What if I'm beautiful and I'm intelligent, but I'm neurotic as hell and no one will ever be able to truly accept my crazy? What if people can project whatever they want to on me, and they see the awesome girl that they want when in fact I'm just as ugly and frustrating as any other girl on the inside? What if I find myself in my underwear obsessively cleaning my house and trying not to look in the mirrors because I'm suddenly unhappy with my body? What if I lose the best thing in my life because every now and then, inexplicably, I have to really work not to randomly cry? There's a distinct terror in not knowing whether you're normal or not.

Heidi gave me the most brilliant, perfect way to make my senior thesis interesting again. I can't even tell you how much of a weight that is off my mind. It also gives me an opportunity to do something that is somewhat unheard of in arts programs - debut a failed project. Basically what she wants me to do is to use the video I shot in New York in conjunction with the blogs that I wrote on the same days, and if possible, the texts from those days as well. I show essentially how the video failed me, and that for my purposes in my particular time, text was the better medium. While it is in fact undoing a lot of the things that Brian's working to do in his PhD program, it really makes my project not only more interesting to me, but more original in general. It's such the better plan - I'm quite excited now.

Chainsaw noises behind my house again. There are nights when I'm none too comfortable coming home to my little ghetto apartment in crackhead-land.

I think sometimes it's incredibly obvious when I've been splitting up my blogs - when one part was begun one night and the next part was written the next day. Some of this is intensely personal, and sometimes I think I shouldn't post it.

Musings Over a Few Days

Check out this quote by Michel Foucault (my new forced philosopher of choice):

"My problem is essentially the definition of the implicit systems in which we find ourselves prisoners; what I would like to grasp is the system of limits and exclusion which we practice without knowing it; I would like to make the cultural unconscious apparent. Therefore, the more I travel, the more I remove myself from my natural and habitual centers of gravity, the greater the chance of my grasping the foundations I am obliviously standing on. To that extent any trip - not of course in the sense of a sightseeing trip nor even a survey - any movement away from my original frame of reference, is fruitful."

This is an incredible, succinct explanation to why the distance, the chaos of New York was so inspiring for writing. I was everyday forced to examine those ideologies and assumptions that I stand on - that we all stand on, differently - because it was so far removed from my normal, even from the circumstances and situations that *built* my ideologies and assumptions. It's really an incredible quote, and the more I look at it, the more I realize why the inspiration, the wonder that was New York completely faded when I came back here. Honestly, it's bizarre how quickly I fell back into South Carolina. Rapidly, mercilessly, like I hadn't missed a beat. Maybe for a split second my ideologies were challenged by familiar sights after an unfamiliar period of time, but it was incredibly brief. I was already back in my South Carolina mindset by the time I'd spent my first night back.

There's nothing quite as wonderful as having someone to believe in you more than you believe in yourself.

So it's pet peeve time. If this blog were called "Rachel's Pet Peeve of the Day," it would much more easily be a daily post. I know a lot of you love me maybe not for my snark, but at least along with my snark, so here goes: entitled people. Entitled people irritate me to no end. I hope to God that when it's all said and done, people can say that I was at least thankful for all the things I was given. I don't deny that I've been given many things in my life, but I dearly hope that I've expressed my gratefulness for them in most of those cases. Here's the thing, though - don't walk into my coffee shop thinking that my only purpose in this world is to serve you. Don't come in with daddy's credit card, run up a twenty dollar bill, and the conveniently forget to tip. Or even just look up from your cell phone for a second, make eye contact with me, and thank me for the time I've taken to make you that fancy coffee drink that you think you need. Courtesy, people. It's not that difficult. Throw me a bone.

School . . . Future . . . Eww

I find that professors are often the only people smart enough to know when I really think they're stupid. Thus I've never been popular with the professors that I was not impressed with intellectually - Elizabeth Hoffman is a good example (yep, we're naming names). Oddly enough, my fellow students can rarely tell when I think they're absolutely idiotic, but the professors always seem to have a fairly good sense of when I can't stand them. I think many things about me can be falsified, but my eyes don't lie. When I hate you, you know. That's part of the reason why I didn't break the A in my last history class - my TA was, legitimately, an idiot, and she could tell that I knew it. The first day of class she asks, "what can maps tell us?" And I wanted to break out my Benedict Anderson film theory and show her the what-for. She then proceeded to grade all my papers harshly because she didn't like me. Swear to God.

There are days when I feel - intensely - like I'm riding on the coattails of much greater and more talented people. Brian's the obvious example. The next three or four years for me will be both an opportunity to distinguish myself from the excellent company I keep, but also to deserve that company. At the moment, I'm fairly certain I've just stumbled into it. I'd like to earn it. What happens come April will fairly well decide the course of the next few years, and while I'm a little depressed that those glad tidings won't be coming for me, I'm still happy that I have some semblance of a plan. Although that plan reads "follow Brian to _____" at the moment.

I had a short discussion with him about it about a week ago - I told him that it's comforting for me to be able to rest on what he's going to do, in some odd way. If he goes to India, I'm given a circumstance like New York, but more intense and hopefully more inspiring. I don't know if I'll flourish or languish there, but either way I'll have done something intensely new. That's so much pressure to put on him, though. I'm asking him to support me (emotionally, less so monetarily), and be comfortable with the idea of me following him wherever the next few years take him. I hope against all odds that I'll find some way to create my own good luck, but for me, having any semblance of a plan helps.

Senioritis has certainly struck. I'm making it - for the most part - and in fact got my first A on a film paper since taking exclusively Susan Courtney film classes. I was ecstatic, for the record. I'm making better grades this semester than last - at least so far - but I just find myself having to force myself to try a little more than last time. Last semester was my shining beacon, but I guess I've said that more than once.

So that was my school/future bitching session. Expect one on work in the near future. Maybe tomorrow night.

I've started probably ten blogs in the last month - since the last one I wrote? - and ended up dropping all of them. Now that I'm here, my topics are about things and people here. Often Brian, but most of the time I discard those because I think he'd blush over the adoring way I write about him, and I'd probably blush over allowing anyone to know the lovestruck way I think about him. I've started a few about school, but this semester just hasn't been inspiring in any actual scholastic ways. I've thought about writing some about the Film Archive, but most of what inspires me there are the old film reels that I bring home and attach to my walls. I don't know if I should be worried because I'm stagnating, but I think I'm going to try to head that off before it begins. More on that later.

The city that you live in is always bigger than you think it is. More layers, more niches, more places to go that you didn't know existed - partially because, once you're in a place long enough, you forget to really look around you. Everything in life is like that to some extent, I think. You live anywhere, see anything, do anything long enough, and it becomes such second nature that you forget to pay attention to it. I feel like part of living life "fully" (if you'll forgive me using such a cliched term) is learning to periodically delve back into the simple, mundane functions that make up our lives. Part of that, for me, is just walking through a neighborhood that I most often drive through. Walking and driving are so fundamentally different to start with. When you're driving, you're watching traffic patterns and stoplights and thinking about fast ways to get where you're going. When you're walking, even walking with a destination in mind, you see the buildings and notice what's in them and study all the ins and outs of the area around you. Even having to be aware of potentially dangerous situations is intrinsically different from the way you interact with your surroundings in a car. This particularly intrigued me today walking around Brian's neighborhood, noticing how few buildings on Devine I really know the purpose of - there are office buildings, residential areas, and shops on the side of Devine that I had only assumed was . . . actually, I'd never even really considered it. Case in point.

I'm bad about stagnating. I'm sure I've mentioned it before, but I've always had significant problems staying interested in . . . anything, really, without sustained stimulation. I can't say it's exactly intellectual, but there's something that I sometimes find lacking - most especially during the summer - that destroys my ability to function well. Maybe it's senioritis, or maybe this semester really is just lacking in some way, but I need something to yank me out of this weird haze that I'm in. I'm incredibly happy, but after last semester, when I was interested and engaged in school, this semester's a little bit frustrating. I've been presented with what might be an opportunity to break free of that, as long as I have the nerve to go ahead with it. But even so, contacting the person you pretty much worship in order to ask for some kind of mentor relationship is pretty daunting.

Anyway. Let's hope I can keep writing some.

Settling In

Things you do when the parents are on their way:

1. Trash - I mean . . . recycle - the empties.
2. Take out the three trash bags you left on the floor because you didn't feel like wandering into your sketchy back parking lot at 2 AM.
3. Hide any and all evidence of a boy staying over (how many tooth brushes are in the holder?).
4. Make/de-dog-hair-ify the bed.
5. Attempt to clear enough floor space in your tiny apartment so they can walk in the door and set down the boxes they're surely bringing.
6. Turn the Cosmo over/to any page but the "Guy Sex Confessions" article.
7. Leave a few school books lying around - preferably open - to simulate studiousness.

I mean, I realize that they know that I have my own life, but at the same time, we don't have to acknowledge that fact. Everyone's at their happiest when no expectations are being blatantly disappointed.

Sometimes the best things you can do for someone are the small, cheap things that just show you care. Words and grandiose gifts can often only go so far - that small gift of thought is in the end the one that people really long for. I've been on both ends of that equation. I've been given little gifts that so clearly say "I love you" - pasta, necklaces, a rambling 13-minute video about life in a state I left - and also tried to give them. I just hope that I offer back these small gifts of thought as often as they've been given to me. So tonight I dragged dear sweet Greg to the 24-hour BiLo to pick up a chick flick (Wimbledon), ice cream (chocolate chunk), and beer (a 40 of Modelo) as a break-up care package. 10 dollar total, but the two hours spent consuming those items really meant more than anything else I could have said or brought her.

Every now and then I'm still caught off-guard by how much I love film. After three years of analyzing it and picking it apart and studying it, those moments of inspiration come fewer and further between. But every now and then I'll start talking to someone about a movie, and I'll find myself again caught up in that rush of excitement that a brilliant movie can give me. Chatting with my parents tonight, it was one camera movement in Gone Baby Gone and the mirror-bridge sequence in Inception that reminded me of the fact that cinema is such a brilliant medium. It can have a visceral impact in a way that few other media can.

New Stuff

So I think my goal is to make this blog once again a daily affair, or at least something a lot closer to that sense of familiarity. It's different now - you who read it are the same people who will end up being in it, in a lot more cases than it was before - but I feel like it's a good exercise for me to try to put my thoughts down on a regular basis whether or not it's as exotic as my travels to New York were. Once I get internet in my apartment, it'll be an easier business to write regularly. Before I go to bed, after I wake up, whenever I have a minute to steal away. But for now, I'm still settling back in and trying to decide what's necessary and what isn't. It'll take a little longer.

Coming back was strange, but I felt like I approached that jolt really well. I drove back down, which gave me 12 hours to readjust my entire mindset. I think I've said it before, but flying from NYC to SC really creates an odd effect - there's no readjustment time, no quarantine to speak of, so one minute you're in that breakneck speed and you're alone and you're surrounded by thousands of people, and the next you're in the arms of someone you love in the much slower SC pace surrounded by a city that has known you since your birth. There's a sense of shock there that's really hard to put my finger on. But those 12 hours in the car with Brian (I'm going to start using his name now, as part of my SC-blog changes) while I unwound and sweated like crazy (the AC was only on about 20% of the ride home) allowed me the opportunity to say goodbye to that world in a slightly less harsh manner.

I tried to go back and read the first blog post about a week ago. But I started it, and had an instantaneous rush of all those emotions from those first few weeks - despair, terror, and absolutely loneliness - and had to stop. I still have such a visceral reaction remembering what I didn't write while I read what I did write that I couldn't even finish that first post. I say with all seriousness that the only thing that got me through those first few nights was the encouragement that I received from Sarah and Brian. I still have one text saved from Sarah - I won't transcribe it here, but she told me that I was strong and brave and that I could make it through this. And Brian, stopping on his way to some other event, calling me and talking to me for an hour while I let my panic die down little by little. I'll adore you both forever for that.

I know it's ridiculous to say this after two and a half months of hating being in New York, but there is definitely a part of me that misses parts of it. I miss driving out to Coney Island on a rainy day - although those best times were always with Brian - and feeling that strange, old energy wrapped around me. I can definitively say that I miss the buzz the city has. I find myself thinking about when I can go back, even if only for a week, but do it on my own terms and decide whether the city holds quite the kind of sway that I was offered the last few weeks.

Settling back in, only to have school and a new apartment and a new set of obligations thrown at me, has been an interesting experience. One that I'll discuss in more detail later - my new job at the Film Archive has been a really great experience so far, even though it has meant dropping one of my shifts at Cool Beans. Starting back at Cool Beans has been a little funny too, after two months of working for the crazy one with all my strange New York co-workers. My life has completely flipped, for better or for worse, and I find myself fully back in this world with little or no overlap from the previous.

Hours

In some ways, this feels like as much of my last night as the real one will. This is the last time I'll sit in the apartment alone, with my iChat open and my Thievery Corporation up loud. The last night I'll fall asleep alone in that big bed. The next week will feel like more of a vacation than really a wrap-up - in some ways, I feel incredibly unprepared. I wasn't given time to say goodbye, exactly - I was working and waiting, and then suddenly tomorrow, I'll be blissfully unaware that there was ever a city at all. I'm happy about that, but this sudden end of my rhythm is startling.

I had an okay last day. I made good money and I enjoyed working with the people I worked with. It was less bittersweet than last days normally are, mainly because of the hell I put up with from Janice. I came home, did some laundry, cleaned the apartment a bit, and chatted with my landlord about some final terms and whatnot. It's been a good, productive day, one more involved in the preparation for tomorrow than really today. I had a brush with the clean freak in me, and managed to keep her under wraps for at least a little longer - I cleaned that bathroom with a fury that I knew I had, but that had lain dormant for a while in regards to cleaning.

The next week is going to be wonderful. I'll extend that week to include the two or three days right after I get home, when there'll be a flurry of settling and seeing and catching up. I'm incredibly excited about that, as I've mentioned. My emotions do swing wildly between being anxious about going back and being thrilled that I'll be returning to what was such lovely normalcy. Is it awful that I'm nervous about it? Is it more awful that I was offered to opportunity for a summer in New York and didn't fall head over heels for the city?

Yes, StumbleUpon, I like pictures of tiny adorable animals. BITE ME.

Near

Tomorrow's my last day at work - thank God. Today actually went really well, considering how worried I was about it. The Princess was surprisingly kind to me, I made good tips, and I managed a good swing shift on my second to last day. Tomorrow might be another story - I might just walk around yelling "last day, bitches!" People give good tips when you do that, right?

I'm ready to be done. I'm ready to not have my integrity called into question at every turn, I'm ready to not be treated like an imbecile. She told Aaron that she didn't trust me closing last night - she made the poor guy come back in to help me close. The implication here is that she thinks I'm going to steal from her. I did the swing today, so whatever I may not have done last night, I would have had to do this morning - the fact that she legitimately mistrusted me to that extent deeply offends me. I've done nothing but hard work for her, despite being treated the way I've been treated. That's got to count for something.

More than anything, I'm ready to see him again. I've used up most of that eloquence telling him this, but just getting a proper hug for the first time in a month and a half will be a joy. Seeing everyone will be wonderful - I'm looking forward to Karissa's honest hugs, to my Rihanna dance time with Sarah, to my pre-work naps with Chloe, to my coffee (and now drinking!) dates with Brittany, to sharing music and pastries with Rachel, to the days I take Immac lunch to my sister and play with the babies. But more than anything, I'm ready to fall asleep with his arm around me, to share my whispers with him.

There are days when I want to wrap myself up in a song. Like . . . lose myself in it. Shoot up that melody, put it directly into my bloodstream, let it flow into and out of me like some ethereal liquid, mysterious like all music is. Sometimes headphones and speakers just aren't quite good enough. Is there a way to drown in music? I'm sure I've said it before, and maybe I'll have to say it many more times, but I think I want to start playing music again. Have my keyboard and my violin at my new apartment, and try to get back into some sort of regimen. I want to remember the width between half and whole steps again. I want grace notes to come naturally to my fingers again. I want the high back that only playing music can really give you.

There's something especially harsh about forced normalcy. When your words say one thing, and the emotion behind it is pushing you to say something else. It's not always wrong, either - sometimes denying it is really all you can do.

Self-Important Ramblings

There are certain profiles within the working world - there are always two people at every workplace. There's the bitch, the one that everyone either loves or hates, depending on whether the bitch loves or hates them. There is âlwaysˆ this person, always the one who breeds workplace strife. Sometimes they mean to do it because they enjoy the drama, but sometimes they don't even know it - or at least, I like to think that a certain few of these people are just unaware of the havoc they wreak on the rest of us on a daily basis. Profile Number 1: The Bitch (can also be The Diva, but is not necessarily so). Profile Number 2: The Hated One. As I told Jesse once, if you don't know who the hated one is within a week of working somewhere, you should assume it's you and bust your butt until you get it squared away. As I've mentioned before, I have a good nose for workplace drama - more because I pay attention to human interaction than because I enjoy the dish.

So I had The Bitch pegged within the first day, basically. Jesse introduced her as "The Park Slope Princess," which was enough of an indication for me. Up until yesterday, I'd actually gotten along okay with her - I'm new, and I know how to keep my head down if nobody's deliberately targeting me. But yesterday, inexplicably, it was like she became aware of my presence and the fact that I had no ill will towards her, and decided to change all of that with three hours of inordinate bitchiness. I get - and deeply respect - the concepts of seniority and even the sense of superiority that it brings. But there's no need for the kind of condescending, demeaning attitude that this girl has, and it really pisses me off. I have two more shifts to get through with this girl, but God help me, because I'm dreading it awfully. I'm having to try harder to care about things with every passing shift, too.

I wish the real world were like University - I wish I could, at the end of the "semester," write up an evaluation of Janice, and express my disdain and disgust with both her managerial style and her way of dealing with people in general. As it is, I suppose I'll just have to express my frustration here - I don't want to slander the store as a whole on Yelp!, because I actually really respect the people who work for her, and want them to remain employed. The woman couldn't respectfully interact with one of her employees if her life depended on it - she's caustic, cruel, and about as passive-aggressive as they come. And that's even aside from the fact that she's awful about micromanaging, and doesn't know how to just let her managers do their job.

As long as the blog is still entitled as my Personal Theories, here are my thoughts on managing: a good manager should be a liaison between the owner and the employee. The owner is the idealist, while clearly the employee is the pragmatist. The owner thinks of ways to bring in or keep business, many of which sacrifice efficiency and speed; the employee thinks of ways to open and close and help the customers quicker, many of which sacrifice some of the integrity of the business. These are both valid points - the employee's tactics benefit the owner by clocking out early, but the owner's tactics benefit the employee by getting them more tips. But the manager's job is to negotiate that incredibly fine line - to find a middle ground between the two, and to mediate between these two somewhat-opposing parties. A good manager should be able to see both points of view, and work between them accordingly - this is why an owner working in close contact with the employees makes everything twice as complicated. Every time Janice walks in and starts mucking around, she's undermining Drew or Jesse's authority, and damaging the set of rules being crafted. It's just a shame.

I want to draw an odd - maybe even disrespectful - parallel; craft an analogy that might be weak, but one that expresses a growing apprehension. Is Stockholm Syndrome partially caused by the victim's new found fear of what was once considered normalcy? Maybe as the first part of my retrospective, I think I want to express the city as my captor. In a way, I was dragged here by my sense of obligation to myself - one of the driving forces in my life is my desire to live with an eye to not regretting things in the future. I forced myself into going, and then staying, and then surviving. This probably sounds incredibly melodramatic, but the sense of panic that I felt every single day for the first several weeks - and then less often, but still regularly in the months following - was incredibly real, and immediate. I could feasibly label myself my own captor, but it was the legacy and prestige of the words "New York" that made me stay. But just recently, as my frame of mind has started shifting into "last few days" mentality, I've started thinking I may not be ready to go back to what was once normal. Not because I don't still love Columbia, or my network of really incredible friends and family, or even how convenient my life was; honestly, it's just that transitioning back into what I once considered normal now seems strangely daunting.

Alright. Enough theories for the night.

6

It's such a beautiful day today - clear blue skies, cool air, nice breezes. At home, this would be the day just at the beginning of fall that I would go out with Chloe, lay on the Horseshoe, and admire the way the sunlight and the trees dapple the grass. There are parks here, and they are beautiful, but there's nothing quite like walking to the middle of your university and just feeling deeply a part of something. College is fun like that.

There were two hipster/punk girls in the 59th Street station the other day - we're talking pin-up girl tattoos, the crazy '50s-inspired dress, even stocking tattoos. The whole nine yards. And I really wanted to grab one of them and ask them in all seriousness, "you know where you are, right? Like, you're aware that this is Sunset Park?"

Speaking of Sunset Park, Stanley asked me last night where I lived. I told him I was under the impression it went by the name of Sunset Park, although the divisions within divisions of neighborhoods have me more and more confused, and that it was really just a part of Bay Ridge as far as I was concerned (and as it was advertised on Craigslist). He goes, "Sunset Park. I took a wrong turn once on my bike and couldn't stop and ended up there. It was like, I went from pretty Park Slope, then started seeing a lot more unsafe areas and unused parking lots, and then suddenly it just looked like everything had been bombed out." And I was like, yep, that's Park Slope.

Funny story - I was on the phone tonight, wrapping up a pretty serious conversation. I pull up to a red light and sit for a minute, thinking through the call and whatnot, glance over, and see a cop. I look back down the road, but after a second he beeps his siren at me. I glance back over, and he's got his hand up in the international "phone" symbol. I rolled down my window just as I'm realizing what he's getting at, shaking his head no at me. "What, it's not illegal to talk on the phone in South Carolina?" he says, laughing a little. I'm like, "Sir, they just made ˆtextingˆ illegal." He goes, "alright, don't call me sir, and use the speakerphone." I was like, mmkay!

I feel like a retrospective is in order. Or something like that. It's a little early yet - I still have a week and a half left in the city, or something like that - but I feel like it's about time for me to evaluate my general experience. Do I regret things? Do I wish I'd done more? Do I wish I'd exposed myself to more experiences? So on and so forth. Maybe that'll be the next blog, or whenever I next feel inspired to that kind of eloquence. Not tonight.

7

There's a different New York out there, and it is a strange and appetizing place. It's more like the New York I guess I'd imagined - someplace where, on entering a bar, you see someone you had a memorable conversation with months before, and then begin the ritual of drink-buying and culture-discussing and jazz-musing. I should back up a few steps. There's a really amazing older gentleman that comes into Naidre's very often named Stanley - I may have mentioned him before, as the "culture critic" that took a liking to me above all the rest of the staff. Tonight, after watching me deal with what was basically one of the most harrowing days at this job so far, he asked me if I wanted to go get drinks with him. We wandered the Carroll Gardens bar scene a little, ending up at a Mediterranean bar where I had some delicious sangria and talked about things with him.

Stanley is an amazing guy. You say, "I was watching this Scorcese movie the other day . . ." and once you're finished, Stanley will say, "yeah, you know, Scorcese's an interesting character. We talked once about . . ." You say, "you ˆknowˆ Scorcese?" He'll say, "well, we've talked a few times, especially after he stole my opening line at a conference we were both at." So on and so forth. Stanley has been everywhere and seen everything - but he's not a name-dropper, and he wants to talk about things that interest you. In the bar, we ran into a guy that Stanley had discussed Thelonious Monk with - Stanley happens to be an expert on the subjects of both jazz and blues, as evidenced by the novel that he wrote about two jazz musicians struggling to keep their relationship alive underneath growing racial tension. Again, almost inexplicably, Stanley took an interest in me, giving me his essay about Quentin Tarantino and then earlier this week, his novel. Which is freaking brilliant, by the way.

I listened to these two New York men - neither of them natives, but there's really no such thing anyway - talk about music and movies and jazz and Thelonious Monk and Duke Ellington and Wagner and Tristan and Isolde, and realized that this is what I'd always imagined from New York. A place where you can wander into a bar and happen on an expert in some random field, and then just soak up the knowledge that is taken and exchanged so casually. I'm sipping on sangria in a tiny bar in the back alleys of Brooklyn, talking to one world-renowned jazz/blues/culture critic and one enigmatic classical music expert who offered himself as a "neophyte" in the jazz world but started off by comparing Beiderbeck's duality of piano and cornet to one of Monk's bank members who also played the violin. Brilliant, amazing people walk these streets every day, and I brush shoulders with them. There's a wealth of untapped possibilities, conversations; trafficking of knowledge and a library of stories to be had.

After the day I had, suffice to say I deserved that night. I closed at Carroll Gardens today, where the AC was being fixed. Which means they had to turn it off. I was hot. Burning up hot, for two or so hours while the worryingly flirtatious AC guys tried to fix it. Sinclair said, "yo, pay the AC guys." So they come to me with a 500 dollar invoice, and I pay it to them. Janice calls an hour or so later, I tell her what's up, and she says, "but you didn't pay them the full 500, right?" I'm like, " . . . what?" She says, "They were paid 110 yesterday. You paid them the full 500, godammit." And at this point, this rush goes through me: panic, for one thing, and absolute, crushing rage. By all that is sacred, if you have one person pay part, wouldn't you tell the other person not to pay the full bill? She didn't get angry at me - I would have legitimately looked her in the eye, said "screw you" and walked - but the whole situation just drove home exactly how ridiculous this job is. What's best of all? They didn't even fully fix it - apparently she'd told everyone ˆbutˆ me how to tell whether the AC was fixed or not, and left strict instructions not to pay them unless certain conditions were required. Thanks for that communication, guys. Thanks a ton.

Trip-hop has taken over my world. Massive Attack has become the soundtrack for New York, very suddenly. "Exchange" and "Black Milk" from the "Mezzanine" album. "Angelica," by Lamb. "Le Monde," by Thievery Corporation. "Fixed Income," by DJ Shadow. Something about those smooth beats, those sensual rhythms, that certain aura of mystery that goes back to something elemental in the the chord structure that I'll never understand - these things have become the sound of New York to me. Was something else the sound earlier? I can't remember. This summer seems to have stretched on for decades.

I spent an hour two nights ago listening to Jars of Clay's "Sad Clown" on repeat. The reason why? There's a piano solo about two and a half minutes in that has been cathartic for me many times, and I suddenly missed the feeling of keys under my fingers really desperately.

There is something mystical - spiritual - about music, isn't there? The way two notes can strike together and be . . . perfect. There's something in their very nature that causes them to stand together and be better than they ever could be alone. The context matters more than we let on, though - major and minor sound right and wrong at different times, depending entirely on the world they exist in. It's such a beautiful metaphor, even. And then moving on, two sequential notes - just two notes - can set a mood for an entire song. Tricky's "Aftermath" springs to mind, with that opening riff of just two notes that give you a blueprint for an entire song. That motif is both brilliant and elegant in its simplicity. It's just incredible how two tones are, in their very wavelengths, made for each other, or made to create something beautiful and unique together.

Also: ass tat.

Word of the Day: "Impression"

Today, I suppose because the days are starting to close in on me a little bit, I started thinking about all those sweet, half-lost memories that are now more snapshots of emotion than literal remembrances. More than anything, it's difficult to capture these moments because they mean nothing to anyone else - they're fleeting glances, aching thoughts of experiences that I know I'll never quite get back. Memories are funny things, really - even as I'm experiencing something, a moment of joy or despair, I know that I'll never be able to re-experience it. The moment is gone, it's fleeting, and although there will be happier and more despairing times to come, I find myself often very aware of this loss, if you will. Most often that feeling comes in relation to people, to relationships, as I consider the fact that a single moment is just that.

I don't mean that to sound nearly as fatalistic as it does, just to be clear. I think part of the beauty of life is looking back with melancholy but content eyes on these impressions. The moment that sparked all this contemplation was one from much earlier in the summer. I remember it being a drizzly, cool day - there was a time in the summer when it was still very cold, which looking back seems terribly odd - just a few days before the play opened. We walked up to the post office, shunning umbrellas, embracing the dampness soaking into our skin and hair. I can't describe exactly what it was that made it such a beautiful memory, but I remember everything just feeling right, feeling comfortable and new and wonderful all at the same time. And although I know that there will be many times like this, better times even, there's still some part of me that is sad for that time. One of a hundred different reasons why my New York experience has been deeply bittersweet.

Today my street reminded me of the impressions I have of San Francisco. Albeit the streets would need to be way rockier and skinnier to fit my memory, but the deep cloud banks against a dark grey sky with the rows of residences reminds me of a few of the images I have from San Francisco all those years ago. That probably sounds totally crazy to people who know both cities well, but something about the skyline today . . .

It occurred to me today that the smell of laundromats will forever remind me of New York. I was unacquainted with the idea of doing laundry outside of one's apartment until I got here, so the fresh concept of public laundry machines was directly linked with this new city. Even beside that, there is a distinct "laundromat" smell that permeates many of the parts of Brooklyn that I spend time in - Bay Ridge and Park Slope, to be exact. It's a chemical-y, soap-y smell, one that brings to my mind that glossy feeling on your hands after you've scrubbed something with bleach. I can't explain it well, but in some ways it encapsulates parts of New York's personality for me - this odd obsession with cleanliness in what is probably the dirtiest city in America (also notable within the food service industry, where all the health codes in the world can't make things any cleaner).

I Stumbled this website of unforgettable people the other day, which gave me interesting, uncomfortable ideas for how much I'd like to take pictures of some of the people I've seen this summer. The idea behind this website was that most people that we pass in a day we forget instantly - whether it's natural human instinct or whether they just seem uninteresting to us - so when the author came across people who caught her eye in a more lasting way, she took their portraits. It's a really fascinating idea, albeit a really intrusive one (and one which is clearly most interested hipsters, but that's a separate point). It in turn caught my eye, and made me really wish I'd have thought to (and had the guts to) do the same. I've seen some really fascinating people here - on the subway, on the streets, in stores, everywhere. An MTA worker riding on the subway today - an older Santa Claus-looking gentleman with suspenders and bright clear blue eyes - made me think of it especially. I wish I could sit these people down and steal a lasting impression from them.

19

It occurred to me yesterday that, during my summer here, I've gotten not the visitor's view of New York, but rather the residential tour. I've seen very few of the tourist trap kind of sights, done very few of the touristy things to do. I've been to the museums multiple times, and spent some time in the parks, but for the most part I've jumped straight to the action of living, working, and trying to make friends here.

So homeboy was definitely lingering today. He had a fairly simple order, so when he continued to find ways to stay at the counter, we were just a little bit confused. I helped him with the final aspect of his order, and when I smiled at him and told him to have a nice day, he stopped cold and looked me dead in the eye for a minute. "You are sooo beautiful," he said, and then smiled at me when I laughed and told him it warmed my heart. "Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked, and then said, "the beautiful ones always do." Then smiled at me one final time and walked away. I distinctly remember the first thought that jumped to mind when he said that: "you're actually seeing my face under this stupid hat?" That was just one odd vignette from my already-strange day. It reminded me of a time back at Cool Beans, though, when a young Arab man told me in broken English that I was "too beautiful to work in this place." I also remember holding that over Amanda's head for weeks.

Counting down days: only 18 more days of employment, 19 before I get my final visitor. Pretty much without question, August 5th is going to be the best day ever. And with the Metric concert on top of that? So good. OH right - it's also someone's birthday. I'll think about sending a present, but we'll have to see. I'm looking forward to coming home, greeting my new apartment, setting things up, and getting back into the rhythm of my Columbia life.

Oh Premiere Pro, why do you make things so easy, but make me agonize over getting to the ease?

Rainy Days

I hydroplaned like mad today, although this was not the worst time. But "worst" implies that there was a best time, which God knows is impossible. That's some scary stuff. The Belt Parkway Westbound was backed up for about five miles because two of the three lanes were flooded, so it took me about two hours to make a drive that should have taken a tenth of that time. It started pouring down rain almost immediately after I dropped Jimmy off at JFK, and must have flooded the Parkway within about ten minutes. Absolutely ridiculous. But I wasn't doing anything crazy or unsafe when I hydroplaned - I didn't even hit an especially large patch of water. It just happened, out of the blue, and I only managed to miss the median and the other cars by a hair. About thirty seconds after I straightened back out and regained control, I felt my heart rate double and momentarily lost feeling to my fingers and toes. I've always had that disconnected, delayed reaction when stressed out or really angry - it's something of a blessing, because I don't start feeling the physical effects of the panic until after I've dealt with it and moved on already.

Jimmy's visit was a lot of fun. He's a super-chill guy, so anytime I was at work, he was just wandering around NYU doing grad school smart-kid Jimmy things, texting me occasionally to ask for directions, and showing up right on cue when I was ready to leave. Maybe the highlight of the weekend was our decision on Sunday night to attempt to make sangria - fabulous idea. If we would say so ourselves. What's really great about this story is that, for lack of a kitchen and thus any kind of kitchen utensils or containers, we were forced to mix the fruit, wine and sugar together in the Mr. Coffee coffee pot. And then stuff said coffee pot into my mini-fridge. The sangria turned out really well - I was surprised how much of the wine the fruit actually soaked up, but we split what was left between the three of us (Joe came to test our skill) and greatly enjoyed it. That fruit was stellar. I sense a project (bettering my sangria-making skills) coming on when I get set up in my new apartment.

So the editing project. It's both really intriguing, really frustrating, and really humbling. The most basic things in the world stump me, and I ask stupid questions of intelligent people to solve these problems, which annoys me most of all. I'm very, very slowly learning, but in some ways, Premiere Pro is just . . . not organic. Some things just don't flow. It's probably better than most, but sometimes it just doesn't make any sense to me, and I'm left scrambling for help amongst tutorials that cost large sums of money to watch. Also, oh hi, over-heating computer that burns my legs while complaining about the workload I expect from it. So help me, I will prevail.

Work drama . . . oh work drama. There's been more in the last two months working at Naidre's than there was for two and a half years at Cool Beans. No, that's not true. But Cool Beans really only had one dueling couple, and no crazy boss whatsoever. That pretty much makes the rest matter less. The fact that Kitty hates firing people, and does it so rarely, is a huge strike in Cool Beans' favor. I'm not looking forward to going back there, exactly, but at least I won't be in constant fear of my job. Money started disappearing over the week that Janice was gone, which, unsurprisingly, meant that several people's heads were instantly on the chopping block. Mine was not really one of them, as I've largely been dependable and accurate, but she sent out a few nasty crazy e-mails that led to grumbling from a decent number of the staff. The woman has the capability to be an indescribable bitch. There's just no way around that. Even when she's halfway relented and realized that maybe it's not as bad as she thought it was, she's still incredibly hard to deal with.

Oh third tattoo, how you and your Fineline Tattoo Parlor tempt me . . .

One Month and One Day . . . About

At this exact moment in time, everything feels right. It's a combination of many elements - most of which I won't detail - that leaves me waking this morning feeling like things will be okay. Probably even better than okay: that things can be, maybe are, and certainly will be beautiful. Part of this newfound contentment is that I've hammered out an issue of uncertainty in my future, and heaven knows how much I hate not knowing what my future will hold. I have an apartment in Columbia lined up. It is neither large nor particularly inviting, but it is a place to come home to, a place to call my own, a place that is not my parents' house (no offense, wonderful parents!). Already I can feel a weight lifting off my shoulders. It makes my return seem more concrete and immediate in all the right ways - although I've just now started learning how to have some fun in this city, and I'll probably establish myself just as I'm leaving, knowing that there's a space for me at home makes the month somehow look less daunting.

Maybe one of the foremost things that I'm learning this summer is that, in the end, the people in your life are what enrich it. To some extent, I thought in Columbia that I was established enough to accomplish that by myself, but I've quickly been taught that it's the people that matter, not the situations or even the locations. Even everyday interactions with the servers that I've bonded with - these are some of the things that keep me sane. Just knowing that I'll be recognized somewhere is an incredibly comforting sentiment. Were there to be a graph, charting my enjoyment of the city with the number of people that I've actually spent time with, there's a clear correlation - it was when I started hanging out with co-workers and servers that just a little bit of the depression started to break. Whether that says something negative about my personality or not - that's another discussion.

There are mornings when I wake up knowing beyond doubt that I'm cared about. It's great to know that, even this far away from home, I've got the love and support of people who would basically do anything for me. There's something to be said for going to sleep with the assurance of affection, and waking up with it reaffirmed - last night I fell asleep warmed even by words, from miles and miles away, that could demonstrate love in ways that amaze me. I'm incredibly grateful for these moments, feel my best when warmed by these sentiments. When you find people who can offer you that kind of love and affection, I feel like you can safely count yourself one of the luckiest people on earth.

At Long Last

I've been really slack again - sorry. I'm not sure why exactly the blog hasn't been striking my fancy quite as often, although I did have Rachel up for a few days, so that may have been it. I keep thinking of things I want to write about, but when I get home, most of the time I just lose the motivation to write them. Maybe I'm using my words elsewhere.

My birthday was a strange mixture of good and bad - I'll start with that. Birthdays hold large, special meaning for me, I guess because I'm still young and those birthdays still actually seem exciting. I remember being absolutely miserable on my 16th birthday because I wasn't at home, my dad wasn't around, and people were banging gongs while singing "Happy Birthday" to me. I've spent birthdays with friends before, and that's been fine, but there's some kind of distinction there.

Rachel and I had gone on a midnight bar run the night before, in order to ring my birthday in right - the bartender was sweet and told me that my first birthday drink was on her (it was a Peach Jolly, because I let her choose for me, and yes I realize how froofy that is), and has so far been the only person to card me. And then only because she said she'd be mad if she didn't get carded on her birthday. The next morning, we went to brunch, where the sweet and wonderful girls at Perch Cafe remembered that it was my birthday, so brought me out six tiny cookies in a circle with a candle in the middle. They went far above and beyond - I was touched. Then I had to go to work while Rachel got a car to the airport. It was great to have her up, even though she couldn't stay for the "festivities."

So I worked that night - we won't go into details about how many birthday shots of Jack I had to refuse, because Drew felt we should go light on the work and heavy on the festivities - but I got off early. So I found some dinner and just bummed around for a little while until I got the text from work-Sarah, the only person who could actually make it that night. I got a call that almost broke me - I was sitting alone outside the wine bar where I met Sarah, 9:30 on a birthday that had been anything but fireworks, so fully aware that everything I love is 700 miles away from me. When I heard his voice, I got lost in the homesickness and sadness and aloneness, even though it was still the most comforting thing on earth. It's a hard series of emotions to explain, but when I got off the phone and stood up to greet Sarah, I had to fight back tears and steady my voice. She could tell.

She was really what made my birthday okay. We talked and laughed for what must have been about two hours, and it was the sheer force of her company that woke me up out of the depression I was pretty deeply sunk into. I can't actually express how grateful I was for that. Here's the thing: I probably sound crazy when I talk about how depressed I am, because I'm living the dream of a summer in New York. I'm young, I've got a job (now), what more could I want? But the problem is that this was never my dream to start with. I think that's the huge difference - I never imagined moving to New York as the ultimate summer experience. Not without any tie to home, or any entrance to my field, that is. Living someone else's dream has not been kind to me.

I've been working a fair amount, but I had yesterday and the day before off. I didn't do anything particularly exciting on Tuesday, but yesterday I went to the MoMA. Which was absolutely amazing. I intend to go back several more times, so I'll devote entire posts to its magnificence at a later time. But one thing I thought was interesting right off the bat - the Met demands your attention, requires you to be in awe of all the historicity and the important things. The MoMA is very different. It's playful, it lets you breathe, it doesn't demand your attention or direct it to something "important." Then, to some extent, the nature of modern art requires that - some pieces are even meant to be unnoticed, just to exist in their space. Amazing place, though. Just incredible.

Alex's sister and I finally managed to get together, also at long last. Romina is a super cool girl, and I'm sad it took me so long to getting around to meeting her. She got a fairly good sense of my life, and finally said, "it's because of him talking to you every night. That's why you've made it. Anyone in your position without that comfort would have gone home by now." She's absolutely right, too. So she'll soon be taking me under her wing, taking me out to do things, and hanging out with me. That's a certain kind of kindness that I'm most grateful for.

Back from Home

The week at home was absolutely magical. In fact, it was honestly too good - if I can make a comparison to people being shipped overseas for various purposes, it feels like it was actually that much harder to come back once I remembered all the comforts and pleasures of home. The four days spent in Columbia gave me a taste both of what next semester might hold, as well as what this summer could have been - both a tragic and incredibly comforting realization. I won't lie, I'm struck by the same panic that hit me right before I left. Maybe worse, even, because I have even slightly different priorities than the ones I left with.

Obviously the most striking difference between New York and South Carolina is the people (my people, if I can be so bold). But besides that, I think the thing that I find most different is the struggle to be in New York. South Carolina has an ease of existence for me - both because I've grown up there and because the city itself is just structured differently - and one which is entirely lacking in New York. Just the fact that I can drive places in South Carolina is a major time and energy saver; waiting on the train, waiting on a connection, walking from the train, waiting even longer on the train on the return journey . . . although I really enjoy the subway, spending an hour getting somewhere that would be a 15 minute drive is a little inefficient. Getting places outside of one's own neighborhood is just generally difficult, in my mind, being as I am the product of a regular-sized city where you could drive anywhere on a whim with little or no effort. Traffic? ha. Maybe some of that has to do with the apartments I've occupied in South Carolina as well, with their full kitchens and roommates/neighbors and puppies and on-street parking and close restaurants.

And now that's enough whining. Because I may be scared and lonely, and I may feel like I've lost my adventuring spirit (did I have one to start with?), but I'm in the most exciting city on the East Coast, and I'm making good money (assuming I ever see any of it) - I'll be fine. Anyway, here are a couple of moments over the last week that I thought were worth sharing, in no chronological order whatsoever.

When I went through security in Charlotte (coming back to NY from home), they had me walk through this crazy X-ray machine. You have to stand, hands raised over your head like in a cop movie, feet spread shoulder width apart, and wait for seven seconds while the machine scans you for God-knows-what. I'm a fairly innocent looking person - Sarah would probably dispute that with her patented Sarah Allen eye roll, but most people don't know any better - but apparently something looked odd in my general chest area. This middle aged woman walks up to me with a stern look on her face and says, "you have anything up in here?" and gestures towards my breasts. "Umm, no," I say, confused but already amused at this situation, "that's all natural." She lightens up and laughs, but then tells me she's about to feel me up ("check you over" was her particular terminology, or something like that), and does so with great thoroughness. She turns to the woman operating the machine - "her back?" she says, and makes a special point of rubbing between my shoulder blades - and then shrugs and sends me on my way. The bra I was wearing must have confused them. It's got an odd clasp, I'll give them that: it's a large single clasp off to the side rather than the regular double-clip variety. Maybe they saw that and thought, "tiny crazy white girl packin' heat gonna kill us." Or maybe not. Who knows.

There were swallows in JFK. Mind you, I'm walking out of the terminal with my jaw set against any quivering, just keeping my head up and my mind on my bags. Just as I shifted my eyes up towards the ceiling, I saw a couple of swallows racing above me. As much as I realize that those swallows were probably hopelessly trapped in the airport, and their situation was somewhat dire, it was a little like the moment with the coyote in Collateral - it was like a brief interlude in the rush of emotions and disappointments, like a lapse in the normal function of time for just a split second. If you've seen the part in Collateral that I'm referring to, you understand the poignancy of that moment. Kind of melancholic.

Breaking into my family's house was a lot of fun. I made Sarah come get me on Wednesday, and after bumming around Columbia for a few hours, I finagled her into taking me out to the parents' house. Smart kid that I am, I forgot to bring my keys. We get there, and I'm like, "oh snap, Sarah, we can't get in," and I'm feeling really bad because I dragged her all the way out there. She goes, "girl, just get the spare key!" And I'm like . . . spare key? She then proceeds to not only show me the spare key, but then inform me of my family's whereabouts at the time and tell me why I hadn't gotten a response e-mail from my dad. My faux-sister now officially knows more about my family than I do. They'd totally adopt you, by the way, Sarah - ask them if you can steal that guest room whenever you need a break from your own family. I bet they'd say yes.

I experienced the perfect morning last week. I woke up slowly for the promise of coffee and Honey Nut Cheerios, then curled up on the couch, lazily switching between Wimbledon and the World Cup. With the window AC blowing cool air on us, and light streaming in the windows, and a cat padding around behind us, those few hours were spent in absolute bliss. If this is what summers can be - if this is what next semester will be, then I'm sold. It's a beautiful laziness, and these memories will keep me strong until I can come home to their reality.

Anyway, I'm sure there's a lot more to talk about, and I'm sure I've left off a lot of the last week that will stick with me or come back to me later. It was lovely to see my family again, to get to hug my nieces (even though they didn't really want those hugs) and pet my puppy. I was thrilled to see my closest friends again, who were troopers and came to pick me up and drop me off and ferry me around. Absence, in this case, makes the heart even more grateful.

Work Stuff

So I walked into the Farmacy Soda Shop today - the place right across the street from Naidre's that got renovated just before I got here - just to pick up some old-fashioned iced tea mix to bring home to my peeps. It's a super cute place, all old-timey and beautifully old-fashioned and whatnot. Anyway, when I got up to the counter, the owner (who frequents Naidre's) takes a good long look at me and goes, "I was thinking about talking to you today." I'm like, umm . . . He says, "I want to offer you a second job." I must have looked perplexed, so he goes, "I know your shifts end over there at three, we start over here at three. You seeing my drift?" I'm like, umm . . . And he says, "you have a husband? Kids?" Umm . . . "Good, then you can work like crazy!" So at this point I finally pipe up and say, well, I'm going home for a week, but after that . . . He says, "going home? Perfect. Spend all your money. Don't save a thing. Spend all your money, then come back and work like crazy." I'm still just pretty much smiling, holding the tea in my hands, and he goes, "take it, take it! Before I change my mind! And remember, spend all your money at home! Save nothing!" So when I get home, I have a second job all lined up if I want it. Which I do. At this point, it seems as if I might actually be saving up some money this summer rather than just blowing it all on living cost (and not too cheaply, because I'm me).

I got cafe-recognized today for the first time. I feel like that's a bit of a momentous occasion - when you're recognized from your workplace for the first time. As I was walking up the street to stop in at Farmacy, I saw a woman who comes in at least twice a day and gets iced coffee. She was coming from the opposite direction, so when she got close enough, she looked up at me and waved. It was a little bit touching, to tell you the truth. I feel like, very slowly, I'm opening up the doors to the community. It's really just sad that I'll be leaving them pretty much as soon as I open them wide enough to get through.

I got oddly taken advantage of today at work - I got the server slice of tips (that is to say, 10%) rather than the swing slice of tips (which would have been equal share) because I was working for Casey (this big ox that literally just takes people food and clears dishes). Yet I ended up doing actually most of the swing work on top: stocking, cleaning, making teas and coffees, and sticking around as long as needed. I would have been more annoyed had I not actually had a really nice time hanging out with work-Sarah the last several hours, talking about movies, and music, and boys, and whatever else. That girl is sharp as a tack, and really has a lot of stories I'd like to unlock - turns out she worked as a DP (director of photography) for the Power Rangers TV show for a couple of years, but decided to get out of the lifestyle before she got addicted to it. Really an interesting girl.

So I walked outside tonight to sit on my stoop for a few minutes and enjoy the night air, and all three of the Irish girls from upstairs were sitting out there. I was a bit taken aback at first, because I'd just been expecting a few quiet minutes to myself, but decided the best thing to do would be to just go chat with them. So I sat outside with them for about twenty minutes, discussing how we felt about being outsiders in New York, the struggle to get a summer job, what we were studying, so on and so forth. They have these beautiful lilting accents, and they use slang that I'm really intrigued by. I invited them to my birthday shindig, which at this point has very many attendees and currently no plan of attack whatsoever. I need to work on that . . .

Times - They Were Had

I think that a regularly recurring realization that you're a dumbass is probably a healthy way to exist. I'm not saying you need to be reminded every day, or even every week, but it's probably sometimes a very good thing to be brought back down to a level where you can see yourself in a more realistic light. Or maybe that just goes for me. This entire summer has been an exercise in humility for me, which I'm both coming to terms with and becoming grateful for. It's good to be reminded that the world is so much bigger than me, and that there will always be someone somewhere better at anything than I am. I'm not necessarily talking about anything particular - although realizing last night that there was a subway stop so much closer to Park Slope than I thought there was certainly made an impression - just that I'm often forced to recognize talent and intelligence far above mine.

Yesterday was a bit of a rough day. I was sent over to the Park Slope Naidre's - the smaller one, but the one which does more business - to close train with Jesse. Having really considered the situation deeply, I still just can't get a read on Jesse. You guys know how rare that is; I form fairly accurate opinions of people very fast. So I don't like him. But I also don't dislike him exactly - it's a very odd reaction that I have to him. I think maybe it's because I feel like he's very fake? The only moments yesterday that I wasn't completely "askew" with him were moments when we were discussing the special people in his life. On the one hand, I think my canted impression of him may be very reasonable - I'm mostly certain he's married, but in talking to him fairly in-depth about his "special someone," he never once referred to her as his wife. He talked about her as being "complicated," repeatedly. Yet when I asked the woman on the other end of the work line who was calling, she fairly clearly said "his wife." He's incredibly flirtatious - which I'll mostly write off as being a byproduct of essentially flirting for tips, something all good baristas will admit to doing - but I don't think that's it exactly. Something about him just makes me wary.

Getting back on track, working an eight hour shift at a fairly busy, completely new-to-me location while having a micro-managing sketchy manager over my shoulder the whole time, while being the most home-sick I've been so far - that was not a fun night. I shouldered through with minimal pathetic texts to people I needed comforting from. After that, I walked up to Perch (which is about four blocks away) and spent the next three or four hours hanging out with Joe (the bartender), who was working his last shift. Joe's a super great guy, and we've always had a great rapport (as you should always try to have with your bartender). So I ordered some penne pasta with scallops and spent some time relaxing with my book. Quite lovely.

So I stayed around while he and Kate (the really sweet server) were finishing up, and by virtue of the fact that they both really like me and I offered to help with a few details, I stayed post-closing. Everyone's out, the door's locked, and Joe goes, "alright, Rachel, we're doing a shot." Now mind you I don't really drink - I've had bottles of alcohol laying around my house for months at a time (all left by other people) that I haven't touched, since my only craving is typically a few inches of red wine to complement my dinner. That's not to say I'm a lightweight, but I've certainly never done shots before (lack of urge, not lack of opportunity). But it seemed appropriate, so I took my first-ever shot of bourbon with the first person I've ever termed "my" bartender, in celebration of his last day. It seemed a bit like a moment - we had times. He said I took it like a pro, which made me a little bit proud. I still don't exactly have a taste for it - give me my liquor on the rocks, to sip slowly - but it felt like a moment I'd kind of like to remember.

Point of interest - walking over the gates that line the New York City sidewalk makes me inordinately nervous. I'm fully aware that those gates swing up and not down, and that it's actually basically impossible for one of them to collapse underneath me. And yet every time I walk over one of them, I think to myself, "not this time, not this time," and try to step lightly. I guess I find the fact that there are giant holes cut through the concrete walkway kind of intimidating, even though there are giant steel doors covering them just as securely.

Also, I find smiling at train conductors to be incredibly rewarding. I feel like they really get ignored at best - whether because some of them suck or because their job seems easy on the surface - and often times treated worse. So when I see one of them going by while I'm on the platform, I make direct eye contact with them and smile. I swear to God I think it brightens their day.

Thursday Afternoon

Jesse asked me today whether the sun on my hip was a marijuana leaf. I mean, okay, yes, he could only see a sliver of it while I was stretching up to get something, but apparently he saw the rays and thought, oh, marijuana leaf! I had this momentary breakdown in anything resembling sense and gave the poor guy the dead-eyed glare that I normally reserve only for people who couldn't fire me at a moment's notice. Sarah knows about this look - this one has melted faces before. It's no joke. I remembered my station and played it off, but my confidence was incredibly shaken for a few minutes there. It doesn't look like a pot leaf. I know that. But still, the fact that he thought so at all worries me a little bit. I've got no problem with people smoking pot, but getting it tattooed? Absolutely not. That's legitimately one of the trashiest tattoo ideas I've ever heard.

Speaking of tattoo ideas . . . this city is bad for me. I keep coming up with things I want to get done. And two or three of them are legitimate, easily concealable, and cute. Not to mention cheap. That's bad news, because that means that getting them wouldn't be such a stretch this summer. It's New York, guys. There are surely some of the best tattoo artists in the world up here.

I served Jenny Slate a large skim latte today. Jenny Slate, one of the newer additions to Saturday Night Live, and one of the actually-funny ones. She ordered, and although I recognized her, I just figured she had "one of those faces." Sinclair made a special point of making the latte himself - and although I'm still not considered a good drink maker, he's started letting me do stuff more lately. After she left, Sinclair turns around and goes, "I make her lattes." Very distinctly. I laugh and am like, mmkay why? And Sinclair says, "because that's Jenny Slate, and I have a wicked crush on her." Ohh. I'm still in the Columbia mentality, I think - I see someone who looks famous and I'm like, "oh, that looks like a famous person" rather than "oh, that's a famous person." Sinclair informed me that a decent number of famous people live around here, including Alexis Bledel. He also told me that she's kind of a bitch, but I'll choose to ignore that statement.

Boys don't take rejection well. This is something I know well, but even so, I typically try to think the best, and that if I just do it really nicely, that it'll be fine. Mr. John Bryan Davila showed up in Naidre's today, but patently refused to look at me and didn't order anything. After the third message he sent, I figured the right thing to do would be to let him know as nicely as possibly that I wasn't interested. I thought I'd done a pretty good job of being gentle, but apparently not good enough. Do guys not understand that they could make situations less awkward if they just weren't so awkward about the situations?

Five days until I come home. I found out today that I actually have to get my shifts covered myself, which I hadn't expected - I was guessing that my full-disclosure early on would mean that Janice would take care of stuff for me. Apparently I had assumed too much, and am now scrambling to get shifts covered for a flight I already have tickets for. I'm coming home one way or the other, dears. But the amount of doing it takes might be a little more significant than I'd expected.

So the blog got locked down - you noticed this. I need some thoughts on this, though. I locked it down in case Davila could track the link back to my blog and read derogatory things, or in case one of my co-workers would stumble on it and see what I really thought about them. But I also don't like that the blog isn't out there for people to stumble on, or for anonymous readers to check out. I know you guys don't really comment often at all, but let me know what you think about this situation. I'm willing to open it back up again, maybe on the condition that I'd start veiling the names a little bit more or something. Poll time!

Long Gaps

I've been slack, I apologize. I'll explain why - Saturday evening, unexpectedly, I got a knock at the door. Standing on my stoop, surprisingly steadily for someone who'd just driven twelve hours with nary a stop, was my lovely ex-neighbor, carrying with him an external hard drive and a long hug, two things I was very in need of. Anyway, between the difficult task of keeping him entertained for three days and working another couple of shifts at Naidre's, I've stayed pretty busy. Also, although I could blog to my heart's content about workplace drama (which I can smell from miles away, according to Sinclair) and frustrations with bosses, none of these things are really what I'm guessing you're interested in reading - for the moment at least, my Big City New York Adventures are on hold. Which obviously I'm fine with. So be prepared for lots of boring, mundane things that you'd hear me talk about in Columbia.

Funny story - I'm not sure if I mentioned that I got turned down for the Journeyman grant. I don't think I did, because it would have ended up being a four-page rant on what Sarah very accurately (although more often tongue-in-cheek) calls the "effing honors college." Basically, the decision whether to give grant money depends on a board, and the board took a look at the two names - mine and Simon's - and decided not to even look at the grant since the two of us were already getting money for the Magellan. Despite the fact that the Magellan was an entirely separate project, and had nothing to do with what I applied to the Journeyman for. Simon - God love him - took the initiative and called them on it,telling them to look again, although we were told that the budget for that year was probably already fully spoken for. This morning I got an e-mail saying that we would be given the grant money after all, and apologizing for the mess involved in getting it. That's another 2900 dollars coming my way - it feels great to know that I will be able to get an apartment when I get home, that a steady job this summer is necessary for my sanity but not so necessary for my survival. That was a really unexpected development, to say the least - I hadn't expected to hear back from the Honors College at all on that front.

Monday was a strange day. Less than half an hour after getting to work, in walks the health inspector. I've been through inspections before, but things are different up here, and the laws are legitimately really odd. For example, in Columbia, if you carried a bucket of ice from one room to another without a lid on it, there's an automatic letter off. Apparently that's not a thing here, because I've carried buckets of ice from the basement up the stairs, outside, around the corner, and to the cooler in the rain with no lid on them. Kind of weird. Anyway, Abby let Janice know, and next thing we know, she's running around like a crazy person shoving hats on our heads, whispering things to us while the inspector's back is turned, and generally being what we refer to in the industry as Annoying Small Business Owner.

Long story short, milk in NYC has two dates printed on it - the regular expiration date, and the NYC expiration date, which is usually five or six days earlier. I know this, I've been told this. I brought up 4 skim milks that morning, checking the dates beforehand, but apparently the two that were brought up the night before were expired. We got fined 250 dollars for it, and for lack of any better explanation - or anyone asking me - I got blamed. It wasn't a big deal, and because I'm new I don't mind taking the fall for some things, but what sucked is that Drew, the manager, got in some trouble for it. And even though I'm 99% sure that none of it was my fault, and that he was in fact the one who'd brought up the expired milk, I still feel bad - Janice knows how to deliver a tongue-lashing. So much so that one of the regular customers came up after Janice left and asked if we could leave an anonymous comment about her yelling at the staff and making customers uncomfortable. Apparently that comment has been on Yelp! for a while, though, so it seems kind of unnecessary.

The comparison between Cool Beans and Naidre's is an odd one. Each have their pluses and minuses, and although the staff as a whole seems more talented at Naidre's, I think there are a lot of things about Cool Beans that make it the better work environment. I really enjoy working with Sarah and Sinclair, and the rest seem like fairly honest, hard-working folk, but if nothing else, I miss not being the new girl, not being ignorant and confused all the time. The differences between the forms of elitism taken in Columbia and New York means that I can make drinks quickly and efficiently in Columbia where I can't do the same up here. People complain about the slow service but then get angry if their latte isn't a work of art every time. But I'm learning, and although I'll never use both wands at once to make drinks up here, I assume eventually I'll get faster.

I mentioned something to Sinclair yesterday about his distaste for one of our other coworkers. He stopped suddenly, clammed up for a minute and said, "you know, I don't like how you pay so much attention to me. You should stop doing that. I think you must watch how people interact. That makes me nervous." Made me chuckle. Then I quoted back to him something he'd said to me one of the first days: "once you've been somewhere long enough, you realize there's not much else to do but watch how people interact, right?"

Odd Vignette

So I had a funny little experience today. There's this guy at the coffee shop that - even this early on - had kind of been eying me. Now admiring or hitting on baristas is one of the oldest traditions in coffee. There was probably some adorable little Ethiopian girl serving coffee that got proposed to by a prince and thus escaped a lifetime of poverty, as I'm convinced that those who deliver your coffee are quite often the people you're most attracted to. So I'm not oblivious to these things, I just typically try to ignore them and hope they go away (which, as in many other situations, doesn't often seem to work), and even sometimes, as in this case, do my patented "not interested" smile tactic. That is to say, I walk past, see the eying as it's going on, give my too-brief no-teeth smile and look down at the floor. All business, people, all business. That's supposed to work on everyone, but I'm starting to think that it quite possibly might have the opposite effect. I need to work on that.

Anyway. He'd introduced himself before, but tonight on the way out, seeing me alone behind the counter and thus vulnerable to his advances, he took a moment to chat with me. Coffee shops walk a very fine line - talking to your barista is good. Discussing where your barista is from, how they ended up in New York, blah blah blah, all good. If you intend to stake your claim on a cafe, go ahead and get to know the people who are pouring your lattes. Odds are it'll end up saving you some money down the road, or at the very least getting you better coffee. He asked my name again (I'm calling bullshit on that one, I bet he remembered just fine) and proceeded to ask me where I was from. He said he was actually an L.A. guy, but that he was here "for a couple of projects," and was very vague about it. He asked if I'd just moved into the neighborhood (be real, could I afford that neighborhood?) and told me his mother had gone to Puerto Rico for the summer, and that he was staying in her apartment just up the street for part of the summer. All well and good. "You Facebook, right?" he says. Yeah, okay, Facebook is fine. He's got no creepy-stalker vibe on him.

But then he comes out with it: "so gimme your number," he says, and I say something slightly less than smooth like, ohh, just Facebook me, I only have my phone on about half the time . . . This tactic? Also supposed to work. When you decline to give someone your number and tell them to Facebook you, that's basically a "let's not be gettin' crazy" that asks them politely to make no further advances. I don't want to walk around wearing a "screw off I'm not interested" sign on my back, but . . . yeah, that's pretty accurate.

Anyway, less than an hour later, I get the two-sided strike. He wrote me an e-mail and a Facebook message. The Facebook message says "I'm an ex-chef and I want to cook you dinner. What do you like?" And the e-mail - even classier - leads off with "I have some bomb-ass medical marijuana if you want to smoke some. (:" To which my first thought is basically . . . what? Are you not getting my drift over here at all? Also, I'm no traditionalist, but I definitely think you should give a little breathing room between getting the name and actually putting it to use. An hour is sincerely not enough time for you not to come off as overwhelming.

But yet something's still not adding up. He's too confident, he makes the attempt too soon, he looks too . . . something. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I knew there was something strange about it. So when I get home, I take a look at his profile. This, ladies and gentleman, is the guy who wants to cook me dinner: John Bryant Davila. Someday, when homeboy is famous for playing "Blackbeard's Crew" in "Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides," or when "Latin Boys Go to Hell" becomes a gay/lesbian cult classic, I can say that, back in the day, that guy asked me out. Young Jim Caviezel wants his barista's body. How about that, right? That's my first brush with anything resembling star power, and I find it wildly amusing.

Day Three of Gainful Employment

Today just once again proved without doubt that learning something depends very largely on the person who teaches you. Maybe it's not anything as simple as passion or apathy, knowledge or ignorance - I think a lot of it comes down to the way people interact, and the way aspects of people's personalities mesh together. There are things that I value very highly in a teacher other than just knowledge of their particular skill, and I feel like that's wonderfully illustrated in the differences between Jesse's and Abby's abilities to re-teach me the basics of latte-making. It's a similar, helpless frustration to getting braces, or having a restricted driver's permit, or not being able to go into an R-rated movie. Basically what I'm saying is that being retaught the most basic of skills is like being turned into an adolescent again, all awkward and embarrassed and unsure, but doing so now at the loss of any kind of excuse other than the fact that the most urbane of people that you make lattes for couldn't tell the difference between one of your South Carolina lattes and one of their New York lattes.

Abby really did reform me, though. More importantly, she made it not a big deal while doing so. She showed me how to navigate a right-handed machine without losing my own style, how to interpret the complex language of pours, how to tell when milk is just there for a good latte. Most important of all, though, she told me several times not to stress about it, and offered me as much encouragement and praise as critique. I know I still have a long way to go, but she told me that my three tries on shots and three tries on milk were both admirable, and told me that great progress had been made. With a little more practice, she told me, I'd be an excellent barista.

Funny thing - they don't wear aprons here. Which, after my five years of working steadily in an apron, is sort of like trying to do drive with your left foot (ohh the lame metaphors today). Instead, the Naidre's employees just carry a rag with them, most often tucked into a pocket. I chose my back left pocket (as it never holds anything else, and as it makes the most sense when holding an espresso filter in my right hand). Within minutes of my choice of placement, though, I noticed myself paying more and more attention to how I was walking - because I really, badly wanted to see how much I could get that stupid rag to swing when I was walking. So if you ever make it up to Naidre's to see me, and you notice me walking around the corner to go down into the office, keep an eye on my walk - I'll be popping my hips just a little extra to get that rag to swish.

Sinclair and I are quickly befriending each other. More than anything, it's just good to know there are people in this city who will have my back if I need it, and he is clearly willing to do so. Also, funny thing - when sitting in this cafe, I'll see a shape moving out of the corner of my eye, and for just an instant fully expect that person to be one of my regulars from home. Sometimes being so far away is great, sometimes it's awful, and sometimes my tired mind just thinks it's absolutely strange.

I went to the Kuniyoshi exhibit at the Japan Society tonight after work, which was really amazing. I honestly wish I'd been less tired and there'd been less people, because it was absolutely incredible - his prints are brilliant, the lines are so dynamic, everything just looks spectacular. Right after that, I went up a few blocks and got some udon at a cute, cheap little place on E. 47th street - a full meal for nine bucks is a great deal, and this was some magnificent udon.

Have Job, Will Make It In New York

Hallelujah.

I wanted to wait a day before blogging about my work experience, because I figured a second shift was necessary before I really set down my impressions on the whole thing. I'm still not sure how I feel about the experience in its entirety, but I'll put down my thoughts on Naidre's at Carroll Gardens and hope none of my co-workers ever read it.

First and foremost, it's intimidating, working with so many people who have such high skill levels in something I used to take pride in doing. I mean, I still take pride in being a good barista, and being both quick and - for a certain sphere - talented, but these people are brilliant. They draw swans in their lattes just by pouring them a certain way. They count their shots and shun them if they start in less than 4 seconds or last longer than 35. They expect you to be able to steam milk right-handed . . .

I worked almost 12 hours yesterday with Drew, who told me amazing stories about himself, his wife of four weeks (who he'd known for 25 years, had gone to boarding school in the UK with, had been in love with for a very long time, and who threw a glass at his laptop screen because "she's Spanish, she's feisty like that"), and the espresso machine that he owned at his coffee shop in Ontario that he showed me pictures of. He also claimed that Canadian = snow Mexican. Which of course made me laugh like crazy. We spent those hours together because the closer was sick, so the swing shift - the one they're training me for - slowly fused with the closing shift and left him there for three more hours even than me. I stayed because I wanted to stick it out with him, but knowing that I had to be there early the next morning, decided to go ahead and go right about when he was closing down.

It poured down rain the entire way home, and naturally I was wearing my Toms. It was like a tiny wave pool in my shoes.

Today I was set to shadow the swing again, but there was no swing, technically - Jesse, the manager at the other location, took the first part and managed to simultaneously make me feel entirely inadequate and really hopeful for my future adequacy. Then Janice, the owner, came in to cover him, but ended up leaving a few hours early and just pointing at the closer (Abby) and telling me that we'd figure stuff out between the two of us. Umm, thanks.

There are very few things that I hate quite as much as I hate workplace tension. Bosses are most often the cause of it, as in this case - when Janice came in, her issues with Sinclair basically "sucked all the air out of the room," in his words. Dealing with that, my own inadequacy, and the fact that there were four of us bumping around behind that small counter space eventually made me break down and half-jokingly asked Sinclair for a hug. He was incredibly sweet and obliged me, eventually saying that he probably needed it too. Right before he left, he wrote his number on a piece of paper and told me that if I ever wanted to come hang out with him and "the lady," that I'd be more than welcome. That's a great guy right there.

I feel okay about things. I feel like the work they want me to do - a lot of stocking, a lot of being-a-body - will come easily to me, and now that I know what I'm up against, I'll start paying a lot of attention to my steaming and foaming techniques. More than anything else, I'm just so glad to be doing things again, to have a schedule and defined "work" and "play" times. It feels good to go home tired, to order my days around something, to interact with people on a semi-professional basis again. I realize with increasing certainty that I can only really be at peace with myself when I feel the physical effects of my productivity. Maybe I was actually meant to be a dock worker or something mind-numbing and laborious like that.

Good News

At least, I think it's good news. I'm sort-of starting at Naidre's tomorrow. My follow up e-mail yesterday to Janice (the owner) was answered with her basically saying that she was "on the fence" - that she thought I'd make a good barista, but she wasn't really willing to spend two weeks training me for two months of work. I understand this, I get why I'm not desirable (all too well I get this point), I don't begrudge her that point. But she went on to say that she'd be willing to put me in a few swing shifts, see how quickly I pick up, and maybe keep me on from there. I answered (in nicer words) that any bone at all she'd be willing to throw me, I'd be more than grateful to take. She sent me back an e-mail this afternoon giving me a shift every day for the rest of the week, with the promise of more shifts next week. This seems incredibly promising, but I'm at the stage now where I just don't want to get my hopes up. Especially when their standards for everything (most especially the barista arts) seem very high.

This morning was quite lovely. I spent most of it in bed, enjoying the perfect weather through my windows. Lovely.

When I finally dragged myself out of bed, I decided to go down to Prospect Park, as the 20 steps I'd taken into it yesterday were enchanting. Funny thing - I saw the dog-walker twice. I sort of ducked my head down, because to some extent, she has every reason not to be pleased with me (although I swear her commitment times weren't posted in that ad). But the second time when I actually saw her walking a dog, I really wanted to pull her aside and say this to her: "you know, you should be glad you didn't hire me. Because if you had, in those two and a half months I would have spoiled those dogs by acting like I cared, not being on the phone all the time, and not just ambling around looking bored with them. All the commitment length in the world isn't going to find you someone who cares about those dogs any more than I do."

But my time at Prospect Park was lovely. It's absolutely beautiful there, and also huge. I walked through some of the park, taking pictures of things that caught my eye, and then laid out in one of the giant greens for a little while, watching the kids play and the dogs walk by. It was the perfect day for it - it's only barely broken the 70s here, and the wind was blowing, so laying in the sun was just perfect. I had plans to spend more time in the park for the next couple of days, and maybe even go back to Coney Island and get some more sun. But it's much better to get some work in, get my days a little more structured first, so I'm pleased. I've always found that I appreciate my days off so much more when I actually have days on.

When I decided I'd had enough sun, I started walking back to the subway. Or so I thought - I took a wrong turn. I realized it almost immediately, but for lack of anything pressing to do, decided to go ahead and walk around the entire park. I won't lie, I didn't actually realize how long a walk it was going to be. Luckily, though, I was wearing my Toms (also luckily, I didn't step on any syringes), so I made it fine. It's actually really interesting to see how the neighborhood transforms around the park - Prospect Park West is more upscale housing, while Ocean Avenue is distinctly less classy. I also found the apartment I'd like to own in New York someday - it's got a terrace and a garden and the whole nine yards. And it's across the street from the park.

Last thought: I miss my dog. Funny how they subtly insert themselves into your life, and then you find that they're probably the most indispensable part of it. If I lived anywhere other than the middle of nowhere - basically if there were a park within striking distance - I wouldn't hesitate to go get her. Nine and ten hour shifts have never really mattered to her, and although I don't know if she'd do well with the bus and truck traffic in my neighborhood, I'm finding it less and less easy to cope with the fact that she's 700 miles away. I imagine turning my lower bunk (which is really actually a futon) into her space, putting toys in it and a bed-shaped rolled-up blanket, and then coming home at night to something cuddly and familiar.

Early Afternoon Thoughts

I just had literally the shortest interview ever - and not for lack of liking, or for lack of being enough qualified for the job, but as always, for lack of time. She seemed to like me, she seemed to like the way I interacted with her dogs, but when I told her honestly that I'd have to leave in two months (damn honesty, and the fact that I can't do it any other way), she basically cut me off and told me she needed six months at least, ideally a year. Two minutes, twenty steps into the park . . . and as I walked out of the park on my way back to the subway, I realized that this entire job hunting thing might be one of the most frustrating that I've ever experienced.

Sometimes I really wonder what possessed me to come up here on the promise (not the actuality, even) of two unpaid internships, and to assume that it's "just gonna work out." What the hell was I thinking? I can't get a job because the timing's all wrong, and nobody wants anyone - server, barista, dog-walker, street-cleaner - that's only going to last two months. It's not even entirely about the money anymore - there's a part of me that's just frustrated by not being productive, not being able to structure my life around anything other than meals and train schedules. And it's a little bit about my pride, too. I've never not been able to get a job before. I've never not been desirable by a boss. It kind of stings.

So I came home right away, climbed up in my top bunk with my computer, and started an applicable 30 Rock - Jackie Jormp-Jomp, the one where Liz is frustrated by being on leave (for normal reasons). It's already making me feel better. So today will be my follow-up day.

Closing the play went pretty well. We had a completely dead crowd (texted to Simon during the show: "D. E. D. dead") that literally responded to nothing whatsoever, including the Captain's striptease. You can't not laugh at that! They asked for a second curtain call, though, so I guess they must have liked it. I then spent three hours climbing around on the grid dropping cable for all the projectors, which was something I'm actually a little bit glad I did - there's a great fulfillment to overcoming fear, and fear of being literally on top of a 12-foot ladder hanging perilously from the rafters is a pretty significant one (maybe also not a bad one to have).

Now that I've done my duty to the theater, and it's all said and done, I actually feel a little bit sad. Mind you, there were times of intense boredom and annoyance during this process, and I'm not sad to be done with a lot of it, but I've abandoned something I spent many hours on, and there's a little bit of sadness there. Not having so much interaction with those specific people, not having someplace to be at 7:30 every night, is going to be a little strange for a few days.

But hey, I got a job through it. A paying job, even. Paul asked me to go ahead and edit together all the footage so he can have a clean, documented form of the play. It's "a couple hundred dollars," whatever that means, but more importantly, it's something to put on my reel for later, and it's experience that I need. I won't be able to start on it for a while, but I'm pretty excited about having several angles, several takes, and several tracks to work with. Should be quite an experience.

"Heavy is the head that eats the crayons. Going to take a nap. See you in ten hours."

Crafty

Julia told me last night about this magical park in Brooklyn that was hosting the Renegade Craft Fair, so I dutifully headed up there this afternoon to see what was up with what seemed to be the largest gathering of indie and cutting-edge graphics that I was likely to see anytime soon. As it turns out, totally worth it. I got my sister's birthday present, along with a few other little things. The place was totally addictive - if there was one every week, I'd have to go soak in all the hipster art and eventually join their ranks in appreciation for those arts both retro and new. Typewriter key jewelry is really in right now, and that should give you a fairly accurate idea of the kind of people here. I am continually amazed by the variance and quality of tattoos in the Brooklyn area, although Williamsburg (hipster capitol, if I'm not mistaken?) seems to have the highest concentration of really unique, beautiful tattoos.

Point of interest about Williamsburg, and one which I think could say a lot about the people living there: it's basically detached from the rest of Brooklyn. I mean that very literally - to get to Williamsburg from the part of Brooklyn I live in, you have to cross into Manhattan, go to Union Square, and catch the special train (that must have been built expressly for this purpose) to cross back over. Google showed this park to be a 15 minute drive from where I live, but fully an hour commute by subway. The area definitely exhibits a cooler-than-thou persona, although in some respects it's justified in that belief. The magical sandwich Julia brought in the other day was from a butcher near the park, so I went and got easily one of the best sandwiches I've ever had. Then I walked next door to the Beaner Bar (a coffee shop owned by a Mexican family), got some cold-brewed coffee, and sat out front to unwrap my sandwich from the butcher paper and scarf it down. Then I walked one more door down and admired the kittens in a little pet shop where the employee knew the names of the dogs that walked in the door. I've never been cooler in my entire life than sitting on that front porch area eating my Williamsburg sandwich.

I have a slight revision to make after my post yesterday: nobody defaces True Blood advertisements. Literally everything else I've seen has been mangled in some way except for the True Blood posters. Because really, who doesn't love a show that can boast serial killers, orgies, religious cults and smokin' hot vampires? In other news, season 3 premiere in one week . . .

Spatial relations are one of the most interesting aspects of subway people-watching. I'll probably want to think more on this one more later, but watching the distance people position themselves in relation to one another is really fascinating for me. There are so many factors involved in both the initial positioning and the conclusions you can draw by watching the positioning - age, gender, all the visual indicators of their socioeconomic status. I guess more than anything, I enjoy writing stories in my head about the people I see, but to some extent, I like to think that a better scientist than me could see a snapshot of two people sitting side by side in a train, and know whether they knew each other, how well they knew each other, so on and so forth.

Last thing: I want Si Scott to design a back piece as my next tattoo. Coming in 2014 or something like that, when I'm rich and can afford that kind of ink.