So many cute little adventures in New York! I got lost in what I thought was just a very very black neighborhood on the upper west side, filled with black people fighting and selling cds on blankets. Everyone was angry. Even the t-shirts they were selling were angry: one was an angry t-shirt that yelled: JESUS WAS A BLACK MAN and it listed arguments in support of this. The streets were all black-themed, too: African Avenue, Martin Luther King Blvd, etc. After I told Liripipe about this all-black and angry neighborhood in the upper west side, she smiled, patted me on the head and said, "You were in Harlem, dearie." Ha! How fun.

Another adventure that tickled my heart was outside of Port Authority on 42nd, late at night, where, in my humble experience, I believe there to be the highest concentration of weirdos in the city, there was a crazy black guy (ok, yes, black again. I'm not racist; I'm just painting the picture for you) yelling all sorts of obscenities and telling someone, or maybe no one in particular, to perform something vulgar on his person, and then, like the Red Sea, the crowds parted and up strutted a brigade of New York's finest. Strong, tall, authoritative & fearless. There were about 7 of them and they marched up to where the little nasty man was. His eyes bugged out, he dropped his umbrella (which was about 4 ft long) and ran like hell. The tallest policeman stooped over, picked up the umbrella, and WHACK, snapped it over his knee! I don't grudge them little liberties like that.

Sak's. It doesn't say Sak's Fifth Avenue; it just says Sak's & Co. It's on 5th Ave., so that would be superfluous. I marvel at how cute that is. I went shopping there, bright & early the day after Thanksgiving. 9 floors, not counting the 10th floor, which no one can get into unless they have an appt., and probably a Fortune 500 husband. It's the salon and the escalator to the 10th floor was roped off to keep out the riff raff like me. I wanted to buy my mother something cashmere from Sak's. I asked a man in a suit, who didn't like the fact that I had a backpack on in his store, where I could find socks. I figure cashmere socks is more in my price range than anything else. He looked momentarily disgusted that I came to Sak's on the busiest shopping day of the year with my bookbag and unbrushed hair to bother him about socks. I debated telling him that it's ok, because I'm only interested in cashmere socks; I'm not a yokel. When I found the cashmere socks I found that they were $60. You don't believe me, I know! You think I'm trying to spice up a drab scok story by exaggerating the price! Well I'm not! Sixty, I tell you! I found a cashmere sweater for the same price, so I bought that instead. Then I went outside and bought a, ahem, cashmere scarf for ten dollars. I went cashmere crazy. I couldn't stop. It had a sticker on it that said it's made in england and that it's 100% real and the lady selling it to me had very bloodshot eyes and she had a lot of trouble figuring out the change for a 20 dollar bill. But enough of this.
I will leave you with a disturbing lil tidbit: More Americans went shopping last Friday than voted this year.
Discuss.

Forget the Greeks

Beware of intoxicatingly handsome Irishmen bearing drinks.

it came! it came!

I got an email from Mr. McLean. Sounds good, but keep those fingers crossed.

Sometimes I think Rayna is the only one who reads my blogs. If this is not, true, I relaly wish other people would comment, you know, just to say hello.

I don't know if any of you have read the Washington Compost during the campaign, but I think it's very cute that they always referred to Kerry as John F. Kerry. I guess it didn't help him seem presidential enough, but God bless 'em, they tried.

blah blah bleh

Still not sure if I should go to NY for Thanksgiving. Money, of course, is the factor. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be. I can do it for under $200, but until I find out how much I can borrow to go back to school in less than 2 months, I'm freaking out over every dime. If only McLean would write me back!!!! Every day I search the mail in a cold sweat, but I find nothing. Yes I think I will go to NY. I think I shall buy tickets now.

Waterloo Bridge

This is a 1940 movie w/ Vivien Leigh (Scarlett O'Hara) about an English ballerina and a handsome soldier who fall in love and get engaged right before he has to fight in the last year of WWII. She finds out her ballerina friend got her medicine when she was sick through prostitution, hanging around soldiers just coming back or heading out. Viven gets word her fiance's dead and since there's nothing to stay true to anymore,and she feels abd that her friend is bringing in all the money, she sells herself too. Fiance turns up not dead, in fact he sees her in a flashy dress at the train station, thinks she miraculously decided to show up there, waiting for him. He whisks her off to his Scottish manor, introduces her to the folks, etc., all the while she keeps wincing whenever he says anything tender. Finally she runs away, leaving a Dear John. Meanwhile his mother knows what happened, cuz Vivien broke down & told her, but made her promise not to tell. Which brings me to the point of this blog. This guy, who's painted to be Prince Charming, has this to say when ballerina friend helps him look for her, but fails to find her in her usual places, and explains to him that Vivien's been selling herself for food and shelter: "She is lost from me. I will never find her, but I will never stop looking."
Then, unbeknownst to him, Vivien throws herself in front of a truck. The end.
My dormant feminist rage has awakened! " She is lost and I will never find her" !!!?Is that supposed to be Mr. I'll always be there and forgive you and love you? I ususally find 1940s/1930s movies more inspiring and truthful, but this one ticked me off big time.
Recommendation: How Green Was My Valley. Makes me proud to be Welsh.
PS Why are my blogs always movie reviews?

Haha! Land Ahoy!

I changed my template! Something I've wanted to do for awhile. It's crisp & refreshing; just like me, just like the sea air! Arrrh, mateys!
BTW I'm about to embark on an adventure of sorts, one I've never had the guts to do, so wish me luck, ye landlovers!

I'm pretty sure that the reason wintry air tastes wet is that it condenses in your mouth while you breathe.

N.B. See Eternal Sunshine if you haven't. Blew me away. Reminds me of my own crazy trips to the beach with certain people for random reasons. People who maybe thought they wanted to erase those memories themselves. Hmm. Beach. Talking. Sand whipping your face, getting in your beer. Trying to block said beer without geting it warm. Thinking, half-consciously, if the wind makes me so cold, why doesn't it do anything for the beer? But you know the answer so the question dies on your mind's lips. Trying to light a cigarette at the beach, behind a blanket, while the sun is setting/rising(either, it doen't matter which; you've done both), and that turns into an opportunity for someone to wrap his blanket around you, ostensibely to help you light your cigarette. "Light me one too," he says, rubbing your back, trying to keep you warm. Nobody ever told you California could be so cold. You wonder how the hell you got to the beach and why you didn't buy more booze when you had the chance. Oh well, it's almost 6 am, you can buy some more. Does that make you an alcoholic? You smile. Sun's definitely up now. Magic's fading. gotta be a useful member of society now. Says who?! Says they.... they who write the rules, unwritten rules but still, what are you gonna do about it? Gonna revolt? Ok, but for how long? Got a lot of seminar to read. Wish you could melt in his arms. You yawn. Shatters the sexiness. Or not. He senses you're tired but, better still, he senses you want to be bundled up in the moment so he stays still. Rubs your back harder. Draws you near. You don't fight it anymore. Cars on the 101, you wonder, why are they rushing past the beach so fast? You want to be swallowed up in his thoughts forever, thoughts that keep you whole and loved, and always there in the front of his mind. He'd take you to the beach anytime. Even just to sit and try to light cigarettes and down a box o' Lucky and try to solve the puzzles on the caps. Finally the silence is broken. It had to be some time or another. I'm not in heaven yet, you say to yourself; this had to end somtime. Might as well be now. "Want a Hot Pocket?" He knows your desires. You smile. Yeah. But one more cigarette. God, don't ever let me forget these moments. Here, let me light that, he offers. We got a beer left too. Wanna go back to school soon? You put your head on his shoulder and try to memorize the rhythm of the ebb and flow. No, you say. Wake me up only if you absolutely must. As you close your eyes you feel the strengthening sun. You fall asleep to the sound of the sizzling cigarette he's smoking, and seagulls in the crashing waves.