I didn't anticipate writing another entry before I left, but here I am. This will be short.

This week I read Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, an autobiographical account of the writer's grief after her husband died of a heart attack. I'd never read Didion or her husband, but I was so smitten at the idea of two creative people creating a life together like that. The book shows how dependent Didion was on her husband - he was an editor, a cheerleader, the ultimate partner. Still, Didion never seems to talk of love too traditionally. She clearly loved her husband, but that's a given. She focuses so much on their goals as people, as writers, as partners. The relationship seemed really cool. They didn't love each other, because they needed each other. They needed each other, because they loved each other.

Ultimately, Didion writes of her acceptance after stumbling around in a fantasy land months after she's widowed, but every day is still a struggle to live without her love. I really like the lines below:

"I know why we try to keep the dead alive: we try to keep them alive in order to keep them with us.

I also know that if we are to live ourselves there comes a point at which we must relinquish the dead, let them go, keep them dead.

Let them become the photograph on the table.

Let them become the name on the trust accounts.

Let go of them in the water.

Knowing this does not make it any easier to let go of him in the water.

In fact the apprehension that our life together will decreasingly be the center of my every day seemed today on Lexington Avenue so distinct a betrayal that I lost all sense of oncoming traffic."

"It's a day for running out of town
with a man whose eyes are brown..."
-Gwendolyn Brooks

I'll be in Philadelphia from tonight to Sunday evening.

Happy Weekend!

HORNS UP:

*A three-day work week. School is so nice without the students. That's a problem, huh?

*Springtime sales at Filene's Basement answer the question, "Whatcha gonna do with all that junk, all that junk inside that trunk?"

*An entire week of mild, consistent springlike weather. Now I have to unpack my warm weather clothes. Bring on the freckles!

*I'm really excited about leaving NYC for the weekend. When you live here, you begin to think of America as NYC and everywhere else. The latter sounds pretty good right now, considering that any other place should be less dirty, expensive, and crowded. Plus, I'm seeing new things with a new person in my life.

*The reappearance of fruit stands on street corners. Yum.

HORNS DOWN:

*Leg and toe injuries stemming from my affinity for fetching, albeit less sensible, footwear. I've worn flats the last few days and feel better, but a relapse is inevitable. I travel in style...and skewed priorities.

*After repairs earlier this week, the boilers in my apartment building are now off. No more heat. This is fine during the day, but problematic on chilly nights. I miss the clanging and puffing song of my radiator.

*Trade-offs. With a three-day work week, insofar as dealing with students is concerned, come two days of meandering, soporific professional development. Do I miss the kids? Even a little bit? I shudder to say I might.

*Daylight Savings Time on Sunday - this time springing ahead. Oh, I'll rue the day! And the following two weeks...

The subway is more than a ride. It's a free show.

I love public transportation, because it's the ultimate multitasking tool. You can literally get ready for work on your way to work. I read, listen to music, and relax on the subway, but mostly, I watch people. New York City really isn't so anonymous when you get on the train. Your fellow passengers are thisclosetoyou. Smells and paths intersect. Your every move is on display.

On the way to meet Cade last week, I watched a bland blonde who sat in the seat across from me. She had an oval face and full lips. Her nose was broad and slightly upturned. Remarkably, another bland blonde stepped into the car at the next stop and sat down right next to her. The women looked almost exactly alike!

They didn't seem to notice each other. B.B. #2 was older than B.B. #1, but they could have passed for sisters. I wondered if they'd see their resemblance if they ever turned and looked at each other. It's often hard for us to do that with ourselves. It's honest and not for the overly sensitive. Maybe the two women would have recoiled at my observation: "I don't look like her!"

I don't know. B.B. #1 got off the train at the next stop, leaving the seat next to B.B. #2 unoccupied. Then The Man With The Dirty Instrument Case came aboard. He was tall with tousled brown hair. Not affected hipster tousled, either. The I-don't-brush-my-hair kind of tousled. He stood holding his grimy white cello case upright for a few minutes and then rolled his way to B.B. #2.

"Hi!" he exclaimed. "Hello." She smiled warmly. He sat down, revealing gigantic, ski-like feet...and pink socks. The Tousled Troubadour leaned all over B.B. #2. I assumed they knew each other. Maybe she was a soprano and he was in the orchestra. My attention flagged.

Then they were shaking hands.

"I'm Inga," B.B. #2 smiled and said. I was shocked to learn they were strangers! Rosy Foot squeezed her hand and started talking to Inga about yoga, which was her reason for being on the subway. "I'd travel anywhere to take a class with my instructor." Pinky smiled slowly. "Hmmm... Maybe you can show me some positions."

I nearly gagged. I was feet away, right across the car. Oh, Inga. Do not accept the advances of a musician with a dirty instrument case and pink socks. He's negligent AND out of touch.

I watched the encounter on the edge of my seat. When the Palm Pilot came out and Inga was being asked for her number, I silently chanted, "NO, NO, NO, NO!"

But she gave it to the Cheesy Cellist anyway. My eyes rolled back so far in my head that similiarly attentive fellow passengers almost started reviving me.

The train stopped, and Inga explained she had to go. Blushing Boot said, "Bye! I'll call you." He even did the phone hand gesture. He ogled Inga as she started walking down the platform toward the exit.

"Wow," I thought. "I just threw up a little." The passenger in the seat next to mine got up and shuffled out the door.

So I swayed to "You're Beautiful" not a month ago at the James Blunt concert. "You're Beautiful," which is about recognizing the beauty of a stranger...on the subway...and wanting to save something of a gorgeous moment that will never happen again. I believe in romance and seizing opportunities...as long as pink socks and dirty instrument cases aren't involved. In either. O, contradiction, thou art my life.

I locked eyes with the Carnation Casanova. He noticed the vacant seat next to me and raised his eyebrows. Before I reflexively scowled - images of those dreadful pink socks dancing in my head - the train slowed.

My stop.

God spoke to me today. He said, "Go to Filene's Basement on 79th."

I listened. It was God talking.

I went and found just what I've been looking for - jeans and underwear. For $120.84, I bought two pairs of Seven jeans, one pair of Guess jeans, six pairs of underwear, and two pairs of earrings.

Behold my new earrings:

My exasperation is often your laughter. This is why I write about how I turned all my whites into dreary grays on a catastrophic laundry day. Why I write about my obnoxious neighbors and the crazy school where I work. But yesterday was so trying - at least the first part of it - that upon escape, I still couldn't sit down and write about it. Langston Hughes called it "laughing to keep from crying." Today I can laugh about it.

I scrambled out of my apartment around eight yesterday morning and felt famished. After walking down my street each day, I choose whether to go to the subway station uptown or downtown. They're both about the same distance, but the uptown walk gets me closer to my workplace; the downtown walk leads me past the Hot and Crusty Bakery. Never mind that the name suggests second-degree burns - the banana nut muffins are fabulous. For the first time, the lady behind the counter knew what I wanted. Cool. I paid with my debit card and scurried away.

Before making it to work, a man stopped me on a street corner. He said hello. Being a generally polite person and also totally inept at sensing someone is about to hit on me, I said hello back. "I see you walking here all the time," the stranger said. "You are very beautiful. I've written poems about you."

Oh dear. Notice that the sentences are very simple. That's because his English wasn't so great. He may be the next Pablo Neruda, but I say, "No, gracias," to the pidgin English speaking admirers.

Perhaps the gods decided to play with me for being snooty. I walked into the office and had a coverage slip. I'd be covering a bilingual class second and third periods on the third floor. "Great," I thought. "Bilingual people love me. This should be fine."

Ummm...no.

Come second period I was propelled into a nightmare - Waking Life without flying and philosophy. I was responsible for thirty, unknown, spastic children screaming in Spanish. I've always thought my Spanish pronunciation was pretty good. I pronounce words the right way. I don't embarass myself at Mexican restaurants. I excelled in college Spanish courses. This doesn't mean I understood a damn thing the "bilingual" kids were saying. Oh, and calling them "bilingual" was too generous. They are lingual. They were able to say, "Miss, can I go to the bathroom? WHY NOT?!" but not able to understand, "Get in your seat and get quiet."

Dominican stereotypes were flagrantly displayed. The girls were talking loudly, flipping through magazines about telenovelas, and swiveling their hips around the boys. The boys were talking loudly, flipping through magazines about cars, and either demeaning or threatening to abuse the girls. (Feel free to leave me a comment saying I'm racist. I'm just telling it like it is). One boy asked for my help with the work, but leered at me and licked his lips the entire time. Machismo? Oh, hell no!

I'd have loved to educate the sexist little pig, but the inevitable happened. The same way onions make you tear, my walking into an unfamiliar classroom makes at least one kid want to kick another's ass. It never fails. In fact, I've begun to suspect there is a sign on my forehead visible only to students that reads, "Please fight in my presence. Violence is the answer."

Apparently this sign is also translated en espanol.

In a normal class of hyperactive hoodlums, I could pick up on some foreshadowing. Maybe I could have sensed a rivalry or beef between the tall boy with curly hair and the short boy with the fade. Or maybe not.

I only know the tall boy grabbed the short boy's worksheet and a fight ensued. The short boy was knocked flat on his back and humiliated. The class crowded around and cheered. The entire Spanish language bounced off the dingy walls of the classroom in guttural yells and high-pitched squeals. (Consequently, four dogs died in the Bronx). My ears rang.

Was Hitler ever a teacher? Hmmm... (Feel free to leave a comment saying I'm a neo-Nazi. I'm just curious)...

The fight was broken up. I'm assuming both boys swore that vengeance would be had. The fight later branched out into the hallway outside the classroom. I pushed the rest of the screaming students into the classroom as they tried to get front row seats. One girl mustered up the vocabulary to scream, "But Miss! He's my cousin!"

I thought... Oh c'mon, say it with me. You know you want to. "Half of this neighborhood is your cousin, honey! I don't care!"

Eventually someone took the pugilists away. The rest of the students returned to class to resume the doing of nothing. The minutes ticked away slowly. My waning desire to ever have a child dipped lower than a freak on the dancefloor.

The bell rang. I went to the nearest place to procure food. At the checkout, I discovered my debit card was missing. I paid for the food that I no longer had an appetite for with my credit card and began to worry. Many teachers have had things stolen from them, inclusing wallets. The only things of value are my debit card, credit card, and of course, all those business cards perfect for discreetly spitting out gum.

I keep an eye on my things, though. Had I dropped my debit card in the store on my way to the checkout? In the street after I bought my muffin? Or had I left it at the Hot and Crusty Bakery?

It took a while to find a phone number, but finally I dialed 666-####. Yes 666. "Hellloooo? Hot and Crusty?" It was a man with a thick accent. I explained the predicament; he found my debit card. It hadn't been returned by the cashier. So much for her memory.

"Thank God! I am so relieved," I sighed into the phone. "Eh?"

"Never mind. I'll pick it up at 3:30. Thanks. Gracias. Muchas gracias."

The day got better, found in translation.

Me: I read your horoscope today.
Him: Really? Did it say "Beware of women with blonde hair"?
Me: Yes. It said, "Beware the Dyeds of March".

*Cade shook his head when I wrote this down. Am I the only one who can appreciate a good "Julius Caesar" joke? Methinks not.

It gets hard to write, because in the musculature of my hands, sinews of my arms, pulsing freeways of my brain, and endless "ink" of my keyboard, all is potential. There's no greater burden, no greater freedom.

Walking in the city, with its shadows of towering buildings, can make you feel small or it can make you feel protected. The cursor winks, because it knows I'm torn between trying to put everything into the most adequate words and admitting that I could never do what happened justice.

I lapse in love and fatigue and stress. On Wednesdays when America's Next Top Model comes on (tsk! tsk! I know!). When something new is offered to me - something so terribly blogworthy - I spurn the keyboard and just live.

I harness the potential then and juice my offering like an orange, wringing all the pulp and seeds as my hands stickily sting. The better to write with - later.

Memories of the weekend lap the edges of my mind, pushing up the corners of my mouth. Saturday school - a long, tedious commitment since October - is finally over. I'll miss the money and some of the interactions, but I finally get to sleep in. Hooray!

Cade and I are going to Philadelphia for the weekend and I trust he'll take me on some great adventures, because 1) he's like that and 2) I'm easily convinced I'm on a great adventure. Seriously, just take me to a grocery store. Should we not be sick of each other this time next week, it's safe to assume that I will be a key player in Cade's fictitious Hello Kitty diary: "Hello Kitty, Amanda is just super!!!!!! Today she loaned me her lint brush!!!!!! It was soooooo cooooool!!!!!!!"

I made a huge dent in Erica Jong's Fear of Flying at Saturday school. The book was hard to get into, despite how much it strikes me as a kind of name droppy Nora Ephron work. Cade and I met up Friday, after he fulfilled his need for communal masculine activity a la watching college basketball, and then again on Saturday, after he fulfilled his need for clean underwear. We had Korean food on Saturday, but I finally showed him how much I can eat on Sunday at Blue Smoke, home of the best barbeque in the city. It was really good, even by Texas standards. Cade escaped sporadically during the meal to check college basketball scores and I nibbled on a cookie appropriately shaped like a pig.

Ahhh, weekends. They're back at just the right time.

While descending the stairs to the uptown 1 track at Times Square, Cade decided to remind me he's a guy. He jumped gibbon-like, grabbed an overhead bar, and casually swung off it.

Dude, I already knew you're tall.

Boys at I.S. 666 do the same thing. They whoop and jump, trying to touch ceiling tiles and pull light fixtures out of the ceiling. What does this achieve? Perhaps it's a vestigial thought process stemming from when we were still proud to admit we're apes. (Yep, I believe it. You can't look at George W. Bush and tell me we aren't descendants of poo-flinging primates). Or maybe it's something directly related to the Y chromosome, like the male predilection for onamatapoeia and all sorts of nuanced car noises. Women cannot fathom being able to conjugate vrooms. On second thought, I need someone to change two bulbs in the light fixture on my fifteen foot bedroom ceiling. Wherever will I turn? Some unevolved man with a ladder round these parts.

So Cade successfully grabbed the bar, made it down the stairs, and discovered his finger had been deeply cut. "Great," I said. "Now you have hepatitis." Blood bubbled.

Sigh. The downfalls of being a guy - rigid hegemonic roles, insufficient paternity leave, back hair, and...hurting oneself while being stupid. (And also reading about one's less intelligent exploits on a snarky girl's blog. I suppose that could be tough).

The train came and Cade bled all the way to 103rd Street. The car was standing room only for most of the trip. Cade cupped the pool of blood in his hand and shot me babyish, distraught grimaces of pain.

Oh, simple one. I know what thoughts race through your head: Me bleeding. Me hurt. Me fingers now stuck together. But me swing off high bar! Me awesome!

Dude, I already knew you're a dude.

*IMPORTANT UPDATE:
Thanks to my timely medical response, Cade's finger will not have to be amputated. His liver continues to function. He'll be swinging off more overhead bars at train stations in a matter of weeks.

Dutch Immigrants Forced To Watch Racy Film
The camera focuses on two gay men kissing in a park. Later, a topless woman emerges from the sea and walks onto a crowded beach. For would-be immigrants to the Netherlands, this film is a test of their readiness to participate in the liberal Dutch culture. If they can't stomach it, no need to apply. The test - the first of its kind in the world - became compulsory yesterday, and was made available at 138 Dutch embassies. -Associated Press

Intriguing. Let people know what they're getting into. How about this one?

New Teachers Forced To Watch Racy Film
The camera focuses on two male students fighting and cursing in a corner as security guards look on. Later, a 17-year-old woman emerges from the hallway and walks into a crowded, seventh-grade class that is her homeroom...thirty minutes late. Then shots of a substitute teacher being punched in the stomach and students ripping up assignments as soon as they're passed out. The soundtrack is a loop of "F*ck outta here! I don't care! I know you saw that?!" The camera cuts to students throwing up gang signs and discussing the street value of the video camera. At the film's end, a student explains that cheese is a vegetable.

The week sped by with unrivaled velocity and this blog was left in the dust. On the back burner. [Insert another figure of speech here.]

In an homage to my alma mater, I present a quick review of the week thus far.

HORNS UP:


*Cade and I finding a store in NYC - in Soho of all places - that sells Venus Flytraps. I loves me some carnivorous plants.

*Eating chicken quesadillas at Uncle Nick's with Nick. Telltale NYC/Greek touch: pitas replace tortillas.

*After finding the source for all things Venus Flytrap, Cade and I filled our traps at Lombardi's. (He liked it, so we're still friends).

*Recent communications with two friends from college. I tend to lose touch with people if I don't see them on a regular basis, so it's good to know I can maintain long-distance friendships...at the moment.

*Mr. Chen buying me lunch in appreciation of my editing all of his grad school papers. I'd like an honorary Master's in Mathematics, but a fajita plate will suffice.

HORNS DOWN:


*The paper chase that is applying to graduate school.

*Vacillating weather. I want it to be warm or cold already - not cold one day, warm the next. My chapped lips cannot handle Mother Nature's indecision.

*Grammatical atrocities committed daily at I.S. 666. One student explaining to his teacher why he has food in class post-lunch: "I ain't eat!" He ain't learn, neither.

*An undeniable need for more sleep coupled with an inability to nap or go to bed early.

*Having to substitute teach on Tuesday. The experience wasn't horrible, but I'm uncomfortable being thrown into a classroom of a teacher I don't know with students I don't know.

*I found this piece of writing in my email draft folder. Its subject line reads "tHEology."

She doesn't just roll her eyes when you bring up religion. Consider it a way of looking skyward.

You may think her "reverence" is irreverence. And that's fine. Just don't imagine those shower curtained meditations or the mumbling under the covers - eyes squeezed tightly closed - don't involve God. He's there.

She grew up in a household where He came more often than Santa Claus and the Easter bunny, which can't really be said for these days. Her Daddy was there, because of Him. He could have died and the family struggled, but she couldn't remember. She was grateful for Him the way she was grateful to her boyfriend's parents. ("Thank you so much for conceiving him/socializing him to act this way/getting him to me in one mosaiced piece")... She had nothing to do with His greatness, except to witness.

Witness didn't mean go door to door spreading the word, because she didn't have as many words then and they still hardly suffice now. Witnessing was as simple as seeing the beauty of the few flowers that survived the drought, praying for her parents when her dad smashed his fist into the bedroom door because of the pain, still remembering to feel the sun. People need their own words for Him or Her or Them. He saved her and the ones she loved in a unique way. Her gospel was never going to be another's.

It was as simple as the mumbled one-sided conversations in her two favorite rooms of the house. It was hours upon hours on the swingset in the backyard. The rubber perch was the center of her faith. She sang and sang until her mom called her in for supper. When the trees swayed she knew it was Him. He watched her and smiled and laughed that she took herself so seriously. His little diva minus the overindulgence. She imagined He was like the grandfather she never had. He would call her by name, maybe even an endearment, too. She would monitor the amount of
swaying to determine His favorite songs. Sometimes He made requests.

Years later, she went to church with a friend. She didn't like this other way. He wasn't supposed to be cruel to some people like they seemed to believe. To her, He was above anything she could exhibit towards her younger sister. Like the grandfather she never had. In the Sunday school room, that man approached her and asked if she had accepted Him. Of course, long ago. Do we really accept such things? She felt she had inherited Him - no choice was required because that implied she could have decided against Him, and she would have never done that.

The man backed her into a corner. Was this the way a pushy grandmother weakens the love you have for a gentle grandfather just by habitation? She'll never know. Sweaty palms and the man's heavy breathing became "religion." This didn't feel clean like the other times. The Sunday school room was gray and dusty. The man's hands were sweaty and thick. The man squeezed the faith she was born, along with her hands. The man began to pray for her. Tears came to her eyes, not because she was being saved from her previous damnation, but because she was revolted. The man's prayers didn't move her in any of the right ways. He made her want to sing, He made her realize what she'd been given and want to give something back. The man who worked at the church made her feel taken and weak. It was a spiritual rape.

So it's hard to face them when they act like they know Him the way she does. She'll never find him in dusty rooms on Sundays mornings or in the quiet of a group prayer. They can't know her God, because He has done some things especially for her. He still does those things, and He will continue to do things...

And all she needs to do is sing in the sun.

Student: I wouldn't eat vegetarian pizza - all it has is crust, sauce, and vegetables.
Me: And cheese.
Student: No. A vegetarian pizza.
Me: Right. It's not vegan, so it has cheese.
Student: No, it doesn't.
Me: Why do you say that?
Student: [Looking at me incredulously] Hello! Cheese is a vegetable.
Me: [Laughing] What?
Student: It comes from the ground!
Me: No, it doesn't. It comes from milk. It's a dairy product.

*If it hadn't been for me, this seventh grader would have gone through life thinking Kraft singles grow on vines and there are holey forests of Swiss trees dotting the countryside.

At I.S. 666, I'm rocking one young mind at a time.

I tried to post something in honor of Megan's birthday yesterday, but Blogger was extrememly uncooperative. So...this isn't belated, it was bedeviled.

Happy 21st Birthday, Megan!

In 21 years, you've pillaged Merlin's robber shop with me. (Remember how we used to slide and shimmy under Daddy's desk and hide)? You always got to play the wife when we played house. You learned to detect when I'm lying and when I'm just incapable of keeping a straight face. You've been subjected to hours of playing magazines and school in your bedroom (because I didn't want to clutter my own sleeping quarters). One time you were forced to accompany me on a date.

You loaned me your clothes and pinched me when we fought and ate cake batter and kept secrets.

I'm very glad that you're my sister.

The second to last Saturday school session proceeded with little ado. One of the teachers brought in Pirates of the Caribbean, so I didn't even have to teach. And no, I didn't vomit anywhere. In fact, the school lunch for the day was significantly more edible and had chips and a package of baby carrots.

After Saturday school, I'd planned on venturing to Brooklyn for occupational edification. The subway stopped mid-tunnel. I was already late to the event and crowded in a stuffy car of tourists, baby strollers, and men taking up two seats with their sprawled legs. Grrr!

I realized I was irked. By the time I got on the A train, I would probably be completely irritated. By the time I got to Brooklyn, unemployable. I decided to go to the event Sunday instead.

I got off the train, walked around a few minutes, and headed back to my apartment. Comfortable in this mindless routine, I boarded a train which turned out to be the train from some other subway line running on the 1 track. At some point, I realized that the train had gone too far without stopping. When it slowed and then screeched to a stop, my suspicions were confirmed. I was in the worst kind of ghetto - the unfamiliar ghetto - wearing Banana Republic...and oh so ironically listening to "Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta."

I felt infinitely whiter.

I put the ipod away, made a plan, and waited. Weekend subway trips are all about the waiting, yo. I finally got on a train, walked eleven blocks home, and collapsed. Cade began his journey to the city, eagerly anticipating his free sample of the Amanda's MsAdventures tour. (Register by email for it now, folks! For $25, you can visit I.S. 666, Lombardi's, and The 39 Steps)!

Once in Harlem, Cade and I debated the value of Kentucky Fried Chicken over Taco Bell, Philadelphia over New York City, rats in the trash outside the school over rats running independently along the sidewalk (difficult call, that one - there were both). We went to Koronet Pizza and shared a jumbo pepperoni slice bigger than Cade's head.

We watched, talked, listened, thought. Cade marveled at how interesting it is that two people from such different areas, whose paths could have never crossed, can meet.

I'm glad I tempt my fate, if you can call anything I do "tempting my fate." It's awfully poetic. Or maybe I fool myself. Can I conclude that I at least aggressively try to wean prospects from chance? That sounds better.

I'm happy. I don't care. Saturday was very eventful.

The weekend began when Nick tried to startle me outside the pub. He wasn't successful out there, but what happened inside made up for the shortcoming. In honor of St. Patrick's Day, the end of the grueling work week, and any other excuse to down a martini, we'd planned to meet at Limerick's with the group from last week. The place didn't look as crowded as the previous Friday, because people sat planted at every booth, table, and bar stool. I graciously accepted the bar stool offered by the brusque old man in work clothes. Nick stood and leaned on the bar.

I sipped an appletini; Nick drank a beer (unfortunately not dyed green as he had thought it would be). A band attempted to cover songs that everyone knows, but no one particularly likes.

Pointing at a bland and bulky female bartender, I asked, "She looks straight out of Dubliners, doesn't she?"

Nick shrugged. He has yet to be forced at grade point to read James Joyce.

"So how was your day?" I asked.

A grin slowly trickled from one side of his face to the other. "Well...I got fired."

Maybe it was the alcohol, but I swear I felt my eyes cartoonishly bulge out of my head. "No..."

"Yeah," he grinned.

"What did you do? You aren't just saying this because unemployment is such as Irish thing?"

"No. The company deleted my position. I had no work to do, and they laid me off." He suddenly raised his arms and yelled out, "I got fired on St. Patrick's Day!" Men at the bar laughed and cheered and patted him on the back.

Nick watched me squirm on my seat, more distraught at this new development than he was. I imagined my charming, red-haired friend selling his Brooks Brothers shirts to get cash for booze, a terrible famine stealing the meat from his frame.

"I'm actually relieved. I was wasting my potential. I was bored."

I'm an American. I'll be bored...if you pay me more than enough.

Nick discussed the new plan - to live off of unemployment and a generous severance package while searching for an internship. He reassured me that things were going to be okay. He was okay. An appletini on the way.

The band disassembled. Some blind patrons all wearing green (but how could they know for sure?) walked past.

We toasted to upheaval, downgrades, and the hope that things, after tonight, wouldn't be too Irish.

From Holy Cow by Sarah Macdonald:
"The dancing is like liturgical gone luscious, involving acting out every word sung."

Yep. That's me teaching Jessica that Steve Urkel dance move that I mastered years ago. She picks things up quickly.

Megan suggested I do a survey-like entry that is seemingly trivial, but reveals a lot about my current state of mind. I've chosen to tell you the top five songs on my ipod. These are the songs I play frequently, and thus, have stuck in my head, which leads me to play them even more frequently...

1) "Feel Good Inc." - This Gorillaz song has been on my ipod for awhile, but I've only been listening and re-listening to it in recent weeks. I get down in my cool, socially acceptable style on the subway on my way to work. I like the beat and the maniacal laughter. "Watch me as I gravitate - hahahahaha!"

2) "14th Street" - Laura Cantrell's New York City country song is perfect! It's about seeing an unrequited love on the streets and deciding whether or not to catch up with the person and risk your feelings: "I don't wanna catch up with you, 'cause once we got started, we'd have to see it through... People said, 'Watch out for that situation. It's nothing more than a crazy infatuation.' Insisted it was love, I weighed common sense. I paid with my heart 'til I saw how much I spent."

3) "Bright Future in Sales" - Fountains of Wayne ironically captures dead-end jobs and the angst of growing up with lyrics like, "Sittin' on a planner in the Port Authority, waitin' for my bus to come. Seven scotch and sodas at the office party, now I can't remember where I'm from." This song makes me rock out in solidarity and I feel elated, because I know things could be worse and I'll overcome my trying job.

4) "Five Years" - I love a good kiss-off song, because though I'm not vengeful, I absolutely cherish those "boo ya" moments in life. Alanis Morissette's "Right Through You" is a classic. "Five Years" by Jamie Paxton is less angry, and more snarky. In the song, she admits that she shouldn't have stayed in a particular bad relationship, that she knew better, that she's not a victim. She doesn't even explain what went wrong. All we know is that she's better off without the person she's singing about: "I hope I never see you again, but I promise you'll want me. I may never see your face, but I know you'll see me... You should probably watch out for me." You go, girl.

5) "My Doorbell" - So the bell ringing thing has been done. It can be a hardly veiled sexual innuendo or it can mean a literal visitation from friends. Both work in The White Stripes song. The song explains that one misses a companion at first, but eventually gets over it. There's always someone else out there just waiting to ring your bell. Try not to bounce up and down while listening to, "I'mthinkingboutmydoorbell. Whenyagonnaringitwhenyagonnaringit?" It's kind of a mouthful at first, but after the 32nd listen, you'll be singing the lyrics perfectly AND playing air guitar.

Rate-A-Concert

Artist(s): The Boy Least Likely To, James Blunt

Length of performance: 3.5 hours

What I did: I scored a free ticket to this concert, and unlike a lot of people there, knew only two of Blunt's songs. The concert was at Webster Hall, which is a really cool venue. I learned other James Blunt songs and learned he can somewhat rock out, but I enjoyed the Brit pop group, The Boy Least Likely To, more. They're quirky and fun. I hope they get big here and I get to say that I saw them as an opening act way back when.

High point: When Blunt closed the show with "You're Beautiful" and the sea of people collectively swayed and sang along. Blunt was all choked up as he thanked us for having him. The lights on stage danced around the room and I could see dust particles in the air. (I always feel moved by the sudden illumination of something always there, but seldom seen). I can't do justice to how special the moment was - it felt really good to be exactly where I was. I mean this in the grand scheme of things.

Low point: I stood the entire time. My feet were already sore from the shoes I wore to work, and then I stood in boots for a few hours. My lower back was killing me.

Overall impression: This was my first concert in NYC. I really liked the venue, and I definitely want to check out The Boy Least Likely To more. James Blunt seems extremely humble and down-to-earth. Also, Megan, his nose isn't that big.

Reason I went to the concert: I like two of James Blunt's songs, so why wouldn't I go to a free concert?

I learned: There were some fun verbal altercations to watch as I waited in line outside the concert hall. One involved a large group of people who refused to go to the end of the line (which wrapped around another street near a movie theater), because they'd mistakenly been standing at a space near the movie theater entrance which could not be a continued part of the concert line, due to its blocking the entrance of another building. Whew! Did you get that? Then a woman started screaming at a man who wanted to push in the center of the room from the fringes so he could look right at James Blunt when he sang "Goodbye My Lover." She wasn't having it, and no one else was, either. Both incidents involved cursing, some good one-liners, and general muttering/side-choosing by witnesses.

*I wanted Cade to call my AudioBlogger number and tell this story as he told it to me, but he refused. He'd prefer to have me try to rehash the whole thing from memory despite incredible odds, one being that I was laughing so hard during the conversation that I'm sure I missed many details. This is my attempt to share Cade's tale of apartment woe. (Cue Law and Order music here).

Finding an apartment in New York City is tough. Neighborhood cultures vary block by block, sometimes drastically. Rent is obscene if you want to live anywhere below 125th Street. People often share crowded, cluttered quarters with all sorts of interesting near-strangers. Eventually, you will be able to identify when they have just used the bathroom and if they ate your leftover pizza using forensic evidence or just sniffing. Eventually, the weirdness becomes normalized and accepted.

I wouldn't think that Cade would be exposed to such residential trauma, because he lives in Long Island. Sure, people there are stereotypically tacky and ignorant. Overall, though, a land that fostered the Long Island Lolita Amy Fisher couldn't be a land that gets people in a tizzy over apartment rental, right?

Well, no.

Cade has a really questionable landlord. I happen to pay my rent to Kathy, the primary renter of my apartment who in turn, pays the landlord. So essentially, I kind of live with a pseudo-landlord, but don't know the person who owns the building. Cade doesn't live with his landlord or anyone resembling a landlord, but that hasn't kept said landlord (from here on known as Santo) from hanging out in his bedroom and pretending to take a dump in his bathroom.

Santo is around the building a lot apparently. Perhaps he is still phlegmatic when it comes to his landlord duties, but you can't say the guy's a stranger. A few weeks ago, he called one of Cade's roommates, a straight-edge medical student, to bail him out of jail after receiving a DUI. Cade went home early Sunday morning to find his paranoid landlord pacing nervously. Santo asked Cade if he'd seen any police outside the apartment. Cade said no, and before he could assume it was just a very weird question and pretend his landlord is normal, Santo explained his concern. He'd been in a verbal altercation with one of the other tenants, that tenant then gathered an intimidating number of friends, and Santo defended himself by wielding a machete.

A MACHETE?! Close your eyes with me now and imagine a wild-eyed Norman Bates stuttering, "I....have a ho...tel. You're welcome...to stay...if...you like."

Santo told Cade he was heading to the mall and then the movies in order to avoid contact with the po-po. "If they come and ask you any questions, make up a name for me. Tell them I don't even know [the tenant he argued with]."

This is where the story gets funny. Cade doesn't appear to have any shadiness in him. If he stood under a redwood tree, I think he'd remain all bright and shiny with those delicate facial features of his. (To provide a caveat here, though, I have to admit I haven't known Cade very long. Perhaps he'll be so offended by this portrayal of him that he'll chop me into tiny pieces out of spite. Still, I highly doubt it).

Cade addressed Santo's request: "Actually, Santo, I don't feel comfortable lying to the police on your behalf or helping you evade the police in any way." All this said with the vowel sound from "can't," "Santa" without the 'a.' The white man way. Too fabulous.

The police were in the vicinity of the apartment, but I missed this detail as I made fun of how Cade pronounces "Santo." Eventually, Machete Man returned to the apartment building and huddled in Cade's bedroom while Cade tried to work on his computer like a normal person who has a private bedroom he pays money for. Santo boasted about his mafia connections and built more shade upon the shade of his character. I'm not sure how long he hid out, but I think it may have been long enough to expedite Cade's Manhattan apartment hunt.

I think it's better to have a distant New York City landlord - the kind that doesn't seem to care very much about the appliances, the heating, or the infestation problem you've been telling him or her about than to have one whose criminal record is too familiar. Santo sounds like the kind of guy that could forgive you if the rent is late, but mind you, he's got legal bills to pay. He might expect you to help him knock off some convenience stores or banks in a criminal barter system, tit for tat.

Cade, come to my borough, o shadeless one! We have sirens, roaches, stank, and best of all, alienation. Home is where apart is.

Oopsie. These underpants on sale at the Broadway dollar store a few blocks from my apartment are just asking for skid marks.

*I wanted this entry to have pictures beside the relevant text, but too many images complicates the posting aesthetic and blogger. You should read the story and then scroll down to see the pictures. Or vice-versa. Or if you like llamas, just scroll down now.

My Trip To Connecticut
or
What I Did Upon Deciding Not To Break My Butt

I got up at 6 a.m. to go on a marvelous, two-hour journey to Connecticut. En route I saw things that reminded me of home - horses, trees, Wal-Mart, and yes, roadkill. I squinted into the horizon and murmured, "So this is where the white people come from..."

People in Connecticut live in houses with garages and probably more than one bathroom. They don't go to laundromats or carry groceries up 39 steps or live above funeral homes or Chinese restaurants. Ah, the simple life.

I ventured to not one, but two, resorts to find that the snow had turned to bone-cracking ice. I didn't even get to strap on skis and embarrass myself.

On the way to the second resort, I spied Kent Falls State Park. The covered bridge that led to the waterfall reminded me of Beetlejuice.



I stood by the waterfalls, blinking the misty rain out of my eyes and trying to resist the urge to pee. Oh yes, and meditating.

Craggy pieces of ice clung to some of the rocks, and the water was so clean and clear. Is this where white people AND bottled water come from?

The trail to the top was closed for reconstruction, but hey, I needed to take some risks that day. I walked in the squishy mud to the top to behold the view.


After leaving Kent Falls, I met a llama named Snoopy. (I didn't use his real picture - my memory card was full). He gamboled from the center of his yard to the fenceline, started hocking major loogies, and eyed me suspiciously. I think he sensed that I have an alpaca sweater.

No one plans to be a cross-country public vomiter. It is a calling destined only by the gods. You know, like a shaman. My role of gastrointestinal gypsy/vomiting vagabond was revealed one fateful morning at the University of Texas.

I'd been sitting in my theater class covertly eating oatmeal cookies and sipping a Coke when I began to feel weird. My body went weak, despite the sugar and caffeine coursing through it. Had you tuned in at 9:30, you could have watched another episode of As My Stomach Churns. Fortunately, the class was almost over. I hurried outside after dismissal and started to dash across campus to my dorm when it hit me.

"I am going to hurl."

Saliva began to pool in my graying cheeks. I opted to wait for the Forty Acres shuttle instead of trekking home, but decided to forego slow public transportation and crawl home if I had to. I needed a toilet seat to hug pronto! I started to do the barf shuffle, but before long knew I couldn't fight the waves of nausea much longer. Turning into an unfamiliar campus building, I asked a guy walking out where the bathroom was.

Okay, well I tried to ask where the bathroom was. I tried to explain I wasn't feeling well, but I showed him instead. All over his shoes. In demon possessed projectile fashion.

The guy cursed and screamed at me, perhaps making the sign of the cross. I don't know, because I collapsed on the floor and tried to apologize between gushes of puke. My cookies weren't merely tossed. There was some major dribble, layup, dribble, slam dunk stuff happening, (with a special emphasis on the dribble).

This weekend, I didn't eat breakfast before Saturday school due to time constraints. I didn't eat the school provided breakfast or lunch, because I'm a picky eater and would like to avoid Type II diabetes. Students gave me their tiny apples and pears to eat. This gave me enough energy to teach and monitor them in the computer lab after lunch, but not enough to survive stepping out into the gorgeous weather at the end of the session. I walked two feet and the recognition jolted me. It's coming.

Ladies and Gentlemen, let the blowing of chunks commence!

I leaned against a wall across the street from the school and quickly regressed to a slouch, then a squat, then a modified fetal position. A grizzly, old man on the street witnessed this and asked me if I was okay. It was unclear whether or not the man was a panhandler or just plays one on TV. "I suddenly feel really sick," I explained. "I'm trying to buy a soda or something to raise my blood sugar."

The man started pulling coins out of his pockets and said, "I'm sorry. I only have thirty cents." I thanked him and replied, "No I have money. I just need-" and then I threw up. The pile of fruit I left on the sidewalk looked bright, shiny, and uniformly diced. I could have scooped it up, put it in a container, and peddled it at Garden of Eden: "Yes, sir, this is definitely organic." My good Samaritan may have been grossed out - he wished me better health and continued on his way.

Post-upchuck, I walked slowly to the corner store and then KFC to replenish my body with fatty, greasy, original reciped fuel. There I had to convince a man NOT to buy me lunch. Huh?

Is Eau de Puke the next revolution in fragrance?

Could more public vomiting bring out the altruism in all mankind?

I don't know yet, but the gods have undoubtedly put me on a mission to find out.

I now present the Best Conversation Of The Week Involving The Tossing Of Cookies, Blowing Of Chunks, And Riding Of The Porcelain Bus.

Me: So I've publicly vomited in every city I've been in.
Cade: Oh, really?
Me: Yeah.
Cade: Is this a personal mission, like, "Yeah, right after high school I went on a road trip across the country. Just me, my car, and a lot of paper towels..."?
Me: Hmmm... That could be cool.

Lately, I've been writing more in longhand during the day with the intention of blogging my writing once I get home to the computer. Last week was a whirlwind of activity, though. This is what I meant to post Friday:

Finally, a good day at school. Nothing especially amazing happened, but nothing horrible happened, either. The first period class was under control and most students were doing work. There are a few students in this particular class who don't do any work in any of their classes. I asked their homeroom teacher about them and he said, "I've called their moms, and they said they don't know what to do with them."

When did that become a legitimate excuse for parents to offer? I'll never forget when one extremely vulgar and angry student's dad finally wandered over to the school (after being summoned to "mandatory" parent-teacher conferences for weeks). The dad shrugged when I told him what his son regularly did in my class - from singing explicit song lyrics to describing hardcore pornography he had watched. "Yeah, he's no good," he said with a sigh.

Who's the victim here? Do we all share the title? What problem begat the other? So many questions... I tend to believe some of these kids are so gone, like infected lepers, that we can't tell where one lesion ends and another begins. All we see is one continuous wound. Still, I don't think anyone is inherently malevolent. Misbehavior is reinforced and learned.

But enough of that. The weather's here. Wish they were beautiful.

I think I need some time to myself tonight to straighten up and recover from a long week. I've been out and about a lot and haven't had the chance to lounge, peruse the web, or look for a random episode of Date My Mom. Ahh, priorities.

Mas en el futuro.

The last week has been most excellent. I haven't been writing as much as I want/need to, but I'll be catching up starting Monday. I'm stating my intent for my mom more than anyone else, because I know she's waiting for more. In time, Mama, in time...

I'm going to Connecticut tomorrow (well, today) to go skiing! Wish me soft falls and uncharacteristic grace.

I took this picture the other day. I saw me, but upon closer examination saw my dad - the chin, the length of the nose, something about the way he holds his mouth. I saw the fullness of my mom's face, the size of her eyes, the crease at the tip of her nose. I saw my sister gone lighter.

Our faces are never our own. They're collages of relatives, some we'll never see. They're intricate maps outlined in thin webs of blood. We often squint to see any resemblance, but actually see it best with eyes wide.

It's been awhile since I espoused just why I.S. 666 and schools like it are bad for America, but a diatribe is long overdue. New York City Department of Education, how do I hate thee? Don't make me count the ways.

In ye olde days of the 1990's, I went to a Texas public school in a small independent school district. Unfortunately, I think quite a few students were labeled early on and inappropriately tracked into less challenging classes and academic programs. Unfortunately, everyone knew everyone else and the town was very conservative with a before school prayer group and an annual visit from abstinence-touting holy roller, Ed Ainsworth. (I wish him many lost tax dollars and a number of painful experiences involving crying babies in movie theaters). My hometown isn't a place to feel comfortable in your own skin if your skin happens to be liberal, suspiciously unique and creative, or gay.

On the converse, the lack of anonymity in the O.E.I.S.D. school system was a blessing. Discipline issues were always in check. I never saw a student assault a teacher and I never saw students curse or sexually harass a teacher; nor did I ever see extreme cases of these behaviors among students. From the start of my education, I knew what was expected of me at school. Overt misbehavior was shocking, because cases of it were so rare. We had zero tolerance, "no pass, no play" policies set up. There was a physical office where people were sent for egregious behavior. ("Egregious" is all relative, of course. Farting on someone in Texas is "egregious." Here, in NYC, it's called "that bastard on the subway again").

The principal's office was not where you'd want to be. Upon resting your butt on a chair in the principal's office - where you'd imagine the flesh might be burned off by the thought of the punishment that awaited you - your parents were called. This is the part that would have scared me the most, had I not been the goody two shoes I was in school. No one shapeshifts in anger like my Mama and Daddy. It's a super power. Getting caught and facing the wrath of teachers, principals, my parents, and the drones that operated the In School Suspension (I.S.S.) room would have been like an ass whoopin' by the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers - humiliating, forceful, and wickedly synchronized.

My a.s.s. never spent a day in I.S.S., but I know kids not bad enough to be sent completely away from school (which wouldn't even be the worst of the bad kids in Odem) were placed in locked-down isolation in a building far away from normal student life. Teachers piled on work and miscreants did it in silence...or else.

A few years later....

Welcome to I.S. 666, land of no consequences! Step right up and hit a teacher as hard as you can! Should this teacher follow up with the piles of paperwork it would take to maybe get you in trouble, you have an all-expense paid vacation of three days OUT of class, but IN school! You'll sit in the assistant principal's office on a couch, mostly unsupervised! You'll have no work to do - just sit back and watch the violent, distracting chaos unfold before you! If one of your pals does something really bad that warrants seeing the assistant principal, like dowsing a classmate with gasoline, you may get some time to socialize! Conjugal-like visits probably aren't out of the question, either.

I talked to a parent yesterday. She'd come in all fired up, because her son broke another boy's arm while play fighting in class. I found out that three boys, including the smallest one who needed an operation to repair his arm, were suspended for play fighting. The parent conference ended. The assistant principal said each boy had three days of suspension. I watched the mom get up, look hard at her son, and walk away.

I wanted to call after her, "Are you sure you don't want to take him back home with you and lash him with a belt or cutting words? Or knock with into next Tuesday? Please...?"

She walked out and went home, rid of him for the day. I wish I could have done the same thing.

Today is one of the last Sundays before spring officially begins, but the weather was beautiful. Unlike most Sundays, I actually got out of my pajamas before noon. I also dared to do something I haven't done since I was in junior high - I went bowling.

Bowling is not something I'm particularly good at. For one, I don't ever know if I should bowl right-handed or left-handed, because I write with my left hand, but do all sports activities right-handed. If you saw how crappy I am at sports, though, you, too, would wonder if maybe I should stick with my left.

I met Nick at the groovy Bowlmor Lanes in the heart of Greenwich Village, but only after telling him, "I don't want a physics or technique lesson. Please don't make this something I have to try to be good at. I already know I'm terrible, and that makes it kind of fun." Had we been playing Scrabble, I would have been more competitive, but I know my weaknesses. They are fodder for jokes, okay? Everything has its purpose.

We had to wait fifteen minutes before getting a lane, due to two posh bowling birthday parties and a lot of freshly scrubbed families getting their bowl on. Who knew bowling is so popular here? I can only remember going once with my dad, aunt, sister, and cousins when I was a kid... Nick and I scoped out the other bowlers. I found a few elementary school students I thought I could outbowl. Nick admired the technique of this one guy who seemed so unfazed, like he knocked the pins down with Jedi mind tricks. Seriously, the guy probably had his very own bowling ball with his name engraved in it. I'm guessing that name would be Rick.

At Lane 23, we signed in as Batman and Wonder Woman. I then proceeded to trail slightly behind Nick in points WITHOUT GUTTER GUARDS. This is a big step for me. I've always used them and as far as I remember, have still bowled a bad game. Nick wasn't as good a bowler as I thought he might be. It's not fun to be completely obliterated. He did get two strikes, mind you, but I got a spare. Woohoo.

One thing that impressed me (besides the cases of celebrity autographed bowling pins, including one from Monica Lewinsky and one from Chris Kattan that says, "I love the techno music and the balls!") is the high quality of the bowling shoes. At Bowlmor Lanes, they aren't your typical fungi-ridden, slappy, clown shoes. They fit great, the laces aren't stuck together with spilled soda, and the colored patches are pretty cool. I could have worn them all day.

So the first game went well. Nick barely won. In fact, I "let him win," as all bad sports say. The second game was crazy. Nick got two strikes. At one point, I went to throw the ball, lost control of it, and threw it backwards against a protective wall. Yep. AS SEEN ON TV. That can really happen. Fortunately, no one at Jimmy's seventh birthday party was injured. When I realized what happened and everyone in the vicity of our lane choked out a collective, "Ohmigod!!!" I collapsed into hysterical laughter. The pink ball I was using, which sadly weighed probably five pounds, bounced off the wall and started rolling slowly down the lane. I told Nick to chase it down so I could re-attempt to bowl, but he refused. The bowl, like many of its sisters before it, went into the gutter...and got stuck. Oh, well. Batman went on to win another game by a gazillion points. And Wonder Woman, well, it's a wonder she didn't destroy part of the bowling alley.

After bowling, we went to Cozy Soup 'N' Burger where I had a great ham sandwich and curly fries. I told Nick to try the fries, but when he grabbed the darlingest, curliest one I said, "No, not that one! This one, " handing him a dark, straight fry. Was it not enough that he beat me twice in bowling? He didn't deserve the best fry, too. The food was really good and the service was fast. Highly recommended.

Nick and I strolled and found ourselves in Washington Square Park, enjoying a kid teaching himself to unicycle (ouch), a guitarist singing about the joys of Sundays, and an attentive Pekingnese dog that sat with us. We sat in the fountain and bathed in the sun. At one point, Nick opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by three little black boys all selling candy. Ever the generous one, he bought M&M's and Starburst from one boy. He gave the other boy a dollar after the kid with the saddest brown eyes ever told us all donations were being accepted. The third boy didn't leave. "But I thought you guys were working as a team." The boy shook his head, "No, sir." Another sigh, another dollar. "Fine. There." The fleecing of America - it starts so early nowadays.

We went to the dog run, walked into shops, and found ourselves in Au Bon Pain talking to a French primatologist who is currently staying at the Bowery White House hostel. Yikes! I stayed there in March of 2003, and I still tell stories about that nearly incurable skin disease I contracted. Really. The walls don't go all the way up to the ceiling, so people can spy on you in the shower and every noise carries. It's kind of like being on an amalgam of Big Brother and Survivor - no privacy, nasty parasites, a hazardous environment. "Hostel" isn't a homophone of "hostile" for nothing.

I got home not so long ago, and I feel so grateful for this day. What a beautiful time of the year, but also, what a beautiful time of my life. I spent it with someone I really like who does a great Pee Wee Herman impression and doesn't mind that I nearly beat him in bowling.

Okay. Half of that's true, and that strikes me as being exactly enough.

My desk is riddled with post-its on which I've scrawled lists, thoughts, phone numbers, ideas, and my favorite, sentences I wish I had written. I read and excavate what I feel are the best sentences or phrases. It amazes me every time someone else has written something that so deeply resonates with me. Writing is a gift you give to the world (and hey, it's also free therapy). Reading is a gift you give yourself.

Nicholson Baker is a goofy name, yes, but wowie, some of his writing sends my brain into spasmodic ecstacy. I read Vox today, and I really enjoyed this:

"...I had a crush on the [stereo] tuner itself, frankly. I used to imagine that the megahertz markings were the skyline of a city at night. The FM markings were all the buildings, and the AM markings were their reflection in water... And the little moving indicator on our stereo was lit with a yellow light, and I knew where all the stations were on the dial, and I'd spin the knob and the yellow indicator would glide up and down the radio cityscape like a cab up and down some big central boulevard, and each station was an intersection, in a neighborhood with a different ethnic mix, and if the red sign came on saying STEREO I might idle there for a while, or the cabbie might run the light, passing the whole thing by as it exploded and disappeared behind me. And sometimes I'd thumb the dial very slowly, sort of like I was palming a steering wheel, and move up, move up, in the silence of the muted stretches, and then suddenly I'd pierce the rind of a station and there would be this crackling hopped-up luridly colored version of a song that sounded for a second much better than I knew the song really was, like that moment in solar eclipses when the whole corona is visible, and then you slide down into the fertile valley of the station itself..."

I thought these were great, too:

"It's like a sieve. It's like those little filters you put over the bathtub drain. Sometimes I think with the telephone that if I concentrate enough I could pour myself into it and I'd be turned into a mist and I would rematerialize in the room of the person I'm talking to."

"He tries to be sardonic eating peanuts! This is some TV convention that has gotten people in its crutches... What I find fault with is when you are deliberately using the act of talking with your mouth full to demonstrate just how totally relaxed and spontaneous you really are as a conversationalist."

"She was one of those people who are improved by being nervous, you know? - who are nervous in a way that makes your detection of their nervousness seem like a privilege."

My redheaded pal Nick and I went to Caroline's last night to see Patrice O'Neal do stand-up comedy. I discovered O'Neal one afternoon when I turned the tv on and watched Web Junk 20. What a pleasant surprise - something on snarky VH1 that's actually funny. VH1 has become the snark channel in recent years and has desensitized a lot of people, one of them being me. Mo Rocca, you mad wack now.

We had good seats in the back and Nick quickly made friends with the sassy women at the table next to ours, which would later lead us to choose sides in a conflict that divided the patrons of the comedy club not unlike how the Civil War and the Bush administration and the boho look divided our great nation.

Patrice O'Neal got his start in comedy as a heckler, and I have a feeling heckling will also be his demise. The first hour of his act consisted of him making vicious fun of the hokey Midwesterners closest to the stage. Honestly, it started with an insult to a guy's moustache and pretty soon racial slurs were being exchanged.

The heckled guys refused to secede from the show, and launched their own attack. Everyone was looking around to ascertain who was indignant and wanted their money back and who was insulted and afraid of the mean comedian. It was really uncomfortable. I personally wanted to fight Patrice O'Neal - the cost of admission and compliance with the two drink minimum for Nick and I totaled over $80! When Sassy Woman 1 started screaming, "Next! Do your act!" O'Neal unleashed a string of sexist insults designed to put her in her place.

Some people were walking out, but Nick and I talked to each other and the women next to us. Eventually, the act got back on track and an hour of heckle-less comedy was delivered. Patrice O'Neal is funny, but he has serious anger issues. If I ever want to laugh at him again, I'll just turn on the tv. It's a much better deal.

Uh oh. I have a digital camera to use now, so I'll be subjecting all of you to pictures of me and the stuff I always write about, but never have pictures of. Drat.

That's my head in the school library. It is full of thoughts. My head, that is.

I love being a Southerner in New York City. I don't have an accent or close-minded conservative ideals - nothing that could be a social liability in this metropolitan blue state. People are always surprised when I reveal my Southern background.

"Really?! I thought you were from Connecticut."
"Nope. I'm just white."

"But you don't seem Texan."
"Well, not all of us eat tons of pork, go off-roading, and worship high school football."

When some people find out I'm from Texas and don't know anything else about me, they get really excited and coo at the idea of some cowgirl saying, "Howdy," while baking cherry pie from scratch in a slinky tank top and shorts...or drinking beer while watching football, passing around a bowl of tortilla chips and salsa.

I am not that person, I'm afraid.

Sure, I used to pronounce "crayon" like the word "crown." I thought all educators were required to have syrupy accents until third grade. I didn't know "spankin'" was supposed to have a g at the end until I saw Secretary. I've eaten a prickly pear straight off a cactus. I know that you can cancel out any seemingly negative comment about someone by adding, "bless his/her heart" at the end of the sentence. Still...most of my Southern appeal comes from my parents. I'm not distinctly Southern, but I do have stories that entertain and showcase the best of the Lone Star State.

Here's a new one:

My parents are extremely helpful and generous. Everyone who's anybody with a self-serving motive - Girl Scouts, student spirit groups from five area high schools, stray cats - knows this. Go to my parents' house. They will feed you, encourage you to continue grazing after perusing the pantry and refrigerator, AND buy a candy bar to support your marching band.

The most recent act of kindness falls into the roadkill category. My mom's boss's daughter, Leann, was offered extra credit in one of her college biology classes if she brought in either skeletons of wild animals or live wild animals.

I guess if she lived in New York, Leann could stake out a pigeon nest or find a rat or take a student from I.S. 666 for show-and-tell. Texas, though, is God's country, a veritable land of opportunity.

As her boss explained the potential for extra credit, my mom asked, "It can be roadkill, right?

Why, of course. Those animals have nothing better to do. Scrape that chunky carcass up and help a sista out!

When my mom recounted this story to me a few days ago, I interrupted her, "Did you try Shane's?"

My dad's youngest brother Shane is a very interesting character. He makes the premise of My Name Is Earl look like a cerebral, non-caricatured celebration of sophisticated Southern intellectuals. Shane has six kids, thirty-five dogs, two vans, and a cage full of rats...bless his heart.

Shane couldn't live and prosper amidst such constraints as local businesses, high speed internet, or modern civilization. A river runs through the thicket that is his backyard, wild raccoons and javelinas go through the garbage and nibble at the fungi growing on the picnic table, a rusted tricycle rests against the shrine for the one woman ever hanged in Texas, allegedly a witch.

Are you getting the picture? It's Deliverance meets Texas Chainsaw Massacre meets The Blair Witch Project meets Honey, I Lost The Kids In The Woods Again Part III. Okay, I made the last one up.

So, yes, roadkill heaven.

My mom decided to help Leann up her biology grade and sent my dad out with trashbags, gloves, and some kind of carcass scraping and lifting tool. He drove back home with armadillo, opossum, and skunk specimens. Shane dropped by later that evening with some kind of rodent and offered a snapping turtle and rat snake on loan.

How can you not love these people? After gathering roadkill to improve someone else's g.p.a., all my dad said was, "They weren't too bad, but the skunk stinks. Some of its juices leaked into the bed of the truck."

My family will give you the shirts off their backs...and the roadkill off their highways. I'm from good people in the friendly state, ya'll. What more could I ask for?

Well, besides a prairie dog that didn't make it across the road. Those things are really gooey.

You say "...but also..." in the raspy, halting voice of disclosure, but it sounds like nails on a chalkboard.

The snowglobe of our life together - a mere coincidence that we are both alive now and avoid the same cracks in the sidewalk - is turned upside down. Nothing looks familar. I can't see for all the snow blurring our way to each other, chilling our passion.

I looked out the window today and watched it all fall down around me: the words I tried to twist into promises, never fully succeeding, the efforts of pursuit, the emotions that bubbled forth against my better judgement and intent to settle for dalliance. My feelings for you are a gag reflex.

The sting of snow, the heave of a heart that meant to be unbreakable, the crunch of a re-cycling. This is the end of something.