Thursday, August 24, 2006

I want to be in a band when I get to heaven...

I went to see the Shins at Mccarren Pool yesterday, and they were really great, even though they played 3 new songs, "the bane of the concertgoer's experience". And the best part of the night was that they forgot the words to
New Slang at first, which was awesome, especially if you're a fan of the Shins pre-Natalie Portman and her fucking headphones. I feel that head-bopping and back-and-forth swaying are the dance moves most suited to the Shins, don't you agree? There was a lot of unselfconscious bopping and big smiling going on last night, which was nice.

Monday, August 21, 2006

I almost got crushed in the revolving doors at work today. Let me preface this by saying that over the past 1.9 years, I have had many near misses, always followed by a panicked-looking-around and a nervous giggle. This time I was really distracted, thinking about eating my halal chicken platter feast-lunch (btw, vote for the boys on the northeast corner of 23rd and bway for at least an honourable mention at the Vendy's) and not remembering what the last meal I actually had was, thinking about other things too, like that C., even with her black feet, really does look better in this shirt, and wondering how I could have left the house with pouftastic hair, oh wait, the pouf cannot be escaped or can it be separated from the poufter, and then I also might have been swinging my bag and smiling, the latter of which often throws off my equilibrium (and gives me a cramp) because it happens so rarely. So the combination of various percentages of all of the above made me think I could fit into a 3-inch revolving-door gap. And it could have worked, if there wasn't a very shocked woman (wtf, mullethead, watch where you're going. She really did have a blonde mullet) already in the door. So I swore (more shocked looks) and escaped some horrible injury by about 0.7 inches.

But then I felt better (sore shoulder, though) because I found this hilarious and affirming thing...
...which made me think of this...(see it live). Totally logical.

(map to conversational tangents: overtired distraction-->near death-->goth wedding blog-->goth wedding dress-->sleep=death-->my sweet sweet bed.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Wow, this song has me shaking it in my chair. At work.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Like a tender kiss from Corleone. Sorry, Joe. If you weren't into it (I see indecision in your face), you shouldn't have made out with him out of pity. Any 14-year-old could have told you that.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

I once read somewhere that red shoes were only for hookers and children. Me and my red high-heels feel closer to god already...

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Update: Remember fat man sweating while eating pudding on the subway platform? From yesterday? That was at Hoyt-Schermerhorn station. Where all good thoughts go to die. And the latest issue of the L Magazine agrees with me. The rape station (urban legend says that a woman was dragged to the abandoned railway track and raped while commuters watched) featured in a section entitled "5 Best Places to Trigger an Existential Crisis":

"Hoyt-Schermerhorn Subway Station Have you ever been to Hoyt-Schermerhorn station, midwife to melancholy? Paint chips cling desperately to rust-stained concrete columns, low-watt bulbs illuminate the grey walls half-heartedly and the approaching rumble of an oncoming train causes the blank-faced passengers to stir reflexively from their torpor."

Ah, torpor. Sounds like lukewarm yellow pudding.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

One last thing on this triple-play blogging day. I forgot to add the last strange thing I saw on my train ride in this morning, but it wouldn't have fit into the sexual misconduct theme I had going below. Unless you're into that sort of thing.

My roommate and I were getting off the G to get on the Manhattan-bound C (just crossing the platform) when I saw the horror. A very fat, sweating man sitting on a bench was eating liquidy vanilla/banana/some yellowish pudding out of a styrofoam container. My roommate refused to look because he's a delicate flower, so I thought I would document it here. Looks like sick.
Even though my only experience with this heatwave will probably involve drugs, romance novels and chest hair (see below), apparently some of us are feeling the joie de vivre.

note pinched facial expressions and awkward body positions...ah, romance!

Everyone is obsessed with the weather, how hot it is, how smelly it is, how humid it is, how much sleep you're not getting, how many times you showered versus how many times you should have showered, ad infinitum. I'm going to add my observations to the bunch. I suggest that I'm suffering a lot, maybe just as much as those poor souls (and conscientious objectors) who don't have air conditioning, because I have a summer cold. Can you imagine feeling feverish and woozy in this weather? The bonus is I get to overmedicate. So I'm on the train, fresh off a sick day, and stoned on robitussin (need it, hacking cough) and dayquil (need it, or else will sleep into purchase orders) and I see a few weird things. I mean, weird even by NY standards.

First, I see a woman reading The Virgin ___(not blanked out for any reason other than I couldn't turn my head 90° and read the title unobtrusively), a steamy romance (could tell from the embossed heaving bosoms, tanned male pecs and thrown-back manes of hair). The woman is totally getting into it, perspiring, fanning herself and making little faces at the book. I'm afraid I might witness something that might make me celibate forever, so I turn away. Btw, she was totally the bookish D&D type with flowered summer dress and large spectacles, if anyone was getting unduly excited. I turn around into the sweating chest of a husky (am being kind) sweat-drenched man. He's wearing a grey shiny dress shirt (probably the most unforgiving colour in this weather), unbuttoned to reveal his hairy chest (really, I turned right into his chest hair) and he had a frayed Oscar de la Renta STUDIO tie on (by far, the saddest part of this story). This is the incredible part. He simultaneously shot me a dirty look for bumping into him and stared directly down my top. I felt like applauding. This dude clearly was on his way to a heart attack, had middle-eastern playboy fashion sense (from 1982), and had had a bad morning, but he still had the presence of mind to make me feel bad for klutziness and also slutty for not wearing a top buttoned up to my neck in 100° degree. It was all about inappropriate sexual behaviour on my train ride this morning, kids. I'd almost prefer a run-of-the-mill masturbator. But that could be the blessed cold pills talking.