Sunday Post Entertainment

I am tickled pink with amusement. My love for slap stick comedy has completely engaged.
I call it slap stick comedy because once I asked a psychologist if I were perhaps evil for enjoying it when other people were hurt. She said that everyone likes the Three Stooges, so laugh away and feel okay.

Anyway. The only article catching my eye today in the NY Times is that one about the emergency room reports in 2008 tallying the number of people injured while walking and using electronic devices at the same time.

Personally, I feel like a dare-devil when I walk around texting, and I usually "pull over" to do it. No, seriously. It's hard to do in New York because of the pace. It's dangerous to do in Baltimore because of the crime. Regardless, I pull over to text, or I do so in a safely locked car while it's in park.

I also try not to text while I am hanging out with someone unlesss we are both texting and multi-tasking together. That's the only green-light to text-away. Otherwise it's rude. I usually see my partner pull out their phone, then I say, "oh, so it's texting time." We take a break to check in with 'those who are not with us'.

But the injuries are hilarious.

When I went back to school last year to finish my degree I noticed that everyone had their ipods plugged into their heads. I observed that this was potentially dangerous on stairwells.
Usually I am on the lookout for someone clumsy who might fall onto me from behind while traveling down a crowded stairwell. I cherish my ability to hear in this case because with my sense of hearing, I would undoubtedly have a few fractions of a second to get out of the way after I heard a grunt or a sneaker squeak. The ipod kids don't have this defense.

The least amount of electronics related injuries occur to people my age 30-40. I wonder why that is. I guess we are used to the technology just enough to have some experience, but we didn't have it when we were younger, so we learned the rules of walking and driving without the technology first. The old folks are just totally helpless. And the young kids are over-confident. That's my summary.

My New York Times Project- Day 1

First, I learned what I already knew:

If Haiti gets money and donations, they won't know what to do with it.
( I knew this days ago. )

I am a big asshole for saying this, but rich people are rich for a reason because they handle money well when they get it, hold onto it and make more. And they will silently murder many to keep it.

That has nothing to do with Haiti.. OR DOES IT? They had a big earthquake and immediately a few things I read (online) drew a parallel between Haiti's earthquake and New Orleans' Katrina hurricane. Yes. It's EVEN more fucked up when a catastrophe hits an already incredibly impoverished area. The whole world feels so bad... but if cameras were there a week prior, the world might feel just as bad. Do I even know the history of Haiti? Only a little, but it is (wince... cringe) what I once read, by definition, a 'slave community'.

But, really no one cared until this week how fucked up things were in Haiti. And Haiti is still effected by the psychological trauma of slavery carried through its culture. So there. Don't even get me started. I could write a book on it, but it's kind of none of my business because I'm not rich and never was, I'm just sayin'.

Next, I read an article about a guy who made it only to the base camp of mountain K-2. I didn't know it before, but now I know the mountain is in Pakistan. Neat. About twenty people died on the mountain while he was there. And he wrote about dead bodies just buried under avalanches of snow with parts sticking out, decaying. He also wrote about North Face equipment, and Germans and an Italian guy who wanted to ski down the mountain, but he died while the writer was at the base camp along with all the others. Interesting, but I don't remember the writer's name because I am a big jerk.

Speaking of big jerks, the most moving article I read was about a little kid in New York who got grounded, but was still allowed to use the Internet. So, she started a facebook 'cause' for no important reason at all other than to get herself out of punishment.
The interjections and inner dialog I had with myself and my computer while reading this article were why it was so emotionally moving for me.
My first instinct was to find her facebook page and comment, " Hey kid, since you have so much energy, why not try to get universal health care? " ( you selfish, selfish human creature with more resources than you know what to do with????)
My god.
Really. Sigh.
When I got to the page, which only took me about three seconds, I saw that I was one of MANY who had the same instinct. When I say many, I mean, hundreds.
Instead of writing my original thoughts, I commented, "This is a waste of everyone's time."

It made me tired just reading the comments.
I don't know what made me more sick:
Was it the article?
Was it the self-involved kid?
Was it the pack of grown adults berating a child for doing what comes naturally to a child?
Or was it the power of the Internet and how much we waste that power every single day for hours on end fulfilling our own whims instead of going out into the world and doing something really *crazy with that power?

Someone suggested that I would find a better job if I read the New York Times every day.
And since I am a college graduate now, I am looking for a job.

It starts today.

*crazy-
amazingly good, delightful, godlike, devilish, mojo, creative, loving, intuitive, communal, and all combinations of words for soul-unity between human beings that the English language doesn't seem to have a word for so I call it crazy for lack of a better word.

Fried Cheese Cake- Food Snobs Please Leave Now

I once explained to my date that we needed to have the check paid immediately following the
order for fried cheesecake because I was gonna need to leave the scene of the crime as soon as I was finished like it was my dirty little secret.

Fried cheesecake is dirty. And no one should carry that burden alone.

I mean, you need to be putting your coat on as you are still eating it, take the last bite standing, and walk briskly toward the door like you suddenly got called into a late-night work meeting.

It reminds me of working at a restaurant where we served bite-sized pieces of cheesecake to the guests on a shared platter. It was always a dilemma of etiquette until there were two or three of us just standing around the table like vultures looking at what the table had left behind: un-touched cheesecake pieces, allowable by the health department...

An Eight Hour Nap

After one five hour nap during the night,
I took another eight hour nap during the daylight hours.
It was too hot when I woke up the first time, so I opened some windows. And once my feet were frozen, I decided to make some Indian food and watch an Indian movie.
I drank an entire pot of coffee. And then I took another "nap".

During the nap, I had an awful and adventurously vivid dream.
I was on my way to the airport.
I was supposed to fly the plane, I was supposed to ride into the plane on wheels. It was something between a quasi-military- shipping -out and evacuation.

On my way to the airport, my bags kept changing.
Like, in real life when I was on my way to catch a bus to New York last week, I suddenly decided to switch luggage?
I dumped out my back pack in the living room and put everything in a big duffel bag one minute before walking out the door.
In the dream, this happened a few times. I had to pack and re-pack. I had to re-pack on the sidewalk, on the bus and on the plane. I had to dump everything out and do it again.
The climate kept changing at my destination until nothing made sense.

Need a bathing suit? Now you have loafers for your first day of school!
Everything was like that... not making any sense. It was a stressful dream and I hope that when I do actually go on my trip, this doesn't really happen.

My Internet friends were alarmed by my being awake at seven a.m.
Really, the only reason I ever wake up early and stay up is so that I can avoid insomnia later.
It's all part of my sleep-credit plan.

The ultimate sleep credit debt is when you are sleepless for so long the only choice is to "stay up" the whole way through the night and then CRASH hard the following night. It only works sometimes and it is a desperate measure.

I am thinking it had something to do with the acupuncture session I had on Tuesday. My body told my body what it wanted and I had to yield.

Now about to enter another night, I will attempt to sleep 'as if' this whole dirty, obscenely decadent, dream-filled day never happened.

Shameless, I have fresh pajamas on and my socks by the heating vent, drinking Hi-C and tea and chain smoking like nobody's business.
It's all in a day's work.

And I forgot to mention a job application was submitted in the mix... so who knows what could have happened while I dreamed the day away.

The house makes creaking noises like it's alive and waiting to swallow my wintry life in a comforter the size of Texas.

Taste Nothing Waste Nothing

Kids two doors south are partying because it is a holiday.
It doesn't bother me because I am awake;
but when I had a job and woke up at seven I used to complain to neighbors
until one day I decided I didn't like myself complaining to strangers
and I had the brilliant idea to buy a package of construction worker style ear plugs.

I treat my moodiness like a bumper car,
it is inevitable, but the more foam earplugs I have, the less reason I have to be mad.

I had my first acupuncture treatment yesterday and the doctor told
me to stop wasting energy.
I am wasting energy on thoughts
While exercising gives me energy,
thinking about wasteful things physically drains me and makes my shoulder hurt.
Chain reaction from the brain to the body.

Tired all the time and not doing anything;
Building up reserves.
( Having nothing to do except laundry and dusting under the bed and typing and writing the definitions of constitutional laws repeatedly on neon color coded paper... the thing that drains the energy is the dread of studying so that I can think the way a 70 year old man wants me to think for a multiple choice test.)

The kids are talking and and their voices are echoing onto the insides of the porch roofs and it sounds like they are just outside my door.
Thinking about the activist I went on a date with in August who has a maid and wanted to write a Thank You note to the girls who made his Persian rug as we turned it over to examine each loop of thread that was hand woven. My thoughts are not sentimental, just happy to know that I could have a maid one day if I wanted to become an activist.
And one day I will have an art studio that I never have to clean up.
Because I can close the door, my love.
I had more emotion when I cut my foot on another man's rug.
It still hurts.
The shape of the glass that was in the rug that cut my foot in the kitchen was the exact shape of the chip at the top of the French press. Hmmm.
I only knew it so intimately because it was inside me.

The glass.
And the coffee is too.

Practice at Home

Made exceptions.
I get locked out in the alley wearing dressy shoes that aren't mine and a pit bull
runs up to me like a murderer and I don't have the armor
of my cell phone.

I need running shoes in a situation like this.
Fetish for leggings;
Fetish for not wearing pants.

Red ones came in the mail today.
Dressing as funny as possible.
Wearing all the colors I feel like.

The hours get late;
drinking the rarest tea in the world...
that's the sales pitch.
Turn out the lights and music up the air open the windows and light candles;
stay still
shaking
quivering all over like a tower with bendable parts.

It's over in the begining.

Asan Found

Breakfast is cheesecake. And tummy ache.
Appel, Apple, Appelonia.
Prince!
I yoga you.