Between 11/19 and 11/25, Mark and I drove close to 3,500 miles — Chicago to Miami and back again. Mark met my entire nuclear family and much of my extended family. The trip was beautiful, crazy, stressful and fun. According to my credit card statement, the following are some of the fascinating places where we filled the tank, bought weird energy drinks and beef jerkey, and enjoyed the company of the locals.

Citgo on Ashland in Chicago

Shell in Powell, Tenn.

RaceTrac in Kennesaw, Ga.

Shell in Titusville, Fla.

Chevron in Hallandale Beach, Fla.

Chevron in Ashburn, Ga.

Days Inn in Chattanooga, Tenn.

Love's Country Store in Ina, Ill.

homies, why did Thanksgiving have to be a blood bath? I just wanted to be loved. And by loved, I mean smothered by mashed sweet potatoes. Instead, all I got was 2 alienated friends, a bunch of tears, retail debt, lectures on my lack of marriage prospects, and no sweet potatoes.

More after the recovery.

From Gawker:

Taxonomy of an Indie Rock Show
There's something very special about going to see a formerly indie band, now signed to a major label, play a venue that three years ago would've been much too big for them. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the crowd gets a little schizophrenic. In New York, this generally happens at places like Irving Plaza, Hammerstein, or Webster Hall, where we found ourselves the other night, taking in the Modest Mouse show along with approximately 1500 other people. It turned out most of them could be broken down into several distinct categories, which we've outlined for you after the jump.

Big drunk guy: This guy used to play this band on his college radio show, and expresses his enthusiasm by pumping his fist enthusiastically in the air at random intervals. Sings along to all the songs, making sure you know he knows all the words. Best to keep a safe distance, lest you get punched in the face.

Hot girl who's never heard of the band: Brought to the show by her boyfriend, who's trying to impress her by taking her to a sold-out show that she could give two shits about, this girl tends to annoy the people around her by talking loudly during the set and going to the bathroom frequently. Distinguishing characteristics: low-cut top, Long Island accent.

Latecomers to the party: Whisper to each other, "Hey, is this the band?" when they take the stage. Genuinely interested, but have no fucking clue.

NYU students: Run around the venue like maniacs and generally behave as if they'd never been to a show before. "Excuse me! Um, my friend's over there?" Yeah, whatever, twatwaffle. The city isn't your dorm.

Skinny indie guys: They've been into the band since they were releasing 7-inch EPs from their basement, and it's, like, so lame that they have all these annoying fans now, but their friend who works at the label got them these tickets, so, whatever? Can be heard loudly complaining that the show at NorthSix in 2001 was so much better.

Stoners: Known for behaving as though it's the New Year's Eve Phish show at Madison Square Garden. Really, though, no one wants your contact high ... well, okay, maybe just a touch of it.

Label whores: Come in two varieties: the ones who work at the label largely to score a coke connection and go to shows for free, and those who date people who work at the label in order to score a coke connection and go to shows for free. (See also: skinny indie guys.) Sit in the VIP section, gloating and pretending that they don't notice the semi-famous people two tables down.

So my family is coming in for Thanksgiving, so I thought I’d blog about my last week before things got out of hand and I fell behind.

Last Thursday I took Ian (one of my 2 New York friends) to see the Daily Show. Both the Daily Show and the Colbert Report are filmed a few blocks from my house, which is terribly exciting. I went down early, and who should I see in line in front of me? Seth Effing Porges, that’s who. Some of you will remember Seth P. from early, 2001-2 CM posts. Others will remember Seth as my Prague companion during my 2003 Czech Republic stay. Well, in a very odd, very strange turn of events, he was in line for the Daily Show. Homeboy apparently lives in Brooklyn (natch), and has ditched his gutterpunk look for a corporate hipster attire (blazer, t-shirt, washed hair). We were on opposite sides of the line, so didn’t get to talk, but it was surreal. I’m still weighing whether or not to add him as my myspace friend.

The Daily Show studio is smaller than I would have thought, and not early as cold as I was led to expect. A bald-headed comic came out once we were all settled and warmed up the crowd. He tried, bless him, but it ended up devolving into a lot of jokes at the expense of the Germans in the crowd (which was funny at first, but became progressively uncomfortable). They asked if anyone in the crowd was a republican, and I kid you not, I was the only one who raised my hand. It was completely awesome. I was then the butt of several, “at least the rest of us read books” jabs. Jon Stewart is hotter in real life than one would imagine, and does a good job of resisting attempts to be corralled into liberal positions during Q&A. It’s clear he’s just a rationalist, and he sticks by it, so a tip of my hat to Jon.

The Daily Show is filmed almost exactly as you would imagine. During commercial breaks Jon pounds down iced coffee like you wouldn’t believe. An assistant comes by with a starbucks cup and a straw and he just mainlines it. He also has a satellite link up with Steven Colbert, and they spend the commercial breaks talking about Steven’s basement. Dustin Hoffman was the guest. He was boring but gracious. I think he brought his daughter by.

Saturday afternoon, Chase (my other New York friend) came over, and we went to 30 Rockefeller Center to see Saturday Night Live’s dress rehearsal. Rockefeller Center is a complete nightmare. They don’t tell you where to cue up, the place is massive, and the basement is a mall. I had to ask 4 people how to get to the SNL line. Security was also ridiculous—worse than the airport. But finally, after an hour of waiting and unnecessary security (over 4 people checked my tickets), we filed into the elevators, down a gray hall, and through some double doors to the studio. I have to say, it was very meta—you’re raised up by all the lights, surrounded by props, cast members milling down below, a million people with headsets and cuecards running around, and several flat screen high def TVs around to watch the sketches. Alec Baldwin hosted, Christina Aguilera was the host.

It’s true what they say—SNL is funnier in real life than it is on TV. Because I was at the dress rehearsal, I got to see an extra 30 minutes of sketches that eventually got cut (2 really week ones—a piano player who badgered restaurant patrons, and Tower Records employees who couldn’t understand that the company was going out of business). But in general, the vibe was fun, and I got to stare at Steve Martin’s bald spot the whole time he was filming his guest spot. One thing I can say for certain—I don’t really like Christina Aguilera. She is a mean girl. She stands around coldly and has no chemistry with anyone else. She did a duet with Tony Bennett, and it was superawkward. She’s just prissy and too skinny and has hair like candy floss.

And then I spent the last week with my toxic antibiotic poisoning. So that was awesome. Now, I need to get back to work. Marg is coming in to town tonight.

So funny story about catching pneumonia...When someone tells you to take 500mg of a certain broad-spectrum antibiotic, and when you decide to substitute it with 500mg of another broad-spectrum antibiotic with the assumption that hey, it'll even out, there is a very real possibility you could end up with a near-leathal toxic overdose that could leave you bedridden for 3 days crawling to the toilet.

But on the positive side, when you recover from 3 days of immobility and starvation and you finally order the pizza deal that's been advertised on comedy central every 15 minutes day and night, you will find yourself the happiest you've ever been ever.

My little Sony Cybershot is dead and gone. Can any of you recommend a good digi cam that's not outrageously expensive that won't break too easily? Mark and I are driving from Chicago to Miami next weekend to convene with Hansen and Nicholas clans in the dirty south, and I feel that many pictures must be taken to document the epic event.

Someone make my Christmas glorious and buy this for me!

My sister's boyfriend just posted this on LDS Link-Up.

A(non)RT show III: collecting the unconscious
once again i'm putting lots of energy into an exchibit just to show my disdain for scholastic and accepted "art"

its gonna be at my house
166s 100w
november 18th.
this one is a bit different.

instead of displaying submissions we'll create our own before the show and display the results.this show will be similar in form to john cages musicircus. anyone wanting to participate in the works for this show will be at my house no later than 5:00pm sharp, at which point we'll shut the door and not open them back up until 7:30 pm. instructions will be given to those participating, all latecomers will be able to view the results when the doors re-open.
there will be other performances TBA.

anyone interested please email me here or at:brighamvicious(at)gmail.comthanks. please repost.

I think this says everything I need to say about my feelings for the man:

It isn’t that I’m arguing that caring about appearance isn’t important. I mean, good heavens, have you seen the size of my wardrobe? No, a careful appearance shows respect not only for other people (I care about making my environment harmonious and aesthetically pleasing, etc) as well as the occasion (the opera players deserve the respect of a good suit, for example). It’s an acknowledgment of others, of tradition, of civilization. No, my issue come from what I perceive as the increasing relevance/emphasis of the female body as being the only thing she has to offer, Female sexuality, the female body has become our defining contribution to society. As my theory teacher said, “You look at women’s magazines in the supermarket—and what are they? Sex tips on male sexual pleasure and scantily clad models. Look at the men’s magazines: tips on male sexual pleasure and scantily clad models.” We are used to sell everything, it is always being mentioned. Even, as anonymous said, Margaret Thatcher or Madeline Albright. Their essential femaleness couldn’t be overlooked. Who remembers jokes about Margaret Thatcher’s lack of sexual appeal in Little Britain or Austin Powers? Who remembers the infamous Newsweek article where 3 paragraphs were devoted to Madeline Albrights shoes and how she picked out her skirts. Linda Tripp was vilified during the Clinton Scandal because she was an ugly, overweight woman who tape recorded a friend to take down a president, and how dare an ugly, overweight woman also be sly and ambitious? There were no jokes as to Tripp’s craftiness—just her appearance. I mean, Paula Jones actually APOLOGIZED for her appearance, as if to say “I know as a plain woman I shouldn’t be speaking up.” Condoleezza Rice and Hilary Clinton are constantly being accused of lesbianism because they keep their sexualities muted—one would never accuse Tom Delay of homosexuality despite the fact that he is one of the least attractive, fashionable, or erotic man in the world.

Which isn’t to say society doesn’t make fun of/focus on male sexuality or appearance—especially recently with the (delightful) metrosexual culture. SO yes, there is a GENERAL social trend towards appearance. What I am saying is, this trend is disproportionately skewed to women, to making us feel as if our main source of self-esteem must come from attention, external appeal, external standards. I am saying, as Adele once wrote, “Sex sells—so don’t buy it.” I don’t buy it. I care about my appearance, I care about attracting a potential boyfriend, but it is a part of who I am—it is in no way my focus, and I will resist all attempts to make it so.

Lately I've ...

Read:
"Freakonomics" by Steven Levitt and Stephen Dubner
"Lady Oracle" by Margaret Atwood
"The Estatic" by Victor LaValle
"Eva Trout" by Elizabeth Bowen (in progress, b/c I like to torture myself).

Been listening to:
The Blackened Air by Nina Nastasia
Ys by Joanna Newsom
Let it Die by Feist
The Greatest by Cat Power
You Forgot it in People by Broken Social Scene

Seen live:
XiuXiu
Joanna Newsom

Gone:
to school
to work
to san diego
crazy

Seriously, why is there a conflict EVERY SINGLE TIME Death Cab comes into town?

Dude, everyone needs to watch the daily show tonight because I am totally going to be on it. And by on it, I mean in the audience. But in the audience listening to an interview with DUSTIN EFFING HOFFMAN. Boyakasha! I’ve decided to wear my oversized red “I’m in grad school!” hoody, simply for visibility purposes. So keep your eyes peeled for me.


Does anyone else find it increasingly hilarious that celebrity blogs/the Post will only refer to Owen Wilson as “The Butterscotch Stallion”? How does one come up with such a marvelous, absurd nickname, and how does it spread like wildfire? I noticed Gawker is pushing for Luke Wilson to adopt the moniker “The Mocha Pony.” Let’s hope it sticks.

Living in Dallas, I see photos of Mary Kate Olsen looking like a crazy shopping cart lady roaming the streets of New York and I smirk. And what do I turn into as soon as I get here? A crazy-looking bag lady roaming the streets of New York. Seriously, I left for the Laundromat today with baggy jeans, an ankle length dress, and a brown bomber jacket. I had a bag of laundry strapped to my back, and an oversized purse bursting with a bleach bottle and 2 newspapers. And yes, I got all the corresponding looks such an outfit invariably brings. Do not be under the illusion that I feel that my outfit was in any way chic or hip. I knew I looked like a complete idiot, and I know when I walk out of the house looking like that I look like a complete idiot. But there is something about living in a big, overcrowded, dirty city that makes dressing like Mugatu’s Derelicte particularly satisfying.

In general, I find my city look has devolved into 3 main staples. Crazy bag lady (only employed around my neighborhood when I am expecting to see no one else), boring graduate student (ooooh, jeans sweaters chucks, how novel), and Equestrian Chic. I am particularly fond of equestrian chic, though it is an uncomfortable look, born more out of circumstance than creativity. I have, after 2.5 months, finally begun to fit into the majority of my jeans. I think I still have, like, 3 out of 9 pairs of jeans that I can’t button. The rest, while they can be worn without too much embarrassment, are still much, much tighter than I would like, and wearing them with flats or with a loose shirt makes me look/feel pretty gross. Thus, as a way to make use of my tight pants without looking too desperate, I’ve started tucking them into boots and paring them with a variety of long shirts and blouses, vests (both sweater and suit), and blazers. I even have, like, pageboy caps and stuff I wear with it. The result is somewhere between Russian agrarian and showhorse jockey, but I’m cool with it. I’m still technically too ‘big’ to make it look ‘good’, but I’m more like Hansel, you know—I take life, I grip it and I rip it. Or whatever. I guess what I’m trying to say is that as long as I’m thin enough to fit into the clothes I have, I really could care less as to whether or not I fit external conceptions of what I should look like. Having been forced to hang out with beautiful, slender people of late, it bores me a bit. I mean, yeah, they look good, but you get over the looking good thing so fast.

I bought a book in San Francisco called “Thin”, which I read on the plane. It’s a photo-documentary/diary that follows different women from Renfrew, an eating disorder clinic in Florida. It’s weird, reading the stories and seeing the photos, because you split between loving and loathing. On one hand, you see the feeding tubes and the razor scars and you hear the stories of molestation or teasing and you just want to cuddle these people. You feel so desperately, desperately sorry for them—you just want to show them love. But at the same time, I was completely enraged and maddened by it. They are walking around as fully conscious archtypes of sexism—the commoditization of the female body, the increasing and violent reduction of women to useable material, empty vessels, physical shells. They know this. They actually say they know that their quest for perfection means that they must appear perfect to others to compete, to get more boyfriends, to be more popular (there are diverse forms of this competition). And yet, they are so flinty and stubborn, so myopic, so self-involved, they can’t break out of these rigid rules and images. And of course, we’re talking about the worst of the worst here, not your typical cheerleader with an eating disorder. These are literally women trying to kill themselves slowly. And it makes me completely angry, how much they believe that the discipline means something, gives them power, whatever. SO you get attention for being thin in our culture—so you get more boyfriends. Who the frick cares? Great, guess you beat me. Clap clap. I don’t care. Nobody cares.

And yes, I know I’m being wildly insensitive, and it looks like I’m generalizing ignorantly about a very serious problem. But to me, the anorexia epidemic, and the people that take it so far as to be institutionalized, are just another example of women trying to disappear, trying to reduce themselves to images. Ever since I read that Ariel Levy book, I’ve become aware how “strong” women are never actually considered strong or powerful or successful unless the fulfill some sort of sexual role. Women in power are always trying to make themselves softer, sexier, prettier. Would anyone care about Martha Stuart if she weighed 300 pounds? Why does Katie Couric host award shows in slinky black dresses to show “she’s more than just a talking head”? This stuff gets rationalized away as women being “confident and in touch with her sexuality”, but why is there no corresponding accolades when men get in touch with their sexuality? And I’m not speaking of just appearance here—I recognize that appearance (like it or not) does have an effect on our success, I know good looking people get more breaks then ugly ones. What I am talking about is the constant, overbearing emphasis on female appearance—and the social ostracism that happens when she abstains from her cultural standards.

I have a lot more to say about this, and a lot more evidence, and a lot more rational arguments, but I have wandered way off topic and need to be working. The point is: I’m cool with how I look. I don’t “love” my body because I don’t think about it. I ask it one thing: to be able to fit into clothes. When it does that, great. I don’t give it a second thought. Who has time to?

I went into Borders the other day to try and see if there were any decent magazines. I don't usually go into Borders, and if I do, i tend to be very goal oriented/harried. But stuck in San Francisco with 5 hours until my plane left, I had nowhere in particular I had to be. I walked in through those glass doors, and as soon as I did, I was hit by this sweet, woody smell, and I realized it: Borders smells like sex.

And not just your run-of-the-mill sex. Evil, derelict, dirty sex.

This connection is not just my love of books as an English major, as one might suspect. Oh no, the truth is much more embarassing. When I was 13, I started getting into the Anne Rice vampire novels. The homoeroticism, the bloodlust, the drama--I adored it. I couldn't imagine books like that existed. Anne Rice was followed by Steven King, Anne Carter, romance novels that were more than a little scandalous and violent in nature. Reading "Interview with the Vampire" was probably my first erotic experience outside of David Bowie in "Labyrinth". Of course, my parents hated the books, HATED them, especially Anne Rice, so I had get them on the sly. We'd go to Borders once a week, and I could only buy the books once a month at the most, and that was conditional on me having enough money to pay for it. So if I didn't have enough money, or if it had been "too soon", I'd have to sneak between some stacks and read chapters furtivly while my parents roamed the travel section.

Borders became associated with my earliest, strongest romantic tendancies. The nature of these changed when I was 15 and discovered rock and all things Billy Corgan--I spent my time in record stores, rather than book stores. Still, nothing will ever be as dangerous and romantic as those junior high explorations. I think I still have the expectation that love will feel like that. But without the blood and sodomy and death.

[For all those interested parties (like, Lakshmi, I think) my address is 357 West 54th Street #51, New York, NY 10019. Girls, you need to come and stay with me. My apartment has beds enough for 5 AND PEOPLE ARE MEAN TO ME AT CHURCH AND WON'T TALK TO ME SO COME UP AND BRING YOUR BRILLIANCE AND SOCIAL NORMALCY! ]

THIS IS HALLOWEEN: A HUGE PHOTOBLOG FOR THE TORTURE OF THE SLOW-BANDWIDTHED

Mary, Benjamin, Ian, Chase

My Halloween weekend Saturday Night, with Benjamin flying up for the festivities. We made the mistake of spending the first night at the Manhattan Singles Dance. Not all of it was an unmitigated disaster--I believe I've already related the horror of accidentally flashing the above Ian and Chase on the MM--but outside of that, the gym looked very nice, lots of lights and crepe paper, and people put a lot of thought and effort into their costumes. No, the disastrous part came from the 3 hours of social awkwardness that followed. The 4 of us didn't really 'fit' and thus spent the majority of our time standing around the twister room listening to Siouxsie and stealing doughnuts. People kept coming up to "us" to talk, being really friendly, though clearly they were just interested in talking to Benjamin. And by people, I mean women. We stood around awkwardly 'meeting' new women who were flirting with Benjamin. I got a lot of lame looks from guys (the best part of my costume--the blue face glitter and the gold high heels can't be seen in the photo) who looked at me with curio-cabinet curiosity, but the women in the bathroom all though my outfit was "hot". I have been around women long enough to know that hot means I look like a non-threatening freak, which was sort of the angle I was going for. After the dance, we went to a diner at 2 in the morning where I got to watch Benjamin flirt shameless with my new BFF Chase, I spoke way too candidly about my sexual proclivities (as happens after 2 am), and I terrified poor Ian into silence.

The next day, Benjamin's friend Joann came into town. We took her to Carnegie Deli which, as seems to be typical for New York, had great sandwiches and abysmal service. Joann is a video artist from the Carolinas. She is "my type of girl", meaning she's awkward and confident, bossy and sweet, sexy and completely indifferent to appearance. She took us to the Museum of Sex, which was housing a collection of erotic prints from Edo-era Japan. The three of us built a blanket fort out of my futon and slept together during her entire visit. Very Junior High.

Hallowmas proper is a concert thrown every year by Brooklyn punk rock/swing/waltz outfit The World Inferno/Friendship Society. The event is built around Bulgakov's Devil's Ball in The Master and the Margharita. It's very opulent, there's a dress code, they bring costumes, and it's generally pure chaos. This year, it was on a boat, and the costume theme was "Any historical figure currently residing in hell." Benjamin went as a Sunnenkinder (sp? You know, those runaway nazi kids living in South America). Joann didn't have a costume, she just went as herself with scary eye makeup. I went as Anais Nin, a reference completely lost on everyone, which was fine by me. I may go as Anais every year--I feel completely comfortable in her character, sad as that sounds.

We took are carved pumpkins to the pier, then threw the harbor. Then we proceeded to stand in line for like, an hour, which did not feel fabulous in my shoes. We were in front of a Steve Irwin, a Steve Zissou, and various men in suits. There was a John Wayne Gacy and a James Joyce. Luckily, most of the women dressed in a costume rather than a "sexy ____" cliche, so I was happy about that. It's more interesting.

[The line outside; the staircase inside the boat]

The cruise took us around the isle of Manhattan, back and forth from Hell's Kitchen to The Statue of Liberty.

For the first band, we stood outside and looked at the harbor, and Joann started drinking. Girl is tiny, and she can put it away. We wandered around the upper deck, talked. Benjamin and I started fighting after some ill-timed and impolitic comments. I don't know why I'm so patient with people and internalize displeasure. I should be much more aggressive when my feelings are hurt. But, as a result of his being a bit of a dick, I ran away before the set. Of course, that was a bit of a mistake, as when World Inferno started, the boat looked like this:

I am trapped under the guardrail in the upper right. I couldn't breathe, and I was being kicked and pulled and stepped on. It was totally cool and punk rock. And since I was in a bad mood, rather than leave the imbroglio, as any sane person would have done, I was one of the few girls to stick it out.

This cost me a large chunk of hair, my breath, and a good deal of blood, but I got a lot of aggression out. My foot was stepped on so many times that by the time I took them off, they were yellow and purple and swollen with edema. A week or so later, and they still are. I have blood pooling around my heels. It's completely awesome.

If you look carefully, you can see me in the very foreground, with a bit of my red shirt and my brown hair. (by the way, I'd like to thank the good people on Flickr that let me steal these images). This was during the 'waltz' period--A lot of the punk songs have a waltz structure, and so during the 'soft' part of the concert, people grab partners and waltz. I chose John Wayne Gacy, as I had lost Benjamin and Joann.

The band didn't have a lot of room. And by the way, those pillars are a lifesaver when you're in a mosh-pit situation.


This is a drunk Steve Zissou--the same one in line in front of me--now blood covered and feeling the music.

At the end of the show, Benjamin finally found me being broken in half underneath a burly William Wallace, pulled me out, and we waltzed for the last 2 songs. Then the band leader (Jack Terrycloth, above) walked out among the common folk to sing his last song. He's not an attractive man, but believe me, he's incredibly charismatic. He holds court over these kids like the MC in Cabaret--very sweeping and grand and epic. I'm friends with one of his coworkers at the Met. She's like, 80 years old. We met at the last World Inferno show, and I helped her sell some things on Craigslist. She says Jack always shows up to work in a bowler hat and a three-piece suit. That sort of thing makes my day.

This photo is sort of the night in a moment. I wish I'd taken it.

After the show, it was about 1am, and Joann, tipsy and high from adrenaline, wanted to go down to the LES for the post-party, which the band was supposed to attend. I had to go home and change shoes, as I couldn't walk from the bruising. We took a cab all the way down to like, 13th and B-Avenue to go to B-Side, some LES dive, which I actually liked very much. This was in no small part do to the fact that the first people I saw in the bar were Rob Huebel and Aziz Ansari from the UCB Theatre, which was totally pimp. Aziz smiled at me when I smiled at him, so that was adorable. Joann became quickly drunk, and we took her to the back room where the hipsters looked at me like I had boils all over me. They started playing Pinkerton over the loud speaker and Joann and I started screaming along with the lyrics. Then some creepy 40-year-old asked me if he could buy me a drink while he gave me a hand massage and tried to get me to come back to his penthouse to play pool. I turned him down politely, but then I whispered something to Joann and she burst out laughing, and I think that totally hurt the guy's feelings, which wasn't my intention. At around 3:30, it became clear the band wasn't going to show up, so we slogged ourselves back to Hell's kitchen where Joann spent the night throwing up and Benjamin and I discussed the (ir)rationale of his agoraphobia.

Oh course there's more that's not making it in (re: CS, MMM), but that's the gist of it. I got no sleep, my body's covered in bruises, and I feel like a dirty gutter punk. Which of course, I love. But am I too old? I don't know. I definitely feel used up, though.

I just voted for Blago. I would have voted for Judy Barr Topinka, if only I could figure out what she was thinking ... That's the problem with JBT, who can tell what she's thinking?

(I'm sorry, but that joke is going to be funny to me forever.)

With the male/female ratio at work as it is, I suppose it was only a matter of time before I misbehaved.

I am going to San Francisco in an hour, so this shoots down the plans I had to blog about my Halloween weekend. You guys will have to wait...

Oh my gosh, I'm watching a Jenny Craig commercial, and Kristi Alley is the same size as I am.

Anyway, Halloween and the weekend it contained (saturday through tuesday) was completely decadent and hang-over inducing--not alcohol hang-over (though one of my possee did wake up with one of those), but sleep-and-emotional hangovers. I feel like a wreck, and I am seriously questioning the validity of partying this hard at this age. But, conversely, though I am technically 25, I have been put on ice so to speak for 2 years, so I still feel like i'm only 23, which makes this behavior less obnoxious. I don't know. I don't know what I'm saying. Ask me after San Francisco.

My ostensible objective for a 6 hour fight to California is to attend The Big Game (tm) between Berkley and Stanford. Really, it's because I feel sick. Not sick like physically, but sick like emotionally sick. It isn't anything that I'm proud of, and it's all easily explicable. After the initial rush of a move wears off, I'm stuck with the residual depression of being uprooted. It's fall, so seasonal depression is starting to creep in as well. I'm still getting over my PTSD. Church has been a large part of the problem, which I'll explain in the MMM when I have a moment. And, in a small but obvious problem, I was grossly disappointed when, in the same week, two of my kept men grossly disappointed me in seperate, unrelated ways.

I knew that things were bad when I started crying at nearly every episode I saw of "Ugly Betty." The show itself is mediocre, but when they're mean to the poor little Latina assistant, I start getting all depressed, because the teasing is so real and so terrible. It's a little close to home. But yeah, anyone who cries on a regular basis while watching a cloying sitcom is definitely sick.

That isn't to say things haven't been going well. I've made a few friends here, including a darling little French girl I'm taking to the Daily Show next week. The city is fabulous and full of suprises, Adele has sent me a marvelously cute letter that left me in tears, Lakshmi and Mark check in on me regularly. I am delivering a full smack down to my graduate classes. I feel loved and taken care of. Despite all of my whining, I know deep down my life is blessed. I'm just struggling to adopt to a world in which I am now a fearful woman. I really won't be happy as long as I'm fearful. The trick seems to be, how to become brave.

In a typically "Mary" style of conflict resolution, I've decided to deal with my general anxiety by writing down everything that's wrong with me. I've been working on it for about 3 hours, and I'm not done, but it's all there. I like the feeling of being able to contain all of my faults in one area. It makes them less overwhelming. Once my "letter of discontent" is finished, I plan on organizing my faults into a Venn Diagram, with moral and emotional problems in the seperate spheres, dealing with the overlapping problems first, then moving outwards. Then, hopefully, I can get back to the stage where my only vices were overgeneralization and arrogance. Those were the days.