A list of every Halloween costume that I can remember (all home-made):
1981 - nothing
1982 - probably nothing
1983 - don't know
1984 - baseball player
1985 - panda bear mask
1986 - Little Bo Peep
1987 - rock star
1988 - princess
1989 - gypsy
1990 -
1991 -
1992 - Native American
1993 - 50's girl
1994 - mad scientist (I wore a white wig)
1995 - sleeping person (aka a teenager wearing pajamas)
1996 -
1997 -
1998 - Tinkerbell
1999 - 80's girl
2000 -Greek Goddess
2001 -
2002 - Avril Lavigne
2003 - Nothing
2004 - Geisha
2005 - Sexy Republican
2006 - Laverne (of Laverne and Shirely)
2007 - a regular person wearing butterfly wings
2008 - No costume (?)
Monday, October 27, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Dance, Dance the Night Away
This reporter wants to know: what makes dancing so irresistibly fun?
Let's be honest with ourselves and finally admit that dancing is the most fun activity ever invented. Praise Jesus. The only reason I enjoy weddings is for the dancing. The only reason that I'm friends with you is for the dancing. The reason our teenage years were so frustrating is because all we really wanted to do was dance, but we didn't yet know that everybody else felt that way, too. Okay. Time to be honest again; what do weddings, my friendship with you, and dance parties really have in common? Totally awesome beats? Possibly. Joyous party-going-ness? Well, yes! But the hard truth is, though dancing is such a gift on its own, God also bestowed alcohol on us for a little lubrication. The ultimate time of your life is going to be a room full of willing and able-bodied friendly folk, a DJ with the knowledge to drop only the most luscious and glee-inducing sound waves, and of course a trickle of maybe a Brooklyn Lager or a couple gin and tonies. It's actually a recipe that I obtained from the back of a box of Kix when I was ten years old. Sure, everything in moderation, but once the dance party is alive and kicking, I physically can't remove myself from it. You know what I'm talking about. It's 2:30 AM. Your B.F.F for F. leans over mid O.P.P and shouts, "I'm leaving!" You look at them, and they just know: you won't be going anywhere. You're not moving until the bartender forces the DJ to quite literally pull the plug on the sound system. It's at that point that you (and by "you", I mean "me") finally notice that you don't recognize a single soul left on the floor; or the rest of the bar for that matter. I'd call it an addiction, but I don't think I've yet harmed friends or family, and I don't think my work is suffering because of it. If anything, I have a greater appreciation for every soul that exists on this planet. All because of the dancing.
An abbreviated version of this piece can be found in Third Place: the magazine (issue no.1). Let me know if you want to subscribe to this literary gold nugget.
Let's be honest with ourselves and finally admit that dancing is the most fun activity ever invented. Praise Jesus. The only reason I enjoy weddings is for the dancing. The only reason that I'm friends with you is for the dancing. The reason our teenage years were so frustrating is because all we really wanted to do was dance, but we didn't yet know that everybody else felt that way, too. Okay. Time to be honest again; what do weddings, my friendship with you, and dance parties really have in common? Totally awesome beats? Possibly. Joyous party-going-ness? Well, yes! But the hard truth is, though dancing is such a gift on its own, God also bestowed alcohol on us for a little lubrication. The ultimate time of your life is going to be a room full of willing and able-bodied friendly folk, a DJ with the knowledge to drop only the most luscious and glee-inducing sound waves, and of course a trickle of maybe a Brooklyn Lager or a couple gin and tonies. It's actually a recipe that I obtained from the back of a box of Kix when I was ten years old. Sure, everything in moderation, but once the dance party is alive and kicking, I physically can't remove myself from it. You know what I'm talking about. It's 2:30 AM. Your B.F.F for F. leans over mid O.P.P and shouts, "I'm leaving!" You look at them, and they just know: you won't be going anywhere. You're not moving until the bartender forces the DJ to quite literally pull the plug on the sound system. It's at that point that you (and by "you", I mean "me") finally notice that you don't recognize a single soul left on the floor; or the rest of the bar for that matter. I'd call it an addiction, but I don't think I've yet harmed friends or family, and I don't think my work is suffering because of it. If anything, I have a greater appreciation for every soul that exists on this planet. All because of the dancing.
An abbreviated version of this piece can be found in Third Place: the magazine (issue no.1). Let me know if you want to subscribe to this literary gold nugget.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
New Friend
I know someone who lives in wood,
he is small.
See you every day at noon,
don't run away.
Lonely legs search for holes,
Blue pools hope for meaning,
Why can't we be friends...?
I know someone who lives in wood,
he is small.
See you every day at noon,
now run away.
he is small.
See you every day at noon,
don't run away.
Lonely legs search for holes,
Blue pools hope for meaning,
Why can't we be friends...?
I know someone who lives in wood,
he is small.
See you every day at noon,
now run away.
Friday, May 23, 2008
The First Rule of Blogging
The first rule of blogging is don't talk about your blog.
Just kidding.
Back in March, I went back to Fairfax to visit some former co-workers. They asked me a lot of questions about my life in New York. What celebrities have I seen? Do I have a car? Is life really like Sex and the City? One question that I thought to be particularly humorous was if I bought produce and carried them down the street in a paper bag. Apparently, every movie that is based in New York City has at least one scene where a character carries a paper bag with celery stalks and a baguette sticking out of the top. No wonder I'm not a real New Yorker yet!
Just kidding.
Back in March, I went back to Fairfax to visit some former co-workers. They asked me a lot of questions about my life in New York. What celebrities have I seen? Do I have a car? Is life really like Sex and the City? One question that I thought to be particularly humorous was if I bought produce and carried them down the street in a paper bag. Apparently, every movie that is based in New York City has at least one scene where a character carries a paper bag with celery stalks and a baguette sticking out of the top. No wonder I'm not a real New Yorker yet!
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Product Placement
I certainly am not the first person to write about this, but I feel that I need to admit that I am affected by it. Knowing that the American Idol finale was going to be an hour and a half too long last night, I intentionally waited to tune in until 9:30 PM. I was pleased to catch a performance by Carrie Underwood and only one group performance consisting of the top 12. The group sang two George Michael songs back-to-back, and I was thinking to myself, “Man, I love those songs. I think I’ll download them when this is over. Where is George Michael these days, anyway?” Wouldn’t you know it? It did seem like they were doing an extended version of “Freedom” as they kept singing well past the last “Freedom” in the song; and then, “Ladies and gentleman: George Michael!” And there he was! He definitely looks old, but I was surprised that he even sounded old. His has a pretty distinct voice, especially when he hits the higher notes, but I didn’t hear George Michael’s voice coming from that old man. Two things were explained when Ryan Seacrest came onto the stage after George Michael’s song was over: 1) George Michael has a cold, so that’s why he didn’t sound so hot and 2) George Michael will be touring this summer for the first time in 17 years. THAT is why he was there. As it turns out, it wasn’t a recognition of George Michael and his place in pop music history; rather, American Idol and all of its sponsors and affiliates are trying to get America to remember how much they liked George Michael so that they’ll buy tickets to his tour. It’s pretty disgusting. I mean, yes, I understand it: the same record label to which David Cook will be signed just wants to promote some of its other artists. But I feel cheated! I thought I was simply being treated to some old skool George Michael, because he was once a great pop singer, but no, they want me to BUY something! I read in the paper this morning that they also want me to see that new Mike Myers movie, AND they want me to drink Coke! In addition to the shameless promotion of it own kind by American Idol, I nearly barfed this morning when I opened up CNN.com, and the news told me what movies I should see this summer. (Hmm, is CNN an affiliate of the companies that are releasing the best movies of the summer?) It wasn’t just a blip on the homepage with a link to the entertainment section; it was a huge block on the upper-left corner, which is usually reserved for terrorists, natural disasters, and sex scandals. Are you kidding me, CNN? I was planning to see Sex and the City anyway, but now that you told me to, well, you've stolen my joy! Don't make me throw my Jimmy Choos at you! It’s fucking gross. Anyway, yes, I did buy two George Michael songs off of iTunes before I went to sleep.
"These bands are bottles of bleach. It's beer and lifestyle music. It's like the next world war's gonna be sponsored by ... I don't know, I mean, what?" - Singles
"These bands are bottles of bleach. It's beer and lifestyle music. It's like the next world war's gonna be sponsored by ... I don't know, I mean, what?" - Singles
Friday, April 4, 2008
The Best Intentions
A few months ago I was asked by an debatably respected website for women to pen a "career advice" column. I was as surprised as anyone. Serisouly, I get paid shit. Anyway, the first topic was "Workplace Fuckups". I wrote a total of three pieces. The first was turned down. The second was just bad. The third was dropped into the abyss of the Internet and I have no idea what will happen with it. But, I still stand by it. So, for the loyal readers of Apartment 3R (all five of you. Right?) Here it is : A BusinessWomen Special. For Business Women: On the Job, Fucking Things Up
Jerome Kerviel is a former SocGen (French stock market) trader who, in January 2008, committed possibly the largest fraud in the history of banking. Basically, he started making fictitious trades, first very small and unnoticeable and then big and, apparently, very noticeable. He cost the market 40 billion dollars, the biggest loss in the financial world since the September 11th attacks.
Several things are interesting about Jerome. His personality. He is described as a very unassuming man. He was a computer whiz, quietly handsome, well remunerated and by all appearances seemed to have a long, steady career ahead of him. Some people said that he was a scapegoat, practically blameless, and whatever had happened under his watch was simply a mistake. Others said that he was back-room genius, a scam-artist professional, an expert locksmith who could not help but use his expertise to openly rob people blind.
What makes a story like this so delicious to me is that don’t you kind of get it? Don’t you kind of understand the impulse to fuck things up so terribly at work that when you make some hapless mistake, deep down, even you wonder if it might be intentional? It’s like what cutters do when they scrape themselves silly. They do it to feel alive.
Lately, I’ve been cataloging my own mistakes. I’m not too surprised to learn that they are frequent. Part of the reason for this, I think, is that I am very accountable. At least that is what they say on my performance reviews. I admit to them almost right away.
Oh me! It’s me! Me over here! I’m the one who misfiled the million dollar contract/leaked the top secret information to press/mistyped a number resulting in a myriad of excruciating conversations with people who thought they would now be rich.
Several women I spoke to agree with me. Everyone seems to be extremely good at admitting their mistakes. Guess who still won’t? Jerome Kerviel and oh my god, I’m sure that list is long. It is also pretty much understood that Kerviel could not have done this alone. He had someone to help.
It all makes me think about men and women and the mistakes we make. Witness this, in amplified form, at the now-legendary Christmas Party of 2005. My company had had a very good year. 2004 has been scary, our profit margins were in the toilet, and then, almost miraculously we turned it around. The graph titled upwards, steeply, and we were all getting bonus. The holiday season rolled around and our notoriously frugal corporate parents decided to splurge. A club was rented, sushi platters were brought out and every member of the company, from the highest to the lowest, was given full access to a complete and absolutely dazzling open bar. I remember walking into the brightly lit up scene, waiters were passing around unnamable things on sticks, the grumpy, dowdy secretaries had put on sparkly shirts, the mailroom guys were grinning, and the mighty and intimidating wove their way through the crowd, pumping everyone with handshakes. It was almost charming. Like some member of a fascist regime, I can remember actually swelling with pride. These people were my people, they are complicated and fascinating and we spend each and every day together working towards a common goal, a common good. The music played, people ate and talked and they drank. Oh, how they drank.
Unsurprisgly, this glowing moment soon devolved into a shit show of epic proporitions. Goodwill was tossed out the window, restraint slipped out the back door and tact took a permanent smoking break. Over the course of three or four hours, toxic amounts of alcohol amplified every petty argument, brought up old, contemptuous histories and emboldened the meek to finally, finally take matters into their own hands. A girl I hardly knew grabbed me by the shoulders and screamed at me that I was standoffish and mean and she just knew I was conniving to get every man in the office to bend to my will.
Rank and file, humiliation knew no bounds. My cheek was wet with the slobber of the CFO. A high-ranking member of the executive board whispered to me looking to set up his own shop. Affairs were revealed, affairs began. Hardly an innocent myself, I noticed a married member of the art department eyeing me sideways in line for the bathroom. I pounced. I have no excuse except for experiencing some unrestrained, wild joy at hearing Queen begin to play and in those moments, propriety vanishes. (Yeah. Also. My Queen phase was about 15 years too late). After the club kicked us out, everyone went to a bar where the bacchanal continued, unabated, until the wee hours.
It’s a fucking miracle that nobody died.
Then, it was the next morning. We had to go back. The sun rose boldly on our shame and the whole building seem to yawn in response. Very few people called in sick. That would too obvious, it was a matter of pride, and besides we weren’t that drunk and 3 AM wasn’t that late. As everyone sat limply at their computers, I began to notice the girls of the office skulk down the hallways, lean into doorways and balance themselves in cubicles. They were apologizing. Apologizing profusely. Apologizing all OVER the place. They apologized for their kick lines, their wayward vomit, secret confessions or inserting their wagging tongues down every willing throat.
My office then had about a 40/50 ration of males to females. However, in retrospect, I can’t help but think that even in places where our presence is dominant, the attitude is not. Women, I find, work very hard to squeeze themselves into a model of working life that is, in reality, very male. So when we bring more female attributes to this model-built-for-male, sometimes, things don’t work right. Every single guy in that office, no matter the magnitudes of their sins, sat at their desks, sipped their coffee and then went out at lunch to rehash the evening with each other. They felt fine.
The girls paired off in two’s or three’s. We drew a line in the sand and in the end, as conscious as we were of our indiscretions, we were even more conscious of each others. Who was the bigger mess, the bigger whore, the one msot certain to feel some repruscussions from their stupidity and lapses in judgement. There was no camaraderie, no shared sense of what was. We lashed ourselves in silence, quietly convinced that whatever we had built for ourselves, would come crumbling down like a house of cards. We probably felt the type of shame that should only be reserved for the likes of Lynddie England (and, face it, only a few of us will ever even be faced with an opportunity to strip naked, bind and gag war prisoners. You know, glass houses. ) and look at how she was dragged over the coals and denigrated so thoroughly for playing her own (yes, entirely disgusting) part in the boys club.
There is no girls club. And, trust me, if there were a girls club, I’d be the last one to join. God knows it would take three lunches before someone would start to talk about Pink Lady jackets or something and um, that would really undermine every female cause ever thought of, okay?
It is worthy to rail against the status quo, to fight for fair maternity leave and equal pay and workplaces free of discrimination and blatant sexual harassment. In the meantime, though, and in workplaces everywhere, we keep squeezing ourselves into models and into ways of life that don’t even work for us. And as we try to get comfortable and as we lift up our leg, or put our hand behind our ears to make for some more room for ourselves, look at what you really might be fucking up. Or fucking over. Not your job. The girl next to you, smushed helplessly to the side , and about to break apart.
Jerome Kerviel is a former SocGen (French stock market) trader who, in January 2008, committed possibly the largest fraud in the history of banking. Basically, he started making fictitious trades, first very small and unnoticeable and then big and, apparently, very noticeable. He cost the market 40 billion dollars, the biggest loss in the financial world since the September 11th attacks.
Several things are interesting about Jerome. His personality. He is described as a very unassuming man. He was a computer whiz, quietly handsome, well remunerated and by all appearances seemed to have a long, steady career ahead of him. Some people said that he was a scapegoat, practically blameless, and whatever had happened under his watch was simply a mistake. Others said that he was back-room genius, a scam-artist professional, an expert locksmith who could not help but use his expertise to openly rob people blind.
What makes a story like this so delicious to me is that don’t you kind of get it? Don’t you kind of understand the impulse to fuck things up so terribly at work that when you make some hapless mistake, deep down, even you wonder if it might be intentional? It’s like what cutters do when they scrape themselves silly. They do it to feel alive.
Lately, I’ve been cataloging my own mistakes. I’m not too surprised to learn that they are frequent. Part of the reason for this, I think, is that I am very accountable. At least that is what they say on my performance reviews. I admit to them almost right away.
Oh me! It’s me! Me over here! I’m the one who misfiled the million dollar contract/leaked the top secret information to press/mistyped a number resulting in a myriad of excruciating conversations with people who thought they would now be rich.
Several women I spoke to agree with me. Everyone seems to be extremely good at admitting their mistakes. Guess who still won’t? Jerome Kerviel and oh my god, I’m sure that list is long. It is also pretty much understood that Kerviel could not have done this alone. He had someone to help.
It all makes me think about men and women and the mistakes we make. Witness this, in amplified form, at the now-legendary Christmas Party of 2005. My company had had a very good year. 2004 has been scary, our profit margins were in the toilet, and then, almost miraculously we turned it around. The graph titled upwards, steeply, and we were all getting bonus. The holiday season rolled around and our notoriously frugal corporate parents decided to splurge. A club was rented, sushi platters were brought out and every member of the company, from the highest to the lowest, was given full access to a complete and absolutely dazzling open bar. I remember walking into the brightly lit up scene, waiters were passing around unnamable things on sticks, the grumpy, dowdy secretaries had put on sparkly shirts, the mailroom guys were grinning, and the mighty and intimidating wove their way through the crowd, pumping everyone with handshakes. It was almost charming. Like some member of a fascist regime, I can remember actually swelling with pride. These people were my people, they are complicated and fascinating and we spend each and every day together working towards a common goal, a common good. The music played, people ate and talked and they drank. Oh, how they drank.
Unsurprisgly, this glowing moment soon devolved into a shit show of epic proporitions. Goodwill was tossed out the window, restraint slipped out the back door and tact took a permanent smoking break. Over the course of three or four hours, toxic amounts of alcohol amplified every petty argument, brought up old, contemptuous histories and emboldened the meek to finally, finally take matters into their own hands. A girl I hardly knew grabbed me by the shoulders and screamed at me that I was standoffish and mean and she just knew I was conniving to get every man in the office to bend to my will.
Rank and file, humiliation knew no bounds. My cheek was wet with the slobber of the CFO. A high-ranking member of the executive board whispered to me looking to set up his own shop. Affairs were revealed, affairs began. Hardly an innocent myself, I noticed a married member of the art department eyeing me sideways in line for the bathroom. I pounced. I have no excuse except for experiencing some unrestrained, wild joy at hearing Queen begin to play and in those moments, propriety vanishes. (Yeah. Also. My Queen phase was about 15 years too late). After the club kicked us out, everyone went to a bar where the bacchanal continued, unabated, until the wee hours.
It’s a fucking miracle that nobody died.
Then, it was the next morning. We had to go back. The sun rose boldly on our shame and the whole building seem to yawn in response. Very few people called in sick. That would too obvious, it was a matter of pride, and besides we weren’t that drunk and 3 AM wasn’t that late. As everyone sat limply at their computers, I began to notice the girls of the office skulk down the hallways, lean into doorways and balance themselves in cubicles. They were apologizing. Apologizing profusely. Apologizing all OVER the place. They apologized for their kick lines, their wayward vomit, secret confessions or inserting their wagging tongues down every willing throat.
My office then had about a 40/50 ration of males to females. However, in retrospect, I can’t help but think that even in places where our presence is dominant, the attitude is not. Women, I find, work very hard to squeeze themselves into a model of working life that is, in reality, very male. So when we bring more female attributes to this model-built-for-male, sometimes, things don’t work right. Every single guy in that office, no matter the magnitudes of their sins, sat at their desks, sipped their coffee and then went out at lunch to rehash the evening with each other. They felt fine.
The girls paired off in two’s or three’s. We drew a line in the sand and in the end, as conscious as we were of our indiscretions, we were even more conscious of each others. Who was the bigger mess, the bigger whore, the one msot certain to feel some repruscussions from their stupidity and lapses in judgement. There was no camaraderie, no shared sense of what was. We lashed ourselves in silence, quietly convinced that whatever we had built for ourselves, would come crumbling down like a house of cards. We probably felt the type of shame that should only be reserved for the likes of Lynddie England (and, face it, only a few of us will ever even be faced with an opportunity to strip naked, bind and gag war prisoners. You know, glass houses. ) and look at how she was dragged over the coals and denigrated so thoroughly for playing her own (yes, entirely disgusting) part in the boys club.
There is no girls club. And, trust me, if there were a girls club, I’d be the last one to join. God knows it would take three lunches before someone would start to talk about Pink Lady jackets or something and um, that would really undermine every female cause ever thought of, okay?
It is worthy to rail against the status quo, to fight for fair maternity leave and equal pay and workplaces free of discrimination and blatant sexual harassment. In the meantime, though, and in workplaces everywhere, we keep squeezing ourselves into models and into ways of life that don’t even work for us. And as we try to get comfortable and as we lift up our leg, or put our hand behind our ears to make for some more room for ourselves, look at what you really might be fucking up. Or fucking over. Not your job. The girl next to you, smushed helplessly to the side , and about to break apart.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Danny Grinberg finally had his housewarming party at 415 Leonard St. What a treat! He has a beautiful new 1 bedroom with a balcony, a gourmet kitchen, and a view of the city.
At the party we not only enjoyed good company, we also enjoyed good music, gouda cheese, and a great pair of sunglasses. Wow those sunglasses got around.
Above you will see how each person looked in said sunglasses (you may see some VIPs in there twice), as well as the whiteness of Danny's walls.
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