My Weekend at Camp

I spent the weekend at Club Getaway in the Berkshires this weekend with a bus load of adults from Manhattan as well as a caravan of cars winding down the country roads from all over the northeastern seaboard.

K and I were the youngest of the campers which made us quite the tasty treats in our bikini and red tennis dress, respectively. Compliments on my colored contacts abounded from men and women alike--I didn't have the heart to tell them that my real eyes were a far darker, duller reality.

I tried my hand at the trapeze and surprised myself by being more agile than I had ever expected--while I didn't so much as attempt the knee hang, I did swing for a few blissful seconds and manage a knee-tuck landing. K wasn't as enthused but gave it a good college try. The most nerve-racking aspect of the trapeze is the rickety climb up the metal ladder. As it quakes and clatters with every wrung you step up, you realize that whilst on the ladder itself there is no safety net below you. I felt my knuckles whiten and my grip tighten as I climbed up, up, and up to the gorgeous British boy who would put my harness and hold me back while the lovely dance instructor by day and trapeze artist by night held the swing for me. The best part of it was the fall. I'm not the most graceful woman--by any stretch of the imagination--that said I am also not a klutz, so the feeling of soaring was not nearly as sweet as landing without maiming myself or looking foolish.

I spent the majority of my day playing tennis: starting with the intermediate clinic, progressing to drills and skills, and finishing up with a serving clinic. My serve is distinctively better and my strokes have improved marginally. I met Jon at tennis and we set up a match for the following morning, unfortunately for him, he kept me out too late at the bonfire to see me at the courts the next day. He did stop by to write his number on a napkin and hand it to me before leaving camp to get to a softball game he couldn't miss back home in southern, CT.

K and I kayaked for the better part of an hour. Talk about an arm workout--sheesh. It's really relaxing sitting dry in a boat over still water which chops below the jetskiing populous as the motorboat whizzes past. I finally learned the technique to maximize speed in a kayak--it's all in the arc your oar makes. You paddle left to go right and vice versa--counterintuitive perhaps, but effective nontheless.

Saturday night we rode the mechanical bull. My thigh muscles lack the bull-gripping strength some of the other women brought to the table. This time around I was FAR worse than the 13 seconds I managed to stay on the thing on the Sunset Strip of LA in May. K was amazing--she lasted a full half minute on her first try. I didn't give it a second go, but did pose on a stationary bull for some sorority style shots. It was amusing to see 30 and 40-something men attempt the bull, they rode valiantly before being bucked gracelessly.

Sunday we spent sore and hungover, relaxing by the tiny strip of beach and sitting on the floating docks, drinking frozen pina coladas and daiquiris. We made a fistful of friends and a handful of memories at Camp Getaway. It was no Club Med, but a great weekend nevertheless.

I hope Tommy, the cute tennis instructor, e-mails us--I could use some work on my game...

Pitching Stories

Since I'm going to be traveling most of November, I've decided to pitch some travel article ideas to the multitude of travel websites and travel magazines in the hopes of making some money off the trip.

I've always fancied myself a bit of a writer--thus this blog--so getting the clips would be of paramount importance. My mother has tirelessly encouraged me to WRITE and get published, believing in her heart that I was born to be famous and do great things. I used to think all moms thought that way till I met other people's moms, but nonetheless I fear her faith is unfounded; I'm finally going to try to find it a foundation.

Tomorrow I'll peruse the internet and magazine shops to select more editors to harrass with my crazy ideas and blog tidbits from mmy adventures in Prague.

Party Planning

Tom, Norman, and I brainstormed themes and compiled a shopping list for our housewarming party next Friday. Based on my suggestion that we setup a photo booth so we could capture a night we might otherwise forget and provide our guests with photographic memories to supplement the experience, Norman pitched a Jailhouse theme--we had nothing to counter with--which is set.

Tom coined him "PunMaster". Norman dissented my claims of listing this as his nickname on the poster I'm creating for the entryway--so every guest, irrespective of whose friend he/she may be, will know WHO lives in 206. Tom's nickname is "Baller" given his mad v-ball skills and general "thug" demeanor. Now, for a white guy--a very white guy--Tommy can rock a gangsta stance, especially when he had one of those woolen ski hats. Besides, he's been claiming he's black from the waist done for some time now...so that seemed like a good fit.

Norman pulled out some old standbys from college and law school. We settled on "Money"...I just couldn't swallow "Iron Jew" which was his best offer.

Luckey's, of course, will be Love Bug.

I'm trying to decide between Moxie and Masala--any thoughts?

As for the drinks, we will be serving 5 distinct shots spaced across our small space:
Jail-O: Yes, these are traditional Jell-O shots
Alabama Slammer: Google it...it's a real drink.
Lethal Injection: A blue concoction that won't kill you but you may feel like you're dying. Norman provided this name.
My naming contributions were:
Life Sentence: A green liquid, it's sure to make you glad you're still alive.
Gang Bang: A bevy of harsh alcohols coming together to create a VERY red drink. The idea is not to give you "the taco shits" in the hope your bum will burn (much like a real gang bang in prison) but to wake you up and loosen you up for some party fun.

All drinks will be made from top-shelf alcohol.

Both boys vetoed my suggestion to put up a sign in our lobby and elevators to encourage the neighbors to stop by--probably wise, but definitely un-fun of them.
We will be putting up signs on our floor directing the flow of traffic that is the maze to our front door.

Norman will make the liquor run from the list we created this evening.
Tom will buy the food to create appropriately jail-themed treats.
I will hop to Party City and Rickys to find fun, funny decorative items like handcuffs and a background for the instamatic photo-frenzy.

Photos to come....

Poland

So, due to the fear of being gassed on an overnight train in Poland--Li and I have given up Warsaw. I fought hard for Krackow, so it's still on the table...Li doesn't know it yet, but there will be a day trip to Auschwitz.

Incidentally, as I was telling Tom a few nights ago I'm a big believer in signs. That fate/God/the greater good sends us tokens of coincidental occurrences to guide us in choosing which fork in the road to tread on carefully albeit with a BIG stick.

My Poland sign was running in a guy I dated early in 2003. He's an Indian doctor whose name starts with (you guessed it!) A who recently moved back to the US after completing med school in POLAND. I was with my mom and her new husband so in lieu of making nice he asked for my number and we've been texting--he will recommend some great Krackow sights, sounds, and scenes to aide us in our journey. To Poland and beyond!

Tennis Today

There are three, free, singles ONLY tennis courts at Canal Street along the Hudson River. It's a magical place--Hudson River Park--where a cool breeze blows as you battle against your opponent in a furious match for pride and honor.

I love tennis!

No one would peg me an athlete but when I get on that court, I have a grace and poise which sparkle like the twinkle in my eye. It's one of the few places I've felt truly confident. I'm not terribly competitive as a player--I'm also not a spectacular player but I've been playing since I was 8 and on some level I can always feel my granddad watching me courtside. He's alive and well in India, so that's not as morbid or touching as it sounds--but it's still a sweet sensation.

Geek is the new Chic

Tom has had some of his college buddies in town--buddies who are now doctors--yeah, we feel successful...though living with Norman, the lawyering fiend should dampen our sense of success as is--but Tom unlike me has a job and is a functioning member of society so cannot possibly feel the pangs of disenfranchisement.

Anyway, to get to the point...one of the doctor's exclaimed, "Geek is the new chic" to the eternal question--What is YOUR type? I must, of course, agree: loving the psuedo-geekiness...but I think it's more the dorky that appeals to me. Geekiness has a built in component of a lack of social skills and while a poor fashion sense can be corrected or at the very least circumvented...what is one to do with ZERO social skills?

What's your cup of cute?
Geek
Dork
NERD
Dweeb
Tool

The Color Green

Riding the elevator in Gary's building up to see Cashew last night, I ran into a VERY cute boy in a green shirt which matched the green skirt I was wearing to a tee. His couple friends pointed out that our clothes were a perfect match. He then turned to me smiled and said, "I guess that means we should hang out tonight."

I blushed and explained that I had a dog to walk. He asked which apartment--since we were all riding up to the 3rd floor and I told him in the fervent hope that he'd come aknockin'...no such luck, but it was a sweet interlude nonethless.

EuroTrip

Last night Li Chen informed me that his November sojourn would be to Eastern Europe and NOT South America as I had been previously led to believe. I immediately hitched my wagon to his star....we leave November 3rd for Berlin and do a whirlwind 3 weeks in Eastern Europe! Talk about getting your kicks in 2006. This will be my second trip to Prague this year. Hurrah.

Here is the tentative plan:
Fly out of NYC and SF (Mi and Li) respectively for Berlin on Nov. 3rd arrive next day
Spend two days there, then hop a train to Warsaw.
Two to three days later, board the overnight train to Krackow.
A day or two later, overnight to Budapest.
Spend a few days there, there over to Vienna with day trips to Bratislava since it's only an hour or so away by rail.
Head to Prague for my glorious return--depending on days remaining I may skip Prague and head straight for Munich for my return home in time for Thanksgiving.

Li plans to stay through the Thanksgiving holiday and return the Sunday after the fact--my mother would NEVER go for that plan, so I'll be departing on Nov. 23rd and flying in to Newark to the family festivities that will ensue.

WE will be purchasing the Eastern European Travel Pass for our train travels and buying separate train tickets in and out of Germany--since it is not included on the Railpass.

The excitment, it never ends!

Watching Cashew

I'm so much more serious about walking Cashew and monitoring his goings-on than I've ever been about caring for my Luckey Duckey Love Bug.

My mom has been yelling at me for neglecting my dog for Gary's dog. Ridiculous!

Xanthi

Some of letters of the alphabet make for less appealing European city names, or so it seemed as I tried desperately to locate cities that started with the following:

Jungfrouch, Switzerland
Q still nothing
Xanthi, Greece
York, United Kingdom

B by far had the most number of hits with the list growing as I type:
Barcelona
Bratislava
Bucharest
Budapest
Brussels
Bern

Thanks to the Lonely Planet's Europe on a Shoestring, my Eurotrip planning has officially begun. Let the frenetic project BEGIN!

To add a dimension above and beyond just places, I've taken it upon myself ot experience an array of festivals and partake in the cities' native delight whenever possible--15 months is enough time to complete such a monumentally accelerated task.

Helsinki

I ran into Zayan at B&N in Astor Place today. It was random but oddly just as I had envisioned it would be. This city is too small not to run into your exes--when you least expect it.

We fell into that familiar banter, as we always do...I solicited his aid in compiling my A-Z European City List. When he suggested Hamburg for H instead of Helsinki, I got the sinking feeling that what magic once existed between us had forever evaporated. This sad realization was cemented by R for Rhone Valley in lieu of Rekjavik! It's freakin' Rekjavik.

In the rearview mirror of my life he's so far behind that seeing him this close again breaks me out of homeostatis into a mild shock that causes me to slam on the brakes in the hopes that the airbag will pop open and force me into today without colliding into last year.

Two VERY Different Books

I've been reading the acclaimed novel, Tuesdays with Morrie this week but last night I put it down in favor of Hef's Little Black Book which I found on Gary's bookshelf.

Two very different books with distinct messages that have played their part in moving me past apathy onto the path of self-actualization. They've done for me what Freud did for Jung--sowed the seeds of success.

At the core of both books the message is love: love yourself and love those that love you. After all isn't that the crux of it all.

What I loved about both men, Morrie and Hugh, was their ability to don their PJs but keep living life to the fullest. I was always a fan of loungewear.

8:17am September 1, 2006

I had an epiphany. It will take the rest of my life to take shape.

I will take the GMAT early this October and apply to London Business School by their October 20th deadline--they will notify me of my acceptance by December 19, 2006. I will spend 2007-8 studying furiously, traveling with reckless abandon, making contacts cross-culturally with a paid summer internship in India. While traveling and working and learning, I will write a book capturing the experience--if no publisher expresses interest, I will have my grandfather print 100 copies in his press in Bombay which I will sign and distribute at will.

At 28, I will start my own business: MoxieMasala Inc.! We will specialize in delivering social miracles. I want to tell people I'm in the business of making dreams come true. Our company motto will be No Limits. Primarily staffed by the gay mafia we will focus our energy on image consulting, social/event planning, and the hiring of household staff. Our cards will be brightly colored and textured to reflect innovation and flexibility--the pivotal elements of success in such a service-oriented realm. I will guest lecture at universities across the United States and be an active mentor to college students who lack the drive or the dream but have the raw talent to amount to me.

It's the ultimate concierge service for high level corporate executives--thus garnering business from the Private Wealth sector of banks as well as the bankers themselves is critical to our survival (the contacts from b-school will be critical). Unlike firms that currently offer this service we will be global and versatile--most companies currently only specialize in one of these areanas--we will be a full-service firm.

In the interim, I will spend 2006-07 studying Italian--a quest I abandoned last Fall--as LBS requires fluency in a language other than English and I'm not sure Hindi counts. In lieu of actually completing my MA in Social Organizational Psychology, I will get a Certificate in Conflict Resolution from Columbia. I will fund my NYC life by getting the experience I need as a Recruiter at a Staffing Agency; it's always good to have back-up career option and executive sales and staffing is where it's at.

DogSitting

I'm apartment sitting under the ruse of dogsitting for Gary at his adorable studio with sleep loft in Union Square. The location is unbeatable but when I ambled out at 11:44pm last night almost everything was closed--begging the question, why is it called the city that never sleeps if it's sleeping before midnight?

That's not the point of this post.

The point is that though I have a dog, I was very nervous about the responsibility of watching Cashew in Gary's absence. The notion that I may harm the dog or he may have an accident on my watch is unacceptable. Unlike Luckey, Cashew needs to be WALKED! This idea of routine freaks me out. Even for the five days I'm watching him, I'm on edge. How do people do it? Twice a day everyday at the same time without fail. This is why I never went on the pill--I couldn't trust myself to take one tiny pill everyday at the SAME time. My schedule is too erratic for that. I cannot be trusted!

On the off chance Gary is reading this...I'm doing a great job with Cashew. Fed him twice and walked him twice; unlike Luckey he is paragon of good behavior. Cashew is definitely an Omega dog....damn Luckey and his Alpha ways!

September

One of my favorite songs of all time is September by Earth, Wind, and Fire. Though old, I first heard the song at Shag while a beautiful gay boy danced his heart out on the bar--pelvic thrusts to rival Elvis, gyration to compete with belly dancers, and a smile...a smile to light a thousand candles.

Everytime I hear the song I smile. It takes me to a happy place--a place where I had a boyfriend who had a gay best friend who is a fabulous--and I'm fabulous by association at the very least. JW--I hope you dance!

The Interview

I had an interview next to Carnegie Hall at 2pm yesterday. As I rushed off the subway, I realized how out of place my linen, summer suit would be in the context of an audition at Carnegie Hall--in a city of such diversity of thought and lifestyle, we're so absorbed in how we live our lives we seldom stop to think of how the other 8 million live.

My interview was at a staffing agency and it had the feel of a TV set broadcasting what NYC agencies are like to the greater world. Don't you love how TV sets expectations--unrealistic ones, but they are trend-setters nonetheless.

Cafe Rafaella

I met an old high school friend for coffee yesterday afternoon. He's doing well--recently quit another publishing job to follow his passion and WRITE. He finished ghost writing a novel and currently writes book reviews at $2/word! Isn't that A LOT? So he gets paid to read new books and meet the people that wrote them. How cool is that?

Incidentally, he is also Lauren's ex boyfriend from late high school through college and into the New York years. I'd introduced them to one another and set them up on their firt date to a school formal. They've both moved on--living with their new significant others in separate cities--still friends. That's functional. I guess there was about five minutes where that was the case for V and I too--but I haven't gotten to that place since the last one and any faith I have that I will dwindles when I think about him...

It's so good to see someone who was part of the fabric of your youth and has flowered into a happy, healthy adult independent of your influence. We shaped one another, albeit peripherally, and it's comforting and happiness-inducing to know that we can always pick up where we left off--because the years keep rolling by but our mutual affection for the others well-being grows without watering.

Still Drowning

In Apathy!

I've discovered that the career for me entails a combination of "friend-making" and presenting a prepared speil. As per my conversation with David King of Careers for Women Inc., I've learned that being a client manager at a large staffing firm and pursuing a career in recruitment at the levels above recruiter would be the best fit for my presonality and life goals. The salary for such a post ranges from $200-350K per annum including commission--not to mention the expense account.

It's sales of the highest order--selling people. Now, it's not like the slave trade, these folks want to be traded and the people who are being sold MAKE good money. Executive search firms are a booming industry and one where women can achieve the work-life balance that is critical to creating and maintaining a family. Not that I want a family, but I sure love the idea of having the time to spend good money made by moi.

Day-T

Is it called a date because it originally took up the whole day?

I spent Sunday with a man who I wish I could be attracted to--yet try as I might, I can't fabricate it. We had a late brunch at Ulysees, followed by bubble tea in Chinatown, a screening of A Scanner Darkly at The Sunshine Theater, a jaunt through the village whence he bought me a flower (I promptly decapitated said flower as I gesticulated wildly entertaining him with my banter), and walked home through Tribeca.

Incidentally, A Scanner Darkly is a dark film! Go figure. The premise isn't complicated but it is presented in a manner that lacks clarity--I'm certain that's on purpose--and I'm not a Keanu fan but I definitely recommend a trip to a theater near you playing this flick. Surprising to see Robert Downey Jr. in a film about drugs. Though I'm still not sure if it was anti-drug propoganda or merely a portrait in the life of druggies at large.

Weekend Warriors

Saturday night in light of no better plans, Tommy and I packed two flasks--one with dark rum and the other with margarita mix (the only mixer we could find in our bare fridge)--and began a walk from our apartment to Washington Square Park. We stopped at each subway stop to take a swig out of each flask. We walked and talked. We sat and bitched. We finally got to the Park and sat for a while watching a scruffy boy punch the keys of his iMac, a group of gangsta types freestyle rap, and screaming undergrads race past scurrying rats.

Not an ideal date night but that's what these two poor singles did on a Manhattan Saturday.

Staycation

When you stay put but take a vacation from work--you staycate!

Looking at my life--a constant staycation--I realize that I regret not traveling more. The last trip I took worth mention was to Prague in January and given my current monetary state I am not planning another trip anytime soon...it makes me sad.

Precious time is ticking by...my youth flowering--no longer a bud--which means wilting then withering are just around the corner. What next?

Wall Street Subway Stop

There exists a labyrinth connecting the JMZ to the 4/5 Wall Street stop. It was a surreal experience as I followed a grey-haired gentleman down the yellow brick road. I accidentally hopped a downtown train in my effort to make haste onto the Uptown track--this led to my journey underground.

The whole time this was happening, I kept thinking I was going to be trapped undergrond and never see the light of day again. Melodramatic--I think not!

There was a good deal of construction going on, so the workers kept looking at me dubiously but they couldn't very well reprimand me after letting the aged man before me pass. I finally stopped following him when I got to a deserted, wide, yellowing tiled hallway that led me to a populated train stop.

Sometimes Life Shits on You

I'm not usually a beacon of tact/taste/class, but I would definitely not rank myself as lacking therein. Yesterday, I overstepped the bounds of all such measure by making a conversational blunder which I fear will haunt me till I can rectify it with a particularly clever comeback or other conversational victory.

That said, my day went to hell in a hand-basket when I stopped at Baluchi's in the village to pick up dinner and was covertly slipped a card by the lady working the counter. It was a card for HerbaLife and the words, "I was 210lbs. once don't be ashamed. My boss would be angry with me if he knew I was talking to you, but just call me." Mind you, this was not a fit woman or a particularly thin woman--she weighed at best 10-15lbs. less than I do--which does not give her the right to point fingers at me. I was not as appalled to the level one would imagine.

I had to fight the urge to throw away my Kerala Crab Curry and scurry to the subway, but after one whiff of the contents of the package and a grab of a full handful of my belly fat, I held my head high and skipped to the Astor Place stop to ride the 6 home. The reflection of my profile in passing mirrors affirmed it--thin I am not, but fat is a term I'm not ready to ascribe, mainly because as long as my breasts far outreach my gut, I'm good with it--I'm doin' alright.

Helen can vouch for the fact that Indian people will do the most inappropriate things in he most public places and I don't just mean pick their noses and examine the contents--I mean they will say things to you that are so blatantly rude with a nonchalant, well-meaning smile. You can't get particularly angry--as Helen frequently did on my behalf as we traveled through the motherland--because they do it to everyone and truly they think they are helping. However misguided it gives credence to the idiom--"The road to hell is paved with good intentions." I think those Brits came up with that one after a trip to the Hind.

In the context of the day I was having--not to mention the current apathy in which I am drowning--one would think a comment like that would really bring me down but I realized my skin was thicker than that. I've survived a fair share of insults being hurtled at me--no matter how tame a sorority at Hopkins may have been, they are still girls en masse raging against the dying of the light!

Anyway, the moral of the story is that STICK AND STONES MAY BREAK MY BONES BUT WORDS WILL NEVER HURT ME.

Alright so words can always hurt me...like the time I was in 8th grade and Norman shouted, "Your moustache is thicker than mine!"
Lexi, my enemy saw the tears prcik my cheek, so he piped in with, "Dude, don't you think that's worse for you than her?"

Time is Tissue

There were some choice quotes I wish to share from my jaunt to Regal Theater to watch Snakes on a Plane, yesterday.

"I've had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane."
"Do as I say and you'll live."
"Time is tissue."

Apparently there was a contest in which regular Joes submitted lines for the film--the winners had their line to added to the movie and had the joy of seeing it on the big screen. I wonder what kind of funny fellas submitted the above.

There was one gratuitous sex scene in the vein of some Mile High Club action--leading to a snake bite in the boob--let me tell you I CRINGED! There was a classic, man peeing leading to the requisite penis bite; sleeping woman who gets venom in the eye, and so on and so forth.

Overall, the film lived up to my expectation of a solidly good BAD movie. Yes, Trace I will continue to enjoy the lowest levels of entertainment. I don't judge you for your high brow stakes don't judge me for my low brow endeavors.

3 Snakes

IN my quest to prepare myself for Snakes on a Plane, I did a little internet research on the three dangerous snakes I was most curious about...here are the facts that I found most interesting and wish to share:

Anaconda
A type of boa (which means it constricts or squeezes its prey to death) is found mainly in South America but the name comes from Tamil attributed by the Sinhalese (Sri Lankans) "Anaikolra". These snakes are non-venomous but use their large jaws which are loosely hinged to swallow their prey whole, irrespective of prey size. They live about 30 years in the wild and give birth to live young after a gestation period of 6months. Primarily found in the Amazon and swamps of South America, these water snakes get as long as 30 feet and weigh as much as 550lbs. They tend to lie submerged in water with their eyes above the water's edge. They are prone to ticks and leeches attaching to their bodies on land, but in water they release a chemical which keeps these natural annoyances at bay. These large snakes can spend up to two years digesting a BIG meal. Makes you wonder why camels got the prize in the popular idiom of animal fasting.

King Cobra
There are plenty of varieties of Cobra but the King Cobra interested me the most as I was almost bitten by one as a young child spending her summer in a village in the South of India--my sweet pomeranian, Rueben met his death barking at my defense...he was a sweet fluffy bundle of white love and unlike Luckey NEVER gnawed at my digits--but I digress. King cobras build a nest for their young and both parents take turns guarding the eggs (20-40 are laid and take 60-90 days to hatch). They live to be about 20 years old. Unlike most cobras, the king cobra is aggressive and raises his hood ready to fight in a confrontation. He senses his enemy with flicks of the tongue gauging temperature and feeling the vibrations of sound on the ground as he slithers about. The fascinating aspect of the king cobra that illustrates why he is KING is that he can spit his lethal venom up to 1/2 the length of his body with accuracy. A single bite has enough venom to kill an elephant or 10-13 human beings. That said, every bite is not venomous--the cobra can choose whether or not to inject his victim with his venom. Baby cobras are called hatchlings while a group of cobras is called a "quiver"....just the thought of it has me a quiver. They are found in Southeast Asia and Africa.

Western Diamondback Rattlesnake
Rattlesnake
While there are a multitude of varieties of rattlesnakes--in the US alone Sidewinders and diamondbacks are the predominant types but others exist as well--they all share the common trait of the female carrying the eggs inside herself and once they hatch live snakes abound. Rattlers develop a rattle each time they molt (shed their skin)--this may occur up to three times while they are growing for the first 3-4 years but slow to an annual rate as they age. Rattles can also break or fall off over time so counting rattles is not always the best measure of a age. After 7-10 days in their mothers' vicinty they break away to find food--the little rattlers are born with all the poison they will need to survive--though most don't make it past the first few months dying of starvation or preyed on by birds. They hibernate through the winter in dens which tend to be crevices in the rock. Even in the spring and summer months when they awaken they don't venture much more than a mile or two from their dens. They rattle to warn approaching others of their presence--heed the warning and RUN the other way.

Islands like Ireland and New Zealand as well as frozen areas like the Tundra are void of snakes, but almost every part of the world had a variety of snakes that call it home. The tropics and warm climates with moisture are particularly popular in the serpentine community.

Facts aside, from Greek mythology (Medusa) to Hindu folklore people have been fascinated by snakes as long as they have coexisted. Snakes are an enormous part of Indian culture...particulary the king cobra who is left milk and believed to be an incarnation of Shiva--the God of regeneration and war.

You weren't expecting to learn something today--were ya?

Waiting...

We've all been there--sitting by the phone waiting for it to ring or buzz or vibrate. We've all picked it up as it sat silently to verify that it does IN FACT work. Why do we do it?

There's always the theory that it's a media-induced act--we've all seen that scene on TV, in a movie, as part of a reality show.

Another theory is Hope. Hope in the human condition--hope in that other person--hope that your love/the spark/connection you feel is requited--hope that there is a God and he's going to answer your prayers. Ok, maybe that last one was pushing it too far...but we're banking on hope.

Or maybe, just maybe it's a masochistic need to cling to a notion created in a moment of hopelessness. A weakness in our DNA that keeps us believing that someone who has long let you down will not let you down THIS time. Or an idea that someone you have a gut feeling of "bad news" about really is good news and it's your instincts that are off--how ridiculous is that? Years of your instincts steering you well and some stranger comes along and you're ready to put all your faith in them and disregard your gut entirely.

Circadian Rhythm

I've been going to bed between 4am-6am and waking up between 11am-2pm...flipping my life upside down.

The drinking has gone for weekly to daily. I keep thinking it's part of my job--social planning requires socializing--but I'm beginning to see that I've just been avoiding my life. Shirking responsibility and shunning adult behavior to wallow in the adolescent dreamscape portrayed in 13 going on 30. Strictly PG, but definitely not G.

This stops next week when I officially interview for a job in campus recruitment--it's time to step up to the plate--I can't vacation from real life forever yet I know I will be back. My life is segmented in patches of responsibility with sojourns in post-pubertal fantasy--free from the concerns of financial security.

Lovebirds

I went through two weeks of contemplating the purchase of Peachfaced Lovebirds. Apparently they don't need to be bought in pairs--it's a myth--if you buy just one they will bond to YOU (the owner) more than it would if it had a partner in its cage.

In lieu of turning my home into a menagerie I've decided against said lovebird ownership. There was also some concern that Luckey may interpret the bird as less of a pet and fast become a threat to poor Tweety.

Standing by WTC

The Namesake

I finished reading The Namesake a few weeks ago and ever since I've been trying to hand the book over to someone with whom I can discuss the novel. Sadly, Tracey claims she has begun so I can't pawn it off on her for a quicker discussion date.

Tommy won't read anything that doesn't have to do with stocks, poker, american history, jewish history, or sports (be it atheletes or atheltics). Bah. But he did read The Alchemist upon my insistence--sadly he was high at the time--so no discussion could follow.

I'm very close to assign it as required reading for one of the boys I'm currently dating--how fun a date would that be? It's a book club of two.

Phoenix

I'm not usually a cat person, but how ADORABLE is this kitten?

Tracey, unlike me, goes photo crazy with her kitty Phoenix!

Private Terrace Party

Friday night, I had a few friends over to my diamond dealer friend's penthouse apartment in that foggy area between Hell's Kitchen and the UWS.
Here's a great shot of DC K, Lauren, and I with the classic westside backdrop.

Shout Out to Tom Tom!

Tommy assembled my chest of drawers--they'd been sitting half done in my room for weeks when we'd abandoned the crude shell and perfect drawers we'd created from particle board and tiny tools--as an impromptu surprise late last week. Now, I have no excuse for the horrific mess my room remains.

Tom also aided me in shampooing Luckey this evening for his bi-monthly bathing rituals which will be instituted moving forward between visits to the groomers. I can't bear the sight of a drenched Luckey--he looks remarkably like a rat and it creeps me out to a degree that diminshes my love for his doe eyes peering up at me.

Last week as Tom Tom prepared for his third date with cute girl--dinner at our apartment--he made an extra serving of chocolate mousse just for me because I rave every time he creates it--from scratch. Tom's one of those cooks who makes everything form RAW materials and without a microwave.

So...Thanks Tom. I love livin' with ya and I greatly appreciate the big and little things you do with and without me asking you. Big love!

Dating

Here's a pic of Jeff and I he took on his camera phone at Ulysees last week...you can't tell he's 6'9" in this photo, can you?

The Real Thing

A few weeks ago, as I was clearing out my mom's house--she bought it after I graduated from high school, so it's hard to feel like it was the house I grew up in--I stumbled across love letters, poems, phone cards, e-mails, paper cards, and photos from my time with V. It made me feel loved. It made me feel real. It reminded me that at some point someone had loved ME that much. I'm not the most emotional person, especially for a woman, but I teared up and finally had a good cry when I stumbled across the faded wedding band and certificate of marriage we'd been issued at Spring Fair by a Hopkins authorized judge cum religious figure played by someone a year or two our senior. I cried for me and I cried for US, but I didn't cry for him because he's in a good place: working a stable job, living in a solid house, driving a safe car, and dating a girl who loves him with the might his love exudes. V's love, for me, will always be the real thing; the barometer by which I stake every claim.

Today, as I was flipping through a scrapbook from the tail end of 2004, I re-read a card and found some photos of my New York X--I've hardly spoken of him here--I haven't had much to say because I haven't been ready to say anything. The truth is everything I'd ever wanted to say to him I've said a million times to him. But looking at the cards and e-mails (he traveled a lot), I realized something. Something that is the basis for why we broke up. He loved me. In a real, tangible, heartfelt way--he loved me. I was so busy super-imposing his love on V's love, I never noticed that in his way, as best he could, he loved me. That's all we can every ask of anyone, Lord knows that's more than we deserve from someone. As I type this it becomes more real. I spent a long time missing him, wanting him back, and crying over him--I spent even more time mourning the loss that was loving him. Today I'm ready to talk about it. His love was real. It may not be what I wanted at the time or what I could have lived with in the future, but that he loved me, really loved me, is enough in the present.

So, the thing I wanted to tell you, Zayan is this: Thanks for loving me. I'm sorry for the way some parts of myself expressed themselves to you and I'm sorrier for the parts of myself I kept from showing you. I never did give us a real chance and now we'll never know what could have been--but I'm grateful for what we did have. I still don't think there is anyone out there in this great big world who can swim in my brain the way you seem to...I really wish we could be friends--real friends--let bygones be bygones and such.

I grew up in flats, condos, townhouses, and condos--maybe that's the draw to Manhattan, small spaces always made breathe easier.

Luckey Ducky Love Bug

Tracey calls me routinely and poses the question, "Do you love Luckey?"

Now, brave soul that I am...I have difficultly answering this question in the affirmative. It's not that I don't love the little guy, it's just that I find it hard to declare my love for a creature that bites and fights me incessantly.

He's hardly irreplacable--yet if anything were to happen to him, I would be quick to get myself a duplicate love bug to numb the pain of losing that precious puppy face and inquisite doting eyes, not to mention his pristine pallored fur.

It may not be him that I love, but I sure love the unconditional love and affection he represents.

Tommy will attest to my daily shouts of "Luckey Ducky Love Bug" in a fine British accent...that's gotta count for something!

Cheating Hearts

Off late, I've noticed a trend in girlfriends' whose eyes wander...girls who've been with their boyfriends upwards of two years are finding themselves with a 7-year Itch.

I remember going through something similar with V. After a few years go by, you forget what it's like on the outside--in the land of singles--you want to flirt and be desired, but you have no recollection of the sleaze and solitude.

Human nature, neither friend nor foe but most certainly getting us in troue...

Snakes on a Plane

The Samuel L Jackson movie--which is reminiscent of Anaconda and it's equally superfluous sequel--is an inside joke my ex and I share...we've been back on track with the emergence of this film's trailers and various blogposts.

I think August 18 may lead to a trip to the theaters--I'm weary of calling it a date...but what else can a girl term smuggled samosas and a flask in a theater with an ex-boyfriend?

A

A from 2002-03 has been joined with a whole new A in 2006.

What the A's share besides their brown skin and investment banking roots is a predisposition for treating women like crap and an ego firmly embedded in a culture of selfishness. Yet I find them irresistible.

What is it about Indian Investment Bankers that turns me on--without fail? It's the asshole who is upfront about being an asshole...I'm a sucker for honesty even in the disrespectful.

Neil

There is a sexy man in my tennis clinic...his name is Neil.

I would say he didn't know I was alive, except that would be a lie. He picked me to be on his team and frequently teases me--in a non-malicious way--whilst cheering me on. I can't tell if it's sportsmanship or a lingering interest but he hasn't made any effort to see me off the court...two weeks down, four to go. IF he's going to make a move...it's Love Love.

Phoney Insurance

Today I learned the benefits of insuring your cell phone.

Due to the reality that I am a paragon of precaution, I have never invested in phone insurance. Today when my phone fell victim to water damage, based on the faulty closure of a Fiji water bottle, I paid the price for not paying the meager $5.99/month to ensure a damage-free life.

I found myself pouting at the Verizon store on B'way in Union Square lamenting my fate of phone failure to an unsympathetic clerk who advised me to buy a new phone for $129. I rejected his offer and took the plunge--purchasing a silver Razor for $289 and adding a series of ringtons (Promiscuous Girl and 21 Questions) to my need for Ace of Base's The Sign, 50-cent's PIMP and In Da Club coupled with Nelly's Ride Wit Me (my anthem).

For someone who is unemployed, I sure am blowing some serious mulah.

Remi

Rosie and I had a falling out a few months ago surrounding an incident I still don't fully understand. I was on a date with Dr. Aidan--I insisted she join us for a drink at Sin Sin--upon her arrival, Aidan on my implication insisted I was cuter than she....she flipped out and departed never to be close to me again.

I saw her at my mom's wedding where we pretended nothing had ever happened and a family friend of ours, Remi, took an instant liking to her actress persona and has been hounding me for her number. I tried e-maling her and cc-ing him on an e-mail to her but no response. I think her point that she is, in fact, cuter tha me at least in one man's eyes has been adequately proven yet she eludes me in contact.

Remi in the interim has been stalking me, in the pretense of rental real estate advice, to attain Rosie's digits. I've been nothing but accommodating and sincere but my patience wears thin as his antics show transparency. He's a sweet. young guy who barely realizes he's but a pawn in Rosie's game to prove herself to me. How unfortunate.

Diamond Dealer

A few years ago, I responded to a post on craigslist for the position of social planner to a diamond dealer in Midtown's famous diamond district. I worked for him sporadically in '03 and '04 disappearing into the fog of banking when my lottery number was called.

On Sunday, I got a call from my former party part-time employer. He's on a mission to fill my post, this time with a wing-man, and he wants me to handle the interview process. I was flattered and stunned by the impeccable timing. My dealer has always been generous and compassionate...particularly now, I needed his kindness to bide me through this hour of financial need.

The rest of this week you will see me at B Bar, cosmo in hand, interviewing men from all walks of fashion to be the right hand to this mogul's social schema.

Shreeman Sisters

I had an interview at Shreeman Sisters earlier this week for an Associate Recruiter position. I think this is the logical next step in my disorganized career...a position in corporate America that requires boozing and exclusivity. Talk about the culmination of my sorority experience with my impending liver disorders--a match made in Hell.

I usually excel at interviews. This particular one the result of networking at my tennis clinic with a fellow student who is a Campus Recruiter at Shreeman.

However, this particular interview was a disaster. The recruiting manager was far from impressed by my lack of knowledge on the recruitment process and my uncertainity surrounding my career prospects. My would-be colleagues were civil and silly--at once laughing at my jokes and knowing that their opinions were secondary to management.

While I was impressed by their towering office building in Times Square and captivated by the uniformity of the feminie dress code, I know I won't be called back for another round at Shreeman Sisters--much to my chagrin. C'est la vie. Que sera sera.

How rude!

Gary and I were at brunch at Sapore in the Village as per a recommendation by Jo and Ken--as well as my keen-ness to enjoy a meal at this particular quaint venue--when he was rebuffed by another patron. Apparently he was being loud.

Now, Gary is the OPPOSITE of loud. A mild mannered Asian...he was horrified at this slander. We spent the bulk of the meal with him reverting to shocked commentary and wild gesticulating behind the back of the strange, foreign woman (who was undoubtedly nursing a hangover) that had had the audacity to rebuke him.

It's curious how one reacts to statements that question the basis of who we think we are. It was riveting to see Gary's reaction to the incident as it unfolded.

Subway Scare

A few nights ago, Jo and her boyfriend--whom she recently moved in with--were traveling with me by subway from Park Slope in BK to Fulton St. in Manhattan after Lauren's housewarming party. Seems everyone in sight is moving in with a boyfriend these days.

Anyway, as we rode the 2/3 crossing from Brooklyn to Manhattan a rail thin black man with his requisite du-rag began screaming at Ken. Apparently he was under the misconception that Ken was staring at his sleeping girlfriend's exposed cleavage. Jo tried to jump in and dissolve the situation, "I was admiring her dress," she claimed. The fine man was having none of that, "You can look as much as you like, but he better keep his eyes to himself," he bellowed.

I stayed out of the matter but couldn't help but feel responsible sitting on that side of Ken that required him to turn his cheek away from Jo toward me and the drunken couple when he addressed me. sigh.

Ken was a picture of composure. We felt his brow stiffen and his muscles tense but he didn't pick a fight. It behooved him to maintain his calm--who knew if the jealous boyfriend had a gun or a knife. I was alarmed by this display--but I couldn't help but think in a similar situation how V would have reacted.

Knowing V as I do...the man would not only NOT have backed down from a fight, he would have started one up over the ridiculous notion that he could have looked at another woman when I was present. Of course, no such thing had ever happened so there is no real way of knowing but it is this exact brand of recklessness that dropped my head over my heels for V. He's not that guy anymore...or maybe he is--I wouldn't know. All I know is that Jo was glad, and so was I, that Ken was the kind of mild-mannered, composaed adult as to let it go.

51

My mom turned 51 yesterday...

In the last few weeks she's remarried, moved from her 4-bedroom house in rural NJ to a 1.5 bedroom house on a lake in NJ, and begun a steady descent into retirement. It's been an eventful year for her--wish I could say the same.

My whole life it's been my mom and I; but now she has a husband. A man I will never refer to as Dad or even introduce as my stepdad--this much I know for sure. I have nothing against the guy. He's your typical pot-bellied, middle-aged, former all-American athelete but he's Jewish--by birth if not by choice. They met at a singles ministry at church so he's clearly a convert which is very much to my mother's liking.

I was surprised by the lack of resistance my grandparents exercised on this matter. I suppose in some respects they are glad. My mother is remarried at 51. Her new husband has no children of his own. He is a home-owner and he's self-employed. He's a Christian. Really, what else is there?

I can't help but wish things had worked out with her last boyfriend--a nice, Indian man in good health and a father of two grown daughters. He'd been a part of my life more than any other man. To this day, when I hear the song, "Butterfly Kisses" by Bob Carlisle it's his face that comes to my mind. Alas, it was not to be and my mother is Mrs. Winter.

Watching Movies Alone

Always one to take things to the extreme, I went to see not one but two movies by myself at the same theater, a few hours spaced apart yesterday.

The Regal Loewes in Union Square saw me in the late afternoon for Pirates of the Carribean and again at 12:55am for The Break-Up. Both movies were far from packed, but there was a mouse in the theater during the second, more desolate, show. I had Chickpea in had and swore my bag began rustling half-way through the movie. I moved seats twice for fear of a mouse for a companion.

No one noticed solo me at Pirates, but the ticket taker commented on a girl alone at the late showing for The Break-Up. He was sympathetic, saying he'd seen it alone himself. I wasn't expecting to be affected by Jennifer Aniston or Vince Vaughn and indeed Vince did not affect me, but Jennifer's rendition of weeping in a bedroom really struck a chord. I found myself crying as she cried and gasping as she gasped and as embarrassed as she was over the whole thing. Was that art imitating life or life imitating art?

Meeting Strangers

Every so often, I go a spree to collect new faces and enlarge my quickly shrinking circle. This week, I met Melanie--a fellow knitter at Knit Cafe--whence we chatted and shot the shit, making for a stitch and bitch duo. We walked over to Whole Foods afterwards so I could serve up some more of their curry and brown basmati rice and she could buy dried guavas. I knew we would become friends when she broke open her package on the spot and handed me not one, not two, but three pieces of the 10 piece pack she had just bought. She was also a veritable font of knowledge on where to buy yarn on sale...every knitters holy grial. Melanie's ease and quiet grace immediately calmed me. Her Berkeley pedigree coupled with her West Coast zen made for a cathartic evening with needles and wool.

Yesterday I met Tristen, a lovely midwestern chickie who is finding her niche in the big city. She was sweet and serene, she reminded me of my friend Amy who will soon be moving to San Diego with her HUSBAND. Another one lost to marriage. It was Tristen's friend Helena that won me over with her Brazilian wit and city savvy, she reminds me of a younger me--jaded but still hopeful. We hit some of my fave spots--Karma, Cooper 35, Il Cantinero, and I left as they entered the Dark Room

Another One Bites the Dust

Another day another job...
I quit today. Yes, another job--had and left. Another job that missed the year mark by a few months.

Most people are gripped by fear/anxiety/stress/discomfort etc. when faced with the end of one job, be it by choice or circumstance. All I feel when I quit jobs is relief. A sense of calm washes over me and it can only compare marginally with the high of getting a new job. I am professionally happiest in those moments. At the very beginning, before the job starts, or the very end, when I know the job is over.

Mind you, I also always quit one job before even looking for the next one. That's right, I am unstable and most comfortable in these life-altering moments of flailing in a state of complete chaos. So, I have not so much as put out any resumes or looked to see if jobs exist outside this one.

Job security is apparently my enemy.

This cannot be normal. Is it?

Type

I used to believe any guy I liked had a good chance of liking me back. Mind you, this is less a healthy self-confidence and more that I like men that most women wouldn't find all that attractive. However, as I get older more and more women start to like my type of guy.

Kinda dorky
Really smart
Socially-awkward/shy
Not funny but capable of getting my jokes
Sweet and Sincere

These are the guys girls marry. It's sad because I've always gone for this guy...since I was 12 and started liking boys. Most girls went through the bad boys, the assholes, the rebels, the gangstas--not me. I stayed true to the good guy--arguably the nice guy. He never finished last with me. Yet he eludes me now--now when the dumb girls, the pretty girls, and the ready-to-marry girls have come around to him...his allegiance wavers and I'm left alone in the Land of Sweet being Vicious.

The thing is just as he is my type out of some degree of "I can't do betterness"--I'm no longer his type because now he can do better. He can finally get that cheerleader or dancer or aspiring actress--and the truth about men is they'll go for that girl every time. I mean, till she cheats on him or leaves him to pursue her career as a gymnast. I like to think that's why older guys go for me...but I'm sure any late 30something single lady will tell me that's it more the bloom on this rose than the quality of her perfume. Sigh.

I quit on white boys a long time ago. I haven't had a white boyfriend since high school and much of the reason for that is that I learned a valuable lesson, relatively early--a white guy will never get serious with this brown girl. Mind you, white guys get serious with brown girls all the time...the Ditha girls. But if a white guy is going to get serious with a girl like me, she'll be a white. It's sad and it's true and I thought I'd come to terms with it--but I haven't. Every now and again I'll meet a white guy who catches my fancy and I'll be reminded of how quickly this mocha frap would be dismissed for some white cocoa (is there such a thing?)...sniffle. Why is that?

Cap Loewe Doppelganger

Tracey had a big crush on our AP English teacher...by big, I mean BIG--she gives new meaning to school girl crush. No, it wasn't like that creepy movie with Jeremy Irons and Alicia Silverstone--but it had its Lolita-esque moments. In turn, he was the paragon of adult good behavior; we all knew her love wasn't unrequited--he just wasn't in a position to do anything about it. Ah...Mr. Cap Loewe.

Yesterday, my Emit Mag reporter gal pal and tea girl extraordinaire invited me to her gum-maker bf's best friend's book reading. This best friend/writer guy was an iteration of Cap right down to his jacket, pointy ET fingers, and minor stoop (tall guys NEVER stand upright, why is that?). I got chills and quickly pointed this out to Lauren, my high school friend and knower of the Cap-Tracey effect. I'm eager to introduce Trace to her future husband--as per my calculations anyway.

Unfortunately, there were a bevy of scantily clad white girls fluttering around him like bees buzzing on a flower pre-pollination. If he met Trace, he'd love her. I know it. She's kooky, cute, and just his type. Of course, I don't know him at all--but I feel it in my bones.

He was reading from his book "Diamonds: The Heartless Stone". In the wake of a broken engagement he embarked on a voyage to destroy DeBeers--the propogaters: the devil who sells dreams--via multiple trips to the Central African Republic he learned of the heinous conditions under which diamond mines are run as well as the meager money handed down to the miners themselves.

My only question to him was, "Does this mean you'll never buy another diamond?" His obvious answer was, "Never." Apparently diamonds aren't forever. I couldn't help feeling this was more hurt over what ended than anything else, but I hasten not to make this judgement since I don't know him AT ALL. That's when I knew--he was PURR-fect for Trace. She doesn't believe in precious stones either, of course her reasons have little to do with the the miners and everything to do with the value assigned to rocks. Strange given the value she assigns to Prada, but what's life without contradictions?

I'm sorry to say I, like the masses, buy into that marketing campaign from the 1930s. Unlike all the girls shouting "Diamonds are a girl's best friend" I'll take my Luckey over a diamond any day. But don't go down on one knee in front of me sans 3-carat rock and a firm forever, foreva-eva.

Personal Best

This is the best photo I have ever taken!
Tommy claims to have found this photographic opportunity--he did not. He stopped to photograph this tent roof but he had no interest in capturing the gaping hole in it!

Hamptons Photos

Wine tasting at Duckwalk Winery on Saturday (left) followed by a wild and crazy party at Surf Club later that night (right).

Before and After

I desperately want to title the After: "Afterlife". I have no title for the before, so pet peeve aside, I would call it simply "Untitled". The reason the skull appeals to me is that it reminds me of "Summer Days" by Georgia O'Keefe hanging on the top floor of the Whitney in their permanent collection. The first time I saw that painting it resonated with me deeply and I have to fight not to call it "Afterlife"--it spoke to me.



Of course, her oil on canvas from 1936 is art--no doubt about it. My amateur photography is inspired by it...rooted in it.

Brooklyn Bridge

Trite

Right

Intermediate Tennis

I've finally accepted that I need to move up a level and not bask in the glow of being the best in my beginner league--having played for a better part of a decade, I'm actually a poor player but I enjoy being the best in class.

I've signed up for an Intermeidate Tennis Clinic! It keeps me hitting on Mondays once my Beginner class ends on July 24.



Here's the racket I want! I've been playing with the same Prince for the last 8 years...well, four of those he was on the shelf but he was my high school racket.

Epi

I bought this guitar yesterday. His name is Epi. (Yeah, real creative!) He came with a carrying case, electric tuner, three picks, a CD, and some manuals.

While I gawked at the hundreds of guitars at The Guitar Center, I realized that music has never been as big a part of my life as I would like it to be. I've signed up for Absolute Beginner Lessons on Tuesdays at 8pm starting July 18.

Tommy is going to take advanced beginner lessons since he can already play a few songs--songs he's recorded on his laptop. He's given me his intro book and assigned me the task of playing Ode to Joy come Sunday...I've been ASSIGNED!

Folding Socks

Whilst I was folding socks after my semi-annual laundry day....
(I do about 6 loads of "unmentionables" every 4-6 months. Some find it gross but I find it most efficient and effective. I've always been a believer in doing a lot in a short period of time so I can do NOTHING (or next to it) the rest of the time. Yes, I have that much underwear--mind you after the 4-month mark we venture into granny panty land--but since no one sees my underwear but Luckey, it's really no big deal.) Since this entry isn't about how infrequently I do laundry, let me get to the point.

As I matched each sock with its pair, I found myself equating sock pairing to couples pairing off. Some socks end up close to one another in the wash, others never find a match, yet others you make do with a match based on color or similar material...some you match off temporarily only to find their exact match in the stack of solo socks you hold on to from the previous laundry doing. The parallels abound. I found it fascinating to consider these elements of matching--both in socks and across people. It turned a menial task into one that stimulated my imagination. Of course, in typical fashion it got me wondering...what kind of sock was I?

Am I a sock that will never find a match? For all my skepticism, I don't buy this.

Am I a sock that was close to my match but being human didn't match up? I'm still convinced on some level that not making it work with V is a crime punishable by a lifetime of loneliness.

Am I sock who will get matched up with a sock only to find the perfect match later? Thankfully, no one will be arranging my marriage so this is extremely unlikely.

Am I a sock that will make do with a match? I'm young enough not to settle but not naive enough to think it will never happen to me.

As I put all my socks away, I did what I've never done before...I threw away all the single socks. Instead of hoarding socks that had no pair--keeping them captive in a dark sock drawer alone while all the paired socks snuggled into one another, I set my single socks free. I hope that good karma comes back around to me. I won't say it was an act of setting myself free, but it certainly felt good not to hold onto those socks any more.

Empty--MT

It occurred to me that my initials (MT) spoken as words are empty.

I wasn't quite sure what to make of it or where to go with this..but during a rushed drive over the weekend in suburban--bordering on rural--New Jersey, this realization hit me. It was as gentle as a small bump on a smooth road, palpable but hardly notable.

Gain DeGraw

Sunday evening at Terra Blues in the Village, Li Chen, Tommy, my cousin--Asha, and I stumbled upon Gavin DeGraw performing to a near-empty house with a divine Blues Band.

His table was directly behind ours and much to my surprise he was not surrounded by doting fans, female or male. Tommy's chair was pretty much back to back to Gavin's and none of us expressed squeals of interest or intrigue. Asha had never even heard of him--but she's from Texas, so go figure.

Mr. and Mrs. Winters

The Jewish-Indian Christian wedding took place at Jacksonville Chapel in Wayne, NJ.
The Rabbi, Jew for Jesus, performing the ceremony was 6'6", easily a foot taller than most of the attending Indian guests.

This shot of my mom and stepdad exiting the church with me in tow to bubbles was taken by my own Tracey Lord-photographer extraordinaire.

The Blushing Bride

Doesn't my mom look like she belongs on top of a wedding cake?
She was the tiniest, cutest little, Indian Pixie bride!
That's me demurely holding her train in the background--good little Indian Me.

Momemt of Weakness

Last night, after I got home from tennis I was frantic when I realized that the boy of the moment had not responded to my text from 2:40pm--it was an appalling 10:50pm!

In a moment I wish I could erase, I texted my personal Mr. Big: "How you doin'?"
He responded in the requisite 7-minute texting window. I hit the gym. He called, but I missed it.

I stalled some more thanks to this conversation with Tommy:
Tommy: Give me your phone.
Me: No.
Tommy: I need to make a phone call.
Me: No, you don't.
Tommy: You shouldn't text him back.
Me: I know.
Tommy: But you're going to anyway?
Me: Maybe.

Then I texted him back. He responded with a prompt phone call. He was in Boston on business--blitzed on a Monday, singing off-key with his cohorts. I berated him for not growing up. He laughed. I laughed. We're past the drama but that feels strange--so much of what connected us was angst, on my part at least. You can never get too close to a flame that's burned you--at least you shouldn't in theory. But I think that's another theory that's gone the way of Communism...great ideas failing in practice yet the practice continues.

Boy-of-the-moment STILL has not texted back. The window of my patience is quickly closing!

Hamptons Holiday

I spent a rainy weekend in the Hamptons with Special K and Leila. Karen was supposed to be our third but since her Frenchman has consented to meet her parents in Chicago she had DC Leila take her place.

The house was spacious with a pool in the courtyard and a tennis court in the back. Malibu meets South Beach in contemporary style yet set in a surburban enclave. Check out our Hamptons House!

I discovered just what a prude I was when I realized that though a few of the boys in the house were cute I had no desire to hook up with them given the proximity to them I would have to maintain in upcoming weekends. Of all people, I was quick to keep my distance and maintain a cool but congenial vibe. K picked out a mini Rob Loewe look-a-like to call her own while Leila proceeded to kiss, not one but TWO, boys who were guests of our fellow summer shares. Brandon was a tall, gorgeous vet student with closely cropped hair, an eyebrow ring and California style while Jon was a LI boy with a shaved head and East Coast attitude. K was viciously cock-blocked by Ja-nae-nae, a boy who was smitten with her--unrequited as his attention was--while she eyed his cute, ghetto friend--Chris--who pled defeat and fled the scene of our Saturday night toga party at The Surf Club. The photographer at Surf Club took a fascination to Special K and actually asked two boys to remove themselves from a photo so he could capture just her petite frame in his lens.

Leila and I danced on the platform at Surf Club while I DJ played all our requests and fetched us rounds of drinks for being "the cute girls on the dance platform". Jerry, a friendly drunk, bought us lemon drop shots from the hot toga-clab bartenders and his friend AJ's futile advances were shunned by us both. Though the Club was dead, we had a blast dancing with one another and the friendly boys from the house.

Friday night at Casey's the tacky '70s theme was mortifying but the scene was busier than expected for a rained out night. I had my first experience dancing with a gorgeous hip-hop gangsta guy--diamond studs, shaved head, polo shirt with baggy jeans and moves to make a sane woman melt--I was worried I wasn't keeping up till I busted out the Beyonce jiggle and he stood back to marvel and clap as all the jiggling...heehee, sometimes it pays to watch MTV. I pulled a drink and run on a friendly Manhattannite who bought me a Budlight as our house van pulled up--so I thanked him, took a big swig and ran out the door for the after party at the house.

Our housemates while cool were short guys and chubby girls--that's right, when I call a girl chubby...she's CHUBBY--which to my heart's delight made us the hottest girls in the house, hands down. Leila and K cuter than me for sure, but I was definitely in the running...will post pics as soon as Lei e-mails me her digital shots. My camera has yet to arrive, but I came home to Tommy graciously setting up my Dell with internet capability of the wireless form. Hurrah.

Club Getaway

Check it out:
Club Getaway

I'm headed to camp the weekend of Sept. 8 with Special K.
Pics and paragraphs to come then...I'm pumped!

My Digital Camera History

After many failed attempts at becoming a proud touter of the digital camera--I'm proud to say I'm finally joining the movement.

I was one of the first to get a digital camera was a birthday present in high school or maybe it was freshman year of college (late '90s), but I held fast to the throw-away camera and barely took my shiny Fuji, thin even for present day standards, digital camera out of its case, let alone out of my place.

A few years went by and the digital camera revolution gripped the world and my generation and I reached for my dusty, not trusty almost rusty, camera only to discover that the battery life was about 7-10 photos. Apparently turning on the LCD monitor drank up too much power. What's the point of having a digital camera if you can't use the monitor? I put it back on the shelf.

During my time at Pfizer, I signed up for a freebie digi-cam in one of the bonus point-reward systems. When it arrived it was a complete piece of crap. It had no zoom. There was no visible LCD screen. Apparently the only thing that made this camera digital was the port which allowed it to be connected to a computer--that's how you could VIEW your photos. No flash. What good does that do you on vacation--heck, what good does it do you outside your apartment?

My last attempt was thrust upon me by my mom's fiancee--who in an attempt to win me over--bought me a digital camera for my last birthday. While this was a HUGE improvement over the Pfizer flop, it was by no means an expensive camera. Don't get me wrong, it's not about the dollars invested but this camera could not have passed for an expensive camera...it was downright ghetto. While it has a lithium batter which never expires--yay. The picture quality is fairly horrific and being seen with it in hand is downright embarrassing. It did have a flash but it was finicky. You couldn't view your photo unless you switched to view mode. Most cameras will show you a quick flash post-photo before preparing for the next shot: saving both time and trouble. It is light weight but the pixels have little to do with my hand shaking and everything to do with the camera's limited featured abilities. No zoom.

I just bought a silver, 6x zoom, 4.0MP HP camera from Best Buy. It's not as slim as others on the market but by no means is it clunky. I'm delighted to finally be the proud owner of a decent digital camera. I can't wait to carry it about and photograph at will all the cool NYC sights. Perhaps they will find their way onto this blog. A camera phone just doesn't cut it but that is a rant for another day. I'm hoping my camera arrives in time for mom's wedding next weekend!

Check it out: Sweet Camera

Dell-icious

I bought a laptop yesterday, on a whim.

Well, my current notebook is from the '90s (albeit '99) and we have wireless in my apartment which we PAY for, so not having a wireless card prompted the purchase of a new system in lieu of buying and installing a wireless card into my existing laptop. Erring on the side of reason never did seem that reasonable to me.

The wait is on for delivery of said object...

Incidentally my bookshelf from Target arrived yesterday and I'm expecting my storage, wicker/rattan baskets from Crate and Barrel to arrive today. It's an online shopping frenzy in the Land of Me.

Now for that digital camera I've been eye-ing...

Tea-rapy

Last night at tea, we had a novel turn out.

Stella, Jo, Kelli, Karen, and Amy showed up; each with stories to tell. I was by far the least informative, though always entertaining...the highlights in my life have been moving and tennis. The gym convenant is less a highlight and more a "low-light"(as my German boss refers to the opposite of highlight). Tea-mail was delivered: Beth sent us a postcard of David from Italy with an excellent caption "Everyone needs a 14' man who won't talk back!"

Amy is moving to San Deigo with her husband. She was the wildest of the bunch and I'm sad to see her go. We got close fast and fell out of touch when life happened, but I'm going to miss her so much. She also is the proud new owner of a Mustang convertible--riding around town with the top down has brough out every last freckle and given her the most healthy sun-drenched look.
She insists she has the perfect Greek dentist for me. We will be taking a trip to his office in the Empire State building so I can see for myself.

Stella is maintaining relations with a minor league baseball player and reassessing her career path after being "excized" from her current post as one of the most stellar and stylish public school teachers in Brooklyn. She is also harboring a crush on a 14-year old student but smart enough to wait another 4 years before she acts on it.

Kelli and Darrin have been discussing leaving the city. Amy--Look what you started!

Jo may be moving in with Devon or she may not. More to come at future tea times.

Karen's French boyfriend is meeting her parents this weekend in Chicago. Her mother's level of comfort with having him share Karen's childhood bed and various comments indicating her knowledge and more frighteningly acknowledgement of Karen's sex life. She's the most WASPy JAP I've ever met--gotta love Kar Bear.

Beth didn't make it to tea. She just moved to 17th and 1st, taking her from the one who commutes farthest to tea to the one who now lives closest to it. She will need all the help she can get when she starts her OBGYN residency.

Lauren didn't make it either. She just returned from a scuba trip to Belize with her knave.

Developments all around!

Best in Class

The biggest problem with being the best player in the league--other than it being a beginner's league and thus discounting any kudos--is that the instructor instructs others to watch your swing, mimic your footwork, and emulate your grace on the court.

While I'm all for this level of attention and adulation, I'm quickly discovering that I also suffer from a mild case of performance anxiety--at least that's how I'm explaning why the ball fails to go over the net when everyone watches with baited breath. Boo.

It must be said that tennis is a sport rich with poise and dripping with grace--when played right of course--a part of me couldn't help lusting for the instructor just watching his perfect swing and optimal ball placement. He's a short guy with a heavy foreign accent--pretty much the antithesis of my type...but watching him play, hubba hubba hello!

Bathroom Stall

At Hunter College last night before my tennis clinic, I ran to the loo to discover some graffiti that melted my heart.

It read thus:
"Jenna and Nicki,
Hey! This is Rico. We met at Jake's party last night. I don't usually do this and I'm kinda embarrassed but call me--917-875-????. I had a blast and it would be grate to hang out again."

Tracey--CALM DOWN. That is not an egregious typo on my part. The guy spelt it grate. I've seen this time and time again. And just like with "definately" I just don't get how an error so grave can be made by a literate individual.

I've seen some smart people misspell these words--I almost misspelled misspell. ARGH. It's contagious. I'm going to stop typing now and return to the labor they pay me to do.
Adieu.

Memory Lane

Whilst home over the weekend, I was ordered (by Mom) to clear out my closets since she will be moving in with her future husband in two weeks and she wants the house to be packed up and placed in storage while the real estate dangles in a buyer's market.

As I chucked possessions willy nilly, I stumbled upon a GAP shoebox filled with notes from high school and unsent, angsty letters to my then love object: Norman. The very Norman who is the current lease signer of the apartment I reside in. The Norman whose calls I return sporadically at best because life is too hectic and Las Vegas is too far--that 3-hour time difference. I had forgotten how utterly forlorn I felt when he didn't call me promptly at 9pm on those nights in high school I'd sit by my phone waiting to talk to him for a few hours before bed. I'd forgotten how much he'd mattered in the grand scheme of my life. I'd just forgotten the intensity with which I burned for his attention and affection--both of which are now free-flowing and therein under-appreciated.

I was leafing through my freshman yearbook and it seems every person that signed my yearbook made a reference to my then crush, Charles T. Rush. Trace's "What's the Rush?" and "T wants you. I know he wants you!" Talk about obvious--I hardly recognized then, what a spectacle I'd made of myself crushing that openly. I was never a master of disguise, be it emotion or intention. I'd hardly call it my biggest shortcoming but it's definitely not my strength. It was remarkable and shocking to trek down memory lane.

In all my post-pubertal quarter-life crises, I'd forgotten just how painful and tragic and utterly consuming high school life had been. It wasn't really all that long ago for me to have so completely forgotten, but I guess that's just one way to cope.

Ron Jeremy

Tommy and I were coming home from Off the Wagon after a few fruitless games of beer pong when I spied Ron Jeremy sitting at an outdoor table with some of his co-workers at the Olive Tree Cafe. There we are moseying down W. 3rd and the most famous male porn star of all time is just sitting there eating and drinking like normal folk. I made the connection quicker than Tom--not a fact I'm proud of but it is what it is. In my defense, it was the Sublime song that got me wondering who Ron Jeremy was...that's the ONLY reason I know who he is...that and the copious amounts of porn I watched in after school in lieu of those ABC specials--with my gay then best friend and Tracey.

We must say that Ron is just as unattractive IN person as he is on screen. The bunny-type women with him had incredibly bleached hair and lacked pretty in the face department--but I guess they don't make the big bucks for their big smiles.

We walked by and walked back but before I could secure an autograph, a troupe of drunken girls descended on him--cameras in hand. The only thing to outdo that would be to have him sign a body part and being from Jersey coupled with the extreme trashiness of this endeavor kept me in check. Here are some of things Tom said to encourage me to show some boob: "When are you EVER going to see him again...LIVE?" and "I'll tell everyone we know you talked to him. This is a story to top many stories." I'd like to report my dignity is intact.

Being read aloud

Last night when Tommy and I were home, the reality that cable will not be installed for ANOTHER week hit us hard.

Tommy wisely said, "Think of all the shit we'd get done if we never had TV. I've been more productive in the last two days than I usually am in two weeks."

As Tommy and I pondered how much of our life we'd whittled away in front of the box with moving images...what we were consumed with was despair that we had two such boxes sans moving images in our collective possession. sigh.

Tommy's new age computer (has a fan which cools it down--coolest thing ever!) and readily accesses the internet floating about the apartment, so he watched some baseball. After that ended I suggested he catch up on the blog, so it read it aloud to me.

Gotta say, hearing someone else's voice reading your words--very creepy but very cool. I must say, he has a remarkable flair for verbal expression of the written word. He's the kind of guy you want for books on tapes--a real money maker that industry. I think Tom should launch himself in the voice-over business.

Mind you, I could have unpacked a whole bunch more given the absence of TV...but after working till 9, buying groceries, making dinner, hitting the building gym, and straightening my hair...I was beat. Besides, I had to be at my desk at 8am today. bah.

Are you being punished?

In an effort to ensure the seamless delivery of my afternoon class, I dragged a chair out of the nearest conference room and hunkered down in front of the lobby doors on the 11th floor.

As I sat there, patiently waiting--clad in all black office wear with requisite croc-skin stillettoes--every man that had an ID and admitted himself to the floor had a remark for me.

Here are my favorites:
"That's a weird place to sit."
"Do you need to see my ID?"
"You're not convincing as security."
"We don't have a reception."
"That chair doesn't belong in this hallway."
"Are you being punished?"
One guy flashed me his ID as he walked by without acknowledging me verbally.
One guy caught me on the way in and out...so he asked, "Get any business yet?" (this made me feel oddly like a hooker...especially when I chirped "Two down, two to go")

But it really got me thinking--if I sat here all day what kinds of things would I hear. Was I being punished? How many people find their daily jobs punishing?

(If you've never been to an investment bank or a college dorm in a major city--not sure if this is a global trend or just region-specific to the US--every floor requires you to swipe or place your ID against a card reader to permit you admission to that level in an effort to maximize security. Some floors at the bank are even restricted to employees due to the nature of business that takes place there--top secret/classified/confidential)

4-minute Commute

My commute is a 4-minute walk.

That's right folks. I walk down a flight of stairs, exit my building, walk for four-minutes, ride the elevator up 22 flights and am at my desk in no more than 10 minutes--accounting for elevator waits. No stoplights this far downtown--narrow roads and such.

Hurrah for walking to work.

The Gym Covenant

Tommy and I are in competition to see who goes to the building gym more. The average requirement is three times a week and a tally is maintained. The one to go the most at the end of the summer gets drunk off their ass on the loser's tab...given our paychecks and enlarged livers--this is no gentleman's bet. Why do I feel winning this thing will only lead to gaining back any tone acquired in a series of drunken nights in celebratory follow-up.

Well, it's on. Tommy already e-mailed me to say he made it. I'm going right as soon as I leave my desk at the office.

Tennis

My tennis clinic is going swimmingly. I am the best player, by far. Mind you, this is an introductory clinic for those who have never held a racket before while I started playing at age 8 and was an avid high school hitter. Of course, I haven't picked up a racket in almost ten years.

My racket, in protest, continues to emit black flecks from its original rubber wrapping. The strings are taut as ever but I need to get it re-wrapped.

My instructor, Blake, was dazzled by my game and at one point instructed a fellow player to watch my swing and mimic it. I am great at keeping to things I'm good at...I suppose it's human nature. Screw competition, give it to me easy.

Luckey Skeerels

Tommy, K, Gary, and I are officially in a skee-ball league. It was looking unlikely for a minute, when we showed up at the info session to find the league was full--I had not RSVPed with our team name in a timely fashion. Thankfully, a team dropped out and we're in like Flynn.

Brewskee Ball is the sport of skee ball elevated to drunken levels of competitive fun. Gary is an alternate and I'm team captain by default (as always my knack for finding unusual hobbies earns me undeserving titles).
Skeeson III starts this Sunday(I did not come up with this name!)

The team names are as follows: Skeelicious, Skee Patrol, Skee Amigos, The Great Gatskee, MSkee Hammer, Goatskee...you get the point--every title had a cheesy reference to the sport itself. I adore the dorkiness of it all..truly--ADORE it. I feel like I'm back in college with my enginerd crew...damn I miss those kids on D-Level.

Miller High Life is a proud sponsor--the champagne of beers indeed.

The Mighty Move

Big news of the week!
Moved into my new apartment yesterday. Hurrah.
Half-way done unpacking already. Slept 2.5 hours Sunday night to facilitate the mighty move...because I am a procrastinator. Boo me.

Now I have to go back to the UES to clean up the mess I've left and rid the apartment of Ditha's furniture. I may have a taker--thanks K!

I'm a dust bunny collector--since I never dust. EVER. I'm a frantic tidy-er. I tidy by the minute but cleaning is just not my thing. Organizing, moving, re-decorating...I'm your gal. Cleaning--hire someone!

The Catch

Having Fridays off means working 45 hours in 4 days which is no small feat. I know the bankers chalk this up to a light week--the first four days of which only took up 45 of the 80-100 hours they put in...but guess what I'm NOT a banker.

I don't get their salary or their bonus or the perks--not that I want to take clients to strip clubs--so I should not be on any comparable scale to the hours of their lives they devote to the green gods on paper.

I know it sounds like I'm complaining--I'm not--I'm merely stating the transition of living half your week in an exhausted stupor bowing to the drudgery of work and the rest recovering with much booze, laying about, and crammed social organization.

I've always lived me life in bouts but they've never been structured--it's a unique experience. So far so good, but it makes me nervous about burning out: not a concern I've had before. Time will tell--he always does.

To pack now or pack later....

I really need to get my act together and begin the packing process but I just cannot be bothered. The task seems daunting with no immediate reward, so I continue to procrastinate...

My move-in date is June 12, 2006.

eegads, less than a week.

Tennis

I joined a tennis clinic at Hunter College that meets on Mondays from 9pm-10pm.

The instructors are Zen in their approach, so my team went with Zen Doctors as our official team name. It's a beginner class, so I'm thankfully above the curve--but not by nearly enough to balance out the hundreds of rupees my grand dad spent on tennis lessons on me as a child in India.

For someone who played in high school, I've fallen. Though, much like riding a bike the basics come back even if the better part of a decade has gone by since I last picked up my Prince racket. Bits of fabric fell from the handle with each shot I took, reminding me that like old paper, my racket had fallen out of use and was falling apart...I don't think I'm going to invest in a new one since the strings are still perfectly taut--I will get the handle re-wrapped since it's a disgrace that currently leaves black, rubbery residue every time I change grips.

Luckey Squirrels

Back in the city, I found a fantastic new hobby: brewskee ball.

Ace Bar in A-city has a league. Tommy, Special K and I have formed a team: Luckey Squirrels. A compromise to K's suggestion: Squirrelicious. Every Sunday you will see us skee ballin' with brewskees. I've been nominated captain. Not sure I'm up to the challenge or why I was given this responsibility, but I'm flattered.

Acha, Amachi, and I

Since I have Fridays off, I took off for New Jersey on Thursday night to spend time with my grandparents who are here for their annual visit with my mom.

Acha (my grand dad), Amma (my grand mom), Jason (my 14-year old cousin), and Kyle (my 12 year-old cousin) were delighted to see me, but this would never have been apparent to you by the nonchalant manner in which they greeted me. It would seem to you they had seen me everyday for the last 25 years, the manner of familiarity and unimportance assigned to my visit. It was both comforting and disconcerting--but isn't that the way families go?

I was glad to see Luckey. He had missed me, after all. He definitely showed a predisposition towards me as compared to the other brown people in the house.

My mom was exhausted. She's a bit neurotic about tidiness and in India my grandparents and cousins have maids to clean up after them, so they tend to take that lifestyle for granted. My mom had turned into their American maid, much to her chagrin. There wasn't tension in the air as much as relief that another pair of hands had come to ease the labor of two.

San Fran

I had some of the most delicious Burmese food at a crowded little restaurant of Li's choosing. It was a quiet evening but one we needed after all the road-tripping we'd just done.

I love the look and feel of San Francisco. From the houses to the hills and the Mission to the Bay. It's not New York, but it doesn't pretend to be. There's a bustle to the city with a California stroll. If you haven't been you have to go--there isn't much I can say to do justice to the ambience.

I had my requisite Dim Sum at Mayflower and BIG burrito at a dinky joint in the Mission. I bought a few clothes on the Haight...marveling at the hippies and the Gap on the corner of Haight and Ashbury. Li humored me.

I caught the red eye home: landing at JFK at 7am on Wednesday morning and catching the A train to find myself at my desk at work at 8:50am. Another vaca behind me and a desk overflowing with memos, projects, presentations, and articles.

Carmel-by-the-Sea--17 mile Drive--Monterey Bay

Carmel-by-the-Sea was a collection of quaint antique shops and galleries. Pricey, I bet. We walked to the beach and watched the smattering of people picnic with their families--diverse--Indians, Chinese, European, American.

The mission in Carmel was classic in architecture and form. Just the air there smelled old--not musty--but aged. I could see the missionaries converting people.

We paid the requisite $8.75 to drive past Pebble Beach and take in the fancy homes of some of the richer residents in CA. Was it worth it? eh.

Drew insisted we visit the aquarium at Monterey as it is a location near and dear to any marine biologists' heart--we weren't sure why a business student would find it appealing, but no questions were asked.

Li and I decided the Baltimore Aquarium was a better bet. Less children.
I've only been to that one once, on a date with V--back when he loved me.

From Monterey we drove straight up to San Jose and dropped Drew at the airport. Three become two as Li and I continued to San Francisco.

Big Sur

The night in a tent was harsh compared to the night in the car--I was freezing. All Li's warnings of chilly California nights didn't prepare me for how cold it was at Big Sur by the lake at the end of May.

The campgrounds were packed with crunchy, granola types with their kids and families spending an all-American Memorial Day Weekend. We toasted marshmallows and gulped down cold Budlights as we enjoyed the dusk drawing to a close.

I wanted to stop at the Henry Miller library but decided to leave it for another visit since I knew the guys had grown weary of my desired shop stops.

I did pick up the most serene, photo embossed, ceramic coasters from the most graceful, curvy, hippie woman--no doubt an artist--who had a single, thick white stripe like a sexy skunk (I was reminded of the skunk from Over the Hedge) in her black, coarse hair..she donned a purple sarong around herself in a black dress. I found her charming and wondered how many artists she had charmed in her youth--no doubt she was still charming them at her current age...just a shade before over-ripe.

SLO

I felt like Mother Mary with two Josephs and no baby Jesus in tow as we tried inn after hotel after motel after hostel for a room in San Luis Obispo. NO luck.

After a few drinks at the Frog & Peach Pub we settled down for a night of slumber in the car. I gallantly, knowing full well the discomfort took the driver's seat--by far the worst pick. Thankfully I barely drank, given my pukey-McPuker night in LA, so I wasn't overcome by an urge to pee on someone's front lawn during the course of the night.

Not a peep outta me they heard--except when Drew awakened at dawn to drive us onwards to the journey that awaited us. I was nonplussed by his enthusiasm for the AM but appreciated the importance of savoring the day on a winding road with the fresh AC in our face and blue skies above bluer Pacific by our side.

Many a pitstop was made on Sunday as we took in scenic overhands and precarious turns on the PCH up to Big Sur. It was a roadmap to photo heaven.

Hearst Castle

My trip to Hearst Castle can best be compared to a child's first visit to Disneyworld. I was mesmerized by the mansion on the hill. San Simeon is a town that serves no purpose other than to house the castle.

The similarities to Xanadu from Citizen Kane were remarkable. No surprise since Orson Wells character was not too loosely based on William Randolph Hearst. Something about the architecture which mimicked the ancient in a modern era(built in the 1920s) scratched me right where I never knew I had an itch. The collection of art he amassed, though gaudy, deserves kudos not just for being thorough and expensive but more for the care taken in the collection of it. A conquistador of the artistic and a contradiction in terms.

The gardens and land were even more impressive than the buildings themselves in their preservation and historic value. I could envision politicians, artists, musicians, and celebrities of all sorts from the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s being invited to visit the recluse--the king of the castle.

I'm not sure if Patty Hearst spent any part of her childhood in this castle but her famed kidnapping was another incident that rang a bell in the context of the castle.

So moved was I by this visit and the builder behind the structures I've taken to reading his biography by David Nasaw.

Burbank

Friday, May 26
10:00pm Landed at Burbank Airport
Cute, friendly building with old fashioned ramp to descend from airplane to ground level.

11:00pm Checked into Motel 6 off Hollywood Blvd. on N. Whitley

11:30pm Hopped in a cab to Saddle Ranch on Sunset Blvd.

12:30pm Drank many pitchers of Mai Tai and Gold Rush

1:00am Encouraged by Li and Drew climbed on the mechanical bull--much cheering

1:05am Was bucked off said mechanical bull and landed face first on moon pillow foam below bull--much jeering

1:30am In an inebriated stupor I decided it was necessary for me to preserve the memory of me riding the bull so I purchased a candid photo of me riding mechnical--like at amusement parks with the roller coasters. It costs $4 to ride the bull and the photo is another $9

2:00am Was a happy drunk, hunting for a cab which took almost an hour to hail down. They aren't kidding about traffic in LA.