February 2004 Archives

Bally's has tried to screw me. I've spent all afternoon on the phone with people in California, doing everything but crying and cursing. They're determined to take $53.51 per month from me to go towards a place I haven't stepped foot in since I left feeling hoodwinked. Fuck them. They'll get money over my dead body.

Meanwhile, I've filed a complaint with their company, the New York State Attorney General, the Better Business Bureau and instructed my bank that if they try to get money from my account they can basically fuck off. Grr. I should sue. Or at least write something about it. But, they can kiss my ass for sure.

I've got a supremely love/hate relationship with whiskey. I give it props because it swayed a hardcore vodka and gin drinker over to the dark side through stealth maneuvers. Overall though, our relationship is quite hit or miss.

Last night, Lina brought me out to an event blessed with an open bar. She's of the hardcore variety and drinks Maker's straight up. I'm still rocking the Highball and w sours because I try to comfort my poor liver in little ways. I love whiskey because I find it hard to take myself too seriously after just one. After last night's four, I was a social creature in majorly full effect. I socialized with some new unknown to me college folks and had a great time. This morning however, I remembered why I usually drink the whiskey in moderation.

8:30 my eyes popped open. The room was blurry and spinning, a strange and neat trick hard to understand unless you've experienced it. I got up and drank some juice -- about two glasses -- and was still thirsty. I also had the inability to go back to sleep. I laid in the bed, head pounding for about two hours before getting up to consider turning on the computer. The second I sat in the chair, my head started thumping beyond belief and that room did a little spin too. I reconsidered and went back to bed where I decided to just lay really still and eventually I'd fall asleep -- or just die, both looked like fun possibilities.

Hours later, I still hurt. I've done nothing all day, though I should've been out the house a while ago. I'm in dire need of my hangover helper -- a nice big meal of fat and grease. And people are inviting me out for free drinks again tonight. *whimper* Pray for me.

I feel myself standing on the verge.

Now that's one of those feelings I've had for about six months or so, but right now seems...different. I've been calling myself a professional interviewer lately because I've been suiting up, gathering cards, and selling the goods I'm offering nonstop. I've learned what works, what doesn't, how to effectively big myself, what to mention, the right responses to questions. I'm miles away from where I was when I started doing this because I thought I should just because. I've got a goal and I have to do what I can to achieve it. It's like going into battle and planning the offensive. My fellow comrades and I are trading tactics and helping each other prepare. We're really not fucking around.

Kicking myself into gear has killed some of the stagnation I've felt -- as well as my blogging time. I've been downright single minded lately. I don't even relax like I used to. All I can think right now is that I want something to celebrate at my party besides just another year into adulthood. I want there to be big changes in my life and I can visualize them so clearly that I'm almost living it. Initiative is the name of the game right now.

I was amazed to find myself panicky and nervous. My heart was pounding a mile a minute, my head felt hot, my mouth dry, my hands cold. I stared at the number, trying to will myself into a Kill Bill situation. "Pick up the phone and dial."

I used to -- well, I still do -- spend a lot of time thinking about things like power dynamics. Saturday night on the way home, I stopped at the donut shop near the corner I catch the bus to talk with my friend there. He and I got into a convo about my cooking skills, or lack thereof. He was making the argument so many like to "you don't cook? What's your husband going to say about that? How are you going to find a husband if you don't cook?" I replied with a sardonic: "men know how to cook nowadays too. Being the house cook isn't really in the marriage contract or anything." I took it a step further and said that I wanted a house husband to cook, clean, and take care of the kids and home while I worked. I mean, why the fuck not? (But, in actuality, marriage should be partnership yadda yadda it's no one's job to do domestic stuff yadda yadda it's a household chore for everyone yadda yadda. Anyways...) I have little to no interest in those traditional type things right now anyways. A Rules girl I am most definitely not.

I've found it interesting lately the trend of guys giving me their numbers instead of vice versa. I suppose it follows though considering my "persona" is the enigmatic woman. As a random magnet, people feel comfortable talking to me and guys seem to volunteer info, so when we part ways, I know more about them than they do me. I suppose that throws me into the dominant role. If I actually was the type to get off on that shit. "Ooh...I have the power! Bow before me, you small man!" That's stupid. I don't really see how subverting the dominant narrative is doing anything but reinforcing it as a model of how things should be. I don't think that in relationships there necessarily has to be someone on top. Even in a sexual sense, there's no fun in one person always being the #1.

Besides, as the one with the number, it makes me feel semi-pressured. Sometimes I feel there's even rules involved to not following rules. Where does "too eager" stop and "apparently not interested enough" begin? There's always the fear that they won't remember you, that they're a two-timing sack of shit with a live-in girl who could answer the phone, that they never respond to your response, that they were really interested in the first place, that you didn't really like them at all in retropect, or that things go well until a disastrous meeting. Just pressure. You're making yourself so vulnerable through those wires. I believe the initial contact is more nerve shattering than actual dating can ever be.

But, I made the call and I was warmed by his surprise. A 45-minute call on the first try. It was totally comfortable and effortless. I do like a talker. It puts me in good company. What's next? Who knows? I'm taking the most careful little baby steps. Just trying to stay balanced.

This weekend, I ended my self-imposed exile and I danced! Oh, dancing I've missed you! You sure are fun.

I can't really say what caused the shift, but it was fun being back out there enjoying myself again. A lot things have been kinda unstable right now. To say the job thing has been driving me nuts is the understatement of the year. Still, Thursday evening I basically accepted the issue as buried for the weekend and set about to have a good time. It was nice having the weather be a little warmer for a change plus it's getting darker later. The little things have done wonders for my disposition. Come on, Spring, we're waiting! I'm opting out of the Miami trip -- semi-unfortunately, just when I found out that some party friends are going to be doing it up. I'm trying to be practical in my approaching old age. Especially since with Farmer not going, it's a trip I really can't afford. Instead, I might be taking a family trip with Mr. Daddy and the little brother. A change of scenery will be nice.

I've adopted two new drinks of choice to greet the approaching seasonal change: the Highball and a glass of Porto. And yes, you can note that my tune has significantly changed on whiskey over the past months. People change. Sue me. I think drinking these is a way of getting comfortable with getting older. I certainly felt sophisticated in 419 drinking my port in the little glasses. Or it can just be another indication of being high maintenance as a random I chatted with one night a while ago called me. He offered to buy another of what I was drinking and I replied it was a Bacardi and pineapple juice. He was all, "wow...you must be high maintenance! I didn't even know they had pineapple juice at bars!" Then again, I didn't take him especially seriously. What's a girl supposed to drink? Long Island Iced Teas? Oh, sorry, I have a liquor pallette and don't just drink to get drunk. I do need to work on that. Anyways, a partially amusing episode was in Sea World for Jay-V's party. I ordered a highball and the bartender's response was "what the hell is that?" I rolled my eyes and said "Jack and ginger." She and I laughed about me mistaking him for someone who was there to mix all sorts of drinks. My bad.

Sea World sucked. I have to admit I've heard a lot about the place and I've wanted to check it out for a while now. Hani warned me that the mermaid thing wasn't really that much to write home about and he was right. Making the whole thing worse was the fact the place was actually crawling with Wes kids. That in itself shouldn't have been too surprising since one was the DJ and two others were promoters, but it was just a little too much for me. Hopefuly, getting the deluge will mean I have a low sighting level from now on. I was disturbed by the fact the place was about 80 degrees which wouldn't have bothered me if I wasn't wearing a blazer and this like six strand metal necklace. Perhaps it was the "hey, it's cold out there, but Bermuda in here!" weekend because 419 was uncomfortably warm Friday too.

Fun for me was hanging out at the Sea World bar when this random guy came up to Jay and said: "I just came over to let you know that I noticed you noticing me from across the room." We all looked at each other like "WTF?" and I had the hardest time restraining myself from laughing. Pure comedy. My bemused expression was caught by his friend and we got to talking. Funny and sharp kid. I smell potential, folks. I haven't thought that in forever. Unlike the case of 419 guy who fit The Mold of most of those I always like in a grittier and hotter package, I think I actually will call this time. I always choose substance over style when it really counts.

And I gotta add: "I'm Rick James, bitch! This is a celebration!"

I'm wishing the merriest of birthdays to Jay-V, partner in crime for 4.5 years and counting. The soon-to-be recipient of a fun party and presents galore. I'll be joining you at 23 real soon.

Hello there. So sorry again.

I've been busy watch VH1 Classics, feeling sorry for myself, planning my birthday party, helping to plan Jay-V's, feeling sorry for myself, interviewing, planning some trips, feeling poor and feeling sorry for myself. Not necessarily in that order. I've also been mostly staying in. Imagine that.

So, I've just cruised through the worst of a slump and now I'm on an upswing. Expect postings come fast furious from now until I go mobile a few times in the upcoming weeks. The birthday evite has been sent. If I forgot you and that's totally possible, send a note. And be sure to browse that wish list (and get me something, fuckers! *ahem* kidding...slightly).

This morning I felt like I had to face the firing squad. Everyone's running around because the issue is closing today, but that wasn't even what was bothering me. What did was having to walk through the row of desks in order to drop something off to the editor's office. My heart was racing just thinking about having to do it. I forced myself to get out of the seat and put one foot in front of the other and I got myself around the corner and partially down that aisle until the blank stares of the desk inhabitants turned me around. I practically ran back to my chair, palms sweating and feeling ridiculous.

Believe it or not, I can be painfully shy. I enter new situations as a shadow, loitering on the outskirts until I've acclimated myself to the surroundings enough to venture off the wall tentatively. Making the situation harder is that I'm also an inherently social person which makes things weird. Once I get going, it's golden. I've found that the blog has hindered and helped that dichotomy slightly. Write so much about various exploits or whatever that I think sometimes the impression is given that I'm some sort of social dynamo, rocketing about town like a powerhouse. Eh, not really. It's not my nature. I'm an observer, a commentator, a recorder whether I'm in the mix or not. My thing isn't really being the center of attention. Most of my stories involve me on the sidelines before getting swept up into something due a mix of fate, the randomness of strangers, and/or an experimental movement on my part. It's what works for me. It makes meeting blog-related people interesting because I'm sure they don't quite expect me to geek out and talk about bandwidth or stand in the corner and steadfastly refuse to dance. *shrug* But, that's me sometimes. I can't really help it.

Regardless, a few deep breaths later, I had to suck it up and deal here on the work front. I stood up, set myself into train mode and made my way to the office. I dropped the info the editor needed and he was totally impressed. The brownie points almost made the whole thing worth it.

And in other news, firm handshakes are overrated, especially since people take that as their cue to squeeze a little too much. People, I've got little hands, try not to break 'em, if you please.

I've said before where I live: lovely, lovely South Jamaica. I spent most of my formative years in East New York, so most things here don't surprise me or alarm me that much. Packs roaming the streets or chilling on the corners or in front of stores, whatever. The possible hookers next door, ho hum. Middletown and the array of crackheads trolling Main Street bothered more in actuality. Especially since Rochdale looms across the street. It's like a Starrett City or Co-op City, with the same misfortunate of being practically located in a wasteland, but at least it's quiet. The first and last time Farmer swung by this way, he made some disparaging comment about not knowing that I lived across from the projects. I bite my tongue on replying that I didn't know I was with a dumb white motherfucker either, so I could guess we were even. Being that projects aren't a Jamaica phenomenon, you'd think someone would know when they're not seeing some on sight.

Anyways, my still bleary eyed net travels were interrupted by Ms. Mommy tearing in the room, asking me if I heard what happened while she was away. I answered in the negative and she relayed the story she read in the paper. I supplemented it online. It's fucking sad. That restaurant is barely half a block from my house and I saw that guy all the time. Things like that make you lose faith in your surroundings, in the goodness of people, in your security. I go about this neighborhood -- or at least, my two block radius -- like a ghost. It's my dumping ground, where I lay my head, where my mom lives, but I could care less about the place because it's not where I want to be. And that's a problem. Neighborhoods should ideally be communities where people know each other and people aren't going wild because they can do whatever they want in other people's self-preserving disinterest. The worst part is that the monsters who would do such a thing were kids. I hated reading how what a devoted family the murdering fucker whose apartment was the scene of the crime. Where the fuck were they when the place was being turned into a bloodbath? Where were the neighbors when that kid was probably screaming?

This story just depresses the shit out of me, especially since I've been reading about the infamous neighbors just minding their own business murder and the "broken windows" theory in the midst of a story about someone wanting to make a change. It motivates me to make a move since I'm not remotely attached to this place considering how far out of the way it is for me plus it's not even my home borough. I hate Queens. I've said it. I always have. Fake ass suburban out of the way place. That's what it's always been. Even the "cool" parts are wack. It's the place to be for families and those building a life, but if you're over the age of 16 and under 45, there's basically nothing here. People who live out this way have dead eyes. It gives me the creeps. But, that's a tangent. I think of this as the flame to get my ass in gear and out of dodge turned up that much higher.

I showed up bright and early to a familiar building, new floor. For two days, I'm contracted to run around, look sharp, answer phones, and suck up like my life depends on it (well, it does) to get stellar marks and if Fate would perhaps smile upon a poor hopeful soul, hired as an editorial assistant at this magazine. But, even if I don't, I've already got an awesome story.

Scene: Young Candicissima at her subbing station, eating her healthy lunch of grilled chicken and pasta from the Cafeteria (where they throw down for real. Money can buy you some good ass food). Suddenly, the phone rings and she contemplates whether or not to interrupt her lunch break to answer. Duty pulls her and she does.

Candicissima: Hello, blah blah's desk.
The Woman: Hello, this is Blahbitty Blah, one of the first supermodels and author of Such and Such: My Memoir of Wild Excess and Such yadda yadda yadda
Candicissima's brain: Overload. Brain exploding in 3...2....1.
Candicissima: *quietly when she's in a lull in the full press talk* Oh yes, I know you. And I've enjoyed you on (that model show)
The Woman: Oh that...I wish I would've never signed up for that. But, thanks! Yadda yadda crazy speak. I've got a new book coming out in April. I want one of those sexy woman profiles in the magazine. My butt hasn't hit the ground yet! I hope you can find some space for me.
Candicissima's Brain: Oh, I'm sorry. You seem to have mistaken me for a real editor. Oh you, what an easy mistake to make!
Candicissima: *scribbling notes furiously* Uh-huh.
The Woman: Yadda yadda. Call the publisher contact to set that up. Gotta make the money, I am a single mother and all. Yadda yadda more crazy talk. What's your name again? I'll send you a copy of the book.
Candicissima's Brain: Like addressed to me and stuff? Dude...
Candicissima: Candice Nassapeemapedalon*
The Woman: Will do! I love your voice! I love your name! Take my number down *stream of numbers too fast to process*
Candicissima's Brain: I'm exploding again! Aurgh!
Candicissima: Umm...could you repeat that number for me? *She does in a sensible manner* Thanks. I'll pass the message along.
The Woman: Thank you. Have a great day!
Candicissima: Thanks! You too!

Candicissima counts to 5 before furiously IMing everyone.

And then later a guy called from the White House and some guy wanted to talk to the editor about his interview with the rock musician Jay is currently loving to hate. Does anyone have any spells that could come in handy? I neeeed this job. Can I also get a "squee!!!" from the peanut gallery because she's every bit as crazy and fierce as she is on TV? Best. Day.Ever! Also, I'm slightly buoyed by the fact that my cell phone is ringing off the hook on the day I'm not going to pick it up.

* Of course that isn't really my last name. It's an old HS private joke. Did you really think I would say? Do I strike you as insane or something?

I was all ready to write a post about how I'm going through a shitty patch of luck work wise and how I was contemplating simply running away to a beach and at least be poor and warm. But, then things just ended up looking up at my most tired and discouraged. I guess I'm lucky even without my missing lucky earring. For now at least. I'm just gonna ride this one out.

Imagine my joy when I opened my mailbox to find a Man Man EP from Ace Fu (thanks, Kate!) plus a mix from Alex, my boy of the hardest working band in Portugal. His mix contains tracks from the Sam The Kid album, Beat Vol 1: Amor. Alex writes that he's a "Portuguese DJ who made this album from his parent's old record collection. It is supposed to be their story (how they met, fell in love, etc.)" It's supposedly reminiscent of Prefuse. I can't wait to break it open. New music is golden.

AllHipHop.com today lets me know that the smackdown laid on The Grey Album (It's all Crazy Michael Jackson's fault.) and explains further that video shoot incident that I think I actually observed in action as I had my marathon day (and Bang Em Smurf is officially the stupidest stage name I've ever heard. Dude is asking for riducule. Yeah, that name really inspires confidence in his skills. Maybe I'll name myself Killa Kare Bear or something).

And because they're playing it everytime I go out, Usher's new song is officially stuck in my brain. Lil Jon has replaced the Neptunes as producer(s) most likely to get me dancing. Oh, and it was only fitting since my opinion of the darling boy Kanye isn't that high, that the release party would have me bored to tears. I was more entertained by Claudia saying: "where's the hootchies at? I thought there would be more here. I want some hootchies!" and the guy who said to her: "it's okay if you've got a boyfriend, I'm not jealous." Wonderful. But, it's always a blast running into Jenny. Lady in red was smoking! *catcall*

My pick for the funniest part of the Pazz & Jop critics riffing portion:

Who put that crunk in my trunk? Well I'll be dipped and dunked like a deep-fried skunk. Hey, does New York even make rap music anymore? Ha ha, just kidding. Don't shoot. But it is kinda hard to remember. Come to think of it, I'll listen to just about anything that takes my mind off that mumblemouth Fiddy Cent and his soggy bottom boyz.

SCOTT SEWARD
Tisbury, Massachusetts

I've found the dancing song perfect for people with no rhythm: Vanity 6, "Drive Me Wild." (And shit because I'm all nice and crap, I'll put up the regular and extended versions up for download this week.) That song was obviously written by someone tweaked out of their fucking mind. I was watching We Love The 80s! and my ears got grabbed by this super weird song coming out the speakers. The video was pretty bugged too. The best dance I can manage to it is the bounce shuffle, underwater style. I think the best dancer in the world would be reduced to helplessness with this one unless they break into some really out there robotics.

Damn. Does this now mean that I'm gonna have to be tortured with this song everywhere I go now? At least I can laugh more at the dance attempts I guess, to end on a sunny note.

Also on my Kazaa adventure, I found a dope "Nasty Girl" remix. Now that's a song I wouldn't mind hearing more out and about. That and "Centipede" still. Plus Klymaxx...I've been watching too much Bands Reunited. Someone needs to throw an 80s funk party. If I can supply my own music for my birthday party, that shit is on.

I don't even like video games (I dropped off somewhere around an Atari 7800), but color me there:

"Blip" at the American Museum of the Moving Image, 35th Ave. and 36 St. in Astoria, Now until April 25th, 2004.

Blip features ten playable arcade games: Asteroids (1979), Centipede (1981), Defender (1980), Donkey Kong (1981), Missile Command (1980), Ms. Pac-Man (1982), Space War (1978), Tempest (1981), Tron (1982), and Zaxxon (1981).

Three tokens are provided free with Museum admission. Additional tokens may be purchased for 25 cents each.

With all the Kanye adoration going around, it's nice to find someone who shares me perspective:

that song he has with jamie foxx has to be one of the worst songs ever…but the reason the song is so insidious is because it’s a ninja song…it sneaks up on you, and before you can realize how bad it is, you already know all the words…its tricky like that. its like, you are listening to the song, and you are all, “jamie foxx sounds like a better singer when he is imitating real singers” and you are all “this really sucks, why is bubba gump kanye trying to sing? this is a joke, right? this must be a novelty song…” and then you are still listening, and all of a sudden, you go, “well, I do like marvin gaye…minnie ripperton is hot…oh shit, he mentioned ready for the world, that’s my shit!” and as soon as you do, you start thinking about how good those artists are, and you forget how absolutely atrocious the current song is.

Speaking of swag, Kitty Power loves Kate at Ace Fu. She let me know that a new Man Man is forthcoming. Kitty Power loves Man Man. I've got the t-shirt.

An early Valentine's gift from Abe to his readers. How sweet is that? I can't even always remember to post! Which is reminded me that day is fast approaching. *yawn* It's one of those holidays not worth getting worked up about. Show your love 365 (or 366, this leap year), not just on the most commercialized day of the year. I'll be blissfully single for the 22nd time, but feeling the love from all corners. I'm crafty sort, I'm sure I'll find an ace.

I've mentioned before the big technical problems induced post hiatus that I got the number of the guy that might as well have a "For Candice" sign around his neck. Did I call him? No. I was busy...doing shit, man, sleeping and stuff. Life was hectic last week. Now, of course, I know if the situation was reversed and I gave a guy my number and he didn't call after a week, I'd be totally heated. Oh wait, what am I saying? I probably wouldn't care at all. I've had them call me and never called back. Is there really any curiosity about why I'm single? The middle S is for Sabotage.

Calling me out of the blue Saturday night was Farmer. Ho hum. At least last week, I smiled like a maniac for a good 10 minutes after speaking to him. This time, I was just whatever. I'm so fickle. It really is a shame.

The mystery of the world has to be though, the guy who when I said I'm not a touchy person accepted that, but thought it was okay to try and shove his tongue down my throat. Does not compute, right? Or am I the crazy one in that episode?

A toy, every girl must have a toy
The way it make you feel
Every girl has a toy now, baby!

My song of the weekend. Love it! Favorite line is without a doubt: "And when you leave, make sure you don't slam the door because you'll fuck up my concentration." The porn funk groove doesn't hurt either. Holla!

But that's not was inevitable (that shit ain't nothing new, nah mean?), that would be feeling like I was in a rap video. Friday night I was chilling in a VIP room downtown, bored with the whole scene yet throwing up the glasses of champagne (Veuve, if you must know) and dancing on the banquette and shit. I felt like a broke Nicole Ritchie (without that nasty habit, natch). I even got a Wes shoutout from that ubiquitous fellow alum DJ. Not that mofo who was on the mag and had his mug on Chappelle's Show the other week, the one who actually really moves and shakes. I can see the appeal in something like that I guess. It's very attractive when someone else is buying, no doubt.

I've been taking the J train lately. It just dawned on my recently that it makes more sense to take that diagonal swatch across Brooklyn and Queens than to take the roundabout travels through most of Queens and Manhattan of the E and F. Especially since it takes me right to downtown where I want to be. The homestretch of crossing the Williamsburg has to be one of the best views in the city. You've got most of the Manhattan famous skyline in front of you plus views into the lofts and buildings along side the tracks in Brooklyn, the sky-high projects in the LES, traffic crossing the bridge. That is New York. All of these people crammed into a small area, lights in their homes illuminating their lives to the outside world. It never fails as all of this is spilling out before me to have "The World Is Yours" reverberating in my brain. The world is mine. I'm gonna conquer that shit.

Meanwhile, I'm heavily in shadow mode right now, plotting and planning. Number one thing weighing on my mind is not having two cents to rub together to pay what needs to be paid. I'm tired of endlessly sowing. I'm ready for the harvest like yesterday. I feel kinda stuck between doing what I love, taking a chance to really apply myself as an "artist" and develop and suffer and do what I need to do to make that life successful and wanting security and being comfortable and not wanting even if something is stifled in me. Right now, I choose the sensible path. It's not too late to change my mind later.

I'm so preoccupied with being pissed that I lost one of my favorite earrings. Don't you hate it when you realize something was your lucky charm when you lose it and things go semi-to shit?

I've been quiet the past couple of days because my MT decided to mysteriously break...the fact I was over my disk space due to having mad mp3s on my music page (*hint, hint*) didn't help. Hopefully, all is well now. I'm mad backlogged too. It's all about keeping y'all occupied on a Monday morning. Kitty Power's all about the workers, man.

I'm horribly tired. I've spent too much time out and about. After a nap, I shall spill all about it.

Meanwhile, I'll leave you with this morsel: how bad/sad/funny is it that when I was practically shoved aside to get to the lovely Claudia and my wit alone couldn't get a guy to give me the time of day, all I could think was: "wow, it's like being back at Wes!" (And for clarification purposes, being ignored wasn't the bad/sad/funny part in question, my thought was.)

Okay, I've left y'all hanging long enough...

The hands down funniest thing I read today while I'm gathering bits for a proper nuggets post:

This morning, I saw Cynthia Nixon running across Dekalb Avenue (near Vanderbilt) in Ft. Greene, Brooklyn, screaming "Gary! Gary!" at the top of her lungs. I suppose SATC is filming scenes of her new life across the East River. She was rocking a bright red peacoat and jeans, and looked hot and spunky--I'd totally do her. Of interest, too, were the extras walking down Dekalb to provide a bit of street flavor. Not a single black person among them, and Brooklyn without black people is like an ice cream sundae without...ice cream. It just isn't.

Apparently, it's lets talk about the poor ex-programmers week around the net. Abe linked to a Wired feature and Salon throws their two cents in. That reminds me that I have a hell of an unfinished story to tell about my small jaunt into the insurance business. I'm working on it today, I swear.

Also on Salon, a quote that sums up how I feel about the current primary races and all of that leading up to the election for the most part: "I don't care who wins" the Democratic primary, said Judy Donovan of Tuscon, Ariz. "I'd get my dog to run. I'm not kidding. I would get Mickey Mouse in there. Anybody but Bush."' Still, who else is a little disturbed by this week's Voice cover story?

Reading P6 reminded me that I meant to throw in here a link to a story about Super Size Me at Sundance. I want to see that, ditto for the other documentary mentioned at the end.

A post earlier at Gothamist riled me up in a way that hasn't happened since the last time I had to riff. To start, I call bullshit on Jake Dobkin, but I'll get back to that later.

The main crux of the argument is the lines between professional bloggers and hardcore blogging hobbyists (with the casual bloggers bringing up the rear). Blogs are hot in the media. News stories are all around trying to explain what it's all about and break it down for easy to digest morsels for people. People blogging about whatever can find themselves pulled up in Google and quoted in an article. If you wanted to get some fame (or infamy), there's no time greater than the present. With a little luck and ambition, you could be Elizabeth Spiers!...or so they would like people to believe.

I'm not going to lie and say that I don't operate this blog with some sort of ulterior motives. I am a writer (who doesn't write nearly enough) and I use this to sharpen my skills and stay fresh until I figure out where I want to go. But, this is a hobby. A semi-expensive hobby compared to when I was just on Geocities or Blogspot, but regardless my blog is still mostly what I've intended it to be since I started with the web stuff in 2000 -- a space so my friends and the occasional other can see what I'm thinking and for me to do little experiments. I've got my niche and I'm happy in it. I'm not trying to usurp any of the names bandied about when the quarterly "who's who in the blogosphere" article comes out. I do this because I like it and frankly, I know they've got way more dedication to this than I do.

I was amazed at the conversation going on in the comments at Gothamist where Jake demands that all bloggers reveal themselves and stand behind their names with their writing. That's the most sanctimonious piece of shit I've ever read. Hence, why I call bullshit on him. If we're going to be really honest, Gothamist is like the Disney of blogs. "Hey, guys, we're on a hunt for some good ribs!" "We went to Olive Garden!" "We love us some Law and Order!" There is nothing remotely edgy or controversial that ever occurs on those pages. It's vanilla, it's non-threatening, a snark-free zone. And that's okay. It's a clearinghouse for information on the happenings in NYC, nothing more and nothing less. Not everywhere can be tongue-in-cheek with a razor-sharp wit like most other blogs of note. But, apparently, Jake has forgotten that fact. If all I was writing about was food and what went on in the papers everyone else read, I could put my name up here too, as could a lot of other bloggers. With some obvious exceptions, it's not even that hard to figure out who most of us are. Most definitely follow the common sense rule that if it's something that could damage us, it need not be posted -- at least not in its entirety.

To have your name on your blog leaves you open not only for your employers to see what you've been up to, but relatives, ex-friends and lovers, future employers, stalkers and all sorts of other riff raff who can go fuck themselves. But, besides that, it's totally inhibiting if you want to create an online persona to accompany your blogged exploits.

The true final word on the matter is: there are no blogging rules, especially if you're someone who has gone out and bought a domain and are operating your own shit on your own time. The operating procedures are different for every blog and person. Now, someone go remove Jake's head from his ass.

Would you believe I actually almost missed Tittygate? I was only half watching the show, turned to my computer and surfing the web, while talking to Russ over IM. He wrote that he imagined he had seen her tit on the TV and I turned towards it quickly to see the marching band or some shit. We had this long conversation about whether it had happened or not before Jay-V came along and helped me find a picture.

How stupid the whole thing is! Ooh...a breast on the TV! I'd like to hope for her sake that wasn't a stunt because how dumb did she look having one saggy, star- covered tit flopping around. Of course it was though. Tsk, tsk...Janet Damita Jo! But, with that said, I'm still looking forward to the jokes. They should be milking this one for a min.

If you glance to the right, you'll notice that in gold is the countdown to my birthday. 35 days and counting, kids. 22 has been a very good year and 23 shall only be better as I cruise towards where I want to be: namely, 25.

I've decided to do a public service and periodically update this post as what I want, am planning and such. March 11th is the party day -- hopefully one of several. I plan to celebrate my birthday until I've lost the will to do so -- or my liver fails. Whichever comes first. I should be in town on the day itself unless I can wrangle a way to stay in Miami through the day after, that is if no pressing job type deals interrupt my fun. I'm sure it's not hard to guess where the party shall be, but time and location are forthcoming. It is still weeks away after all.

And now the wish list:

50 Cent and some fuckers were filming something at the corner of my block Saturday. Bastards were screwing up traffic. Correction: Imagine my surprise when Bill said that he heard that 50 had apparently disrupted that video shoot and then me reading Gothamist to also the story with a link to the Post. You can take the boy out of Jamaica (yes, Jamaica, not St. Albans, fucking Post), but apparently can't take the Jamaica out the boy. Why the fuck do I live here again? Oh yes, I'm broke.

Anyways, over the weekend, I had the marathon days to end all marathon days...

The cold has been doing interesting things to me.

I go through events like a ghost. Holding up the wall, observing the scene, drinking my drink, munching on the ice and making my exit. People are starting wonder whether I was there or not...or perhaps it's their alcohol talking. I've been trying to keep myself on the straight and narrow after my Christmas time revelation. I hardly drink when out, which leads me to be that much more reserved and also that less tolerant for the bullshit that drunkards tend to spew. A few days after the train incident, I further rolled towards man-hating when this pompous boorish bastard gave me the finger on his way out of 419 because I called bullshit on him and made it clear I wasn't interested in talking to him. I'm beginning to wonder why I bother going out.

If it hasn't been obvious, my brain is going through a slight Farmer renaissance. We've been talking and it's been strangely comforting. The upcoming visit has only been further pressing that along. But, the main thing derailing that is my utter disinterest and disdain towards LDRs. Been there, done that, experienced the heartache, isn't worth the pain. Besides, it's clear as day to me that I'm idealizing him since he's 1200 miles away plus there are several elephants I'm tired of ignoring when it comes to him. Too much Sex And The City watching has me placing him into the Mr. Big 2003 edition catefory and frankly, I'm no Carrie. I always thought of myself as Miranda with a Samantha attitude.

In 2004, I'm wary of entanglement. I've stopped believing that relationships have to be dramatic with a constant yo-yo effect. I'm tired of the whiplash. My attitude is wait and see, my stance is non-actively looking. I've removed dating from my Friendster profile. The Dating Scene is a game I lack all energy to play. That's not to say I don't have prospects...I just refuse to put all my eggs into one basket. I'm loving the ability to say I enjoy being single and truly mean it.

create your own visited states map
or write about it on the open travel guide

As I always suspected, I've hit just about everywhere on the East Coast, but I need to travel more for sure. Just not soon. I have other pressing concerns.