Hissy Cat

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August 30, 2005

I'll Never Cut it As a Writer. . . Or a Blogger

Currently Listening You Are Free By Cat Power see related

I will never make it as a writer because I hate writers.  I'vebeen sitting in Caf� La Onda all evening, taking advantage of the freeinternet and spacious desks and abundant caffeine.  Two seperatewriting groups have come, met, and left since I've been here.  Themost offensive member of the nearest table was a man with black framedglasses exactly like mine, a loud, overly emphatic voice, and adomineering personality.  "And I care about the character, I do,but that's not the Jessica I know;" "You are less interested in thatthan in the subtle inner thoughts-- and that's great, but. . ."; "Ihear that a lot at all the writing workshops and conferences I'veattended;" "You all are going to be invited to a very civilizedcocktail party as soon as I move into my new apartment.  You guyshave to come and be my friends.  I don't have any otherfriends.  Seriously, all my friends moved away, so you guys haveto come and say you are my friends and not just my colleagues. There will be booze-- a keg!"

I'll never make it as blogger, though, because I'm too dumb to figure out Movable Type.

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Posted by hissycat at 09:29 PM | Comments (16) | TrackBack

The Internet Is My New Boyfriend

Currently Listening Gypsy Punks Underdog World Strike By Gogol Bordello see related

Last summer, when Brett was in Berlin and I was in New York and we hadjust started "dating" (i.e. we agreed the time had come to check the'In a Relationship' status box on Friendster, and click we did), Iwrote an obscene amount of letters (also, obscene letters) toBrett.  I spent unsafe numbers of hours facing the computerscreen: at cafes after work, sometimes at the school betwen classes orin the morning before the students arrived, and when I could not sleepin the wee hours I skulked around the house, sometimes army-crawling,sometimes on my tiptoes in search of stolen wireless.  Yes, weused e-mail, but I stand by my statement that what I wrote wasletters.  Ok, there were some e-mails, little notes sent off infits when I was late for work or about to teach a class and could notstopper my outbursts over something I'd just heard or seen or suppressthe raptures of finding I'd received a new letter from him: "Got yourletter" and "I'll write more soon."  Those were emails.  ButI strongly believe that if you spend hours tapping out stories to a newlover, if you edit your writing with frightening intensity, and afterreading and editing and reading again you have to close your eyesbefore you hit send, then what you have written is a letter.  Youjust happened to post it using e-mail.  (And if  everyafternoon at work you print out his missive or downlaod it onto yourlaptop and, instead of tearing into it at once, you take a deep breathand plunge it to the bottom of your bag and through sheer force of willmanage not to look at it until after you have driven home, parked thecar, bought a cup of vanilla Tasti-D-Lite with rainbow sprinkles, andlocked the bedroom door to be alone in your chair with your ice creamand your prize, then what you are reading in an email.)

This summer, as though I'd fallen flash fast in love with myself, Ifind myself spending too much time blogging.  Again, I find myselfliving without internet, waltzing my laptop across my studio as I dothe wireless reception dance, sneaking in writing time at work (ok,"sneaking in writing time" is a bit of an understatement; "work" isa  mammoth  overstatement).  I've only been really intothis for a few weeks, I know, but, hey, the heart works in mysteriousand inarguable ways.  Now, I've taken the plunge.

No, it's not  a bakkrupting plane ticket to Berlin I blew a summer's salary on.

It. . .

Is. . .

My Very Own. . .

Website!!

Hissy Cat

http://www.hissycat.com

There's nothing but an Under Construction page there now, but it'scoming.  It's on its way.  And I am hoping to spend some timewith Alex up in Seattle this weekend working on our blogs together.  Nerdfest 2005, man!  Seriously: the man is a genius.

So if my posts thin out this week, dear bloggy-boo, it's not that I don't love you.  I'm gearing up to takes us to The Next Stage.

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Posted by hissycat at 05:51 PM | Comments (21) | TrackBack

Google Loves Your Ass

I'm going to Seattle this weekend!  Alex, my sugar daddy, is to thanks.

I visited Brett at the Googleplex last night, where he, on my request,invited me to supper.  I spent the evening thoroughly shaminghim.  There was free food all over the place, and I acted justlike my mother, sneaking handfulls of little cereal boxes in myhandbag.  I took yogurt, fruit, candy and SmartWater, too. It's totally magical funland over there: smiling dogs walkingthemselves around the office and stretching out in the middle ofaisles, massage chairs, tents both big and small, elaborate jokesmeticulously charted on white boards, a life-size pirate made of Legosthat hangs out above Brett's desk, oh, and toilets that clean and dry your ass for you.  Amazing.  Now that's a future I want to be a part of.

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Posted by hissycat at 11:40 AM | Comments (23) | TrackBack

August 29, 2005

Lesbians on the Radio!

Lesbians and me!  Listento me call in and stammer nervously as I ask Ann Bannon, Sally Singer,and Katherine Forrest about the surprisingly affirmitive endings oflesbian pulp novels.  

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Posted by hissycat at 10:49 AM | Comments (23) | TrackBack

Internz

There are no words for this,but I'll throw a few out there anyway: Microsoft, N'Sync, Interns,Choreographed Dancing.  Thank you, Alex.  I'll be reliving the magic every night in my dreams.

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Posted by hissycat at 09:32 AM | Comments (20) | TrackBack

Everyone's Favorite Day of The Week

Currently Listening Van Lear Rose By Loretta Lynn see related

I�m back on the Weight Watchers bandwagon as of yesterdayafternoon.  After weighing in on Thursday and discovering I�dgained .6 lbs (which, all things I ate considered, really isn't so sobad), I fell into a little fuck-it-all funk and ate myself silly. Yesterday was better.  I even made soup.  I made split-peasoup from one of those little Manishevitz sleeves of dried beans andseasoning.  I thought I remembered eating that stuff as a child,but now I�m thinking that perhaps I remember is just seeing the stuff as a child.  As I discovered yesterday, that stuffsmells like total ass.  I didn't even taste it.  I couldn�tbring the spoon that close to my nose.  When Brett came over, Itold him about the soup.  �Oh, that�s that smell,� he said. �I didn�t want to say anything.�

Over the past two years, I�ve switched meetings quite a bit.  Inthe spring, before I fell off it again, I started going to Tuesdaymeetings.  Fine.  That was where I met �Barbara� for thefirst time.  Barbara is a middle-aged blonde woman who wearsmono hued outfits and uses a very intense-looking motorizedwheel-chair.  Her blue eyes are crossed and unfocused and sheconstantly chews gum.  

The first interaction I ever had with her began when I showed up, Idon�t know, maybe ten minutes early for the meeting that was wassoon to become The Strangest Weight Watchers Meeting I Have Ever Been To Ever (the topic was emotional eating and people were suggestingalernate ways to cope with stress.  One woman recommended to pet acat.  And the meeting leader bursts into tears.  �My cat hasbeen missing for a week,� she explained.  �She�s eleven years old,and my nephew  came by with his dog and the cat ran out thedoor.  I�ve had the cat since she was born.  She was born inmy mother�s garage.  My dead mother�s garage.  I�m justbeside myself.  I told myself I wouldn�t cry, I�m sorry.� Some one then volunteered a story about how her daughter�s Spaniel hadrun away and was feared dead.  At this, a small, older woman witha thick Eastern European accent burst into tears.  �I lost my dog,too,� she said.  �You mean it ran away?� asked the leader. �No, I�she�I�� �You mean she passed on?�  The woman, no longerable to speak, nodded yes.  �Recently?� some one asked. �Four months ago,� the babushka replied.  �Such a good dog. I cry, I miss her every night.�).  I was reading a book whilethe Watchers weighed in.  Barbara, who was sittingacross the aisle from me pointed her eyes in my direction andintroduced herself.

�Hi, I�m Barbara,� said Barbara.  �What�s your name?�

�Oh, I�m Joanna.  Hi,� I said.

�Joanna, how long have you been coming here?�

�Um, about a year and a half,� I said.  �Off and on.�

�Joanna, you don�t look like you need to come here.�

�Oh, um, er, thanks?  I mean, thank you, but I�ve been doing Weight Watchers for a long time.�

�Joanna, you are a beautiful woman, Joanna.�

���

�Joanna, what do you do, Joanna?�

�I�m a  student.�

�Joanna, what do you study?�

�Well, I�m an English major.  Undergraduate.�

�Joanna, where do you go to school?�

�I go to Stanford.�

�Joanna, that�s great.�

���

�Joanna, you must be very smart.�

�Oh, um, no, not really.�

�Joanna, yes, they don�t let dummies in there.�

�I don�t know.�

�Joanna, I wish I could be in school.�

�Joanna, I loved college.�

�Joanna, I could never do that.�

�Joanna, I have MS.�

Another woman sat down in the row in front of me and Barbara�sattention shifted to her.  �Hi, I�m Barbara,� said Barbara. �What�s your name?�  �Nice to meet you Barbara.  I�mElla.�  �Ella, you are a beautiful woman.�

Barbara sounds exactly like this alcoholic family friend.  I usedto be friends with The Alcoholic�s son.  My mom isfriends with The Alcoholic, and every time I�m in New York and I runinto her or pick up the telephone and it�s she, I end up havingconversations with the alcoholic that sound exactly like the one I hadwith Barbara, and I mean exactly.  Their voices both have thisstrange, flat, floaty quality and they repeat names a lot, at thebeginning of nearly every sentence, so that you get the strange feelingthat your name is being tugged down as someone latches onto it forgrounding and support.  A few years ago, Lindsay, who is my oldestchildhoodfriends and who was once also friendly with The Alcoholic�s son, wasover at my house when The Alcoholic dropped by.  Linds walked intothe kitchen to get a glass of water and she had her shirt rolled up sothe hem sat a few inches below her breasts�we had just come down fromsun-tanning on the roof�and The Alcoholic was there.  TheAlcoholic questioned Lindsay for a while in the manner demonstratedabove.  Then, as Lindsay was trying to get closer to the door, TheAlcoholic stepped in front of her.  �Lindsay you look so good!�said The Alcoholic.  �But,� she added, �you should do somethingabout this.�  She pointed at Lindsay�s exposed stomach. Lindsay says she assumed that the alcoholic was just referreringto the fact that her navel was exposed and that The Alcoholic, as anolderperson, found that tasteless, so Lin explained we�d just beensunbathing and rolled her shirt down.  �No,� The Alcoholicsaid.  �I mean you should really do something about that fat.�

Now I'm going to meetings on Thursdays  It�s not the same leader from Tuesday (whosecat, it so happens, returned by the following week�s meeting, at whichthis announcement was met with jubilant applause, followed by a anuncomfortable, guilty silence as the Soviet Bloc started to tear upagain), but guess what?  Barbara is now going on Thursdays, too.  I�m alwayslate, so I haven�t had anymore tete-a-tetes with her, though I�venot been lacking for painfully uncomfortable interactions.

Last week, the topic was fast food and how to make the occasional fastfood meal work with The Plan.  The leader passed around a coupleof WW Dining Out Companion books for people to look up their favoritefast food foods.  Some one asked about Jamba Juice, someone saidsomething and then the topic moved on.  About three minutes later,Barbara pipes up.  �Did someone say Jamba Juice?" saysBarbara.  Jamba Juice is myfavorite.�

�I love Jamba Juice,� says Barbara.  �I wish I could have aJamba Juice.  But my caretaker won�t take me there.  Yeah, Ilove Jamba Juice, but she won't take me there.�  No one know whatto say.   �Ok,� says the leader after silence, �let�s look upthe points valueof a Jamba Juice.  Julie, why don�tyou help Barbara look up Jamba Juice.�  So Julie does.  Shereads some points value and we all pretend that we don�t hear thethings Barbara actually says.

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Posted by hissycat at 09:20 AM | Comments (18) | TrackBack

August 26, 2005

It's 2 a.m. Do I know where I am? Yes, I Do Unfortunately.

It's 2am.  I am not sleeping and I am not happy.  This time,I'm not happy not in a depressive, listless way but in a why the fuckdo I do this to myself? kind of way.  Yes, I'm propped up andbuzzing on Ritalin and Excedrin, desperately trying to complete alanguage arts course for third-graders because I've spent all my timeat the office this week fucking around on the Internet instead of doingmy work.  Oh, and gaining .6 lbs, apparently.

Yes kids, today was a Weight Watchers Thursday.  I knew this hadbeen a bad eating week.  I've just gotten really slack about it,not measuring portions, underestimating my Points values, snacking toomuch, descending upon the free samples at Andronico's like an elderlyJew at a half-price buffet.  Every time I go in there to get asalad, I end up hovering all sneaky-eyed over the platters of cheesecubes and coffee cake cubes and cubed pumpkin bread and miniatureslices of baguette laid out next to olive oil dips and fruitspreads.  Oh man, a few days ago they had open jars of thisamazing bittersweet chocolate fudgey goop and spreadable caramel, and Ijust stood there, my basket resting on the ground beside me, makingmyself at home, spreading and mixing and eating.  Then I felt kindof ashamed, as I had no intention of actually purchasing the stuff, soafter I picked up my basket, I just stood at the display, picking upjars and pointing my eyes at the prices so it would look like I wasreally thinking this one over, like I needed another sample to help meconsider, just in case the flavor had, you know, changed in the lastthirty seconds.  You know what would be great?  If I just gotbanned from that place.  I always end up spending too much moneythere anyway on yuppie foodstuffs I can't afford.

Andronico's indiscretions aside, though, I didn't actually go over mypoints by that much.  I didn't even use all of my flex points, infact.  I feel cheated.  I feel entitled to my thirty-fiveweekly flex points, even though I know from experience that I do notloose if I use more than half of them.  I was hoping for amiracle.  Or, as my meeting leader, would say, "Dreaming theImpossible Dream."

Yes, this was Persistence week, and so we were treated to a veryspecial "Man of La Mancha" revue.  To, you know, inspire us? Man, I've been through the twelve-week Tools for Living (also known asthemes) cycle way too many times (I bet I can name them all:Persistence, Anchoring, Visualizing Success, Positive Self-Talking,Reframing, Planning Ahead. . . oh fuck it, it's like trying to name allseven of the dwarfs).  On the sunnier side of things though, I raninto a former house mate (who shall remain nameless-- some people, itseems, don't care to be Weight Watcher's outed, though I can't imaginewhy) at my meeting today.  This is the first time this hashappened to me in the two years (off and on) I've been going.  Notjust the first time I've run into a familiar face, mind you, but thefirst time I've run into any face aged less than forty years.

You know what?  I really need to get back to work.  This shitis due at noon, and these third-graders are going to be getting somepretty zaney, tripped-out stories, hear?

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Posted by hissycat at 02:34 AM | Comments (21) | TrackBack

August 25, 2005

The Masstige of Salad Tossing

It�s Tuesday night and I�m writing this at home (on my snazzy newcomputer).   I realize this won�t get posted until Wednesday morning because Istill don�t have fucking internet in my apartment (for a few months, Iwas stealing someone�s unprotected wireless, but the bastards got wiseand added a password).  In part, I am doing this because if don�twrite now, I will be tempted to write when I get to work in themorning, and if I am tempted, I will doubtless give in and any hope ofproductivity will be down the chute. (I have a deadline to meet, and itis noon on Friday.  Fuck.)  I would be lying, though, if Ididn�t say that, in part, I am writing now because I just can�t waitthat fucking long (what�ten, eleven hours?) to share the followingchoice items culled from the September issue of Vogue:

1.  From an article entitled �The Firm� (Sally Singer) about aweight-loss program on which the author lost twenty pounds in eightweeks, or something like that, I give you�this [emphases my own]:

Ha.  No, ha�you have to�ha-- be-- ha-- kidding me.  Am I reading this correctly?  Let's look again: tossing the salad like it was pornography. This is ajoke, right?  Oh, god.  Is there some other manner in whichsalad-tossing is watched?  Leaving aside the possibility that theauthor writes in full knowledge of the expression and does, in fact,attend really kinky dinner parties, how is it possible for someone whowrites for a fashion fucking magazine not to know what salad tossingis?  Am I supposed to believe that there was not a single gay manin the motherfucking Vogue office whose eyes may have strayed over anarticle on weight loss?  For fuck sake, she is writing aboutworking out with the gayest gay gay personal trainer in all of gaylandand going to his gay-ass Soho gym.  I can only assume that thisoversight was non-accidental, a cruel joke played on poor, dumb, skinnySally-- a revenge, perhaps, for pissing off her hair stylist.  Is the gaymafia behind this?  What do you think?  Let�s tally: Fag Batallion�1; Skinny Hos�0.

2.  Masstige mas'te -'tej  1. n. the combination of mass production and marketing technology, and thewidespread perception image of belonging to the uppermost ranks ofsocial and economic class:  Channel No. 5 reeks of masstige.
2. adj. the quality of possessing masstige. ETYMOLOGY: from the English, �Mass plus prestige equalsmasstige.� (Brooks, Amanda 743); ORIGIN early 21st cent.:�Fr�d�ric Fekkai gave me the word, but I don�t think he originated it.�(Brooks 743)

3. Look!  Vogue's doing a high-fashion remake of The JonBenet Ramsey Story.

what should I do with the body?
Oh, Vogue-- you've got so much masstige!

God help us all. 

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Posted by hissycat at 09:31 AM | Comments (8) | TrackBack

August 24, 2005

My-Up-Swings-Are-A-Sane-Person's-Baseline Kind Of Way

Currently Listening Tallahassee By The Mountain Goats see related

So I've been feeling pretty blahblahblah today.  (I alsoaccomplished jack shit at the office.)  I had to pick up aprescription from my shrink today, and after she scolded me for being twenty minutes late to a thirty minute med-check appointment (I tried,I really did) I told her I wanted to start doing therapy again. She asked if it was because I was getting depressed again, and I told her that no, I wouldn't say that I was depressed, it wasn't anythingbig as a depression, but that I guessed I was feeling a little lowlately.  I didn't tell her I was a little worried that I might gooff again.  In fact, to demonstrate my competence at life, I added that it likely was just that I had been feeling so well for the past month (I don't know if this is true.  I guess it mostly is, in a really unimpressive, my-up-swings-are-a-sane-person's-baseline kind ofway) that now that I'm coming down a bit, I feel the difference. I am the daughter of two psychaitrists.  When it comes to therapy,I love to please.  In an unhealthy, my-shrink-doesn'tknow-the-half-of-it kind of way.

I don't know if I'm falling into a depression or not.  I know I'vebeen very anti-social lately (avoiding groups of people especially) anda bit more irritable than I'd like, but then even at my best, I'mfairly anti-social.  I like to spend a lot of time alone, andalso, staying home more often is obviously beneficial for mywriting.  Only I haven't been writing.  And I cried lastnight when I thought I fucked up the settings on my snazzy newcomputer.  All I want to do in the evenings is stay in, alone, andread novels.  Which may not be good a sign.  I'm usuallyhappy to be home reading novels however I'm feeling, but there havebeen times when I've been majorly depressed and I wouldn't leave myroom all day, not for class or meals or anything, and just sleep andread novel after novel, it was all I could do.  We'll wait and see.

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Posted by hissycat at 06:11 PM | Comments (8) | TrackBack

Heather Has Two Mommies Who Have A Custody Hearing

Currently Listening Misery Is a Butterfly By Blonde Redhead see related

Yet another re-post from comments I left at Bitch PhD,this time about the new ruling in California on custody and childcarefor same sex partners who have children and then break-up:

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Posted by hissycat at 10:53 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack

August 23, 2005

Creepy-Ass Quote of The Week

Creepy-Ass Quote of The Week

So I'm reading a sample of an age-appropriate personal narrativeessay from Harcourt Language Teacher's Edition, Grade 4, when I cameacross this totally bizarre passage that could have been from a lessonin some colonial primmer on how to win the trust and admiration of "ourlittle brown friends."  The background is that little Jin, ournarrator, has just moved to America from China and is unable to makefriends due to her limited knowledge of English.  And then. Yes, then, comes little blonde Ali to the rescue:

Oh, isn't your heart just brimmingwith gratitude for the gracious little blonde girl with the prettyhair.  What a good, brave girl blondie is.  She even lets theChinese girl touch her hair!  Jin is so lucky to have an Arayanangel self-sacrificing enough to actually talk to Jin and let Jin touchher hair!  Pretty, pretty blonde hair!

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Posted by hissycat at 05:48 PM | Comments (11) | TrackBack

Darling, Go And Cut Your Hair

Currently Listening The Kinks are the Village Green Preservation Society By The Kinks see related

So, by the time anyone clicks on my link,the featured content will likely have changed, leaving me looking thefool, but if you get to it in time, you have to check out the featured content list where #3-10, and #12-14 all have THE EXACT SAME HAIRCUT.  Coincidence?  I think not.  Conspiracy?  Got to say yes.

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Posted by hissycat at 03:13 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Suck it, Grammer!

"The Forty Year-Old Virgin"
The title is even more disturbing than you realized.
It's like a Neverland party.  Except for the "virgin" part.
Oooh. . . .  Zing!

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Posted by hissycat at 11:33 AM | Comments (29) | TrackBack

August 22, 2005

This Is Too Easy

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Posted by hissycat at 05:15 PM | Comments (23) | TrackBack

Chick Lit Cat Fight: Meow, Hiss

Currently Listening Exile in Guyville By Liz Phair see related

This is the expanded (well, expanding-- I'm not really done) version ofa recent comment I added to a conversation about Chick Lit going on at Bitch PhD:

1. Yes, it is just a marketing term.  Chick lit is a way tocategorize books so that they can be conveniently pitched, packaged,stocked and sold.  Like all genres (including the genres Fiction& Literature and Classics, which are, after all, also just nameshanging above the aisles at Barnes & Noble), the genre chick lit isnot inherently meaningful.  It is a tool of utility humans use tocope with variety by identifying patterns and grouping items of varyingsimilitude.  Categories allow people to find books they want orbelieve, given past reading experience, there is a good chance theymight like.  Genres also prepare readers to approach the book witha certain set of expectations.  (The idea that there are twotribes of readers-- high-brow and low-brow-- with no intersection issilly. It is perfectly possible for the same woman who enjoys War &Peace to enjoy the latest Nora Roberts; there are certain satisfactionsone gets from one kind of book, and certain kinds of satisfactions onegets from the other, and we approach each book with a different set ofexpectations and demands.)  As a category, chick lit can't beeither good or bad.  It is a rough, utilitarian term, and it iswhat it is.

2. I'm not comfortable making assumptions about the authors or thereaders of these books.  As far as authors go, it is impossible toknow where their imagined book ends and the  PR department'scampaign begins.  I would bet my big toes that there are a numberof women writers who are uncomfortable being classified as chick litbut who do not have the ability to challenge it.  And if someone,realizing she is more likely to publish and hence make a living,decides to steer her writing into a genre of which there is a highdemand-- well, what's it to you?  I can't stand the idea thatwriters operate free from economic demands and constraints; the onlypeople who have the ability to operate free from economic realities arepeople with money.  And yes, there are some exceptional writerswho have produced great art by working for hours at night in the coldbasement alone after nine hours at a job-- but not too fuckingmany.  Writers who admit to (god forbid) a material, laborlyelement to their work, are easy targets for those that still worshipthe model of Romantic artist, individualist, iconoclastic, anduncorruptable. In the 19th century, Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote that"America is now wholly given over to a damned mob of scribbling women,and I should have no chance of success while the public taste isoccupied with their trash � and should be ashamed of myself if I didsucceed."  Many 19th century female writers of the Romance wereworking women with mouths to feed, and Hawthorne's disdain for"scribbling women" suggests an assumption that women writers who writeto support themselves (that is, writing a lot) cannot be seriousartists and do not make rational, ethical and aesthetic decisions intheir work.  Which sounds awfully familiar to me.

3. As far as chick lit promoting unchallenged acceptance of gendernorms, sexist beliefs, etc.-- um, I hate to be the bringer of bad news,but that is a problem not confined to Chick Lit.  Seriousliterature is full of bullshit, too-- there are tons of currentmale-authored, serious, literary texts that rely on and promote sexistand otherwise obectionable assumptions-- and I have no reason tobelieve that being how harmful a book is has anything to do with howserious, how good, how well-written or whatever it is.  It alsoseems condescending to me to assume that the readers of Chick Lit orother low-brow trash are not able to see the stereotypes or sexism,that they are unwitting sponges absorbing whatever they're given. I think women readers of Chick Lit deserve a little more credit thanthat.  People go to books for all sorts of reasons-- escape,comfort, entertainment, companionship, stimulation.  I'd like tobelieve that it is possible to watch a movie or read a book, deriveenjoyment from it, and not buy into every single assumption behind it.

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Posted by hissycat at 12:53 PM | Comments (20) | TrackBack

August 19, 2005

It Is Impossible To Work

It is impossible to work today, impossible to concentrate.  I amtotally deadened with sadness and a wet, ugly feeling in the center ofmy chest.

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Posted by hissycat at 04:07 PM | Comments (6) | TrackBack

Roberts. Ick.

Currently Listening Is This Desire By PJ Harvey see related

This is terrifying.  John Roberts is so the evil boss from 9 to 5.  I want Lily Tomlin to poison him NOW.

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Posted by hissycat at 03:21 PM | Comments (18) | TrackBack

Stupidface

 

Stupidface You scored 100 confusion, 100 kindness,  and 0 extroversion!

ConfusedKind Introvert - You will be known as "Stupidface."You're senile and abit skittish because you fear you will run intoanother wall. Your faceis too flat for your tongue to fit entirely inyour mouth; it hangs out.The ridiculous haircut doesn't help. You area favorite topic ofconversation at parties for everyone who has everseen you, even once.They also cannot resist doing impressions of yourface.

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Posted by hissycat at 01:38 PM | Comments (24) | TrackBack

The Literary Dick & I

So if you go to Jonathan Ames's websiteand click on "Literary Dick"you can find a letter I wrote asking about all the homosexual rumorsabout authors ever (you may have to dig around to find it).  Andyou can even read the answers that theLiterary Dick wrote in response to my questions.  I wish I didn'thave such a filthy mouth.  Sometimes I forget, especially when I'mwriting to an audience I cannot see, that not everyone is asfoul-mouthed or as open-minded as myself and my friends and that somepeople might not realize that when I speak of men "taking it up theass" it as a term of endearment.   I'm embaressed that myletter required the disclaimer that my language might be offensive tosome, though it may not have been my intention.  If only theyknew!  At the time I wrote the letter, I was up to my earsin  lesbian pulp fiction, which was the topic of my thesis, andI'd fallen so out of touch with the decent, well-mannered world. But I do-- sigh. . .-- love Jonathan Ames, and if you haven't read Wake Up, Sir!, you really should.  That and Wendy McClure's I'm Not The New Me (which I assure you  is, contrary to the stupid promoter's jacket quotes, nothing like-- shudder-- Bridget Jones) were the two funnest books I read while drowning in my thesis Spring Quarter.

I really wanted to end this post by proving that I'm not a total schmooby showing you the letter I wrote last spring (2004) to Tony Kushner inthe New York Times online edition.  He answered my questions,too-- how exciting!  And that letter was not crass or offensive atall.  But alas, I cannot find it on the NYTimes's website.  Ibelieve it ran only in the online edition.  Perhaps they don'tarchive online features.

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Posted by hissycat at 09:42 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack

August 18, 2005

Best Lunch "Hour" Ever

Weight Watchers meeting (I lost a measly .2 lbs) anda trip to Vaden to pee into a cup (to confirm the obvious: a urinarytract infection)?  Oboy!  How can one girl be so lucky ?

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Itchy Bitchy Kitty

Currently Reading The Group By Mary McCarthy see related

My Poor Kitty Has Fleas

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August 17, 2005

Therefore

Currently Listening Bright Yellow Bright Orange By The Go-Betweens see related

My father called me yesterday to ask me if I'd had any trouble pickingup the White Stripe tickets he'd ordered for me and to ask how I'denjoyed the concert (I'd sold the tickets on craigslist.org, but didn'thave the heart to tell him).  While we were chatting, he mentionedthat of the free magazines he is sent to put out in the waiting room,one of them is New York magazine.  "Joanna," he said, "I have something to read to you that will freak you out."  He then read just the headline of this articleand described the picture to me: "He's lounging around looking stylish,stylish in that very preppy way."  And then my father laughed, Ithink at me.

Full disclosure: Nick and I attended the same high school.  He was(and, for that mattter, is, and will always be) a year younger than me,and for most of high school,  I didn't really know much about him,though I probably disliked him anyway, because he went to that highschool.  My interactions with Nick were limited to: 1) A couple ofvicious, tooth-and-nail arguements at meetings for the schoolnewspaper; there was a particularly nasty back-and-forth after somemulti-cultural assembly; I guess we were discussing the issues itraised, etc. and somehow we got on the topic of multi-culturalism (ick,I hate that word) in the curriculum, whether we read enough works bywomen and minorities; Nick seemed to think we read too muchwork by women and minorities instead of the "classics" and "greatauthors" ("Hemmingway.  And Henry James."), and I, of course, flewoff the handle at that, objecting to the notion that works by culturalminorities that we read in class should be restricted to certainquotas, that literature by privledges white men did not represent the'universal human experience' that 'classics' claim to offer, and, well,it got pretty nasty.  Oh, now that I am remembering this, Iremember I think I did actively dislike Nick, at least for my firstthree years of high school.  2) Witnessing a frightening speechNick gave when he was running for school office; of course he won-- hehad the charisma of a young Hitler; he walked around the gym floorwithout a mike, gesticulating alarmingly, getting kids all riled upover the issue of soda machines and whatever. 

But sometime in my senior year, my opinion of him started tochange.  There was a school writing contest where I came in firstand Nick second; I got to read his story, and I liked it-- a lot-- so Idecided he was alright.  I did an art tutorial with another girlin the senior class and, Paul, who was really talented and a yearyounger; I got to be friendly with Paul, and Paul always spoke well ofNick.  Then Nick interviewed me for an article when I was selectedas class speaker for graduation, and I thought he was nice and smartand funny.  In the course of the interview, he asked about mysummer plans.  I told him that, because of a windfall in prizemoney that spring, I could afford to not make money that summer butspend my time writing a novel I had started.  Well, that wasaround the time that Nick began writing Twelve.  Nick was friends with an ex-boyfriend of mine, and as said ex-boyfriendand I warmed up to being friends with one another again, I got to knowNick a little better.  He talked to me about writing something fora literary magazine he wanted to create, and we started correspondingnow and then, mostly about writing, how we felt about it, how it wasgoing, what we were going to do with our novels when we were done.

(In one email, Nick wrote me that it was his absolute dream to have hisnovel published by Grove press because Grove had published some authorshe admired-- of course, at the time, I had no idea who Nick's fatherwas, or that Nick had any personal connection to Grove; I think I hadsome vague idea that Nick's parents did something in publishing-- Iknew, for instance, that Nick had met Joan Didion and Fran Lebowitz,and I was envious and admiring of him for that; in one exchange, Imentioned how different it must be for him, then, to have grown upknowing people who had made it as writers than it was for me growing upthe daughter of doctors who discouraged me to think of writing as acareer choice; my models of grown-ups who chose to try to make a lifeout of a creative pursuit were my parents' friends and the parents ofmy friends from P.S. 41, people who worked very hard, who were verytalented and good at what they did but who had no recognition and livedpretty much hand-to-mouth.) 

We continued our irregular correspondance through my freshman year ofcollege.  I knew his book was going to be published, and I likedto read his descriptions of the wacky world of publishing, as he gearedup for the release of the book.  He sent me a galleys copy, and Ithought that was pretty cool.  That summer I was back to New Yorkand ended up hanging out with Nick and the ex-boyfriend.  Duringsophmore year, my friendship with Jeff cooled off following an incidentwe need not discuss, and, as I fell out of touch with Jeff, byextension I also lost contact with Nick.

I'm not going to lie.  I read that article.  I am jealous of Nick McDonell.  Notbecause of his celebrity or prestige.  I can't say that I have anydesire to be part of that sleazy, macho, bullcrap world; sorry, butthat description of Morgan Entrenkin bragging with his mouth full ofexpensive salami made my stomach turn.  I am envious of anyone whohas conversed with Joan Didion-- Didion's writing is extremelyimportant and dear to me-- but, in general, I don't aspire toparticipate in the high-brow hob-nobbing that goes on at theOld Boys Publishing Club-- oops, I mean Corporation.

I don't envy Nick for what he has exactly but for what he couldhave, for the abundance of choices that are open to him.  What Ienvy most about Nick is that for him "writer" is a reasonable andrelatively secure occupation to pursue.  From time to time, inorder to stave off overwhelming and paralyzing hopelessness, I'll tellmyself,  "it's ok that I work a crappy job; I need time topractice my art, anyway, by writing long unread novels during the fewhours between work and sleep; I like my unexceptional life; it is good for me to struggle; it is better to wait until I produce something worthwhile and then seeif I can make writing into a career than to aspire to professionalmediocrity at a young age; plenty of excellent and much-read authorswork crappy jobs half their lives and don't publish a sentence until atleast middle-age."   But I know that isn't true, at least notin this country at this time.  Reading various reviews andmagazines, it is apparent that most new authors (at least the newauthors that are paid attention in reviews and magazines) are youngauthors, and they are good-looking, cool, and have some amount ofconnection.  Those that don't have a relative or family friend somewherein the publishing industry are graduates of elite professional programswith MFAs from Iowa or Columbia.  I don't have any ins, I won't beyoung for all that much longer, and I have neither the money or inclinationto move far away from my friends and my boyfriend and my new home cityto once again be a student working towards an unemployable degree(although, give me a few more years of dumb desk jobs, and I may feeldifferently).  

Anyway, I was delighted to find the following email from Alex in my inbox this morning:

Dear god. I don't know if and how you got through it.

I was scarcely past the first paragraph, and already it was too hard to
continue--knowing how much you must want to stab him (and perhaps yourself)
in the face.

The headline is the worst part: perhaps you shouldn't "hate him because he's
young, good-looking, privileged, and impeccably connected." But you should
hate the fact that they left out 'therefore' before the phrase "about to
publish his second novel."

PS all your other friends from high school sucked, and i assume he's the
same way.

--Alex

I love Alex.  I also love the fact that, at least without thesubject heading, it kind of seems like he is addressing me asgod.  Alex briefly met some people I knew in high school, Nickincluded, and he is right: almost everyone I knew in high school was anasshole (myself included)-- not just jerks, either, the way mostteenagers are, but just a bunch of assholes.  Anyway, I should saythat Nick was never an asshole, at least not to me.  He's alwaysbeen kind, decent, and well-manered towards me.  As intolerable asthey come off in that article, both Nick and his brother seem likedeeply decent people.  In any case, I've always found them veryeasy people to be around, and I enjoyed time spent in conversation witheither of them.

To be honest, I wasn't as rageful as as could have been reading thearticle.  When I first found out about Nick's new novel, I wasdistressed, notbecause he was getting a book published and I wasn't, but because, inthe time since he wrote his (published) and I wrote my (unpublished)first novel, he had managed to produce another one, and one that (byall reports) demonstrates a progression in architecture andscope.  I was less upset about Nick's book getting published (Imean, of course itwould.  No surprise there.  As long as he completed it, itwould be published.) than the fact that he had managed to completeanother novel. I had written about 200 pages of a novel, decided thestory I was telling was lousy and dishonest, and trashed the project,never writing the three or four chapters that would have completed it(it still would have been completely awful, but at least it would havebeen acomplete) I'd written a handful of short stories, but so haseveryone, so what?  My thesis, of course, was the largest writingproject undertaken during my college years, but, of course, that wasn'tfiction, and lots of people write theses, so, somehow, that doesn'tquite count.  I felt angry and dissappointed with myself for nothaving been as productive.  If I'd been a better, more focusedperson, I could have writen a second novel, too.

So in a way, it is consoling to learn that Nick "wrote his new novel, The Third Brother,at the home of an acquaitance in Hawaii. . . during what would havebeen the second semester of his sophomore year," and that he didn't,you know, write it at the library, in between problem sets and papers,or at the bright end of an all-nighter, or during lecture, or in hisstinking dorm room on days when he was too depressed to get out ofbed.  It is still incredeably depressing to realize that if Nick'skind of privledgedness is what is needed to produce books, then I haveabout as much chance as an ice cube in hell, but at least the fact thatI didn't keep up isn't entirely a reflection on my sorry excuse of a work ethic.  Nick didn't strain himself too hard, you know?

It is a pretty gross article. The little aside that Nick isdown-to-earth because "he is on a first-name basis with every buildingand grounds officer we run into at Harvard" is-- what the fuck isthat?  It is so obnoxious and condescending.  Like, wow, heactually knows the names of the help, what a saint, let's give that boya ribbon, a shining model for the noblesse oblige if I ever sawone.  Please.  If I wanted to feel totally patronized I wouldhave tuned into the president addressing "working folk."  

Of course, it was Ariel Levy, not Nick, who seems to think thatincluding the amusing anecdote about Nick actually talking to theservants would somehow make Nick seem more, um, down to earth (perhapspalatable to the masses is the phrase I'm seeking here).  But Nickdoes himself no favors by proclaiming "I've had absurdly goodluck."  Excuse me?  Luck is having your manuscript pluckedfrom the slush pile by a sympathetic reader.  Luck is finallygetting a story accepted by a tiny magazine.  Luck is encounteringa teacher or mentor who gives you guidance.  Luck is an unknownwinning a fiction contest.  But being born into a family ready tosupport you, materially and otherwise, in becoming a writer and alreadyimmersed in the publishing world and having your book published by yourfather's good friend, that is not luck.  That, my friends, iscalled having it made.

And it's why it's hard not to want stabbing some faces when Nick isquoted as saying things like "I'm worried about not getting a fairshake because I've had so many advantages."  What?  Nick, Ibelieve you have gotten a more than fair shake.  Because you'vehad so many advantages.  The only people who ever get "shakes" ofany sort, fair or unfair, are people who've had so manyadvantages.  It's a little sad (just a little, no need to call outthe string quartet) when Nick says, "But I'm not worried I can'tdeliver.  I know I can write."  Of course, he can"deliver."  Of course, he can write.  But that is all that isasked of him-- not that he write well or compellingly; just that hewrites; just that he delivers the product.  I don't mean to saythat Nick doesn't write well or compellingly-- in any case, I generallyhate arguments for or against how "good" any writer or written workis-- my point is that with Nick, his literary merit is totallyirrelevant.  All he to do is be good enough.  He doesn't haveto be great, he doesn't have to be good; he just has to be good enough,to deliver a manuscript that can be prepped, packaged, and sold. He's twenty-one and hearing things like Morgan Entrekin's (quitefrankly, embaressing-- for everyone) stupid statement, "the besteveidence of how good Nick is is that 27 publishers internationallyhave brought his book. . ."  Um, no.  That's great evidencethat publishers see Nick's work as extremely saleable; it's certainly anice thing for Nick that they think that, but it is not evidence thatNick is good.  I'd like to believe that Nick is decent andintelligent enough to realize this.  I certainly don't pity Nickhis success, which, by all accounts, he handles like a champ, but I dosometimes think about how warped one could become by being absorbedinto a world where, at twenty-one, feedback on your work is handed youin the form of a profit margin.

It's always impossible to know what's going on behind ridiculous,extravagant articles in New York magazine, which, apart from someevents listings and reviews, is the gossip rag of Park Avenue. It's a stupid, annoying article, prompted, I'm sure, by stupid,annoying PR rats.  The article just barely mentions the content ofNick's books at all, doesn't give any reason other than the author'scelebrity why this man is worthy of a lengthy article.  The authordoesn't make any claims that Nick is doing something innovative ordifferent in fiction-- that is not the point.  The article isabout the fact that he is "young, good-looking, privledged, [and]impeccably connected."  There isn't any pretense that the articleis about Nick's writing or even Nick as a writer; it is about wealthand celebrity and Nick as a Hot, Young Thing. 

I'm curious how much of this ploy is Nick's doing.  My guesswouldbe that it's not-- that he's just going along for the ride as the PR department has afield day-- but who knows.  By the looks of it, the PR department has a newstrategy: instead of touting Nick as a young, amazingly talentedauthor, as they did for the first book, they are emphasizing Nick'sprivledge and connections as a selling point.  The whole "don'thate him because he's beautiful" schtick they're pulling seemscalculated to piss people off.  Of courseif you promote him as being rich and connected, people will think he'sdespicable.  Reading that article, in which the nepositiccharacter of his success is trumpted as a selling point ('ooh, look howrich and powerful Nick's daddy is.  Nick knows all these famouspeople: let's list them!'  Please.), I had to think that the PRdepartment wants people to be driven up the wall by Nick, they want tostir up controversy.  Controversy sells, and it sells to drivepeople up the walls.  Marketing doesn't give a damn if readers arebuying the books just for a snicker, or just to satisfy their appetitiefor scandal, or just to feel better by seeing how bad it reallyis.  Marketing cares about selling books.  As a society, welove all the people we can't stand.  Ann Coulter.  RushLimbaugh.  Dr. Laura.  Howard Stern.  ParisHilton.  Bush and his entire administration.  We can't getenough.  We throw our dollars and votes after them.  I'mbetting PR is betting that with Nick McDonell, we'll gladly do thesame.

I find the New York article extremely tacky, I am deeply envious ofNick's opportunities, but I don't actually begrudge him his success/fame.  He's a fine writer, so why not him?   There arecertainly cases of nepotism I find more offensive if not downrightdangerous: Michael Powell, Murdoch Jr., Saul Bellow's kid (who wrote awhole book "defending nepotism" from, uh, something).  WhetherNick deserves or doesn't, whether he is great or he isn't, whether heis worthy or he's not, ultimately, is all besides the point.  AsClint Eastwood says in Unforgiven as he is about to shoot Gene Hackman(in the face), "deserve's got nothing to do with it."

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August 16, 2005

Unlike Posh, You Will Have To Read It For Yourself

Currently Reading Feminisms: An Anthology of Literary Theory and Criticism see related

Check out the least surprising news of the week. 

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August 15, 2005

Adventure Toe-ing

Because it is impossible to see what I was taking a picture of with my crappy cellphone camera, I will explain:
a towtruck with a parking ticket.  Yes, a towtruck.  with aparking ticket tucked into its envelope and stuck under the windsheildwiper.  The namw of the tow company: Adventure Towing.

The Rest Of This Post Is Disgusting And I Do Not Recommend Reading it.  Ever.

And on the topic of vehicles (kind of), I want a mobilityscooter.  I want one of those mobility scooters with the basket onthe front that obese people use to locomote in big, American amusementparks.  My feet are in horrible pain, and I want a mobilityscooter to scoot me around.

I don't want my feet.  I totally busted them this weekend.  Ialready had this hideous, painful tumor-looking bump growing out of thecuticle on the right side of my left big toe.  I've had these onceor twice before.  They happen when I cut my cuticles back toofar.  On my big toes, especially, my cuticles can get prettygnarly, the more so the more I wear heels or pointy-toes or anythingelse that pinches my toes, and they to be trimmed, so I trim them,perhaps over-zealously.  But I don't just trim back the cuticlewhere it grows over the nail.  Especially if my toes have beengetting pinched by shoes or boots, the cuticle snakes around thecorners of my nails and sneaks to just underneath the corners.  IfI can get a hold of this cuticle, I will yank it right out from underthe nail, which is painful and disgusting and satisfying in the sameway it is satisfying to rip off an unripe scab.  Often, the firstpull will get a strip of rubbery dead skin and not too much pain. I know I should stop there but I don't.  I become completelycompelled with the taks of continuing to yank up my cuticles by theroots and completely fascinated by the foul repulsiveness of mybody.  I will do this until I am in quite a bit of pain, and I cando it for hours.  Eventually I become disgusted with myself forbeing so disgusting and doing such disgusting things.  And I'mangry that I've wasted time being disgusting, and ashamed andembaressed about my bloody, hacked-at feet.

I had a cuticle-snipping spree a few weeks ago and got carried away andyanked up about a half-centimeter of flesh which looks like it camefrom under my nail, but might be just a bit of inflamed cuticle, orsome kind of evil blood blister.  I'll call it, simple,"toe-tumor."  It hurts like fuck whenever it rubs againstanything, like a boot or bed post or my other toes.  It makesstubbing my toes, even when I am wearing cowboy boots, almostunbearably painful.  And it is unsightly.  Well, like I said,this has happened before, and I just swapped in with antiseptic creamand kept it clean and dry, bandaged during the day, but let out to airto "dry out" when I'm by myself at night.  The disgustingtoe-tumors have always gone away on their own.

Last week, however, I did a very poor job of caring for my foot, whichmeans that I pretty much did nothing at all except occaisionally pokeit and be grossed out.  It started oozing a little clear,lymphatic fluid at the end of last week, which forced me to finallyclean my foot because I was so scared of, you know, gangrene.

On Friday night, I went out and met up with Brett and his co-workers,and, because I am foolish and vain, I wore my boots even though I knewit was a very bad idea..  We walked around a lot that night, andBrett didn't have either band-aids or anti-bacterial cream at hishouse, and I was tired and didn't want to deal until morning.  Ofcourse, on Saturday morning, I had to go pick up a package from thePost Office, which required a good deal of walking, which I did in myboots, because I wouldn't have had time to stop home and changefootwear before the Post Office closed. 

Ok, so that hurt, and I was hobbeling around on Saturday night. But, I had gone home after the Post Office, and I'd cleaned and creamedand bandaged my toes and told myself it was already a little betterthan it had been (at least it wasn't oozing-- as much), beforesqueezing my feet back into my boots, yes the same ones as before,because I am vain and thought my boots looked nice with my dress. So, I taxied home that night, but no major bloodspills, more discomfortthan pain.

Oh but then, then, I grew arrogant and fool-hardy.  I wanted towear my other new dresss and wanted to wear shoes that would go withit, which just happened to be a pair of black mary-jane pumps. And I wore them.  Without socks or tights.  Because I am afucking idiot.

OH FUCK.  I just tried to hobble to the bathroom.  I am nowin my chair and kind of panting to get through the pain.  Fuckingfuck fuck fuck it hurts.  I have huge blisters on the soles of myfeet now-- those might be the worst-- as well as blisters all over mytoes (two of which are actually painful) and the old toe-tumor, whichis looking worse for the wear.

And to add to the indignity of all of this, this morning, whilesqueezing an extremely bloated,  extremely painful, fluid filledblister on my left sole with the naive hope that if the blister woulddrain there would be less pressure and less pain, it finally popped,and squirted me square in the face with an impressive jet-stream ofblister-juice.

Which takes me to my last point.  Foot problems are totallyrepulsive.  It's not like having back pains, or even cramps, whereyou can ask for a massage and complain without provoking too muchdisgust.  But my feet are horrendous monsters, totally unsexy,totally nauseating, totally repulsive, so I can't  complain or ask for help or sympathy.

I meant to go to the bank today to apply for a loan to purchase acomputer, as mine is busted and I need one so badly.  I can't go,since it hurts too much to walk to the car, and anyway, I think loanapplicants that show up at the bank hobbeling and shoe-less are usuallydenied, I would imagine.

I just want to go home and cry.

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Gray As Pigeons

Oh, yucky morning.  The sky is gray as pigeons, and the wholeworld wants to be in bed today.  Brett's bed is so perfect foravoiding the world: it is big; with soft, soft sheets; and a puffycomforter that buffers me from the cold and noisy world.  I didn'twake up to notice Brett leaving.  I guess he forgot to re-set thealarm or something, because the first thing I remember from thismorning is Tamara standing over me and shaking me awake.  I wasconfused from the dreams I was having, and it took me long seconds tofigure out where I was, who Tamara was, and why she was shaking meawake.  In one of my dreams, I had been living in the studioapartment in my parents' house.  I wanted to smoke a cigarette,but I didn't because I couldn't let my mother see me.  I couldn'tfigure out how I'd gotten back to New York.  I wondered whereBrett was and whether he could smoke there. I thought he probablycould, and I was angry at myself for renting a studio in my parents'home. 

I've been dreaming a lot about New York recently.  Yesterdayevening as I walked West on 16th Street, I had the thought, I don'tthink I will ever get used to how empty streets are in San Francisco.You can go whole blocks without passing anyone.  There is none ofNew York's throbbing, chaotic density of lives.  I miss that.  And, I miss the heat, the Tasti-D-Lite, the warm fleshynights.  I miss the Chinese food, green gyoza, and sushi fromEmpire Szechwan on Seventh Avenue.  I miss yellow taxis, andevery time I ride the Bart or Muni, I think, "poor, thin substitute,"and have pangs of longing for the New York subway.  I misscrowds.  I miss thronged streets at night, and I miss thetightly-packed masses, sweating, and roasting, and rolling up pant legsto wet their calves in the fountain spray,  in Washington SquarePark on the weekends.  I miss delivery, and I miss the convenienceand niceness of partially-prepped ingredients from Citerella and FreshDirect.  I miss the Jefferson Market Library; I miss stopping onits steps to tie a shoe or eat a melting cone of Tasti back under mycontrol; I miss the tower and clock.  I miss the pace of NewYork, how easy it is to become anonymous, how nice it is to be part ofthe world and think about how if you stepped out of it, you wouldn't bemissed.  It is comforting to be surrounded by so many lives, suchbusy creatures, scurrying and leading their lives.  It's the rightkind of loneliness that I have then.  I miss decent pedicures andwaxing. I miss good museums and abundant theater and book readings andpublic lectures; I miss knowing that they are there for me to go to ifthat is what I choose, and that if I fail to properly be intheworldthecity, the loss is felt only by me.  I miss street fairsand Summer Stage, concerts in Prospect Park, the free open-air moviesin Bryant Park.  I miss all the people, and kinds of people, Ihate: pointy-shoed girls; and crusty-haired boys; and hipsters withtrust funds; and all the ingenues and prodigal sons and authors withfamily in the industry; businessmen that yell into cell phones as theystep ahead of you to steal your taxi; people who think they areimportant, people who can't believe in a world beyond Manhattan, andthe entire population of the Upper East Side; yuppie vermin thatdescend on dowtown Friday and Saturday nights, in their expensive jeansand satiny, bias-cut halter tops, starched collar shirts with twobuttons open.  I miss bars on Atlantic Avenue.  Delis, all ofthem, I miss.  And the way the best-dressed people dress.  Imiss the beautiful, attractive, striking, well-groomed; I miss watchingpretty people, I miss staring at them.    I miss looking overthe calender of events in Time Out New York or the Village Voice andthink about all the things that are going on in the world, how big andhow small theworldthiscity is; it feels like one could do anything solong as one goes places and does things and participates in the world.I miss the sheer amount of New York, how much of it there is.

I wanted to come into work brimming with purpose and drive andefficiency.  I wanted to get right down to work, very focused, nodistractions. 

Instead, there are these clouds.  I feel slow and stupid and helpless today and soaked in confused, directionless desires.

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August 12, 2005

Bloody Murder

I Can't Wait for the Movie

Bloodier than Leopold and Loeb!  More salacious that Parker and Hume!

I'm really into True Crime.  Especially when it involves 1)Complicated plotting 2) Elaborate psychoses and/ or folie a deux 3)Sex, Revenge, Jealousy, Money and whatever else is reeking of Scandal.

I'm so absorbed by this caseinvolving a 14-year-old boy who orchestrated his own murder viainternet chat-rooms under guise of an impressive array ofpersonnas.  There will always be a special place in my heart forthe Hume-Parker case, but this definately beats that German guy whopaid someone to torture and murder him and eat his penis.  Itdoesn't beat it in terms of gore-- the German sounds more gorey-- butin terms of the imaginitiveness and ingenuity that the boy used incrafting his own murder (I mean, the German essentailly posted aMurderer Wanted ad and then interviewed candidates for the position)and the sheer, impenetrable bizarreness of actions and motivations on the part of the boy (I mean, there's something slightlyhackneyed about overtly sexualized murders involving S&M perverts.. . like, I've already seen that Law and Order), the 14-year-oldtotally wins.

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Kansas School Board Scientifically Demonstrates There Is No Such Thing As Human Progress

Currently Listening Muscler's Guide to Videonics By Tracy + the Plastics see related

Logan and I spent yesterday morning's commute yelling at the radio over this story on the "Intelligent Design" embarressment in Kansas. If life is too architecturally sophisticated to have been the result ofgodless chance, then how do you explain meaningless freaks this?  Or this?  I thought so.

? Also, what business does this websitehave using the words "intelligent" and "design" together, in anycontext at all?  Oh, and I love their slogan: "Taking Life Back toits Origins."  Um, yeah, you could use that slogan to describewhat they're doing.  You could also use, "Taking Science Back tothe Middle Ages" or "Taking Civilization Back to Square One" or "TakingGovernment Back to Before the Bill of Rights."

This joke is getting pretty fucking old.  Haven't we had enough already?

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August 11, 2005

I Said WW, Not AA

Currently Listening Couleur Caf� By Serge Gainsbourg see related

Well, the news that I lost 1.4 lbs this week made me feel a littlebetter.  I may not be capable of  much else, but at least Ican keep myself busy by gaining and losing and gaining and losingweight.

The theme of this week's meeting was Winning Outcomes, and when Iarrived (late) there was, written in the large, competent red andpurple purple characters of a second-grade teacher on the bigeasel-backed pad, "What will this cost?" and "Is it worth it?"  Igot really excited because I assumed it referred to specific food itemsof a covetable nature and how to know whether said item truly is worthgoing over your points for.  I was totally ready to particpatewith my own real life example of how, on Monday, I had a dinner thatcost me 25 points-- which took me not only well over my daily target of20 points but also completely off the chart with my weekly flex-Points,most of which, as is usual for a Monday, had already been drunk overthe weekend (and, ok-- that morning's breakfeast)-- and it was totallyworth it.  I was feeling smug about losing 1.4 lbs IN SPITE OFCOMPLETELY EMBALMING MY INNARDS AND THEN HAVING A 25 POINT MEAL OFFRIED POLENTA, LAMB CHOPS, DONUT HOLES AND DUCK FAT. 

Unfortunately, my interpretation of the questions "What will this costme?" and "Is it worth it?" was not the intended one, as I soon pickedup on.  It seemed that the intended interpretation was 'what willlosing this weight cost me?' and 'is it worth the sacrifice?'  Soeveryone was all talking about their personal reasons for coming toWeight Watchers and how costs like giving up a glass of wine in theevening and bigger portions and french fries, is so worth it that theydon't even miss it.

Damn. I even had anice story to tell about my enlightening experience with duckfat.   About how it was worth it for me because it was aspecial dinner on a special occaision and even though I feeluncomfortable writing it down here, I probably would have told the WWladies that it was for an anniverseryish (so uncomfortable I can't evenwrite the real word) dinner with my boyfriend, but purely because forsome reason, stories about anniverseries always go over really well andare rewarded with fond, nostalgic smiles and nods of blessing andapproval.

See, I almost never say anything at WW meetings, and not because Idon't know the answers (you can not listen to anything that's going onand then randomly chirp "portions" and you'll have a 50% chance ofbeing showered by the leader with praise and encouragement and approvalfor sharing your good answer with the group).  I never talkbecause whenever you way anything-- "water," for instance-- the leaderwill always ask you to share some personal anecdote about someexperience you had with water, and whether you were happy about thatexperience and what would you do differently if you found yourself inthe same situation again.  The women there are, for the most part,just so nice and grandmotherly (not like mygrandmother, mind you, but that's besides the point), and I just feellike my stories are just too shameful for them to know.  Like,when the meeting leader asks about "difficult situations" people findthem in, someone will say, "well I'm the mother of a two-year old[sometimes, on occaision, this person will have there baby there andthe baby, with a suspiciously good sense of comic timing, will emit aloug gurgly noise just as the mother says "adorable"], so I'm always onthe go, and I end up snacking a lot instead of sitting down formeals."  Then the leader will ask, "How do you think you canhandle this situation in the future so that you don't do the same thingagain?" and then the woman will say something like, "well, I'm going toplan ahead more and keep more healthy snacks around the house, and cookmore stews and things that I can heat up again later in theweek."  Then the leader will say, "By making better choices, youwill be able to move past bad habits," and everyone will clap.

Once, and I swear this is true, the meeting leader was leading adiscussion on "danger foods" and how to protect ourselves from theirsiren songs and keep temptation at bay.  The leader was givingtips like, "put those corn chips on the highest shelf of your pantry,where it's hard for you to reach" (yeah, like that's really everstopped me before) and "arrange the items in your fridge so that thefirst things you see when you open the door are fruits and vegetables(um, that's actually a great idea, especially since water melting offthe glacial freezerburn up north has been making its way into myvegetable bin and rotting my fucking potatoes.  I should totallyget on that.).  This one grandma raises her hand, and says in avoice as mild and pleasant as a sunshower in June, "Well, I've alwayshad a weakness for chocolate, and my husband loves chocolate, and it'shard for me to say no to chocolate when I see it right there in frontof me." 

"And how do you handle this situation?" asks the leader.

"Well, I couldn't ask my husband to give up chocolate, but he has hisown part of the house, a den I guess you'd call it, which we added tothe house so he would have a place to work on his model trains, andthat's his space, you know, I don't go in there.  Well, after Itold my husband I was having trouble with his chocolate, he decided hewould keep his chocolate in his room, so that's what he does, and he eats it there, too, and I never have to see it and feel tempted."

"See," said the leader, " By tapping into her support system and making a compromise Marcia was able to make a change in her surroundings that helped her make a change in how she eats."  Oh, and all the italics are where the leader will slow her speech so that people can participate by figuring out the rest of the phrase and chiming in.

My point is, I really have nothing to contribute after a story likethat, because the situation in my life that I'm thinking about, justlike I was instructed to, is so far away from babies and modeltrains.  I couldn't take the guilt of telling a room full ofgrandmas that my "danger food" is alcohol and my "tempting situation"is "cocktail hour on" and that this weekend, after drinking all myfelx-Points, I dealt with my "situation" by "continuing to drink untilI vomited the evening's points back."

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Posted by hissycat at 06:05 PM | Comments (31) | TrackBack

The Pancreas

The Pancreas You scored 43% sanguine, 53% phlegmatic, 51% melancholy,� and 53% choleric!

You are the Pancreas. As you may know, the Pancreas is a glandular organ that secretes insulin and glucagon. You'vebeen matched to this organ because you scored high on twoaxes:melancholy and choleric. Traditionally, the melancholy humorwasassociated with the Gallbladder and the choleric humor wasassociatedwith the Spleen. Personality characteristics includedemotionality andneither extroversion or introversion. Mythoughts? I associated the Pancreas with melancholy and cholericbecauseit's a very responsive organ, and can exact considerableeffects on thebody's energy. Frankly, it's one of the body's coolestorgans. Surgeons have three axioms: sleep when you can, eat when you can, and don't fuck with the Pancreas.�

Link: The What Organ Are You? Test written by lostspiral on Ok Cupid

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Posted by hissycat at 04:21 PM | Comments (22) | TrackBack

Bad Me

Oh no.  Bad me. I missed my shrink appointment.  Bad way to start a Thursday.

And you know, I was really trying to be responsible.  Like, Icalled Dr. R from the car to say I sort of remembered making anappointment for today, but I sort of don't remember what time I made itfor, so could you please sort of call me back and let me know.

I don't know how I missed her call, but when I got to the office, circa9:20, I noticed a new voicemail on my phone, so I called it, and it wasDr. R reminding me that I had an appointment for 9:00 am.  Ichecked the phone and she had called at 8:50, making this totally my(or my phone's, unless I consider the phone an extension of myself, butI do) fault.  Shit.

I really needed this appointment, too.  I mean, more thanusual.  Dr. R is going on vacation next week, I'm running short onmy meds, and then there is the distressing incident to which I alludedyesterday.  Plus, when I miss an appointment, she charges me thefull cost of the appointment as opposed to just the $10 co-pay, and Ireally cannot afford to be throwing away two hundred dollars justnow.  Oh, and I haven't heard any update on the status of myemployee benefits (read: HEALTH INSURANCE) so who knows if I'll even beable to afford to reschedule when she gets back.

And now it's time for me to zip over to my lunch-hour Weight Watchersmeeting.  Fun!  (Actually, I'm such a sicko that part of mereally enjoys it).

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Posted by hissycat at 12:22 PM | Comments (24) | TrackBack

August 10, 2005

Just To Be Clear

So it occured to me that the "something" I wrote about this morning might sound, to someone who doesn't know better,an awful lot like pregnancy.  Just to clarify, I'm not pregnant.

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Posted by hissycat at 03:41 PM | Comments (40) |