Due to extenuating circumstances involving several varieties of muscle relaxants, a bottle of Maker's Mark, precariously positioned speakers and a lot of Style Council, my Ipod Larry fell in the dishwasher and subsequently ran through a washing cycle several months back. Needless to say, Larry did not survive.
I used to hate the concept of Ipods, and being a somewhat anally dedicated vinyl hound, I was wary of this new technology for quite sometime. I finally found that my desire to carry around every song ever (and my jealousy of those who were already doing so) was so strong that I gave in to convenience and technology and got an Ipod, which I named Larry.
Initially, Larry was a bit like crack. I would sit at my computer in burning and downloading frenzies, obsessing about how many days of music I had succeeded in downloading, and how many playlists I had composed. Larry eventually became my best friend and my confidant. He knew me so well that when he was on shuffle, he would play something cheery like The Avalanches and avoid the Pet Shop Boys during my darkest times, and always knew when to go for the guilty pleasures.
I am going to try and take Larry to a trusted doctor in a store bearing the symbol that Larry so faithfully wears on his back, even in his rest.
I implore you fine, fine readers, pray for Larry and pray that my bullshitting skills are enough to bring Larry back to life free-of-charge.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Friday, August 26, 2005
The oldest living girl in New York
So I did it. Packed up the station wagon, threw in some New Order and drove across this god-forsaken country to New York.
At least that's my romanticized version. The drunken packing the night before with my friends as psychotic packers/whythefuckareyoukeepingthisyoudumbbitch naggers and the frantic runs to UPS are better representatives of what my move was actually like, but now that I'm here and relatively settled, I can say safely say the following:
1) I love my fucking job. I actually like coming in to work in the morning (and not in a sappy, shuffly lying way). I'm doing what I like to do best (write) for an organization that actually helps people and pays me for what I do (as opposed to the other copywriting jobs that expect you to be a copywriter, salesperson and graphic designer for below minimum wage). And, my boss wholeheartedly shares my love of the colon (the punctuation mark, not the organ).
2) I love the neighborhood where I work. The intersection of E. 28th Street and 5th Avenue is this strange mix of Kenyan vendors peddling sparkly purses, 20 year-olds with lego-like hair running to 5th Avenue in power suits and old men sitting on milk crates smoking in early morning sun. The street smells like coffee, falafel, shit, mothballs, sweat and perfume, which helps to mask the pervasive parmesan encrusted foot smell that seems to permeate the sidewalks of New York.
3) My Woody Allenesque moments of sheer panic and self-deprecation somehow seem all the more justified when I'm in the front of yet another "world famous" New York diner or underground on the R line.
4) New York supermarkets and delis still carry Tab Cola. And everyone here loves bacon.
5) Fashion. Music. Art. Fashion.
6) My inner monologue has changed its voice from a fake British/Jamaican accent to a full-on Queens slur. It gets me places quicker.
7) My only regret thus far seems to be my recurring anger at being born so late, and not being a teenager during the early 80s. Especially in New York. I keep meeting people that were glammed out teens who got to see the early days of the Talking Heads and run around the Chelsea flea market looking for cookie jars with Warhol.
8) There are little doggies in the window at a pet store on the corner of Gay Street. Unfortunately, while I can confirm that they are indeed doggies, I do not know how much they cost.
9) I actually feel like I could run into people like Neil Tennant or Fidel Castro in an elevator or a greasy diner.
10) Did I mention the bacon?
Stay tuned for more handbags (not too many- my wardrobe isn't that large) and fags (a lot more- everyone here smokes).
At least that's my romanticized version. The drunken packing the night before with my friends as psychotic packers/whythefuckareyoukeepingthisyoudumbbitch naggers and the frantic runs to UPS are better representatives of what my move was actually like, but now that I'm here and relatively settled, I can say safely say the following:
1) I love my fucking job. I actually like coming in to work in the morning (and not in a sappy, shuffly lying way). I'm doing what I like to do best (write) for an organization that actually helps people and pays me for what I do (as opposed to the other copywriting jobs that expect you to be a copywriter, salesperson and graphic designer for below minimum wage). And, my boss wholeheartedly shares my love of the colon (the punctuation mark, not the organ).
2) I love the neighborhood where I work. The intersection of E. 28th Street and 5th Avenue is this strange mix of Kenyan vendors peddling sparkly purses, 20 year-olds with lego-like hair running to 5th Avenue in power suits and old men sitting on milk crates smoking in early morning sun. The street smells like coffee, falafel, shit, mothballs, sweat and perfume, which helps to mask the pervasive parmesan encrusted foot smell that seems to permeate the sidewalks of New York.
3) My Woody Allenesque moments of sheer panic and self-deprecation somehow seem all the more justified when I'm in the front of yet another "world famous" New York diner or underground on the R line.
4) New York supermarkets and delis still carry Tab Cola. And everyone here loves bacon.
5) Fashion. Music. Art. Fashion.
6) My inner monologue has changed its voice from a fake British/Jamaican accent to a full-on Queens slur. It gets me places quicker.
7) My only regret thus far seems to be my recurring anger at being born so late, and not being a teenager during the early 80s. Especially in New York. I keep meeting people that were glammed out teens who got to see the early days of the Talking Heads and run around the Chelsea flea market looking for cookie jars with Warhol.
8) There are little doggies in the window at a pet store on the corner of Gay Street. Unfortunately, while I can confirm that they are indeed doggies, I do not know how much they cost.
9) I actually feel like I could run into people like Neil Tennant or Fidel Castro in an elevator or a greasy diner.
10) Did I mention the bacon?
Stay tuned for more handbags (not too many- my wardrobe isn't that large) and fags (a lot more- everyone here smokes).
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