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4/11/07 11:52pm

One of my favorite human beings is gone.

Kurt Vonnegut died today at the age of 84.

He made a graceful landing at the top of my People I Wish I Could Meet list.

Rest in peace, Mr. Vonnegut.

3/8/07 2:06pm

I have never been so disturbed in my life. The following was advertised on TV last night. During my beloved M*A*S*H*, of all things. The description is courtesy of Amazon.com (where I may never be able to shop again):

Barbie Fairytopia - Magic of the Rainbow (DVD)

Believing in oneself can be difficult, even with the support of friends. The formerly wingless fairy Elina has saved Fairytopia more than once, proving herself against Fungus Maximus and turning the evil Laverna into a frog in Barbie Fairytopia and Barbie Fairytopia--Mermaidia, but she still questions her own abilities when Guardian Azura selects her to become her apprentice and learn the all-important flight of spring--a ritual which ensures another year of vitality in Fairytopia. The taunts and snobby attitudes of her fellow apprentices serve to further undercut Elina's self-esteem, but she vows to do her best to master the flight of spring and soon proves worthy of her appointment. When the trickery of Laverna threatens to stop the flight of spring and destroy Fairytopia forever, it falls to the new apprentices to save Fairytopia. Of course, Elina will play a pivotal role in the group's eventual success or failure. Prepubescent attitudes and shallowness reign among most of the apprentices, but most eventually see the error of their ways and the clear message is the importance of believing in oneself. (Ages 3 to 9) -- Tami Horiuchi

2/28/07 11:56am

Today, the only thing I can do is quote Sam (Natalie Portman's character) from Garden State:

"But what do you do, I can't quit... their insurance is amazing, what do you do? You laugh. I'm not saying I don't cry but in between I laugh and I realize how silly it is to take anything too seriously. Plus, I look forward to a good cry. It feels pretty good."

Yupppp...

2/07/07 11:30am

Little Things Get Me Down

Last night I lost my favorite hat. It's kept me warm since November. It went to Russia with me. It was my loyal and beloved friend. And I left it on the seat of a Red line train. I hate myself for it.

Good bye, North Face Boulder Peruvian Beanie. I will never forget you.

P.S. I'd love to replace it but everyone's sold out. Have you seen it? Let me know!

1/11/07 12:00

Yay! NYC here I come. It's been so long.

In my infinite wisdom I figured a 6am flight will maximize my long weekend. So come on, come hang with me this Saturday at O'Hare at 4:30am! In fact, why not take the Blue Line up there together?!

Yes, this will be fun.

Speaking of the CTA, further perpetration was reported in this morning's Red Eye. Apparently the travel times will continue to double as the El service is reduced by 25 percent. Through year 2009. This, of course, is only in case the Brown Line project sticks to the schedule.

Excuse me while I pull a groin muscle laughing.

So here's my take on it. By all estimates this should push Chicagoans over the edge. I am talking a massive outcry: walkouts, riots, burning shit! We've got plenty of experience, we've been to the playoffs.

However, should this fair city fail to speak out against this outrage, well then, we deserve the CTA.

1/1/07 00:22

Happy fucking New Year.

We made it, Sasha and I. By twelve seconds. We ran up the stairs, divided and conquered. I switched on the TV and he poured the vodka.

Fuck yeah!

Let 2006 be out of sight.

Hello, 2007!

Bring it on.

P.S. We're hitting my sharlotka as I type this. Sasha is feeding it to me as chaser for another vodka flight. Mmmm, I bake good!

12/26/06 12:34 am

Merry Christmas...yesterday.

Lovely day. Should’ve been bored out of my mind but was rescued by a pile of work, Chinese food, and three good movies.

2046 by Kar Wai Wong
Wow. Incredibly beautiful, a set and costume designer’s feast. The plot seemed secondary, at times slipping near soft-core, but I ain’t mad at it. Loved it.

Last Shot by Jeff Nathanson
Taking a break from quality cinematography and chillaxing with an ordinary crime/comedy flick. Turns out I can stomach Alec Baldwin just fine. Also, please feed Calista.

Lost In Translation by Sofia Coppola
Fifth time around and it’s still honey for my soul. Enjoying soundtrack once again. As to the theory of Ms. Coppola’s open adoration of Kar Wai Wong…sure, I guess.

P.S. Istanbul pictures are now up

12/3/06 11:36 pm

I'm back from Russia and the pictures are finally up!

It seems I'm slowly getting my shit together, so expect Istanbul batch sometime soon.

For those who've had a hard time getting a hold of me: sorry 'bout that, y'all. Just got stuff on my mind.

However there is a plan. The Plan. Yesssssss.

10/21/06 9:07 am

This week rocked!

To begin with, my precious landlord informed me that I need to be out by the end of the year. Not unless I want to pay the new draconic rent, of course. Will there be any improvements to the living conditions? No, but you see, we are building a new porch – steel construction and everything! – so we must cover the costs. Umm, you mean the porch that has been red-labeled by the city months ago? Hot. Yes, please, let me pay for it.

And then I got dumped. Twice.

Not really. I would’ve preferred to have been dumped.

Instead, this is more of getting dumped on. In one week I managed to get my heart ripped out and put through a blender by two people who I thought I'd rejected.

Okay, I say “rejected” in a desperate attempt to recover any remaining dignity. But no. There’s no dignity left. Not when one gets married and the other politely confirms that we should remain only friends.

Fuck me!

9/27/06 6:07 pm

I really wanted to look nice this morning.

I was going to the movies after work, so I wanted to find something that didn't mumble "cubicle slave". Actually, I don't have a cubicle. It's a pretty big office really. However I try to keep it real by doing nothing to personalize it. I allow nothing to distract from the cubicle furniture contained within it. This way the shame of being sold out to a point of having my own door is not so apparent. In fact, if I position my chair just right I see nothing but the gray cloth of the bulletin board on my wall, nestled between the desk surface and the attached shelves. And if that's not enough, I can adjust my Herman Miller just right so my back hurts and I can pretend that I don't even have a normal chair.

Anyway, so I didn't want to look like a desk jockey. To be honest, my office is pretty relaxed and seeing as I don't really have a boss any more - long story - I can probably get away with wearing just about anything. The fact that I look like an office drone most days is solely my fault compounded by the existence of Old Navy.

However today I was set on looking hip but business casual. What the fuck is business casual anyway? Like there is such a thing as a casual pair of four inch pumps? Give me a break. Just call it what it is - black and grey diluted by shades of blue. So really, I just wanted to look hip without wearing denim. That's hard because seventy percent of what I own is jeans. Okay, so I don't fit into most of them, but that's not the point. I define hip as: non black or brown diluted by shades of blue. So that kinda means jeans. And yes, I know they're mostly blue. But it's different.

So there I was, plotting a hip outfit sans jeans. I thought of flirty skirts. I tried a pair of capris. I even pulled out some golf shorts. Okay, nevermind that last one. As I watched the clock tick past all reason I started settling on a dress that under the right light could be somewhat see-through. I realize that it sounds more ho than hip…but apparently that's how I roll. So I was working the dress in front of the mirror when it dawned on me that the first meeting of the day I have is with the Vice President of our division. He is a really lovely older gentleman who has my outmost respect and a double heart bypass. Hence, this is an occasion worthy of a business suit, not a fuck-me dress.

Panic set in. Shit! I can't wear this. But I don't want to wear a fucking suit either. This is my fun night out! What to do? How to blend hip (okay, ho) with professional?

Like a squirrel on speed digging for nuts I assaulted my closet. Rejecting pants after pants I grabbed a pair that seemed least offensive. This is where I caught sight of the weather outside. Shit! It's so nice out. Probably the last day of the year to wear a skirt and not freeze.

Okay, this had to be easy: a skirt that will not offend but be hip, preferably not black, brown or blue.

Oh, and it has to fit.

Have I mentioned that I quit smoking eight months ago? Yeah. You know those ads that encourage women to kick the habit despite the fear of putting on the pounds?

If I only knew I would've never quit! Because, holy shit, it's like my metabolism retired and moved to Boca Raton. I put on pounds just walking past food. Last night I brushed up against a pack of chips and this morning my pajamas felt tight.

So yeah, a hip skirt that does not offend and fits.

Good luck.

Time is going tick, tick, tick. My clock is rolling its eyes at me. Fuck you!

Finally, I remember. Wasn't there some jersey number I got years ago on clearance that seemed big enough to refashion into a bedspread? Oh yeah, it was black but with some gray and a really cool pink stripe. Okay, that's hip, not too crazy, and might fit.

Might. Sucking in all six stomachs. Jumping into it. Done!

Huston, we have a bottom!

And now…oh fuck it, a black t-shirt will have to do. The pile of clothes in front of the closet is too high to reach anything else. I will dress it up with new pointy toes shoes. Very pointy.

Two stabs at oatmeal, some hair goop applied liberally albeit blindly, an OCD keys-phone-keys check, and I'm out of the door!

I am running to the bus stop. I have exactly half a mile to cover and feet start hurting before I even cross the street. Dammit. Okay, put on headphones, distract from the pain.

Shit, I forgot my ID. No, I'm not turning back. No way. I might change my mind on the outfit. I'll borrow someone else's ID. Sure I can. Fuck.

I keep walking. Okay, we're past half way point. Damn you, stop light! For once I want you to be red so I can rest what's left of my feet. But no, today you're being ever so helpful, aren't you? Well, fuck you and your green Cyclops eye!

I keep walking.

Damn this skirt. It keeps riding up. But my tote is too big and I can't reach around it to fix the skirt. I could if I stopped but I am so late that my watch has run out of numbers.

I keep walking. Limping.

Okay, if only I can do a side bend, over the tote, and grab the side of the skirt I should be able to pull it down.

I reach. I pull. I trip.

As I stumble to the ground I see my very pointy toes crossed over in a plow - a skier's nightmare.

My knees buckle and I turn my face to avoid contact with the sidewalk. This is where I notice my reflection in the car window. That hair product has done wonders for my bangs. My one-piece, warrior-style bangs.

I relax and let the nature take its course.

6/12/06 4:48 pm

Al-Qaeda is pissed off and they're fighting back. Today they've announced the replacement for Abu Musab al-Zarqawi in Iraq and his name is Abu Hamza al-Muhajir.

Not even Osama can pronounce that.

I have to admit, that's a clever strategy. The media's patience has been tried for years and I think this might be the straw that breaks the camel's back.

I can just see Wolf Blitzer losing his shit right in the middle of the Situation Room. After struggling to get out the eight syllables, he spits at the teleprompter, rips off his earpiece, and walks off stage.

Before long, not even the illegal aliens are willing to cover the Middle East and we're forced to outsource the job overseas.

This is where the Americans learn what's really going on. They impeach Bush, imprison Rumsfeld, and end the war.

Happy End.

P.S. I grow two inches and lose ten pounds.

6/9/06 12:05 am

So this guy emails me through here, asking for my number. I'm all: damn, check me out, I'm the queen of Google!

Two seconds later I realize my mom's girlfriend just got a hold of my URL and is probably passing it around like the bird flu. Okay, fine, so I'm not the queen. I get off my high horse and send the dude my digits.

And there, to add insult to my ego's injury, his address bounces. Shit! I guess I just shared my cell phone with some 14 year-old spammer in Bangladesh.

Oh well, that'll teach me to play nice.

5/25/06 5:02 pm

I was at the gym the other day. They have this special room called the Kid's Korner downstairs. They lock your children there for safe play while you endanger yourself with the exercise equipment on floors above. It's a strictly adults-only environment in the workout areas, with cruising and cursing everywhere. So it's understandable that you'd want to keep your little ones away from the sweaty reality of life.

Anyway, the other day as I walked past this room, I noticed that the TV was on and glued to it were three toddlers. They were laying in front of it, propping their heads up with their hands, intently watching a prostitute being bludgeoned to death on screen. Ah, it's good to know the kids are safe.

1/5/06 11:56 pm

News Digest
January 1-5 2006:

200 people dead in landslides in Indonesia
160 people are killed in Iraq
15 people die in Germany as ice rink’s roof collapses
12 miners are killed in West Virginia

Happy fucking new year!

12/17/05 1:05 pm

I am turning Swedenese,

I really think so…

I went to see The International Noise Conspiracy last night. They’re from Sweden. As I got in my car The Hives came on the stereo. They’re from Sweden too. And when I came home and started changing for bed I noticed the tag on my jeans: “Made in Sweden”.

America is taking over the world, riiight…

8/01/05 8:48 pm

What does the Queen have in her handbag? I don’t mean my nephew -- he carries lube and antihistamines in his. No, the Queen of England. Have you ever seen her without a purse? Nope. Even as she read a statement of defiance following the London attacks she had one hanging off her forearm. Why? What does she need it for? Does it contain her mobile? There is the head of British monarchy stuck in traffic on Kensington ringing ahead to the palace telling staff to start defrosting the turkey. Do they even have turkey in the UK? Nevermind, back to the purse. So no, obviously not a phone. A wallet maybe? What for? As if Her Majesty needs to keep a few quid on her in case she decides to pop out for some fags. I wonder if the Queen ever smoked? Is that even allowed? If she did, wouldn’t she be defacing state property? Oh, and tattoos! I bet old girl got some ink done back in college. Maybe a miniature Eiffel Tower on her left butt cheek just to piss off the parents? That I’d understand, but a handbag?! Sure it must always match her geriatric-chic ensembles, and perhaps it's only a fashion accessory, but I’m dying to know what’s inside! Is it the keys to Buckingham Palace? A dime bag? Or an iPod? Anything, please! I’d hate to think it’s just old crumpled up newspapers.

6/13/05 11:37 pm

I Love:

Sunflower seeds
Band-Aids
Instant messenger
Aranciata
My cowboy hat
Ferries on Bosphorus
Phonetic keyboard layout
Feeling just a little drunk
Wikipedia
Pretending I’m in a movie

5/02/05 9:53 pm

Human stupidity is much like the Universe – it has no boundaries.

This afternoon I watched a man take the longest (and what looked to be most satisfying) leak onto the El tracks. There was something so informal and matter-of-fact about it that I couldn’t take my eyes off this man. The amazing thing is that it was not the risk of electrocution that qualified this feat so Darwin-worthy. In my opinion it was the precarious stance of the urinater that nearly landed him a soiled little spot in human history.

Walking straight on the platform he just sort of approached the edge but never bothered to actually turn and face the tunnel wall. Instead, he simply produced his instrument of annihilation and pointed it sideways in the general direction of the rails. Proceeding to vaguely guide the tool away from his feet he seemed to be leaning on his right leg over the abyss while bouncing the Hefty bag on his left shoulder to counterbalance the shaky equilibrium. With every new burst of gratification the pendulum increased its period and I couldn’t help wincing every time it swung him over the tracks. He was at it for damn near three minutes - Nina Simone was only half-way through Sinnerman in my headphones when he set off on his quest. By the time the song was over he was still putting the last shakes on his masterpiss.

Moments later my train arrived on the opposite side. I stepped in and rode to the next stop lost in wonder…

4/09/05 11:45 pm

I am walking into my grandma’s apartment. She’s tired and is not getting up to greet me. I close the door behind me and throw my bag onto the ancient recliner covered by a taupe throw.

Grandma: “Hello, my lovely!”
Me: “Heya!”
G: “What did you do to your hair again? I really liked it red before, this jet black is not as good. I like the flips in the back, though.”
M: “Thanks! What’s up?”
G: “Ah, what could be up with me? You tell me about you.”
M: “Well, you know,…”
G: “Wait, when do you have to leave? Want to smoke?”
M: “Sure. No, quit it, grandma, don’t drag the chair, I got it. Here.”

We’re huddled under the kitchen hood, the fan humming above us. She gets up a few times to adjust it just right. I light her cigarette and she takes a measured drag, looking up at the light.

G: “How are things?”
M: “Ah, work is kicking my butt, you know.”
G: “They’re still keeping you very busy. Do you get tired?”
M: “Sure, but it’s my mind that’s going nuts. I can’t remember a thing lately.”
G: “Oh, you’re still young. It’s me who’s going completely senile here. I get up and don’t know what I was going to get.”
M: “Ah, happens to all of us.”
G: “Sure, but you know I hate being this way.”
M: “Me too, grandma.”

She taps off the ashes and evens out the tip. I reach down to pull up my socks.

M: “These are crap. They keep sliding down.”
G: “Try putting little rubber bands around the top. They’ll stay in place”
M: “Oh, c’mon, it’s no big deal, just annoying.”
G: “Yeah, but then you won’t have to think about it.”
M: “Alright, I’ll think about it.”
G: “How’re your friends?”
M: “Ah, well, you remember that guy who was living with me after he lost his lease?”
G: “Yes, you told me about him last time. He’s still there?”
M: “Can you believe it? I mean, he’s a really nice guy, but I’m starting to wonder if he’s becoming attached to my couch. And here’s the funny part – his girlfriend has a place of her own, but somehow he’d rather have her over than to move in with her. And on top of it I don’t think she likes me much.”
G: “Hahaha, so he’s making both of you suffer?”
M: “Hahaha, that’s right!”

We move back to the couch. I’m sprawling on the left, playing with my hair. She’s next to me, her hands resting on her lap.

G: “What can I give you to munch on?”
M: “I’m fine, you know mom feeds me like crazy when I come. I just peeled myself from a bucket of potato salad and can barely walk. Look at this belly!”
G: “Oh, that’s nothing, look at the donut I’m carrying around my waist. It’s terrible!”
M: “Please, grandma, it’s fine. You look great.”
G: “So do you, sweetie.”

Phone rings. It’s laying buttons-up on her left. She keeps it there when she’s on the couch. I bought her this phone six years ago.

My mother is calling to remind me to pick up sour cream at the store.

G: “You’ve gotta go. It’s almost four o’clock.”
M: “Yeah, I know. By the way did I tell you about this guy I met?”
G: “The one at the concert?”
M: “That’s right.”
G: “You like him.”
M: “I do. We went on a long bike ride last weekend, it was so fun. If only summer didn’t have to end.”
G: “Come winter you can go ice skating together.”
M: “Ah, we don’t do that these days.”
G: “You should.”
M: “I know.”

I get up, adjusting my jeans. As I grab my bag, she reminds me not to forget my cigarettes. She walks slowly behind me to the door. I turn around and bend down to give her a hug. She holds me tight and reaches up to kiss my cheek. Her eyes well up.

G: “I really wish you could stay longer.”
M: “Me too.”
G: “When are you coming next?”
M: “Oh I don’t know yet.”
G: “I am glad I got to see you.”
M: “Me too. You be good, OK?”
G: “Of course. Take care of yourself, sweetie.”

She died this morning.

I loved her so much.

3/16/05 10:30 pm

Every now and again, through the miraculous powers of technology, we are forced to face our past.

As your finger goes clicking Delete with cold precision through a fresh batch of spam in your inbox, your heart suddenly skips a beat when sandwiched between an offer for another free iPod and a promise of even stronger stamina you discover a message from a sender that you least expected.

The established procedure for handling such mail requires that prior to clicking on the subject line you first stare at it for at least 30 to 90 seconds. This time is necessary to contemplate the sender’s every possible motivation for contacting you. Furthermore, it is good practice to promptly rehash every bit of memories you associate with the person and to quickly apply them to your current life as well as the rest of it that lies ahead. Only then are you ready to reveal the actual contents of the message.

Open the letter and let the games begin.

Now, naturally a “hello” or a “hey” are just a succinct way of saying “I’ve tried to forget you, but it can never be. I go to sleep and wake up with you on my mind. This can continue no more. Here I stand at your mercy.” That’s a nice start, but it only gets better. A simple “How’s life?” is a dead giveaway to his/her desperate attempt to learn if there is a tiniest niche of your heart that still retains their trace. However it’s the closing of the message that never fails to steal the show. They go all out and sign their name at the bottom, as if the ‘from:’ header is somehow lost on the reader! How sad. Really. Yes, I know who you are and if I paused for a second I might even remember the last time I saw you. The last thing you ever said to me. The last time I dreamed of your face.

And so now you face a simple decision presented by two neighboring buttons: Reply and Delete. Normal pondering period varies between 10 minutes and 24 hours. If you wait much longer you may call a friend for advice and nobody has that kind of time. Best practices dictate either a composition of an ambiguous reply or full deletion of the original message followed by the emptying of trash. The latter option is known as the “cleansing exercise”.

However, whatever option you choose, the truth is that sometimes people simply want to say ‘hi’ and leave it at that. It may surprise you for a minute, but as long as you’ve still got an inbox filled with notes from your real friends you can safely look past the odd one and move ahead to what actually matters. Take extra time to read your buddy’s latest sparring match with his girlfriend that he forwarded to you. Mark you calendar for the next week’s gig of your fave band. Pass on the bizarre link that your mom sent you last night. And make a date with your girlfriend for Saturday afternoon to go see her boss ice skate. This is life and it beats the hell out of what it could’ve been.

1/11/05 12:31 am

I am told that as I laid my head down for a minute during the New Year’s festivities an attempt was made to decorate my head – the one simply resting for a bit - with a dog’s menorah.

No, I don’t mean a classy miniature candle set. I am talking about an alternative to the gentiles’ reindeer antlers that adorn the heads of spirited canines all through the holidays. This creation, held up by a rubber band, was to be perched atop my newly texturized and carefully styled do*. Furthermore, a digital camera was at the ready to document the atrocity.

So, there I was, catching a quick zee, when a posse of at least three evildoers** approached me and made several efforts to affix this ridiculous article to my person. To their frustration the rubber band was too short and kept snapping off my forehead. While confessing to the crime, one of the perpetrators recalled his surprise at the fact it failed to interrupt my powernap. Sighting this as evidence of the degree of my intoxication, he proceeded to describe their next plan to ridicule what was left of my dignity, which involved toothpaste.

However, this is where I woke up and vigorously defended myself with a pillow.

Or so I’m told.

I remember none of it.

Happy New Year!

* Note the change in spelling from the previous post. Happy now, Michael?
** OK, this is freaky, MS Word recognized this as a word.

11/11/04 7:31 pm

What better exercise in vanity is there than googling yourself? Plastering an artsy-fartsy picture of yourself all over your site comes to mind. Or perhaps shamelessly studying your reflection in the windows of a night bus speeding along Lake Shore Drive. The best part is that to the rest of the zoned out passengers you are simply taking in the sights, when reality has you carefully examining every new wrinkle and imperfection of your face and hair.

I noticed today that I am severely overdue for a haircut and that my nose can safely afford to shed an inch or two. My eyes however seem to be getting even smaller and now resemble cheap buttons usually reserved for plush animals.

And then there were the eyebrows. Yikes! It’s as if an abandoned parking lot was once mowed just for giggles and has now overgrown its natural boundaries, overtaking the sidewalk and parking meters.

Resolved on saving what is left of my face I got off the bus intent on taking to the tweezers and making a haircut appointment at once. And just for good measure I threw in a diet plan -- never hurts to gain a model body to go with the soon-to-be gorgeous face.

It's too late to start on it now of course, so I'll gorge up whatever carbs are left in my fridge, wrap a bandana around my unruly dew and settle in for a movie. Tomorrow. That's it. Tomorrow I shall become a beauty!

11/08/04 11:11 pm

"Some people shtoop, others are shtooped...shtupid!"
- L

...After the initial manic enthusiasm of my first college year wore off I was persuaded to put aside my humanitarian aspirations, grow up, and become a programmer. Good money in it, I was told, and more importantly - a monkey can do it. For anyone with the rudimentary grasp of logic it was a solid alternative to basket weaving.

Well, what's not to like. The promise of banker's hours in exchange for least amount of effort seemed like a plan. And the timing was perfect - we were six semesters away from the burst of the dot com bubble.

Prior to registering for my first programming class my brushes with technology were limited to operating an ATM machine and ordering at the drive-through. Yet I was certain that programming couldn't be much more complicated than performing a balance check in addition to withdrawing ten dollars from my savings account.

Programming Basics 101 taught "C" which unbeknownst to me would become a prophecy for my mediocre academic career. I struggled with the most basic of concepts - from infinite loops to pointers. Nevertheless, I was determined to at least learn how to type. At the end of the semester my speed at the keyboard saw little improvement, however I was finally able to produce a solid "Hello, world" executable. I concentrated on formatting and commenting my code with the best of grammatical and stylistic elements, careful not to touch anything with any perceived function.

Meanwhile, the rest of the students freely discussed elegance of their algorithms, which turns out never had anything to do with which fixed size fonts they had chosen. I tried to befriend a few of them, however the most