things are kind of looking up.|
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|Thursday, May 10th, 2007|
has been good to me. but i met someone else...www.kitchenpranks.blogspot.com Tell your friends!
|Thursday, December 7th, 2006|
so i just got hired here: chanterellenyc.com/menu_dinner_tm.htm
i'm now a three star new york times line cook, hopefully four soon. when i was trailing, i was ready to walk out in the first hour, as i was trying to remember which brunoise veg went on which oyster, in which order, i absolutely knew that kind of cooking wasn't for me, until a couple of plates later i got it and felt like a fucking rock star. they offered me the job next day, and i gave notice yesterday. everyone is very understanding...
i start working sixty to seventy hour weeks for very little money on Jan. 4th. But i get to tell people i work at Chanterelle...
also, i moved this week, and i'm in a relationship for four months with no major disasters or break ups. Current Mood: excited
|Wednesday, July 12th, 2006|
dear mr. wai,
remind me never to watch your two most depressing movies back to back ever again.
|Friday, June 23rd, 2006|
|if i had my drothers,
i would stay home and listen to bright eyes all day long.
but i gave two weeks at work and i'm staying two weeks whether i like it or not. i keep sleeping through alarms. coffee doesn't wake me up and i got a fan in my room finally which means it's totally comfortable enough to never leave.
i'll be here on the fifth:
if i have to leave my room, at least i can make my life more local. come visit me in the slope? Current Mood: exhausted
|Thursday, May 11th, 2006|
|Sunday, March 26th, 2006|
|we're having a party...
please come. it won't be the same without you. please come.
five points for the reference. but really. it's tuesday at eight. potluck, so bring food and b.y.o.b. music, rousing games of american idle and good times in general to be had. meet people you never thought you'd meet. meet my new room mates. dance with me.
directions: r or m train to union street, walk one block up to sacket, and one over to third. we're 573 sackett. ring the bottom buzzer.
in other news, work is good. i've been promoted, so my new schedule is thre to noon, off mondays and tuesdays. and i have a crush. a big, big fucking crush. it sucks. Current Mood: tired
|Wednesday, February 15th, 2006|
due for an update, are we?
I am moving to Brooklyn. And it's about damn time. See myspace.com/frombedtowall. I posted a bulletin if you're on there. Apparently, sources tell me the neighborhood's gentrification name is BoCoCA. Which has no ring to it whatsoever. But it has a cock in the middle of it, so that's cool. Anyway, stands for Boerum, Cobble Hill & Carrol Gardens. I just figure it's somewhere between Park Slope and Carrol Gardens, which is good, because, Carrol Gardens is not too far from Red Hook, and Red Hook is home to the best restaurant in New York, I don't care what the magazine says. You should find me at 360 Van Brundt Street weekly, at the very least. The apartment is fantastic, long and cold and great for lounging and drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes out windows (see item 2, below). I'm moving into one of the two free bedrooms with Emily. Well, not *with* her. I'll be in one of the free rooms, she'll be in the adjacent one. Our own personal tree house. Really. The rooms are above the living room, accessible by ladder, with a porch-like(!) landing. We were thinking of painting the outside walls with a jungle motif. I want to set up lawnchairs outside the rooms so that we have a common area reminiscent of a sub-urban back yard. My commute to work will be twenty-five minutes by train, probably less if i bike over the near by manhattan bridge. Come visit. Keep watching for information about a house-warming shindig.
I am again a smoker (see above).
The problems with not smoking, which i attempted to adress with first nicotine-replacement and then will power, are emotional at their root and need to be adressed at that level before i can quit confidently. The physical withdrawal isn't bad, it's the human interaction that follows and i don't know what to do with my self. Because the cigarette is a crutch, and i know it but even that self awareness doesn't make it any less effective. I smoke because i like the aesthetic of smoking, but i also smoke because i don't see myself as capable of social interaction as a non-smoker
. When I wasn't smoking, I didn't want to be in groups of people outside meetings, and when i was, it was all handsinmypockets, shouldersup, lookingattheground. Not cool.
I am happy with work. I'm not paid enough, and i work too much, but I really really enjoy cooking, want to get better at it, like that i've commited myself to a career path at least and don't have to worry about that anymore (and only 22--almost 22, really).
BUT: i need to write more. because i still want to do that. so there.
I'm in a relationship? Maybe. I don't know. Yes. So this girl that I was friends with, and then made out with, and then found myself in a relationship with, which scared me so I ran. Hmm. Basically, that's it. And it had happened before, but for some reason this time the pattern emerged and I was ready to change it. One of the excuses I had for not being able to be in a relationship with this woman is that I was still hung up on my ex. But the fact is, when I'm single, I don't really think about her all that much. It's only after I get involved in something new, hang around for a few weeks until the novelty and excitement starts to wear off, and then start imagining Sarah as an excuse to extricate myself from possibly becoming intimate with another person. And my therapist kept asking me that the litmus test for any relationship should be to ask, "is my life richer with this person?" And my answer was yes, in spite of my fear, I missed being with her. So. I wrote an email because actually communicating this stuff is next to impossible in person (see item 2), and we got back together, and it's cool. I'm terrified, and want to run away and don't think I can give her what she needs or she can give me what I need, but I'm willing to try anyway, and see what happens instead of letting what might happen prevent *anything* from happening.
I saw Before Sunset last night. Fantastic. Much better than the first, maybe because even though I'm closer in age to the first movie, I've lived a lot and relate to the jaded, hurt in love nine years after aspect of the second movie. I don't know. Questions were raised. Is passion more powerful/important than commitment? I miss the passion of Sarah, which was really drama, and self centered interest in making her be interested in me, which kept my interest in her alive, because she couldn't give me what I wanted so I had something to keep shooting for.
And I want to go all High Fidelity on my exes, ask Kristina what she thinks my problem is, blah blah blah.
For now, I'm just trying to go against my impulses and see where that takes me.
It seems there's been a rash of people who don't usually post updating and that's a good thing. I'll try to be more consistent with this, promise. This qoute keeps being helpful. Against Me!, "this just isn't love, it's just a remorse of a loss of a feeling."
And I'm changing my user info. Check it out.
|Monday, January 30th, 2006|
|on the trials of day seventeen.
i was going to get a tattoo of the number thirteen a few fridays ago. instead i slept in and quit smoking. that was seventeen days ago. for the first ten, i used this nicotine inhaler thing. basically a tampon that i sucked on when i wanted nicotine. then i stopped altogether last week. the first three days nicotine free were excruciating. now i feel ok physically but tonight i waited on fourty second street for the bus back to jersey and i sat on the sidewalk, barely wet from the days rain, and everything screamed for a cigarette--the early morning cars, their wheels slick on the pavement, the rolling gravely sound and the misty fading headlights on the approach, the tail-lights as they passed, every city worker and drunk that passed, commuters and the neon signs high over times square. when i got on the bus, it was too much to take sitting there, and i put on minor threat, hoping to take some comfort in another's rage against the vices i've tried so hard to put behind me, and i started to remember the reasons why a cigarette sounds so fucking good, and there's really only one, when it comes down to it--fear. that i won't be cool if i don't smoke. basically. that i won't be sexy or punk rock or artistic or creative or tough. and it was good for the bus ride home to hear ian tell me that i was plenty punk enough not smoking, maybe even more so. cause man, smoking cigarettes just feeds money to the capitalist tobacco companies blah blah blah blah but goddamn if i wouldn't kill for one right now.
fuck. Current Mood: agitated
|Tuesday, January 3rd, 2006|
by giving me your phone numbers so i can call you.
either here, or at email@example.com
or on my space. or by texting or calling me.
there are at least 200 numbers that i need to get back. comments will be screened.
|Sunday, January 1st, 2006|
p.s. should i, as has been suggested, add mandy patinkin to my stalkalicious stalking list, or should i not?
|Thursday, December 15th, 2005|
|welly welly well.
so: after watching iron chef america last night (best show ever), i decided to add food writer jeffrey steingarten to my list of stalkees. he's the food editor at vogue, and writer of the two incredible food humor books, "The Man Who ate everything,"
and "It must have been something I ate."
I love this man. I want to go on grand culinary adventures with him. I want him to cook me something obscene and traditional over the course of a week. I want to drift asleep to the dulcet sounds of him reading Larousse Gastronomique . . .
and then it happened--in a fit of inspiration, i went to whitepages.com, entered "steingarten," and got a hit for a jeffrey S. on w. 17th street! this, according to my anecdotal evidence from his books, is where the food writer lives. such luck? i thought i'd try again. since i'd had no luck "bumping into" anthony bourdain outside his restaurant, smoking famously--or with emails sent to the food network and les halles, i put him in. whattayou know? anthony and nancy bourdain are listed!
i don't know what to do now, but it will be incredible. i just need to ruminate for a bit.
|Thursday, November 17th, 2005|
it's been a long time, hasn't it?
this is an official invitation to join me as i stalk the following people:
mr. anthony bourdain
mr. hank azaria
mr. blake shwarzenbach
ms. ruth reichl
ms. blythe danner
more may be added to the list as i see fit.
help me fill my extraordinarily limited free time with b-list celebrity obsession... Current Mood: lethargic
|Friday, June 24th, 2005|
"Conor Oberst is pretty much the only cotemporary recording artist that can capture the emotional tenor of Bob Dylan's lyrics."
Who am I?
|Friday, May 13th, 2005|
|fuck my bronchial tubes.
i've been sick for what feels like weeks now and in spite of my efforts to ward off bronchial infections and allergies, by means of no less than six medications, i seem to have gotten worse not better. which means that yesterday, i called in to work, a luxury that i wish could be extended indefinately, but won't because i a) can't afford it and b) don't really think trader joe's patience is infinite.
my life seems to be chaotic lately; i spend entirely too much money, can't seem to get enough sleep (let alone make it to bed before four in the fucking morning), and am constantly perplexed by a sudden influx of female attention and my inability to accept/return that affection gracefully.
on top of all that, i miss the pacific northwest and every day seems to be a reminder of how i was spending my time this time last year. which brings me back to the recurring theme of this journal--my nostalgia for a period in my life that objectively, 100 percent no doubt about it, was much much more trying than anything that's happening write now.
so, i propose a compromise. because, of course, everything revolves around me and only me, every single last person that i care about from both coasts must accompany me to minneapolis, where we'll begin our lives anew on neutral ground. R.S.V.P. no later than June 1st. Current Mood: sick
|Thursday, May 12th, 2005|
if anyone thinks they can keep up with my punk ass in a borough to borough bike tour, you're welcome to it.
i got my ride a week ago, and i've already ridden from the far end of the bronx to the far end of manhattan like four times.
top time--one hour, door to door. suck my rippling calves, bruckner blvd.
|Thursday, April 7th, 2005|
i don't update anymore unless i need somethiing...
anyway. i can't figure out what kind of fucking frame to get off ebay. help people. there's a bunch of fuji frames, new. and peugot. some swiss shit called ochsner or something like that. arggghgh. it's fucking overwhelming, though.
god i wish somebody would just be like, "here, i have this beautiful fixed gear in your size that i'm not interested in anymore. i'd be more than happy to give/sell it to you super cheap. don't waste your precious, precious time on ebay when you can be out riding and enjoying your fabulous, fantastical life."
anyway. that's it. beyond that: work, play and meetings are pretty much all i do these days anyway.
|Tuesday, February 8th, 2005|
i was off to a meeting this morning then the smoking that my car's engine was doing led me under the hood where i was struck by the sight of green pungent drops of antifreeze for the second time in a month. so the car's at the shop, i'm watching a mighty wind until i have to shower and leave for work at four thirty.
my lip is, i hope, on its way to healing.
the post-break up adrenalin which lasted for far longer than it usually does led me to believe that i was over her. the crash was postponed and (maybe?) worse. but this week i looked back on my year, and if i'm honest with myself, i know that sarah aside, i've been struggling for a very long time. and so it's back into therapy for me, to see what i can do about this. i refuse to get wrapped up in self-pity. or to post about it inscesently (how do you spell
that?). but the signs are there. i don't sleep. i'm not interested in anything. i can't write. i feel overwhelmed by life and decisions and opportunity. i feel small and less-than. and i've spent a year trying to figure out what i'm doing wrong, and there's nothing. i think if i could just eat better or sleep more or do more exercise or smoke less or drink less coffee i'd be o.k. if i were more spiritual or better at being sober. and since i'd been with sarah, i convinced myself that it was just stress. that being in a relationship was hard and that i was dealing with that the best i could (which wasn't ver well) and that was it. but i keep trying to fix something when maybe the only thing that's wrong is that i'm not capable of fixing anything until i fix the fact that i'm depressed. but...who knows.
and top of all that, if i were adressing depression directly i might actually be motivated to *do* the things that make me feel better.
and i FINALLY finished the writing that i'm supposed to be doing.
so. another late night, work until eleven and i'll probably be awake until early tommorrow if anyone's interested in "chatting."
|Monday, January 31st, 2005|
for reals. i've had a hard time sleeping lately to begin with. part of that has to do with the fact that i've been going out so much, and part of it is body chemistry stuff--i just can't seem to sleep for more than six or seven hours.
but, in an effort to remedy the former, i thought i would stay home the other night rather than going to brooklyn. i slept ok, woke up absolutely fucking exhausted anyway, and worked from three-thirty to elleven. by the time i got out of there, warmed the car up, drove home, ate some dinner (cereal and toast), brushed my teeth and washed my face it was well after midnight. and by the time i fell asleep (i think) it was well after one.
so now, six hours later, i'm drinking my first and last cup of coffee before i have to be at work at NINE.
also: i passed conor oberst on tenth street, just above tompkins. i raised my eyebrows at mr. peter droste, who was walking with me, and turned around after he had passed, silently pointing and whispering excitedly. most of you already know, because i was too excited to keep it to myself for more than five minutes.
and: i called someone to let them know i've been drinking my lunch again--i want to eat, really, i do. but i snack (chips) during the day, and by the time lunch comes around i'm usually too tired and too full (although i don't think it's full so much as not really turned on by the idea of eating, can't find the motivation) and i just end up with a latte. this a) contributes to the aforementioned sleeping problems and b) gets ridiculously fucking expensive because c) $3.44 is a fucking obscene price to pay for two shots of BAD espresso, some milk and a fancy green cup.
and i only justify this habit by staunchly
refusing to actually use the words tall grande or venti. not only are they too pretentious (and inconsistent) but every once in a while i get an employee who's confused look when i ask for my drink in ounces is well worth the inflated prices.
i won't even go into any of the girl stuff. Current Mood: tired
|Friday, January 28th, 2005|
Thank god for Sam Fein.
That is all. Current Mood: In love
|Saturday, January 8th, 2005|
It seemed to me, from a distance, that the easiest thing in the world was to come back and everthing would be the same. I sat outside the pizza place, smoking cigarettes, talking about what it was like in New York. The two dollar slice and coke specials, greasy, thin crust pizza the cheese and sauce, marbled almost like it was its own color, how we would fold it in half saving the chewy crunchy crust for last. I joked about being offered forks and knives for pizza, there. Who does that? And it seemed strange to think that toppings were available that weren't sausage or pepperoni or mushrooms or peppers. What the fuck is linguisa, I asked. A type of sausage. O.K. Yeah, but who puts shit like that on pizza? Broccoli? Please. I want to be able to fold that shit in half, I said. Without having it break on me. And when I squeeze it, I want a goddamned cup of grease to pour
off it. I want to see the grease on top of the pizza, floating in little self contained puddles, shiny and when I'm done eating it, I want my complexion to be fucked for a week.
And then last Christmas, I thought about Park Avenue. I thought about walking down the street, just after fresh snow, a too light jacket and my cigarettes struggling to keep me warm. And the trees are just up, the lights on them, walking to the subway after school and it's already dark, block after block lit up, festive. I missed the street vendors, heavy jackets and gloves, blowing on their hands to keep warm, the almost illicit exchange of money for trees, and people walking down the street, trying desperately to carry their purchases by branch and trunk, squeezing into elevators and tiny apartments, the radiant christmas spirit.
I had forgotten, it seems, about the tackiness. About the bronx and suburbs, their gaudy flashing strings of colored lights, giant reindeer blowup decorations, the angry blare of carols from storefronts, and the morning mass with row after row of automatics.
And how rarely I'm actually willing to sit down for a pizza, or feel the christmas spirit, purely walking along eighty sixth street, dodging the rushed masses amidst car horns and taxis, and the thought keeps coming that I was much happier missing these things than I'll ever be actually having them.