Tale of the T.P.

Ladies and gents: New York baseball has gone totally bougie.

I had the privilege of visiting BOTH the Mets' new Citi Field Stadium in Queens and the new Yankees Stadium in the Bronx for their opening day exhibition games tonight, with the daunting assignment of sampling the swanky new food offerings at each, not to mention comparing the overall ambiance of the extravagant (and intimidating) new structures.

That's a lot for one person to cover (by subway), especially one distracted by a family emergency, but I put on my game face and wore my loose jeans. Not quite pie pants, but good enough. I had to consider my apparel, after all, as I was to be on camera. Stuffing my face. Which is just want the Pulitzer panel is looking for.

I'm about to pass out now from a food-induced coma, but just want to say that the food options are remarkable and disturbing. Most of the fans I spoke with agreed that the New York ball parks were often behind the curve when it came to the snacks and food service. Seattle has HAD sushi. Milwaukee offers bratwurst. But the Yanks and Mets (esp the Yanks) just whipped up the same-old, same-old b/c they had no trouble drawing fans into their stadiums.

Did they overcompensate? You be the judge.

Now, I'm a fan of variety. Why wouldn't you nosh on a pair of chicken mole pipian taquitos at a Mets game, or a piping hot Boars Head pastrami on rye while watching the Yanks? Both seem to suit stadium seating.

But the Mets Stadium's $17 lobster roll? Delicious, but is it ball park? Or the Yankees' "premium" sushi rolls for $15?? Not to mention the fact that both boast swanky restaurants and clubs that you have to have high-end tickets to enter. Why do you have to divvy the masses like that, especially during a recession that's already hurting everyone enough?

Granted, the little guys and bleacher creatures DO have more vendors and concessions stands than ever on every level of both stadiums (which means much, much shorter lines!) hawking fan favorites (peanuts and cracker jacks still DO exist, plus hot dogs, burgers, hot pretzels, ice cream, pop corn, candied apples, and cold cold beer) but why make the class divide ever-more obvious with so many exclusive areas?

Overlong (ineloquent) story short -- the new food options at both ball parks are very exciting, but the Danny Meyer roundup (Blue Smoke, The Shake Shack and Box Frites,etc.) at the Mets spanks the Yankees Food Court -- though the Yanks can also boast their own Hard Rock Cafe, Johnny Rockets and Brother Jimmy's BBQ.

But the Yankees bathroom attendants have *much* snazzier uniforms. We're talking pin stripes, bow ties and vests, oh my! And their sinks and soap dispensers are automatic.

Although the Mets toilets have an automatic flush function. Just in case your lobster doesn't agree with you.

Reality Bites

I gamely went to one of the Borders' Twilight DVD release parties tonight in case the city desk wanted a couple of inches on it. This kind of assignment is usually my specialty. I love talking to people, and have a flair for color and atmosphere. So even though I know next to nothing about the vampire romance series besides the rudimentary basics, I was confident that the energy of the teeming crowds of tweens would be enough to carry me through.

Alas. Tomorrow's paper is already pretty tight, so the desk didn't want a story on it -- just a couple of photos and a rope (either a very brief description, or a deep caption, depending on whether you're a glass half-empty or half-full kind of person.)

No no, what they wanted me to do was video. My greatest weakness.

I get totally tongue-tied and camera-shy the minute I get in front of the lens. As I was cracking to Wendy, the videographer/Good Sport who was filming, I purposely burrowed into print journalism and bypassed all broadcasting classes in J-school because the last thing I wanted was to be on TV or video of any kind. What J-school failed to realize, however, was that as journalism moves more and more online, print reporters are having to pick up a series of skills they may not have anticipated. Blog posting or filing by BlackBerry is to be expected. Having to do stand-up for web video, however ... surprise!

So I've done a couple of these with mixed success. I don't mind interviewing folks on camera ... the interaction is nicely distracting. It's standing alone with the mic and having to do the expository reporting that inexplicably freaks me out.

I had an extra hour and change between my regular shift and running over to Borders tonight, however, to collect my thoughts and craft a script of sorts, so I think I did OK.

Luckily, the night was pretty amusing. For example, the three emo kids who sprinted through the store yelling, "We hate Twilight! You can all bite us!" Har har.

But the real highlight of the night -- besides the fortune tellers, the face-painting, the live podcast that had the kids (and quite a few unabashed adults) shrieking so loudly that my ears are STILL ringing -- was when, while we were interviewing fans about how excited they all were, a pair of sub par con artists tried to scam their way into their five minutes of fame.

I'm still a fledgling reporter in many ways, but I can already tell when I'm being completely hosed by a regular joe. Sometimes it's obvious, like when I interviewed a gaggle of girls at the "Sex and the City" movie premiere, and then overheard them give completely different names and ages to another reporter after I was finished questioning them.

So tonight this pair of dark-haired teens came over and asked me, "What's going on?"

Now, we're surrounded by a couple hundred kids dripping with "Twilight" paraphernalia and screaming "Twilight, yey!" etc etc ... not to mention the "TWILIGHT DVD RELEASE PARTY" signs everywhere ... and these kids are asking what's going on?

"Seriously?" I ask them, and the girl laughs, "No just kidding. We're here for Twilight."

"I LOVE Twilight," the guy with her says rather unconvincingly.

"I am totally Bella, and he's Edward," she says.

"I am," he says.

"We call each other Bella and Edward in bed!" this girl adds.

I look at them, and deadpan, "That's great. I can tell you're really fans."

I realize then that the camera has been rolling all the while, so I ask these two a couple of questions in case they're legit ... but they're eyeing the camera too intently, and my spider sense is tingling.

I decide to have a little fun with this and interview them briefly. Mostly because they showed no recognition when I said where I worked, and I can tell they think they're on live TV or something. Let them think that.

First I get them to give their names. The boy spells his. Note: he spells it. He doesn't pronounce it.

Daniel Kuchlik.

Right. Whether you read it as "cooch-lick" or "cuck-lick" it's dirty either way. Very clever.

I gaze at him, hard. "Really?" I ask. He turns beet red and says yes, but the corners of his mouth are twitching.

How old are you?

He has to think a minute before saying "23." Right.

The girl is Jackie. Jackie Kern. She says "22" without hesitating, then adds that she's a substance abuse counselor. Which is fitting, since she and Cooch Lick reek of booze.

Cooch Lick thinks for a moment before deciding that he's an accountant.

I give them a very half-assed 30-second interview. Why are they here?

They can't wait to see the movie.

Right ... this is a DVD release party ... also, neither is wearing the wristband that entitles them to a copy.

When the "interview" is wrapped, they grin at each other and ask which TV station I'm from.

Smiling sweetly, I give the name of my newspaper.

Their faces fall.

"This isn't for TV?"

"Oh no!" I tell them. "It's for our website. Maybe. Thanks for your time!"

They shuffle off looking irritated, and I can't help but cackle.

Kuchlik is pretty funny, but you can't bullshit a bullshitter.

Holi Daze

What better way to release stress and embrace your inner child than by pelting your friends and family with Crayola-colored powder?

I had the privilege of participating in Holi, the Hindu festival of colors, today as part of a reporting assignment. And for an overtime job, you couldn't ask for anything better: sunny skies, great Bollywood music (and dancing!), pleasant temperatures, and a riotous party aboard the docked Peking ship at South Street Seaport. Men and women of all ages and backgrounds chased each other with youthful exuberance around the deck, squealing and smearing each other with dry gulal powders in vibrant hues of hot pink, ultra violet, electric blue ...

I was a vision in lime green, ha, and am still picking it out from beneath my fingernails and the roots of my hair (despite 2 showers) 7 hours later.

The best assignments, like the best books, are the ones that completely immerse you in a whole new world.

Happy Holi, folks, and may your lives be rich in love, life and color throughout 2009!

"VW" bug

Everyone gets earworms -- you hear a snippet of song wafting out of somebody's passing car, or at a party, or occasionally during a TV spot -- and just like that, you're downloading and repeating it ad nauseum until your roommate screams "Enough already!" and starts punishing you by blaring the Pussycat Dolls.

But if you're like me, every now and then a song or a sound strikes you during a definitive moment in your life, and it resonates with you ... has the power to perhaps even change you ... oh balls, does that sound really, really terrible. Let me try to explain why I'm now (belatedly) obsessed with Vampire Weekend.

So I can remember the first time I really *heard* Nirvana's "Nevermind." My parents had actually owned the album for years, but as a preteen and then later an adolescent, I was on automatic autopilot to ignore any recommendations that they gave me, whether it was music, or reading Dosteovsky, or wearing brighter colors (to this day, I still stick to a bruised palette of gray, black and blue.) So while I definitely heard "Lithium" and "On a Plain" in the back of my subconscious, I largely ignored them -- until one day, when I was about to settle down and do my bio homework during my sophomore year of high school, I picked up a "Nevermind" cassette tape (yep!) that had been lying around in the living room, and I went up to my bedroom, popped that baby in, and sprawled on my stomach to start learning the sexual organs of flowers ...

... and was completely lost. From the opening riff of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" straight through to the moody hums of "Something in the Way," I was transported. I was an angry, insecure teenager (like everyone else) who was dealing with starting my fourth (FOURTH!) new high school -- this is just in 10th grade, mind you -- and feeling like the loneliest of losers ... and here was this brooding sound, these incoherent mumbled lyrics that echoed the emotions that I was feeling, but could also hardly articulate or fully understand within myself ... and I just lay there, slack-jawed, and listened to the tape all the way through, again and again.

I had a similar experience when I found Weezer. Yeah, go ahead and roll your eyes. I know it's nothing as quote-unquote profound as Pink Floyd, the Rolling Stones or the Beatles, but I've never pretended to be that pretentious, or even that hip.

"The Sweater Song" -- I was in college, hanging out in Sal's room in the Dowling dorms (what we dubbed "The Blair Witch Projects" because it was a lone, granite building with a mini airport parked in the middle of the woods in bumblefuck Shirley, L.I.) and listening to Rivers' nonsensical "I'm me/Me be/Goddamn/I am" summed up how we defined ourselves in our band t-shirts drinking Bud Lights that we'd smuggled in past the security guard downstairs instead of studying for our psych exams.

The Dismemberment Plan's "The City" -- I was riding in Jeff Tobias' car, and it was one of those boring, Long Island summer nights where a group of us drove to Jones Beach and parked and stared at the water before going to the Empress Diner and sipping coffee and eating cheese fries (extra crispy, please) and then watching a crappy horror movie in his parents' basement.

"Rock Star" by Hole -- My mom and I would wait til the men were out of the house before blasting this and releasing our respective pent-up frustrations by screaming the numerous "Fuck Yous!" along with Courtney Love.

"El Scorcho" -- The night Ron and I *really* became friends was when we sat in my dorm at Stony Brook and listened to "Pinkerton" all the way through. He later got me an autographed copy of the CD for Christmas, and has since introduced me to my boyfriend, Justin.

Justin, in turn, introduced me to The Randy Bandits, and that group gleefully banging out "Sexual Postman" in a cramped, sweaty little joint in East Village remains one of my favorite, definitive dates with The Boy to this day, while "Give It Up" is so vividly my head resting against his shoulder while he traces "I <3 You" down my back with his finger.

Anyone else have these moments where by virtue of memory, music becomes magic? Ladies and gents, tunes have been the real time machine all along.

So on Friday night I hit happy hour(s) with a group of new and old friends on the UES, and after dollar drafts and eclectic conversations ranging from anthropology to dead walruses, the group inevitably began to fracture into smaller factions that wandered into various other bars. So I stepped out with rugby-pal Ginessa and her roommate, Anna, and we began walking south in search of a quieter bar with an open kitchen at 1 a.m. And it had been pouring all day but finally stopped, and there was a slight chill in the air, but it being September, we were prepped with sweaters, and so as we sloshed through puddles Gin said, "Pesch, you've gotta listen to this song" and popped her iPod buds into my ears.

And so I heard "M79" by Vampire Weekend, a band I'd been meaning to check out for a couple of months now, but got swept up with the humdrum hopes and hassles of everyday life.

So as we're walking cheerfully along, the opening harpsichord notes of this song tickle my ears, and I'm completely swept away. It's dark, but everything is slick and shiny from the rain, and the streetlights and subway beacons each have a soft corona glimmering around them, and I'm bouncing past other revelers and feeling a bit buzzed, and it just fits. It's just the right song at just the right moment ... and overlong story short, I have been listening to Vampire Weekend's self-titled debut album all weekend, and have even picked up a pair of tix to their show in Hell's Kitchen on the day before my birthday. (In my defense, I had to pick them up with the quickness because their first show already sold out.)

And I'm giddy with excitement -- it's so much fun! -- like embarking on a new relationship when you can't get enough of each other. I'm listening to the album on repeat, and reading VW's past interviews and skimming their website, talking to my friends about them, belting "Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa" while washing the dishes and completely immersing myself in my new musical crush.

So cheesy. So sad. But this song ("M79" posted below) and this album are just so fresh. It's like being 16 and lying on my back with my headphones on after plastering a dozen posters of the flavor-of-the-month to my bedroom wall.

Except this is one of those flavors that I'll be able to savor years from now and relive with precious, painful detail -- bobbing and weaving down a damp city street while the air changes from swelter to sweater, and my life changes from late 20s to early 30s, with harpsichords and violins singing bittersweetly in my ears.

Ever So Humble

When I RSVP'd to my cousin's wedding in Abilene, Texas, put in for my vacation time and laid out the airfare, I envisioned eight arid days of sunnin', swiggin' and square dancin' before stumbling back to work wearing a battered cowboy hat from God know's where and dealing out amusing anecdotes of moonshine and hijinx that rolled off the tongue as smoothly as the finest sweet tea.

Granted, my long-overdue visit with the southwestern branch of the Doyle family was very different -- to my surprise, I found myself rolling up my sleeves and working as hard putting this wedding together in the few days I was there as any of the bridesmaids -- but the trip was all the more satisfying and unforgettable because of it.

If it takes a village to raise a child, I learned it can take an entire Texas town to marry one off. I've straddled the fence with the whole matrimony thing -- depending on which side of the bed I wake up on, I either want nothing to do with it, or I want it extremely low-key, or I want to be a princess for a day like any five-year-old practicing on her Barbie and Ken dolls. But I was genuinely smitten with how familiar and friendly - and FUN - my cousin Amanda's wedding to Tanner was, easily rivaling any overdone affair I've been to up here in NYC. They picked a beautiful space for the reception hall, but the ambiance was all the more gorgeous because friends, family and the wedding party spent a good four hours sweating to decorate it ourselves the day before. Instead of a professional caterer, all the food was homemade. An uncle slow-roasted almost two dozen Texas beef briskets himself for 24 hours beforehand, and believe me -- as a lover of red meat, these babies tasted as fine as any five-star restaurant steak -- and then the leftovers were actually auctioned off during the wedding by a professional Texan auctioneer, with proceeds lining the newlyweds' pockets just in time for their honeymoon in Jamaica. Everyone pitched in, in their own way, and the end result was a truly memorable day.

However, it made the first leg of the vacation very, very exhausting, haha. In the immediate days following the wedding, I swore up and down that I'm eloping in lieu of this nonsense.

I flew into Texas with my grandparents on a Wednesday evening, switching from a Boeing 767 in Dallas-Fort Worth Airport to a smaller, "American Eagle" flier for the 45-minute jaunt from Dallas to historic Abilene. Granted, the latter flight was delayed 20 minutes after the bridge became STUCK to the airplane door. And thus, we were reintroduced to the quirks of small-town life.

Picking up baggage at the Abilene airport took five seconds, because there's only one gate, heh. Driving to Amanda and Tanner's new house (to my grandmother's chagrin, they've been living in sin) was about a 15-minute ride, and I looked out the window of uncle's pickup truck as we rushed past brown rolling fields dotted with windmills and stubby mesquite trees. We weren't in the car two minutes before my uncle began bitching about the 'goddamn Mexicans.'

Amanda and Tanner's house is adorable, and exemplifies how the standard of living in the countryside is a thousand times better than in NYC. Their three-bedroom house is spacious; there's a large fenced-in backyard perfectly suited for their two boxers, and the kitchen and dining room bask in plenty of natural light.

The mortgage on their house each month is less than my share of the rent in a fifth-floor walkup apartment in East Harlem that I share with two other girls.

Anyway, on that first night the family had a nice little visit; we ate cold cuts and drank Coors Light and caught up. Everyone left, and I stayed with Amanda and Tanner, since they offered to put me up for the week -- in fact, I remained in their house after they jetted to Jamaica, leaving me to feed the dogs and enjoy the air conditioning and the cable and imagine what it would be like to own my own house.

The next morning we had to get up bright and early; it was two days before the wedding, and there was plenty to do. The happy couple and I got lunch at Abilene's best Mexican restaurant (and it was GOOOD) but then Amanda and I got mani/pedis for the wedding; picked up some lights for the reception hall; did a final wedding dress fitting (and oh goodness, it was so beautiful; even I was welling up looking at her in it!) then brought the dress back to my aunt's house for safekeeping; at some point we organized wedding materials; then we showered and went to the area's best steak house; where for reasons unknown, I chose to order the fried catfish rather than their legendary steak. The family won't let me hear the end of it. We washed the meal down with some beers at a local bar with friends, and then we came home.

Friday dawned with us yawning our heads off at the reception hall as we proceeded to decorate -- setting up tables and chairs, laying out tablecloths, decorating with Christmas lights, carrying boxes of supplies up the stairs, filling up the fish bowls with water and Beta fish on some tables (as favors) and vases of flowers or votive candles on the others -- and then realizing there's too many flowers on this side, too many fish on that one ... Then we're wrapping gifts for the wedding party, parents and grandparents (I burned my knee with the iron while ironing handkerchiefs ... yeah ...) and going to the wedding rehearsal -- which my perfectionist cousin made them run through like three times :P
Then the rehearsal dinner with some homemade Tex Mex. Mmmmm-hmmmm.
Then passing out!

Wedding day went by in a blur, but it was beautiful. I did end up borrowing someone's cowboy hat, as well as learning the Texas half-step (and here, I never usually dance at weddings ...)
Actually, EVERYONE dances in a Texas wedding; young and old alike, and it's really refreshing. Granted, it's country music, but everyone is having a blast, and the Cha-Cha Slide and the Chicken Dance get sprinkled in there, too. Auctioning off the leftovers is apparently NOT a wedding staple down there, but I think it should be. Besides being hilarious, some of those briskets went for almost $400 apiece! Talk about putting your money where your mouth is ...

I went out with my cousin Ray (Amanda's brother) and some of his friends afterward, and was amused to see that the line-dancing continues in many of the bars/dance halls. Mechanical bulls are also the norm. The beer is under $3, and the cover for most of these places is $3 as well. I can certainly get behind that ...

However, my cousin was in his Marine blues and on the prowl, so I was feeling a little neglected and a little bored, and was more than happy to retire after last call ... which is at 1 a.m. How sad. That's one place where NYC has Tejas spanked.

Sunday (day after the nuptials) was a day of recovery, and so I looked forward to Monday and Tuesday to soak up some of what I'd been looking forward to as far as "Texas Culture" --- tanning in the sun, this alleged moonshine, cowboy hat stores, etc. But it gets SO hot out there -- it was over 100 degrees every single day, and at least 103 degrees on the day of the wedding -- that there is no sitting outside. You go out in the early a.m. and then after sunset unless you absolutely have to run errands, and even then, you're just hopping from one air conditioned oasis to another. The dogs don't get fed until 9, 10, 11 at night, because they won't eat until after it cools down. Oh, and with my cousins, the "raw diet" for their dogs is all the rage --- putting raw chicken/liver on top of high-end kibble. Keeps 'em healthy and their hair shiny. Handling the raw meat is also pretty gross, though.

There were enough quiet moments in between the madness, however: sipping a beer on the porch swing at my Aunt Mo's and seeing a shooting star arch across the sky, or all the fabulous (fattening) food I tasted, the beer I knocked back and the bellyful of laughs with the family (and political debates, seeing how my liberal views on most topics defy the norm down there) and hanging out with Amanda and Tanner's boxers, which I dog-sat for the remainder of my stay.

Flying back to New York today was relatively uneventful. While the bridge didn't stick to the plane at LaGuardia, we did have to wait over 20 minutes to claim our baggage, and I hit traffic on the 20-minute cab ride back to Manhattan. There's some bittersweet feelings to seeing the windmills being replaced by skyscrapers, but there was a jaunt in my step as I flip-flopped my way to the supermercado after checking back into SpaHa. It's my home, you know? As stressed as I am about going back to work (all the news I missed out on this week -- Russia and Georgia, the Olympics, Edwards' affair and a couple of celebrity deaths) there's something reassuring about laying my head on my own pillow and rooting around for my MetroCard.

Yet--

I'm back in my room now, dissatisfied with my living arrangements on the one hand (living out of boxes does not an adult make) but relieved to be back where I understand things, nonetheless. NYC is home, you know? Getting drinks with Ginessa on Friday, seeing Justin again soon, nuzzling with small cat and being able to party til (at least) 4 a.m.

But I also look forward to keeping some of the Abilene dust on my heels a little bit longer; holding on to that sense of security and restfulness I felt down there (even when elbow-deep in wedding work) as well as the civility -- everything is "yes sir" and "yes ma'am," please and thank you. When my cousin's plumbing backed up, we called another cuz (who's a professional plumber) and he dropped everything and was over in five minutes with his truck, and had everything in working order within a matter of minutes, sipping a Corona while he worked. That's the way things work down there -- if you need help, whether it's an overflowing toilet or a wedding, just hollar and someone will be over in a jiffy. And then you crack open a couple of cold ones and jaw about life, the universe, everything.

It's something to aspire to.

The Softer Side

I've never presumed to be the coolest kid (nerdy fetishes include not-so-distant-past obsessions with dinosaurs, "The X Files" and Jordan Catalano) but for a beer-swigging rugby player who twice won the coveted "Widow Maker" award for best tackles, my latest dalliance is simply mortifying.

I can't get enough of "So You Think You Can Dance."

So, the boyfriend has officially branded me a dork. In honor of this new title, there are a number of people that I'd like to thank for the three hours I now lose each Wednesday and Thursday (not to mention countless minutes that slip away replaying certain dance numbers on YouTube):

My roommate, Monica, who showed me this clip of contestants Joshua and Katee performing a simply mind-blowing contemporary routine:



Not only did I have to immediately buy Adele's heartbreaking "Hometown Glory" off iTunes, but I've actually voted for Katee (TWICE!!) to keep her on the show.

Egads! I have never voted for a reality show. ever. Let the record show that I hold every other reality competition (except "Project Runway" naturally) in complete contempt. But as these conniving producers intended, I'm now emotionally invested in Katee and Joshua, and simply must check in each week to see what they dance, whether they're still "safe" and what incredible tricks I can expect this time around.

Watching dance, in my defense, is so much more fun that listening to off-key wannabe singers or imagining what the "Hell's Kitchen" entrees taste like.

Leading me to also thanking ... Katee and Joshua! They're just amazing. I love them. Check them out on YouTube or catch the show; they are just incredibly talented, and so modest and unassuming. No muss, no fuss, no drama -- just riveting performances and beautiful dancing.

And of course, Mia -- one of the choreographers and judges on the show. She's just great. I love her short peroxide pixie cut and angry words, and she choreographed the stunning steps in the clip above.

My newfound love for SYTYCD is just the most recent example of a deeply repressed love of "pretty" things. Take flowers, for instance. The Stony Brook ruggers will recall the alumni weekend where, after practice, we were driving past "the hill with the crooked yellow swing" on our way to the bar, and I noticed the hill was blanketed with daffodils.

I think I had been in the middle of regaling the guys with yet another dead baby joke or something equally gross, when I suddenly looked out the window, clasped my hands together and gasped "Oh! Look at the pretty flowers!"

Five years later, I have yet to live that down.

I adore flowers in general, actually. Every paycheck I consider picking up a bouquet for myself to brighten up the SpaHa surroundings. I always seem to find something better to spend it on (like rent and/or beer) but every week or so, I'm strongly, strongly tempted.

I also like (certain) scented candles, and silk, and getting caught in the rain and a plethora of other charming cliches. As much as I love band t-shirts, bruises and beer pong, let us not forget that I am, in fact, a lady. (Just don't tell my former teammates, ha.)

Which brings us to the Summer Olympics. We've been kicking around ideas and story pitches in meetings for how to cover the Games, and when someone mentioned "the more popular sports" I alone was the one who squeaked "gymnastics!!!"

They were referring to soccer and swimming. Silly me! I have to stop wearing my love for anything rhythmic on my sleeve.

I don't know what it is, but something about dance, gymnastics and figure skating just sweeps my imagination. I can't get enough. It probably has something to do with the fact that I don't have rhythm to save my life, and we always covet what we can't have, etc.

So you can bet your ass I'm watching SYTYCD right now, and am relieved that Joshua and Katee (a.k.a. Jotee) are safe for another week -- even if they are dancing with other partners now (what a cruel, cruel program.)

I am saving face by swilling my second Blue Moon, however.

Sentimental Woman

I miss writing for fun.

Not that I don't enjoy my job; since I last deigned to lay down any words in this poor excuse for a blog, I've managed to get promoted, so I'm finally getting paid to write for a living. I'm doing what I could only vaguely imagine pursuing back when I was in college and waking up hungover on a fucking Tuesday. I may not be married, renowned or attractive when I make an appearance at my 10-year reunion all-too-soon, but I can proudly swirl my dirty martini and brag that I'm actually doing what I went to school for, and I love it. So that's something.

Anyway, the assignments are interesting and hilarious. In the past week alone I've learned the immediate steps to take if I suddenly get canned, just what a woman scorned is actually capable of, and that male walruses can eat 70,000 calories a DAY and *love* bivalves. Really, it's great.

But when you spend the day writing for other people, it's hard to find the energy to write anything for yourself. And that's one of those things you don't realize that you really, truly miss until it's been taken away for awhile.

I've always been a little hot-headed and prideful, but we're creeping into mythic proportions lately. An unintentional shove on the subway can send me into a rage, and really, that's a bit much. This is the city; jostling is just part of the job description if you want to call yourself a New Yorker. (I've lived here barely four years, and think I have another decade and a half to go before I can even consider myself a true one.) What I'm trying to say so weakly, here, is that I'm not releasing the stress the way I used to. I don't come home and write every day, or burn through the bad vibrations with a healthy round of consensual violence at rugby. I tried picking up rugby again, but my heart wasn't in it this time around. Same as how when I look at my laptop lately, so often the words just aren't there anymore.

In finding my career trajectory at last, I managed to lose my focus, if that makes any sense. A lot of my close friendships have grown fragile or simply fallen away out of neglect on my part, and I hardly seem to talk to my family. The boyfriend is still a high point in the grand scheme of things, but sometimes I worry. I worry that in dividing all my passion between work and a relationship, I'm losing my grip on the simple things that define who I am. Kayaking on the Hudson and inadvertently knocking a couple of tourists into the river. Slamming 25-cent beers at POBs. Sneaking into movies on Long Island or simply picking up a couple of 40-ouncers and sitting on the roof until the sun rises. Completely losing myself in a book.

I'm not at all implying that something's gotta give with the job or with the boy; I love them both dearly, and am extremely lucky to have found them both. I just need to get the other stuff on the same page. The stuff that makes me the person that drew the job and the boy to me in the first place.

I'm losing my muse here, so I'm going to hide behind the Dismemberment Plan:

I'm an old testament type of guy
I like my coffee black, and my parole denied
even as I flake on every deal I ever made with myself
before the ink could dry...