Lurching Through Time and Space

Today I went to the computer store to pick up a laptop for my boss. The guy behind the counter's name tag said Jesus, which is always momentarily unsettling, but that's beside the point. The thing about the trip that really burned my beans was the subway ride. There are many things to hate about the subway. Here are some things that I disapprove of:

1) loudness of any kind
2) poor personal hygiene
3) ironic haircuts
4) threats of violence

I experienced all of these to varying degrees on my most recent venture underground. Come on people! Just sit quietly and get where you're going. And have normal hair. I never say anything to them though. They always seem kind of aggressive/unbalanced. I just stare at the floor and exhale loudly in a way that communicates displeasure.

Oh also on the sidewalk I saw a guy pretending to be blind so that he could hit people with that red stick. I could tell he was pretending because as soon as he thought no one was looking he lifted up his shades and started flipping through a monster truck magazine. I was simultaneously horrified and kind of bummed that I hadn't thought of the idea first.

Ask Not For Whom The Bell Tolls

Norman Mailer's ex-wife just called me on my cellphone. No joke. The one he stabbed. The how's and why's aren't important, but just know that that happened when the inevitable Norman Mailer biopic comes out next year and everyone can't stop talking about how much they love Norman Mailer and have been reading Norman Mailer for years and now that the movie came out everybody else suddenly loves Norman Mailer. So that happened.

Try It!

Here's something fun/mildly irritating: try to type the name Liev Schreiber into Microsoft Word. It absolutely will not let you do it. It must be Live Schreiber or nothing at all. It's like trying to move your right hand in a clockwise circle while moving your right foot counter-clockwise. It's a physical impossibility. (That's cool too, actually. Try that.) Poor Liev must have to deal with this every day of his life.

**Editor's note: My older brother can type Liev Schreiber into Word. He cannot, however, beat me at Cranium.

Homeless Man Exposes Himself on Manhattan-Bound C

Often on the subway, panhandlers stumble through the cars shouting their hard-luck stories and begging for spare change. By often I mean every single time I ride the train. They burst through the doors of the subway car in various states of undress shouting "scuse me ladies and gentleman!" Then a lot of them start shrieking at the ad posters for Caribbean getaways and criminal lawyers (see: Don't Do Drugs.) Yesterday on our way back from Brooklyn, Tom and I encountered one such individual on the C train. He was unusual in that he was white, portly, and wearing a woven red sarape. He bellowed the usual song about trying to get his life back on track and needing a dollar for a Big Mac or something, but his vocal projection was astounding. His rich tenor vibrated through the train-- it was like panhandling as executed by Andrea Bocelli. He walked up and down the car a few times until someone gave him a dollar, then scuttled off at the next stop humming the first few bars of Meet Me in St. Louie. This leads me to believe that this "homeless man" was actually a Broadway actor researching a role. Have you ever seen that episode of Arrested Development where Lindsay dates that homeless guy who is actually film actor Thomas Jane? It was a lot like that except I didn't make out with the guy or anything. I had no intention of dating him. The encounter was just really unsettling. I like my panhandlers cock-eyed and crack-addled, not wearing capes and whistling Dixie. What Broadway show is about homeless people anyway?

Don't Do Drugs

Yesterday I was at work at my job, which is not uncommon. I have a desk at the front of the office, and I often answer the phone, but I'm not a receptionist. This fact was lost on a wild-eyed crystal meth addict who came into the office demanding everything off of my desk and a meeting with the editor, pronto. She asked me to fetch her a cup of coffee. When I told her that the coffee machine was broken, she said she'd just take water then and settled into the couch. A little dazed, I got up, poured her water, and brought it to her. Throughout this endeavor she told me about her unbearable back pain, her squat in Brooklyn, and her t-shirt, which she'd made and which said something like "Jessica Hastings can fuck herself." After her brief meeting with the editor to discuss her job prospects and ideas for freelance articles about living thrifty in NYC, she waved from the couch for my attention. "Honey?" This meant me. "Honey? Can you dial a number for me?" Of course I can. She made no attempt to hide the fact that the phone call was to another editor of another magazine, with whom she had another meth-fueled interview in half an hour. "Honey?" The clarion call. "Can you google map this address and write out the directions for me on a Post-It? Can I have those Post-Its? Can I have that Public Enemy CD? Can I have this box of purple t-shirts?" Sure. Whatever you want. Just stop freaking me out and treating me like a secretary.

Where Have You Gone, Joe DiMaggio?

Dear Fans of Variations (that's you, Mom!),

I apologize for the dearth of posts in the last few days. I've been extremely busy with my high-power job in journalism and haven't had a minute to spare. To cheer you up I've included this picture of a baby in a pumpkin suit:


Don't worry; I've continued to live my wacky and wonderful life in New York City. Recent exploits include a trip to the Polish National Home to hear a 3-hour political rant/punk rock concert and eat enormous quantities of kielbasa, a midnight trip to Red Hook for a bluegrass jam session, and an adventure in omakase (look it up!) that left one friend retching violently for hours all over Brooklyn. My poetry workshop is coming up too, so I won't want for material for long. Thanks for sending me my social security card. Check for more updates soon!