E Pur Si Muove

Every time I take a long hiatus from blog writing (i.e., after every post), I feel an obligation to write an Earth-shattering blog post, worthy of a month-long absence. This never happens. I've had lots of great blog posts in my head over the last few weeks, yet I haven't managed to put any of them down on paper...or a black background. So my insights in this post will likely be minimal. I'll start with a recap of the past month.

I moved back to Westchester on the 14th, and I've been here ever since. Well, except for the 8 days in a row where I went to the city. That was fun. Being unproductive has reached new heights here in the best of all possible Chesters. I haven't totally slacked on my running, but I've slacked a little. I've jogged my 1.5 miles a bare majority of days I've been back. It's really far less fun (but more convenient) to jog on a treadmill. The scenery sucks—even if the single spot on the white wall does keep my eyes focused—and I can always see exactly how many seconds/hundredths of a mile I have left. And my speed is constant the whole way. I could actually really feel it when I went from 4.8 miles per hour to 4.9 miles per hour. I know: You're intimidated by my speed. Don't try to hide it. I can just imagine all those nights you've stayed awake, tossing and turning, wishing you could run a 12:15 mile. I'm practically a fitness goddess.

I've read one novel since returning to the Chester. If you've followed the hyperlink, you've probably figured out that Special Topics in Calamity Physics is awfully pleased with itself, kind of trashy, somewhat overwrought, and 100% fun. I recommend it to anyone looking for a good read with a tight ending and gratuitous literary references. If you love quote-dropping intellectuals or love to hate quote-dropping intellectuals, you'll enjoy it. And don't let the title fool you: It doesn't have significant quantities of physics.

I've gone to Slave a few times since being back, including one visit with Andrew, who was in the NY burbs for the first time, and one visit with Cat, who's (temporarily) back from a crazy year of teaching English to English people. I watched an amazing Canadian TV series with V (on Jess's recommendation), and I've seen a few lovely movies around here, alone and with members of the fam.

Speaking of the fam, I've gotten to spend loads of quality time with my mom, some with my sister, and a little with my father. Natalie has just moved into a gorgeous new apartment not too far from my old apartment, so I may be seeing even less of her over the next couple of weeks. They have a dishwasher. A dishwasher! When I was her age, we didn't have dishwashers in our apartment. We didn't even have running water. If we were lucky, we could make the rats lick our dishes clean. If you got the plague, too bad! At least it wasn't cholera.

(That last part isn't true. When I was her age, I did have running water. But I also had the landlord from hell and a hallway littered with his nephews' half-empty food wrappers. So I'm surprised we only had mice, not rats, in our kitchen.)

Since I have so much free time (and I have to put off cleaning my bedroom for as long as possible), I've fallen head-first into CONSUMER CULTURE. (Dun dun dunnnn!) It's not as bad as it sounds. I'm not buying unnecessary stuff, I'm just spending a long time looking for the things I need for my apartment. If I need lamps (and I do), why go to Ikea when I can look at every goddamn lamp on the Bowery? We (Mom and I) did manage to find some great lamps at non-insane prices. However, if you are a person who likes lighting and enjoys giving people gifts of insane prices, I would be happy to point you toward the work of an artist I rather admire. Just saying. If that's what you want to do, I'll return the lamps we bought.

So, other than imagining the beauty of my future apartment, what have I been thinking about? Well, there was that Obama New Yorker cover a couple of weeks back. I thought it was cute...reasonably funny for the magazine, although nowhere near the greatest New Yorker cover of all time. Some people said it's the NYer's responsibility to censor themselves and put out covers that aren't going to attract the kind of negative attention and misinterpretation this one did and may have done, respectively. I think that media outlets with a broad national audience (Fox News, CNN, USA Today) have this responsibility, but the New Yorker should gear their covers to their audience. And I'm pretty sure anyone who understands their cartoons got the cover. And for those who say "it fails as satire," I might be inclined to agree...that "satire" is the wrong label for this kind of humor/commentary. I don't think that means it fails as whatever kind of humor/commentary it is.

But that's old news.

I guess my thoughts on easy-target-news have been rather limited. Speaking of easy-target-news, though, the Daily Show has begun. I'm going to go watch that. And if you're wondering what I'll be watching this weekend, well...

Unimaginable Luxury

I'm over a month into my summer of complete freedom, and things couldn't be better. I'm jogging my 1.5 miles five days a week, sleeping 8 - 9 hours per night, reading a good novel, hanging out with friends every day, eating good food, drinking good coffee, seeing good shows, and generally living a life of, well, unimaginable luxury. It could only be better if The Daily Show and Colbert weren't in reruns now. And it would be better if the nightmares would stop. Seriously. Somehow when I'm completely relaxed during the days, my subconscious decides I'm not getting my RDA of stress, so it starts having stress dreams. I got a break for a few days when I went to the Adirondacks (so much fun), and for one day at home I was fine, but now the bad dreams have returned. It sucks not to look forward to sleep...usually it's so lovely.

But anyway, while I'm awake, I'm happy. This sort of worries me. By and large, the great people of the world can't help but do stuff. Great artists always do their art. Great activists are always looking for ways to help. People who achieve things do so, in part, because they can't stand sitting around and doing nothing. I love sitting around and doing nothing...or at least I love not working. I am doing a fair amount, I'm just not working on making anything happen. I've given up on all of my projects for the summer, deciding I'd rather just have a good time. I don't plan to travel, because I don't like the hassle of traveling. And this worry that I have isn't some deep, motivating force; it's just a general acknowledgment of an unproductive temperament. I'd like to achieve great things in life, but with two major personality traits working against me—satisfaction without accomplishment and reluctance to commit to one discipline at the expense of all others—that's going to be somewhat difficult.

Oh, I did win a trivia challenge this vacation. You can read all about my glorious achievement here. To read about the challenge, take a look at Day 1, and to navigate to all the puzzles, use Day 5. That was pretty exciting.

Sadly, part one of this summer is about to come to an end. I move out of my apartment on Monday, back for a month in Westchester with my family. I think it'll be nice to hang out in the burbs for a while, and it will make the transition back to school more natural, but I'm also going to really, really miss living in the city and in this apartment. My roommates are awesome, and the freedom of New York living is unparalleled. I can hop on the subway and be anywhere in Manhattan in a half hour. It's awesome. I do like Westchester, and I love spending time with my family, and I'll be coming back into the city frequently, but it sure won't be the same. I'll be doing lots of errands and driving around and probably spending much more time in the house than I currently do in my apartment. So here I am, down to my last three days as a true New Yorker. It's the end of an era, folks.

Then We Came to the End

I'm reading that book right now, and not only is it a great read, but it's also very appropriate for this week, when both my tenure at work and the Democratic primary come to their respective ends.

I'm psyched to ride the Obama tide. I was an ambivalent but unwavering Hillary supporter throughout the primary, and I still think she would make an excellent president. I really can't get too worried about verbal gaffes or the sins of her supporters; I like her health care plan, I like her doggedness, and I like her solidity. But I think she now needs to concede—I always said she would never concede on the night of a primary win, so I'm not surprised she didn't concede tonight—so we can start the fight for Obama. And, actually, I think she needs to concede so the Republicans can start their fight against Obama. If they have aces up their sleeves that they're just waiting to rip out, it's far better they do it June than in September. And the sooner we can see him juxtaposed with McCain, the better. He will come across so well: He's quicker (I don't mean smarter, per se, but that too), he's more poised, and he's more passionate. He just needs really good foreign policy people whispering in his ear so he makes zero gaffes. I think Barack Obama will make a wonderful, thoughtful, and inspiring president, and I'm thrilled to have him as our nominee.

I wasn't too upset about work winding down. I've been excited for the summer and all the possibility and freedom it holds, and I've been looking forward to living outside the 9 to 5 (or 10 to 7, as the case may be). But just last Friday I started to feel the impending nostalgia. I work in a great area with great people researching and writing about great ideas. There have been better times and worse times at work, but in the end, I've been working in a job most people can only dream about. Not only do I get to write, but I get to write about science. Not only do I get to research, but I get to talk to great scientists about their work. Not only do I report, but I get to think deeply about scientific ideas. Not only do I get to think about articles, but I get to think creatively, across as many media as can fit on a screen (and that's many). And I get to do it all with an uncommonly intelligent and young group of people. That's pretty special. Oh, and I get to proofread. Which I enjoy more than is probably healthy.

There was a time, after I had been writing news stories for a while, when I was wondering whether I was really getting a lot out of my job. A couple of years later, I know I've learned an incredible amount. My writing is better than ever (and if you were looking for "but also"s to follow all of those "not only"s...I hate you). I have become more comfortable on the phone and with my ability to talk with people of all ages and levels of prestige. I have learned what it means to work in an office and what it means to work on a team...and how many things 'working on a team' can mean. I have slowly started to figure out what makes a good boss and what makes a good subordinate, although those are always a little slippery. While I never quite got the hang of thinking as a journalist—that's one of the reasons I'm not staying—I did get the hang of thinking about issues from the perspective of our publication, which is a worthwhile perspective to have. And I learned a lot about science. That's important stuff.

I certainly can't sum up 32 months in a single blog post, but I'll just say, I've been grateful for them. Even in the most miserable times, I was learning, and even in the best times, I was finding out what was wanting in me and in my work.

Oy, I've fallen into lots of soulful repetitions in this post. I think it's because I'm listening to Obama's victory speech as I write. Back to the Baracketry...

When I'm Drunk, I'm Beautiful...

Hello, blog-reading friends! I am a bit smash-ed right now, which, as you know, is somewhat unusual for me. I'm not averse to a glass of fine wine/beer/liquor here and there, but I am usually averse to five glasses of fine wine/beer/liquor here or there. All of this apparently changes when I go to a phenomenal dinner with V at a fine restaurant where he's buds with the sommelier. Some advice: Try to go to a fine restaurant where you or your date is buds with the sommelier. There will be perks (which are substantially better than blood). Chris (said sommelier) gave us not only some complimentary wine, but also two additional scotches to go with the Macallan 25 we splurged on. One of the two was a Macallan 50. Oh my God. I don't even know how to describe it. Suffice it to say I feel superior to you all, now that I've had the Macallan 50. I'm like the 14 year old boy who's the first in his class to have sex. Or something. While my taste buds are elated, but metaphors apparently suffer after a gin and tonic, a glass of champagne, half a bottle of chateau-du-pape, a taste of 10 year scotch, a serving of 25 year scotch, and half a serving of 50 year scotch. Maybe I exaggerate. But barely.

The food was great, too. I had a "PB & J" (their creative foie gras-based appetizer) and bacon-wrapped duck. V had a goat cheese salad and the short ribs with truffle mousse. All dishes were phenomenal. And Chris arranged for a complimentary lollipop tree with dessert, which was amazing. In short, even if you have to pay full price for everything. I recommend davidburke & donatella. The portions are far more generous than you'll get at any other super-upscale restaurant, and the food is redonkulous.

So V and I got wasted. We were about even until Grand Central. He had missed his train by five minutes, so we stopped at the bar. Realizing that 130 pounds of Jew can only take so much, I ordered a coke. He got another cocktail, which tipped him from loose-lipped to incoherent. Which was fun, but it also marked a pretty clear end to the festivities. The loose-lipped stage was great, though. I'm sure tomorrow morning I'll regret many things I didn't get out of him. But the things I did get out of him were pretty good...mwhahahahaha.

Oh! And I should mention what we were celebrating, considering it's been my most important life development in a while: I got into YUUS this past week! Woo! I'm not positive I'm going to go there...I'm still looking pretty seriously at one other UUS (mentioned in an earlier post), but I think it's the most likely place, and I'm very, very excited to be offered a spot. When I visited Brad there at the beginning of the year, one thing he said to me was, "this is the most intellectually secure group of people I've ever met." That's a pretty compelling reason to choose a school. So I'm a little bit thrilled.

In other life news, Jess and I went to a Rufus concert at Radio City on Valentine's Day. The concert was just great; I've been listening to 14th Street constantly ever since. Rufus is pretty sweet live...all of his crazy Rufisms come across even better than they do on the albums. And his outfits are (there's no better word) fabulous. All right, I should probably get to bed early so I'm ready to read for Seed tomorrow morning. Good night, my friends!

MMVIII

At long last, it is 2008. A year of elections. A year of Olympics. A year of the prime factors 2 x 2 x 2 x 251.

Vacation, which I was glad to have, was excellent. I read a truly great novel, watched the first season of a hideously addictive TV series, and caught up with lots of old friends (no link provided). I attended one very good play, two very good movies, and three of the best coffee shops in the world. Not that I'm biased, or anything. So that was vacation. Low-key and friend-filled. Just as I like it.

Other than that, UU stuff is going delightfully. I wouldn't want to gasconade on the blog, lest UU committees read this and have their perception of me go catawampus. (V and I worked on an exceptionally difficult Saturday crossword over break.) But I've heard good news from two excellent places: the "New York City of UU" and a place that would have me study UU in New York City. Woot woot.

Speaking of cities that count, Natalia has flown off to Londres! I'm pretty excited to go visit her there in a couple of months.

There was plenty more I wanted to say, I think, but it will have to wait for my post-caucus update. For now I leave you with this blog post, which sucked up too much of my late afternoon, and the following quote on the "Greatest Generation:"

“What makes them so great? Because they were poor and hated Nazis? Who doesn’t fucking hate Nazis?”

Who says Broadway is dead?

Status Que?

When Greg leaves comments on my last post cryptically hinting that I should perhaps update my blog, I figure it's time. The bad part about going two months without updating is that I have two months worth of updating. So you're getting a cumulative update rather than an event-by-event update.

So, the months. I finally finished my cryptic crossword and sent it in to he who wears short Shortz last week. It's not without its flaws, but I think there are some fun and creative clues in there. I'm battling serious odds—he may not even take unassigned cryptics—but until I hear back, I can live safely in that quantum superposition of "accepted" and "not accepted." And if the function collapses to "not accepted," you, my dear reader, can look forward to trying the puzzle...on this very blog! Unless I decide to submit it elsewhere. Gee, I hope I get some personal comments from the man himself. That would be an honor, indeed.

Our apartment has settled, and it is good. Chayes has beautified her room—it's great to be spending some quality time with her—Betsey has moved into Megan's old room and is fitting in beautifully, and Greg's the same sunny delight as ever. Greg and I saw a super-exclusive run-through of Cry Baby last weekend (yay, thanks, Mark!) This particular performance was not "up for review," so I will only review it with the most inscrutable puzzle I can think of: _T W_S _W_S_M_. G_ S__ _T WH_N _T'S _N T_WN.

Work's been crazy as ever. There's been lots of talk about the, er, inappropriate comments made by a certain, unnamed James Watson. If you haven't already read the massive press coverage, you can get the latest at the links I put in the first half of the sentence. The whole to-do prompted me not only to fashion a harness for my jaw to wear whenever reading Watson's comments on black people, women, fat people, gay people or, oh yeah, Rosalind Franklin, but also to do some reading on race and IQ.

It's apparently well-established [most of the following assertions come from that linked report] that the average IQ of black people in America is 15 points lower than the average IQ of white people in America. There are two major questions that come out of this: What are the reasons for this difference? and What the heck does IQ mean anyway? Neither one of these has yet been answered especially thoroughly. While IQ is highly heritable, this doesn't mean that the IQ variations between races is largely genetic. There are plenty of other factors, many unknown, that go into intelligence, and it seems likely that these largely account for differences that we see. Yes, racists, it's conceivable they don't. Someone, sometime will do solid research and we'll have a better idea. The other question, about what IQ actually measures, is just as hazy. It's definitely a solid predictor of academic achievement. In this sense, the test isn't biased toward white people...it's an equal predictor for black people and white people. As the APA report points out, the test is biased against black people in the plain sense that they, on average, do worse. You might say, well, that's not really bias if it still predicts the same stuff, but hey, IQ tests are designed so both sexes necessarily have the same average. It's explicitly not biased toward men or women; I don't know if it's an equal predictor for both sexes, though. This paragraph's getting long, so let me sum up my point: IQ tests are a good but imperfect predictor of academic achievement. There's no great reason to think they measure some ineffable quality of "intelligence." That concept isn't well-defined, anyway. There would probably be some correlation between IQ score and anything measuring some kind of intelligence—probably a fairly strong correlation—but who knows how strong or how consistent between tests? I don't. What I'm saying is we don't know all that much about this topic. And I think people without an agenda should research it, mostly because I'm a curious person and it's an interesting topic. So there.

Oh, and the UU apps are coming along swimmingly. Hopefully those will be out the door in the next couple of weeks. I'm actually feeling very good about this decision. I'm reading One U, a book about UU school, and it's scaring me, but it's also getting me very psyched for the kind of thinking I'd be doing.

All right, friends. I have an episode of Dirty Sexy Money to watch. Emily points out the show's egregiously absent commas. Normally, I would be unforgiving, but somehow Donald Sutherland and Peter Krause have won me over.

Suddenly This Summer

You can almost convince yourself summer hasn't really started yet until the fourth of July. Then you know you're in the throes of the season and it's about to slip by, just as it does every year. I'd have thought this would stop after, you know, I stopped getting summer vacation. But it's still my favorite season. I'd much rather it be 85 than 45, and it's good to have all of the school-bound friends feeling a little more relaxed.

The summer has started off with Harry Pottering, which is unforseeably terrific. I've read the books already, and I know I enjoyed them, but being on a mission to read—spending a Sunday sitting in the Hungarian Pastry Shop and then Riverside Park, reading a fantasy book, and feeling accomplished afterward—is so ideal.

I got my MacBook, which is treating me awfully well. I've only played with GarageBand enough to record myself singing Wimoweh. It's, well, horrible—at once overly pretty and harsh—but I'm thrilled. I'm harmonizing! With myself! And I can send the file to people! Woo!

And I'm happy with my UUST score. If I want to go to UU school, I'm in pretty good shape...just have to get recommendations from old professors and write the world's most brilliant 250 word statement. Maybe my alma mater will take me back...who knows? They're pretty picky, though.

Oh, I met an attractive guy this weekend. I know that doesn't sound like much (no, I didn't, like, get his number...or even have a one-on-one conversation with him) but so rarely am I at all attracted to someone I just met—nay, so rarely am I attracted to anyone at all—that it was sort of a proof of concept. The dude was gorgeous and authentically charismatic. And I kinda dug him. It's more a testament to my functionality than my maturity (it would be nice to go for someone attainable), but when that's in doubt, it's something.

So, on a completely different topic, I was thinking about consciousness a bit today. I do maintain a confidence in science and philosophy...I think we'll eventually have an idea of what consciousness is, but right now I think we don't quite know what questions to ask, and that's hindering progress in finding out what exactly consciousness is and how it arises from the brain. We've apparently nicely eliminated the possibility that consciousness is located at one place in the brain. You can take out any individual part of the brain and maintain consciousness...I mean, maybe parts will make you pass out, but they won't kill your identity. So I guess that only leaves the possibility that it's emergent from some collection of processes? Some network? Which kind of makes sense. But I think before we figure out how it emerges, we have to get a better subjective idea of what 'it' is.

Therefore, I've been trying to pinpoint my own consciousness. What do I feel I directly experience? It's easier to find stuff I don't directly experience. Inspiration is one of them. When I'm doing a cryptic and think of an answer, it often just 'comes to me.' You all know this. The answer to some problem just comes into your head. So that's something that does not happen in the conscious. So the answer appears in your head...how does it appear? Is it an image? A sound? It's kind of neither, usually, and so it's hard to say what it IS. Even when you have mental images or hear things, the sounds don't need to happen linearly; the image doesn't need to be detailed. In what way are we actually active? What specific actions can you take ownership of? I guess we experience things. Sound does actually register. But certainly the processing of that sound isn't part of the conscious mind, nor is the interpreting of it. I can't think of any specific process that I really feel I—as my conscious mind—do. Although I know I'm here.

OK, I'm too tired for further pontificating. 'Night, all.

The Great Harry Potter Reread

I've exchanged one acronym for another (UUST will hopefully retire on Friday when my score comes in), and I now embark on TGHPR: The Great Harry Potter Reread. I began last Wednesday with Greg's copy of The Sorcerer's Stone, but alas he informed me that he would be taking all of his Harry Potter books to India with him. He claims he wants to "read" them, but I'm certain he's doing it just to spite me. And to make his company pay more for his checked luggage. There are many advantages. So I went to that magical place where they let you take whatever books you have and bring them back once you've read them. I finished books one and two last weekend, have taking a brief break to do some fun reading for work, and tomorrow I should be able to make a dent in book three. After I finish four, I'll have to go back to book lending land to get five and six.

I may have already mentioned how good I feel about the Harry Potter craze. In a world where so many crazes are guilty pleasures (in that you perhaps should feel guilty when you mock people or consume environment-harming luxuries), a beautifully crafted fantasy series is such a delight. It's just nice to see people getting worked up about a story. And it seems that J.K. Rowling has handled it beautifully—having started out as a mother struggling to make ends meet and been vaulted to international celebrity author, she seems to have kept a cool head, stayed true to her original vision, and effortlessly walked so many lines between making her characters and points of tensions too simple and too complicated. Go go go Jo. In any case, I'm having so much fun with the reread, and I eagerly await book seven. (Snape is SO NOT REALLY EVIL. You'll see! I swear!)

This short week has been one of luxuries. Last night, I took Mum to JoJo for her birthday. Had the most fabulous foie gras brulee (yeah, I know it's cruel as hell, but it's quite literally the most delicious thing I've ever put in my mouth). And the decor and atmosphere were just lovely. It was, of course, lovely to spend time with Mom. And speaking of relatives, I had a delightful post-pride Italian dinner with Natalia the night before. Great to hang out with her, of course, and it sounds like her summer's shaping up to be very cool, or at least promising. And I got my MacBook today. Oh, beauty! I can't wait to start recording stuff and taking full advantage of garageband. It's a pretty darn impressive program.

Finally, Greg has alas departed for India. He'll be spending the next four weeks in fabulous and exciting Hyderabad, which has 6.1 million people, and which I'd never heard of before he announced he was going. I feel pathetic. After working in India, he's taking a couple weeks to backpack around Nepal, which should be awesome for him. I'm now one friend shorter for the summer (alas!) but I have Harry and a MacBook to keep me company. And, you know, my other friends. They exist.

In A Post-UUST World

Well, I'm finally done with that pain in the ass...um, unspecified standardized test. I think it went fine, although I doubt it was my greatest performance. Anyway, I'll find out in two and a half weeks. I came home exhausted and with a right side of my back that can hardly move (still! damned tiny desks in Davies!) only to find that my dearest roommate had hidden sixteen signs throughout my room, bathroom, and kitchen areas with "UUST" written on them (he used the real letters). I had apologized that I wouldn't be able to help clean up after our Tony party, and he apologized that he would be talking nonstop about the test after it was done. Sixteen signs counts as nonstop. Grr.

Speaking of our party, the weekend would have been pretty much ideal had I not been a bit of a nervous wreck. Friday night I went out with work people for drinks, then I picked up a copy of the new Ian McEwan and read the novel(la) in one sitting. I was crying by the end—yes, I'm weepy—and I may have gained some painful insight into myself. Which can be a good thing. Or it can just make me mopey. To make matters worse better [SIXTEEN SIGNS! --Ed.] Greg had his wallet stolen and we turned his room upside down looking for it. The next day, the perps charged a couple of metro cards...which is exactly what the crooks who stole Natalie's wallet and my laptop did. Weird mofos.

On Saturday, I went to Jess R's smaller birthday party on Governors Island. That island is totally underrated: totally beautiful, barely developed, and perfect for picnicking and frisbee throwing. We didn't have frisbees to throw, but it was still good times. Then I met up for coffee with Brad—we did some very solid hashing out of answers to general questions—and I had a delicious Mercer Kitchen dinner with V. The idea of the dinner was to stop me from studying, but I wound up doing a section at 11:45 pm after a few glasses of wine. It actually went decently. Who knew?

Sunday was major prep for the par-tay, as I made my World Famous Guacamole (aka Guac of Ages) and deviled eggs. Greg's dad was over, and he miraculously cleaned our entire apartment...well, not my room, which needs a hell of a once-over, but a lot of the apartment. I also managed to see Mike L, who was in from Dubai because his dad was having heart surgery. Apparently, half of the city is under a certain surveillance, where you cannot access sites that are not in accordance with the values of Arab society. Greeeat. So Mike's been having a hard time getting to certain networking sites from his apartment. In any case, 'twas good to see him, and I'm glad that he (amazingly) loves Dubai.

The party was ridiculously well-attended and tons of fun, even though Spring Awakening had a bit too much of a sweep. V and Sam got into a few low-key arguments about shows and how musicals should be written. The two of them have, er, different styles of arguing, so V valiantly muscled his way to victory. They really just have VASTLY different taste. So it goes. And Mark O brought his actual Tony, which added a delightful authenticity to the festivities. The Guac of Ages was a big hit (Chayes's boyfriend Steve apparently came exclusively for the guac), as were the eggs. I must admit, however, that Greg's open-faced smoked salmon and cilantro butter sandwiches were pretty darn good. After the party, V drove me home so my mom could drive me to the Have the following day.

And now I am relaxing after watching (yet again) the fabulous Spencer Quest/Jamie Donovan scene from Michael Lucas' La Dolce Vita. Porn is such high art these days. If you know anyone who's an expert in right-side-of-back massage, please let me know.

There's No Such Thing

Occasionally nights are so good they're actually depressing.

Yesterday was extravagant dinner number three: Bouley. V and I got seated on the same side of the table...for most it's canoodling position. For us, it was the ideal people-watching setup. The people, alas, were not especially hilarious, although V did catch one adorable waiter's eye. And I tactlessly called him on it. Heh heh. The meal began with (what else?) foie gras. Next to my inability to write thank-you notes, my love for foie gras is perhaps my worst trait. It really is crazy delicious. V got the egg (yup, an egg), which he aptly described as "eggs Benedict on crack...in a good way." The main course was perfectly-cooked lamb with Jerusalem artichoke, a green that was new to both of us and totally salty and wonderful. There was one especially good cheese from the cheese course—practically a butter substitute. And the dessert. Oh. The dessert. The chocolate frivolous (who cares what part of speech it is, just stare deep into the chocolate and all will be well) consisted of an incredibly dense and sweet souffle, a chocolate brulee with a sugar crust, ice cream, a small chocolate layer cake with some fruity/liquor-ish filling and this Platonic ideal of a kit kat. Astounding.

But of course the evening couldn't end with so few great loves. We walked from TriBeCa to SoHo, where we tore through the Saturday puzzle at a wine bar (I got a glass of port, V got the Riesling flight; no surprises there). It's amazing how quickly the crosswords go with a second person. It's an exponential improvement. The point is we rule.

It seemed like the evening was winding down. We headed up Varick toward the Christopher Street 1 stop, and when we got into the area, V mentioned the Duplex was his old watering hole back in high school (precocious children, those Catholic schoolboys). I still had never been there, so we decided to stop in for a drink. The place was, well, wonderful in every way. The schticky-but-not-schmaltzy piano player bangs out and sings a totally sing-alongable collection from the 60s, 70s, 80s, and (less) 90s. The whole place has this great high-fun, low-key vibe. According to V, the lines have stayed more or less the same since 1990. Like, the piano player would say, "And now it's time for a little Mama Cass," and the entire crowd would shout, "There's no such thing as a little Mama Cass!" Amazing. He played a few Redhot songs, reminding me of the reunion I was missing but also allowing me to impress V with my vast knowledge of "Sweet Blindness." Aw, yeah. The whole thing was a blast.

We parted ways at midnight. My stomach kind of went crazy after I got home...after the full meal, one glass of port and two bottle of Corona, it wasn't entirely surprising. Too much for one small organ (everyone knows the kidneys are just there for show). And now it is all done and I am back to UUSTing and watching Beaches. I've never seen the whole thing and will have to miss the (supposedly wildly sad) ending for UUST class. Shame.

The Rock of the Dome

I've become mildly obsessed with the idea of shaving my head. No, don't worry, I probably won't do it. People have been reminding me that my hair's my best feature for about ten years, now, and I'm not that self defeating. A little self-defeating, sure. But not that self-defeating.

In any case, I'm not sure whether it's my undiagnosed (but unquestionably existent) trichotillomania, whether it's a symptom of a general disgust with the body, or whether it's just a cry for sensation—I'm sure those three are all related anyway. But still, every time I feel the weight of my hair, or the itch of my dandruffy scalp or the faint presence of the buildup of oils and junk from conditioners galore...I just think of how glorious it would be to be free. To turn this bizarre stretch of skin into normal skin. To expose it to all of the elements: sun, wind, water, a rough towel.

Of course then I'd be stuck with a bald head, which isn't so bad in itself—I'd enjoy the freedom from hair for a good long while—but it does mean I'd either have to keep it bald or wait for it to grow in. And then I'd have short hair. Blech. I'd have over a year of hair that doesn't even hang down from my head. I really don't think that's my look.

Maybe I could invest in some ultra-exclusive scalp treatment, where they could make my hair stick out and just go over every inch with some tool that treats my scalp with heat and rubbing and a little UV. That could be really good.

Everything New Is Old Again

I've been bad. I've been very, very bad about updating the blog. I could make excuses, but I'll just try to be better this time around.

So I moved last month. It went relatively smoothly, save some unfathomably dickish security deposit withholding from the old landlord. I still don't have the (too large) deposit back, and he legally has 60 days after the lease ends to get it to me. Then I pounce. He has never before met an enemy of my strength, intelligence, determination, and intolerance for douchebaggery. Soon he will fall, and perhaps he will be punished, and then he won't be so damned quick to try to get out of anything he owes anyone.

The new place is awfully cool. The roomies rule, as I suspected, and my box in the wall is coming along nicely. I still have a rug on its way that won't arrive until the middle of April, but the hotness builds. I dig the environment of the 4-bed; I wasn't sure I would. It's lively and puts less responsibility on me to interact when I don't feel like interacting. Rock on.

Also, I've decided to try my hand at an, um, unspecified standardized test. Which isn't to say I necessarily want to go where the UUST leads, but I'm considering. (If that statement wasn't full of ambiguity, it was edited after I made a decision. Shh!) I seriously rocked out on the first UUST I took, but I didn't do nearly as well on the second. My pacing was off. Garr. In any case, it's an extremely concrete goal, which I'm interested in having right now. You can do a few very good things with a degree from UU school...in any case, we'll see.

I went last week to see Spring Awakening with Greg and V, cool dudes both. I had very mixed feelings about the show, and I'm almost ashamed to admit that some of it stems from an instant disgust with diva-ish teenage girls, even if they're talented and don't seem all that caught up with themselves. I also liked the individual phrases of the music a lot, but I don't think they came together to make fully coherent, performable songs. It was a cool play to adapt, though, and the rocking style of the music connected nicely with the 19th Century German style of the script. And it was totally sexy.

All right, I'd better get crackin' on this whole tax return thing. I have more time tonight than I've had in a while, and I plan on using it wisely. Namely by watching SVU and American Idol and Comedy Central. Excellent.