Hitting the Dusty Trail

As I have mentioned too many times, I am attending Burning Man this year. I am flying out to San Francisco tomorrow morning with Patel. We are meeting up with the Duchess, who for all intents and purposes, lives in a tree out there. I hope to eat authentic cheap tacos and authentic expensive Asian food before departing the city on Monday.

We will be driving out to the Black Rock Desert in a sort of petroleum guzzling caravan with Max, Leeds and some of their overly intellectual college friends. (Pot? Kettle? Black? Never!) Other luminaries who have not yet been mentioned on this blog (namely, CTY friends from years ago) will be meeting us there for a week of... I don't know. Chaos? Bliss? Confusion? Nirvana? We'll see. I have high hopes for all of the above, coupled with some freaky art exhibits, bangin' tunes and the biggest starry sky I've ever seen.

I will be keeping a log (written on real paper with a real pen) and taking some photos. I will probably be making a third grade style scrapbook with these hard copy items when I get back. I'll post some digital content as well. Naturally, as I won't be near running water, let alone electricity or an internet connection, I shan't be updating this blog until my return. Don't cry. No guest bloggers, I'm not that cool. (I am that organized, but really, I'm not that cool.) I shall return on Wednesday, September 6 - at which point the countdown to my birthday on September 19 will be well underway.

And now, back to printing out lists of gas stations in Reno, NV and American Airlines' definition of a "liquid." I'm also scheming to leave work early so that I can go home and pack like whoah.

Love and Kisses to last a week and a half,

Audrey.

PS - If you see him next week, tell Ben that I miss him.

Frutels Video

Oh yes. See the video that finally made me register at YouTube.

Also: I can supply you with a free Frutels sample if you wish. Yeah.

Frutels. It works! For acne.

Frutels: All-natural, holistic acne care.

You think I'm kidding, but I'm not.

And guess what?

It works!

For acne!

Let's take a step back.

My darling friend Max, whom I met at CTY in 1997, is quite a character.* For years, I have attended multi-day, all-night CTY New Years parties that have devolved into "socially acceptable gatherings not entirely comprised of nerds." Recently, these fetes have been at Max's parents' house in NYC. This year, the party tipped a bit more towards Max's younger brother's friends (and thus may face its ultimate demise).

But I digress. This year's festivities rang in 2006, the year of the Frutel.

I'll wait while you examine the website again.

Frutels are a gummy vitamin devised by Max's mother. They look sort of like round gum drops - but sugarless.** I had the pleasure of seeing Max for lunch yesterday and then stopping by his house for drinks yesterday evening. His parents were home and once again, I was faced with Frutels. And the memories came flooding back.

At New Years, Max's mother had just finished up the first production run and hadn't secured many distribution outlets yet. There were large cardboard boxes filled with cute green Frutel packs lurking around every corner, like hidden little leprechauns.

The first run of Frutels had a bit of a vitamin odor. That didn't stop us twenty-somethings and Max's brother's high school friends from nibbling at them for nearly twelve straight hours. They were tasty and kind of fun. Come morning, empty Frutel tins littered the house next to passed out hipsters, cowboy hats, half-finished drinks, the empty pot of stick punch,*** and other New Years remnants. Oh yeah. It was that kind of party.

Now, I've woken up hung over before - and I know that you, my dear readers, have as well. You have a headache. You have to use the restroom. You are thirsty. You are hungry. Sometimes you are nauseous. Your mouth is dry. Your hair is a mess. And most importantly, you are hot, sweaty and dirty. Your face bears the acne buds as reminder to others not to engage in your debaucherous behavior.

But not this year. I don't recall a single person waking up with unpleasant skin that New Year's Day. While I did not continue scarfing Frutels, I brought some home for my 16 year older brother and he, too, sung their praises. I actually can no longer relate funny Max stories to my parents if my brother is around, as he will hound me about Frutels.

Maybe I was still a bit woozy. Maybe Max's kitchen just has really good lighting. But last I checked, everyone usually looks awful the morning after a party. But damn, we looked good that day.

Not that I have the pictures to prove it or anything.

Though my skin's been decently clear since I finished college, hangover acne knows no age limits. Frutels are back in my life, now pleasantly flavored with lemon. The year of the Frutel indeed.

I strongly advise you get your own protection against hangover acne, which I am sure has gotten many of you unfairly kicked out of bed. Frutels are available online at the Frutels website and at a few stores in Manhattan, Brooklyn and California:

Manhattan

Chateau Pharmacy - 68th and Amsterdam

Cafe Duke - Prince and Broadway

Williamsburg

Northside Health Food - 5th and Bedford

Northside Pharmacy - 7th and Bedford

California

Stoneridge Deli - Pleasanton, CA

_________________________________

*I haven't done asterisks in a while. Anyhow, Max has only avoided mention thus far as he is only in NYC these days for short spurts. He's the one who orchestrated my attendance at Burning Man. Rest assured, more Max stories will be forthcoming upon my return from the desert.
**From what I hear, they're manufactured at the Flintstones vitamin factory in California.
***Stick punch. A bowl, filled with punch, stirred by a small tree branch, or stick, from the park. In NYC. It's classy.

List of Lists

As suggested last week by Poshua, a list of lists that I would like to make:

- Groceries I should buy, but probably won't

- Things I'd really like to like more

- Favorite cheeses

- HTML color codes

- Graduate school programs

- Types of sand

- Useful recipes

- Amusing paperclip-related stories

- Books to read

- Intelligent questions for famous people I like, should I ever meet them

- Things that I've lost

- Photographs to copy for a "Best Of" photo album

- Situation-specific drinks to order, depending on the situation

- Movies I'm embarrassed to admit I haven't seen (See: Netflix)

- Things to pack for Burning Man (done)

- Thirty things to accomplish by the time I'm thirty

- Books to pretend I've read

- Magazines to which I should subscribe to take up space on my coffee table

- Activities to do in Cities I'd like to visit

- Historic American and British railroad companies

- Perfumes I'd consider adding to a small arsenal of signature scents

- Types of Dwarfism (if a certain Rachel Research Science had kept up her "Summer of Education," I wouldn't have to make *that* list)

- Reasons why I should learn a foreign language

- Reasons why I should not learn a foreign language

- Things in my apartment that need to be fixed/mended

- Appropriate birthday presents, both for me and for others

- Gems of wisdom to pass on to my eventual spawn

- Dream fitness routines

- Ways to take over the world

- People I irrationally dislike and the reasons why

- Types of nuts

More Haiku than You Can Handle

Since my Cape Cod weekend was too lengthy and observation-filled to Haiku -ize, I have created this separate post for your reading enjoyment. It's more of an epic poem than a series of individual haiku. An aside - I've been thinking about my Haiku lately. They're very easy to write and don't demonstrate any particular talent of mine. I rarely invest the time to make them really excellent or even funny. I'm not sure anyone really reads them. But I like writing them and I enjoy having a feature. So... here we are.

Selected Blogroll

Fashionably Late
In the liquor wilderness
I hunt for "writers"

Embarrassed, I ask
Have I found you all at last?
"Yes!" I order beer.

Table turns to bar
More people and beer arrive
Volume increases.

As the night wears on
A cry for karaoke
Is met with much glee

I would love to stay
But I must drag myself home
Next time, I promise.

And now, because I have them, I present another series of Haiku I wrote last Thursday in response to the following email from Ben, who was traveling in Atlanta on business at the time:

To: Audrey
From: Ben
Subject: Re: You should know

this hotel is full of haikus! help!

To: Ben
From: Audrey
Subject: Re: You should know


I am envious.
I have never seen haiku
in their habitat

You may not have known
The haiku is most at home
In Georgia hotels

I would be grateful
if you would bring some haikus
Home for me to meet

So easily fooled
Whisper in their ears and soon
You will have stunned one.

Haiku travel well
In mason jars with small holes
Wordy fireflies

Thus I take my leave
With but one piece of advice
Do not pet the poems

Valiant man that he is, Ben rose to the occasion:

To: Audrey
From: Ben
Subject: Re: You should know

Atlanta is hot
With few people walking streets
Even on nice days.

I find haikus here
On stationery and such.
What a weird hotel.

I wrote a few more, but they were bad and not worth editing.

The End.

You Can Hear the Music on the XM Radio...

Good morning, world! After a lovely weekend relaxing on Cape Cod with post-collegiate pals Poshua, Red Wine and the M's (heretofore never mentioned on this blog), I am here! And I'm in an exclamation point mood! Stand back!

As expected, the Cape had gorgeous vistas, freezing ocean water, and cute, useless stores selling t shirts depicting cartoon cats in beach gear. I put on my sunblock and avoided a burn, bought some fudge at an overpriced candy store, and enjoyed the chirping crickets at night. Thanks to Poshua for inviting us up, and to his mom for having a really nice house, even though I arrived after she had left and I'm not sure she really exists.

An unexpected surprise was the presence of XM satellite radio in the Zipcar that Posh had rented. I've never had the pleasure of playing with an XM or Sirus radio before, so I was intrigued. At first, I wasn't very impressed. I never had control of the dial as I am short and had accepted my place in the back seat of the car for the duration of the trip. From the rear of the car, it seemed as though the radio, with its zillions of stations, was playing only two types of songs: obscure tunes in which I was not interested and top 40 rubbish.

Then I realized that Red Wine just kept picking the same 4 songs over and over again.

Conclusions:

XM radio is awesome and if I had a car I would definitely subscribe. I wonder if XM and Sirus will eventually merge. Ben pointed out that the only notable difference between the two are their sports selections and talk radio hosts.

- A strong contender for the song that will play as the credits roll in the movie of my life is Tom Cochran's "Life is a Highway." It is almost an ironic choice, as I did not obtain a driver's license until last November (two months after my 22nd birthday), and I live in Manhattan sans car. I also don't particularly like driving at night - hence the lyric "Life is a Highway, I want to ride it all night long," is apropos of nothing.

- Is Fergie's horrific anthem "London Bridge" the same as Gwen Stefani's "Hollerback Girl" of yesteryear, only worse? You know what? I don't care, they're both kind of awful.

- How many times can I hear that Gnarls Barkley "Crazy" song before I want to put a pencil in my ear? Surprisingly, a large number of times. I think I may like it. But ask me again in three day's time and we'll see.

- How good is the "Snakes on a Plane" theme song? This good.

Further Conclusions:

- Snakes on a Plane was worth the hype. While I am glad I only paid $8.50 in Cape Cod instead of a NYC $11 to hear Samuel L. Jackson say, "Enough is enough! I have had it with these muthaf*ckin' snakes on this muthaf*ckin' plane!" it would have been nice to see those snakes tear up a ginormous screen. If you didn't see it opening weekend, it's probably not worth seeing in a theatre, but I was amused.

- Provincetown's favorite financial institution must be the Seaman's Bank. I kid you not.

Haiku to follow in a separate post, as this week, they will pay homage to my Thursday Night. And maybe I'll add some pictures to this entry later.

By the By

I am on vacation tomorrow, Friday, August 18. Ah, summer Fridays. Be still my heart. And be still my blog, for I will not be posting.

Tonight, I will be doing some tipsy packing after a much-anticipated shindig. Drinking? A splendid way to begin a long weekend.

Tomorrow morning, however, I will be catching the 7 am Chinatown bus to Boston and then a 1pm ferry to the nether regions of Cape Cod. In-transit hangover? Possibly not the best way to continue a long weekend.

I should note that my absence tomorrow will be good training for you while I'm on my real vacation during the last week of August.

Because I'm sure you can't remember what your life was like before you started reading my drivel. You had so much time back then, didn't you?

Have a good weekend. Be Excellent to each other.

Yuppies in Da Hood

Generally, I am very loyal to my local establishments. I shop for groceries in my neighborhood (a really big stretch since I live near the 14th street sh*tshow of Farmers' Market/Food Emporium/Whole Foods/Trader Joe's) and frequent local cafes and restaurants. (Sort of. They're expensive.) Anyhow. A shoutout to the Flatiron district!

The same holds true for work, though more for convenience's sake than allegiance. I work near Bryant Park and Times Square and I usually go to the same lunch places, ATM and Duane Reade. (Not like the Duane Reade really matters, as it's corporate.) Yesterday, I decided to venture up 6th Avenue (ahem, the Avenue of the Americas) for lunch as I was bored with the lunch places near my office. Notably, I was so bored that I expressed regret that I could not absorb nutrition through my feet, much like a plant absorbs water and nutrients through its roots.

I know what you're thinking: "How could she say that about food?!" (I regained my senses shortly, don't worry.)

Anyhow, there is a really nice place on 50th between 6th and Broadway called Bocca that I hadn't been to since my intern days. It's located conveniently across the street from a well-manicured plaza, complete with trees and an elegant fountain. One block south, between 47th and 48th street in the middle of that same block, one will find the elusive wall of water plaza - my final lunchtime resting place that day. I read a chapter or so in One Hundred Years of Solitude (in English) and soaked up the cool air careening off the wall of water. On my way back to work, I stopped at a Duane Reade on 47th street near a spacious Chipotle I had never noticed. (Huh. Fancy that.)

It was the sheer friendliness ("Did you find everything you needed today without any trouble?" Why yes I did!) and complete lack of line at that Duane Reade that pushed me over the edge and drove me to write this post. Simple fact, stores and restaurants are less congested and have better traffic flow further north on 6th Avenue than they are near my office. (I may have to break ties with the Duane Reade further south.) Also, the cranberry juice that I wanted to purchase was in the front of the store - I was in and out in two minutes. I didn't have to go on an underground spelunking adventure for it like I do at the Duane Reade near my apartment. (The one near work is only slightly better - same floor, back of the store behind the escalator.)

Returning for a moment to my lunch, I am convinced that better traffic flow promotes conservation of resources. You may recall my discussion regarding the wastefulness of some midtown lunch places that automatically provide each customer with a plastic fork, knife and a giant wad of napkins. Whether I'm using the utensils or not, they've been placed in a plastic bag to get me out the door as quickly as possible. This practice prevents congestion at the restaurant's door since patrons do not need to pause to get a fork on the way out. However, if you don't need that spoon or quite that many napkins, very often they simply get tossed. Tragedy.

Bocca, however, did not forcefeed me napkins and a fork; instead, they had staggered their checkout lines throughout the restaurant so that I had ample room to pause for the cutlery of my choice. Granted, Bocca also has a nice space and two exits which many of these places do not, so it may not be a fair accusation. Still, I believe that some of these lunch places could try a *little* harder to reduce the amount of waste they create by perhaps scattering cutlery stations throughout the restaurant. Give people space to choose their spoons without crowding the exit.

A final point - while I do enjoy those structured plazas, nothing in this neighborhood is going to beat Bryant Park. Admittedly noisy at times, it has a lawn and big trees. No rock garden ranks higher than a tree.

Variation on Vermin

So I've got another irrelevant manifesto in the works (don't I always) for you later today or perhaps tomorrow, but the following Gawker item brought a new question to the front of my nimble little mind:

Infestation of Starbucks Employees Protest Vermin Infestation of Starbucks
(be sure to watch the embedded 48 second video, as it answers some, but not all of my questions).

Is the infestation of a chain restaurant, or any place that serves or sells food, the fault of the overbearing corporation, the municipality in which the restaurant is located, the building owner, the franchise owner, the manager, or the employees?

Never having worked in any sort of food service, I know nothing about this industry. What I do know is that my hypochondriac immune system would prefer not to patronize establishments with infestation issues. I also know that if I were a worker, in this case a barista or a shift manager like the girl in the video, I wouldn't want to work in such a situation, nor would I feel that my job description required me to do something about it personally.

However, in our crazy-mixed-up city, whose job is it to keep the rats' grubby little paws off my blackberry green tea frappuccino? Not the barista, fine, though if I were in her shoes I'd keep the Raid handy and buy a couple of glue traps. And I'm sure she's done that; it's impossible to tell from such a short news clip.

I think it's possible this job could fall to the manager or the franchise owner (if there is one in this case, I don't know how Starbucks' corporate structure works). If it's a franchise owner, he controls his own finances and can pay for an exterminator/cleaning service as he sees fit - but my guess is that a simple manager doesn't have the power (or the funding) to call in help on his or her own without approval from the company.

A manager - or even a peon employee - should also have the ability to call the landlord or superintendent of the building if the store leases space. I'm going to hazard a guess that Starbucks doesn't own that building in Union Square that says "Beth Israel Medical Center" on it, or the one near Bryant Park that says "HBO." In fact, I'll go one step further and tell you that I don't think Beth Israel or HBO even own those buildings. Big scary management companies own them and since they're in control of the bricks-and-mortar space, I would reason that it's possibly their job to keep your Starbucks pest free. In the case of non-chain eateries, I would reason that it's the manager or owner's job to complain to the landlord and then take logical prevention steps himself.

Moving up through one more layer of bureaucracy, it crossed my mind that the weight of your latte should rest on the shoulders of the Great City of New York - and not merely because they conduct the inspections. But now that I'm actually thinking about it, I'm not so sure. There are rats and roaches everywhere in New York; their large numbers in a particular basement aren't likely due to municipal problems. If for some reason they are linked to an issue with a sewer, then get on it, Bloomberg. Likewise ConEd to power lines, MTA to the subway, and Verizon to the phones. Because power lines cause rats.

(As you can tell, I officially no longer have *any idea* what I'm talking about. It was just a thought.)

Finally, we arrive at Starbucks Corporate. They have control of the pursestrings that can pay for exterminators and better working conditions. They also have the power to lobby the landlords of the various buildings in which they lease space for better conditions - or in the extreme case, cease occupying a location.

Perhaps I have come to the same conclusion as everyone else despite some expository fun. I still think that the story of rat whiskers on your cookie is more complicated than a mere battle cry of "Starbucks is evil!"

Commemorating the 2003 Blackout

It has now been approximately 24 hours since I decided that in commemoration of the 2003 Blackout, lots of people would be walking over the Brooklyn Bridge as they did in 2003. Because clearly, that would be a great idea.

As I was proven wrong, I will share the few photos that I took during the 2003 blackout with you instead. I got caught on a Metro North train in the South Bronx for several hours. Don't feel too bad for me - I had finished my summer internship, so I wasn't in work clothes. I had simply gone to a Mets game the night before and stayed over at a friend's house in Manhattan. I was just happy to have the opportunity to walk on train tracks.

Detraining: During the 2003 blackout, I was stuck on a Metro North train in the South Bronx for many hours. Metro North, at first, refused to let passengers even open the doors of the train, as it was a liability issue. They let us make fans out of the poster-sized ads in the cars. In this photo, people are climbing out of the rear of the train.

The Locals: Local kids in the South Bronx look on as the suburbanites get out onto the tracks.

Outdoors at Last: As the temperature rose and it became clear that power wasn't returning, they let us detrain and walk back to Melrose (or maybe Tremont?), the nearest station.

Walking on the Tracks: We trudge to the Melrose station platform.

Homeward Bound: Luckily, I ran into a girl I knew in high school on the train. Her father grew up in the Bronx and he drove down to spirit us back to the Bestchester. Pictured above is his car. My parents hate driving in NYC. They probably would have told me to walk back to Manhattan and stay with a friend for the night.

The Stupid Tax

When a blogworthy event befalls me, I usually give it a few days to fester before sharing it with you, my dear readers. I spend some time turning the anecdote over in the back of my head while on the subway, in the shower, falling asleep, etc., trying to determine if I am indeed as funny as I think I am.

Sometimes, the funny just spews [not great for work] forth. I hope.

Last Friday, I made plans to have lunch with the illustrious elder Leeds brother near our respective offices. It didn't work out. This morning, we planned to have lunch today. Leeds, as you may recall, is temping until his anthro-I-don't-know-what Ph.d program begins this fall. That means that he is a brilliant but completely unemployable intellectual.

Leeds mentioned that he had to run to Mailboxes Etc. before lunch. I like mail. I love boxes. And I adore that "etc.," so I agreed to come with. I met up with Leeds at 12:45 in front of his office and he pointed the way to 9th Ave, our destination. Land of cheap and good food! Neat.

I should tell you that I presumed Leeds needed to mail something for work. When I was a fashion lackey intern one summer, my life consisted of standing in line at the post office to mail birthday presents to my boss' friends and getting coffee. A Mailboxes Etc. trip for an overqualified temp fit those parameters. But, no, Leeds was mailing personal items.

"I need two things," he says to the agreeable woman behind the counter. "I need one to arrive in Philly tomorrow, and one to arrive there in 3 days." He fills out the forms. I marvel at boxes and tape and yap about the time a mutual friend of ours gave me biodegradable starch packing pieces from The Container Store as a gift - which are edible, by the by. My dog loved them.

Finally, I become bored with boxes and I ask Leeds what he's sending. "My rent check for Philly for August and some grad school tax forms for my stipend," he replies.

"Why are you in such a rush to get them down there? Did you just find the apartment?"

"No. I found it a while ago."

"Leeds, how long have you known about mailing these things?"

"Months, Audrey. Months."

"Do you know how much overnight mail costs?"

"I'm going to try not to think about it."

$40.37 later (~$23 for the overnight, ~$17 for the 3 day), Leeds tried not to think about it over some tasty Thai food at Tiny Thai on 9th Ave.

And that is why I call it the Stupid Tax. Because really, it's your fault for being stupid that you have to pay that much.

Weekend Haiku, activities brought to you [me] by Ben:

Saturday Night

Tiny French Bistro

Thumping Euro pop music

Delectable food

Sunday

Sunny Yankees game

Below-cost main reserve seats

Not my team; they lost.

I Love the Weather! I Hate Day Camp!

...And I control the weather, too - on alternate Tuesdays and Thursdays. Contrary to popular belief, I do not favor rain.

[I also know that it is poor form to start a blog post with an in-joke that the other party may not even catch, but, it's Friday and here we are.]

Today's beautiful August weather conjures up bittersweet visions of the last day of summer camp. These thoughts are most likely running through my head because I'm sure today, Friday August 10, *is* the last day of summer camp for many kids around the country. (And maybe Canada.) The sun haunts the sky from a slightly lower angle, casting longer shadows. The humidity is gone and for the first time in months, there's a slight smell of dry leaves in the air.

While I absolutely adore the fall - and I'll save my poetic waxing on that subject for when it actually turns fall and I do silly things like fall out of apple trees - I always mourn the death of summer. How can I possibly miss the intense infernal heat, choking stench, dense humidity, and resulting drippy sweat of boiling Manhattan?

Well, I'm a bit of a masochist.

Just kidding!

It's that intensity, that sense of hitting an extreme and hanging there, in suspended animation, that captivates me in the summer - and the winter. Though winter in Manhattan is a bit lame. Winters in college were intense - snow up to our knees, ice shards in the wind cutting our eyes, and wind-chill temperatures low enough to freeze wet hair in any style you like. From November through May. Ok, ok, from December through March. Fine.

The summers I remember from elementary school are less stinky-NYC and more patch-of-dirt, hole-in-the-ground-filled-with-water. That would the description of town-sponsored Day Camp.

To be sure, I enjoyed various forms of camp in middle school and high school. I went to a few art day camps, to practice my non existent visual art skills. (Why do you think I like writing? Because I can't draw.) In high school I went to CTY, because I am a huge nerd - and I honestly believe that it helped make me the person I am today. (And clearly, I'm worth something, because you're still reading.)

But when I was six, seven and again when I was nine, my mother sent me to Town Day Camp. I think I liked it when I was six, but the other two summers, it was just dreadful - but dreadful in the way that everything is dreadful when you're at a certain age, I guess.

To be concise, I present you with a short list of Reasons Why I Hate Day Camp:

1. The town pool was a hole in the ground filled with water. Slightly nicer, but I've seen cleaner public fountains. (Note: the town pool in my parents' current town is much nicer.)

2. The people in charge were usually about 15 years old and they had no idea what they were doing.

3. I sat around in the dirt all day - save for when I was running around in it, or sticking my dirty self into the aforementioned pool.

4. I was out in the sun most of the day, and for fairskinned people like myself, that means I was sunburnt. All summer.

5. My mother would put sunblock on me in the morning and usually tell the counselors - who were, you recall, about 15 - to make sure I reapplied it to my face and arms during the day.

Now, I have no problem with sunblock - but when a tanned 15 year old counselor who has never used it a day in her life tries to put it on the face of a 6 year old, she inevitably puts too much on. On my forehead. Which would then drip down into my eyes. And sting. For hours. I remember spending an entire performance of a puppet show we went to go see on trip day with a towel on my eye.

6. I was a poor child-athlete. I was a slow runner and hence I was bad at dodgeball, kickball, freeze tag, you name it. Why didn't I sit out and read my book like I did in 5th grade during recess?

Because in Day Camp, you are *required* to play. Don't ask me, I don't make the rules.

7. There were some things I did like. I do like swimming. I liked the nature walks and the nature "lessons" we had, like learning about food webs in the forest. (I guess I lived in sort of a hippy dippy town in the Bestchester.) I liked the art projects, which were usually nature-inspired (Glue the leaves on the sticks! Add glitter!) I'm sure I hated the other kids though, so this point stays firmly with the list's theme.

8. I did, in fact, dislike the other kids. I believe the other girls made fun of me for wearing denim shorts instead of the early 90s twin sets they had, or something. Those white and pink knit twinsets, by the by, got full of dirt. I liked my denim shorts just fine. I was such a seven-year-old hipster, I swear.

9. I feel like I really need to get to 10 points here.

How about this - when I went to Day Camp when I was nine, it was in our new town, since my parents had just moved. It was only one town away from our old town, but my mother figured that I could meet some of the kids before school started through the camp. On the first day, we all had to pick swim buddies for the pool. You had to check in every so often, because if you had a buddy, it was presumed that you'd make sure the other person didn't drown, or something. Since I didn't know anyone, I got paired up with the girl with whom no one wanted to be buddies. She was a Jehovah's Witness and she was kind of weird, to say the least. I'm sure there are some very nice Jehovah's Witnesses out there. She was just a weird one.

10. Mosquito bites to the EXTREME.

And thus, I hated Day Camp. So I ran off to Nerd Camp, as previously mentioned.

Happy End of Summer!

The Secret of the Ooze

New York City oozes with life. Like Baron Haussman's reimagined Paris, it breathes through its parks, circulates people and goods through its streets and subways, and eliminates through its sewers. Walking through the streets in the grid, you can see it sweating over the sides into the Hudson, the East River and all of New York Harbor. There are no city walls big enough to keep New York's vibrant body under wraps - it overflows so that you can see only sky and water to the east and west. With every step on its boiling summer face, you can feel the pulse of trains, buses, power lines and water mains. You and New York are alive.

Sometimes, New York is a little too alive. Sometimes you sit down on the benches that grow out of the steps of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue, embraced by Bryant Park. All you want to do is take in the cool, smooth stone and perhaps rearrange the items in your purse. However, sometimes a gust of wind blows your Duane Reade bag - the one that you were about to confine to your purse - to the ground.

And when you pick it up, you find that your hand has plunged into a giant wad of phlegm mingled with green, mossy dirt that someone has spat on the ground.

Oozy indeed.

As you can see, I have tricked you into reading another post about how I'm going to catch some sort of bacteria and die. Thanks for playing, come again soon.

(The title of this post, by the by, was a Ninja Turtles reference, if you didn't know that already.)

Yesterday's Bandaid

The black band aid to which I alluded yesterday.

Also, I'm experimenting with Flickr. Bear with me. It seems simple enough, but if anyone has any super secret special tips, please pass them along.

A Warning of the Great Band Aid Wars of 2020

[really great picture to come when Blogger works again]

I would characterize my knowledge of band aids as "moderate." I don't know every kind of band aid off the top of my head, but likewise, I don't expect a surprise.

Still - this morning, I took one out of the box in my bathroom drawer - to better protect the bit of an abrasion I have on the back of my heel from a particularly dopey pair of summer shoes. This band aid, though, wasn't one that came in the box, I don't think. I have a few still floating around from assorted health kits given out at college.

There was a bit of a black scuff mark on the outside of the wrapper, but I didn't think much of it. I'm sure this band aid has traveled far and wide in various purses of mine. Quite the globetrotter. However, when I opened it, I was a bit perturbed to see that the pad of the band aid, which is normally a flimsy, white, pressed cotton, was *black*. And not black in a soiled brown or dirty way. *Black* like undeveloped photographic film. Indeed, it appeared to have been made that way.

I continue to be confused. Paul jokingly warned me that it might contain drugs that would leech into my body if I put it on, but I prefer to believe that it is simply a band aid from outer space for organisms that lack bodily fluids, designed to cushion rather than absorb.

So I put it on anyhow as my scrape isn't particularly leaky.

Ben suggested that it was an *expired* band aid.

Perhaps I will expire?!?!

Or perhaps my skin will fall off as the band aid consumes me as growth media while cloning itself.

I Am A "Huge Loser"

me: dumb question
there are no mosquitoes in the desert [at Burning Man], are there?

Max: always
no

me: excellent

Max: mosquitoes you will recall breed in stagnant water
deserts are characterized by a paucity of water

me: I thought perhaps there might be desert mosquitoes
I hate you max

Max: especially TOXIC ALKALI DESERTS
well for all of our sakes I hope there are no black rock desert mosquitoes

we would not stand a chance against them

me: this from me, the girl who thought I felt a breast lump in my armpit this weekend. notably, I was informed by many, breast lumps tend to be found in the breast
and not the armpit

Max: ah
me: so mosquitoes in the desert are not a big stretch for me.

Max: breast lump
lymph node

me: it was a clogged pore
from anti perspirant

Max: you are a huge loser

me: thanks
love you too

PS - I am also a huge loser because I did not have time to write any haikus today. :[

Apologies for the Confusion

Last Thursday's entry of PANIC essays (below) was in response to last Wednesday's entry of PANIC questions (below that).

More later.

So Long, Suckers

Once again, I have a summer Friday tomorrow and will not be posting. Hah! I'll be swimming in the town pool near my parents' home in the Bestchester and shopping Loehmann's 50% off the Clearance sale with my mother. I leave you with my crappy entries to Castro's PANIC awards competition.

1. Tania Stewart is an intelligent woman. (Obviously she is if she’s keeping the last name that I will one day make greater than it already is.) Knowing that men are bad with dates, she picked a wedding date a mere week past her birthday. Joe, take heed – one big present substitutes for two small ones nicely. And she’s even mapped out what their Ithaca apartment looks like when it’s neat as a pin – and posted the pictures on TheFacebook.com – so that everyone can easily see what the apartment is supposed to look like. But that’s not to say that Joe isn’t just as smart as she. Joe singled Tania out when she was still a senior in high school – after he had already experienced a year and a half of ugly Brown University women and realized that girls like her don’t come along all the time. You could say that Joe got into his relationship with Tania under the “early decision program” – he committed to a choice early and therefore, stood a better chance at success. And so, let us raise our glasses and toast Tania and Joe, my sister and one of my best friends, as they begin their journey together.

2. I hate math. You know I hate math. Why do you ask me math questions when you know I hate math? It makes me hate myself – and you. One hatred plus two hatreds equals three hatreds – because I imagine that you secretly hate math, too. It gives you pleasure to watch me writhe in the pain you, too have experienced, you math sado-masochist, you. Riemann? He was a douchbag, too. But he had impact – non trivial, real, lasting impact that time he knocked up Catherine Zeta Jones. Where do you think the Jones part of her name came from, hmm? But unfortunately, he’s not very well endowed. He only got in partway – proving that his root is only half-sized. Hah!*

* “Hah!” included specifically to annoy the judges and lose me points.

3. Priapism: friend or foe? Of course, the answer is both – friend to some, foe to others. Specifically, friend to women and foe to men – but not just for the obvious reasons. Friend to women not for extending their pleasure – but for teaching men that their organ is not merely a toy. Foe, of course to men, because really, they can barely walk around with it when it’s limp. Just imagine walking around with it when it’s alert. Sorry, boys. We have all sorts of fun reminders that our genitals aren’t just toys, so any medical maladies we can wish on you are highly comedic – and long overdue.

4. I see this passage as a reaction to more modern passages because it does not discuss crimes against another person, against the police, or success with and desirability to women. It deals merely with the individual and his journey.

5. Audrey is so great. We want to have all of her babies. [Ed. Note - this response is sort of an in joke from college. The second sentence was primarily spoken by a gay male.]

Don't Panic!

It's time for the 2006 PANIC Awards! This essay contest, run "annually" by Castro, was designed to ward off the boredom and writer's block fostered by finals at school. We're out of school, but we all have jobs and we're still bored. Thus, I present this year's series of essay questions and my humble, hastily written essays. As they've occupied my time much of today and yesterday*, they shall substitute for a blog entry this sweltering afternoon. I've posted the questions today, I'll post my essays tomorrow so as not to overwhelm. (Also I'm still finishing them.) I've changed a few names to aliases in the questions to protect the innocent. Feel free to submit your own entries via my comments, though the official close of the contest has past (I got an extension until this evening).

1. Write the toast that I will give at my sister's rehearsal dinner on August 4th.

Note: If needed, you can get information on my sister's wedding at [redacted - there's no reason to drag Castro's sister into this publically. Suffice to say she 22 and the groom is 24. I've included there "How we met" entry from the website].

How We Met:
We met in high school at the Bolles School over 7 years ago and have been dating for over 4 years. Joe, perhaps a little intoxicated by the wonderful Florida weather on his month-long January vacation from Brown University, 're-met' Tania (who was still a senior in high school) in the Schultz courtyard while visiting Bolles, and knowing a good thing when he saw me...I mean...her...suggested that we get together that weekend. Our first date was a 'coffee date' (at Tania's suggestion, only to find out months later that Joe can't stand coffee). But because the coffee shop was overrun with people, we instead went to Village Inn and ate some greasy hash browns. This was a smart move, because as Tania soon learned, the way to Joe's heart is through his stomach! Later that evening we met up with some mutual friends at a movie theater to see 'The Royal Tennenbaums,' and Neal Turbow, not quite realizing we were on a date, sat between us at the movies. We spoke on the phone the next day and decided to go out again to have a date that would not be as awkward as the first, and the rest is history :-)

2. Prove that the real part of any non-trivial root of the Riemann zeta function is ½.

3. Priapism: friend or foe?

4. Analyze the following lyrical passage by the noted poet, prophet, and social critic Hakeem Seriki, from either a postmodernist, Romantic, or Thomist perspective:

I been drinkin' and smokin'; holdin' shit'
Cause I really can't focus.
I gotta get to home 'fore the po-po's scope
This big ol Excursion
Swervin',
All up in the curve, man.
Nigga been sippin' on that Hennessey
And the gin again
Is in again;
We in to win.
Doin' a hundred while I puff on a blunt
And rollin another one up;
We livin' like we ain't givin' a fuck.
I got a revolver in my right hand;
40 oz on my lap, freezing my balls
Roll anotha tree, green leaves and all.
Comin' up pretty deep, me and my dogs, yo.

5. You write for the New York Times Book Review. Submit a review of Audrey's first novel.

Note 1: This topic was proposed by special guest judge and four-time PANIC winner Sancho.

Note 2: Audrey is a previous PANIC Award winner. You can learn about her life, times, and opinions at http://www.lowconcept.blogspot.com/. She is, of course, eligible to submit an entry in this category.


______________________________________________
*Yes, I spent that long on them and they're still bad.

A Sobering Realization

Quantity of water suggested for daily consumption while at Burning Man: 1.5 gallons

Quantity of water I currently drink on a daily basis: 2 liters at work, maybe another quart at home in the evening.

Amount by which I will need to increase my consumption: approximately 200%.

Yeesh.