Random pictures that didn't get posted previously

Esra likes to give me photo discs months after she takes pictures and then I like to post those pics even more months after they were taken. towit:

A sunset in Rockport Gloucester, MA.. quaint seaside town that blah blah blah, fishermen, saltwater taffy, they filmed the Perfect Storm there.

See? Perfectly Stormy.

Saltwater taffy to the left. And the right. and .. around the corner, down the street, up the stairs, in the basement, in the post office.. everywhere.

fishermen... fisherpeople, fisherpersons.. returning from their fishering.

speaking of fishers and their catch.. this was my first full, whole, actual, formerly live lobster. ever. as you can see, i find the experience completely less than awesome and will never be eating whole lobster again ("here! dissect and eat this sea cockroach")

what's not disgusting? candy, fool! that's what! sadly, this wasn't salt water taffy but hard candy for your grandmother's hardcandy dish (think: ribbons)
saltwater, you say? sure, why not. here's some between Long Island and Fire Island, on the way to camping. 'Esra, quick, take the picture while pointing the camera at the surface of the sun'



'And another, quick! before people can see me!' Granted, I look devilishly handsome, as per usual. Much like the sun that you do not want to look directly into, my hotness can be the same way. Esra has unconsciously spared you.



Hey look! It's an Esra! you can see her even!


Maybe I spoke too soon. Or maybe I am unconsciously protecting you from my uber hotness.

Speaking of uber hot; Esra tries on the coolest hat in the universe. Salem, Mass.
Back to camping. What's camping without schmores? well.. a lot, I suppose. But really, what's camping without schmores? Ok, Ok. It's still a lot, I get it. But .... schmores! c'mon.
Speaking of schmores, I display optimum schmore technique involving no less than 27 seperate steps. Also, I confirm that the stigmata has disappeared from my hands.
Chris tries his hand at schmoring. He fails miserably, leaving some chocolate on the grill. I look on, laughing the laugh of the Roman shmore god, Shmorey.

Back to the city! To Washington Square Park.. at night.. watching the filming of the new Will Smith movie, I Am Legend. I didn't take this photo. I wish I could say I did. Cool, eh?


I didn't take this photo either. God, I'm such a cheat sometimes. Another shot of Washington Square Park besnowed with glsnowrious snow.

Esra's aunt in front of the Lower East Side / East Village "Loisaida" sign by NY-famous Chico. So famous and respected, taggers wait a few months before putting their stupid initials up over his work (usually, they leave his stuff alone all together)


Chico does lots of privately commissioned pieces too. This one's for an east village vet. Do a flikr search for Chico to see even better stuff of his.

RANT: Live music, Loud bars and Miniature dogs

live music:
Pay X amount of $ (plus the $13 service charge Ticketbastards charges) to ... stand on your feet for 4 hours, get shoved about like you're on public transit, have drinks spilled on you, yell to be heard, strain (and fail) to hear your friends, lose 20% of your hearing for the next 48 hours, pay $7 for a drink ... all for what? mostly, to be able to later tell your friends you saw a bunch of connected, lucky (mostly) males on a stage, playing instruments and sounding 35% worse than their excellent sounding IN-STUDIO sound? Guess what you guys?! they sung a few notes a little different than on their album! Oh My God, they were AMAZING! bullshit. sorry. but you are seeking admiration and envy from your friends because you are such a "super fan". there IS something to be said for being-out-with-friends-and-sharing-a-common-experience. there IS something to be said for hearing your favorite songs loudly played. there IS something to be said for people watching. All I want is for someone, anyone to join me in admitting that the last 3 things are really why you go to shows.

LOUD bars / clubs:
let's see: people go to a place that's made too loud (on purpose) to pay $7 per drink and stand around pretending to hear eachother, all the while shouting and losing their voice so that the person they're talking to can only hear .. 30% of what's said, tops... lose 20% of your hearing for the next 48 hours. If it's socialization people want, a loud bar is the exact opposite of where it should happen. people (who aren't 'single') go to bars because "that's what we're supposed to do" at our age - it's our socially-mandated, acceptable arena for drinking away from the home.

miniature dogs:
i hate them all. would it be wrong to invent a game where you have to get from one side of a big room to the other by jumping from miniaturized dog to miniaturized dog like stepping stones? wait.. strike that... instead, you jump on the faces of their owners to the faces of whatever experimenting geneticists created these abominations of nature. it's not the dogs' fault they're so fucking stupid (except for when they start doing the yappy barking thing)

Moving Day - T plus 18 days and counting

Moved.
I have moved. I am moved.
In. I'm in my new place.

ŋŋŋ The move itself was stressful, as all moves ever, are. Did cavemen stress on cave-moving day? Hopefully not so much. (sorry.. I mean cavepersons) They certainly didn't have 24 boxes (full of rocks and pterodactyl bones?). Nor did they have 6 flights of stairs to now climb. Nor the most awesome view in the world from the roof of their .. cave. (pictures soon)
ŋŋŋ They probably also didn't hire a wallpaper guy to put up super cool photomural wallpaper in the living room only to have him put up one panel upside down, panic and flee the apartment under the cover of saying he "needed to get better wallpaper glue" - before I realized what he'd done and why he'd fled.
ŋŋŋ They may have had two cats, who upon entering their new apartment cave, meowed for 5 minutes straight, then immediately hid under the couch for the next two days, only coming out after their owner sat on the floor and made the infamous cat-head-scratching-hand-gesture (ie. like repeatedly squeezing an invisible tennis ball) an act they are, of course, absolutely powerless to resist. The inner turmoil, the cognitive dissonance (if cats experience such things) visible on their little faces... hide under the couch or get head scratches... hmm. ok, it was cute and funny as hell, actually. They're mostly ok now, though Flapjack got a little bit hissy with Hambone over his territory.. which seems to be the whole apartment.
ŋŋŋ Shelves. Shelving. Shelves for kitchen stuff, shelves for clothes, shelves for the bathroom. And more shelves. Even in hindsight, just from thinking about it, I, and my cavemen ancestors, are exhausted. (You'll see in the pictures coming soon.. it's too much shelf-talk to talk about without seeing what I'm talking about).
ŋŋŋ Painting is done. If anyone needs a painter in NY for a great price who does a great job, let me know, I've got his details. He is not a caveman. He is, incidentally enough, Iranian.
ŋŋŋ Everything else is falling into place (please, no literal falling) - tv's are on the walls, most stuff is put away into as little space as I have, almost all the boxes are broken down, sold and gone. All extra furniture was given away free on craigslist (you want it free? you pick it up! Ohw yeahhh) or taken downstairs .. oh, or was sold or given away before I moved.
ŋŋŋ Basically, .. I had a vision. Of models and ninjas dancing naked with diamond unicorns who... wait.. wrong vision, sorry. It was a vision most city dwellers and cavepersons alike have shared through the ages: to turn a small apartment into the coolest, most kory-perfect, first own apartment ever. I cant speak for how my caveancestors did with their job but mine is .. hmm.. about 85% there.
ŋŋŋ I am, as of February 1st, and out of absolute necessity .... a Fresh Direct junkie. Ohh, I still loves me some Trader Joe's .. that will never ever change. But 6 flights of stairs? Umm.. yes. I'd like delivery please. I have, in fact, opted for delivery on just about everything that I could possibly get delivered. Next stop? laundry delivery. Woo Woooooo.
ŋŋŋ
ŋŋŋ Hmm. I think that's about it for now... More later next week, after the wallpaper is up and everything everywhere is put away anywhere it'll go. Or wont.

ŋŋŋ OHhhw. ALSO: It snowed. a bunch. Not so much that I can maintain a weeklong perma-smile but long enough to make me giddy for a day or two. more on that and pictures of same later.

My Fear of Spiders

6th grade camp.
Camp Marston; Julian, California: 150 or so miles outside of San Diego.

... I was already not a fan of spiders.. I'd never been one of those kids who played with bugs and due to an incident I remember vividly, in Iran (I got food poisoning, was taken to a hospital, strapped into a bed while getting an IV and watched as a spider descended from the ceiling onto a bed strapped-me, age 6) .. let's just say spiders were not my friends.
... San Diego has it's fair share of spiders. In houses, backyards, schools, wherever. It's something most people there ignore but the arachnophobic are always checking for. The fear, for me at least, was never so much based on the actual spider as it was, say.. walking into a spider web and not knowing if you'd picked up an eight legged hitch hiker that'd hide out in your hair only to crawl out onto your neck and then, somehow, who knows.. maybe straight into your brain, making you part of his zombie spider army. Or worse, he could get inside your clothes to where you'd never know if you'd smooshed him into groddy flatness or if he was setting up shop for later panicky discovery. Either way, nothing ends well where spiders and humans are concerned.

Back to Camp Marston.
... One week at camp. A week away from home. We were directed to our cabins, where we all instantly noticed the large number of daddylong legs in every spider friendly corner and bunkbed and locker in the room. No. Ohhhh, Oh No, no no no. I will not be sleeping here like this. Broom in hand, I (and I think another non-friend-to-spiders cabin-mate) set about whacking the hell out of and sweeping out as many of the bastards as we could. Especially in the bunk area, because... I get the shivers even thinking about trying to sleep with spiders all around. It was mostly a lost cause - I slept, or tried to, the first night with my sleeping bag cinched tight over my head and had constant worry that they were getting in anyway. No. I really don't think I can do another six days of this.
... I labored through the next few days trying to have fun and not think about spiders, and mostly I did.. have fun, that is. It was typical 6th grade camp stuff complete with earth ball, field games (soccer, football and such), archery, making boondoggles, field trip hikes to a waterfall / rock jump into a pool, mess hall, a dance (6th grade camp would not be complete without girls and 6th-grade-flirting), a rain drenched hike into Julian... all that part was great. Really great. The stuff that cement memories and shape personalities. And yet.. there were still spiders. Still. Spiders. Lots.
... To say that I was mostly ignoring the spiders would be outright, dangerously, irresponsibly incorrect. I was having a series of moments of intense enjoyment of 6th grade camp, where spiders were temporarily not a part of my universe, and then I was also having moments of WOAH-what-the-GET-it-AWAY-from-ME-Oh-My-GET-Me-OUT-of-AAAAH! There was no playing-it-cool. Nonchalance is STILL not at all a part of the game when it comes to spiders. I freak the fuck out, that's all there is to it. Nowadays, I can often kill them myself but back then? Forget about it. I either needed a smooshing device on the end of a large pole, or I needed someone to do it for me (and then I needed visible proof of said smooshed bastard).
... 6th grade camp. Camp Marston. Today is the day we do "art projects". Art projects, it turns out, consists of making plaster of paris molds and then painting them. All the good molds were taken so I got a horse's head. Great. 'Cause, you know.. I'm all into horses and all. I dont remember filling it with plaster of paris, I only remember sitting down to start painting it. We sat, perhaps 40 of us, at wooden picnic benches in an indoor/outdoor sort of arts & crafts room and painted away. I sat with four or five others at a table, me being closest to the wall. About halfway through painting, I felt a tickle on my knee. I was pretty focused on my plaster of paris horse head (painting a horse head solid brown requires a LOT of concentration) so when the tickle happened again, I didn't really think anything about it and just brushed at the itching again with my hand. It happened again and.. self consciousness began to retake hold of my .. spidey-senses. (sorry, I had to) I didn't want to look. And I had to look. Quickly.. but ... I really didn't want to know. I was sitting approximately two feet away from the wall and had about a foot clearance from the bottom of the picnic table to my knee. What I saw was .... a ball. a ball of heaping, interconnected, mass of spiders, all hanging on to eachother, all teeming and repositioning themselves, moving independently but moving as a collective, a hive mind that had decided... to... at that moment... connect itself to my knee.
... No.
... It happened in. a. flash. It happened.. as one fluid motion of sheer terror. My brain in fast motion, synapses firing overtime to coordinate every muscle in my body to get me the holy fuck out of there as soon as sooner than humanly possible. I got up. Screaming blood terror. And I ran. and Ran. sprinting. past counsellors, past campers, past trees and rocks and if there had been a bear in my path waiting to devour me, I would have ran past him too. It was the only time in my life where, about halfway through this sprint of holy dread, I thought to myself "I should probably stop running, I'm just going to have to walk back". But I couldn't. I kept running. I ran. kept running. And ran some more.
... When I finally made it back to camp, 45 minutes later, I was over it. 6th grade camp could go fuck itself. Seriously, I was o-ver it. Done. To the payphones. I called my parents and told them what happened. My mom put on her best aww-honey tone and did a truly great job of, I'm sure, stifling laughter but no, they were not going to drive 150 miles to come get me. I would have to stick it out for a few more days. I protested, she consoled and gave a rousing pep talk and that was that. The futility of trying to get out of there early was obvious so.. fine. I will stay. Which I did. But.. I was changed.
... To see me and my state of mind after this trauma was to witness a 12 year old Vietnam vet who'd just returned from three tours of duty and had developed a jolly good amphetamine and cough syrup habit. Paranoia was the name of the game those last few days. Violent fists of fury lashed out to destroy the bodies and souls of anything that even looked like a spider (sorry John, that punch that crushed your face really was meant for what I thought was a spider on you). It was all I could do to keep some semblance of normalcy as a front, lest I be sent to the nurse and severely medicated.
... Day 7. My parents brown station wagon never looked so good as it pulled into the parking lot. I threw my stuff in the back, hugged my parents and because I knew I'd be leaving soon, I could finally play it cool. Like it was no big deal. "Great" they said, "I understand we're doing an outdoor barbeque? for all the parents? right?" Oh. Uhm. Right. Yeah. Forgot about that. I have to ... sit outside.. on picnic benches and at picnic tables... and ... eat some damn barbeque before I leave. Why lord? you heartless bastard. you think this is funny, dont you?
... Thankfully, the day somehow, someway, finally ended and we piled in the car, heading for home. I literally had to try very hard to not answer every question of "so how was it?", "what did you do?" with something related to spiders. It was .. cool.. I said. I liked the waterfall (no spiders underwater!) We stopped at southern-California-famous Dudley's Bakery, got some delicious breads and such and continued on home, as I occasionally scanned the car with cracked-out intensity for some straggler, ninja-like, stealthy master-of-hiding. An eight legged terrorist.

Moving Day - T minus 3 days and counting

I haven't written in forever. I know.
Too many things have happened. Nothing in particular has happened. Things have soured with some. Things are sweet, mostly.

What's there to write about? well......

I'm moving on Monday.
---After almost four years in my first real New York apartment, I am moving to my first real New York apartment. My own apartment. My first.. own apartment. Yes, it's true. It seems that I have gone from the cradle to today with housemates. Be they parents, friends or girlfriends, I've always lived with someone. And now? no. Well.. ok, yes. But these housemates stand a whopping 8" high, shed a lot and demand my attention constantly. No, not Esra (and my other girlfriend)... the boys. Where are you moving, you ask? Or maybe you dont ask. Which is OK - you know I'll be telling you anyway. I'm moving to Mulberry Street between Spring and Houston.
---It's very exciting. And somewhat exhausting... for, you see, it is an apartment, the vertical location of which conjures the dreaded words that no delivery man or visiting friend or parent ever wants to hear .... "6th floor walk-up". As in "it is on the 6th floor"; As in "you must now climb 6 flights of stairs to reach me"; As in "I am sorry I did not remind you before you came over, but now, you are here and you have no choice but to get sweaty climbing stairs to see me". As seen from outer space, my apartment is exactly here. Please, do not fire laser beams or drop things from outer space on my apartment. Also, my apartment is not exactly where that green arrow is. I'm sure you can imagine, I do not live exactly on a 1 inch square at the corner of that building. If you are, contrary to my plea for safety, trying to drop objects on me from outer space, you will have to aim a little lower in that image. Facing the building, my apartment is in the top right portion.
---While the vertical location will probably have me cursing almost daily, the horizontal location on the other hand, could hardly be better. Why? Let me tell you. For those interested in star sightings, I will be able to stare creepily look into David Bowie's apartment here, from my bedroom and kitchen. My living room looks directly onto the tv-famous(?) Puck Building (where Grace of Will & Grace "worked"). For those interested in subway access (you know who you are!), I will have F/V, JMZ access and 6 train access, as well as numerous cross town bus access along Houston. Need a pool hall? Restaraunts, delis, laundry? all within one on my block. Shopping? The main shopping drag of Broadway is two blocks away. Little Italy? Two blocks south of me. Chinatown? two blocks beneath that. East Village? Technically, it's two blocks to the East. Need a gym? I'm joining a YMCA (with a pool and volleyball twice a week!) 2 blocks away. You like views? ok, who doesn't? my roof has a 360 view of all the goods - Empire State, Chrysler, downtown buildings, Brooklyn, you name it. (alright, do not name places in Europe - be serious, please.. for the children)
---As you can clearly see, I will soon be the coolest person who ever lived. While this was already true, it's even more already true simply because I say it is. Needless to say, I'm very excited.
........More later

Listicle 24.ĥ5

▲▼▲▼ knowing my love for zombies, as you all surely do... I saw this in the Castings section of Backstage magazine.. a weekly magazine for actors:
##### ###### Productions LLC is casting a feature-length sequel to the "...cult classic.." (The New York Times) comedic satire Night of the Day of the Dawn of the Son of the Bridge of the Return of the Revenge of the Terror of the Attack of the Evil Mutant Hellbound Flesh Eating Subhumanoid Living Dead...Part 2. ...best - movie - name - everrrrr.

▲▼▲▼ my new favorite internet meme... I .. cant seem to get enough of 'em.

▲▼▲▼ ya, extinct because it's creepy!! - a 4 person "long horse"???

▲▼▲▼ from kottke.org Dilbert creator Scott Adams wants Bill Gates for President ... "For my president I want a mixture of Mother Teresa, Carl Sagan, Warren Buffet, and Darth Vader. Bill has all of their good stuff. His foundation will save more lives than Mother Teresa ever did. He's got the Carl Sagan intelligence and rational mind. He's a hugely successful businessman. And I have every reason to believe he can choke people just by concentrating in their general direction."

▲▼▲▼ the cute project is the new Cute Overload.

▲▼▲▼ why couldn't I have bought this couch?!?!??! Dohhhh.

▲▼▲▼ Most hilarious thing I've seen on SNL in a while.

a NYTimes article - .... meanderthals

Apologies for not having written lately. A bit of writer's block void lately, I suppose. more soon, I swears.


The below is copied from a NY Times article from 2002. I've bolded (below) what might be the best word ever invented.

from the NY Times, July 16, 2002
Think You Own the Sidewalk?
By MARC SANTORA

On the sidewalks of New York there are jaywalkers, baby walkers, dog walkers, night walkers, cellphone talker-walkers, slow walkers, fast walkers, group walkers, drunken walkers, walkers with walkers and, of course, tourist walkers.
Unfortunately, all of these walkers are walking into one another.
"People no longer know how to walk on the sidewalk," said John Kalish, a television producer in Manhattan. "There was a time that any real New Yorker had a built-in sonar in terms of walking down the sidewalk, even a crowded one, and never bumping into someone. Now — forget it."
In a crowded city that is forever rebuilding itself, sometimes it is impossible to be a graceful walker. Still, strollers say that many problems could be avoided if some basic rules were followed.
First, walking rules are like driving rules.
"Stay to the right is the golden, No. 1 rule," said Chris Avila, 29, who has lived in the city for nine years.
Europeans used to driving on the left side of the road have acute problems getting used to New York sidewalks, said Giannandrea Marongiu, 36, who moved to New York from Italy five years ago. "They don't know where to go," he said. "They are all over the place."
Second, don't be a sudden stopper.
"People who stop short really get me," said Carla Melman, 26, a lifelong New Yorker. She said it was the equivalent of a car wreck on the Long Island Expressway on a Hamptons weekend.
Third, when walking with friends, don't crowd every lane of the sidewalk.
Ms. Avila said she reserves a special sidewalk in hell for "mall walkers," which she defined as groups who insist on walking three or four abreast. "They make me so mad," she said. "When you are around a group of mall walkers, you just have to find a way around them."
Fourth, keep it moving.
The average New York City fast walker does not have to get stuck behind a pack of mall walkers to grow sour. A single person moving at a slow clip-clop can be enough. There is even a word for this slowpoke: meanderthal. An Internet dictionary of slang defines him as "an annoying individual moving slowly and aimlessly in front of another individual who is in a bit of a hurry."
Fifth, don't be a heel stepper.
"I hate it when someone gives me a flat tire," Ms. Avila said. That happens when a heel stepper clips the back of her sandal, knocking it off her foot and causing her to become a sudden stopper.
Sixth, get off the phone.
Pedestrians say cellphone talker-walkers are so lost in their own hyperconnected universe that they are almost as likely to break the rules of walking as tourists. "When you are on a cellphone, you are a group of one," said Michelle Nevius, 32, a walking tour guide in Manhattan.
Roger Evans, a musician, agreed. "Typically I think of a cellphone talker as a guided missile," he said.
However, it is the bike messengers who many complain are the true missiles. Mike Nelson, a bike messenger born and raised in New York, says the walkers have gotten worse. "With the cellphones, Palm Pilots and all the other gizmos, people aren't even aware of what's around them any more," he said. "It's not just the bikers that will run them over, but also trucks, cabs, whatever."
Seventh, keep Fido on a tight leash.
Peter A. Perez, 28, a dog walker at the Wagging Tail, a dog care center in TriBeCa, says too many inexperienced dog walkers use long leashes that can become tripwires. And, he said, dog walkers should "never allow dogs to introduce dogs to other dogs," as this can create overactive obstacles.
Unnatural obstacles can also spoil a stroller's stride.
Scaffolding, a major walking hazard, seems to be growing like kudzu in front of buildings in the city. "You do see more scaffolding," said Ilyse Fink, a spokeswoman for the Department of Buildings. In 2000, nearly 4,000 permits were issued for new scaffolding and worker sheds, up from roughly 1,600 in 1995, Ms. Fink said, mostly because of tighter building inspection laws and building owners with more money for upkeep in flush times.
Ms. Fink volunteered her own pet peeve about city walkers. "I can't stand when people are standing at the corner talking to their friends or rubbernecking," she said. "I'm like: `Why don't you move? You don't do that when you are driving a car.' "
And Ms. Fink would not hang up the phone until she had pointed to another danger: baby strollers. As an admitted mother, she knows that mothers think of the stroller as an extension of themselves and, therefore, do not consider the added space they are occupying. "When I would be jaywalking with the stroller, people would be like, `Do you know you have a baby?' " she said.
Even if every walker followed all the unwritten walking rules, it would still be hard to get around because New York is more crowded. In 1991 there were 22,790,000 visitors to the city, according to NYC & Company, the city's convention and visitors' bureau. In 2000 there were 37,380,000 visitors walking the streets, it said. Add that to Manhattan's 1,537,195 residents and some 800,000 daily commuters until millions of people are fighting over the sidewalks.
Fred Kent, president of the Project for Public Spaces, a nonprofit group that advises communities on public planning, sees the walking crisis as part of a much larger problem. "I think it is all part of this trend away from being comfortable as a pedestrian," he said. American cities and American life in general is so focused on the car, he said, that "we are becoming enormously obese, because we have few opportunities to walk and very few opportunities to exercise."
Mr. Kent says walkers should not be mad at one another, for they have a common enemy. "They are in this situation by manipulation," he said. "We have developed rules for pedestrian traffic to enhance car traffic rather than traffic rules that would benefit pedestrians." But short of ripping up the city's roads, Mr. Kent could not offer a walking peace plan.
But Stella Cashman, who organizes racewalking events in Central Park, could. She pointed to the rules of track and field as a model to help ease the congestion. First, "no intentional contact (or pushing)." Second, "no attempts to impede the progress of others." Finally, "Allow sufficient distance (i.e. three steps) before cutting in front of another."
With those rules, a referee in some parts of the city would be awfully busy. At the corner of Canal and Broadway there is a perfect storm of pedestrian obstacles. Merchants sell everything from shoes to diamonds. Food vendors' carts face the storefronts. Nearby scaffolding, a subway entrance, a few homeless people on the ground and tourists looking for a deal make the corner nearly impossible to navigate.
"A lot of time I take to the street," said Kwok Wan, a letter carrier who has walked a route in the Chinatown area for 18 years. "If they are shopping, they are not moving."
Michael McDaniel, visiting from Birmingham, Ala., was shopping there with his family. He said he thought he obeyed the rules for walking in New York. "I follow the no-walk sign," he said. "Sometimes we ad-lib when we see other folks doing the same."
Mr. McDaniel acknowledged that his family often stopped suddenly if the urge struck them. But they were learning fast.
"Single file moves much faster," said Mr. McDaniel, now a reformed mall walker. "If we try and go three across, it slows us down."

pictures and pictures

Rooftop party pics. I'm really not quite sure why I take these.. the nighttime shots rarely turn out. Oh yeah... lots of wine made me take these.

Perhaps if I used the zoom feature on my camera phone that I just discovered the other day. How long have I had this cameraphone?

Camping on Fire Island. this, after a night of rain and more mosquitos than I have ever seen in one place, Ever. I've been camping many a time (says the former Boy Scout) but the mosquito density was almost more mosquitos than non-mosquito air. I guess that's what happens when you put campgrounds in the middle of protected swampland.

Esra and the mosquito repellant spray bottle were friends. That bottle and all of us were friends.. not that it helped much.

The day after, on a hunt for a cheap(ish) hotel on Fire Island (the idea of a second night camping on Mosquito Island was, as you might guess.. not so pleasant). Somehow we're all smiling in this photo. Pshh. Remember that you cant spell SMILES without L-I-E-S.


Lest you think the boys would escape a photo show.

No matter how cute they're being and how it happens nearly continuously, one of them will always look away at the perfect photo opportunity moment.

Esra and I right before turning off our cell phones, awaiting EVIL DEAD, the MUSICAL to begin (which was Soooo AWESOME that I insist you picture me screaming Soo AWESOME! right in your earhole) I'm going to see it again in a month or so, that's how Soo AWESOME! it was.

Well, well.

Imagine that.

An empty bag that's not empty... because it's filled with a kitten! (that's not a kitten anymore but whom I will forever call a kitten)

Esra asked me to take this picture of us in front of a Mark Rothko. I make nonstop fun of the modern art section at the Met 'cause I firmly believe that most modern art is one level below poop-cakes. YES, in my opinion.
At the... Wax Museum! yes, it's true. My dad and his lady friend? or.. companion were in town and they really wanted to see the wax museum. Esra and I didn't really wanna go 'cause, well.. I, at least, am often too cool for school. We actually ended up really enjoying it. I'm.. not.. umm.. quite sure how that happened.. but it did.

Lou Reed is just as waxy in person.

John Travolta's face was so disturbing, I thought you deserved a close up to wash out the detail with the flash. You'll thank me later when you're not haunted by dreams of a wax Travolta.

Despite her being wax, I still managed to creep out Paris Hilton.

Lindsay Lohan too. They both put wax restraining orders on me immediately following the photos.

After kicking George W Bush in the nuts, I was tackled by secret wax service agents.

Salvador Dali didn't like any of the three-plus hours of hilaaarious existentialist jokes I told. Lllllaaame!

The sign said this was Mick Jagger.
Yeah, maybe if you poke yourself in the eyes really hard.

like most San Franciscans (who didn't like the Grateful Dead), I finally got my opportunity to exact nut-kick-justice on the lead singer who died too early for me to ever do this in person.

Esra didn't like the fact that I was going around kicking wax dudes in the nuts so she started bluring the photos. Thanks, babe. Oh well.. guess Bono's gonna have to get kicked in the real nuts if I ever see him.

I uh.. got a little artsy with Bob Dylan. I told him to look up. Man, some people are so full of themselves.

I ended up tearing Johnny Cash's right arm off 'cause he got a little fresh with Esra, off camera.

Listicle 23.§∑

♠♣♥ If you've been out to breakfast with me after say.. 11:30am, you'll know exactly why I want this ring.

♠♣♥ If you know my favorite movie line (and if you dont, you should probably ask yourself why not?), you know it has something to do with.. bowing down and kneeling before ... a certain someone. (who's now running for president)

♠♣♥ I wish my cell phone was this big.

♠♣♥ wow. sweet video for Gary Jules' Mad World (not the Tears for Fears cover of same)

♠♣♥ I'm really not at all sure why I find this amusing. but... I ... do? sorta? I think I just like that someone took the time to come up with it.

♠♣♥ Funny.. these palindromes pop up in my every day conversation allll the time:
Dog sex at noon taxes God.
Eva, can I stab bats in a cave?
Flesh! Saw I Mimi wash self!
Is Don Adams mad? (A nod.) Si!
Kay, a red nude, peeped under a yak.
Mr. Owl ate my metal worm.

♠♣♥ "mathemagic":
1 x 8 + 1 = 9
12 x 8 + 2 = 98
123 x 8 + 3 = 987
1234 x 8 + 4 = 9876
12345 x 8 + 5 = 98765
123456 x 8 + 6 = 987654
1234567 x 8 + 7 = 9876543
12345678 x 8 + 8 = 98765432
123456789 x 8 + 9 = 987654321

1 x 9 + 2 = 11
12 x 9 + 3 = 111
123 x 9 + 4 = 1111
1234 x 9 + 5 = 11111
12345 x 9 + 6 = 111111
123456 x 9 + 7 = 1111111
1234567 x 9 + 8 = 11111111
12345678 x 9 + 9 = 111111111
123456789 x 9 +10= 1111111111

9 x 9 + 7 = 88
98 x 9 + 6 = 888
987 x 9 + 5 = 8888
9876 x 9 + 4 = 88888
98765 x 9 + 3 = 888888
987654 x 9 + 2 = 8888888
9876543 x 9 + 1 = 88888888
98765432 x 9 + 0 = 888888888

1 x 1 = 1
11 x 11 = 121
111 x 111 = 12321
1111 x 1111 = 1234321
11111 x 11111 = 123454321
111111 x 111111 = 12345654321
1111111 x 1111111 = 1234567654321
11111111 x 11111111 = 123456787654321
111111111 x 111111111=123456789 87654321

MG - Comediene Extraordinaire.. gave notice

JOURNAL / BLOG ENTRY
In honor of MG giving notice (to quit) today, I present a few overheard gems I'd been saving:

(trying to get out of working a Mexico order) I dont speak spanish! I dont even know how to pronounce the name of this tech.

Oh.

Oh.. it's "John"?

Oh, ok. I didn't know.

--------------------

(on the phone) "before i ask a real question... if you could have any one of superman's powers, which would you have? y'know, flying, x-ray vision, etc. [pause] [some magazine, i didn't hear the name] had an article and this one guy, i thought it was so sweet, he said he would take flying so that he could jump off the WTC and stop the planes before they hit"

it's like she's a comedian but instead of a punchline, the jokes always end with "oh and i killed your family and drained your bank account... and you have to go to jail now"

---------------------

I need to learn excel, I tried once, someone gave me the Excel for Dummies book.....I found it too advanced (i swear, i do NOT make these up)

RANT: I like have a problem with like

JOURNAL ENTRY
Rant
Pronunciation: 'rant
Etymology: obsolete Dutch ranten, randen
intransitive verb : 1 : to talk in a noisy, excited, or declamatory manner 2 : to scold vehemently
transitive verb : to utter in a bombastic declamatory fashion

tell me to shut up (no YOU shut up!) about my like pet peeve any ol' time, but i got to thinkin' - I cant be the only one aware of this rabid-overuse-of-the-word-like problem affecting language today. sure enough:

# of Google search pages that mention "people who say like": 4,780
# of Google search pages that mention "people that say like": 2,190
# of Google search pages that mention "saying like all the time": 1,080
# of Google search pages that mention "like as (a) filler": 649

I also love that wikipedia has a blurb on it.

the more we think about it, the more you catch yourself using (and overusing) it, the quicker we'll like eradicate it. I'll let the above 8,699 webpages rail on the most annoying lazy-ass, filler word since "um" and "uh" got marginalized into non-existence. Take a moment, people! breathe! pause. it's ok. People will wait for you to continue.. I like.. swear.

how to tell loud people to shut up

JOURNAL ENTRY
the 'Back Me Up' Campaign

----You're on the bus. Maybe the subway. You're minding your own business. Maybe you're reading, or listening to music, maybe you're just people watching. The bus stops, the train stops, the doors to wherever you are open and.. in they walk. You wouldn't have even looked towards the door, you were lost in thought until now. Commotion. Loud. Annoying. Voices. You're looking for what must be a nerd that some unruly bullies are picking on. Except there is no nerd being picked on.. just four loud, high-pitched, loud teens (that are loud).
----Everyone looks for a second or two, then looks away. You feel the collective grinding of nerves of your fellow transit-mates, or restaraunt mates.. or wherever.
----Why? Why are they talking so F'ing loudly??? How can they not know that they are annoying everyone around them?? But of course, since you are not a complete moron, you know, for a fact... that they don't care. Not one iota. They are in the moment. They are fully absorbed in the psychological phenomena of teen (or pre-teen, or drunk) group dynamics. You see the elderly bristle and cast occassional dirty looks, too far removed from what it was like to run around in these loud, mini-mobs. The middle aged are thinking about things like 'respect', 'common courtesy' and the decline of civilization as they knew it, all the while hoping to the gods that their kids don't turn out to be so freaking annoying. The 20 and 30-somethings, being closer in age, watch the disgusting display of what it was like to be that age and sit, self-loathing at the fact that they may have ever been even remotely like that. Your thoughts mirror those of everyone around you: why dont you shut the F&@# up already?!?! good GOD! You are impressing NO ONE with your ability to be the center of this bus' attention! Your sharing of the details of your campus soap opera do NOT need to be expressed at volume level 11.5 Did you really just say you would "tap that ass"??? If I screamed really loud, like a ferret just bit me in the privates, would they shut up?? You think all these things. You say nothing.
----Fast forward to 10 seconds after you get off the bus.
----You.. didn't say anything. Did you? No one stood up to the little self absorbed, walking rubber bands of ego. Again. You're disgusted with yourself and with everyone around you. Hell, I'm disgusted with you and I wasn't even there. Were they carrying guns? knives? Were they big dudes, wearing ninja outfits, were they naked and crazy? No. no. As usual.. No. A busload of adults, held auditory-hostage simply because no one spoke up. Well, the root reason is that they chose to ignore the social laws of public decency. Oh sure, you've done it yourself before, there's no need to pretend you've never been a boorish public buffoon. Maybe it was the last time you drank too much with friends before heading to that bar downtown. Maybe during an excited cross country phone conversation with a friend you haven't talked to in years. Or maybe, just when you and your friends were 15, en route to see Rocky III for the fourth time. You were in the moment.. until ..that moment when you realized you were that loud, obnoxious guy you normally hate. "Screw it. I'm in the moment!", you thought. Or maybe you didnt. Maybe you experienced a twinge of guilt and moved on. All I'm saying is, you know the moment we're talking about - you know it when you do it and you certainly know it when you're forced to endure others doing it. And no, such behavior is not understandable, it's not excusable, it's not an "adorable outlet for youthful energy" - it is obnoxious, socially unacceptable behavior and to sit back and take it, year after year after year makes us all.. I'm sorry, but it’s true.. social weaklings.
----What am I suggesting, then? Raider Shoulders? Nope. too passive, in this situation. You want quiet.. that's really all you want. For you and your fellow travelers. But you're just one person and they're four. So, really - what can you do? Nothing? You've already tried that.. how'd that work out for you? Exactly. "But if I speak up, surely this group of teens will gang up on me and ridicule me and my bus-mates will look on in sympathetic horror as I toss myself to these wolves". Boo Hoo. Time to grow up. And grow a pair. In fact.. grow a busload of pairs. Your moment in the sun draws nigh... ready? Put on your sternest face and say: "Hey!! keep it down! please! you're in fucking public, no one wants to hear you all" (cursing gets their attention and appeals to their cool-people-curse! vernacular). One of them, probably the alpha-jerk of the group, will rebound with "shut up, old man" or "make me" or "perhaps it is YOU who should be the one doing the shutting up!!" .. something along those lines. This is where you employ your secret weapon, your social liberator, your Power-to-the-People-er-(er?).
----"No one wants to hear your bullshit" (again, displaying your coolness) and then drop the real bomb on, not just them, but everyone who had been dying to speak up - to the rest of the bus, quickly add: "Can I get an Amen, people??". While you're saying that, turn and look directly at either a) the biggest dudes on the bus who will physically back you up, if need be b) the people who are looking at you, shocked, but smiling in agreement c) the elderly and/or crazy people who just like to talk, period d) the bus driver e) all of the above. If one or more of your (former) hostages dont immediately throw in a token "Amen!" (and really, who doesn't like to say Amen?), you will then add "c'mon, back me up, here my peoples" (and really, who doesn't love being called "my peoples"?). At the very least, you will diffuse the tense situation somewhat and probably get a good chuckle out of those with a sense of humor. If all of that fails, turn back to the loud-talkers, sigh, and say "Alright. everyone wants you to shut the hell up, but everyone's too scared to speak up, I guess. Go ahead and talk as LOUDLY as you want... OR.. or you could have some fucking respect and keep it down". Now is the moment where it’ll seem like no one really knows what to do, but the fact that you've out-loud-ed them and shamed your whole bus will probably tip things in your favor - (if there's one thing that'll make a group of people stand up for themselves, it's being told they're scared of a much, much smaller group of people (assuming those people dont have guns or badges)). Whether anyone volunteers a better-late-than-never "Amen" or not.. these people now do have your back. You will not be getting your ass kicked today (chin up! there's always tomorrow!) and while you probably haven't made the best of friends with the loud-talkers or your busmates and while everyone involved may have learned absolutely nothing.. you will have stood up for yourself.. and for others. Mostly, you stood up for a considerate society that isnt intimidated into quietude.
----It doesn't have to be loud teenagers - it could be anyone, any group of people. Two loud homeless guys. Or three business jerks. Or five soccer momish coworkers out on the town. Blind Peruvian little people, even. Or three people just like you. They'll come in all shapes and sizes. They all, however, come in the same volume and same level of self-awareness: loud, and none.
----You can tell them to shut up. It is possible. You just need someone, or a lot of someones, to answer your call to "Back Me Up". If you inspire even a few people to stand up for themselves at some later point, you've made your city that much better of a place. Contrary to all the "dont sweat the small stuff" mantras bandied about these days, I say "do sweat the small stuff", before it becomes 'big stuff' and because sometimes, the small stuff is the only stuff you can change. Or, you can keep letting the ..busmates run the asylum, saying and doing whatever they want to, wherever they want to. Stand up for youself. Stand up for the mother covering her daughter's ears so she doesn't have to hear some wannabe street thug teens try to out-gross out or out-loud or out-sex-talk eachother. Stand up, because you can. Because you should. Stand up because someone has to be the first domino.
----Can I get an Amen?

p.s. as with the Raider Shoulder, use common sense in who you confront. Gang members, body builders, pirates and ninjas, among others, have reputations to protect. Do not challenge them. As a rule, avoid shushing those with weapons, muscles that overlap more muscles, chemical imbalances or briefcases that tick. Also, check out your fellow busmates before you speak up. Does it look like they'll back you up? If you see them all speaking in sign language to eachother or everyone's got headphones in, chances are, you'll be a little out of luck asking for an Amen. Common sense, as always, is the cornerstone of Safety First.

Preseason Football

People who argue that the (NFL) preseason games "dont count" ought to be forced to play in one; against men who've structured their lives so far to lead up to this point and no other. They're clawing desperately at ever narrowing odds of being able to play the sport they love, for money - for a few years - with even narrower odds of becoming marginally famous enough to stay in the game for a veteran average of 10 years. For the amazing feats produced under stress and competition alone, we should consider these games even more real than the regular season and rally behind aspiring players because they're the closest our couch-potato asses will ever come to being able to play on that skill level.
--other points worthy of note:
-----these guys all memorize playbooks the size of phone books.
-----these guys all. memorize. playbooks. the size. of. phone books.

Listicle 22.SS

BLOG ENTRY
←·•·→ More reasons to dislike makeup: A survey has revealed that British women spend more than two years of their lives applying and removing £22,000 worth of make-up. The research found the average woman dedicates 603 days to applying mascara, blusher, lipstick and eye-shadow - and a further 170 taking it all off again. Once I see the study that shows how many sprained and broken ankles are the result of high heels, I'll post that too.

←·•·→ Drool-worthy libraries. Damn Rijksmuseum library was closed when we went. Grrr.

←·•·→ Pshh. I make stuff like this all the time. in my MIND!

←·•·→ if you say you dont like cities as miniature scale models, I say you are lying!

←·•·→ Have you seen this man? on a truck? playing piano? with a dog on the paino? [Wash Sq Pk]


←·•·→ Have you seen this cat? on a bed? or window sill?











←·•·→ Oh my lord, this one makes my eyes ask "why are you making me look at this?":














←·•·→ Have I stopped loving zombies? Heyyylll No. The best line: The zombies [were] shouting "What do we want? Brains! When do we want them? Brains!"

←·•·→ How does the rest of the web (and the world, wide as it is) know this and I didnt?

Jury Duty: Work-Stress Release Therapy

JOURNAL ENTRY
"The Persians", on the ceiling of the inner dome of the courthouse rotunda.
¤ ¤ ¤ You ask me "Kory?" (I interrupt with a Vincent Price voice "yyyyesss?" - you grimace, annoyed, then continue) "how can I be 100% all American and partake of a most cherished get-out-of-work-free card?". In need of emphasizing your quandary, you add: "how? how?? I beseech you. Lo, please tell me!" Ignoring for now the fact that you used the words beseech and lo in a sentence, I lean back, tie the belt of my smoking jacket, and despite No Smoking signs plastered in at least 12 locations that I can see, proceed to light my pipe, stroke my beard pensively and finally, after a pause and opening paragraph far, far too long say "The answer is simple, my child.. Jury Duty".
¤ ¤ ¤ It's true. I believe I am one of 14 people on this planet that holds aloft their jury duty summons and sings the "I've got a Golden Ticket" song. "Kory, please explain! Why?" Ok. Since you asked: Where else can you: 1) avoid work 2) sit around all day 3) read (before you interject: "Kory?! that's what you do all day anyway!!", I put my index finger to your lips and sensually hum "Sssshhhhhhh! daddy's gonna make everything allllriiight." sufficiently creeped out? good, let's continue) #4. Always... number 4. 4) how about a little thing called.. serve America!?? (I say this while pumping my fist in the air, patriotically) 5) do your civic duty (yes, 'duty', please, no giggling) 6) take two hour lunches 7) explore new neighborhoods 8) all of the above.
Really, it doesn't get much better. Unless you're me, today, this morning to be specific.
¤ ¤ ¤ Day 1: My jury summonses (more on the plural later) tells me I am to arrive at 8:45am. Arriving promptly at 9:10am, I see that I am to be serving in the very same main courthouse that tried and convicted Martha Stewart, oh so many forgotten months ago. One security screening line and a 15 minute elevator wait later, I find room 452. Hollywood couldn't have done it better; it is a stunningly beautiful governmenty room replete with reassuringly courthouse-colored-wood and historic paintings of New York in a scale so massive, I'm convinced each dwarfs the square footage of my apartment. I am in awe, eyes wide, mouth a bit slack and just as I am lowering myself into a seat, of course, the fire alarm goes off. We file out the room to see a building technician hesitantly touching some fire alarm buttons while making the "please work! c'mon you stupid thing, please work" face. It doesn't work.
We file out of the building and mill about while watching five fire trucks arrive. About 30 or more firefighters file in and a few minutes later, file out. An entire courthouse full of people slowly file back in. Back upstairs, I hand in my paperwork and explain that I've been summoned twice, once as Kory Dayani and once as my birth name Kuroesh, which the NY DMV forced me to use on my drivers license to prove that still, after 36 years, Americans can not pronounce my birth name. Before I can finish explaining about the summonses, I'm interrupted, with a smile, and told to go to room 139 to have it straightened out. I dread what's about to come. Instead, I'm treated to some of the kindest and most efficient customer service I may have received so far in NY and I'm in and out of there in less than 5 minutes. I return to the jury room and sit and watch a truly bizarre video - starring Jane Pauly - describing in 1st-grade-reading-level detail, the judicial system as it'll apply to us. Needing coffee, I walk out into the hallway, which is likewise over-government-alized but Orwellianly efficient.. mirroring the quality and effect of the coffee. I return to the jury room in time to hear attendance called so I start reading my book thinking that the sound of my name will be obvious. When I realize they've finished reading the names and I haven't heard mine, I see that it wasn't so obvious. I go up and tell them I'm present. Three minutes later, they start calling names for 25 prospective jurors to head to room C. Mine is the second name called. I make a note to pay more attention to roll call tomorrow.
¤ ¤ ¤ In the jury selection room, the "jury lady" let's call her, assigns us seats using the same voice a teacher might use to direct second graders for a class photo ("No you here, you there.. yes, good"). We then begin the next long wait-and-wait period. Waiting for .. the lawyers: It's been about 6 years since I last did jury duty in which time I guess I had forgotten how lawyers, especially during jury selection, are part psychologist, part hypnotist, part your life long best friend and unintentionally, part asshole. Knowledge of the law is pretty secondary when it comes to picking a jury. Any hoo-ha about the letter of the law this or 'basing your opinion on the facts presented', these men and women will not be successful lawyers without making themselves eminently likeable. Yet despite all the niceties and camaraderie building, a bit of dick-ish-ness always seems to slip through, whether it be snidely pointing out that the opposing lawyer is running too long or cutting off a prospective juror mid-sentence for whatever reason, valid or not. Lawyers also, and I do not blame them for this, have no problem with taking their sweet. ass. time. With everything. They are representing real people with real problems paying real money to.... really slow and methodical people. Maybe it's part of the hypnotization? Maybe it's a test to see which jurors have patience and which will blurt out "Oh for the love of god, get on with it!"
¤ ¤ ¤ The case was "a slip and fall case" - I use the quotes because over the next two days, I'd become very familiar with the term. My unofficial lack of any research whatsoever shows that 125% of all personal injury lawsuits are "slip and fall" cases. It seems that a cleaning lady "slipped" and "fell" on some sand "laid down" to melt snow on a "housing" project "stairway" (sorry, now I'm just gratuitously air quoting 'cause it's fun). We listened to the lawyers vaguely describing the case while asking each juror the same battery of questions we all would have rather been asked as a group since this individual-asking method was going to take well over an hour. When it came to me, I answered their questions with what I did for a living, that I could be fair and impartial and to the question "is there any reason you do you not want to serve on this jury?" I answered: "well.. I don’t -want- to serve on this jury.. I'd rather sit in that big room out there and read my book". This got a round of laughs, convincing me I might have a future in jury selection room stand up comedy. It seemed like the most honest answer to me but deep down, I knew I'd probably been just enough of a smart-ass to get me off of this particular jury. I hadn't said anything overtly offensive or lied about some bias that I didn't have, I just told it like it is (was?). I think lawyers have a problem with people keepin' it real. And if you know me well enough, you know I love nothing more than keepin' it real. (yeah, the italics kind). You could be a total racist, keeping completely quiet and end up being selected for a jury far easier than if you asked a simple question or offered up a funny bit of truth. The latter is often reason enough to 'just not take a chance' on a juror having some sort of biased subtext behind their question or comment, though they almost surely didn't.
¤ ¤ ¤ A two and a half hour lunch later, we filed back into the jury selection room and listened to the list of those selected, hoping to not hear any syllable involved in my name. "But, I thought you said you wanted to serve on a jury?" Oh, that much is true. Just not on one so.. how do I say this..? not-at-all-interesting-whatsoever,-not-even-a-little-bit. Hey, I never said jury duty wasn't going to be all about me.
¤ ¤ ¤ Day 2: Which is probably why, the very next day, I was assigned to another slip and fall prospective jury group. An Italian immigrant had slipped "and" fallen over a sprinkler installed in 1908, leading into a building built in 1865. Why are those dates important? They're not, really, I just think it's cool that it was so long ago. The lawyers in this case were a bit more arsehole-ish and a little less skilled at the hypnotist/psychologist game. To prove this point, they put no less than five people that I saw, completely to sleep. (unlike high school English class, no one yelled at them to wake up. Interesting, because I would think that a legal case would be a bit more important than one day in high school English class). Needless to say, I wanted off of this case as well. Part of me wishes I had opted for the more charismatic lawyer duo from the last case but hey, no regrets, let's spin the wheel again: "Does anyone have a problem with the idea of awarding money for things like pain and suffering?" I raise my hand. "Lost wages and medical costs are one thing but I think I might have a problem with awarding thousands and thousands of dollars for things that aren't quantifiable. Intangible claims.. trying to project into the future how much of your life has been altered.. I think it's hard to put a dollar amount on things like that". Bingo. I was off, for sure. Again, I'd spoken nothing but the truth but I knew no prosecutor in his right mind would want a juror who'd potentially be hesitant to give his client a large, large check. I sensed that other jurors picked up on my strategy. "Can I ask if your client has brought other slip and fall cases?" asked the guy to the right of me. Emotional indignation from the lady to my left: "yeah, I'd hope to god that If -I- were injured, I'd be justly compensated!". A few others around the room offered up just enough subtle implications that they might have a personal opinion of some kind.. on anything.. related to the case or not. Long story long, no one who spoke up was selected.
¤ ¤ ¤ Released back into the large jury selection room, I checked my email on the free laptops they provide, read for a bit and waited to be released for the day or sent to another selection room. "Would all those jurors who'd been in room C follow me, please?" We followed. And entered an actual courtroom. Oooh. What does this mean? I have no idea. Have we all been selected for a case without being questioned or...? Somehow I didn't see this coming: "Ok, you've all been released from service. This document here - you're going to make three copies of it. Make three copies of it. Make three copies of it. I said that three times, right? Good. Make three copies of it. Keep one copy in different corners of your house. If you're selected again any time in the next four years - and hey, it might happen, we are the government - mail one copy in and we'll fix it. Thank you all for serving. Have a great weekend".
¤ ¤ ¤ Doh. It seems I spun the pick-me fate wheel one too many times. Despite the fact that we'd been told we'd have to be there for a minimum of three days, I was being released on day two without having been picked. My goal had of course been to get picked for a jury and to serve for 10 to 14 days or so. I had thought I would have been more disappointed but even just the two days had done wonders for mentally recharging the ol' batteries, depleted in that way that only endless workdays can sap.
¤ ¤ ¤ On my way out of the building, I used the second floor bathrooms before walking home. The stairs leading to it were, strangely, one of my favorite parts of the jury duty experience. A pearl white marble, the center areas of each of a dozen steps had been worn smooth by the footsteps of 86 years of daily use. Weekday after weekday, feet had tip tapped their way up and down seemingly impervious steps, wearing away the minutest amount of marble per step. There are moments in a city so old that history and time itself arent just visible, they're felt, even if it's just in the soles of your feet. I stood and gaped at the wear on the steps and although I knew I was alone, I said "wow" out loud, even though I was totally conscious of the fact that I was standing there saying "wow" out loud. Leaving the building, I started my aimless walk up Broadway, peering into shops and people watching, knowing the rest of the city was still working.. wishing, probably without really knowing it, that they had jury duty too.

catskills wedding

BLOG ENTRY
Esra and I went to my first jewish wedding in the catskills this last weekend. the jewish part was really cool, the wedding part was.. soggy. As in, it rained from exactly the time people got to the wedding grounds till.. the next morning, when the sun came out. The tent channeled the water directly into and then all over the ground beneath the tent, creating an almost comical "oh well" scene stopping short of a Woodstock concert only by the lack of hearing-loss-inducing music and muddy nakedness. The morning/afternoon of the wedding, i played miniature golf in the rain with a guy we drove up with while the girls did yoga. This fact somehow ranks as a highlight of the weekend. On sunday, my thin styrofoam plate of breakfast split where my thumb gripped the top of it and i watched in slo-mo as my food went from horizontal to vertical to horizontal to a roomfull of "AWWWww"'s. A chorus in such perfect unison that i have to add that to the highlight reel too. Other highlights included: Esra's cute obsession with finding mouse poop in our B&B room, the vortex of customer-service-less-ness that is the catskills and yours truly wearing a yamulka. no lie, i've got pictures.



see?


the A Team. take a wild guess who's Mr T, sucka!




Esra models the wisest shoe choice of the weekend. (galloshes)