Basic Update

Oh, lordy, there's a lot of simple stuff to update about. Better do it now so nobody gets too far behind.

I am out of the fleabag house in Sunnyside. I am now paying 266% more rent for a fifth-story walkup in Washington Heights (translation for Californians: I am thirty minutes by train from the center of town, on the fifth floor of a building where other people live just a wall away, and there is no elevator) in which every single floor is linoleum and the bathroom sink is sandwiched so tightly between two walls I can't lean into the mirror while brushing my hair for fear of breaking my elbows.

But god, does it ever feel great. I'm not kidding. There's lots of sun, and my turtle and plants are happy. Despite the cheap fixtures everything is at least new, and there's nobody else's hundred years of crappitude cluttering up the place. My roommates, Charlie and Jamie, are fantastic. (My grandma wrote, "I hear you are living with two gentlemen. I do hope they are indeed gentlemen!" For my own sake, I planned very carefully: one of them is gay, and the other has a girlfriend. Hall booty, after all, is still bad booty.) They both possess excellent senses of humor and wide-open minds. The big problem, which I'd been hoping to avoid, is that they're much too distracting for grad-school-era roomies. Of course, it's much, much better than living with awful people.

We have rescued two orphan couches which have names. They are Pee Couch and Shrimp Couch. Someday I plan to post pictures. You will still have to use your imagination about the names. They are good couches despite. We plan to get cats to go on them. Er, go *on* them, not *go* on them.

Now about work: I'm still part-time at the ad agency, although it is a very small part. The bulk of my time and the more minor segment of my income are taken and given by a research assistantship at school. Nothing major to report there yet.

Now about boyfriends: Pshaw. No time!

Now about dancing: I made it into the Columbia advanced swing class and performance team! I am also doing jazz two days a week, and one day of yoga. I hurt like a bitch. Most excellent! More on the CU Swing team at some point, there are some verrry peculiar gender dynamics to being in a male-led group with three leads and seven follows. With what now? Three leads and seven follows. That's right.

And one more thing: I have it on authority that Columbia will be installing a new Dance Dance Revolution machine in Lerner Hall sometime between late October and the end of November. Please god don't let it be another broken one-pad machine with DDR 2 installed. Eeeeewww!

* * *

Approximation of the end of a conversation I had with a professor (the head of CNMTL) at Teachers College the other day:

Me: You know Neil Stephenson, right? I mean, you're familiar with his books? (Cryptonomicon is on a shelf in his office.)

Frank: I've read all of Stephenson's books.

Me: You know the Primer?

Frank: I think it's the best model of how a teaching system should be, adapting to your responses as a learner.

Me: It's kind of an idee fixe for me.

Frank: We haven't produced anything on the level of the Primer yet, but it's definitely a goal.

Me: (mentally) Yes! I can't believe I'm actually having this conversation! I'm definitely not leaving without a doctorate now.

It's nice to be understood.

* * *

Man, some weeeird stuff has been going down on the subway lately. Makes me wish the subway blog were still functional. Three recent events:

A pair of mariachis in black jeans, cowboy hats, and white rhinestone-studded shirts make their way into my uptown 1 car and begin to play their guitars. One of them has a truly beautiful, professional-sounding voice.

Someone says "Stop it!"

For a moment it seems unrelated; there are a hundred Tourette events and other out-of-context comments in this big freaky city. Then again, "Stop it! Stop with your Spanish!"

The woman is behind other people, who begin to move away from her even though the car is still in motion. I see for the first time that she is black, with a face contorted in anger. She doesn't stop. "Speak English! This is America!"

One of the mariachis stops playing and moves to the center of the car. His partner calls after him, telling him not to worry about her. She still doesn't shut up. A pool of empty space has collected around her. "They just come here to take our jobs! I saw it on the news!"

Another black woman reaches past one of her two handsome and composed children to hand the fleeing mariachi some coins. "They're just trying to make some money," she says. Down by the door, a man with long, long hair and a Frank Zappa moustache calls out, "This country belongs to the American Indian!" I say something poorly composed about maquiladoras and the state of the Mexican economy.

The angry woman gets off at the next stop, still yelling. The mariachis move to the next car.

A few days later:

Same train, later at night. A gaggle of teenagers pushes through the doors from the next car noisily, comes only as far as the first pole, and its members seem to almost consciously strike poses -- rumps sprung, stances set, hanging off lovers and almost playing with the pole. They match -- clothes no colors but red and white and blue denim. Their Spanish sounds scripted to grab a certain attention. They tumble and box with each other for a few minutes, then move on to the next car.

A few stops later they come back through. Similar routine.

When the train zooms away from me at my station, I see them between two cars, crowding and freaking, singing to me about sex while they can see me and then to the black rushing air of the tunnel.

Today:

I sit down on the bench to wait for my train. The bummed-up man three seats from me says, "Excuse me, I'm going to the bathroom here. Or I was trying to."

How in god's name do you respond to that?

* * *

Speaking of things I don't want to respond to, I still get mail from a writer for Glamour who periodically calls out for people to participate in her stories. This probably stomps on some sort of copyright issue, but here's this week's pitch; I thought you'd enjoy the further dive into stupidity. (I keep wanting to try to get Wade involved in one of her stories, because he's so intractable and would probably cause a ruckus, but I think we tried once and it didn't work. Maybe his hair isn't "floppy" enough. Oh, lord, all that suggests to me is more Ashton Kutchers. People, that haircut doesn't work for everyone, especially those with thick necks... but I digress.)

Hi, girls.

This one's for NY-area people. Sorry! But thanks
again, and let me know if you want off my quotable
list.

For the makeover package in Glamor, we are looking for
women who think their husband/boyfriends need a
makeover. Whether they think their guy's hair is a
little too messy or his wardrobe's kind of scruffy,
Glamour wants to help. We need men who in the
tri-state area, and they should have "floppy hair,"
which I think means shaggy hair or longer hair that
can be cut. But underneath the messy clothes and hair,
the guys are hot!

Please email, by Friday, a photograph of the guy along
with his name, age, and location, phone number (work
and home) and email, as well as the name, age,
relationship and contact information for the woman who
submitted him.

Thank you!

Posted by Gus at October 02, 2003 01:45 AM | TrackBack