half of it is innocent
the other half is wise
the whole damn thing makes no sense
I wish I could tell you a lie

"The Greatest" is a misnomer. But some of the songs are really good. My favorites are "The Moon," "Hate," and "Love and Communication."

The appropriate clichés/metaphors for the situation I'm in involve harvesting, housework and deserts (not the delicious two-‘s’ kind, or the arid kind, but rather the what’s-coming-to-you kind).

So apparently, myspace has freaked out today and told me that my account has been deleted. Several people reported the same problem, and my initial panic and anger has given way to annoyance and general stupor. I'm bored, no one's updated except forMonica, and all of my computer/phone programs are on the fritz. Keep this up, I may have to read a book. This is bloody obnoxious

China and the moon will not be far enough this time.

I have nothing to say. That's what happens when you turn off your brain.

Mydeathspace

Holy [insert preferred expletive]. Allie Polatin sent me a text message almost a year ago telling me I had to visit this page, and I never got around to it until a week ago. This is by far the most disturbing/fascinating thing the internet has ever brought me. Mydeathspace.com is supposed to be an archival site that records and files all the myspace members who have died. Usually, the link to the dead’s profile is accompanied by a testimonial from a friend, a newsclipping from a local paper’s blotter, and a link to the dead’s former myspace profile, that may or may not be continued by a family member. The deaths can usually be broken down to the following:

1. Murderers
2. Medical Conditions
3. Violent Crimes
4. Drug Overdoses
5. Suicides / Cliff Jumping

I do want to stress that I don’t find these in any way entertaining or diverting—I’m genuinely saddened when I read them—in fact, I usually end up crying when I read through them. I keep reading them, though, and I don’t know why. The most touching thing is the level of remembrance. Everyone, almost without exception, still receives comments—whether their death was a week ago or a year ago. The comments are always sweet, always positive, and always have a certain level of faith that the deceased can actually read them. It’s inspiring, in a way, to realize that your life isn’t insignificant, and your presence is still felt. People do not forget as quickly as I had imagined they would. Such things really reaffirm my faith in people.

The fascinating, non-Hallmark part of Mydeathspace centers around the last three categories: Violent Crime, overdose, and suicide. My interest isn’t the typical macabre fascination Americans seem to have with violence; rather, it’s watching the gathering of small tides and currents push the individual towards a particular fate. A large number of violent crimes were occurred by other myspace members or by family members (especially fathers who seem to slaughter their families with a greater frequency then I had anticipated). As a result of the victims’ familiarity with the killer, more often than not you can watch the correspondences between murders and victims, or watch as the blog entries betray increasing levels of worry. One son who was shot by his father had a background photo of a violent cop, in front of his son, beating up a man. Two cousins (who were bludgeoned and stabbed) left comments to each other the night of their murder asking what time they should meet up. With suicide and overdose, the communication isn’t as telling as the nature of the comments seems to be. Comments from friends become more and more concerned, blog entries become shorter and darker, and there are these terrible cries for help every time they blog...it’s like watching someone be murdered in front of you. It’s absolutely terrible

I don’t really have a life’s lesson or a pithy way to wrap up this entry.

Shopping for an apartment in Manhattan was Hell On Earth™.

Everyone knows this. In fact, all anyone had to say to me before I went to look for an apartment is “wow, good luck, it’s hell.” And it was. But not for the reasons you think.

Most people think the trouble with finding an apartment in Manhattan is a) price and b) availability. These are serious concerns—a studio anywhere other than Harlem is typically between $1550-$1200 a month. And once on the market, real estate disappears within weeks, so you have to move quickly. These, however, are not what make NYC real estate Hell On Earth ™.

You see, Manhattan real estate is a lot like federal taxes in the sense that regulations are legislated with the best of intentions to help the have-nots by punishing the haves, and in the end the only people who feel the pinch are the have-nots. Originally, it was very easy for landlords to get by building slums, charging exorbitant rent, and evicting people at the drop of the hat. So, to protect tenants, regulations were enforced to make eviction difficult, to control how much could be exhorted, to force the landlords to spray for roaches and give free hot water and put in a g-d window. “Oh my gosh” the little liberal hearts fluttered, “look at how noble we are! We are protecting the little man from the evil, capitalistic slum lords! We deserve pats in the back for our sensitive attention to the plight of the working man!” But of course, landlords are smart, and they realized that if they had to provide mothereffing windows, and if they couldn’t evict without a court order and 6 weeks notice, and if they had to set rat traps and only raise rents a certain percentage every year, then dangit, they were going to make sure that they had tenants who PAY. This is where the system becomes Hell On Earth ™.

I saw, after a few days of looking around, a spectacular apartment in 55^th and 9^th. It was brand new and the food floors were freshly varnished. Brand new bathroom with huge tub, clean kitchen, huge closet. The building had a Laundromat in the basement, an elevator, a live-in super, and a night guard. The rent was a bit high ($1600 for a studio), but it was really lovely, so I put in a bid. I had a broker, and I had to give him $150 so he could run my credit and my parents credit, to see if a) my parents earned more than 80X the monthly rent (as they were the guarantors), or b) if I earned more than 40X the rent and/or had good enough credit to qualify. As it was, we were turned down because my parents and I didn’t have a tri-state area credit history. When we offered to leave a larger deposit to serve as an act of good faith, we were told that we couldn’t, because by law, rent-controlled apartments couldn’t accept anymore than the state-agreed security deposit. None of this red tape, though, is ever mentioned when you are looking at an apartment, so you don’t know if you even have a chance of getting the place until you have a broker run your credit history by the landlord, as 9 times out of 10 the landlord refuses to talk to you directly, since you are a hassle, and the broker knows the system. And a broker is just a fancy name for real estate agent, and you have to pay said agent 15% of your years rent, which is typically $2200-$2500 dollars.

The Hell On Earth ™ system breaks down like this:

1)Find an apartment in your price range by looking online or in a newspaper

2)Call said place immediately to make sure your apartment is still available

3) See whether or not you need a broker to talk to the landlord; arrange a viewing with landlord or broker, hopefully the day you have seen said advertisement

If you need a broker+:

3a) See the apartment and decide then and there whether or not you want to it

3b) Give over $75 to have your credit history checked

3c) The broker sends your credit history, tax forms, and references to the landlord. The landlord can either:

3ci) view all the bids and take the one that’s the most appealing

3cii) Take the bids on a first-come-first-serve basis.

3d) If your apartment is in a co-op, the co-op has to vote to decide whether or not you are “their kind of person”, though luckily co-ops are usually run by the same person, so there is no disagreement

3e) If your credit is good enough, CONGRATULATIONS! The apartment is yours. SIGN YOUR LEASE! If it isn’t:

3ei) The landlord asks the broker if you have a guarantor

3eii) The broker then asks for another $75 to run the credit of your guarantor

3eiii) The broker gives this information to that landlord, and if it’s accepted, CONGRATULATIONS! SIGN YOUR LEASE! If it isn’t:

3eiii.1) It is because the credit of the guarantor isn’t good enough. Your broker can try and negotiate a heftier security deposit, the outcome of which is either:

3eiii.1a) If the apartment isn’t rent controlled, and if your landlord decides he likes you, then CONGRATULATIONS! YOU CAN SIGN YOUR LEASE

3eiii.1b) If the apartment is rent controlled, then you can’t put down additional money, and must therefore move to option 3eiii.2, which is:

3eiii.2) The credit of your guarantor is denied because credit is too bad. You can find a new guarantor with better credit.

3eiii.3) It is because there is no credit history in the area. You need to find a local guarantor. You may then spend $75 checking the credit and financial history of your local guarantor, and if it’s up to the landlords standards, then CONGRATULATIONS! YOU CAN SIGN YOUR LEASE!

3eiii.4) It is because there is no credit history in the area. You need to rent an apartment in the city for a year to build local credit.

(+If you don’t need a broker, you will have to go back and forth with the landlord directly, and he can at any time ignore your bid by taking a bribe or a bid from a stronger, richer prospective tenant.)

3f) If any of these subpoints result in having your bid become accepted, you must then pay the first months rent, a security deposit worth anywhere from 2-4 months rent, and the broker’s fee—this adds up to roughly $8,000-$10,000 dollars. This can only be paid in the following forms

• 3fi) Cash
• 3fii) A certified check from a local bank
• 3fiii) A certified check from an out-of-state bank with an additional 3-4 days for processing
• 3fiv) Western Union

4) CONGRATULATIONS! YOU NOW HAVE A WEEK TO MOVE INTO YOUR NEW APARTMENT.

So, suffice to say, it is the red tape that drove me to the brink of despair. I only had 5 days, and 5 days is simply not enough time to deal with that level of bureaucracy. I eventually settled on my cousin’s apartment in 54^th and 9^th (appropriately, Hell’s Kitchen) which she was nice enough to let me have. And even then, I had to go through a broker to secure it—how effed up is that? I’m paying $1350 for a 5^th floor walk up, it’s about the size of my junior year dorm room, and it’s a fantastic deal. So yes, Hell On Earth ™. Never again—I’m moving to Brooklyn when school is out. And thanks to Mark and Mary S for the sweet text messages. I read them crying in the bathroom, and they did a lot to calm me down.

So yes, you smug people, you were right about the impossible Manhattan apartment search. But I want you to know you were wrong about FINDING a place. I found places. It’s SECURING a place that will kill you. And right now, I’m feeling completely torn up. I’ll gush about NYC later, upon recovery.

I'll be gone to New York from July 20-25, my lovelies, trying to sign a lease on an apartment. That's right, I have 5 days to find an apartment for an August 1 lease. If you are in new york and would like to calm me down, my number is 214.629.4986. I'm sure it's not wise to put my personal phone number on the internet, but how many people read this site? 10?

I am positively terrified.

Yes, I know the onion is played out, but I couldn't read this and not share it

U.S. Trendsetters Go On Strike
Nation's 'Hip' Seek Recognition, Royalties
July 18, 2006 Issue 42•29

NEW YORK—More than 11,000 trendsetters, tastemakers, movers, and shakers gathered in Brooklyn's Williamsburg neighborhood Monday to declare a strike against the broad segment of the American population that they say routinely copies their fashions, musical tastes, and sensibilities. Should the strike persist, experts said, it could bring the pop-cultural life of the nation to a standstill.

Three of the country's top fashion innovators lay out their terms at a stylish press conference.
"We want recognition for what you're wearing, saying, or doing," said Jaycee Kingsley, a 22-year-old animator and silkscreen artist from San Francisco who, nearly four years ago, started the oversized-dark-sunglasses trend, popularized by celebrities Mary-Kate Olsen and Nicole Richie. "Without us, America would be wearing Nehru jackets and saying 'right on' all the time. If we don't get our due, we will have little choice but to stop sparking new fads."
Until the public accepts their demands, the strikers vow to wear only gray or blue utilitarian sweatpants or flannel, and refuse to listen to any synthesized music, wear makeup, shop at thrift stores, bake cupcakes, "make the scene," or discuss any potential trends or up-and-coming drugs.

The strikers are calling for public acknowledgment of their contributions as well as a retroactive 10-cent royalty on every trendy item sold since October 1995. This fee, to be paid by consumers for each trend they adopt, would be applied to cultural phenomena as diverse as Japanese toy miniatures and so-called "Strokes" haircuts, the latter actually pioneered by Dayton, OH sandwich-shop employee and Whip-It junkie Jarvis McClung in 1997.

News of the strike quickly spread through word of mouth, blogs, and Facebook.com, and "sympathy strikes" are already being organized by fashion-forward hipsters in France and Japan.

Yes, I know the onion is played out, but I couldn't read this and not share it

U.S. Trendsetters Go On Strike
Nation's 'Hip' Seek Recognition, Royalties
July 18, 2006 Issue 42•29

NEW YORK—More than 11,000 trendsetters, tastemakers, movers, and shakers gathered in Brooklyn's Williamsburg neighborhood Monday to declare a strike against the broad segment of the American population that they say routinely copies their fashions, musical tastes, and sensibilities. Should the strike persist, experts said, it could bring the pop-cultural life of the nation to a standstill.

Three of the country's top fashion innovators lay out their terms at a stylish press conference.
"We want recognition for what you're wearing, saying, or doing," said Jaycee Kingsley, a 22-year-old animator and silkscreen artist from San Francisco who, nearly four years ago, started the oversized-dark-sunglasses trend, popularized by celebrities Mary-Kate Olsen and Nicole Richie. "Without us, America would be wearing Nehru jackets and saying 'right on' all the time. If we don't get our due, we will have little choice but to stop sparking new fads."
Until the public accepts their demands, the strikers vow to wear only gray or blue utilitarian sweatpants or flannel, and refuse to listen to any synthesized music, wear makeup, shop at thrift stores, bake cupcakes, "make the scene," or discuss any potential trends or up-and-coming drugs.

The strikers are calling for public acknowledgment of their contributions as well as a retroactive 10-cent royalty on every trendy item sold since October 1995. This fee, to be paid by consumers for each trend they adopt, would be applied to cultural phenomena as diverse as Japanese toy miniatures and so-called "Strokes" haircuts, the latter actually pioneered by Dayton, OH sandwich-shop employee and Whip-It junkie Jarvis McClung in 1997.

News of the strike quickly spread through word of mouth, blogs, and Facebook.com, and "sympathy strikes" are already being organized by fashion-forward hipsters in France and Japan.

I've been putting my photo collection online recently, since I'm paranoid that one day all of my computers and backups will melt in a fire and I will have amnesia and have no way to identify friends or family and will thus become a ward of the state living in sub-standard mental health homes. I finished sophomore year this morning.



The Capitalist Mafia, February 2002

My mother says that scientists are interfering with men's brain waves (they haven't figured out the frequencies for women yet). She says they conducted a controlled experiment on the male figure skaters at the winter Olympics, which explains why they all fell down. She sites this as evidence that it can be done.

"People are so afraid of anthrax and biological attacks," she says, "but what they don't realize is that they're already way ahead of that."

!!!!!!

trying not to cry. ...

I went to Medieval Times on Tuesday night for my brother Zach’s belated 9th birthday. This is important because for some strange reason a huge number of hot guys seem to work at that hell hole, the concept is truly absurd, and I couldn’t get that scene in Garden State out of my mind where Zach Braff wakes up and there’s a knight in the kitchen.

I’m going to be in LA August 1-8, babies. I plan on visiting the Luchadore-burlusque-midget show, CIA (The nightclub catering to the discriminating circus freak), porn star karoke (no nudity!), perhaps Tijuana, and the Museum of Jurassic Technology. I will be rolling primarily with Mary South and sister Margaret, but if there are any other peeps out there who want to give me a free meal, word up. Oh, and Mary South, we will be tanning. This is my Summer of Brown.

Boys are a bit of drama, aren’t they? I don’t think it’s their natural state, because I don’t remember them being so theatrical and high maintenance in my younger days. I’m having a former NCMO-buddy come stay with me in New York for a month or two before his mission, and he has been sending me all of these text messages neurotically checking to make sure I understand that nothing physical is going to happened, WE ARE NOT DATING, etc. I can see making this clear once, but he keeps bringing it up on a semi-regular basis, usually genuinely afraid I’m going to try some sort of a mind game. And seeing as I have left him with no understanding or even verbal desire to continue our physical relationship, I find such texts superfluous. This is where male drama comes into play. Men are smarter then we as women give them credit for, but emotionally they are a bit less on the money, by nature. After a few years of women manipulating and playing them, men get fed up, and around their early 20’s they start to stand up to their emotional enemies. But, since they are working with less developed software, they aren’t quite as quick. Men know they can’t win in a heads-on battle, so they start working offensively, pre-emptively striking against potential emotional landmines. This leads to all sorts of unnecessary drama—not calling the day after a good date, not getting emotionally invested, hiding things from her, lying about inconsequential things. In my case, my boy is assuming I have an entire liturgy of plans and stratagems to lead him down some unspoken path of wanton behavior, so he is pre-empting me by obsessively reminding me he is unavailable. Thus the drama: the price we pay in this modern age.

I guess the obnoxious part, for me, is the presumption of these warnings. “I know I’m the most beautiful creature on the earth,” says the ego, “But please, please, try to control yourself, as impossible a request as that seems to be.” He never stresses any fear of his possible attraction to me; no, there’s no danger there. I am the one that needs to be careful. The general unconscious message is both endearing, naïve, and incredibly vain. I’m cutting him some slack, because it’s obvious he’s been with women who have damaged him, but between you and me, dear reader, I don’t think he’s ever met a real woman in his life. I get exhausted just thinking about all the ham-handed ‘training’ I’m going to have to undo. I’ll have to be very patient with this one.

Ummmm….what else. Got the portishead; cheers Mo, you’re a godsend. Talked to Mark today; the band is moving forward nicely, has an EP and some album tracks done. I am seeing an unnamed movie with an unnamed friend this evening which by law I am not allowed to mention but thank you thank you thank you unnamed friend for making me so happy. What else? Oh, the AIDS blog is making me depressed.

A not unpleasant side effect of my a) living alone b) being (more or less) single and c) not having a television or internet access in my new place, is that I've begun reading a lot of books for pleasure again. It's nice. Here's a rundown of what I've read lately.

> Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer
Plot: A young boy in NYC deals with his father's death in the 9/11 attacks by going on a mission to identify the origin of a mysterious key he finds in his father's closet, along the way meeting a host of interesting individuals.
Ade1e's Grade: A-

> Lighthousekeeping by Jeanette Winterson
Plot: An orphaned girl in Scotland goes to live with the mysterious keeper of the local lighthouse. The girl's story is interwoven with myths of past residents of the town and Darwin's travels. When the lighthouse is shut down, the orphaned girl moves to Capri, kidnaps a parrot and has some kind of half-baked romance with an ambiguously gendered lover.
Ade1e's Grade: B- Not Winterson's best. She lost me when we left the lighthouse.

> The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides
Plot: All the neighborhood boys are obsessed with five strange sisters who have a strict and oppresive mother. Seemingly due to their inability to have sex, the sisters all kill themselves.
Ade1e's Grade: B. Eh. I like Middlesex a million times better.

> Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell
Plot: A very funny mix of history text, sightseeing guide and travelogue about the assassinations of Lincoln, Garfield and McKinley.
Ade1e's Grade: B+

> Running With Scissors by Augusten Burroughs
Plot: The autobiography about Burroughs' childhood. His crazy mother leaves him in the care of her equally crazy psychiatrist and his oddball family. Adventures with a needy pedophile, impromptu home remodeling projects, and a Christmas tree in May ensue. Horrifying and funny in equal measure.
Ade1e's Grade: B+

> The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
Plot: A flawed and selfish young man overcomes his weakness and fear to find belated redeption for the mistakes of his past. A glimpse into the history of modern Afghanistan.
Ade1e's Grade: A+

> The Death of The Heart by Elizabeth Bowen
Plot: The infuriatingly prim tale of a teenaged orphan living with her half-brother and his hardened bitch of a wife. The orphan shakes up their prim and proper world in a very prim and proper manner. Frickin British people. I want action, damnit.
Ade1e's Grade: B-

Still looking for portishead's "Portishead" you guys. Someone get on this and send me the mp3's. I know you guys aren't trip-hop haters.

ARUBA.

Most of my travelogues have a day by day or event by event pattern. Aruba was really like one continuous day in the sun, punctuated by a few attempts to go into town or 'see the country' and one submarine trip. But if anyone ever asks you what Aruba is like, I will tell you this: it is Phoenix, pillaged by the Dutch, then thrown just of the coast of Venezula.

Beach Aruba!

For easier loading time, most of the photos are at the above link, and these photos have been shrunk down. Science!


I worked on not touching up the colors on these photos. The ocean is actually this color--turquoise--just like in pirates of the carribean.

Delicious sun. Stolen Marriott towel.

Lighthouse Aruba!

We drove up to the North part of the island (aruba is only 20 miles long, 6 miles wide at its thickest point, with 93,000 inhabitants and is one of the ABC islands. Gold Star for Mary!). This is Margaret exploring the old coral beds (my dad argues it's old lava flow, but my dad is wrong) up by the lighthouse-turned-restaurant. I wish we still used lighthouses.


My dad, surveying the "lava flows"


The lighthouse proper. Right after i took this photo a bunch of obnoxious college students pulled up in their jeeps, so I got to see plenty of trashy guys with their bikini-clad girlfriends. Gosh, it was nothing but TnA up in that joint. I'm becoming less and less tolerant of that sort of exhibitionistic behavior. But more on that later.

Poor Aruba!

Every vacation there is some sort of misguided attempt to see local culture, whether it's getting lost in Denpasar, or visiting Palestine. This vacation, we decided to drive out and see the countryside. Though all the guide books failed to mention it was impossible to see anything. All the roads that weren't arteries to Oranjstaad were residential dirt roads, so to drive anywhere that wasn't a coast you would be passing lots of this /\ without a sign or street name to be found. Which is fine, unless you're stuck in the back of a compact with a 9-year-old boy sitting on your lap. Then it isn't so funny.

Aruba, like most Carribean countries, is poor, but it's a contented sort of poor one finds in Arizona and New Mexico--sort of self-sufficent and more or less self-imposed (not taking opportunities, etc). The homes out in the desert looked like those I grew up in, back when i lived in the Southwest. There were lots of resourcful little tricks--using car doors as gates, or cactus as walls. It reminded me a lot of Tucson, so I felt right at home.


The racial diversity of Aruba is suprising, at least for me. The population is a mix of Dutch, indigenous Indians, black slaves, and Venezulans. As a result, while there are a few "pure" africans and "pure" dutch, everyone else is a fabulous cinnamon, with a slight asian lilt to their eyes (?). Many would be dark-skinned with white-blue eyes, or blonde with kohl black eyes. There was no racial tension because everyone was everything. There was, however, a palpable amount of class tension between locals and tourists, but this was to be expected. Tourists are annoying. Seeing such a mixture, which is undoubtably the future of every country, was both beautiful and a little sad. I think race is ridiculous, and will be glad to get rid of it, but there's something to be said about the beauty of distinct genetic traits. Those of you who have seen a real scandanavian blonde, it's like looking at people made of ice and sun. Their lashes and eyebrows are just whispers, and they have the lightest, most delicate skin. Real africans look like gods--they have skin that is almost blue black (in certain areas of the continent), really the most heartbreakingly beautiful shade, and gorgeous bone structure with aristocratic cheekbones and delicate jaws. Genetically isolated groups have such a rarefieid, particular kind of beauty, it will be a bit sad to see that disappear.

Wind Aruba!

There is no screwing around with the wind in Aruba. They aren't kidding when they talk about island breezes. The wind comes east-to-west, constantly, consistently, all day blowing. Which is fine, as it isnt usually too strong, but towards the evening it really picks up, and sad goes everywhere. The above photo was taken of my eye, after a day of sunbathing where the wind covered my left side in sand. I was still pulling sand out of my lashes 3 days later.


All the trees in Aruba grow at this angle because of the wind. It reminds me of the baobobs from "Un petit prince."


Submarine Aruba!

My dad was sweet enough to get us all seats on a submarine which went to explore shipwrecks off the Aruban shore. I felt very Steve Zissou, looking through my little porthole at all the rusted bits.

The fish were very lovely--at some point we also saw a baraccuda. And there were tons of uterus-shaped coral, for some reason. Your guess is as good as mine.


Dutch Aruba!

I have nothing pithy to say here. Just dutch-looking homes in one of the nicer areas or Oranjstaad

There were also a random windmill in places. The touch couldn't really leave too much of a legacy, it would seem

The rest seems self-explanatory.

Dirty Aruba!



Family Aruba

I wrote this on behalf of the mafia. And sent it! Which is hilarious in and of itself. I think Adele once wrote to him too, so it isn't the first time we've reached out to a fellow blogger with, oh, TEN THOUSAND TIMES our weekly readership.

Subject: Suckass, or How you need to stop worrying and love the blog

Dear Jason,
We think you are putting too much pressure on yourself to make sure you are funny and entertaining. Yes, you would not have a book deal,a TV show, and 1500+ myspace fans if not for the fact that you are funny and entertaining, but this is a blog, not a performance. It's more the honesty of your life that's entertaining, not the way you spin a particular subject. So don't worry about performance--post the bad stuff as well as the good. Don't make yourself miserable second guessing what your audience wants. We like it all.

Well, except for the fantasy sports bits.

With love,
The Capitalist Mafia

www.capitalistmafia.blogspot.com

If anyone has portishead's "portishead" on mp3, send it overe my way. I tried downloading it and got a bunch of their live tracks, and i don't want the live tracks, I want the album version. Let me know, my babies.

My only opinion of the World Cup:


I'm not going to pretend that I know or even enjoy football. Theron really did call me out with his little soapbox on hipsters and their sports. But this is what I do know:

--I do call it football, because it's played with your feet. It isn't soccor, which one should play in socks. And while we're on the subject of dumb names, why isn't American football called american rugby? It's rugby-lite anyway. Or hitball. Or throwball. Shoulderball. Any of these would be more appropriate.

--I know Manchester United is way cooler than Manchester City

--I know David Beckham is a choker, and his accent is as lurid as his wife, but he is really so unbelievably hot i don't care

--Football stars are, pound for pound, the sexiest bunch of athletes ever. This is not a hyperbole. They are all olympian gods.

--Real Madrid wastes a lot of cash. And it's pronounced Ray-al Madrid.

--Brazil is awesome, the United States sucks. Consistantly.

My sister Julia was apparently mauled by a Frenchman while in some German pub right after France won. The drunken grope--a great part of growing up

I have insomnia. Not the fun sort, like when you are manic depressive and you decide that what you a really need is to organize your closet and you spend the entire night taking polaroids of your shoes to tape to the outside of your shoeboxes and color-coordinating your sweaters. No, my insomnia is the sort where you stare at the ceiling and toss and turn but lack the energy to watch tv or read a book all the while worried about how tired you’ll be the next day and then when the next day comes surprise surprise you’re in a foul mood and groggy and can’t concentrate on anything. That’s where I am. That’s why I haven’t updated. Sorry.

I have a lot to worry about, but nothing excessive. My apartment, the one I was promised in Hell’s Kitchen, fell through, so I have to go up to Manhattan next week and look for an apartment, then move into it. I do not want to move into a Manhattan apartment. In fact, I have been worried about moving into the-apartment-to-which-has-yet-to-be-named for almost 5 months. I hate moving, I hate moving things with my parents, I hate the stress of trying to find parking, of blocking doors, of squeezing things into places where they potentially won’t fit. Work has also been stressing me out; I’m terrified of failure, and being self-employed is unbelievably hard. I’m worried about starting graduate school, I can’t get motivated to do anything about my weight after an initial burst of activity in June. But these things are fun problems, more or less—they involve challenges, stepping up, energy, new ideas, change. But I haven’t been given a real challenge for a while, and hey, I’m a bit scared. There are lots of chances for failure here.

Oh my gosh, I just saw a commercial for “The Most Relaxing Classical Album in the World…Ever.” I thought it was a spoof at first, but it isn’t. The announcer is talking about Debussy and Bach like he’s swilling Foghat’s greatest hits.

I’ve started watching romantic comedies again. I went through a very long period where I steered clear of them, but I seem to have come back with full force. I’m embracing my romantic side, allowing myself those moments of swoon and fantasy which I’ve always dismissed as too girly. But at the same time, this is a much more adult sensibility than it was when I was younger. I enjoy it for what it is, rather than use it as a platform for exploring what-I-would-do-if. I guess I treated them as courses on proper relationship behavior. At some point, I realized the way I handle relationships is just fine, I don’t need tips; now I’m enjoying being optimistic about men and love. Who knows how long this will be, but as for now, it is what it is.

Don’t worry The. I’ll post more about Aruba and such tonight

No one's posted anything for more than a week! Crazy.

Let's see. I moved way out of WP. I now live near Belmont/ Kimball, which is cooler. However, judging by the amount of fancy new constructions on my block, I predict it will take only one year for me to get priced out of this neighborhood, whereas it took two years to get priced out of east village. But don't worry, the great condo crash of 2009 will soon be upon us. And all the yuppies will be selling their $800,000 2-bedroom condos for a mere $300,000, just in time for me to buy low as I step into my own burgeoning yuppiedom. This is how I console myself. Whatever.

Anyway, my new place is lovely. It has a deck from which I can see the top of the Sears Tower. And lots of windows. It's good to be out of the basement. Also, I am taking really well to living alone. I sing along to cat power all day long.

I love Chicago on the 4th of July. Everyone goes so frickin nuts.