Three cheers for clean clothes and Friday afternoons

So I should probably be doing something with my life. After I all, I do only have 4 weeks and some change left in NYC, but I'm perfectly content with washing clothes and bumming around the apartment for a day. I started the day with high expectations, but dreams of trying on cute (cheap) clothes in the continuous pursuit of re-formulating my image to meet that of someone my age (or a few years older) quickly devolved into going uptown to retrieve my forgotten umbrella at work and an addicting trip to CVS, where I was suckered into buying 2 boxes of Cheerios Berry Burst on which I did NOT get the marked discount.

On a positive note, I did get a hug from Mr. Jordan Goldman, my boss whom I want to womp. It's his 21st b'day, and I took him and my other boss Colleen cupcakes. Oh such the domestic am I! And I was even wearing a skirt! (Though the hair, as per normal, was less than stellar.) As far as JM goes, I am pretty sure he's straight (a major plus considering my record), and I don't think he and Colleen are linked. And he's almost my exact age, and he goes to a NESCAC school. We're a match made in heaven. We could get married and set the date for July 15 -- the midpoint between both of our birthdays; it would be our gift to each other. **sigh**

End scary delusion now.

I have, of late, "discovered" the Film Forum. And by discovered I mean gone there once last night. They were playing It's Always Fair Weather, the Gene Kelly-Cyd Charisse musical that should be required viewing for anyone who calls him/herself a fan of musicals. It may not have the Hollywood egotistical self-refentiality that Singin' in the Rain has, but Gene Kelly tap dances on roller skates, by God! AND, that movie has the credit for inspiring Stomp. And Cyd Charisse dances with a bunch of boxing goons. I could keep going on and listing all the amazing, beautiful, fascinating moments of the film, but I shan't. My next Gene Kelly musical pursuit is An American Paris, which actually won some Oscars, and I definitely need to see On the Town at some point, but I digress. Before that, I will be re-entering the doors of the Film Forum for this weeks' Freed Unit musical, Kiss Me Kate.

Currently, I am listening to yet more pirated music in the form of Beyonce's Dangerously in Love CD. Forget about straight, gay, bi; anyone who think she doesn't look hot on that cover is blind. I would wear that top, too; if I didn't have nipples. Damn genetics! Other than Beyonce's obvious physical endowments, I'm not lovin' the album itself. It starts out with about 3 good songs (though the second one samples "Love to Love You" and "Say My Name" within the first 15 seconds). They are the only up-tempo songs on the entire album. The flow of the album, which I am currently about halfway through, reminds me of R&B radio that we were listening to in the office yesterday; after about 20 minutes, I had to change it because I was about to wretch. If I were wantin' some candle-lit sex, this album would be a perfect choice. Lacking that, I'm left with the feeling that it's just slightly vapid. In particular, the song "Signs" with Missy Elliot is abysmal. It's a laundry list of all the zodiac signs over and over and over and over and over and ... you get the picture... and Missy's only contribution in the first 4 minutes of the 5-minute song is to say "Reeeeewind!" but the song does not break into one of Missy's trademark rap joints to liven it up, rather it just repeats half a verse that we just heard. Oh Missy, I was expecting more! I think Donna Summer was an appropriate sample to choose to give an idea of what Beyonce (and musical in general) is about at this particular moment. Like Donna Summer, Beyonce will undoubtedly pound out hits one after another and create a lasting legacy, but the hits themselves aren't adding to any sort of cultural history because they're not filling any gaps. They're simply re-applying formulas and blending genres at the discretion of her producers who are undoubtedly much smarter than her. She's a voice and a body, but more? Like disco, this time in music is completely pop and puff driven. We will undoubtedly look back at this time with simultaneous guilty pleasure and conspicuous embarrassment, wondering what the hell we were thinking liking this mass produced pastry pop. When even the rebellion is packaged for our consumption by MTV and when using actual instruments is revolutionary, we know we're on the wrong track, but I digress again.

With that, my friends, I must depart. My urge to ramble has been fulfilled, and I am now officially the last guest at the party, so I'll leave your party until I can return with some 7-layer queso dip and Tostitos... or at least a vodka-filled watermelon. Good stuff.

Birthday countdown: 9 days!

All shiny 'n' new from a 3-day weekend!
A blog in 3 movements...

First movement

Hello to my hopefully-still-faithful followers! It has indeed been a long but delightful period between blogs, and I am here to impart those goodnesses to you. What follows will be undoubtedly a ramshackled, thrown-together commingling of my deepest and most shallow thoughts from the past month or so, but it delights me because what else are blogs and friends for?

Enough of the self-indulgent prologue, down to the dirt...

First order of business, shout out to Katie Curler and Andrew Kimball (if they're reading) for entertaining and endearing e-mail send-outs. It's good to get e-mail, keeps things in perspective.

Second, as I reminisce through my glutted CD stash, I have stumbled upon the song masterpiece "When You Say Nothing At All" by Alison Krauss... Delish... And in new music deliciousness, check out Jason Mraz -- I'd be his guitar any day of the week...

Third, I will officially be 21 years old in 2 weeks to this day. Nobody can stop me!

And now to the more episodic midsection of the blog...

I am indeed still working at the Madhouse (refer to previous blog if you haven't the foggiest what I'm talking about). In addition to which, I started my 'real' internship this past Monday. 20 hours a week is more of a commitment than one would think. Given the fact that I have only worked a total of 4 days in 3 weeks and that my hourly total will be cut down to 8 for the rest of the summer, I think I might give up the Beacher's internship and focus on the SGC one, since I'll be doing marketing stuff there, too. (In a moment of weakness I even wrote to Claire Tetrault at the Midd Career Services office **points up index finger abruptly** for her 'advice' on the situation; she promptly gave me a stock "I can't offer you solutions, only more thoughts to ponder... any choice you make can be turned to your advantage" bullshit answer -- shocking, I know.)

But anyhow, I like the internship a lot. (I wanted to blog it up the first day, but I'm too lazy pretty much always.) Everyone, including my immediate bosses is within a year or two of my age, and I even went to 42nd Street Coldstone and Bryant Park with two of them the other night. We should all get drunk together; that's always a quality bond. In a less scrupulous note, I kind of want to womp my boss. His name is Jordan, and he's adorable. He has this responsible intensity when he doles us out our assignments; it's amusing. And he's actually also going to be a senior, so we could be lovahs... I've got 5 more weeks to work the magic, or find it, as it were.

In Lanford's never-ending campaign to not resemble a beached whale (at least not too closely -- there's nothing I can do about the white underbelly), I haven't been dancing all that much, but I have been visiting the NYU Palladium gym -- thrice this week! The first two days, it was pretty pathetic; I literally couldn't go for more than 10 or 15 minutes on each machine, but I went yesterday and delivered a solid 55 minutes combined, so all is not lost. Besides, I've got to be more active to work off this fat ass resulting from too much reality TV. (Luckily, this Tuesday is the end of America's Next Top Model, so that knocks one severe distraction off my plate.)

Second movement

In celebrity spotting news, I went to see a really good play called The Last Sunday in June this past Wednesday and who but who did I pass in Union Square Park on the way to it? Randy Harrison, a.k.a. Justin from Queer As Folk, and his co-star who plays Vic. I did a double-take and considered running after them (after a similar encounter with Jamie Bell, a.k.a. Billy Elliott, I have discovered that I am an incompetent starfuck), but I didn't ultimately because I wanted to get to the show and had waited too long to turn around and harass. However, I got into the show and it was still almost half an hour until curtain-up, I toyed with the thought that they were probably in the area because they, too, were coming to see the show (it is, after all a show about gay men on Pride weekend). I was right! (As it turns out, the playwright was a script writer on QAF.) They ended up sitting only two rows in front of and a few seats over from me, but I naturally took the opportunity to play the gushing "I love the show!" fan while they were being ushered to their seats. The house was still sparsely filled, so I wasn't causing any major clogs, and I kept it short and self-consciously discreet. In an ironic turn, "Vic" was much more receptive than Randy, and I to this day don't know the man's actual name. He is literally the one character on the show whose name I haven't taken care to know and possibly one of the few actors who is actually gay. I am a failure as a faghag -- guilty!

Of the recent events that actually have an impact on someone's life, I went home recently for the first of my friends' wedding (that is, the ones that are happening 'on purpose'.) I think I'm in denial about the whole 'having a married friend' thing, but a large part of it may be that the bride is really more of a close acquaintance than a close friend (which is not to mean that I do not love her as a friend, blah-blah-blah). Anyhow, I was just talking with the lovely Miss Sarah Hubbard, and we've decided that a combination of the Quarter Life Crisis, too much Sex & the City and general ennui with the male species has made us truly cynical about the whole question of marriage. And I use the word 'question' very purposefully, as in Marriage? (Affix an Eh? to the end, if you will.) But dropping back to less philosophical (read: boring and, as always, self-indulgent topics), the wedding itself was fun. I think the highlight (besides the open bar) was the band's rap medley, including but not limited to "In Da Club." I always appreciate a moment when the hired help can look at its employer and think what stupid crackers we are. And we are truly stupid, stupid crackers. But most of us were born into it, so pardon us, if you please! Requisite bullshit aside, I've discovered that going home and seeing former high school classmates isn't all that bad. I'm one of the few people who didn't go away and get all blonde and fat and sororitified, and I think that that's probably a breath of fresh air for a lot of people (whether they're conscious of it or not).

Third movement

Went to see Capturing the Friedmans today with my man Farkas, the very delectable fellow film major. (Farkas, if you're out there reading, I'd totally hook up with you, and I ain't lyin. Yarmulke optional, wink-wink, nod-nod...) Back to the subject at hand, I've never been a big fan of documentaries (and I'm not going to turn this into some post-modernist, faux film expert spiel a la Jasinski), but I've had the opportunity to watch a few of the better ones this past year or so, and I was left overwhelmed and with a small tear in my eye from this film. I'd done some research and heard overwhelming praise for the film, so I had high expectations, and I still don't know what to make of it, but I'd say go if you don't mind being a bit flummoxed at the end of a movie. (And, if you're an old Jewish lady, don't friggin' talk throughout the whole second half of the film in 'outside' voice about how the movie is not complying to your expectations, hmph.) That was very much a sub par review for someone who aspires to be a critic, but this blog has turned into a monster, so I'll let it lie.

In related career news -- besides the daily recognition that Fairchild is a cold, heartless bastard that lost the best writer they never had -- I've turned my focus away from People magazine and towards Entertainment Weekly. On my plane ride up to New York after Debutante Ball #1, I was reading the mag, and it's exquisite. Unabashedly a pop whore, but still intelligent enough to be self-deprecating. Plus, they focus on entertainment exclusively and leave all that schmaltzy human interest crap behind.

And speaking of all things debutante, I've found my Heritage Ball dress. Of course, I'll look much more beautiful in it, because I'll actually be able to fill the mofo out. I've got my dress, my alterations appointment and my gay date, what more could a girl want?

Perhaps to put my faithful blog audience out of its misery and end this ghastly run-on sentence?

OKAY!

Farewell, my pretties, it's been lovely while it's lasted. Until next time... **blows kiss**