January 2004 Archives

She wants to move
But you're hawking her
You're guarding her
Beat it!

For a while, I was satisfied getting my exercise dancing around the house, but I've grown slightly concerned lately about growing steadily rounder. I finally found motivation hidden in me somewhere and took myself to the gym yesterday. I had been kicking around the gym idea for a while. Get in shape was my unspoken resolution. I let the ridicule from Mac and Hani around Christmastime steer me towards going to a real gym. Yesterday, Candicissima met Bally's.

All the things I usually hate about the gym were there: gym rat grunting men, hyperthin obsessive women doing their hour on the treadmill in a leotard, bright ass lights, mirrors everywhere. But, I've got to admit I was somewhat heartened to see people who were semi-schlubby like me, dressed in baggy sweatpants and t-shirts, trying to build up the resolve to do this exercise thing for real.

I was there to activate my trial 30-day membership (expiring Valentine's Day, amusingly enough) bought a few weeks ago when I decided to surf something useful online for a change. I think the guy sensed my reluctance to jump into the mix, so he sent me to the membership lady. I know their MO: dangle a deal in front of your face, throw in things to sweeten the pot, and get you to sign your life (and money) away like a sucker. She won't get me. I know that game. She offered me a session with the trainer and I put my poker face on before heading off to change.

The trainer, A, reminded me of my technical first boyfriend, Tin, a young Park Sloper who rode on my bus and decided he was crazy about me in 7th grade. Back then, I was less "boys have cooties" than "boys are weak. I can so kick your ass...and dunk on you in basketball." He followed me around like a puppy and I hated the fawning (some things never change) and I broke it off after a week in a letter in his locker. The last time I had to be a heartbreaker for about 8 or 9 years. It was so immature and cute in retrospect. Anyways, the trainer got a point because people that remind me of good old friends always get an instant point from me. He came across as all nice and trying to be my friend, but he was secretly evil. It was obvious that I was highly ambivalent about the whole gym thing and he decided that he was gonna whip me into shape right then because I had to "do something drastic in order to be fit" or some fitnessy garbage. 120 jumping jacks, about 80 squats, 60 assorted crunches, a hamstring stretch that I was sure would lead to my poor leg just popping off = a tired Candicissima who felt like jello. And then he tried to schedule me for a diagnostic session for Saturday at 1pm. Dude...I'm rarely awake at 1pm on a Saturday and then to have to be in Manhattan at that time? Crack pipe at the table for 1. We rescheduled that for 4. And then he set me off to do the elliptical. I gave it a good ten minutes and figured I'd give it a rest if I wanted to walk the rest of the day.

Then I was off back to the membership lady, nodding off as she ran around. Somehow she convinced me to sign up for a 3-year membership instead of doing the 30-day thing. And threw in a free CD! and a Bally's package for $35! I hate the fucking gym. I'm doing this for Florida. And I'll cancel on February 27th before they start charging me.

Something in Hell must've frozen over because I actually had an nice IM conversation with Shady where we commiserated over stupid would-be employers and lack of writing motivation. Imagine that shit. Then again, he's not a completely bad guy -- we do have commonalities and have known each other for almost two years now. And that's a period of time with such transformations that I can'f even recognize myself sometimes. He can say he knew me way back when on a certain level for sure.

Scaring the shit out of me at this place and time is that my birthday is 6 weeks from today. 23 isn't even necessarily a big year, but I have a list of things I wanted to have accomplished by the time that day rolled around and I have to say that I'm currently disappointed that it's looking ever so unlikely. There's a story from last week waiting to be filled in -- I just can't focus on that. The wonderful alignment that brought it all about faded soon after. Everything's been from blah to horrible since then.

I'm trying to focus on what's good, but I'm caught up in some serious tunnel vision. Even the thing I'd say I'm most excited about (namely the Miami trip) is being thrown into disarray because I was struck with the thought that staying with Farmer is just about the worst idea I've ever had. To bring it all full circle, it would be like trying to translate this small piece of goodwill towards Shady into believing that we're friends. It just isn't the way it is. Before he left, Farmer and I had some nice genuine moments, but how does that translate to it being a good idea to spending 3 days with him on a boat? Picture me still skating. I just had a nice convo with Farmer too and I feel somewhat better unexpectedly for the second time today. Perhaps if I stopped smoking crack, things would fall into place.

I'm trying to tame the runaway gain, but I find that it's a hard situation. I've gained somewhere between 10-15 lbs and a size and half since last August. Strangely, I don't really mind that much except for two factors: I've lost all my tone and I can directly tie the gain to the increased interest from XYs around town. Totally scientific evidence that (most) men like a girl with some meat on her bones. And that some of my old clothes don't really fit anymore, but hey, the new ones are nicer. I've gotten a kick out of the effects too (I've got a rack! A big one! Plus my ass is amazing! Yeah, I'm vain. And what?!), but really starting tomorrow I'm taking myself to the gym and getting my money's worth. I mean it this time.

You might ask: "well, you're putting it across like you don't mind the weight and like having it around, so why is it a battle?" Mostly because my body type is such that I'm about 5 pounds from crossing the line between curvaceous and fat. My eating habits suck for real. I'm all about fast food and eating at strange hours and I'm basically a slug, sitting around on my ass for about 80% of the day. I don't even really dance, my only source of exercise. when I'm out and about nowadays, so all the years of hard body goodwill I had are fading. Plus truthfully, I'm not really happy with my bottom half and I think a wonderful addition to birthday time in Miami would be strolling the beach super fit like I was two years ago.

Then again, I'm never satisfied, so that has a lot to do with it also.

Oh baby, it's cold outside.

I declare myself on a hiatus from the Out and About starting...Tuesday after I see if I can by chance reconnect with Mr. Snarky Frenchman from my Friday at 419. I'm a sucker for a project. Strictly rated PG adventures though because I'm in a mental space where I'm about money and health insurance rather than a cuddlejawn or getting my pimp on.

Meanwhile, Monday night. Carson Daly show. Big Tymers. 1 extra ticket. Speak now or forever hold your piece.

After being deluged with the video this afternoon and making fun of it (well, mostly Lil Jon. He even sounds like a troll. But, the pimp chalice is my new want. Somebody better be on that shit for the birthday. I'm not EVEN playing...), I surrendered to the crunk and downloaded "Salt Shaker" by the Ying Yang Twins. Oh my my...must focus on the beat and not the lyrics.

I got into a convo with Hani that you really have to be immune to rhythm to not move to this shit. It's beyond the "Hey Ya" effect. Crunk gets in your bones, man. It apparently inspires Julianne to give herself the rub, but for me, it breaks the cool. It makes me dance for real. I've become a pro at the "I'm gonna dance with the most minimal amount of movement yet still show your non-rhythm having, spastic looking asses up" dance, but if this song comes on, I'm breaking out the big guns. Give me whiskey sours and some room and I'll show you the Salt Shaker dance. But, I say now that I don't think y'all can handle it.

Objects in the picture are infinitely larger than they appear in real life. I told Jenny not to take a picture of my face before I putlled my hat down and made a face since I feel horribly non-photogenic and my party pics never come out right. Taken at a certain highly publicized party where I saw Nick "Birthday Boy" Catchdubs in the center of the room getting down as it should be, Jenny, Cameron, the prolific Abe, and a minor celebrity who called out to me "God bless you!" as I strolled by, amongst others young and hip. What I didn't see was some free Bacardi(!), but that's okay. I was mostly in observer mode, so I wandered around, preferring corners until I left circa 1:30. Downstairs reminded me of school with the sweatbox atmosphere and the DJ spinning the tried and true hits.

From there, I wandered up to 419 per usual. (note to my city people: I need a new place to go. I'm obviously obsessed with that place and it's bound to drop off any day now. Throw a girl a tip!) I settled myself in with a whiskey sour, usually the first step towards a descent into matters kicking up a notch in ways both fun and bad. Sitting on my stool obviously signaled the start of the punk parade. I was feeling quite ringmasterish.

One man made the cornerstone mistake right off the bat: If you don't know me, don't touch me. He slithers up to me and gives me some sort of pinch before plopping himself in front of me with a doofy ass grin. Oh, hellllll no! I didn't really rip him a new asshole (though I was considering it), but did give all indications that he had fucked up before he even started and he went away soon after with a "why you gotta be like that?" I was reminded of a conversation I had earlier in the evening on the Manhattan-bound E. I was in the corner seat, minding my beeswax when two guys sat diagnally from me. Don't you just love it when a casual glance to a door is reinterpreted as "I'm looking at you and I'm hot for you, baby?" I sure fucking do...in that not sort of way. So, then one's looking at me and I look back to imply "what are you looking at?" and decides that we're gonna chat.

Fuck me with a brick. Whatever strange mystical pact I made with the devil to never be ignored by a man again, I'd like to renege. I'll give up the first and second borns and all will be good. I'm sick of it already.

To him, I was forcifully non-committal and I'll admit it, stepping on the rude side, but shit. After Thursday night, I don't care. I'm about to buy some Mace and start spraying fuckers when they give me the steak on a plate look. I'm just fucking tired of them feeling that I am supposed to be receptive -- and ultimately, their's -- just because I am a young woman in their sights. Fuck them. And I hope someone thinks the same of their sisters and daughters. I was especially annoyed when they wanted to turn the whole thing into "man, see I told you, dark skinned sisters don't give a dark brother no love. She probably is more into you because you're light and all." "Ah, man, that's fucked up! You only like light men?" I almost opened my mouth and said something, but then I was like, "you know what, if I'm not going to talk to him when he's hitting on me, I'm sure as fuck not going to rise to his calling out my judgement calls bait like this fucker knows me!" They got bored with themselves and shut up after a while and I was glad.

But, back to the 419 stage, I ended up in conversation with some Australians who were saying that they were in town for three days. I was dumbfounded because considering it takes two days roundtrip travel practically to get from here to there, the jetlag alone must be killer. I gave them a point when they revealed that it was a business trip. We were interrupted by a guy who was playing some hide and seek sort of game after tapping me on the shoulder. I gave him the eyebrow raise and the "what are you? an idiot?" bitchface which was too bad because he was actually cute. I make no exceptions for stupidity. My Aussie randoms were pretty trashed by the time they got to me and we discussed NYC life and where they could go to have brunch at either the place they do on Sex and The City or Seinfeld. I drew a blank on the SATC spot, but told them that the diner for Seinfeld was a shit long way to travel just for some food considering they were staying in Midtown.

The three of us ended up palling about. They bought me drinks, always a plus in my book. I talked to the guy who was hanging pretty close considering it was revealed he had a wife and child at home. Tsk, tsk. I entertained him with my "real stories" of people he pointed out. It was the turn of a guy in the middle of the floor was dressed in hipster thug gear, topped with a newsboy, actually getting down. I used my powers to deduce that he was dressing down for the weekend, but was super professional yet hip during the week, probably an artsy field but he was the number cruncher. The girl decided she had a thing for the guy. I, the intrepid icebreaker, said a few words to him and deduced he was French before turning it over. The Aussie guy and I hung back and I did a play by play based on the body language. He was initially interested, but Aussie girl played it too forcefully and he prickled and cut it all off. I love drunk people. Every conversation can end up being so dramatic. I played mediator, finding myself clicking with the guy and chatting about music and why he wasn't feeling my girl (in his words, "she's drunk and ugly and I'm not desperate." Harsh!) and I was strangely comforted that he reminded me of some of my old French friends from DC. She broke in with "I was just trying to tell you that you were cool, man. I wasn't hitting on you, I've got a boyfriend at home!" He scoffed in conceit and we kept chatting.

Circa 4:30, we found ourselves the only ones in the place and bounced. Aussies to their hotels cabbed it to their hotel, with the girl leaving with the parting shot, "Candice, you are so cool! You, Mr. Frenchie, are so not cool!" We were amused. He called on me to find an afterparty and I threw out an LES place I'd heard rumblings about. We got there to find nothing and stood on Delancey, shivering trying to plan out a next move. I lit his cigarette by pressing mine to it and he said, "That's a bit suggestive, eh?" To which I replied, "No, not really." Gotta love the impasse. He threw out there that was a big 419 visitor on Mondays and I replied that I was known for weekend visits. He said he lived in Battery Park City and I said I was in Queens. We parted at the Essex Street stop and I thought to myself as I strolled down the platform that I really wanted a double cheeseburger and I should rebrand myself as an international random magnet.

It was one of those weird nights.

I had discovered hours after the first nagging thought of my bag feeling empty that I left my wallet at home. No card to get money, which wasn't so bad. But also no ID, which potentially could have been. The advantage of being a bit jaded is that I breeze into many places. I've begun to think that they smell the fear/nervousness of the casual party people. I look confident and flash a smile, I breeze in. Or perhaps it's because I'm a woman. Do most rules apply to "cute" girls? I arrived at the site of the listening party I'd been stoked about most of the week after the open bar was over to find that swag time was over also. You win some, you lose some. I'd ordered up a water and chatted with my new friend, the bouncer. He gave me the scoop on the place and when it's worth bothering for. I thanked him and set off to my friends at Sapph. The life of a random magnet is never boring.

I've had a pain in my back for the past few days. It emanates from one of those hard to reach places -- below my neck, between my shoulders, most likely caused by too many nights (and days) hunched over the keyboard in my bad chair. It's a dull ache that makes me stretch in vain and feel disgruntled. I sat at the bar and ordered water while everyone tried their massage remedies to fix me. Nothing's worse for soreness than aggravating the injury further so I decided to call it a night. I took the A running through Second Avenue as a sign that I should roll into 416 and check the scene. I went. I saw. I left. Places can be slightly taxing when you're the only sober and achy person in the room.

My watch said 2:25, early for me. Necessity has caused me to make leaving into a science. The F train ride is 40 minutes and the E is about 50. Travelling so much has given me the knowledge that the best times to ride the train are before 1am or after 3am,. especially since the bus has a dead zone after 3:30 operating every hour. In that window of time, the snakes crawl out from under their rocks as my mother says. Or from my perspective, the drunks come out. The severely trashed/lightweights tend to stumble out of places between 1:30 and 3:00. A long train ride with a pack of rowdies is about as fun as a root canal. Tonight however, I just wasn't in the mood to waste another hour and change. Laziness led me to take the E train at 14th instead of taking the L/walking the 2 long ass blocks to the F. I hate that train late at night because the last stop is the nighttime hub for cabs in the neighborhood. They lie in wait at the top of the stairs: "Cab, darling, you need a cab" follows me in a chorus as I walk to the desolute bus stop where I wait and stare at the back of the darkened Bally's Gym. My last trip over there was treacherous with dark ice covering all paths around it. I had walked slowly and cautiously, still almost falling as I made my way onto the bus. I wasn't looking forward to being there.

I sat on a long bench in a quarter full car, leaving some space in between myself and the edge near the door. I noted I was the only woman in my car. At 42nd, a guy sat diagonal from me with his loud ass Discman, singing along to Biggie. He gave me the eye. I gave him the eyeroll.

At 57th, a guy plopped next to me in the space between me and the end of the bench. I wondered again about the lack of space respect of people. I wonder about that a lot. The bench next to mine was totally empty but the SOB just had to sit on top of me. Fucker. As time passed, I could feel him looking at me. My peripheral vision gave me the impression that he was looking at my bag and I held it closer to me. I entertained thoughts of him trying to steal my bag and me punching him in his head before smacking the shit out of him with my bag. Occasionally, I have violent daydreams of fucking people up. It's the remnants of the tomboy that had to be tough to navigate a lot of things. It's also this city. You've got to be on alert. Shit can happen at any time. Sad but true.

At Steinway St, I looked at my watch and let out a big sigh. Another reason to hate the stupid E was that it runs local all the way through Queens. It was 3 and I had a bus to catch in a half hour or else I'd be screwed. The man next to me decided to start chatting at me. Fuck. I hate it when that happens. I tried to be noncommital and politely ignoring him, but he couldn't take the hint. My monosyllabic, monotone responses and obvious disinterest only encouraged him. Shit.

After five minutes, I moved a few people spaces down the bench and hoped he would stop. No dice. "Can you leave me alone, please? I'm tired and don't feel like talking."

"I'm just trying to be nice. What's your name?"
"I don't give out my name."
"What? Why you gotta be all stank for?"
"I just don't want to talk." Stoneface. Resolve to be silent.

"Oh, you trying to act cute? You're ignoring me? Hey. Hey! Excuse me, Miss?" Silence. "Why you gotta be a bitch for? Oh, now you're just playing yourself!"
"No, you're playing yourself. You're the one who's still talking." Fucker was pissing me off. He can't take a fucking hint?! Made me have to put my bitch voice on.
"Why you gotta be all rude? You got a nasty attitude, you know that? You're acting like a real bitch!"
"I'll be a bitch. Then, if I'm a bitch, why are you still talking to me?" Moving farther down the bench. He follows. Other people vaguely look over. Roosevelt Avenue. Much of the car gets off and one man gets on and sits on the bench facing ours. I move all the way to the end of my bench and he's still follows. I really resolve not to talk and hope he'll give up on his mutters and get off soon.

He's boring a hole into the side of my head, but I resolve to look straight ahead and say nothing. He's still muttering at me and trying to get my attention. The man across from us is watching the tableau with his glassy drunken eyes, looking like if he moves, he'll vomit. Still, I see that he's vaguely concerned as his eyes dart between us. I share a glance with the man, but I wonder what he would do if something really happened. "Hey!" I look at the punk to my side, coldly. "You know I'm gonna fuck you up, right?"

Woodhaven Blvd. My breath catches in my throat but I refuse to let him see me crack. I stare straight ahead and he goes back to trying to get my attention. I momentarily wonders why he could possibly thing that after a threat, I'd be more instead of less likely to talk to him. I mentally kick myself for not choosing the conductor car since only 4 of us dot my end of the car and I refuse to look left to check who else is around. I put all my effort into praying that the man across does not leave. I entertain the thought of just getting off the train, but then I think of how he could follow me -- unless I time it so perfectly that the doors are closing -- and that the next train to come would make me miss my bus and I'd be better off just going back into Manhattan if I got off.

"You know you're a bitch, right? You're just a stupid bitch. You're a slut. You're a whore..."

I tune out his words and concentrate on staring straight ahead. I feel my eyes beginning to burn. 63rd Drive. That son of a bitch will not make me crack. I weigh the pros and cons of just punching the shit out of him. I mean, the threat was out there. If he wants to fight me, I'll give his ass a fight. I feel bloodlust welling up from somewhere deep inside. 67th Avenue.

71st - Continental. The platform has people milling about. I'm tempted to run and grab onto a conductor, but I'm scared that he'll follow. I'm starting to be more scared that he'll get off at Jamaica Center also and follow me from there. As if sent by God, the F pulls in across the platform. I simply stand up and leave. I turn back at him before the E doors close and he's looking at me like an impotent fucking idiot. I resist the urge to stick up my middle finger and yell "go fuck yourself, you pathetic asshole!" The E train doors close and it pulls away. I sit on the F observing the ratio of the car. Another woman stares back at me. I wonder if she ever gets scared on the train. I wipe away some tears that were trying to spill over and let out a big breath. I think it's the first time I've breathed in almost 10 minutes.

Parsons Blvd comes before I realize it and I step off. I practically run to the donut stand to tell my friend what happened as the bus pulls around the corner. 3:27. I say a quick goodbye and run across the street to the empty corner where no one is waiting to step on. It would figure that after all that shit I'd miss it. I'm not in the mood to take a chance.

3:41, I walk in my door. I see a kitty face peering around a corner and walk to my mom's room. "Mommy, I got threatened on the train." The story spills out in a big rush. "I should've hit him. I wish so bad I would've hit him. Fucker was just trying to intimidate me." The anger chokes me up. "Mommy, I need a hug."

You know what I saw yesterday? Only one of my favorite movies: Killer Klowns From Outer Space! Of course, it's a bad movie...but so bad that it's good unlike let's say, Mr. Deeds. Go rent that shit! Pure shlocky good times.

I've also got a few new favorite video shows: Monster Video Mix on MTV2 and We Are The 80s and Pop Show on VH1 Classics. On Monster Video Mix, they segued Right Thurr Remix into Ugly. It was ill. Keep that in mind, DJs. It's been all about the 80s on the other shows. I saw the video for Kool and the Gang, "Fresh" and Mary Jane Girls, "In My House." I was so excited I thought my brain was going to explode.

Digital cable is making me want to never leave the house again.

Animation fun courtesy of South Park Studios:



Let's pretend that beer is a whiskey sour and that police star is An Albatross button. The halo exists in real life, natch, along with the wild ass hair.

Every once in a while, I get completely blindsided with wanting to call people up and say "I just blah blah and thought of you so I called." But, of course, I don't because those are the bridges that have been razed with the locations burned and surrounding areas inhospitable.

Tonight, after stewing that I hadn't spotted myself in the Chappelle's Show audience (grr...), I was watching VH1 Classics and "C'est La Vie" came on. I was struck by a sudden surprising impulse to go to IM and say, "hey, Woof, fucking C'est La Vie! Is that the shit or what?" Woof, would be Woofie, former best of friends from high school. The pop culture connoisseur -- bordering on obsessive -- with whom I have many warm and fond memories of being a smart-ass and critic, tough girl, marshmellow, and always myself with over many years. But, we grew apart and different as years past and that relationship litters my past. Perhaps it sounds callous, but just because you miss someone and know you'll always have a lot of love for them in your heart doesn't mean they should be a part of your life.

I am constantly surprising myself by thinking of Mr. Sailor in strange times. For a long time, it hurt to do that. More than a year later, I have a lot of relics of him. Some of the pictures hang on my wall because I, usually averse to pictures, have so few with those kind of intensely radiant happy smiles. There's albums I loved when he was around that are forever linked to him: Mama's Gun, Hood Rich, In Search Of. For better or worse, that was the last time I put myself out there like that, so Saturday when I had that uncharacteristic heart to heart with Moon, he came up.

Then again, I think I'd be worried if I didn't have these memory flashes. I think it'd be on the scary side if I shut off the memory banks and pretended that people who were in my life for years or months or however long just ceased to matter once they are no longer actively in your life. Life definitely goes on, but your past is your foundation. As long as you're building on it and not letting it weigh you down, everyone has their place.

Serendipity is a wonderful thing.

More to come when I cease being as much of a slacker.

The weekend that just passed was one of those weekends that somewhat resembled me in the days before NYC morphed into Antarctica, but still reflecting my new-found whatever since the New Year has dawned.

I decided Thursday after blowing an interview out the park and getting my offer later that day that I needed to break out before getting sucked back into the exhausting up early-work, work, work-bed early, rinse and repeat cycle. I dragged my broke-ass, freezing carcass into the world and lighted on Sapph for the first time in a minute. Have I mentioned that I love the place again? A time away was just what I needed. That place is my home base. My friends are there and I can just drop in, shoot the shit and leave and that will be a full night. And I don't have to spend up all my money to do it. I've grown to love a few other places about town like 419 and Drum (it's all about the Saketini, man) but I'm tired of leaving there even more broke. Still, it's wonderful and rare to have a place you can really just go and chill. Adopt a bar/lounge, y'all!

The rest of the weekend was also on the out and about tip. The curiosity was killing me, so I ventured out in the single digits to check out the party Bill had pimped so thoroughly. Another cyber suggestion: Ms. Kittypower is a naturally intrepid sort -- distance permitting. Pimp anything enough on your site and I'll probably go just because I'll be intrigued. Especially since I'm destined to run into something amusing there and I love an adventure. Bill is 18 feet tall -- or perhaps I'm just short when real sized people enter the equation. I am average height after all, so for every 10 people I'm happy to tower over, there are the giants that make me feel like a child. And he apparently likes to play head games with his captive audience, so I was amused. I then went to 419, ignoring the screams of my ATM card, and set myself up in the corner to people watch.

Lately, the game that's been playing out is: Candice is the corner, minding her beeswax, and shorties (cute, eh?) trying to kick some shit or another to varying success. Sometimes I've got the play by play commentary running in my head. If it was a movie, there'd be Walt "Clyde" Frazier and Marv Albert at nearby table saying, "Ooh...that was a nasty block. Candice has got some good defense." "Yeah, she's been working on that game. She's created a brilliant strategy." "Ouch. Another brick. The offensive game is weak." "They forget they're going up against the best." (B-ball is on the brain. The men on the bus are losing their minds over the Knicks. 4 in a row, baby!) This one guy really got bent out of shape. He almost made me want to laugh at him. We had hardly gotten into it. It was still in the "blah blah cute girl how you doing tonight blah blah my game is weak blah blah" opening stages and when I was like "My name is Secret. I don't give it out," he got really frustrated and started to whine. Dude. Talk about losing even my goodwill points at the moment. He then sulked himself back over to what I'm gonna assume were his wing babes. Get a life, son!

Proving myself once again as a random magnet, I ended up a convo with a young fellow. We're leading the Asics revolution. Act like you know. He threw out heading around the corner to the one of the few boldfaced name places I had yet to go and I went along with a shrug. Boredom is a great motivator. I entered, I observed, we mingled and danced, I left. The lights are like seizure-inducing in that bitch. The design is tight and a kid loves some microhouse, but that's about all I can compliment.

The next night was back to Brooklyn at this party. En route, I received a call from Grandmastah H trying to get me somewhere uptown in Manhattan. Though my parameters have expanded somewhat, (train passage excluding) I don't do above Chelsea, so I demured with potential chill time later or another day. I got Moon out of the house and we had a fun girls' night time, dancing and such. I revealed my plans for a pre-birthday, Ultra Music Festival/Winter Music Conference Miami jaunt (23 will be live. Just letting you know.) and *cough* perhapsvisitingandsailingwithFarmerbutwhateverwe'rejustfriendssoblah. *cough* (Pesky cold.) and related issues. I capped off the night heading to GH's where we hung out and ordered food in (yay!) and watched Snatch (double yay!).

That's what this year is about so far: keeping it chill with my kids. Good deal.

Good. You know your music. You should be able to
work at Championship Vinyl with Rob, Dick and
Barry


Do You Know Your Music (Sorry MTV Generation I Doubt You Can Handle This One)
brought to you by Quizilla

[via Aeki Tuesday] That was too easy. I didn't even break a sweat. They need to bring back Rock N Roll Jeopardy so I can take on Mark McGrath. His ass will be blown out the water!

I had a musical hodgepodge weekend. I'm about to give everyone who browses the music page a major treat. The top 4 tracks on repeat over the past couple of days. Oh, do yourself a favor and go download that Bubba Sparxxx song from Tangmonkey [just discovered via Fluxblog]. It's the shit! And that Will.I.Am song here is aight too. It's just begging for a back to back play with "Hey Ya."

Apparently, 2004 is the Year of the Hiatus. So sorry, I shall try to do better.

Meanwhile, I landed myself a new gig just when the bank account hit critical point and I was beginning to feel my dreams spinning away from me. As part of the newfound "suck it up and deal" attitude, I attacked the job market with a mile spanning net, basically not giving a shit what it was (except for the "gentlesman's club seeking receptionist ad" perhaps. I gotta admit though, I did pause for a moment) as long as the pay was decent and I have workplace net access to complain on IM if it's too mind-numbing. I got into a groove where I made sending out resumes and interviewing into a science and finally I got the callback. Pay me a nice amount of money to sit around an office and do mostly no-brainer bullshit? Yes, please. I'll take a big helping. It's just a contract job -- how long exactly I'll find out on Tuesday, my first day. All I know is I now get to make the hour+ commute to the Financial District bright and early and I'm doing something related to insurance. It's all good as far as I'm concerned. It's a time and pockets padding job, not a career. It's all about the savings. And the new apartment. And the birthday festivities.

Slightly amusing, in that "isn't that a bitch?" sort of way is the fact that all of these other opportunities are coming out of the woodwork. If it would've been a week ago, I would've been totally stoked, but now that I've got the choice between yet another potential wild goose chase and a solid gig for the moment, I don't want to flake off and run. Bills do not pay themselves, you know? My approach is I'll send off my resumes to these new potentials and play it by ear from there. It's always great to know someone's thinking of you, even if the timing is kinda off.

Operation Resolutions is still mostly on track. It's all about the focus, man.

What Classic Movie Are You?

[via Effinchamp]

Some interesting events I've heard about via Friendsters. We know I love cheap ways to get out of the house, but I don't plan to steal the thunder from my go to sources:

I'm turning into a teenage girl. Here's a sample of what I've been watching lately: The O.C., Real World: San Diego, videos, As The World Turns. I'm turning into a TV fiend in general really. I caught Dead Presidents last night. That was some good shit. I never watched it all the way through before.

Is this what I can expect for 2004: sitting at home, stuffing my face and watching the boob tube? Someone needs to do an intervention!

I have buckled to the pressure of the silent visitors. I feel bad about all of y'all checking in with nothing to see. I've been resting my bones before starting Operation Rebuild, courtesy of a gym membership. I'm gonna be broken down and sore after tomorrow. On the flipside, it's gonna be cold as shit, so what do I need to go outside for anyways?

The Bush In 30 Seconds winners [via Abstract Dynamics because I truthfully forgot about it after mentioning it last time]. I think the winning ad might be a little too subtle. I mean, I got it, but isn't the nature of ads to make something memorable to catch your attention in 30 seconds? I barely remember that thing, but I can tell you all about that Army of One commercial with the guy who came from the USSR as a teenager and joined the army because he wanted to be different. And that is a problem. (But, don't mind me. I'm just honing my future advertising/PR "it's gotta pop!" speak.)

Sent to me by Grandmastah H. Reminds me of this site. What can I say? I'm sometimes easily amused.

New York Magazine is running a Best of Manhattan...erm, so sorry, New York poll. [via MemeFirst whom I would vote for as a Best New York blog of some kind if wasn't for the reasons that they
themselves put forth.] I suppose there's The Bloggies if the list wasn't about 100 categories long. Does anyone else think that there should be some sort of regional competitions leading up to the big one, Best American Blog? I mean, that is just a major title to bestow on sites that you love, but truthfully might not translate as well somewhere else. BUT, if I were to vote, I'd be casting my ballots for Abstract Dynamics (not only because we went to the same HS), Negro Please (not only because he linked me up on his list -- surprising me -- and is supposed to be sending me a CD), Bad Samaritan (just because dammit, it's interesting), Feministe (ditto), Negrophile (again) and P6 (because I'm amazed at all the information he pulls together).

On the off the wall side of life, man duped by 'bride' with false breasts [via Sex News Daily]. Truth is indeed stranger than fiction.

And everyone should go enter this contest. Cold hard cash for being marginally creative. Oh, if one of you wins, I'll be charging a finder's fee.

Ho hum. Tell me something I don't know.

Fuck a Bendel. That's why I don't go there anyways...even when I did have money. Then again, fuck a Post. What do they know about anything?

For the record, I'm about 5'5" and 155, a 10-12 depending on the store. Also, fuck a skinny because everyone else wants to be also. I've been a 6/8 over the age of puberty and I had a Skeletor face, visible ribs, and still a sizeable ass and thighs. In other words, I looked half dead and starving (but only from the waist up) and indeed I was. The NYC social world isn't the end all be all of the universe, or even America. I think if you ask most people, they rather see someone with meat on their bones. Ever been stabbed with sharp hipbones? I have and don't plan to repeat it, thanks. Bitches can starve if they want to, pass me the ice cream and the pie. I'd rather look like a this (with a better bra) than a that any day of the week. But, even with that said, I'm going to the gym. Like she said, the ass can't maintain itself. A girl's gotta do her squats.

And apparently obvious...along with "apparently"...wins the crown as my most overused word lately. Sheesh. I told you my brain was atrophying. You probably thought I was kidding, right?

Off to find synonyms or at least not be surprised/annoyed enough to have to state the...you know what.

In other news, new songs in the music section. If you don't know, now you know...

"All I have in this world is my balls and my word and I don't break them for no one."

As if it wasn't obvious, guess who was watching Scarface last night? Good fun. I've got to admit I had no idea that the "first you get the money, then you get the power, then you get the respect" line comes from there too. Sheesh. Somebody needs to make a new iconic movie (you know, how can it be?! And yes, I am being sarcastic), so they can stop pillaging this poor movie.

Anyhoo, my weekend in a nutshell: Spending the most time I have with school people since you know, I was in school. I still hate that pack shit as I did way back when frosh year. There's just no point for more than 5 people to have to go with each other anywhere. I'll meet you there or something. Don't crowd me. It was cold as a motherfucker, to state the obvious. Apparently the massive wave of Wes people brought the Connecticut winter with us. Oh so sorry!

I also seem to remind randoms at 419 of a black Dr. Judy or some shit. People kept asking me for sex advice/affirmation. I was like "WTF is up here?" A girl confessed to me her desire of a threesome with this hot ass guy and his not so hot girlfriend across the room. (For an aside: I gotta say, because I'm shallow, I think there's gotta be a looks balance in a relationship. Is it wrong to be with someone as good-looking as you realistically are? Perhaps it's just me. Then again, I follow that "guy" rule (according to Rudy Rush's jokes) of when I move on, all that matters is the next guy is hotter than the one before, just so I can point out that he is missing out. But, in fact, I don't really. Just once in a while I totally wish I could.) And there was the Canadian guy before who asked me randomly if he had anal sex with a girl (who he said was his boss, but that's another batch of apples) and ejaculated (to be somewhat proper) inside her, could she get pregnant. I've got to admit I was somewhat dismayed to learn that of all the things they've got in Canada, apparently health class isn't one. Type sad.

This weekend I also let out my closet buppie to see the light of day. I hung with R Thursday and I was fascinated by her Palm. Then, I got to thinking that one of those would be nice. But only the one with a little keyboard and the ability to check my email on the go. Then I became so obsessed that I was tracking auctions on Ebay and shit to get one. Thank God I was outbid. Almost got me.

*sing songy voice* I know where y'all work! I know where y'all work!

I'm glad to see I'm like a go to person for the definition of haterade. That's cool I guess. And someone needs to transcribe the lyrics to White Horse already. I don't have them, folks, but thanks for visiting.

(Confidential to whomever is searching for Shady related content: unless you are him, what's the deal? Confidential to a former college person: Jay-V and I both see you. Try linking directly, so it's at least less obvious.)

Yeah, I'm sitting around bored. Isn't it obvious?

Index Mag's interview archive has got some good shit. [via slatch via I.D. Flux]

Kill Bill Vol. 2 getting delayed! Boo! Hiss, hiss!

Camilo putting across the sadly true state of things today by exploring the theory of learned helplessness with a quote from Dave Pollard.

Learned Helplessness is now thought to play a role in such phenomena as depression and the failure of battered women to leave their husbands, but one could easily apply it more widely. We live in an age, after all, that is strangely fixated on the idea of helplessness: we're fascinated by hurricanes and terrorist acts and epidemics like SARS -- situations in which we feel powerless to affect our own destiny. In fact, the risks posed to life and limb by forces outside our control are dwarfed by the factors we can control. Our fixation with helplessness distorts our perceptions of risk.

Thus, when somebody else sues a company for making them fat, or lazy, they are being just a blatant example of what the society in which they live is: a bunch of serfs, lacking control over their lives, decisions, attitudes.
And the ones buying SUVs? Not even regaining control: They are being the most frightened of the bunch, getting a big car because they are afraid of everything: This is evident not only in the car industry, but in the pharmaceutics, diet, fitness, coaching and dating industries, to name but a few.
Everything has been decided for you: we know who you should talk to, how, when. We decide whether your pictures can be good, what to say, what to wear. We tell you that it is impossible to lose weight unless you subscribe to our own way of doing so, and of course you can not get a fulfilling job unless you agree to buy our enrichment tapes.

A microwave/toaster combo machine in this week's Best Bets. Sounds like a new place gadget to me!

The results from this Chicago area sexuality study are quite interesting. Not especially surprising, then again, but you know how those things work.

A fascinating post from Ms. Lauren. Definitely putting the whole kids thing even more in question -- not that I'm sure I was really considering it, besides the vain, "I know what I might name them" sort of way.

And, go New Jersey! [via P6]

The Candicissima challenge: I dare anyone to listen to Extinguished Track 1 and not press repeat at the end. That CD will never leave my stereo. Also on repeat are: "Don't start no shit, it won't be no shit!" and "He owns a black hat like I own/A black suit and a cane like my own"

So, apparently there's some show or something tonight. I keep reading about it in the paper and stuff. Holler-something or another? I keep seeing in the papers and everything. What I found notable about it was link browsing as I'm prone to do. One of the DJs spinning made this mix a few years back and track one is "Centipede." Fucking Rebbie Jackson. That song is the shit. Now, I would much rather have somebody playing that than the standby old MJ songs that people like to spin. "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough" and "Billy Jean" play, watch the hipsters "dance," watch Candicissima roll her eyes and snore.

Oh, and the "Part Time Lover, Full Time Hater" shirt (by Plain Gravy, scroll scroll scroll):

is another birthday present hope. Yeah, it's sold out. But one of you kids has got to be the crafty type.

And amusingly enough, my neighbor is on an Eminem Show and Dr. Dre 2001 jag. I just heard my 2001 fave song, "Let's Get High."

Last night I basically hit the breaking point. I found myself feeling restless after hanging with R and went back to 419 as I'm known to do. I plopped myself downstairs on a stool, literally put my head on my hand and proceeded to people watch, hoping to just chill out before heading off home. But, it was really just a stream of punks all taking their chance. Am I the crazy one? Is it really just naive for a woman to want to be somewhere and just mind her fucking business? Sheesh.

But for the record, even with the bitch face on, I'm not unnecessarily straight up non-receptive to chatting. I like random chatter. I'm a random magnet, I can't help it. I just hate the stupid things men say/do in pursuit. For example, slithering up like a snake (well that's what it looks like), approaching from the side, stupid leers, or lame pickup sounding conversation starters are bound for the smackdown. Just realize it. Humor is always a plus. I mean, is it really that surprising that a woman will be on her guard? I just don't get them.

Anyways, bored on the train ride home, I composed a slight verse. I'm no rapper by far, but I might perform this one as a party favor. It sums it all up so well...

As seen in Jay-V's member info:

"So maybe I just want a 'friend love.' The kind of love between two buddies that can include my mouth on their parts."

Strangely, I'm focused about these resolutions. Then again, it's only been 2004 for a week. I'm sure I'll lose my steam soon enough.

In the meantime, by a strange combination of fate and moxie, I've lined up three interviews for tomorrow. I'm semi-scared shitless by the prospect. Not because I might be that much closer to having something amazing, but because I fear the super intensive sessions that I'm told to expect going from person to person x 3 will wear me out. Then again, I feel pretty confident for a change. They say clothes make the wo(man) and I've just bought a spanking new suit that I love. I'm off to iron my hair into that limp textureless style that occasionally makes people feel at ease. I've been doing company research and taking notes. I'm not fucking around. Resolution #3 in full effect.

On my quest to be a Nerve blogger, I've realized a few things: a) I don't date and presently lack the initiative to do so. b) The pickings, despite spanning just about every read site out there, are slim as fuck. So, ixnay on that idea after I made a good honest effort before realizing that I just can't bring myself to do it. Besides, I'm getting a heap of annoying winks and my worst case scenario future vision is imagining that it would get a lot worse if I was especially visible on there.

I also kinda hate guys right now. Well, to clarify, I hate the guys that apparently are interested in me. Previously when I mentioned this, I was stoked because I'd received two responses before I barely finished reactivating my profile. Fast forward almost three weeks later, one of those is a flake (who I've since discovered is no more than 2 degrees away from me on Friendster. That fucking site makes my world smaller and smaller every day) and the other was slightly obsessive calling me all the time. I hate that shit...referring to both.

I think all of this goes back to spending so much time with Farmer lately. That wild and crazy rollercoaster ride evolved into something warm and comfortable. He's like a neo-Tino or something, also just about as far as you can get from NYC right now. It all changed partly because of a secret New Year's resolution I told him and because sometimes kids just want to sit down and chill.

2004 is all about streamlining. I don't need no dead weight.

This week's Life As A Loser poignantly touching on two things I know well: temping and working at a doctor's office.

I think somewhere within the party rockin' and the sort of turntabalist genre or field--whatever you want to call it--if you're talking about throwing a party and you want people to dance and you want people to have a good time you have to create an ambience an aura. The DJs who do that best are the ones that know how to mix and program with finesse. The sound they put together makes senses--kinda flawless. There's a certain mother-like touch. You know what I mean? Leaving you like you had a home cooked meal in the morning that only your mama could make.

The po-mo title generator [via Aeki Tuesday, Feministe, Negro Please, and everyone else around) amused me greatly. I could totally write:

Candicissima Desiring Homosociality: Kitty Power and the Periphery of Authority

The Random Marginalizing The Alien: Candicissima, Kitty Power and Corporeality

Random Marginalia and the Object of Resistant Notions in Candicissima's Kitty Power

Identity as Margins: Desiring Fragmented Territories in Candicissima's Kitty Power

Memory as Materialism: Tracing Problematic Epistemology in Candicissima's Kitty Power

Go check out the finalists for Bush in 30 Seconds. And if you can afford to go to the showandget a good seat, I just want to let you know that I'm looking for a patron. And I'm only halfway kidding.

It's lovely when people you knew are making it big time. Go Greg! He and his bands are blowing up!

Oh, and the Kitty Power stance on Twitney's wedding: Fuck her. Fuck that no-talent waste of air and space. "Her ex-husband speaks." Fuck that idiot too. And major word to the thoughts of Jason and so many.

It's always interesting to see people freak out on the street. In the "Oh my God, I'm so excited!" way, not the "I'm a lunatic about to kill everyone in my sight" way natch. On the bus and the train, people (mainly: guys) were chattering excitedly to everyone in sight, "Did you hear? They got Marbury and Penny!" which would start a whole new round of conversations complete with stats and "Isiah's the man!"s.

I almost got swept up in the fever but then I realized that I've fallen off with basketball in a major way. I was a serious tomboy growing up, choosing ball over double dutch in elementary school and playing as a Lady Hawk in HS for a season until I remembered that I wasn't a real team spirit sort of girl. My chorus used to go to a few Knick games a season since we would sing the national anthem every once in a while. I was never a hardcore stat quoter, but I knew the team and loved watching games. Nothing kills that in you like going to the woods for a few years and giving up TV watching for the wonders of the net.

But, suddenly my team and basketball are looking a lot more interesting. Go Knicks!

...so I said I wasn't going to write for a while. Sue me. It's one of those things where if I can make a little time for it once, I can do it again soon after. You know because I'm addicted to my computer and all.

My experience with Speakerboxxx/The Love Below has been basically all backwards. I hadn't heard more than a few notes from either (or rather, on "The Way You Move" and "Hey Ya" only out and about at Sapph) until I found myself in Williamsburg with a random the morning after Halloween listening to the Andre side insisting "Hey Ya" was on repeat. I got a soft spot for that side after that. Besides, I wasn't crazy about "The Way You Move" anyways.

I remember the first time I saw the video. I think my jaw dropped when I saw the main woman. I don't know her but I'm in love with her. I've talked about her a lot as I've seen it more and more. I remember sitting with Russ, Lina, Moon, and others after dinner watching TV and marvelling that you just don't see women looking like her much on TV. I speak glowingly of her, exclaiming "that bitch is stacked!" like I just stepped out of a blaxploitation flick. Then again, what do you expect from someone whose fave t-shirt has Blacula and his vampire hoes pictured on front? All I've gotta say is god bless her. That's a woman with good old Southern ass and thighs that another woman genetically predisposed to look about the same can appreciate. She makes me want to go get some food from the country kitchen or something. The missing resolution is to look like because she's my hero. And I love that song because of her.

And I'm really just a pig in girl's clothing. Back to my hole.

...but I've got to add: 5'2"?!?! They must have some crazy camera angles in that video and/or she's wearing like 6 inch heels. Plus she's an CFO. Can I be her when I grow up -- just like taller and stuff? And this message board is comedy gold!

Happy New Year!

I'm feeling like I've got nothing to blog about or the urge yet, so I'm staying away. I haven't been doing anything but watching movies and sleeping and Farmer on his last days in town has been indulging me. I suppose that might be slightly worrysome on the surface, but I'm apparently rated PG in the year 2004. I've reinvented myself as boring...for a while at least. Bill might try and pick up the slack. Resolution #11 in full effect! I should be back in form next week when the man is gone.

And for clarification, "the" is not a code word for "my."