY solo exhibition opened last month. I'm moved to scribble my own psychosomatic maze.



from The Only Way Out is Through (if I had an exhibition, I think I'd name it this).