Crazy Is On The Bus

"Crazy is on the bus."

This is actually one of my favorite lines from a movie that may be of questionable quality, if only based on the fact that it stars Samuel L. Jackson and only allows him a meager modicum of opportunities to do what he does best - use the extremely utilitarian, if not downright vital phrase, Motherfucker, in many, many, many new, innovative and ever-colorful ways. This movie is, if it wasn't already immediately obvious, The Negotiator. The line is uttered by the esteemed Mr. Jackson (who generally is the only redeeming thing about many a bad movie, see, e.g., Attack of the Clones, XXX and, of course, Deep Blue Sea) as he tells his wife (capably played by Regina King, who also manages to be a redeeming factor in many a bad flick. I didn't see Miss Congeniality 2, but I can only imagine...) in response to her query as to whether he is going to do anything "crazy" in a meeting he is about to have with the superiors (who we later find out have, of course, framed him for a murder and several drug deals etc., but who ultimately will be brought to justice as the undeserving scum they are by... Kevin Spacey?... see, I told you it was a bad movie).

He responds to this query with a staunch denial ("I won't do anything crazy.") and then, to illustrate this point with a lovely bit of anthropomorphization, includes the aforementioned: "Crazy is on the bus."

What makes this such a screenwriting gem? A proverbial diamond amongst turnips (okay, that's not a proverb, but it's colorful, so go with it)?

While there is a certain amusement to the visual of one's inner loco as Farmer Ted riding the yellow school bus, that is not the charm of this quote. The true beauty of this quote is, we (Samuel L. Jackson, Regina King, and all of us wee folk out in the peanut gallery) all know it's absolutely, positively motherfucking not true.

Crazy is not on the bus. Crazy is right here. Crazy is on a direct trajectory course with the here and now, and there is no denying it. Crazy is one bad ass motherfucker, and he is here to stay.

Gratuitous use of the word "motherfucker" aside (last time, promise - Tuesday is apparently Tourette's night), there is a point to this waxing on about a seemingly incongruous and inconsequential movie quote.

With the sudden Enron-like implosion of the meticulously crafted and branded corporation that is (was?) Tom Cruise, Inc. (documented previously in this blog, and also brilliantly analyzed by Mallory, and inspiringly pictorially captured by Trent - scroll down about half way (it is work safe)), I got to thinking: Like the oft-cited phrase regarding the quality of TV shows, is it possible that at a certain point, the sanity of celebrities simply "jumps the shark" never to return?

How else to explain TC's hyperactive meltdown, his paeans of love that are so troubling because they are a 40 year old man talking in phrases clipped from 2nd grade valentines? (Speaking about his love for the fairer sex, Cruise told the current Reader's Digest that women "smell good. They look pretty. I love women. I do.") Has he developed "crazy" or has his own "crazy" commandeered the bus, Speed -style (Complete nonsequitur: will I be struck down by lightning for referencing not 1, but 2 Sandra Bullock movies in one entry?) and proceeded to run him over (and over and over)?

This is a man known for micro-managing his career to such a point that the rumors of his, ummm, felicity and frolicking (because, after all, can you have felicity without frolic?) have been thoroughly quashed through his unflagging devotion to iron-clad confidentiality agreements and swift and tyrannous lawsuits. For years, what did you ever hear about this man - TC has a big blockbuster movie out (with a scene in which he runs full speed in inappropriate clothes for running), he has adopted a kid, he has another big blockbuster movie out (with another scene in which he runs full speed in inappropriate clothes for running), he has saved someone in real life using twine and a piece of gum, etcetera etcetera...yadda, yadda, yadda. And now, he is jumping up and down on Oprah's couch? In front of a kajillion people? Newsflash Tom: You are not actually Jerry Maguire, and Oprah is not Cuba Gooding Jr.

And then there is the ranting. To everyone. To Billy Bush. Really? Has Tom Cruise ever given an interview to Access Hollywood before this? Wonder what kind of advice he might have had for Pat O'Brien back in the day? Breath mints as a cure for alcoholism?

TC is not the only example of "crazy" is as "crazy" does amongst the "previously narcissistic, but always seemingly reasonably sane." An example from the sportsworld: For instance, Barry Bonds. A man who long has been known to be unfailingly scrupulous about what he put in his body, to the point of hiring his own chef to monitor the nutritional content of what he at on road trips, this man began his backslide into La-La Land last year in front of the BALCO grand jury, when he was faced with questions about the "cream and the clear" and evidence of how they were not flax seed oil (as he claimed to have believed), but in fact steroids. The response of this, by all accounts, Type-A fellow: "Dude, Whatever." Ummm, yeah, alrighty. Of course, months later, "whatever" would then seem supremely mundane, in the face of his open discussion with the press of the size of his testicles. Oh Barry, where fort art thou meds?

There have been many other Hollywood celebrities and sports figures and celebutantes who have lost "it" - though in an amazing triumph of style over substance, manage to be embody the terms "squirrly" and "nuts" at the same time. However, I am not sure whether a lot of these flickering luminaries fall into my original "jumping the shark" hypothesis, as it is rather unclear that they ever had "it" to begin with. A laundry list of such types:

• Tara Reid. Apparent "JTS" Moment. Standing in front of a bazillion paparazzi, disfigured nipple ablaze for all the world to see. And, blaspheme, it was Diddy's birthday party too. Negating Factor (read: She was always crazy): Van. Wilder.
• Terrell Owens. Apparent "JTS" Moment: Crying (actually crying) on the CNBC about the meager-size of his multi-million dollar contract. Negating Factor (read: He was always crazy): He declared that he would play in the Superbowl despite a grisly ankle injury and all prudent medical advice because "God had already cleared him." Too bad God didn't care to clue Andy Reid, his coach, or any doctor - medical, witch, rug or otherwise - in on it.
• Latrell Sprewell. Apparent "JTS" Moment: lamenting to then entire national media, in complaining about his multi-million dollar contract, about how he would possibly be able to feed his family. Negating Factor (read: He was always crazy): And need it be mentioned that this is a man who was making multi-millions after having choked his boss.
• Ron Artest. Apparent "JTS" Moment: Yes, there was the brawl. That goes without saying. Negating Factor (read: He was always crazy): But even more ludicrous, the request 2 weeks into the season, to take a month off to promote his new rap album. I am not sure what is more ridiculous, asking for the time off or the fact that he had a rap album. Negating Factor 2 (read: He was always REALLY crazy): Or that, following the brawl to end all basket-brawls he appears on the Today show smiling and holding up his CD which was supposed to "drop" that day.
• Anna Nicole Smith. Apparent "JTS" Moment: Every awards show in 2004, where, without fail, she would appear, slurring up a storm (You say Trim-Spa, I say a fifth of vodka) and removing a great deal of clothing. Nothing says classy like MTV logos stenciled over your nipples. Negating Factor (read: She was always crazy): Marrying the old dude. The subsequent battle of the Will in court with his geriatric son. The Anna Nicole show. Her constant companion being a lawyer whose name is Howard K. Stern and whose most significant identifying characteristic is, apparently, being "lawyerly" (God help us all.).
• Courtney Love. Naah, this one is just too easy.
• Dave Chappelle. Now, I would like to note that he does not belong in this group because I do not think he was always lacking in marbles, or needing some meditation time in South Africa. But I mention him because he also does not fall into the "JTS" hypothetical group like Tom and Barry because Dave at least owns up to his frailties. He may be cuckoo for cocoa puffs, but he does what any celeb worth their salt does in that situation, he checks into an undisclosed facility to be treated for "exhaustion"

There must be more. But fatigue has got the better of me right now.

Things That Make You Go "WTF"?!?!?!!

Now I understand that I am supposed to be making every effort to amble along the proverbial "sunnier side of the street" (now that it finally is sunny - yay!! 75 degree weather!!) in keeping with making at least a good faith effort at embracing greater mental health (read: be less snarky and cynical and jaded). But old habits die hard, and some things just have to be brought to the forefront. It would be a crime against humanity not to make a note of them and their utter ludicrousness/offensiveness.

For starters, Tom Cruise. Yes, T.C. has taken time out of his very busy "I Am Heterosexual, Hear Me Roar 2005" Tour, to continue spreading the Gospel That Began as a Drunken Joke Scrawled Out On a Cocktail Napkin (L. Ron Hubbard's Buddy: Do you think if you just add "-ology" to the end of the name for it people will actually buy this shit? L. Ron Hubbard: *Deep inhale* Oh yeah, Dude! "Moronology" will like, totally sweep the nation. Heh. *Slow, smoky exhale* Bartender, can I get another shot of Patron over here?!). TC has decided that in order to top his former heights of generosity - because apparently buying sideshow freak tents for the Gospel to assimilate, err, I mean, teach his co-workers about the Gospel, are just not enough - he must call out a lovely, beautiful, unquestionably heterosexual woman who went through some real issues and made the best of them. TC has decided he must deride Brooke Shield's choice to have taken Paxil in order to recover from her post partum depression. His hypothesis? She did herself a great disservice because she could have just gotten over it with vitamins. And I quote:

"When you talk about postpartum, you can take people today, women, and what you do is you use vitamins. There is a hormonal thing that is going on, scientifically, you can prove that. But when you talk about emotional, chemical imbalances in people, there is no science behind that. You can use vitamins to help a woman through those things."

His motivations? In the world's most backhanded display of compliment masquerading as thinly-veiled sham (lots of that going around for old TC these days, huh?) for unfettered narcissism, he says he is concerned about her career:

"Here is a woman, and I care about Brooke Shields because I think she is an incredibly talented woman. You look at, where has her career gone?"

Does he know her? Since when is headlining the London production of Chicago slumming it? Really, where did this come from? Other than the fact that it is just incredibly offensive on a visceral level that anyone without a uterus or a medical degree makes comments of any type about post partum depression. Given the whole new level of creepiness Mr. Mapother has taken on as of late, it is even more offensive that he in particular is commenting on anyone's mental health. If he is the result of a strict regimen of Flintstone vitamins and trashy, poorly edited science fiction novels, then I think he needs to take another look in the mirror. (Then again, there is the undeniable truth of what Flintstone vitamins did for Sammy Sosa... ahem.)

Clearly, he's just jealous. She's tall. And she had some saucy scenes with a blonde in Blue Lagoon.
Short hops:


* This picture of Nikki Hilton and Nicole Ritchie merits a "WTF?!?!" because never in my life would I have imagined that you could ever describe Nikki Hilton as a "big" girl, and yet in this picture she looks huge. Not because she is, but because Ms. Ritchie's wretching apparently has turned her into an emaciated-hobbit in couture. To be a little less snarky for a moment, really this is worrisome. Hypocritical/ironic/lighting-about-to-strike-me as I type this, it must be said. Ms. R and L. Lo need help. Calista Flockhart, in her day, at least had the excuse that she was always a small bird-like thing. These two are taking on a look of freeze-dried images of their former selves.

* On baseball: He that is suffering from the Curse of Milano, otherwise known as Barry Zito, is in fact the unluckiest man in baseball. The COM is obviously more insidious than first thought, as it has now been revealed that BZ owns a 1 and 5 record, but that in his 5 losses, his team, the woeful Oakland Athletics have scored a "WTF?!?!?"-meriting grand total of THREE RUNS! THREE RUNS. IN FIVE GAMES! Offensive. Appalling. Inexcusable. WTF. My inner-baseball fan weeps.

Le Bon, Le Mauvais, et Le Laid

Le Bon:

• This Man is Written Up on BallerStatus.net, Need I Say More?: Diddy is safe and sound (lesson learned: near-death plane crash experience is not enough to keep a good rap impresario down), and has finally found his way back to the mothership that is Vegas to acknowledge the honor that is his day (though who are we kidding, everyone who is anyone knows every day is Diddy day) a mere 29 days after the day was originally scheduled. But, of course, this is Diddy, there is no belated celebration. If Diddy can't come to the day, the day comes to Diddy - so mark your calendars for next year folks, D-Day in V-Town is not 4/15, it is 5/14. Nice symmetry. And, it cannot be entirely coincidental that it is moved from the bad mojo inauspicious tax deadline date, to the day before Vegas' centennial celebration. Love, love, love this man!

Le Mauvais:

• You say G-Spot, I say Male Nipple: In yet another story which falls in the category of "Studies Reported On In the New York Times Which Speak To Some Aspect of And Presumably Have Some Bearing on My Life, Though I Wish They Didn't" (which have included some past favorites, such as, the study positing that the economics of happiness required a single person to make at least $160K more than they already did to achieve a happiness-parity with those that are married because they could never have enough added sex to make up for the shortfall, which assured me that winning the lottery clearly is my quickest route to endless joy, and, also, the University of Michigan study that said that men do not like to date women who have more "powerful" jobs than they do - but it's not a matter of being shallow, it's just evolution - Great. Can hear it now: "It's not you, and no, it's not me either, as it says here in Origin of the Species....") - apparently the latest word on the street is that the ever elusive female orgasm has no evolutionary purpose (by implication does this mean there should be no investment in its pursuit - come on this country was built on life liberty and the pursuit of happiness...induced by mind-blowing nookie, for all). Our fave money quote from said article: "Nipples in men are similarly vestigial, Dr. Lloyd pointed out. While nipples in woman serve a purpose, male nipples appear to be simply left over from the initial stage of embryonic development. The female orgasm, she said, 'is for fun.'"

It may be obvious, but the question must then be asked: "Is the male nipple also just for fun?" And really, how much fun can actually be had with a male nipple? Would you really want to see and/or participate in having fun with a male nipple? Methinks the answer is a collective "Ieeew! No!"

Le Laid:

• It's Called Tough Love: Once again, the ugliest of the ugliness comes from the baseball world, and though peripherally involving Johnny Damon (as it is involves both his current and his former employer), sadly, it is centered on the hometown team. Bill Simmons has emerged from paternity leave just long enough to provide this succinct, devastating, but only because it is just so true description of the old green n' gold: After watching the Red Sox play Oakland five times in the past week and a half, I'm ready to start popping Prozacs. Is there a more depressing team on the planet than Oakland? Every A's batter is hitting between .180 and .220. Poor Jason Kendall ... it looks like they're forcing him to live under a bridge between games. Barry Zito is feeling the pressure of a guy who's killing tens of thousands of roto teams across the country. Octavio Dotel looks like he's bringing his suitcase to the stadium every day in case they trade him. And so on. During last night's comeback by the Sox, it seems like 95 percent of the crowd was cheering for Boston. If they don't fire Ken Macha soon, they're going to find him hanging in the dugout within the next 3 days.
  (What a bad situation. I think Michael Lewis needs to write a new prologue for "Moneyball" titled, "OK, maybe I was wrong.")

All that is missing is the statement no one - not the local die hards, not the local supporters of team Geritol across the Bay, and not even the smug Evil Empire folk who can always be counted on to point out the obvious, even when (especially when?) it hurts - seems to want to make. That statement, when some courageous soul finally has the cojones to utter it, will go something like this: "Huddy to Atlanta. Mulder to St. Louis. But $66M to Chavvy. Are ya kidding me?" Yes, I said it. Beane-counters, do your worst. I have my rain slicker on - damn El Nino will never let up - and am ready for you to do your "rotten tomato and varying amounts of projectile watermelon debris" worst. But now, let me be very clear about this: I love my team. And love may mean never having to say you are sorry, but it sure as hell doesn't mean never being able to say, "Wake up and smell the .244 team batting average and .400 winning percentage. It ain't 2002 no more!" Eric Byrnes is tackling crazy cornrowed folks in the outfield (no not, Johnny Damon, see below), everyone is going on the DL in a collective physical "not it" just to extricate themselves from the debacle, and Billy Beane is just saying everything is "just fine" and he has total faith in the librarian known as Ken Macha whose most inspiring and rousing pep talk probably is set in an oh-so fiery and awe-inspiring use of "an indoor voice." What happened to this man? BB is supposed to get mad as hell and not take it any more. At least that's what the $24.95 I paid for Moneyball told me (and BTW, Mr. Lewis, I may want that back. Giambi's milk-box sized strike zone and great eye my ass!) One can only hope that he is simply trying to lull all the other GMs out there into a false sense of security, that he is not as desperate or in need as his team's play obviously makes him look. Otherwise, a riot may form based on his lack of contrition for the blasphemous way in which the A's have been practicing the religion known as baseball as of late. BB should at least have the decency to look pinched and pained and as if he was using toabsco-sauce eye drops, as Brian Cashman did during the great April skid over yonder in the Bronx. Then again, BB works for an ownership group led by the founders/owners of The Gap. What does he have to be afraid of? There is no tyranny from Tampa for him to deal with; there is only the vague threat of having his supply of free khakis and blue button downs cut off. Ooooh!

Fire in the belly boys! Buck up!

• Okay, because I can't resist a Johnny Damon reference. Local paper featured a discussion of Damon's "cross over appeal" and "rock star" status. Which of course begs the question (other than "WTF?"): "Hey writer, but did ya see the corn rows?" Sadly, the answer is resoundingly "yes." As aforementioned cornrows (though misidentified as "dreadlocks") were cited as proof of aforementioned rock star status. Barf.

Once More, With Feeling

Yes, it's me one more time today.

Yes, I have been watching too much Buffy lately. (Am I so depressed lately that I am even willing to attempt to drown out my sorrows in Sarah Michelle Gellar's liquid-eyed wooden attempts to be emotional and kick-ass at the same time? Apparently.)

Still feeling oh-so/not-so, with a whole lot of icky on the side. Damnit if I don't feel out of place and out of sorts everywhere I am. Must be that whole "not feeling comfortable in one's own skin" thing.

Well, things gotta change. And soon.

So I had a fit of proactiveness: Got the personal trainer. Made drs. appointment. Spent more time than I should have on Craigslist. Currently worrying through the chicken/egg process of finding myself a new place to live/telling my roommates I am moving along.

Hate confrontation. Not that they will be broken up about it. But, if nothing else, I am a steady check. One of them is having surgery next week. Somehow, methinks this might not be the best time. But then again, I am really over dealing with the drama.

Hmmm.

It is one of those days. Multiple entries. None all that interesting.

I know I have adult-onset ADD. I must. Either that or I am just getting dumber by the day, which, on further reflection, is certainly possible, though I am still waiting for the upside of such a deterioration - ignorant bliss - to set in.

I just can't seem to get what I need to get done done. I can't concentrate. At all. I look at it for about 5 minutes. I get queasy. I stop. I wonder, with furrowed brow, how the hell I am going to get this done by tomorrow.

At one time I was a competent, functioning human being. Really.

I just wonder now what will happen first: Will my head shatter into a million pieces from the cumulative stress of my own procrastination/horror with my own life, or will I simply no longer be able to fit through my office door due to nervous eating? About now - even money.

Persistently nauseous.

My sister is coming in to town. She is pleased and happy. Must find way not to rain on her parade. Best solution: Staying away from her. My little rain cloud tends to follow me everywhere I go.

I am in one of those moods. I am fidgety. I don't want to be alone. Feel lonely and out of touch. But then again, don't want to see anyone at all. Not fit to subject to the world at large. Am avoiding looking in mirrors, general glass reflections, or even simply looking down. Am trying to be in visual denial.

Seriously, what is my deal?

How did I get to be so not normal.

I wonder what it is like to be normal.

Blush: It's not just a description for box wine anymore

So I have been thinking about what the relative threshold for embarassment in my life might be. Just when I think I can't do anything sillier, more astoundingly/awesomely dorky, unintentionally insensitive, or unforgivably self-centered, I top myself.

Always reaching for the brass ring, that one. Must be a gift.

I don't blush about my misdeeds, though they do come rushing back to me at various moments and force me to squinch my eyes in a feeble attempt to physically banish my entirely mental apparitions. Not sure that it works, but it certainly is putting me in the market for some Creme de la Mer or some such concoction.

I am not entirely sure how to banish these mysterious phantoms of my past actions, endeavors, and/or omissions. I could write about them, but, as of late, I have become troubled as to how I am perceived by my audience, known and unknown. Then again, it is a little late for being embarassed now. I have been hanging dirty laundry out to dry here for well over a year. There really is no going back. And truth be told, there isn't anything all that much more exciting that I don't post here (maybe that is the most embarassing admission of all).

What has been worrying me as of late and which I am getting to in my roundabout way is the spouting off about malaise and general unhappiness. To what end? Is it helpful? It does create a certain immediate sense of relief. I find it constructive in some ways, tiresome in others. It is your patience and your level of fatigue, gentle reader, however, that I am concerned about.

I realize that if I actually fancy myself a scrivener, I ought not be knocking on the proverbial "third wall" and just proceed apace. But I worry. It can be heavy. It can be repetitive. It can simply be galling. And that is all not pleasant. At all.

As this is my blog, I realize it is for my spoutings and inanities and kvetching and rantings and notations (or at least a running tally of my neuroses) - to do any less than semi-organized stream of consciousness ("like herding cats") would be disingenuous, I suppose. It would definitely be boring (more boring?)

For now, in an effort at finding a comfort zone (and because I have to get back to work) I am settling on the concept that my blog runs the way the 4th and 5th seasons of the X-Files did: You had the "mythology" episodes and the stand-alone episodes. Watched them all religiously. Enjoyed them. But in retrospect and syndication, I realized it is the standalone episodes, the quirky and especially weird ones that really kept me coming back.

So I humbly ask you to hang in there with me. Working towards additional standalone episodes. Though I will never be able to shake them entirely, the mythology ones are just too dreary.

Flip Flopper

Flip Flopper (n.) 1. Karl Rove's pejorative/un-mispronounceable term for John Kerry. 2. A fish which has recently been caught. Lluvy from ANTM looked like a perfect flip-flopper when she posed for that Pisces picture, the "worst picture in the history of ANTM." [Caught the VH1 ANTM marathon this weekend. Riveting. Simply riveting.] 3. Errant lawyer-girl who so conveniently forgets her "real" shoes and ends up in 'Flops of varying designs as what is likely a subconscious cry for attention. CLC is so obviously a flip-flopper - just look at her, she look like one of those rap guys girl-friends.

No, but seriously, I think I have an unhealthy propensity towards flip-flops. As with all other things in my life, there is no middle ground. Hot or cold. Calm or hysterical. 4 inch designer shoes or $5.99 Walgreens flip-flops.

See, I knew it: Shoes are the analogy for life (followed closely behind by handbags, and baseball movies of every iteration).

My top 3 flip-flop stories (in reverse chronological order):

(1) today, I had my first session with my personal trainer (yes, it has come to this - I have gotten so soft, I must buy motivation). Got all disconcerted by the need to pack work clothes rather than gym clothes in my bag, that I forgot one small thing. 2 actually (and not so small). My daily silent adage of "Don't forget your gym shoes, don't forget your gym shoes" did me little good this morning. They were on my feet, they were not forgotten. And let me tell you, they looked spectacular with my slacks, button down and cardigan this morning. So the debate began: wear gym shoes all day and look like a fool -or- buy new shoes to try to head problem off. Issue here: it was before 9 am (see nothing good comes of getting to work before 9 am) so no stores were open, except, Walgreen's. And that is how I came about my lovely pair of $5.99 bling encrusted black flip-flops. Good thing this is California and people get nervous if their lawyers actually wear white shoes (or suits or ties or anything other than jeans or dockers). But even then, this was pushing it for a M0nday. Kept trying to brain-storm some mysterious foot ailment in case a partner walked into my office and I needed to claim medical necessity. The best I could come up with is "dropsy" - I am not sure that is a foot related problem, nor am I entirely sure it is a health problem (sounds like an unspoken side effect of too much cough medicine), but it did seem like it would be fun to say. (yes, it is my inner-70 year old man trying to get out again. He has been quite cross with me since I gave up the G&T's in favor of rum&diet cokes, though I do indulge him in a snifter of scotch every once in a while).

(2) My 57th Avenue Starbucks Flopper odyssey from last weekend.

(3) Last Memorial Day weekend I was walking home from work (don't ask). It is a beautiful Sunday afternoon. I am in a sun dress. Have just scaled one of San Francisco's large hills, and several slightly less steep grades to get home. Am on flat land, almost there. What a beautiful day... *thud* Face on pavement. Cab going opposite direction stops to ask if I am okay. Hmmm, well. Knee scraped. Blood on hand. Eye swelling a little. Pride hurt a lot. "I am fine. Nothing to see here." Clearly, nothing to see. No one stopped me the entire 4 blocks back to my house. I walk in to my bathroom to clean myself off: Large scrape on cheek. More blood. From where? My hand? No blood on hand washed off. Not even a scrape. Uh oh. Blood from chin. Very deep.

That is when things started to go white, and I passed out. Consciousness regained, my roommate got me to the nearest hospital (holding frozen rasberries to my face, as we obviously had no ice) for the stitches I desperately needed. Met by incredulous looks when informed the ER staff that I had just "fallen" (eye very swollen now, potential shiner) and that I had not in fact been drinking. Matters not helped any when I expressed extremely geeky glee that some of the medical equipment they were using on me was manufactured by a client of mine.

Long story less long. 5 stitches in chin. No permanent scarring on cheek (though did have to wear Nelly-like band-aid through my entire subsequent Maui vacation. Fantastic.) And what was I wearing on my sojourn home/ER odyssey:

Flip Flops.

You Had Me At "In-Parenthetical Parenthetical"

In a weird coincidence (though it is neither large or small, for as Seinfeldian wisdom has taught us, a coincidence is not of a certain size or magnitude, it just is) after my random babblings about a life well lived on paper (real, virtual, figurative or otherwise) and how that often differs markedly from real life, appears a secondary installment of how one may affect the other.

Paul Shirley, a reserve player for the Phoenix Suns, has been maintaining a blog (or a reasonable facsimile thereof, as it is maintained by the Suns, or at least contained on their website). I stumbled across a mention of this blog early last month while reading the Sportsguy's column on the ESPN webpage. I clicked through. I read. I was left speechless. What I found were eloquent, snarky, honest, highly literate, thoughtful, downright hilarious entries peppered with observations about everything from the games themselves to the latest concert he has been to, penned by an NBA player, a college grad/engineering major no less (who knew engineers could write? who knew NBA players could write? not snobbery, just jealousy as my jumpshot has never been what I would hope it to be). Other random facts about our Mr. Shirley: he is 27, he is 6'10" (oh, he is tall!), he has siblings, and he is a good mid-western boy, who likes Local H and has a wicked sense of humor.

I HEART PAUL SHIRLEY.

He has been answering questions as part of the Sportguy's More Cowbell columns as well. Yes, I submitted a question, and, no, I am not beyond admitting that I would have been quite pleased (read: absolutely ecstatic) had I gotten a response. However, the silence is not surprising (because clearly, all other things being equal, he would have rushed to answer a question from an absolute stranger). Our Mr. Shirley's team is currently a frontrunner in the playoffs and have their hands full with the Mavs, Dampier and Nowitzski, and everyone's favorite loud mouth owner, his blog has launched him into a new stratosphere of fame and popularity as evinced by numerous write-ups (all complimentary and all well deserved - it is refreshing to see that the general public genuinely appreciate good writing filled with numerous poly-syllabic words and complex sentence structure - makes me feel like less of the English-major dork that I am), and he is posting entries to a new installment of the blog he is keeping during the Suns' playoff run.

The first installment of the blog was fantastic; this second installment is pure gold. There is a priceless riff on people always having to point out to him that he is tall. ROTFLMAO - if only because that clearly would be my mother, or my ex-BF. Sweet well meaning people, but who do not have a social screen and must therefore blurt out everything that comes to mind as they think it - even if painfully obvious, or incredibly lacking in tact. (Placeholder: Must describe in detail at some later date mother's proclivity to comment on people's piercings or haircolor choices... to their faces. So you wanted it to look like that? Does your mother know you put a hole there? Know that scene in Payback where Mel Gibson pulls out the guy's nose ring? Yeah, if my 5'3" mother were given her druthers, she would probably do the same thing. Likewise, also need to describe in further detail last face-to-face meeting with ex-BF, at mutual friend's wedding, where he brought new GF and I brought, well, Jimmy Choo as my date, and where he could think of nothing more tactful or interesting to say to me than, "Oh your hair." Pregnant pause. "It's lighter." Well, okay....)

Later on, our Mr. Shirley discusses how he does not watch a lot of TV and how it is a time waster. For a second there, I thought he might have wholly gone over to the dark side on me, but he brought it back with some well timed self deprecation as follows: In talking about how too much of news is presented with a certain slant rather than just the facts, he writes:

(I should note that, by taking this course of argument
I am, in fact, railing against myself because really, who the hell am I and why should anyone put any stock in what I write? The good news is that I have not been told that I am an expert on, well, anything, so I have not been given carte blanch to begin yelling about why I think the Chiefs got a steal in the fourth round with the drafting of Craphonso Thorpe [New feature--in-parenthetical parenthetical expressions. How about Craphonso for a name? One would have to become a football player just to take out the aggression that would build up from having that for a moniker. I doubt he ever heard, “Hey, Crap-Honzo, catch
the damn ball,” back in school. Seriously, though, who approved that on the birth certificate? There needs to be some sort of watch-dog organization for these things.] Basically, I write what is the direct channeling of a very
strange brain, and should be treated as such.)

Self deprecation. Discussion of another sport (evincing an interest in the NFL draft - a process to which I am usually indifferent but which I was strangely caught up in this year). Noting the ludicrousness and resultant implications of the "Craphonso" moniker. And of course, and perhaps most significantly, the "in-parenthetical parenthetical expression."

OMG, I SO HEART PAUL SHIRLEY.

But so does the rest of the American public at this point. As well they should. And who knows, in real 3D life, he may be an absolute odd duck. (Not that there is anything wrong with the odd duck. Odd duck can be very endearing....) But on the virtual page, he certainly has captured my imagination.

A Pinata In Previous Life?

Conclusively, I look damn good on paper. In the three-dimensional world, the oddity that is me (a direct result between the long-standing civil war between my flaws and virtues) cannot be denied. But on paper, oh on paper... Baby, I am spectacular!

The resume, for all intents and purposes, is glittering. No extraordinary Nobel-peace-prize type honors, nor any listing of authored publications in which I describe my invention of cold fusion, but neither are there and demonstrable and unexplained gaps or any glaring misspellings. The schooling is appropriate and expensive. The employers are easily located in a Google search. I purport to have some interests and some skills. Overall, it seems to work.

Similarly, engage me in an e-mail exchange and I can make witty repartee indefinitely. Were I to re-read any such exchanges (which I certainly never do, really), I think I would really want to meet myself at a cocktail party. I read as a gregarious, well-read, (pop) culturally literate, effusive, warm human-being. In short, nothing further from what I am, especially if you approached me in some anxiety filled moment as I rush down the street in the morning, brow furled, looking pained as I bustle forward to work anticipating the day. That person - the 3D-Me - is clearly not cocktail party material.

So the ultimate question is this: Can you attend social functions, engage in meaningful social relationships, and be a wholly functioning member of society solely through your Blackberry?

Duck, Duck, Goose

I was not the goose. And it was good... I guess.

In the game of "not it," I apparently won, by actually finding myself wanting to be "it."

I did not get get picked for the jury from the panel I was sitting in today. Reasons for this, likely numerous, among them:

• cosmic justice: because I had decided I did want to sit on the jury. Wanted to sit on the panel and watch the nitty-gritty details of a trial played out from the other side. Wanted to see how the other half lives;
• shark prejudice: nary a lawyer (though there was at least half a bakers dozen on my panel) made it into the final jury (including alternates). Guess the rule of thumb when picking jurors is "think guppy, not shark"
• lack of primary colors: my old first-year law school trick - otherwise known as the 365 Days of Basic Black (or Select Muted Shades of Gray) still works. My black and white sun dress apparently allowed me to go unnoticed and undetected by the randomized computer-generated lists that were used to call people up to actually sit and answer questions on the panel. Additional note, computers, like law professors, must also dislike having to approach and utilize hyphenated last names.

Other random observations:

• a courtroom is the only place where you sit and stand more often than Catholic Mass, and, while it is easier on the knees due to lack of required prostration, somehow it loses any luster as it is also, unlike its religious counterpart, devoid of any promise of sustenance and alcoholic beverages.
• calling a cab from the court house is an interesting proposition. The cab company wants an address and an identifier of the building: "It is [_________] street. The criminal court house. I will be the one out in front with the orange cardigan on." (Having safely flown under the radar, I finally put on some layers as the day is a bit windy.) This statement was met with some hesitation from the dispatcher. It was only afterwards that it occurred to me why this might be. Cardigan? Suuuuuure. Orange Cardigan. Orange Jumpsuit. Tomato. Toh-mah-toe. Erswhile Juror. Escaped Felon.
• Crazy blackberry lady from yesterday was in fact, drum roll please, a lawyer. Shocker.

Run away, Jury! Run away!

Back from my whirlwind trip. What better way to unwind and relax than performing one's civic duty: JURY DUTY.

Awesome.

Once again, I am struck by the egalitarian nature of certain activities. There really is no discrimination in such places as the DMV, the post office, and reporting for jury duty. In these select realms of egalitarianism, all persons, large and small, rich and poor, well-heeled and uncouth, Lindsay Lohan and Hillary Duff fans alike receive the same shoddy treatment, are subject to the same inordinate amounts of waiting, are privvy to certain feeble attempts by government workers to be cheery and pleasant are universal, and suffer certain indignities.

It is, apparently, juror appreciation week. This brings to mind a couple of questions: What are the practical ramifications of such a week? Are they aware the acronym for such "celebration" is JAW? Does such acronym have an unspoken significance? Is this a national thing or just something they dreamed up in my local courthouse in order to make the process more "enriching" and "pleasant" so as to please superego and massage the chi? And, for the more cynical among us, is it really JAW or do they say that every week to make you feel special (and, if possible, marginally, or at least fractionally, less annoyed?)

Whether it be a clever ruse to soothe the savage beast known as the potential juror or simply a lame though well-meaning tool, it was JAW nonetheless, and the courthouse employees charged with stewarding us through the jury duty process invoked it frequently over the all-too crackly PA system.

Oh, we are now going to call the panel for a season-long trial. But remember, it's Juror Appreciation Week. Have a cookie!

There has been a delay in the other court room, so you will have to sit outside for upwards of an hour. But remember, it's Juror Appreciation Week. Have a goodie bag!!

We grossly miscalculated the time, so we aren't going to get to any of the questions re. the impaneling process till tomorrow. So you'll have to come back again then. But remember, it will still be Juror Appreciation Week!!!

Interesting point of fact about the goodie bags (yes, they really do exist) besides the fact that it is a rather disconcerting feeling that the first self-described "goodie bag" I have received since I was seven (where I was in attendance at a Chuck E. Cheese birthday pizza party) was at a courthouse, they contained 4 things:

(1) a pencil, with what I can only describe as a two-headed eraser on it. In a former life, as that seven year old at the pizza party, this would have been appreciated as being both cool in a quirky-funny way, and utilitarian (my penmanship was never what it should have been. Erasers were always key. The invention of the erasable pen changed my life.) But now, as a semi-faux-grown-up, it seems, well, sort of dirty. There is just no way I can (as gutter-minded and I and everyone I know are) use this thing in public. Not without a lot of blushing involved,

(2) a pen which is actually pretty cool - silver and blue - but which across the side says: "Juror Appreciation Week: We The People In Action." Given my aforementioned sixth-sense ability to get in touch with my Beavis And Butthead side: Heh. Heh. They said "action." And right after giving me that two-headed pencil. So wrong, I know. Had a lot of time on my hands today.

(3) A fortune cookie, which is in every way, shape and form, a concept I can get behind. Fortune. A Cookie. Who doesn't like those two concepts? And, as discussed many a time in earlier posts, I am looking for guidance from any place I can possibly get it. Cookie cracked open. Eaten. Not stale. So far so good. Look at fortune. Big block letters: YOU WILL MAKE A GREAT JUROR. Oy vey! Bad on several levels: it is just one of those cop out fortunes, which you read as you are burping up chicken fried rice, that read: "You really like chinese food." No shit. Further, if you do the whole "in bed" trick, it just doesn't add much hope for a passionate, yet constructive, supportive sex life. Yeah, see, that didn't really work for me because when you said "Oh Baby, you're the best!" you seemed a little shifty and I didn't believe you.

(4) A pamphlet titled "Court and Community: Jury Service Information and Instructions for Responding to Juror Summons." Truth be known, this pamphlet made me a little sad. It made such a brave attempt at extolling to virtues of jury service and how it is so very important that we all do our part, and that it is in fact a gift because we are the only country in the world that guarantees a jury trial. They even mention how the Framers thought it so important that jury service is mentioned 3 separate times in Constitution. This is all true. And we should be grateful. But somehow the mountain of work, the docked pay, and having to sit in a room with a couple hundred ill tempered people for up to eight hours seemed to outweigh any appreciation of the tree of liberty and the fruit it bears, and so any historical and/or Constitutional invocations were lost on all of my jury room compatriots. Never in my life have I heard so much exasperated sighing and crabbiness and general kvetching (and I work with lawyers). I was not happy. Believe me. Especially by hour 7 as we stood waiting outside of a courtroom for over an hour (the 4 inch heels - somehow not such a good idea), but I refused to say anything out loud because I knew it would only make things worse. And in the end, the jury and its existence keep me in business. I would actually like to serve on a jury. It would be really interesting. Seriously. But like everyone else, I am a slave to my time and the "other things I have to do." Particularly because jury service would simply mean that my workday would begin at 5 pm rather than 9 am (okay, 10 am). But if I get chosen, I will do my best to enjoy the process because it really is fascinating. Maybe not an episode of Law and Order: Whatever Your Spin Off of Choice Is fascinating, but fascinating nonetheless. Or maybe it is just the dorky lawyer in me talking. Anyway, all of that being said, I think I took it in stride when we were told we would have to return tomorrow to complete to jury impaneling process. Another woman, clearly a consultant/attorney/i-banker/residual dot.com entrepreneur (I think there are still a couple with delusions of greatness floating around) type, did not take it so well. After the "same Bat-time, same Bat-channel" message was delivered and we all began to shuffle out of the court room in eagerness to leave/recognition that we would be back, this woman approaches the clerk to ask if she could plead harship excuse at that time. He said no. She becomes hysterical, waving her blackberry around as though it were a physical exclamation point, "This is ridiculous! Come back tomorrow! Please! We have lives!" And here is my favorite part, the clincher: "And don't know you know it's Juror Appreciation Week!"

Ah, sweet irony.

Fantastic!

Best part is - tomorrow the saga continues...

We Know Who We Are

As part of the Vast Ambidexterous Conspiracy against Barry Bonds, I am not going to comment on the, let us say, unorthodox choice of letting a man who is serving his second probationary period with the California Medical Board perform invasive surgical procedures, not one, not two, not three, but six times (presuming draining due to infection is considered invasive). Though I suppose when $18 million are guranteed to you in each of 2005 and 2006 whether you sit on the hard bench of the dugout or the warm comfort of your La-Z Boy, you are probably filled with a more thrill-seeking, devil-may-care attitude about your arthroscopic surgery. Nor am I going to make mention of the tinged with the rantings of insanity that is Bonds' Blog, the only source of news re. Barry, except for the "leaker" and never fear, Barry knows who they are.

I simply want to bring to light this tidbit I stumbled across: A pictoral gallery put together by those crazy fringe journalists at ESPN of each of Bonds' 18 years in the majors. Scroll and decide for yourself.

Gotham Post Script

The surprise went off, in its entirety, and completely without a hitch. The look on the birthday celebretante's face: Priceless. Really wish I had a camera to capture the moment, but know I won't need one to remember it. Taking advantage of the opportunities life presents you to show the people that matter most how much you love them is definitely a very good thing.

Apologies for the trite cliches being used (or at least any being bandied about with more abandon than usual), it is early in the AM, I am not entirely sure which time zone my body is in, and no matter where I move, I seem to be sitting under an air conditioning duct (so I think my brain is chattering). Through the wonders of modern technology, I find myself sitting here tip-typing away in the waiting area of JFK airport. Free wireless internet for all! Excellent. Funny thing given that my "luxury" hotel wanted to charge me $9.95 to use their dial up connection, which I suppose should have been nothing considering the $10 they made me shell out to use their gym, which likewise pales in comparison to the $18 I am sure I paid for that Twix bar from the mini-bar, which I so greedily gobbled and felt to righteously entitled to. How is it that song from Le Mis goes? (Hey, if you are going to go TOURIST, you may as well go all the way): "Residents are more than welcome; Bridal suite is occupied; Reasonable charges; Plus some little extras on the side! Charge 'em for the lice; Extra for the mice; Two percent for looking in the mirror twice; Here a little slice; There a little cut; Three percent for sleeping with the window shut;
When it comes to fixing prices; There are a lot of tricks he knows; How it all increases; All those bits and pieces; Jesus! It's amazing how it grows!" Apparently I have been in error all these years - Le Mis did not take place in France, it took place in NYC.

The lady doth protest too much.

And she does.

It really was not that bad. I am just kvetching because it is another stroke of entrepreneurial genius - prime real estate hotel ownership where location, location, location dictates a much high threshold for spending on the part of the consumer - that I was not a part of. Agh! Seems to me Puffy will inevitably have to open a boutique hotel someday soon - the opportunities for profit and self promotion are too irresistible in such a setting. If Vanessa Noel can open a successful BnB in Nantucket, then Puffy certainly can launch a successful Manhattan boutique. God, I love that man.

I would like to note that the reflection of the Drake's european ownership group is pretty evident - both in NYC and in Chicago. Small, comfortable rooms, low of luxury but high on stable, reliable utilitarian accoutrements. A very IKEA approach to luxury hotels.

Okay, enough spouting off about something I actually know very little about. My expensive tastes are outpacing my budget these days.

More to say, but the plane is boarding.

Catch you on the left coast.

Live. From New York. It's... Saturday morning.

Just to prove that I do in fact leave my office, if only ever so rarely, I post today at a locale a slight detour from normal:

New York City.

Granted, I am sitting in a Starbucks so truth be known, I could in fact be anywhere. But they did assure me when I touched down this morning that I was at JFK and there is a distinct (and oddly comforting) lilt to the local speech pattern which, when combined with the (refreshingly) speedy gait and complete disregard for traffic signals, leads me to believe I am in fact in NYC (or a very reasonable facsimile thereof).

It is my distinct hope that no one is trying to call me, as I have, err, misplaced my phone. Actually, I have real questions as to whether I brought it at all. There is a certain rich irony to that given that this trip will keep me in Gotham (I refuse to call it the Big Apple - too touristy - then again, I may be the only person in the entire city wearing flip-flops in this 45 to 50 degree day - if that doesn't scream TOURIST, I don't know what does) for all of 26 hours. Took a red-eye last night. Checked my typical business-traveler black rolly-bag for the hell of it. Figured I would kill time when I got in waiting at baggage claim since I knew my accomodations, 4 star and 4-star priced as they are, would be none too happy to see me at 7:30 AM (and so it was - they assure me my room will be ready no later than 4 pm, but so kindly checked my baggage, and directed me to this aforementioned oasis in the big city - sweet 'Bucks). Anyway, went to indulge in endless wait to pick up bag and what do you know, there it was. Fourth bag out of the chute. Fantastic, I suppose. But there it was, the definitive proof to all the world that I am the world's WORST packer hands down, a bright red tag reading "HEAVY." Apparently, I packed in a 1:1 ratio between hours of my stay and pounds of clothing. Very nice. Good thing 26 is my lucky number.

Anyway, so here I sit at the Starbucks on 57th and Lex (well, one of the 3, I spotted on this block). Ah the possibilities - they are mind-boggling. Apparently, I chose incorrectly as the SB I walked into had neither "coffee cake" (the Barista tried to sell me on the analogous nature of their "crumble cake" but I was having none of that) nor "low-fat coffee cake" which is what I was really looking for. I, then, of course got odd looks for my standard multi-tiered, ridiculous, yet somehow necessary order.

"So you want what again? Non-fat. No-foam. Venti. Latte. With sugar-free hazelnut shot. Are you *sure* that is all? *Really*?" *Insert eye roll here*

Love New Yorkers. Really. Because truth is, I should have been called out on this long ago. Still not changing my ways, because I want it the way I want it (and for 4 bucks, they can humor me). But that doesn't mean I shouldn't have to work for it. Under no circumstances should I be allowed to spend too much time in that lulled sense of security that such a thing is "normal" behavior. It isn't. Not in any sense of the word. It is nonsense and while it may be indulged in, it can only propely be done if it is recognized as such. California self-actualization has already made me beyond squishy-soft, these tweaks of my metaphysical nose keep me grounded (to the extent I ever was/that it is possible). In any event, I think I may have brought it all upon myself as I think I tried the Barista's patience with that whole "coffee" versus "crumble" cake debate. Too early in the morning, and more of an argument you expect to have with your grandmotherly-type who is set in her ways, not the baby-faced girl with too many bags and the flip-flops.

Yes, it's true: Flip-flops.

Is there any way to explain this egregious breach in etiquette? I have three to rattle off: (1) It was 70 degrees when I left SF, (2) I thought it would avoid the "taking shoes off for security" process (the trip to Vegas involved a rather traumatic Sophie's Choice moment between myself and my new Marc Jacobs chaussures which I did not care to repeat this time. No such luck though, still had to remove the Flops because apparently the soles of the Flops were too thick. Can't win. Guess you have to travel in those socks that have treads. And Lord knows that is a fashion statement - the "I just broke out of a mental institution" chic), and (3) honestly, I just couldn't find a pair of dress socks to go with the shoes I really wanted to wear. In any event, despite the toe-chilling weather outside, my internal debate at the hotel as to whether to raid my bag before they stowed it away for me ended in the Flops willing out because somehow neither Jimmy Choos nor my beyond-beat up running shoes seemed like a viable Saturday morning couture. So thus, I am on 57th street in a Northface puffy vest, green khaki pants, and beachcomber flip-flops. Not egregious or "point and laugh" type fare, but every person I have seen walk in here so far this morning has had a scarf, long coat, and footwear that involved a significant donation from a cow.

Oh California girl, get thee back from whence thee came!!!

I spent a summer working in Manhattan during college. I had two internships in Midtown. One at an advertising agency in the Chrysler Building and another at a PR firm a couple blocks down. Neither paid, but both made up for it in gossip and possibility. The friend I was living with (on Long Island - an experience unto itself) was working downtown by NYU. I walked downtown every day to meet her. Everyone thought I was insane. I love to to walk. But apart from that, I just refused to take the subway because I refused to look befuddled because I didn't want to look like a tourist. That was also the reason that I *never* looked up at the skyscrapers. Walking around, very slowly, with head upturned and mouth agape basically screams, in cacaphonous harmony: Rube and Soft Target. So I never did it. Though, I never thought about the fact that I was walking around with wool turtleneck sweaters on in the middle of the alternately oppressive and soupy NYC summer pretty mich screamed the same thing. May as well have looked up. As for taking the subway, in that garb I probably would have fainted from dehydration, so I was better off.

By way of explanation if not justification, I am a San Francisco Bay Area native. The city summers I was familiar with topped out at 70 degrees on a good day. Typically it is mid to high 60's, and always starts out with a chill in the morning because of the inevitable heavy veil of fog. It is both typical and appropriate to wear sweaters in a San Francisco summer. Nevertheless, as has become a trend in my life, I was a little slow on the uptake because I spent the whole summer slowly baking in my clothes. Never occurred to me to try to get a couple more appropriate pieces to get me through. Brings on flashbacks of my one trip to the Hamptons that summer. As a defense mechanism, I have only select flashes of memories from that weekend. At the time, I thought nothing of it, but I had no idea what the Hamptons was or what the expectations there were as well. Let's just say I modeled. not one, but several plaid flannel shirts that weekend. *Wince in pain* Really can't say much more about it than that. Other than the fact that my friend and her brother (whose share we were using that weekend) were either exceptionally kind to have said nothing about it and not made me feel odd about it either then or now.

So this morning, it is the esteemed Deepak Choprah who speaks to me through my coffee cup, on one of my favorite topics, and thus, I share:

"THE WAY I SEE IT #30: The secret of attraction is to love yourself. Attractive people judge neither themselves nor others. They are open to gestures of love. They think about love, and express their love in every action. They know that love is not a mere sentiment, but the ultimate truth at the heart of the universe."

I realize that I have decried these pearls of wisdom pasted to cardboard as hokey and trite on prior occasions (and I still stand by my assertion that one should not be receiving life guidance of any kind from Keith Olbermann), but this is different. Deepak Choprah is legitimately a philosophizing self-help guru and thus he has pretty guiding words that speak to my sappy self-actualizing heart. [Side note here - I use the term "self-actualizing" here with great frequency and with a sense of purpose. I have a friend who just moved to California from Chicago and she marvels at how much people want, no, *insist* on speaking about their feeling and discussing your feelings about their feelings and so on and so forth. She was at a loss for words to even describe the behavior. I told her to "Never fear, in a few months you will either be used to it or else you will simply be in-process of self-actualizing yourself." And so now she and I run with "self-actualizing" as a short-hand for the self-analysis/examination that is either endemic to NorCal or which is nascent in every person attracted to live there.]

Anyway, I really like that quote. It is so true. It is everything I aspire to be. And it is concrete to me, because it really accurately describes the person that I have come out here to celebrate.

Damn it. It's Raining Again.

Literally. It's May, and it's still raining. I live in California damnit! This is not what I paid for.

Grumpy.

And so... Some truths:

I hate my body. It betrays me on a daily basis. Not flat out abandonment, which clearly would be unforgiveable (and would actually merit the complaints I am launching here), but moreso, in its continuing undercutting subterfuge. It has no self control. It wants and it wants and it wants. And follows with it taking, taking, taking. My mind seemingly having lost the control to will my body to do anything. It is full-scale mutiny. More porcine, ursine and bovine by the day. Just want to be rid of this lumbering feeling.

I am officially uncomfortable about returning to my apartment. Bad mojo all around. I want to live on my own. I am afraid of saying so.

I have a friend that wants to reconnect. I fear speaking with her directly, as I fear my compulsion to tell her exactly how much the betrayal of her disavowing me as her friend six months ago because she just couldn't "deal" with me and my issues anymore, hurt me. I would then have to tell her that I am exactly the same as I was then, and that I am not all that sold on the idea of her basically pulling off another friendship drive-by on me.

I know that I don't have a boyfriend because I am a mess. I know this is for the best because "mess" is not exactly the adjective that feeds into "everlasting and eternal bliss." Generally, it is not a word found in most wedding ceremonies and/or other public declararation of love. There is a reason for that. Bottom line, however, is that I will always be a mess. Always have been, always will be. There it is. So, does this mean that short of 24 hour to 3 week stints here and there, I will always be alone? Most likely.

Not such a fan of procreation, at least for myself at this point in my life, but I also fear that I will become one of these women in their mid-30's who must foray down to genetic Wall Street to make a foray from that certain Bank that even now no one wants to talk about in polite company. And why? Just so that I can make sure that I don't die alone. Somehow I never envisioned that my family photo would involve myself, my child, and the paternal test-tube. Although to give her her due, my mother did. Ever since that fateful summer when I was 19 when I came home from college and she took my hand, looked into my eyes, and said that she would love me no matter what, and that if I had to go to a sperm bank/use artificial insemination to give her grandchildren, that would be fine. This of course was followed up five years later with a frantic phone call during an 60 Minutes special on television where she made me promise that no matter what I would not wait till I was 50 to have babies, and that I would start concentrating a lot harder on having babies "soon" because "every day that goes by, you have less eggs." Somehow the fact that I was unmarried and that the female reproductive system has always worked on a 30 day swing did not seem to faze her.

All of this melodrama has always caused me to wonder why my mother was on such a procreation-kick with me. Especially given that I have four siblings, all of whom are presumably fertile and who generally have better luck with the opposite sex than I do. However, it occurs to me that in my mother's eyes it is best if I fulfill her jonesing for grandchildren, as (1) it is less expensive for me to be the breeder amongst her children, as I could conceivably support said grandbabies (which given the deadbeat nature of a testtube, I would definitely have to do), and (2) she may in fact believe me to be the least insane of her children. And that, in fact, she may be right. Frightening. Truly. One starts to feel bad for her with such a dearth of viable opportunities.

I am almost thirty years old and I have never been in love. Well, not with a person. I have been in love with a lot of ideas of people. I was in love with an idea of a person for four years who was in love with an idea of me. It does not bode well when you are both involved in a relationship with figments of your imagination. Can someone see me as I am - mood swings, slight-ADD, neurotic to the bone, not-so-cute, smart, self-supporting, way cynical, awfully jaded, funny on occasion, pretty good at filling silences - and love me? Just like that? Just as important, can I see them just as they are - pedestal removed, eye-level, clear and present - and love them as well? Just like that? I don't know if either or both are possible.

At this point, I have forgotten what infatuation is like. I have vague recollections of what it is like on my end. But the memories are dusty and crumbling fast. Can one's ability to have romantic feelings atrophy away and die?

What is so intoxicating about wanting someone who doesn't want you? Is it the chase? Is it the pain? Is it the control that the wanting will never be a relationship?

Beyond Fondue & Onto Salad: Balsamic Vinagrette or Thousand Island

[DISCLAIMER: The thoughts presented below, as convoluted as they are, are solely the author's. This, of course, is no surprise that this entire site is dedicated to her pervasive ramblings. The author has tried to capture some personal feelings and experiences she has had growing up as a multi-racial individual. If she has inadvertently offended or ]

Now let me make one thing perfectly clear: I hate mayonnaise.

Not just passionate dislike. Not just thoughfully considered vilification. No, I hate mayonnaise with a deep-seated fire of spite and an absolute and affirmative unfettered hatred.

Won't eat anything it has been in contact with. Have trouble controlling my queasiness just looking at it.

The outgrowth of my mayo-phobicness has translated into a wholesale rejection of any white creamy sauces or derivatives thereof. *Contemplation of inserting obvious dirty comment here. True enough. But, ah, discussion of such is not entirely relevant here. Another time, perhaps. For now, let's just keep it strictly, err, epicurean.*

So no chowdah for me. A lot of French food, so cleverly disguised in creamy sauces, out the window. And, most startingly to the rest of the world, no salad dressing for me.

My name is CLC. I hate mayonnaise and I eat my salads dry.

*Stifled screams. Gasps from the audience. A woman faints dead way.*

This is only one of the more prominent of my food quirks (other assorted ones: (a) I have never had bacon - yes, apparently I am a Catholic who is keeping kosher; (b) I won't eat meat if I can't see it - i.e. I have never liked chili because the meat is masked in the beans of the soup; (c) I actually affirmatively like gefilte fish and matzo - once again, yes, I am Catholic, really; (d) like Sally, "on the side" is a very big thing for me, because I like to mix and match as I please the proportions of flavors in my meal - yes, I am a control freak in every aspect of my life) but I bring it up now as a helpful analogy to a larger issue which I would like to attempt to address here, as I have never seen it addressed in any adequate way in my 27 years in any other forum:

The NYT had an article (linked to the title to this entry) last weekend on the ascent of a movement of people in their 20s trying to make the rest of the world aware of the [plight? presence?] of people of mixed racial origins.

This is a topic near and dear to my heart. One which is not discussed nearly often enough, and whose neglect as a social issue du jour leaves me checking other on my census form and, like Jack Nicholson before me, obsessively compulsively wondering "Is this as good as it gets?"

I began reading it eagerly. I finished reading it with disappointment.

The basic theme I pulled from the article is that the group of people interviewed for said article have the following problems:

(1) they are of mixed ethnic origin, and thus because they are not easily visually identifiable as one thing or another, they are offended when people ask what they are.

(2) However, similarly, these same people are also offended when others assume they are one thing or another.

(3) They are likewise offended that someone might want to date them because they are of mixed origin, that someone would find them "exotic" as this would be akin to treating them as a caged animal.

(4) Being of mixed origin means you will eventually be offended, one way or another, consciously or subsconsciously, by everyone you know because people will forget/not recall/not know some part of your ethnic background and make a statement that offends one of your claimed ethnic groups.

(5) Such offensive statements will never be forgiven even if inadvertent and even if the other person had no way of knowing about the mixed origin person's heritage, and such person wouldn't answer those questions anyway, because they classify those questions as offensive as well,

(6) Being of mixed ethnic background apparently bestows upon you the right to be indignant on behalf of at least two ethnic groups, if not more, for all of these perpetrated offenses.

So what have we learned here? Bascially, you are of mixed ethnic origin, and thus you are destined to always be offended and unhappy.

This is not helpful to either kids growing up as people with mixed ethnic backgrounds or to the rest of the world at large in understanding the phenomena.

How do I know? Because this is what I live every day. And I have thought about it quite a bit.

They say that America has moved beyond the proverbial melting pot, and into the salad bowl days of life. So where does that leave me? Am I more Balsamic Vinagrette or Thousand Island?

If you are Balsamic Vinagrette (BV), then you are oil and vinegar, the separate nature of your basic building block fundamentals are visible to the naked eye, unless and until you are shaken up and you combine into a savory tart-sweet adhering concoction. However, left to your own inertia, your building blocks separate out once more into their individual portions - oil floating atop vinegar. Plain and simple. Till the next shake up.

If you are Thousand Island (TI) the parts that are you - the white creamy globular mayonnaise and the slick crayola red ketchup - are scrambled, swirled and stir-stir-stirred into one orangey conflagration (which defies metaphor here as I can think of no other place in nature or in laboratory where such an orange hue occurs. There is a reason you never hear people driving through New England in the fall saying, "Ooooh, I love Peak. Look at all the pretty Thousand Island colored leaves!") In the interest of full disclosure, given my aforementioned distaste for mayo, I have never actually tasted Thousand Island dressing. However, I have been assured by many a dressing connoisseur, that despite the slightly distrubing hue, it is in fact quite tasty. A surprisingly refreshing and unexpected flavor. And unlike the BV, once the ketchup and the mayo have come together, they are indistinguishable from one another. There is no telling where one ends and the other begins. Yes, Thousand Island makes two ordinary elements into something unique in every way. Forever.

The way I see it, the beauty of being the product of an interracial relationship, a multi-racial individual (MI) - is this: No matter what, inside your head and your heart, you are forever Thousand Island. You are not one thing or another. You are neither ketchup nor mayo. You are TI. You are unique. You are beautiful. No matter what anyone says.

Somehow this inner state translates poorly to the world outside though. Because what everyone is comfortable with - we MI selves included - are bunches and groups. It is hard to stand alone. The comraderie of cultural recognition is a strong lure. Especially in these days of the waning of the close-knit community and the pipedream that is an accessible and evolving church (speaking for my own religion at least). For the MI, there is comfort in identification, a security in anchoring yourself to the familiarity that is bred in generation upon generation past. For the rest of the world, there is comfort in the easy ability to categorize ("Ketchup. Mayo. Ah, yes, burger! Okay.").

But there is a problem. Being an MI means that by your very being, you defy easy categorization. In fact you defy categorization entirely. You will always be a category of 1.

Problem is that no batch of Thousand Island is the "same" as another. The apportioning of ingredients is always slightly different, the appearance of the finished product infinitely varied. No two servings the same. So while as MI you are neither ketchup nor mayo, you are also not TI. Well, not TI like that guy on the bus is TI or that woman in line at Starbucks is TI or like your work colleague is TI. As a multiracial individual, you are thus not only different from the rest of the world, and you are all different from each other. My siblings and I number nearly half-a-dozen, we are a half-carton collective unto ourselves. We were made from the same ketchup and mayo, and yet, we all visually present slightly differently. We stand together. But still stand alone.

While you may look BV - people can identify the vinegar and/or the oil, and they feel comfortable lumping you in one group or another, the truth of the matter is, you cannot be separated out into your individual components. Not for long at least. There is a discomfort in the idea that to embrace one side of you, you must deny the rest. Unfortunately, that is what is often asked of the MI in order to fit in with any ethnically identifying group. And while such a denial may initially win you entry into the group, eventually someone makes the statement that everyone was thinking all along: You can't really know what it is like. You aren't really [FILL IN THE ETHNIC GROUP HERE.] When things get really ugly, and escalation spirals out of control, the "P" word is then inevitably thrown around. You are Passing.

Passing: Always spit out as though it was a dirty word. A betrayal. An evil perpertrated upon the world without remorse. Passing" for the ethnic group your were trying to become affiliated with, or worse, affiliating with them and "passing" for the other. But this charged language is just a relic of another generation. An MI is never passing. An MI is just who they are. They may present visually as one thing or another - more ketchup than mayo, more oil than vinegar - but that is all happenstance. A genetic footnote. Not a conscious choice of text. But the accusations fly fast and furious anyway. The alienation inevitable.

The tragedy of all of this is that all you wanted was to learn. To learn more about where you came from. You are forging new inroads into the world, but it is still nice to know where you are from.

My sister and I - one of us who looks more like our bronzed coffee colored mother and the other of us who tends more towards our fair (read: pasty white) looking father - both attempted to connect with RAZA during our college years. Two sides of the same coin, slightly different mixtures of TI from the same batch, both swiftly rebuffed for the same reason. We didn't "really know what it was like" - as apparently she was passing as hispanic, and I was passing as white. Somehow, we thought it went without saying that we were both. Apparently, we were wrong. Though the true answer would be given forth willingly and without hesitation, is it false advertising simply because it begs the question? The answer must be "no." Eventually society will catch up to that notion. But for now, launching unfettered heaps of anger and frustration on those that do bravely venture forth and ask the question and open up opportunities for discussion, those opportunities so often denied, is only self defeating. In that vein, the jeering quality of the MI's in the NYT article saddens me.

I wish they had asked me questions. I am not ketchup. I am not mayo. I am not vinegar. I am not oil. I am all of these things. I am me. I am both a country and a salad bowl unto myself. It is a good thing.

Call It In The Air...

The reports of my disappearance have been greatly exaggerated. I have been here, drafting entries which have, well, stayed exactly that: drafts.

Nothing worth placing in the cyberspace firmament for all to see from here till eternity (or at least till the next big spyware-worm-virus thing crashes the 'Net).

Sure I have some internal ruminations....

• Who is more self centered: Johnny Damon with his painting of the Last Supper hanging in his dining room - with his head painted over that of Jesus - or Paris Hilton who is so enamored with herself that she can find romantic love only with an eponymous being who (despite his similarly vast wealth) also sports less than convincing blonde ambitions?
• Is there a cosmic significance to the fact that Michael Jackson also has a child named Paris?
• Is it weirder that Michael Jackson named 2 of his children Prince Michael or that he has kids at all?
• Maybe it's just me, but does it seem less than wise to call Kobe Bryant as a character witness in your defense at a child molestation trial or is my questioning this strategy (as well as the Barry Bonds & Greg Anderson BFF displays) just yet another indication that perhaps lawyering should not be my chosen gig?
• And would the fact that George Forman named all of his sons (and one of his daughters) George outweigh the bizarro nature of the fact that another Jackson - big brother Jermaine - named his youngest child, Jermajesty?
• Who do I feel sorrier for: the Spe-derline bebe or Pvt. Lynddie England's genetic offspring?
• Why would the Runaway Bride's jilted fiancee take her back - as somehow, an "oops, I'm sorry honey I went for a run and ended up on a Greyhound bus" just doesn't seem to be enough? How were people so surprised by her behavior as those "crazy eyes" just seem to say it all?
• By the way, when was it decided that Jessica Simpson was ever fat? Must have missed the memo on that one.
• And is the panel of people at People picking the Most Beautiful People blind or are they just really big Lord of the Rings fans - otherwise I don't understand the Marc/J.Lo Most Beautiful Couple designation? No. Really, I mean it.
• Are Nancy Grace and Bill O'Reilly the same person?
• Exactly what is it about the T. Cruise/K. Ho coupling - other than the slightly Koreshian/Napoleonic overtones it takes on - that causes chills to run up and down my spine?
• Is a fifteen pound hamburger necessary for the betterment of the world?
• Do the perennial "stars" of MTV reality shows realize that, by your fourth iteration of the Inferno-Road Rules-BOS challenge the world is not laughing with you? Eric Nies, I am talking to you.
• David Hasselhoff, David Hasselhoff, David Hasselhoff.

...but in the end, are these earth-shattering questions of our day? Probably not, though I do feel that they are worth asking.

Aye, there is the rub. Perhaps this may be a contributing factor to my continuing residence in the land o' spinster: population 1. I discovered long ago that one of the things on my List of actual, necessary, deal breaker qualities was that I needed a man who, while he did not need to be cogniscent of it himself, did not mind that I know that Britney Spears' birthday is on December 3.

Shallow? Perhaps. Laughter-provoking? Definitely. But my love of celebrity trash - large and small, momentous and insiginificant - cannot be denied. If a man cannot embrace it, he needs to at least be willing to do the "nod-and-smile" and play along with my interest in it. I work in an office damnit - I have to do something with my day! I would not have thought this an issue, but I have been on a semi-date (or at least a meal where I got the feeling a boy was trying to impress me) where I was decrying the viscissitudes of Bennifer I and said boy had the nerve to tell me that he thought discussing such things was shallow and a waste of time. Certainly a perfectly rational and well-founded opinion when trying to make a point in the halls of academia etcetera, but if you are trying to get your game on, not so much. 3 words: Nod-and-smile. Nod. And. Smile.

I would have written this off as an isolated incident set off by an unfortunate soul who happened to be raised by wolves, but no... another friend of mine was recently raked over the coals by her significant other for pontificating on the Brad-Jen-Angelina love triangle and People magazine's coverage thereof. And before the pious out there go decrying all the cover-babes of People as socially insignificant-morally bankrupt schlubs, one of the most recent people to grace the cover of said magazine was none other than Pope John Paul II. Is it scandalous and devoid of social gravitas to discuss the Father-Son-Holy Spirit triangle?

But I digress.

Get a little lonely here at the end of the day.

Click. It's 4 p.m. It begins.

Pulling and tugging.

It is about 5 pm and it starts to occur to me in earnest that no one is expecting me home. And that the only one truly disappointed by the sizable mountain of work on my desk is me.

It is then that it rolls itself up into a little ball that I can kick around with my feet. I try to do my work, but I am batting around the little ball on the floor.

Foot to foot.

Sometimes I grab it and toss it around.

Hand to hand. Back and forth.

Up.

Up.

Down.

It is firm, hard even. Definitely tangible. I think the loneliness has been hard-baked by resignation and set in a fine glaze of disappointment.

Disappointment in the fact that even if I could leave earlier. I don't need to, and ultimately, I probably don't want to because the truth is, I can't think of anything to do.

It makes me sad.

I always say: My life is not much, but it's mine.

I say this matter-of-factly and without embarassment. I should be embarassed. I should be greatly shamed. I should be outraged, enraged, assuaged. Something. But no.

My life is not much, but it's mine.

This is not a simple state of being humble. This is a half-baked explanation for not engaging. A life devoid of private jets, fancy parties, and rivers of bling, is still a live well lived, a life with an embarassment of riches.

A simple life lived without need of explanation is a humble and beautiful life.

But my life, such that it is, appears so unfinished. So unraveled at the edges. It begs for an explanation. Half-baked as it is.

My life is not much, but it's mine.

If it's mine, it can be more. What do I want?

In the land of make-believe, sunshine and light, what would my life look like?

I am not sure.

I already feel the barely perceptible, yet omni-present twinge of feelings that is so indelicately called "getting set in your ways." Once people start saying this out loud about you (or worse, you start saying it about yourself), you are pretty much 6 days away from purchasing the 12 cats, the rocking chair and the shotgun. "Set in your ways" is clearly code for "spinster."

That being said, you live on your own long enough and you do start to set into a rhythm of your own life. You get used to being the totalitarian of your own regime. Any day can be laundry night, happy hour, or cultural endeavor. Every day is of your own design, at the whim of your schedule, at your beck and call.

But even despite these "set in my way" twinges, my perfect day would be wrapped around someone else. It would be couched in compromise.

I would be harried getting out of the office because I was pushing to get out on time. I have to be home. I have to pick up some cheese and some veggies. He's bringing the tuna steaks. We're grilling. Cooking out on the deck. Hoping the grill holds up. He put it together. I "helped." Neither of us really knew what we were doing. There were tools involved, borrowed of course, contained in a shiny red tool box. Dutifully the directions for assembly had been spread out, but we'd only read half of them. Every other step. Too smart to have to read it. Much prefer the scientific term "thingy" for that pivotal screw and joint. Never mind the four extra pieces we couldn't make use of. It's a beautiful summer evening and we are going to grill out on the deck. 2 glasses of red wine. Sitting out in my favorite soft green khaki pants, little white t-shirt, no shoes. Feet tucked under me, lounging in a deck chair.

Watching him. Wrestling the big, shiny new grill. Assuring me this is a "piece of cake." Attempts to be fancy with the marinade, resulting in a dribbling down his button down shirt (a remnant of the work day) and onto his jeans. He doesn't notice. The concentration on the intricacy of the battle of wills between man and grill complete.

I laugh. He smiles. Finally noticing the marinade. I hand him a paper towel. He laughs too.

8 minutes - give or take - till the steaks are done.

He sits down next to me. Brushes his hand past my cheek, then grabs my hand. Squeezes it, looks at me. Just looks. Says nothing. And then like fireworks spreading across a pristine night sky, a smile. And the sun slowly sinks, melting the day around it into a haze of gold and gauzy orange, drawn together with ribbons of violed. And I am warm. Warm, safe and loved. Inside and out.

That is it.

It would not be too much, but it would be mine.