1. The view of the city from the window of the N train in Astoria. (Although with all the construction in this neighborhood, it's not near what it used to be. And that makes me a little sad.)
2. Live music. There was, of course, The Felice Brothers incident which made me ask some hard questions about whether, in fact, live music is intrinsically good, but generally speaking, I think it is.
3. Take-away coffee in the morning. It must come in a disposable cup (which, I realize isn't the greatest thing for the environment, but I figure my extreme reliance on mass transportation has offset my coffee cup consumption), and it must be imbibed somewhere other than where it was procured, which preferably is Dunkin Donuts, though I am not one of these vehemently anti-Starbucks people. Which is good, because God knows there's enough of them.
4. Math. And logic problems. I used to do the logic section of practice GREs for fun. Seriously.
5. Napster-to-Go. All guilty pleasures, all the time, all for $14.95 per month.
6. Archive.org and bands who let their fans upload shows to the site.
7. The New York Suite:
a. New York City. I talk about leaving all the time, and even if I ever do, this city will always be the greatest place in the world. It's possible to feel really alone and really overwhelmed and really scared in this town, but as, it seems, with all things in life, you don't get to the best parts if you aren't willing to coexist with the worst parts. There are opportunities here that don't exist anywhere else, and they make this city cool as hell.
b. And specifically, Astoria. I tell everyone that I moved here because I couldn't afford Manhattan, and now that I can, you couldn't pay me to leave. It's safe and quiet and family-oriented. We're gentrifying, but it still feels like a community here, and people take care of the neighborhood. There are great bars and amazing food. And it's cool -- and very healthy -- to live in one of the most diverse neighborhoods in the most diverse county in the entire world. It's good on a daily basis to hear people speaking other languages, and dressing according to their culture, and watching soccer or drinking frappes or practicing capoeira or doing whatever it is that's normal for them. It's good to be reminded daily that the world is a hell of a lot bigger than the little sphere in which we operate. It's good to see regularly that the average person on the planet is exactly like you: They want to fall in love and earn a sustainable living and be healthy and do things that make them happy. It's too easy to focus on what makes us different if we're never exposed to what makes us the same.
c. New Yorkers. People who aren't from here think we're callous and unfeeling. And that may be true in regards to our approach to a lot of things. But it's patently false in regards to our approach to one another. If anything, New Yorkers are more aware of our ourselves in relation to others than all but a few other populations on the planet. We live -- literally -- on top of one another; we get that just about everything we do affects the people around us. And it's our ultra-awareness of the impacts of our actions on others that results in what can be interpreted as unseemly brusqueness toward those who do not return the favor. We are a civility militia. If we push past you when you stop suddenly and for no apparent reason in the middle of the sidewalk ... if we drop an elbow into you when you fail to let us off the subway before you get on ... if we stare you down impatiently when you step up to the register without knowing what you want to order ... if a cab driver tells you in no uncertain terms that you're an idiot when you blunder obliviously into the middle of the street -- yes, we know you have the walk signal, but there's a ambulance with its sirens blaring trying to get through ... it's not that we're rude. It's that we're trying to have a society here, and when you live this close to this many people, the boundaries of acting appropriately are more rigidly defined and aggressively enforced. And I like that. I like that we're aware of one another, and I like that we don't fuck around.
d. Really pretty much everything about the NYC subway system. 5.2 million riders per day. 1.6 billion riders per year. 468 stations -- only 35 fewer than the combined total number of subway stops of all the other systems in the U.S. 24 x 7 service. Thirty days of unlimited trips for just 89 bucks. I've been on trains with everybody from Michael Bloomberg to the homeless. I've counted as many as nine different languages on the newspapers people are reading in my car. It's the most convenient way to get around, and it's the most interesting way to get around. Totally love it.
8. Looking forward to things. "The idea of waiting for something makes it more exciting." (Andy Warhol)
9. Running in Central Park. It's best when I'm in shape, and it's summertime, and an 8-mile run after work feels comfortable; but even when I haven't run in forever, and everything kind of hurts a little, and it's dark and cold and wintery and awful outside, I still really like running in Central Park.
10. Sundays. Football Sundays. NASCAR Sundays. Sunday seisiuns at the Irish spots. Long runs on Sundays. Sunday morning brunch. Sunday evening dinner. Sundays.
To be continued ...
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
Update: 26+ Random Things About Me
26+ Random Things About Me: Items 31-35:
31. One of my missions in life is to understand why it's only Chinese food that you ever seen strewn across the streets of New York City. You never see a slice of pizza smashed angrily into the ground, nor a dirty water dog, or the remainder of a make-your-own-salad. But Chinese food is everywhere: The over-turned styrofoam container, a plastic fork, a trail of rice with unidentifiable pieces of the least appealing parts of what was once a pig or a chicken protruding from it. I don't know what this is about, and I want to find out.
32. I'm pretty sure that I know how I'm going to die: Mindbogglingly, one of the very small handful of places in New York City where one is permitted to make a right turn on red is the southeast corner of Astoria Park. There are kids everywhere. Running. Riding bikes. Generally not paying attention. Yet this is where we've chosen to let people do something that we've decided isn't safe at most any other intersection in the entire city. And perhaps it's our lack of familiarity with turning on red that results in people not doing it correctly. The whole bit about stopping first and looking appears to be lost on the majority of motorists at that corner. Rather, they just do a vague approximation of slowing down and then roll right on through the turn. The problem is that, you know, sometimes I'm in the middle of crossing the street when this occurs. I've had enough terrifyingly close calls to know that I stand a very good chance of someday getting hit by a car at that intersection. I'd prefer that this wasn't the one thing that I happen to know about my future.
33. Except that I suppose there's at least one other thing I know about my future: There are a handful of things that may someday land me in jail. For example, and since we're on the topic of traffic signals, some day I'm going to go completely apeshit on one of these assholes who can't seem to grasp that the red turn signal at the intersection of 54th & 6th means you're not allowed to turn -- one of these assholes who goes tearing through the red arrow into the intersection as I'm crossing the street and then drives right up till their bumper is inches from my knee and stares intently and angrily at me through their windshield like I'm the one doing something wrong. You're running a red light, buddy. You're also running the significant risk of me finally snapping and taking two and half years of this crap out on the hood of your stupid car. Rar.
34. I have a fairly long and vaguely comical history of being hit on by bike rickshaw drivers. It started in Toronto in October of 1996, when a gentleman whom we christened Spandex Man pedaled up to the window of the bar we were in, gave me the eye, chained his rickshaw to a pole, and then came inside and bought me a drink. In the years since these guys started appearing on the streets of New York, I've been hit on by more of them than I can count. It's the only profession that across-the-board apparently finds me attractive. I suppose I ought not shrug it off so carelessly. They're probably a little low on the cash end of the dating equation, but I have have about a bazillion questions that I'd just love to ask a bike rickshaw driver over a drink. [e.g., Have you ever turned down a passenger because he was just too fat? What the hell happens if you get in a car accident? How come none of your kind ever looks behind you before you cut across the running lanes in Central Park? (An aside: Another thing that I know about my future is that it likely some day involves me tangled up in a bike rickshaw that's cut me off in Central Park. Grr.)] And yeah, I imagine they're nice and fit. Hmm.
35. It's occurred to me that if I continue to update this list for the entire rest of my life, it could get pretty interesting. And long.
31. One of my missions in life is to understand why it's only Chinese food that you ever seen strewn across the streets of New York City. You never see a slice of pizza smashed angrily into the ground, nor a dirty water dog, or the remainder of a make-your-own-salad. But Chinese food is everywhere: The over-turned styrofoam container, a plastic fork, a trail of rice with unidentifiable pieces of the least appealing parts of what was once a pig or a chicken protruding from it. I don't know what this is about, and I want to find out.
32. I'm pretty sure that I know how I'm going to die: Mindbogglingly, one of the very small handful of places in New York City where one is permitted to make a right turn on red is the southeast corner of Astoria Park. There are kids everywhere. Running. Riding bikes. Generally not paying attention. Yet this is where we've chosen to let people do something that we've decided isn't safe at most any other intersection in the entire city. And perhaps it's our lack of familiarity with turning on red that results in people not doing it correctly. The whole bit about stopping first and looking appears to be lost on the majority of motorists at that corner. Rather, they just do a vague approximation of slowing down and then roll right on through the turn. The problem is that, you know, sometimes I'm in the middle of crossing the street when this occurs. I've had enough terrifyingly close calls to know that I stand a very good chance of someday getting hit by a car at that intersection. I'd prefer that this wasn't the one thing that I happen to know about my future.
33. Except that I suppose there's at least one other thing I know about my future: There are a handful of things that may someday land me in jail. For example, and since we're on the topic of traffic signals, some day I'm going to go completely apeshit on one of these assholes who can't seem to grasp that the red turn signal at the intersection of 54th & 6th means you're not allowed to turn -- one of these assholes who goes tearing through the red arrow into the intersection as I'm crossing the street and then drives right up till their bumper is inches from my knee and stares intently and angrily at me through their windshield like I'm the one doing something wrong. You're running a red light, buddy. You're also running the significant risk of me finally snapping and taking two and half years of this crap out on the hood of your stupid car. Rar.
34. I have a fairly long and vaguely comical history of being hit on by bike rickshaw drivers. It started in Toronto in October of 1996, when a gentleman whom we christened Spandex Man pedaled up to the window of the bar we were in, gave me the eye, chained his rickshaw to a pole, and then came inside and bought me a drink. In the years since these guys started appearing on the streets of New York, I've been hit on by more of them than I can count. It's the only profession that across-the-board apparently finds me attractive. I suppose I ought not shrug it off so carelessly. They're probably a little low on the cash end of the dating equation, but I have have about a bazillion questions that I'd just love to ask a bike rickshaw driver over a drink. [e.g., Have you ever turned down a passenger because he was just too fat? What the hell happens if you get in a car accident? How come none of your kind ever looks behind you before you cut across the running lanes in Central Park? (An aside: Another thing that I know about my future is that it likely some day involves me tangled up in a bike rickshaw that's cut me off in Central Park. Grr.)] And yeah, I imagine they're nice and fit. Hmm.
35. It's occurred to me that if I continue to update this list for the entire rest of my life, it could get pretty interesting. And long.
Notes on Last Night
Holy shit. I am so fucking hungover right now that I actually might die. Cocktails on the roof turned into an eight hour ordeal. Apparently this has made me want to curse a lot. And vomit.
I actually left my bag in the bar last night. Right. Because only the first six hours were on the roof. Then we went to Connolley's. I don't know that I've ever done that. Left my bag in a bar, I mean. I woke up naked this morning with all my jewelry still on. At least I made it to my bed, which is an improvement over the couch, which is where I typically find myself after an evening of revelry, even though my bed is only about six feet further into my apartment.
Me, earlier this afternoon: I think I left my bag in the bar last night.
Irish bartender, comically: Fer fuck's sake.
At least it was there. It had my two favorite pairs of shoes and my favorite dress in it. Apparently, I also left my favorite sweater on a bar stool:
Irish bartender: Is this your's too?
Me, happily surprised: Huh. I think it is!
Irish bartender: Fer fuck's sake.
Singing: "Hangover hanging on by the fangs. Walk to work on wild feet."
I actually left my bag in the bar last night. Right. Because only the first six hours were on the roof. Then we went to Connolley's. I don't know that I've ever done that. Left my bag in a bar, I mean. I woke up naked this morning with all my jewelry still on. At least I made it to my bed, which is an improvement over the couch, which is where I typically find myself after an evening of revelry, even though my bed is only about six feet further into my apartment.
Me, earlier this afternoon: I think I left my bag in the bar last night.
Irish bartender, comically: Fer fuck's sake.
At least it was there. It had my two favorite pairs of shoes and my favorite dress in it. Apparently, I also left my favorite sweater on a bar stool:
Irish bartender: Is this your's too?
Me, happily surprised: Huh. I think it is!
Irish bartender: Fer fuck's sake.
Singing: "Hangover hanging on by the fangs. Walk to work on wild feet."
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Flashy Lightning
While it appears Murray Foster's eco-blog has gone in a direction much similar to this thing you're reading right now (that would be nowhere, in case you were wondering), I admire the modest aspirations with which he set out upon his blogging experiment:
"Do I think these humble postings will eventually be bound in large, hardcover books with gilt-edged pages that are stored in vacuum-sealed rooms in major libraries and then taken out once a year on the anniversary of my birth (or my death – I'm not sure which) by castrated priests in vermilion robes who recite the sacred texts while the townspeople dance a frenzied mazurka until they collapse from exhaustion? Yes. Otherwise, what’s the point?"
Now. Some social networking commentator recently said of blogs that "Never have so many said so much about so little to so few." But screw that. I'm going to espouse Murray's approach as I try to organize what feels like a bit of renewed creative energy and motivation into something focused and good. I'm flashy lightning right now. Which is better than a calm, clear night, but not as productive as a bright, clean bolt cutting through the sky.
While those of you who have had the displeasure of experiencing my apartment (and it is an experience) lately might approach the rest of this sentence with skepticism, I prefer things to be organized and complete before I open them up to other people. But going forward, I'm going to try to use this blog a a sandbox, to play in, and to see what works. If I push enough sand around, I might just create a castle someday.
(An aside to Murray: Would you please publish more of what you're thinking?? The stuff you've put in print makes me laugh, and it makes me want to write more.)
"Do I think these humble postings will eventually be bound in large, hardcover books with gilt-edged pages that are stored in vacuum-sealed rooms in major libraries and then taken out once a year on the anniversary of my birth (or my death – I'm not sure which) by castrated priests in vermilion robes who recite the sacred texts while the townspeople dance a frenzied mazurka until they collapse from exhaustion? Yes. Otherwise, what’s the point?"
Now. Some social networking commentator recently said of blogs that "Never have so many said so much about so little to so few." But screw that. I'm going to espouse Murray's approach as I try to organize what feels like a bit of renewed creative energy and motivation into something focused and good. I'm flashy lightning right now. Which is better than a calm, clear night, but not as productive as a bright, clean bolt cutting through the sky.
While those of you who have had the displeasure of experiencing my apartment (and it is an experience) lately might approach the rest of this sentence with skepticism, I prefer things to be organized and complete before I open them up to other people. But going forward, I'm going to try to use this blog a a sandbox, to play in, and to see what works. If I push enough sand around, I might just create a castle someday.
(An aside to Murray: Would you please publish more of what you're thinking?? The stuff you've put in print makes me laugh, and it makes me want to write more.)
Monday, June 29, 2009
Life Is Cool Sometimes
My brother told me this story over Father’s Day weekend, and I’ve been meaning -- but consistently forgetting -- to tell someone about it. I've probably got some of the details a bit wrong, but they don't matter so much. It's more about the spirit of the story, which is pretty awesome, I think.
My brother and his wife are former NYC residents who moved to Bethlehem, PA in search of affordable housing when their daughter was born. She’s two years old now, and her favorite place on the entire planet is a car museum in Hershey, PA. She loves going there so much that my brother and SIL decided to purchase annual memberships to the museum, rather than pay each time they go. Because they are members, they were invited to a cocktail reception and preview of the current exhibit at the museum. And because they’ve been a bit desperate to go pretty much anywhere and do pretty much anything since they left the non-stop action of NYC, they decided to attend.
Perhaps it’s the snobby New Yorker in all of us who live in New York long enough to become snobs, but my brother and SIL were not expecting much from this reception. And shortly upon arriving, they find themselves watching in horror as a casually-dressed man jumps over the ropes cordoning off the public from the cars, pulls open one of the car's driver-side doors, and begins rolling down the window. They notice, however, that the man has an obvious familiarity and casual comfort with the car, and combined with the fact that none of this generated so much as a flinch from whatever security might be in place at a car museum in Pennsylvania, they make the (correct, it turned out) assumption that the man was there “with the cars.”
A bit later, they introduce themselves to the man and inquire about his relationship with the cars. It turns out he’s a local car restorer. When he was younger, everyone told him that the better money was in car repair, but he loved to restore cars, so that’s what he learned. He nurtured a modest car restoration business in Allentown, PA. Got himself a wife, some kids, probably a dog. Nothing fancy. Until the day when a customer arrived to his shop with a car. You’ll have to forgive my lack of knowledge about cars, but whatever it was, there are only three of them left in then entire world. The customer requested some work; the man said he’d be honored to restore the car. He does the work, and after some time, receives a call from the office of a Mr. Bulgari. Mr. Bulgari owned the car he’d restored and wanted him to come to NYC for a meeting. A car would be sent to transport him to and from the meeting; he needn’t worry about a thing. Understandably, our man the car restorer was a bit concerned. I’m not sure what concern precisely crossed his mind, but if I were in his shoes at least, I’d have been thinking Mob.
Still, he heads to NYC, and meets Mr. Bulgari, who it turns out is Nicola Bulgari, of watch, jewelry, and perfume notoriety. He is also one of the premier car collectors in the world. And perhaps I’m jumping a bit ahead of the story, but he’s a cool car collector. He’s not terribly enamored with the extravagant cars owned only by the most wealthy; he prefers the cars that regular people drove. He has no interest in souping up the cars in his collection; he restores them according to their original specifications. His only requirement is that he needs to fit in the car. He’s a big guy, apparently, and his joy comes from driving the cars, not collecting them. He will not purchase a car he cannot drive; he’d rather another collector enjoy the car.
So back to our car restorer. It turns out Nicola Bulgari has two car collections: one in Rome, Italy and the other in Allentown, PA. He’s got some work he needs done on some of the cars, and he’s got some auctions he’d like the car restorer to attend on his behalf. He dispatches the restorer almost immediately to an auction, with instructions to secure two cars. The restorer checks in to the auction and, based on his appearance – jeans and a ballcap – is instructed to stand near the back of the room. The restorer realizes that he may have trouble participating in the auction so far from the action, so he asks one of the people leading the auction if he might move a little closer. The person requests to see his bidding paddle. Apparently paddles are handed out according to one’s bid limit – the lowest numbered paddles go to the people with the highest limits. Our man the car restorer is holding paddle #6. He is escorted to the middle of the front row. Past Jack Nicholson. Past Jay Leno.
The story fell mostly to vignettes at this point. Nicola Bulgari is apparently a shy man who keeps a close group around him whom he treats like family. Our humble car restorer became the personal overseer of Nicola Bulgari’s Allentown-based car collection. (There is a similarly cool story about Bulgari's personal driver.) My favorite of the vignettes involved a trip he took with Mr. Bulgari to Los Angeles. Bulgari suggested they visit Jay Leno and view his car collection. Upon entering the room, Jay Leno takes one look at the car restorer and exclaims, “You’re the guy from the car auctions!!!” Apparently all the regular high-end bidders were desperate to know who was the country bumpkin sweeping in and buying up all the cars.
But what I liked, perhaps best about the story is that it doesn’t appear, at least from my brother’s telling of it, that the guy has changed at all. Nor the Bulgari has asked or needed him to change. They both love cars, and that’s all that matters. They take rides together in Bulgari’s car collection on the back roads of Pennsylvania. Sure he has a nicer shop than he used to have, and I’m certain his family’s standard of living has improved somewhat dramatically, and he’s seen a whole lot more of the world than he’d ever have seen if Nicola Bulgari hadn’t driven into his life. But he’s still the guy who turns up to the semi-formal museum exhibit opening in jeans and ball cap and lives with his family in Allentown, PA, and there's something very awesome about that.
So that's The End, I guess. You could lay a moral over this story -- "if you follow your dreams, good things will happen" or some shit -- but I think it's cooler (and more accurate) to just leave it as a story about something awesome and unexpected that happened to someone out there in the world. Yeah. Just thought it was cool.
My brother and his wife are former NYC residents who moved to Bethlehem, PA in search of affordable housing when their daughter was born. She’s two years old now, and her favorite place on the entire planet is a car museum in Hershey, PA. She loves going there so much that my brother and SIL decided to purchase annual memberships to the museum, rather than pay each time they go. Because they are members, they were invited to a cocktail reception and preview of the current exhibit at the museum. And because they’ve been a bit desperate to go pretty much anywhere and do pretty much anything since they left the non-stop action of NYC, they decided to attend.
Perhaps it’s the snobby New Yorker in all of us who live in New York long enough to become snobs, but my brother and SIL were not expecting much from this reception. And shortly upon arriving, they find themselves watching in horror as a casually-dressed man jumps over the ropes cordoning off the public from the cars, pulls open one of the car's driver-side doors, and begins rolling down the window. They notice, however, that the man has an obvious familiarity and casual comfort with the car, and combined with the fact that none of this generated so much as a flinch from whatever security might be in place at a car museum in Pennsylvania, they make the (correct, it turned out) assumption that the man was there “with the cars.”
A bit later, they introduce themselves to the man and inquire about his relationship with the cars. It turns out he’s a local car restorer. When he was younger, everyone told him that the better money was in car repair, but he loved to restore cars, so that’s what he learned. He nurtured a modest car restoration business in Allentown, PA. Got himself a wife, some kids, probably a dog. Nothing fancy. Until the day when a customer arrived to his shop with a car. You’ll have to forgive my lack of knowledge about cars, but whatever it was, there are only three of them left in then entire world. The customer requested some work; the man said he’d be honored to restore the car. He does the work, and after some time, receives a call from the office of a Mr. Bulgari. Mr. Bulgari owned the car he’d restored and wanted him to come to NYC for a meeting. A car would be sent to transport him to and from the meeting; he needn’t worry about a thing. Understandably, our man the car restorer was a bit concerned. I’m not sure what concern precisely crossed his mind, but if I were in his shoes at least, I’d have been thinking Mob.
Still, he heads to NYC, and meets Mr. Bulgari, who it turns out is Nicola Bulgari, of watch, jewelry, and perfume notoriety. He is also one of the premier car collectors in the world. And perhaps I’m jumping a bit ahead of the story, but he’s a cool car collector. He’s not terribly enamored with the extravagant cars owned only by the most wealthy; he prefers the cars that regular people drove. He has no interest in souping up the cars in his collection; he restores them according to their original specifications. His only requirement is that he needs to fit in the car. He’s a big guy, apparently, and his joy comes from driving the cars, not collecting them. He will not purchase a car he cannot drive; he’d rather another collector enjoy the car.
So back to our car restorer. It turns out Nicola Bulgari has two car collections: one in Rome, Italy and the other in Allentown, PA. He’s got some work he needs done on some of the cars, and he’s got some auctions he’d like the car restorer to attend on his behalf. He dispatches the restorer almost immediately to an auction, with instructions to secure two cars. The restorer checks in to the auction and, based on his appearance – jeans and a ballcap – is instructed to stand near the back of the room. The restorer realizes that he may have trouble participating in the auction so far from the action, so he asks one of the people leading the auction if he might move a little closer. The person requests to see his bidding paddle. Apparently paddles are handed out according to one’s bid limit – the lowest numbered paddles go to the people with the highest limits. Our man the car restorer is holding paddle #6. He is escorted to the middle of the front row. Past Jack Nicholson. Past Jay Leno.
The story fell mostly to vignettes at this point. Nicola Bulgari is apparently a shy man who keeps a close group around him whom he treats like family. Our humble car restorer became the personal overseer of Nicola Bulgari’s Allentown-based car collection. (There is a similarly cool story about Bulgari's personal driver.) My favorite of the vignettes involved a trip he took with Mr. Bulgari to Los Angeles. Bulgari suggested they visit Jay Leno and view his car collection. Upon entering the room, Jay Leno takes one look at the car restorer and exclaims, “You’re the guy from the car auctions!!!” Apparently all the regular high-end bidders were desperate to know who was the country bumpkin sweeping in and buying up all the cars.
But what I liked, perhaps best about the story is that it doesn’t appear, at least from my brother’s telling of it, that the guy has changed at all. Nor the Bulgari has asked or needed him to change. They both love cars, and that’s all that matters. They take rides together in Bulgari’s car collection on the back roads of Pennsylvania. Sure he has a nicer shop than he used to have, and I’m certain his family’s standard of living has improved somewhat dramatically, and he’s seen a whole lot more of the world than he’d ever have seen if Nicola Bulgari hadn’t driven into his life. But he’s still the guy who turns up to the semi-formal museum exhibit opening in jeans and ball cap and lives with his family in Allentown, PA, and there's something very awesome about that.
So that's The End, I guess. You could lay a moral over this story -- "if you follow your dreams, good things will happen" or some shit -- but I think it's cooler (and more accurate) to just leave it as a story about something awesome and unexpected that happened to someone out there in the world. Yeah. Just thought it was cool.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
People Named Siobhan Are Apparently Scary
[Originally a Facebook Note]
I completely supported the 25 Random Things phenomenon on Facebook. A lot of my friends write really well, and they have a good sense of dark and light and serious and silly, and some of the posts were really funny and others were just plain interesting, and I thought that taken together, the things people decided to share about themselves created a unique picture of each person and how they view themselves.
That said, 25 Random Things has spawned a goodly number of bastard children, and it's starting to feel like the first couple years we all had email around this place. I'm a proponent of the whole "nobody's forcing you to read anything you don't want to read" approach to the social side of the internet, but I had no intention of actually participating in any of this crap.
Okay, that's a lie. I've been participating in a lot of this crap. I did the What Your iPod Says About You thing, for example. But I had no intention of actually posting any of this crap to Facebook. It was something I did because I clearly have enough time on my hands (see: Television Shows That Are Annoying Me This Week if you have any reason to doubt the expansively, almost disturbingly open nature of my calendar these days), and I did it because I thought it might be good for a smile or two. But I did not do it to share with Facebook. The plan was to look at the results, laugh, and move on with my life.
Until I did this Google Game thing this morning. The instructions are to type "[your name] likes to" into Google and report the first 10 results. Now. Those of you who know me well (and most of you with whom I'm friends on Facebook know me halfway decently. I hear people talking about the distress they experience discerning how to react properly to friend requests from people with whom they would prefer not to be friends. Let me tell you, I experience no such distress. If didn't talk to you during the four years we went to school together, we don't need to talk now. I reject friend requests. I delete friends who were added during happy, boozy moments at bars courtesy of the dual scourge of iPhone and Facebook Mobile. I'm not sure what this says about me, and it's unlikely that it's something positive, but whatever. I am who I am.)
And who I am right now is someone who has completely lost track of what I was saying. Where the hell was I? Oh. Right. The Google Game. Okay. Those of you who know me well, know that a lot of the reason I started going by Siobhan in college is that the abundantly common first name "Mary," especially when attached to the similarly common surname "O'Brien," was just all a little Plain Jane for me. I never felt like I fully self-actualized in high school. (You like that shit, right?) I'm sure it was actually low self-esteem that was holding me back, but for the sake of argument, let's say it was the name. Siobhan sounded more interesting. Siobhan sounded more fun. Siobhan was the person I wanted to be.
Except that it turns out that Siobhan is also, apparently, a little freaky. Because I pop open Google this morning. I type in "Siobhan likes to" and I'm greeted with the following:
1. Siobhan likes to dancingly drunk around, and sit on the toilet. (I swear to all that is good and holy that this is the first result. Google it yourself folks.)
2. Something boring.
3. Something boring.
4. Siobhan likes to do it in the garden.
5. Siobhan likes to push me into Julia, and Julia into the bushes.
6. Siobhan likes to play with toys during off hours and is trying to study her toes in order to get ahead professionally.
7. Something boring.
8. Something boring.
9. Siobhan likes to partake of the fluids!
10. Siobhan likes to get drunk at SCA gatherings and flaunt her wenchy corset-puppies! (Again, Google it yourself people. I'm not making this up.)
I mean, seriously, what the hell is that all about?? I like to think that I know how to have fun, and I'm generally a good person to have around if you're looking to go out and kick back and just have a good time. But sweet lord! Some of that stuff up there is a little out of control. I'm not sure I'm living up to the Siobhan name, and to be honest, I'm not sure that's something to which I aspire either! Ya'll can call me Mary from now on. I'm reverting!
I completely supported the 25 Random Things phenomenon on Facebook. A lot of my friends write really well, and they have a good sense of dark and light and serious and silly, and some of the posts were really funny and others were just plain interesting, and I thought that taken together, the things people decided to share about themselves created a unique picture of each person and how they view themselves.
That said, 25 Random Things has spawned a goodly number of bastard children, and it's starting to feel like the first couple years we all had email around this place. I'm a proponent of the whole "nobody's forcing you to read anything you don't want to read" approach to the social side of the internet, but I had no intention of actually participating in any of this crap.
Okay, that's a lie. I've been participating in a lot of this crap. I did the What Your iPod Says About You thing, for example. But I had no intention of actually posting any of this crap to Facebook. It was something I did because I clearly have enough time on my hands (see: Television Shows That Are Annoying Me This Week if you have any reason to doubt the expansively, almost disturbingly open nature of my calendar these days), and I did it because I thought it might be good for a smile or two. But I did not do it to share with Facebook. The plan was to look at the results, laugh, and move on with my life.
Until I did this Google Game thing this morning. The instructions are to type "[your name] likes to" into Google and report the first 10 results. Now. Those of you who know me well (and most of you with whom I'm friends on Facebook know me halfway decently. I hear people talking about the distress they experience discerning how to react properly to friend requests from people with whom they would prefer not to be friends. Let me tell you, I experience no such distress. If didn't talk to you during the four years we went to school together, we don't need to talk now. I reject friend requests. I delete friends who were added during happy, boozy moments at bars courtesy of the dual scourge of iPhone and Facebook Mobile. I'm not sure what this says about me, and it's unlikely that it's something positive, but whatever. I am who I am.)
And who I am right now is someone who has completely lost track of what I was saying. Where the hell was I? Oh. Right. The Google Game. Okay. Those of you who know me well, know that a lot of the reason I started going by Siobhan in college is that the abundantly common first name "Mary," especially when attached to the similarly common surname "O'Brien," was just all a little Plain Jane for me. I never felt like I fully self-actualized in high school. (You like that shit, right?) I'm sure it was actually low self-esteem that was holding me back, but for the sake of argument, let's say it was the name. Siobhan sounded more interesting. Siobhan sounded more fun. Siobhan was the person I wanted to be.
Except that it turns out that Siobhan is also, apparently, a little freaky. Because I pop open Google this morning. I type in "Siobhan likes to" and I'm greeted with the following:
1. Siobhan likes to dancingly drunk around, and sit on the toilet. (I swear to all that is good and holy that this is the first result. Google it yourself folks.)
2. Something boring.
3. Something boring.
4. Siobhan likes to do it in the garden.
5. Siobhan likes to push me into Julia, and Julia into the bushes.
6. Siobhan likes to play with toys during off hours and is trying to study her toes in order to get ahead professionally.
7. Something boring.
8. Something boring.
9. Siobhan likes to partake of the fluids!
10. Siobhan likes to get drunk at SCA gatherings and flaunt her wenchy corset-puppies! (Again, Google it yourself people. I'm not making this up.)
I mean, seriously, what the hell is that all about?? I like to think that I know how to have fun, and I'm generally a good person to have around if you're looking to go out and kick back and just have a good time. But sweet lord! Some of that stuff up there is a little out of control. I'm not sure I'm living up to the Siobhan name, and to be honest, I'm not sure that's something to which I aspire either! Ya'll can call me Mary from now on. I'm reverting!
Monday, February 2, 2009
26+ Random Things
Like most women, a good number of gay men, and three straight guys, I got sucked into doing that 25 Random Things thing on Facebook. Nobody was more surprised than I was that I actually had a bit of a tough time coming up with 25 things to say about myself. But it must have been the self-inflicted pressure, because ever since I posted the damn thing, every other thought that crosses my mind is something I could have added to that list. So I'm just going to add them here. Who knows, it might come in handy some day!
Here's the original 25 things from Facebook:
1. I finally started a blog (that would be this thing you're reading, right here!), but it has quickly deteriorated into a graveyard of half-written posts. There’s this “Draft” function that let’s you start a post and finish it later. I’ve got the starting thing down pat, but the finishing it later business isn’t going so well.
2. If I run out of “Random Things” to say about myself before I reach number 25, I intend to borrow shamelessly from blog ideas that are residing in the Graveyard of Half-Written Posts. I imagine the unfinished posts titled “Stuff I Like” and “Stuff I Wish I Liked” will contain some things that would fit well on this list.
3. I like to count stuff. The harder something is the count, the more fun it is to count.
4. I frequently change the wording of sentences I write because I don’t like the way they look on paper. Writing should be about how it sounds, but sometimes it’s about how it looks. At least in my world it is.
5. My fantasy life is richer than your’s. I can pretty much guarantee that much.
6. I wish I knew somebody who liked exactly the same music that I do, exactly as much as I do. If I did, I’d plan a trip to Toronto with that person to see a whole bunch of singer/songwriters whom I’ve Six-Degrees-Of-Moxy-Fruvous-ed my way into knowing and loving.
7. Of all the odd things I inherited from my father, I think the weak shoulders are the most annoying. They’re impossible to train, and easy to injure.
8. The obscenely long toes I got from my father are no picnic either – if I had normal sized toes, I’d have normal sized feet – but I generally like my feet, so we’ll let it go for now.
9. I should do laundry a lot more frequently than I do. In other words, I have an approaching obscene number of pairs of underwear.
10. I started losing interest in other people’s lists around item #9 or 10. I implore you to keep reading. I promise to make it worth your while.
11. I’d still like to move to California someday, but I doubt I ever will. At least not any time soon. All the absolute most important things in my life are around where I am now.
12. If this song doesn’t make you happy, there’s something wrong with you. Mistra Know-It-All originally by Stevie Wonder, covered by Moxy Fruvous
13. Either we go through an obscene amount of paper towels and toilet paper at my office, or I’m the only one who ever changes the rolls, because seriously, I feel like I change that shit daily.
14. Ironically, I believe that it was my diligence in changing paper towels and toilet paper that led to my first-ever job promotion: from Bowline Attendant to Bowline Cashier.
15. I still wear my Bowline Lifeguard (note: job promotion #2) shirts when I work out. I don’t know what kind of material those things were made of, but they’ve sure held up.
16. A lot of the best things in life happen on Sunday. Football Sundays. NASCAR Sundays. Sunday seisiuns at the Irish spots. Long runs on Sundays. Sunday night dinner. Sundays.
17. The other best things in life are as follows: Take-away coffee. Unlimited Metrocards. Learning that your favorite band is coming to town. Drinks outside in the afternoon in the summertime the day before a holiday when work lets you out early. The U.S. Open on Labor Day. New York City.
18. I believe that people who say they have no regrets are either lying or not thinking hard enough about their lives or not holding themselves to high enough standards or have no imagination.
19. I’m comfortable being all judge-y like that.
20. My favorite day of my life was wine tasting in the Finger Lakes with Mary and Julie and Chris and a few other people on Chris’s 21st birthday. My favorite night of my life was my first Bon Jovi concert at Giants Stadium. My favorite trip was San Diego in 2004 for the Rock n’ Roll Marathon. Which is an odd choice. But man, that was a fun trip.
21. I wish my old roommate would move back to New York.
22. If it’s possible that part of a poem could change a person’s life, for me, it would be this part of this poem:
I was reading a book about pleasure,
how you have to glide through it
without clinging,
like an arrow,
passing through a target,
coming out the other side and going on.
~ From The Impossible Dream by Tony Hoagland
23. There’s an awful lot of Britney Spears on my mp3 player.
24. My favorite people in the world are the ones who are totally extraordinary in totally ordinary ways, and I’m fortunate to have a pretty decent number of them in my life. Sometimes I’d like to tell them how amazing I think they are, but then I worry that they’ll think I’m weird (or drunk), so I keep it to myself.
25. This was harder to write than I thought it would be.
26. Sometime in my late-teens, I became aware that most people imagine the toothfairy looking a bit like Tinkerbell. I always imagined the toothfairy looking like the Abominable Snowman, except covered in fluffy white pillow feathers. I haven't a clue how this happened, but I prefer my toothfairy to your's!
27. I think people who don't like sports are totally missing out. And guys who don't like sports creep me out a little. Sports bring people together. They make you feel like you're a part of something. They give you a reason to be proud of where you're from. They're exciting and fun, and they can be uplifting and breathtaking and heartbreaking and motivating. Sports, man.
28. Common stuff for other people that isn't even remotely common for me:
a. Going to the Movies: The last time I went to a movie was June 2008. Which actually wasn't all that long ago. But the time before that was whenever Spiderman II came out, and the time before that was whenever Spiderman I came out.
b. Getting a Haircut: My last haircut was in April 2007. I am seriously overdue. (Update: I have found hair religion! Or at least a hair stylist who cuts my hair in a way that makes me want to go back to see her on something approaching a reasonable schedule!)
c. Driving A Car: The last time I drove a car was September 2007. And before that was June 2004. I've actually become a bit phobic about it, which isn't good.
29. So far this year, I have been stone-cold sober for both New Year's Eve and the Super Bowl. If I can make it through St. Patrick's Day without a drink, I will have accomplished some kind of unnatural trifecta. (Update: Unnatural trifecta averted. St. Patrick's Day and all subsequent holidays have been celebrated in manners appropriate to each day -- cheesy beads and cheap beer on St. Patrick's day; get-out-of-work-early, afternoon, outside beers with friends on Memorial Day; beer gardens and barbecues on the Fourth of July; and Labor Day is fixing to see a return of the annual Official Drink of the U.S. Open.)
30. I sneeze, twice, every morning on the subway. I assume this has something to do with environmental allergens. You would think I'd remember to stick some tissues in my pocket, but if you did, you'd think wrong.
31. One of my missions in life is to understand why it's only Chinese food that you ever seen strewn across the streets of New York City. You never see a slice of pizza smashed angrily into the ground, nor a dirty water dog, or the remainder of a make-your-own-salad. But Chinese food is everywhere: The over-turned styrofoam container, a plastic fork, a trail of rice with unidentifiable pieces of the least appealing parts of what was once a pig or a chicken protruding from it. I don't know what this is about, and I want to find out.
32. I'm pretty sure that I know how I'm going to die: Mindbogglingly, one of the child-sized handful of places in New York City where one is permitted to make a right turn on red is the southeast corner of Astoria Park. There are kids everywhere. Running. Riding bikes. Generally not paying attention. Yet this is where we've chosen to let people do something that we've decided isn't safe at most any other intersection in the entire city. And perhaps it's our lack of familiarity with turning on red that results in people not doing it correctly. The whole bit about stopping first and looking appears to be lost on the majority of motorists at that corner. Rather, they just do a vague approximation of slowing down and then roll right on through the turn. The problem is that, you know, sometimes I'm in the middle of crossing the street when this occurs. I've had enough terrifyingly close calls to know that I stand a very good chance of someday getting hit by a car at that intersection. I'd prefer that this wasn't the one thing that I happen to know about my future.
33. Except that I suppose there's at least one other thing I know about my future: There are a handful of things that may someday land me in jail. For example, and since we're on the topic of traffic signals, some day I'm going to go completely apeshit on one of these assholes who can't seem to grasp that the red turn signal at the intersection of 54th & 6th means you're not allowed to turn -- one of these assholes who goes tearing through the red arrow into the intersection as I'm crossing the street and then drives right up till their bumper is inches from my knee and stares intently and angrily at me through their windshield like I'm the one doing something wrong. You're running a red light, buddy. You're also running the significant risk of me finally snapping and taking two and half years of this crap out on the hood of your stupid car. Rar.
34. I have a fairly long and vaguely comical history of being hit on by bike rickshaw drivers. It started in Toronto in October of 1996, when a gentleman whom we christened Spandex Man pedaled up to the window of the bar we were in, gave me the eye, chained his rickshaw to a pole, and then came inside and bought me a drink. In the years since these guys started appearing on the streets of New York, I've been hit on by more of them than I can count. It's the only profession that across-the-board apparently finds me attractive. I suppose I ought not shrug it off so carelessly. They're probably a little low on the cash end of the dating equation, but I imagine they're quite fit. And I have have about a million questions that I'd just love to ask a bike rickshaw driver over a drink, e.g., have you ever turned down a passenger because he was just too fat? What the hell happens if you get in a car accident? How come none of your kind ever looks behind you before you cut across the running lanes in Central Park? (An aside: Another thing that I know about my future is that it likely some day involves me tangled up in a bike rickshaw that's cut me off in Central Park. Grr.)
35. It's occurred to me that if I continue to update this list for the entire rest of my life, it could get pretty interesting. And long.
To be continued ...
Here's the original 25 things from Facebook:
1. I finally started a blog (that would be this thing you're reading, right here!), but it has quickly deteriorated into a graveyard of half-written posts. There’s this “Draft” function that let’s you start a post and finish it later. I’ve got the starting thing down pat, but the finishing it later business isn’t going so well.
2. If I run out of “Random Things” to say about myself before I reach number 25, I intend to borrow shamelessly from blog ideas that are residing in the Graveyard of Half-Written Posts. I imagine the unfinished posts titled “Stuff I Like” and “Stuff I Wish I Liked” will contain some things that would fit well on this list.
3. I like to count stuff. The harder something is the count, the more fun it is to count.
4. I frequently change the wording of sentences I write because I don’t like the way they look on paper. Writing should be about how it sounds, but sometimes it’s about how it looks. At least in my world it is.
5. My fantasy life is richer than your’s. I can pretty much guarantee that much.
6. I wish I knew somebody who liked exactly the same music that I do, exactly as much as I do. If I did, I’d plan a trip to Toronto with that person to see a whole bunch of singer/songwriters whom I’ve Six-Degrees-Of-Moxy-Fruvou
7. Of all the odd things I inherited from my father, I think the weak shoulders are the most annoying. They’re impossible to train, and easy to injure.
8. The obscenely long toes I got from my father are no picnic either – if I had normal sized toes, I’d have normal sized feet – but I generally like my feet, so we’ll let it go for now.
9. I should do laundry a lot more frequently than I do. In other words, I have an approaching obscene number of pairs of underwear.
10. I started losing interest in other people’s lists around item #9 or 10. I implore you to keep reading. I promise to make it worth your while.
11. I’d still like to move to California someday, but I doubt I ever will. At least not any time soon. All the absolute most important things in my life are around where I am now.
12. If this song doesn’t make you happy, there’s something wrong with you. Mistra Know-It-All originally by Stevie Wonder, covered by Moxy Fruvous
13. Either we go through an obscene amount of paper towels and toilet paper at my office, or I’m the only one who ever changes the rolls, because seriously, I feel like I change that shit daily.
14. Ironically, I believe that it was my diligence in changing paper towels and toilet paper that led to my first-ever job promotion: from Bowline Attendant to Bowline Cashier.
15. I still wear my Bowline Lifeguard (note: job promotion #2) shirts when I work out. I don’t know what kind of material those things were made of, but they’ve sure held up.
16. A lot of the best things in life happen on Sunday. Football Sundays. NASCAR Sundays. Sunday seisiuns at the Irish spots. Long runs on Sundays. Sunday night dinner. Sundays.
17. The other best things in life are as follows: Take-away coffee. Unlimited Metrocards. Learning that your favorite band is coming to town. Drinks outside in the afternoon in the summertime the day before a holiday when work lets you out early. The U.S. Open on Labor Day. New York City.
18. I believe that people who say they have no regrets are either lying or not thinking hard enough about their lives or not holding themselves to high enough standards or have no imagination.
19. I’m comfortable being all judge-y like that.
20. My favorite day of my life was wine tasting in the Finger Lakes with Mary and Julie and Chris and a few other people on Chris’s 21st birthday. My favorite night of my life was my first Bon Jovi concert at Giants Stadium. My favorite trip was San Diego in 2004 for the Rock n’ Roll Marathon. Which is an odd choice. But man, that was a fun trip.
21. I wish my old roommate would move back to New York.
22. If it’s possible that part of a poem could change a person’s life, for me, it would be this part of this poem:
I was reading a book about pleasure,
how you have to glide through it
without clinging,
like an arrow,
passing through a target,
coming out the other side and going on.
~ From The Impossible Dream by Tony Hoagland
23. There’s an awful lot of Britney Spears on my mp3 player.
24. My favorite people in the world are the ones who are totally extraordinary in totally ordinary ways, and I’m fortunate to have a pretty decent number of them in my life. Sometimes I’d like to tell them how amazing I think they are, but then I worry that they’ll think I’m weird (or drunk), so I keep it to myself.
25. This was harder to write than I thought it would be.
26. Sometime in my late-teens, I became aware that most people imagine the toothfairy looking a bit like Tinkerbell. I always imagined the toothfairy looking like the Abominable Snowman, except covered in fluffy white pillow feathers. I haven't a clue how this happened, but I prefer my toothfairy to your's!
27. I think people who don't like sports are totally missing out. And guys who don't like sports creep me out a little. Sports bring people together. They make you feel like you're a part of something. They give you a reason to be proud of where you're from. They're exciting and fun, and they can be uplifting and breathtaking and heartbreaking and motivating. Sports, man.
28. Common stuff for other people that isn't even remotely common for me:
a. Going to the Movies: The last time I went to a movie was June 2008. Which actually wasn't all that long ago. But the time before that was whenever Spiderman II came out, and the time before that was whenever Spiderman I came out.
b. Getting a Haircut: My last haircut was in April 2007. I am seriously overdue. (Update: I have found hair religion! Or at least a hair stylist who cuts my hair in a way that makes me want to go back to see her on something approaching a reasonable schedule!)
c. Driving A Car: The last time I drove a car was September 2007. And before that was June 2004. I've actually become a bit phobic about it, which isn't good.
29. So far this year, I have been stone-cold sober for both New Year's Eve and the Super Bowl. If I can make it through St. Patrick's Day without a drink, I will have accomplished some kind of unnatural trifecta. (Update: Unnatural trifecta averted. St. Patrick's Day and all subsequent holidays have been celebrated in manners appropriate to each day -- cheesy beads and cheap beer on St. Patrick's day; get-out-of-work-early, afternoon, outside beers with friends on Memorial Day; beer gardens and barbecues on the Fourth of July; and Labor Day is fixing to see a return of the annual Official Drink of the U.S. Open.)
30. I sneeze, twice, every morning on the subway. I assume this has something to do with environmental allergens. You would think I'd remember to stick some tissues in my pocket, but if you did, you'd think wrong.
31. One of my missions in life is to understand why it's only Chinese food that you ever seen strewn across the streets of New York City. You never see a slice of pizza smashed angrily into the ground, nor a dirty water dog, or the remainder of a make-your-own-salad. But Chinese food is everywhere: The over-turned styrofoam container, a plastic fork, a trail of rice with unidentifiable pieces of the least appealing parts of what was once a pig or a chicken protruding from it. I don't know what this is about, and I want to find out.
32. I'm pretty sure that I know how I'm going to die: Mindbogglingly, one of the child-sized handful of places in New York City where one is permitted to make a right turn on red is the southeast corner of Astoria Park. There are kids everywhere. Running. Riding bikes. Generally not paying attention. Yet this is where we've chosen to let people do something that we've decided isn't safe at most any other intersection in the entire city. And perhaps it's our lack of familiarity with turning on red that results in people not doing it correctly. The whole bit about stopping first and looking appears to be lost on the majority of motorists at that corner. Rather, they just do a vague approximation of slowing down and then roll right on through the turn. The problem is that, you know, sometimes I'm in the middle of crossing the street when this occurs. I've had enough terrifyingly close calls to know that I stand a very good chance of someday getting hit by a car at that intersection. I'd prefer that this wasn't the one thing that I happen to know about my future.
33. Except that I suppose there's at least one other thing I know about my future: There are a handful of things that may someday land me in jail. For example, and since we're on the topic of traffic signals, some day I'm going to go completely apeshit on one of these assholes who can't seem to grasp that the red turn signal at the intersection of 54th & 6th means you're not allowed to turn -- one of these assholes who goes tearing through the red arrow into the intersection as I'm crossing the street and then drives right up till their bumper is inches from my knee and stares intently and angrily at me through their windshield like I'm the one doing something wrong. You're running a red light, buddy. You're also running the significant risk of me finally snapping and taking two and half years of this crap out on the hood of your stupid car. Rar.
34. I have a fairly long and vaguely comical history of being hit on by bike rickshaw drivers. It started in Toronto in October of 1996, when a gentleman whom we christened Spandex Man pedaled up to the window of the bar we were in, gave me the eye, chained his rickshaw to a pole, and then came inside and bought me a drink. In the years since these guys started appearing on the streets of New York, I've been hit on by more of them than I can count. It's the only profession that across-the-board apparently finds me attractive. I suppose I ought not shrug it off so carelessly. They're probably a little low on the cash end of the dating equation, but I imagine they're quite fit. And I have have about a million questions that I'd just love to ask a bike rickshaw driver over a drink, e.g., have you ever turned down a passenger because he was just too fat? What the hell happens if you get in a car accident? How come none of your kind ever looks behind you before you cut across the running lanes in Central Park? (An aside: Another thing that I know about my future is that it likely some day involves me tangled up in a bike rickshaw that's cut me off in Central Park. Grr.)
35. It's occurred to me that if I continue to update this list for the entire rest of my life, it could get pretty interesting. And long.
To be continued ...
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