Welcome in the new year! "02" is difficult to write out quickly. Maybe I just need to get used to it. Last year was actually pretty darn good; even Christmakkuh passed without too many hitches. So my grandmother hates my hair and thinks I’m too fat; I managed spectacularly well to not kill her. Life was my gift to her this year. My sister has a new girlfriend. Her husband also has a new girlfriend. Whoa, it’s the same person? So Alison, Steve and Liz have a 3-way thing going. At least you can’t accuse my family of being boring!

I read my e-mail this morning for the first time since mid-December...Stuart Adamson has committed suicide. Why, Stuart, Why? Big Country—they defined my early adolescence. That music fueled my imagination, inspired me to think of distant lands and far-off times. "The eagles soared above the clouds and deer ran in the hills. And I may walk in cities, where the wolf once had his fill. Here is strength for us to fight, turn the old to new. Wipe our eyes of misty years and see the future through." We’ll miss you Stuart, I play the bagpipes because of you.

The multi-colored piles of puke from New Year’s Eve are still frozen to the sidewalk around my block. I sidestep a particularly virulent-looking chunk of reddish-brown hued party fallout on my way to the bus. Perhaps Boston will never thaw, and archaeologists will dig up the last glacial remains of 2001 and form some kind of theory about the human race as we know it. It would probably be to our advantage to be seen as a race of party animals, perpetually creating permafrosted bacchanalian sidewalk decor. Much better than the warlike, polluting race of warriors we seem to be.

I’ve eaten ¾ of a saltine, and I still feel nauseated, even the thought of drinking water is making me feel queasy. This is probably not the time to eat some of Tanya’s homemade Boston Baked Beans (her grandmother’s recipe). Ouch, it hurts to write that. Let’s move on to a less stomach-lurching topic, shall we? Um... Pianos. I can’t wait to live in a house with a piano again. I miss hammering out Clementi’s sonatinas in my extremely untalented way. I need to practice more.

I got to ride

How does that phrase go? "No money, no honey." Is that an old adage, or is it a Beck song? Sometimes I get confused. Maybe it’s both. Whatever the origin, that phrase about sums up my life. Solitude can be nice, but add to it my nose is runny (allergy season). Rolling across my desk is a dust bunny (note to self: clean!). I have a CD by Donal Lunny. He’s usually talented, but this album is funny—It’s kind of cheesy and...uh...sunny? OK, so I’m not the best at freestylin’. Ice T is in no immediate danger of unemployment.

Maybe Andrei’s dad was a Nazi. It makes sense; he’d be the right age now if he were still alive. Is that why Andrei only met his dad twice in his life? Why was Andrei so strangely quiet and withdrawn after we saw that Nazi movie tonight? Why is he so obsessed with me being Jewish? Ah-ha! It’s all coming together now. That’s why he had to leave Ukraine! Is that why his mom has scars from the KGB. He never talks about his past; he only drops tantalizing hints. For once maybe reality is more interesting than my imagination.

Henceforth, I shall devote my life to being the best Old Spinster I can be. Perhaps I’ve been reading <i>Anne of Green Gables</i> too much lately, but there seems to be a certain glamour and sophistication to Old Maidhood. Judging from the recent carnage in romantic pursuits, I’d say the Spinster Lifestyle would suit me well. There will be no more getting the dis from supposedly Nice Jewish Boys! No more irritating guys at all in my life! I’ll have to acquire about 30 more cats, though, and hone my budding eccentricities. I can knit afghans; I’m half way there!

My dad communicates with me now only through e-cards. In the Dark Ages before we were all connected, he would have to actually talk to me to pose questions about my car. In a previous life, I would actually hear the phrase "So, how’s the car running?" with my own ears. And, if I were in a talkative mood, I would relate the latest brake deficiency or imitate carburetor noises while he sympathetically lectured me on proper auto maintenance. Now, all I have to do is punch up www.tackymail.com and send another random collection of binary digits in his direction.

For me, success lies in happiness and freedom, not in material gain, power and prestige. Of course, to everyone else, I’m a Loser with a capital L. To me, I’m just idyllically, romantically poor. Poverty has a certain noble element, but basically: it sucks to not be able to pay the rent and have to sell my flute and viola to come up with the cash because I accidentally paid my bills twice last month (duh). *I* think I’m successful. I’m happy, and I have unlimited freedom. But maybe I’m just using so-called personal philosophy to justify my own ineffectuality...

It’s been raining for 3 days now. Rain is beautiful! Not only is it pleasantly wet, and perfumes the city’s atmosphere, it also washes away the grit of the world…or at least the dog poop mountains caked along my street. The mountains’ faithful partner, pee, smells sickeningly sweet after it’s dribbled down walls and pooled in sidewalk cracks for 2 days. It fills the air with a certain pungent aroma that drifts through my open bedroom window in the mornings. Now Nature’s own air freshener is freshening my scented wake-up call, and causing the back alley violets to violently bloom.

I will never tire of studying Dungeons & Dragons players. They are my favorite anthropological subjects! Luckily, with my gaming housemates, I live in a hotbed of D&D activity. Yesterday we went for Dim Sum, which is always interesting with a group of highly opinionated 300-pound antisocial D&D enthusiasts just back from a major SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism) event. They all called each other by their SCA names and shoveled in pork buns at an alarming rate. Now I can put it away with the best of ‘em, but these barons and baronesses of Nerddom have me completely licked.

What do you do when someone tries to convince you that you’re not funny? Humor is so subjective. Andrei thinks his idea (I won’t go into details) is hilarious, while my idea (which is more subtle) is totally stupid. I think his idea is dumb. Yet, he firmly believes that there is a Higher Concept of Humor out there in the universe that he, and he alone has the power to tap into. Mere mortals like myself aren’t worthy of this gift. Therefore, it is his duty to enlighten us comically-challenged paeans in the higher concepts of amusement. Ha ha.

1. Standing under showerheads. 2. Playing hide-and-seek 3. Sleeping on Greyhound buses. 4. Walking through the woods, and not getting hit with branches. 5. Ducking under CAUTION tape. 6. Stretching out in bathtubs. 7. Sitting in those little kindergarten chairs. 8. Swinging from tree branches. 9. Crawling under tables to pick up fallen objects. 10. Sympathizing with the token midget character in sci-fi movies. See? Being short has its advantages! Just because I can never reach anything on top of the refrigerator doesn’t mean my life is meaningless. I can fit in any hiding place in my grandmother’s house still!

When I think of the 80s, I instantly think of only the music I liked. Big Country, Simple Minds...However, most 80s music just sucked, as I painfully was reminded last night at 80s Night at the local watering hole. Boston? *shudder* they’re a Beatles tribute band now. Bryan Adams? The Canadian invasion was not one of the decade’s high points. John Cougar Mellencamp? I suppose hick-rock deserves its place in history. I guess the point of nostalgia is to conveniently forget all of the bad things, while bathing the good parts (like U2’s 3^rd album) in a hazy, rosy glow.

I’m avoiding my housemates’ kite-flying party to hang out with my friend Krustee. It’s cold and rainy out, and I really would like to spend some time away from these D&D enthusiasts with whom I live. Not that they’re bad people, I mean, I like them a lot! It’s just that I burn out on them easily. I mean, I’ve seen them practically every single day for the past 2 years. I need a day (or at least a few hours) to escape from them. Besides, Krustee doesn’t come to town that often, and I really hate baloney sandwiches. Yick.

Tequila is an evil invention. I can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t agree with me, even tequila enthusiasts. I just wanted a nice evening out, a chance to meet some of Dan’s friends, and maybe have a drink or two. I didn’t plan on having people lick salt off my cleavage. Really. I played pool as well, something I haven’t done since I was 15. Of course, I’d go to hit the cue ball, and miss it by about 3 inches, but luckily, everyone else was under the influence of the evil tequila, so it didn’t matter all that much.

The Internet is a wonderful thing. I mean, how else would one ever gain the opportunity to discuss buttplugs with a complete stranger who lives on the opposite side of the continent? I have MSN messenger to talk to Dave, AIM for Krustee, Squeals, and Dan, YIM for conversing with Boris...I spend more time not-really-talking to people than I ever did actually talking to these people for real! The world seems smaller now...but ever more distant. I can converse with people thousands of miles away, but I never really get to know people any better. Instead I learn about Buttplugs.

I’ve had two nights in a row of drinking and revelry. Both of them work nights, one of them a school night as well. I thought I was supposed to get all of this out of my system in my teens! Actually, I didn’t drink at all in my teens; I was much too big of an anti-social reclusive geekette. Now I’m making up for lost time--pushing 30, and practically an alcoholic. Well, if I went out more than 3 times a month, and had more than 3 beers each night, I’d probably be an alcoholic. It’s all subjective.

Ellis the Rim Man has gone forever. It was a sad day when Ellis closed his doors. The Rim Man, with his giant macho billboard above a sketchy auto parts store was a prominent landmark in Allston. However, hope still lived on, as his giant billboard stayed on top of the building. Jed wanted to open a gay disco under that hallowed sign. But now, it too is gone. What will the B-Line commuters snicker at as they snail their way past the St. Paul T stop? Not the Rim Man’s sign. It’s now for Sale, Rent or Lease. Alas.

It’s been 3 days since the Daniel Incident, and I think I’m getting over it. At least, I’m marginally less bitter about the whole thing today. For example, I no longer want to twist Dan’s scrawny geek neck around so hard that his eyeballs go shooting across the room and splat against the wall with a pleasing plopping sound before dribbling down to gently land on the linoleum where I stomp them flat. Simply stabbing him will suffice. I suppose being used for sex isn’t the worst thing on earth. I mean, at least I’m being used for something productive.

Day off! Yay! So what if I’m driving 6 hours to attend a stupid wedding full people I didn’t really know that well in high school. I hate weddings, but hopefully this one will be short and sweet. They probably won’t like the picnic basket filled with Star Trek plates I got them for a present, but nobody ever likes wedding presents. It’s a rule. Brides want what’s on their registry list. God forbid you should ever pick out something meaningful, and from the heart. As soon as you get married, it’s like you turn into a china-and-silver hoarding fiend.

I hate weddings. However, when you’re an almost-30-unmarried-female, you can’t admit that. Such an utterance elicits knowing sideways glances from your unsympathetic listeners. Of course she hates weddings because she’s jealous she’s not married yet. Of course. She’s just another catty female who longs to be the one marching down the aisle in a big white poofy dress. No, that’s not it at all. I’d like to believe that the human race has evolved past the need for superficial rituals to mark time. Funerals, bar mitzvahs, weddings—all gatherings formulated to force socialization with relatives who should forever remain long-lost.

Why I hate Weddings, Part III.

I was seated next to Dr. Kirkland, a retired Cornell classics professor.

"what do you do?" he asked.

I described my job, and hobbies.

"What?!?" he demanded again.

I repeated myself.

At the third time he demanded "what?!?" I said, "ANTHROPOLOGY." "Oh!" The light of recognition illuminated his face. I had given him license to describe decades of terrible Cornellian anthropology professors. That somehow inspired him to talk at me in length in Ancient Greek, nodding his head, encouraging me to converse with him. I think I had mentioned I’d been to Athens once.

Back home, back at work. Back in the swing of things, my back hurts; it really does. It’s wicked hot out, but the basement where I work is freezing. My fingers are numb; I can barely write. E-mail is down, I’m sure pandemonium reigns elsewhere in the building, but it’s still nice and quiet here. I’m sure my apartment will be stifling tonight when I get home. Maybe I’ll get my newly-out-of-storage bike on the road and go for a midnight ride. Who am I kidding? I’ll never be able to stay awake in this heat! Maybe a 9:00 ride.

June 27, 2002

I’ve never been anywhere west of Buffalo, NY before. An internet buddy of mine in L.A. is turning 30 on Saturday; I got an e-mail party invitation from his mom this morning. I found a package deal online that includes 3 nights in a hotel, plus round-trip airfare for $322, a price that I won’t have to sell too much crack to afford! Yet, I planned to go on vacation this week with my housemates, to help Tanya clean out her dead mother’s house, which she’s been putting off for years. Should I be good, or should I be reckless?

Home