me? or the subway map behind my head?

Dear Gorgeous Man Who Is Sitting Across From Me On The Subway,

I just want to say that you are very handsome. You look like a cross between a male model and one of my ex boyfriends (the one with the beautiful face). Are you gay? I can't tell, because you are dressed nicely in pressed denim and have your legs crossed ... but then again, you might just be European.

Also, I noticed you were looking at me when I walked on to the train just now. I've been sitting here a few moments and I keep catching you looking over in my direction. I have no idea if you're looking at me or the subway map behind my head. Which is it? I want to look up and see where you're looking at (me? or map?) but that would be a little too forward.

It would be really nice if there were a way to tell these things. If I think you're looking at the subway map I feel like an idiot for catching your eye for the 0.02 seconds that we just shared. However, if you're looking at me, is it because I look cute today, or because I have dirt on my face? If you think I'm cute, then should I look up again and have another 0.02 seconds of eye contact time? Or if there's dirt on my face, can you give me some kind of signal so I can fix it and end my humiliation?

It's kind of freaking me out that you look a tiny bit like my ex boyfriend. Not the last one, but the one before him. The crazy one. I still think you're gorgeous, though. I just wish I could figure out what you're looking at.

Can you give me some kind of clue?

Your friend (?),

The Girl Sitting Across From You

P.S. Also, I've got to know. Are you gay or European?

how i found lake victoria in my new kitchen

The first major event in my new apartment has happened.

The event went a little something like this:

After an extended weekend away from New York City, I arrive back in town, eager to get to my new place and flop into bed. I've had a long bus ride and am tired. Worse yet, I have that awful bus smell that goes with riding those automotive monstrosities. Smell and exhaustion aside, I decide I need to grab something to eat first. So, moments after walking in the front door of my apartment, I decide to grab some food.

I briskly walk to the kitchen, eager to see what is still fresh enough to eat in my fridge after 4 days out of town. I open the door to the Food Sanctum with cheerful abandon, expecting to see enough left overs, unopened packages of tofu and wrapped up deli meats to last me a happy minute.

Instead, I am greeted with something that looks like the banks of the Nile River during flood season. Packages of food are swimming in pools of water, while a mini-Niagara Falls drips from the freezer above the refrigerator. My roommate has attempted to salvage the situation by plastic wrapping the top shelf, where forlorn (and damp) bottles of salsa, milk and tomato sauce are sitting. Still, despite this safeguard, everything is wet, and all the plastic wrap in the world isn't going to stop the eggs from getting slimed on.

After carefully inspecting all my food, I decide my produce is still safe to eat and go ahead with creating my evening meal. However, every time I pull out a container from the fridge I get splashed with a shower of droplets fresh from the freezer above. Lovely. It's like cooking during monsoon season in India. It's an experience I've never wanted and never expected to have, but I suppose now I can say I've done it.

After eating, I try to clean up the mess. As I'm doing so, I hear an ominous rumble from the freezer. I imagine an avalanche sounding something similar, like a low rumble that builds in volume until, without warning -- BAM! Snow falls all over your body, turning you into a human ice cube. With this scenario in mind, and the freezer rumbling away, I try to wipe off milk cartons and mop up the bottom of the fridge now known as Lake Victoria. And, like the imagined avalanche, and without much additional warning, I'm suddenly a human ice cube as an entire sheet of the stuff drops from the freezer into the fridge. How? I have no idea. But it did. On me.

At this point I was so irritated I quit the expedition (and yes, I term it that on purpose) in disgust.

This morning I went over the fridge with much trepidation, slowly opening the door to grab some milk for my cereal. What horrors would I find inside today? I almost expected mold growth or an Amazonian jungle prompted by the deluge of flood water. Even goldfish wouldn't have been too unexpected.

However, much to my delight, my roommate had cleaned up the entire disaster at some point last evening. Even Lake Victoria was gone. How she did it, I have no idea, but I'm glad she did -- now I don't have to wear rain gear every time I go to cook!

photos: cat

My little boy, who is the cutest child with four legs in the universe:

We've both been keeping busy with preparing for my Big Move this weekend. Well, Big Move #1 ... #2 is to follow in 6 weeks. My cat will have to be shipped off to my mom and dad's house for the next month and a half, but hopefully he will cope with a new environment and the 2 rather bitchy resident felines there.

Keep your fingers crossed I have a good move!

first love

Two young lovers sitting on the train, holding hands with legs intertwined. Talking, laughing, looking each other meaningfully in the eyes. Holding a conversation that is completely self contained; no one else exists in the entire world except for them.

She laughs and he smiles in return. He talks and she listens with interest. She tells him he is "weird" and giggles, and he nods in agreement. He bobs his head and silently thinks 'yes, honey, you are so right. I'm weird, but so in love with you'. Weird love.

I watch them with envy. I try not to stare but I can't help it. The boy and girl are only kids, perhaps 16 or 17 years of age. They kiss and kiss and stroke hands and rub their heads together. First loves. In love.

She gets off the train before him, and as she leaves, she says over and over again: "I love you." And he says "I love you" with special emphasis. They kiss and kiss and rub heads and she gets off the train, looking back towards him as she walks down the platform.

I want to shake them, tell them that this will never last. I want to say that reality will set in. I want to explain to the boy and girl that they will go on to college, a place where they will break each other's hearts and become inconsolable with the misery of it all. They will become weak and frail of heart until they start the journey all over again with a new partner, a new someone special, a new person to fill the void. I want to tell them all these things, give them my words and wisdom. Words and wisdom they would never listen to, shouldn't listen to, could never listen to.

First love doesn't last. This is what I want to tell them. First love never lasts.

But isn't it nice to believe otherwise?

easter peep show (not what you think!)

In light of the holiday, the Washington Post has published the finalists and winner of the second annual Peeps Diorama Contest. All of the 37 "best creations" can be found at this link.

Some of my favorites included 'Nightmare in Pink' (picture 3), a send up of Maurice Sendak, 'Thrilla in Manila' (picture 5), which riffs on the popular youtube footage of the prisoners dancing to Michael Jackson in Manila, 'Peeplona: The Running of the Peeps' (forgot to get the picture number on that one), 'Peeps Atop A Sky Scraper' (picture 12), which recreates the famous 1932 photograph of construction workers eating lunch high above the ground, and 'Peepadeus' (picture 23), which is an homage to the wonderful film Amadeus.

Also expect to see references to the fallen Senator Craig, Amy Winehouse and Hugh Hefner.

Hilarious stuff, and very fitting for the holiday!

Again the link is HERE.

brooklyn's own

My last post was depressing, so here's something a little more cheerful.

If you're into handmade items for sale, check out the Brooklyn based www.etsy.com. All sorts of fun things are for sale there, from felt pincushions to jewelry made from recycled materials.

Etsy.com also offers lessons in arts and crafts in Brooklyn and has live video streaming so people who don't live in New York's best borough (sorry, Manhattan!) have a chance to get in on the know-how too.

Also, for anyone who will be in Manhattan before March 30: Don't forget the Macy's Flower Show that's going on at the flagship store right now. It's free and there's even complimentary guided tours. What's not to love?

the bird on the train

Anyone who reads this blog on a regular basis knows that I truly love being on the subway. There is just something soothing about it for me, even during the packed rush hours and drunken late night rides. I like the way the train bumps and lurches under my seat and the soggy, damp smell of the underground. Sick as it sounds, even the occasional whiff of urine in a dark tunnel makes me feel a little more alive. I genuinely enjoy hearing the different personalities of the train conductors as they speak over that horrible intercom of theirs. Most of all, I love people watching on the train. It's a fact that the most amazing array of characters you will ever meet in your life will be found on any given train at any given time in New York City.

Sometimes, though, riding the subway is an experience that is not nice. There are moments when a trip on the train becomes frustrating or annoying. During rare episodes, it can even be a little frightening.

And then, on rare days, it is simply sad.

About a week ago, right at the brink of rush hour, I stepped on to an uptown bound F train. The car wasn't full yet, but there weren't that many seats available. I took one next to the least mangy looking female possible, and pulled out a book from my satchel, settling in for a thirty minute ride. I was barely a sentence into my paragraph when, out of nowhere --

chirp chirp chirp chirp
chirp!
chirp chirp chirp chirp
chirp!

A bird, frantically singing, her voice filling up the subway car. I looked around, confused. It didn't sound like a pigeon, which was the only kind of bird I ever saw underground. I noticed that a few other people were looking around as well, completely baffled.

A few moments of silence, and then again ....

those insistent chirps.

What the heck ...?

Every minute or so, like clockwork, the bird would begin singing. Sometimes it gave a half hearted peep, but most of the time it was full on cries. Loud cries. I won't say birdsong, because what bird in her right mind would be singing while captive inside of a subway?

My fellow passangers were craning their necks, looking around for the mysterious invisible bird. We were all hearing it, but none of us were seeing it. Perhaps it was a video game, or someone's (really annoying) cell phone ring. But it sounded so ... real.

Carefully I began inspecting every single person within chriping distance of me. An old white man was sitting next to me, newspaper clutched in hand, his eyes glaring about looking for the talkative creature that was disrupting his read. He obviously wasn't the bird carrier. Two Hispanic women were chatting in Spanish across from me, holding only small purses and a grocery bag. Not them, either. The couple making out by the door? No. The lady and the baby in her stroller? Nope.

One by one I narrowed down the culprits, finally settling on a seedy looking man with greasy hair and a black backpack. He held it on his lap, ignoring the bird cries coming from inside. He was the bird smuggler, no doubt. He had that dirty, grungy look that suited someone who would bring birds on the train.

I glared at him, as if to try and ask him what he was doing with that poor bird. I was upset by how he was treating the animal. He hadn't even opened his backpack up enough for the creature to get some air. The animal rights activist sleeping dormant inside of me began to rear her head and roar. (Internally, at least.) I was working up the courage to ask what he was doing with that bird when, at that very stop, he got off the train, backpack in tow.

The bird stopped chirping as soon as he got out of the train, so it was obviously the man.

I felt like a failure for not getting the courage to stand up for the rights of that little bird.

I have no idea what he was doing with the creature, but I can only hope it was a pet he was taking to the vet. However, I doubt it and the whole incident made me very sad. If it was a pet, wouldn't you have a cage for it? I had a bad feeling about the whole thing.

A bird in a backpack? Criminal.

I hope someone stows that man away in a giant bag sometime, just so he can see what it feels like.

oh, just a bunch of nothing.

When does it get better? When do I stop feeling like a massive cosmic joke? I consider myself a very spiritual person, but right now I'm starting to become very annoyed with the powers that be. I feel like I've been abandoned or let down somehow. If this is all part of some master plan, it's a very stupid one as far as I'm concerned. I know I don't have the hindsight (yet) to say it, but still ... that's how it feels right now. And anyway, look at Job from the Bible ... his suffering was pretty much pointless, too. I'm not comparing my situation with that of a Biblical character, but I'm just making a point that not all suffering serves a purpose. Oprah and Dr. Phil would like you to think otherwise, but I never trust anyone who makes over one million a year anyway.There's something generally not-to-be-trusted about folks who pull in boatloads of money every year.

I attended a lecture by a Rabbi several years ago on Kaballah. It was an interesting discussion, and he made a point that always stuck with me, or rather, at least it did until now. The Rabbi said that mortals could not possibly understand how God works, and that in everything -- in every single thing imaginable -- there is always some good that will come from it. This fact may be hard to believe during a tragedy, but something positive will blossom from the ashes of despair.

I held on to this belief with a firm grip for many years. However, this once tight hold has turned into a sweaty and loose grasp that is quickly losing the ability to hang on. It scares me that my commitment to personal growth and spirituality is currently being compromised by a series of bad events in my own life. I feel selfish for thinking like this, but I can't help it. I'm disputing with a Rabbi and hundreds of years of wisdom here, but it's difficult to think otherwise! I'm tired of being tired! I'm sick of being sick inside! Where is the good from all of this? What point is being proved, what lesson learned? That people are bad and will hurt you? That you can never know any one, not even your best friends?

Fundamentally, I am a very positive person. I don't think I'm going to get stuck on some kind of negative autopilot. However, enough is enough and I am ready for something good to happen in my life. Damn it, I deserve it, even if just a little bit!

I'm not going to post it right now, but I have a story to share that kind of captures how I feel about life in general right now. It's a true one, and it took place (where else?) on the subway a few days back. I'll leave you with this image: a man, with a trapped bird inside his backpack, chirping furiously as it rides down the F line ...

homeless

I just need a home.

Honestly, that's all I need. A place to live. Someplace to drop my books, kick up my feet and watch some late night television. A quiet, safe space that I can call my own for a few months and feel comfortable in.

Is that too much to ask?

the nypd's flying fleet comes to say hello

The past few days I've had the pleasure of waking up to bird songs. It seems there are hundreds of birds roosting (I almost typed roasting) around my apartment, all eager to share the trials and tribulations of the long winter with one another. It's a nice sound, and one that makes me feel like I'm not in the middle of an urban wasteland. Refreshing.

However, today I woke up to an all together different kind of noise. Instead of a bugle call or a robin's call, I woke up to ... two NYPD helicopters hovering over my house. I think a third one might have been flying around too. The helicopters were almost directly above my room (I'm on the top floor), and since I had my window open from the previous night, my blissful sleep got interrupted by the very loud thunder of the NYPD's flying fleet.

I have no idea who they were after -- fugitive from the law? murderer? car jacker? -- but the NYPD certainly took their sweet time and stayed above my apartment for a solid 30 minutes or so.

I kept waiting for the 'copters to leave, but they weren't budging. I didn't want to shut my window either, because it's warm out today and my landlord hasn't turned the heat off yet, so that my radiator is slowly but surely toasting me to death. So I had to cope with the noise, the vague worry of some criminal trying to break into my apartment in a mad attempt to escape the helicopters, and the faint paranoia of 'oh my, are the popos after ME?' (I always think I'm in trouble, even when I've done nothing wrong.)

Eventually the helicopters flew off. I don't think they caught whoever they were looking for, but I haven't heard the NYPD come back, so they must have flown off to greener pastures.

At any rate, all of this was a nice distraction from stressing over finding a place to live for 6 weeks, being mad at the majority of people I know in the world, and realizing I still have a bunch of papers/books to read for class next week. I totally just exaggerated about being mad at the majority of people I know, but since the people I'm angry with have major significance in my life, it feels like I'm mad at more people than just them ... if that makes any sense.

Oh! and I met a paramedic last night and spoke with him briefly about a neighborhood I was potentially looking to move in to -- one that is notorious for being a straight up ghetto. (I mean, let's not mince words here people ... it has the top crime rate in NYC except for the South Bronx.) It's cheap and has an apartment that is month-to-month, which is why I'm considering it. The paramedic I spoke with happened to work in the particular neighborhood I'm interested in, and told me "Just stay away from _____ Avenue, all the stabbings and murders I take care of happen there."

However, he did add that none of them were random. I think he was implying all the murders were drug dealers and the like getting their due, but I wasn't sure. Still, kind of scary!

observations

Odds & Ends:

The weather has been incredibly strange the past few days. Yesterday it was an incredible 60 degrees at one point, with bright blue skies and a sun that felt almost spring-like in intensity. Birds were swooping through the air, squirrels were out collecting nuts frantically, and all the school age children were running around like it was the first day of summer vacation. Strange for February!

After living in New York City for 3 years, I'm still amazed at all the things people throw out in their garbage. Items left out for grabs recently include: a skillet, books on baby care, a television set, a television stand, an armchair, several sofas, art magazines, cassette tapes, shoes (men's and women's), a hat and beaded belt. It would be possible to furnish an entire apartment with the things one can find on the street.

Speaking of items on the street ... did anyone notice the old man who sells records on West 4th and 6th Av this past Friday? He's always there, selling old LPs, but on this particular evening he had a magnificent fake reindeer for sale, made of wicker. It was parked out in the middle of the sidewalk, so people had move around it in order to get by. Classic!

On a totally unrelated note, the best hot chocolate in Brooklyn is at the Tea Lounge on 7th Avenue in Park Slope. I'm sure the other locations have equally amazing hot cocoa, as well. All I can say is ... creamy goodness that will blow a person away! Very yummy.

two men

Old Man in an Olive Green Jacket

"She is such a bitch."

I look up from my book, wondering if those words are addressed at me. I'm prepared to go on the defensive for an unknown reason, accepting the fact I live in a city full of nut jobs who are happy to throw insults at innocent people.

A fat man in an ugly olive colored jacket is standing by me. He is talking to himself, apparently in the midst of an angry monologue. His words are deliberate and loud. Phrases like "she just wanted to give me a hard time, so I called her a bitch," come pouring out of his mouth. I think I almost see the venom that's streaming from him in waves.

I want to roll my eyes and tell the guy to shut up, but instead I go back to reading my book. I'm sitting near the man, waiting for the subway to roll by so I can get to class, and I'm annoyed that this angry person is venting about some mystery woman so loudly. I want to tell him to be quiet and be mindful of his language, but somehow it doesn't seem wise to get into an altercation with someone who is so large and obnoxious. You never know with people, and this particular person seems very mad.

The man keeps talking.

I keep rereading the same paragraph, over and over.

A woman sitting next to me gets up and leaves, walking off in a huff.

The man takes her seat and turns towards me.

He keeps talking.

I keep trying to read until he addresses me.

"Can you believe people these days?" he asks. "That woman in the booth wouldn't refund my metro card. She was just being difficult. So I was more difficult back. I'm right, aren't I?"

He's talking about the poor old lady who works in the metro booth all day long. I see her sometimes, looking bored and placid like an old cow set out to pasture. She is kind of bitchy, but then again, her job is pretty terrible -- sitting underground in a glass booth all day, selling tickets and giving directions to strangers who don't say thank you and scowl at her with angry faces.

"No. I think that was pretty rude, actually."

My words make the guy pause for a second. It's as if the thought of him being rude never dawned on him. I want to smirk, but instead I go back to reading my book. I have an intense feeling of satisfaction at the telling the man off in my own little way, but I keep it hidden and internal.

The man doesn't get the point though. He launches into a long explanation of how he taught in the public school system for x amount of years, teaching "African American and Puerto Rican kids" and "keeping them in line." I want to ask him what being black or brown has to do with it, but I just nod, my eyes hovering somewhere between his olive clad arm and my book.

He's on a roll now. Somehow, the topic turns to the elections. The man is pro-Obama, which immediately makes me want to vote for Clinton. I don't say much except "uh huh" or "how nice" and make pointed attempts to read my book, but the man is relishing in his role of master orator. His reasonings are flawed and idiotic at best, and I feel like pointing out he's an ignorant schmuck. Plus, he keeps pulling me away from my book, which is irritating.

Finally and mercifully, the train arrives. I stand up, eager to get on board. The man is still sitting there, and jovially commands me to "Have a nice day." Yeah, whatever, dude. I will, as long as you stop talking to me. That's what I want to say, but instead I simply nod and mutter "thanks", because telling him "you too" would be a lie.

Old Man In Navy Blue

It's late and I'm riding the subway back home, same book as last time clutched in my hand. The train isn't too crowded, so everyone has a seat. The people sitting around me remind me of plumped up pigeons, fat and stuffed full of bread crumbs and gossip. It's mostly a car full of older women, talking loudly and cackling madly. I am very glad not to be a part of their conversations.

The subway stops to disgorge passengers, and to let a few others on. An older gentleman dressed in navy blue steps on board, and takes a seat across from me. He nods politely in my direction, and I nod back.

I go back to reading my book. I look up a few times to scope out the scene, but it's all the same chattering people and pigeon-women. So I go back to reading.

At my stop, I get up and the older man catches my eye. "Have a nice night," I tell him. He smiles and says, "Thanks. Thanks a lot. I appreciate it."

And you know what? I've never heard anyone more sincere than him.

He really was grateful.

song for eddie

I've given up trying to post an mp3 directly onto the blog, because every mp3 upload service online apparently does not allow this. So, if you want to hear my song for Eddie, please visit http://www.myspace.com/bailarsalsa and click on track '5'. This is the only way I could manage to share an mp3 with the readers of this blog.

Again, the song is called 'Long Journey Home' and it is off the album 'Raising Sand' by Robert Plant and Alison Krauss.

Ignore the other songs on the page unless you're into Bone Thugs n' Harmony, Prince and Atmosphere. And no, I don't want a discussion of legalities.

Real blog post coming next ...

for eddie

This past Sunday, I learned that my beloved Uncle Eddie had died after a long battle with cancer. He died on Friday, but there was a delay in getting the word to me for various reasons. Needless to say, I was saddened by the news, although I can't say it took me by surprise.

Uncle Eddie, although not an 'uncle' in the traditional sense of the word, was a dear family friend who was a part of my life from infancy onwards. He watched me grow up in so many ways. From my days of playing with Barbie and My Little Ponies to playing instruments, Eddie was there. He heard my woes about boyfriends, he was there to watch me perform a world premiere and he was always there to give me a compliment most people wouldn't think of -- like telling me I had a nice neck, or that I was a sensitive, sweet girl. (Things that don't seem like a big deal, but somehow are.) I will never forget the time when I was little and he kindly laughed over my panic at the Prophet Elijah's supposed appearence during a Passover celebration. I was so scared of Eliajah's ghost that I refused to use the bathroom until my mom walked in with me and stood there while I peed.

Eddie had a beautiful apartment, full of exquisite things. He had an amazing collection of Irish silver, perhaps a nod to his Irish roots. Eddie told the best stories of growing up with my dad -- I learned some funny things about my father as a young boy, thanks to Eddie. I loved standing in Eddie's apartment just looking at everything. There was so much to see, so many beautiful things.

So, in case Eddie can see this from whatever cloud he's zooming around on in Heaven:

I love you very much, Uncle E., and will miss you. I'm sorry I never got to say goodbye to you, but on the next sunny day, if you see me looking up and waving, it's in an effort to give you some sort of proper send off. (Of course, a real good bye will never be needed, as you are always in my heart.)

Everyone else: I have a song I am going to post in his honor. Soon as I find a file upload service that's free and doesn't suck (no such luck yet) I will post it.

thriller madness!

This is golden. So, apparently some passengers on the underground system of London decided to put together a little show for their fellow commuters. Someone got a video of them dancing along to Michael Jackson's 'Thriller', complete with dance moves from that video. The best part of the clip is the polite applause at the end. London, so civilized! New Yorkers would be rolling their eyes and ignoring the dancers.

Here's the clip:

And, if you need a refresher for what the original awesome-tastic video was like, here it is (you need to click the link)(and ahh, memories!!): Thriller Video

Of course, if you haven't seen the Indian Bollywood version (I've heard that it's actually in Tamil, but whatever), then this is truly the best version of them all:

poor women need not apply ...

I suppose that one of the wonderful things about NYC is the amount of material wealth floating around this city. I mean, I don't find it that great, but there are plenty of people who make it their sole mission in life to mass together vast amounts of wealth.

In this proud American tradition, the 'Sugar Mommas and Boy Toys Speed Date' has been set up by one enterprising company named Pocket Change. Male applicants are picked based solely on their appearance (photographs must be sent in), while women must be over 35, have a salary of over $500,000 and have assets worth at least four million. The logic behind this is that older women can pick up, wine, dine and get cozy with hot younger men.

The website proudly proclaims that it takes over where "Susan B. Anthony left off. The Fourth Wave of Feminism, Pocket Change be thy name!" This statement is followed by the cheerful announcement that it is "the women's turn."

I have several issues with this. I'm all for physical beauty (especially in males), but this website comes across as a tad ... shallow. YaknowwhatImean? Like. Really shallow.

And then there's the issue of this whole 'fourth wave of feminism' nonsense. When was there ever a real third wave? Even the 'second wave' feminist movement (which, arguably, was in the 60's), was kind of an off shoot of Civil Rights and everything else. Where is the third wave? And what the hell is a fourth wave?

Not to mention, citing this company as somehow feminist or on the brink of a new gynocentric movement is absurd. If anything, Pocket Change sets women back 25 years by turning their website into a wealthy woman's version of 'Hot or Not' with all the voting for the best looking applicants. It is a study in absurdity, not feminism.

Also ... it's the women's turn to do what? Collect attractive young men to parade around on their Versace and Gucci glad arms? Find someone to lavish their $500,000 annual salary on? Turn the tables and have older women pick up younger men?

I'm not exactly the world's great philosopher, but the morals behind this website disturb me. I know similar websites exist for 'Sugar Daddies' to find young, beautiful women (well, more like teenagers), and I have a problem with those too. Why? Because it boils down a relationship into two categories: 1) looking good and 2) having money or having money spent on you. It cheapens everything about romance, love, sex and friendship.

Which is fine, I guess. There are a lot of people who are really only after money and/or a good looking partner. I'm not going to rain on anyone's parade if that's what they're after. But geez, people. Don't start patting yourself on the back for being 'feminist' or whatever. That's total bull.

You can see the 'Top Female Applicants' and 'Top Male Applicants' on the Sugar Mommas page. You can comment on their looks, leave them little messages and browse their various photographs. All of the women have a similar plastic look, while all the men are yes, incredibly attractive ... in a wax figure, Hollywood kind of way.

Anyway, take a peek for yourself if you are so inclined. You have been warned however: it is like entering a parallel, artificial universe where everyone is made out of rubber and plastic, has Barbie doll hair and doesn't mind dropping $200 on dinner to get a man to hook up with them.

No thanks!

The website is at: http://www.pocketchangenyc.com/sugarmamas.asp.

odds & ends

This isn't a 'real' post. Think of it as more of a junk entry.

Anyway, don't forget to click on goosetopia. A click each day adds to my population.

Also, this is funny:

apartment hunting is a difficult thing to do

Apartment hunting in New York is probably one of the most frustrating aspects of living in the city. This is especially true for my peers, people who are in their twenties, recently out of (or in graduate) school, and on a tight budget. We're the ones who are stuck scouring Craigslist advertisements, dealing with shady brokers, and charming landlords who ask you questions like "Are you going to smoke pot and have parties in the apartment? Because I don't want that."

Alas, the time has come again for me to find an apartment in this large and amazing city. I have a few requirements, which are apparently contradictory to one another: a cheap place that's also in a safe neighborhood. Apparently, anything under $900 a month isn't going to get you very far, even in the outermost boroughs. (Note that my budget is more like $700.) I'm also hoping for little things, like, you know, actual doors that lock and kitchens that are large enough for more than a midget sized child to cook in.

I've developed a sort-of 'Apartment Niceness Scale' (A.N.S.), akin to the Kinsey Scale. The obvious difference is that my A.N.S. relates to domestic abodes, not modes of sexuality.

At the extreme top of the Apartment Niceness Scale would be the palatial dwelling spaces of the upper echelons of society, those marble and brick residences that line Central Park, Fifth Avenue, Park Avenue and the like. Middle range would be someplace decent in Astoria or Park Slope, with an exposed brick wall or too, functioning hot water, views that aren't of the wall belonging to the next building over, and perhaps an attractive male neighbor next door who can help screw in light bulbs and share his beer on a Saturday night. The lowest rank would be the suicide inducing monstrosity I visited yesterday afternoon, a dismal and dank place with floral wallpaper from 1975 and no doors. (Yes, no doors, you heard me right. There was a door to the bathroom and an entrance ... and that was it.)

It was bad enough that walking to this apartment of doom -- during midday, mind you -- I felt like I could be jumped at any second. Well, okay, it wasn't quite that bad. It was certainly not fun, though. The only thing going for the neighborhood was that it was quintessential New York. I passed a Halal butcher, Hassidic Jews, signs that were only in Hebrew, and about a gazillion Mexican bodegas. Long live NYC, minus creepy guys and criminals!

After getting lost twice and being distracted in reminiscing about a Halal butcher I used to live near that kept live geese and chickens in the shop, I finally found the apartment in question. Yuck!! I think my first thought to myself was, "I'd slit my wrists if I lived here." No joke.

Luckily, I had another viewing scheduled for later that evening. Again, shady neighborhood, but not quite as sketch as the last one. Four flights up, and I find the apartment: nice, but not worth the rent given the neighborhood and climb up the stairs. And then, to top it off, I almost fell through the stairs when a board I stepped on gave way. Joy! (Not.)

So, anyway. I'm off again to look at more apartments this week. I'm sure it will prove to be a joyless task, but a girl needs a place to live. I'm trying to see these home hunting adventures as a way of exploring NYC. New neighborhoods and all that. But, honestly, it would just be lovely if someone plopped down a beautiful first floor apartment on my doorstep tomorrow and said, "Here, take it, rent free!"

dear 2008,

Dear 2008,
Welcome to Planet Earth. I hope you find it to your liking here. I'm sure you'll bring all kinds of excitement and misery alike -- births, deaths, dreams into fruition, incidents and accidents, peace marches and death matches, great works of art, new friendships, new scientific discoveries and old archaeological finds. Under your tenure there will be, undoubtedly, wars and fires, hurricanes and volcano blasts, sunny days, cloudy evenings, rain and snow, sleet and ice, warm summer evenings and long, cold winter twilights. Some things will remain the same, such as MTV, basketball players being paid too much to shoot a ball around, and kids cheating on exams in school. Other things will change, like my age, who will become president, what colors are 'in' or 'out' next season, and the like.

There are a few things I want to say before all of these things get set in motion, however. To begin with, I'm tired of some things in my own life, and I'm sure other people can relate as well. For example, I'm really quite over being force fed what is HOT or NOT on every magazine cover; I'm tired of being told if only I were blonder, or taller, or thinner, or had a bigger butt, I'd be somehow more desirable and therefore worthy of the good things in life.

I'm done with half baked friends, and the types of fake people who smile at you in your presence and then turn around and call you every snarky name in the book once you are absent. Magenta may be so last season, but why doesn't anyone ever say treating other people like crap is, too?

I have some requests on behalf of the citizens of New York City, as well. For one thing, landlords need to stop raising their rents so high. When Brooklyn gets too expensive to live in, what is left? Queens? (Ugh, the indignity!)

People looking to pick up a little change need to come up with more inventive acts. I've seen you play a guitar, an African harp, steel drums, keyboards, sing, play buckets like they were drums, break dance, do Michael Jackson impersonations, protest march against the Iraq War, sell knickknacks, hawk newspapers, try to barter off pirated DVDs and stolen batteries, ask for change, scrounge for lost money under vending machines, sell furniture on the street, design jewelry and offer me hot dogs for $2. Try something new. How about a space launch from 42nd Street? Or a caged liger (not lion, not tiger, but liger) act in Washington Square Park?

Girls need to put their Ugg boots to rest, everyone needs to put down their cell phones and pay attention to the world for five minutes, and, in addition, it would be great if Star Bucks stopped proliferating on every street corner in Manhattan.

It remains to be seen what kind of year you will be, 2008. I only hope it is a good one for everybody, full of cheer and happy moments. For me personally, it will be my third year in NYC and a milestone -- I've made it this long here. Here's too another few years of life in this wonderful, mad, crazy city in this wonderful, mad, crazy new year.

Love,
me

i like .... this amazing video.

Now this is truly amazing! Witness a parachute jump from the edge of space, as caught on camera. It is actual military footage and it is a-m-a-z-i-n-g. The video then cuts to a beautiful underwater scene that turns into some amazing surfing footage. This entire piece is the music video for Boards of Canada's 'Davycan Cowboy.' Boards of Canada is generally quite excellent, and although this is arguably a weaker track, the footage gives it a boost. In fact, the picture and sound go together perfectly.

Enjoy!