Stupid Stupid-head!

Today is a good day. I feel it in my loins. Loin is a weird word. It makes me think of pork. I don't like pork.

Last night I met up with a friend and his brother, and Lani (bless her heart--she won an extra day in New York because her flight got canceled) at Pepe Rosso, my favorite Italian restaurant in all of New York City. I've mentioned it before. It's that place where all of Italy congregates, with a few French and Spanish stragglers. It's great!

Well, we had just barely sat down when my friend's brother blurts out, "Man, I couldn't believe those Cheney kids at BYU this year." Lani and I look at each other straightaway. He does not want to get into this, I think. "I couldn't believe those kids had such disrespect for that political office. If Bill Clinton came, I would respect him." Poor argument, Buddy. You and your conservative comrades proved that wouldn't be the case my freshman year at BYU, when former White House press correspondent Helen Thomas was booed during a forum in the Marriott Center. If kids can't handle a liberal journalist, they sure can't handle a full-fledged liberal politician! At any rate, he continued, saying, "I think it's okay for the women to protest. But the men who protested? What a bunch of sissies! Liberal men are so girly." I looked him straight in the eye, my jaw gaping, and clarified: "You really think liberal men are effeminate?" Yes, he confirmed. "Conversely, do you think being conservative makes a woman more manly?" Yes, he confirmed. We hashed it out over Cheney for a while. He couldn't grasp why any Mormon wouldn't like Cheney. I brought up the unethical things Cheney's done, his inappropriate behavior, his questionable company ties, and all this kid could do was roll his eyes. Apparently being Republican is more important to him than being Christ-like. He asked if I would ever vote for Mitt Romney. I said I don't want a Republican John Kerry for president. But he's Mormon! So what? I don't like him. Are you pro-life? I didn't answer. Gay marriage? You don't want to get into this, I said. I debated whether or not I should tell him I'm pro-marijuana legalization. I'll bet 95 percent of Mormons voted Republican in the last election, he said. Take Utah County, for example. At least 95 percent, and that's a pretty good judge of Mormons, he said. My jaw dropped again. 80 percent at most, I said. I think most Democrats in Utah only vote that way to be different, he continued. They just want to be independent, you know, they don't want to fit in. This kid! He drew from extreme upon extreme as his examples, and each time I countered him with truth. And to think he's in law school! I kicked his trash. By the end of our conversation he was stammering "I don't knows" and stuttering and rolling his eyes. But hey--I've spent four years debating knuckleheads like him, so I'm pretty pro.

There are some huge idiots in this world, my friends. Let's take 'em down.

I always feel like the mother of the world.

I think I have mentioned how the past three weeks I've been waking up every morning, without exception, at 6:17 am. I haven't figured out the significance of this time yet, aside from the fact it's now my least favorite time of day. It's a full hour before 7:17 am, the time I prefer to get up, and because of my active mind I can never get back to sleep so I lose out on that hour of sleep every day. The only remedy I've found is to go to bed earlier, but this plan always fails. I am thinking the mental anticipation and stress of readjusting to life in Provo are doing it. Darn them.

I have had a reoccurring dream since I was in kindergarten. I'm standing in my kindergarten playground at Sequoia Elementary. It's a gorgeous day. The sunlight beams lackadaisically. The clouds smile, plump and full and white as marshmallows. Suddenly, a shadow crosses paths with the sun. A plane, perhaps, or just a cloud. It is recess time, and all the children in the yard look up to see what creature has dared disrupt their sunshine splendor. It is me! It is me and I am flying, soaring, whirlygigging through the air. I am wearing a green coolot dress (that's what my mom called skorts). I never speak--I simply fly. I fly all over the playground. I fly up to the tops of the big oak trees and the towering eucalyptus. I fly over to my friend Melissa Jones' house down the street perpendicular to that playground. I fly over the big kids' playground on the opposite side of the school. My classmates are in awe. I flip and twirl and circle and I am full of delight. I am a bird. I have always loved birds.

Sometimes I judge the passage of time--mainly how soon something in the future is--by the extended forecast in the online weather report. I know I am leaving New York soon because August 9 has now entered extended forecast territory. It must be soon if the weatherman feels certain enough in his prediction to report on it. Scattered showers, 82 degrees, 60 percent chance of precipitation, undoubtedly 80 to 90 percent humidity.

Today I saw my daughters* on the subway. They were sisters. They were as close to fairies as two little girls can get. They giggled at nothing and everything. Their hair wisped around their faces like straw spun into gold. Someday I will have my little Ruby and my little Pearl, and they will be just like those girls, except they will be mine. We will have a horse because every little girl wants a horse. He will be white and gray and his name will be Starfire, like the Low song, and because Starfire is the best name in the whole world for a horse.
(*how I imagine my daughters will be)

On Friday night, after Phil and I got our "vintage" Nikes, we went in the Ritz-Carlton to use the restroom. If you ever come to New York, know not to go the R-C on the south end of Central Park, the one next to the Plaza. We go in, and the lobby is terribly small. There are no restrooms. Confused, we get in the elevator. Unaccustomed to the ways of the rich, Phil and I are told by another young woman in the elevator that you need your room key to go up. "Oh, we left ours in our room," Phil pulls out of his you-know-what. We get off on Level 3. It's a room floor, and all the bathrooms are behind locked doors. We find the stairs and go down a level. A bathroom! Yes! But we still need to get back out. The elevator you need a key for is out of the question, so we continue on the stairs. A level down from this bathroom, we realize the stairs might not be of much help either, but lo! I look up and I see Pellegrino and bottled water sitting on top of a big yellow cabinet. I walk over to it, fully intending to snag some R-C spring water, when I see a plethora of bottled Coke products inside! Coke in 8-ounce glass bottles! I don't see special things like this everyday. Phil and I stuff some in our bags (really, I feel worse about stealing than it sounds--I am the girl who won't even pick up change off the ground because it's not mine) and continue down the stairs. We find ourselves in the boondocks of the hotel. A dude that works down there finds up and scurries us out the door. We escaped with our Cokes and most of our dignity.

Here is a link to my Guitar Hero 3 story.

I am going to see this movie and I am excited. It's about skinheads. I have a few friends who used to be skinheads. That's not why I want to see it though.

I am leaving the states.

Forget my wedding night--last night was surely the best night of my life. I saw Sonic Youth, my favorite (I rarely assign this term to anything) band play in Brooklyn. It was life-changing. When I see bands like SY play, I feel so selfish as a musician, because I have all this musical ability that I'm not really doing anything with.

I am really not happy I have to go back to Provo in ten days. I am going to stop saying this though, and then maybe I won't care as much.

Phil and I bought some of those "vintage" Nikes. I'm still not sure on mine, but I will probably keep them because they're bright green, and I love a happy shoe. I tried on some white ones too--white with a blue swoosh and yellow detailing--but I think I would feel too Joe Castor in them. There was a Japanese dude who reeked of cool when we were in Niketown. He bought 13 pairs on the spot. The salespeople said he'd bought a ton more earlier in the day. He was a crafty young dude, I tell ya, undoubtedly hocking them on the streets of Tokyo for twice the US price.

This morning there was a dead mouse on my kitchen floor.

Right now Trent, Joe and Phil are staying with me. It makes me sad because I have to wear clothes when I'm at home now. Dan is over right now. We are watching Planet Earth and eating cheesecake with strawberry topping that Phil made. It's raining, and even though it's not hot outside, you still sweat because of the humidity. I am not okay with this.

Dan got a job at VH1 Classic. I think that job is pretty cool. He works in production, so he goes to the shoots. I'm telling you this as he's telling Joe this.

I always get depressed on Sundays. I think it's just because life slows down too much for my taste. Because Monday I'm happy again. Funny how I work.

Now we are watching some old dude on TV talking about rubbing iPods together to make fire. New York has some really weird TV.

Also, this video shaped much of my life. Thank you, Captain Steve-O.

It's in your ear. It's in your heart.

I know when I like someone because I start singing all the love songs I know. I sing songs Billie Holiday taught me. I sing duets with Chet Baker. I trade licks with Ella. I've been singing a lot lately. I think I like someone. I'm not sure who it is yet.

Tonight I went to a Guitar Hero 3 party. The game doesn't come out until late October, but I and a big handful of lucky dudes got to go to the Gibson showroom in Hell's Kitchen and play an early version of the final game. It rocked. It is so improved from Guitar Hero 2, I could hardly believe it. The only problem is that I'm already on the expert level, at least on the songs from the main set list. Already on expert--I never went lower than 92 percent--and tonight was my first time playing the game. Ridiculous. I was the only girl there, but I beat every guy I played. I have never felt such adoration and respect. Pathetic.

Afterward, I went to Malecon with Holly, Luke, Megan, Ann, Alejandro, Marcus, Brian, Seth, Dan and Phirre Phir. They had all helped Megan and Holly move while I kicked Guitar Hero trash. Malecon is a unique place in that it's his own world. Tonight people tried to sell me stuff three different times: two times it was little Asian ladies selling bootleg Harry Potter DVDs. Then it was a little man selling roses. I commented on this to Megan, and she explained the infrastructure of Malecon to me. "The man in the blue shirt and tie is the president," Megan said. "Then we have the Congress--the servers. Then come the townspeople--us. And those salespeople are the free enterprise!" It makes perfect sense, but I think I deserve better than "villager" status. Also, you can't get any service there unless you speak Spanish, and I think I'm okay with that.

It's not unusual to be loved by anyone.

I've been thinking about this concept lately. Really the past hour. But the concept of being alone but not really alone. What I mean by that is I may be by myself -- meaning not with a group of friends, just me by myself in a crowd -- and even though I'm alone, I don't feel alone because I'm happy. Conversely, one may be with a group of friends -- not physically alone -- but be emotionally alone. These are not foreign concepts. Everyone feels this way from time to time. I thought of it tonight because we talked about "mists of darkness" in Institute, and the speaker tonight turned to me and asked me for an example of one of these "mists of darkness". I said loneliness. It started us on a tangent, talking about why we feel this way, who feels this way. I was astounded that every member of the audience (granted there were only about 20 of us) raised a hand, affirming they'd felt the pains of depression. It's important to remember how alike we all are.

The train was packed coming home from work earlier. I bumped bums with this one lady the whole time. She had the squishiest bum I have ever felt. Of course, I haven't touched too many bums, but this one was like a down pillow or a marshmallow or a water bed. I wished my bed were as squishy and malleable as her bum. Maybe that's weird, but that's the way I felt. (For the record, I do NOT want to lay in her bum. I just wish its squishiness were clone-able).

I have a week-and-a-half left at work. Nine days. I am starting to check out. It's not good.

I am beginning to miss the simple comforts of Provo life. The fact it doesn't take 30 minutes to get places. The fact I can go a few days without washing my hair. The fact that cheap thrills are actually cheap. Having a washer and dryer in my house. My chimes hanging outside my bedroom window. Not having to fight for pedestrian right of way 100 percent of the time (though there are still those in Provo who insist on trying to run me over). Smelling little to no BO on the people around me. Not getting hollered and honked and smiled and winked and pssst at by guys (seriously--is that the best you've got?)

I came home today and my apartment smelled like sewage. I'm not sure what happened. I think it's just the fact I live in a pre-war building, which means there's almost a hundred years of human stank festering in this place.

Anyway, I'm covering the launch of Guitar Hero III Thursday night. It's at the Gibson Showroom (Gibson, like the guitar maker). I'm going to pee my pants.

alone but not alone

Today was an odd day.

I woke up at 3:30 this morning for no reason. I remembered four dreams. They were all about the same person, except for one. I finally fell back to sleep around 4:30, but when I woke up again at 7:30, I didn't remember any of them.

I hung out with Ryan after work today. Ryan my summer '05 fling. He is still intimidated by me and doesn't talk much. I randomly saw two people I know on the street when I was with him: first Alejandro at the Shake Shack, and then Ellie in Union Square. We sat in the park for a short while, and every place smelled like dog pee. Then we went to Strand and I bought Geoff his book.

We parted ways about 7:15. I walked over to Madison Square Garden to meet up with Lani. While there I saw Lauren and Scott, two high school friends. They live in Brooklyn.

Lani and I went to Billy's and shared a slice of banana cake with cream cheese frosting. I bought lemon lime selzer water at Rite Aid. It was gross, but the lady who I bought it from was Jamaican.

Then we walked back to Union Square and I bought bread, salad and pasta at Trader Joe's. We got on the L train. Everyone got off our car at the 6th Avenue stop, and we were going to 8th, so we danced and frolicked in our car since we were the only two people. I've wanted to do that ever since I got here. Now it's done.

I got on the A train, and who do I sit next to but Hot Pocket (this nickname refers to a young man who asked a friend of mine out on a date -- for a picnic -- and brought chicken and cheese Hot Pockets as their entree). Luckily Hot Pocket was so engrossed in whatever he was drawing, he didn't notice me. Even I didn't notice him until two stops before mine.

The ceiling in Phil's apartment caved in, at least in the bathroom, so he's coming over to take a shower. But it's 11. So I'm going to bed.

I have an insatiable desire to go to Coney Island, probably by myself. I am going to Sonic Youth by myself on Saturday, after I spend the day record shopping in Chelsea. But I can't wait, you see, because I love being by myself in big crowds and feeling alone but not alone.

This is the saddest thing I've read in a long time.

Sad story, courtesy of BBC News.

And this one too.

I cannot be friends with over-40, single males.

I forgot to address some very important issues.

#1. I bought chains in Chinatown on Saturday. Not chains like necklace chains, but chains like ghetto-fab chains that attach to your pants and wallet. I will be the only white girl (well, probably only girl) rocking chains in Provo, but at least I'll be rocking them.
#2. Come Fall semester '07, my car will not transport me to campus and back. No no, I will be riding a Razor scooter. It will have green wheels, and I will switch off between normal and goofy foot so I don't develop one unnaturally large leg.
#3. I've taken to saying "mad," like, "That's mad tyte," or "You're face is mad annoying." I picked it up in Syracuse.

Lastly, here is the opening of an online conversation I had with my friend Cade this morning.

9:53 AM Cade: Happiness is a Del Taco quesadilla breakfast.

9:57 AM me: Or a rainstorm in Manhattan.

9:58 AM Cade: In the tradition of crappy impressions: "Hi my name is Lisa. I live and work in NYC for the summer."

9:59 AM me: "Hi my name is Cade. I'm a self-centered prick who makes fun of his friends."

Hey Mambo!

Today I am feeling better. Today I am melancholy. Today I mostly just miss my grandparents. I should grow up.

I have two weeks left at PC Mag. It's funny, because two months ago I was convinced I was going to leave come mid-June. In retrospect this was the silliest thing I've ever thought. I am so SO glad I stayed in New York all summer. I wish I were staying longer. I leave in 17 days. Yesterday, Zack and I met in Fort Tryon Park before church. There was a, oh I'd say ten-year-old boy there who was scared of squirrels, so scared he squealed when one chased after him. Those are some tenacious squirrels in that park. I saw them sitting on this one dude's lap. Granted, he was feeding them peanuts, but still! Wild, domesticated squirrels. One almost climbed up my leg. Anyway, Zack left for Provo today. He said he was 20 percent excited. I'm probably 10-15 percent excited, which means I am mostly dreading it.

I am taking fun classes this semester. Super 8, ProTools, a mic-ing class, new media video production, media literacy, and a French conversation class. At least that's what I'm signed up for right now.

My roommate moved out this weekend, so I have the apartment to myself for the next week. So far I have been half-clothed/not clothed 100 percent of the time. Yay!

Saturday night I saw Daedelus play in Brooklyn. Look how cute he is! I went with my friend Lani, who's visiting from Provo. What's funny is that she said to me: "You should have him sign your boobs." I retorted: "This is not my speed." And then I got a text from Capree that said: "Have him sign your boobs for me." In keeping with my character, I did not have him sign my boobs. There's always his Salt Lake show in October for that. But Daedelus is so awesome. He has this little button machine that he plays. I wish I were at home right now so I could upload photos of him playing it. Maybe I will in the next entry.

Yesterday after church I went for a walk up to the park. I've noticed more lately that I really love the middle: the middle of sidewalks, the middle of benches, the middle seat on the subway. I just really like being in the middle. I know this means something about me psychologically, but I forget what. I think it has something to do with confidence. Or maybe arrogance. Or maybe that's just the fast lane on New York sidewalks.

Speaking of the park, yesterday as I was sitting in the park, facing the Hudson, I noticed a man watching me. It wasn't too weird until later I passed him on Ft. Washington at 187th. Coincidence, I thought. I turned and walked up 187th to catch the rest of the amazing sunset, and as I turned to leave I saw him again! Black Levi's, red t-shirt, moustache. Hopefully he's not lurking out PC Mag Labs.

A coworker of mine (and a native New Yorker) asked me a few weeks ago how I picked up the New York walk so fast as we headed down 28th to Chipotle. "It's genetic. My dad walks this way too," I said. That is true. But most people in New York walk like cattle about to be branded: apprehensive, cautions, fearful. You can tell a New York transplant from a block away because of their poor walking habits. I like what this guy has to say about walking in New York.

I really love White Rabbit candy.

Sometimes I just stop breathing. I don't know what to make of it. All I know is that I notice when I haven't inhaled for awhile.

I have been waking up at 6:17 am for a week-and-a-half straight. I don't know what to make of that either, but it means I've been getting to work earlier.

I've been to heaven and I've been to hell.

My dad, aunt and uncle are dividing up everything in my grandparents' house right now. They've all known for months that the only thing I really wanted was Papa's stereo equipment. His turntable, receiver and speakers. I just got off the phone with my dad, and they stole 'em out from under me like squirrels in Fort Tryon Park. My aunt is taking the turntable, my sticky-fingered uncle is taking the receiver, so that leaves me with the speakers. They're taking everything of value out of that house. That's the only thing I really wanted. They're making off with hundreds of thousands in inheritance, let alone the fact they're taking my grandma's china and all her valuable furniture, and they're fighting over Papa's '65 Mustang like two children. I don't even care about that stuff. I don't care about not getting money from Grandma and Papa. All I wanted was that stupid turnable and stupid receiver. I feel really burned. What makes it worse is that the only person who I really want to talk to about this is Dave, and I can't freaking call him.

I was going to write about other stuff. I had a few paragraphs before the first one. But now I am too sad and mad and hurt to write about anything else for now. I am a big baby. On the bright side, I am eating a really tasty mango popsicle.

we call that "total package" where i come from

Tonight I went to hear the New York Philharmonic play in Central Park on the Great Lawn. The Great Lawn really is great: it's where Simon and Garfunkel played their concert in Central Park many years ago. Tonight was no different.

I arrived, alone, about an hour before showtime. The place was packed. I didn't want to hunt for a place, so I found an open patch of dirt on one of the baseball diamonds. Pitcher's mound. Apparently I'd plopped in the middle of a pathway that didn't turn into a pathway until I got there, so my spread was bombarded by shoes and people and footprints. A man and his mother opened their chairs on a patch of dirt too small for them both. George and Mary. George reminded me of Uncle Greg. Gay, bald, earring in the left ear. Sam vocal inflection. It was uncanny. We talked about opera, the Met. Mary didn't speak.

Christina arrived. The orchestra began. It was beautiful. The last piece was my favorite, however. I don't even know what it was. But I laid back on the sheet I'd brought and stared into the sky. It was nighttime, but New York never has a true nighttime with all its lights. The clouds wove together into a delicate silken lace, dyed pink by dusk and the sparkling city. I watched a few sets of balloons disappear into the sky. One bundle was pink, just like the sky. I couldn't follow it. It floated off, seemingly evaporating into the clouds. A plane darted up and down between the cloud's fibers. I called it a firefly. A girl tried to walk over my outstretched legs. "Excuse me," she said. "You can step over," I replied. She huffed. Four people had just successfully maneuvered my and Christina's outstretched legs. She could do the same.

I love New York. I love my life. I even love the premature melancholy that's been setting in. I have three weeks left in New York. I'm giving it all I've got.

Let's Get Some Shoes

Three weeks until I leave New York. Three measly weeks. I've had three nightmares the past few nights about readjusting to Provo life. Bonafide, genuine nightmares, the kind where I wake up short of breath and scared for my life. One of them involves driving from Provo to Salt Lake, and I keep driving and driving, and when I finally get to Salt Lake it's still Provo.

Tonight I went to Bryant Park for the movie in the park. It was "To Sir, With Love." I haven't seen that film since Mr. Dewes' media class senior year. I was alone, but not really alone. I love being alone! There were these two dude-bros sitting behind me who kept saying, "Yeah dude, Audrey Hepburn is in this." They kept talking about Audrey Hepburn! I didn't have the heart to tell them she wasn't in that film. About a fourth of the way through the film, one said to the other, "Dude, if Audrey Hepburn isn't in the next scene, I'm leaving." Sure enough, she wasn't in the next scene. Sure enough, they left.

Today was a long day. I produced a lot of stories today (which means I coded them up for the pcmag website). I think six in all. It's pretty mind-numbing work. I'm still dead.

Syracuse was fun!! Palmyra was fun!!! I went to the Sacred Grove, to Joseph Smith's house, to the Palmyra temple, and to the Hill Cumorah pageant.

I am reading The Watchmen right now. It's a graphic novel. I really love it. Also, I'm earning lots of street cred at work for reading a graphic novel.

I want to write more, but I'd rather go to bed.

Wouldn't it be loverly

I know why people complain about New York summers now. Today is the most disgusting day I've ever lived through. It's 95 degrees at 70 percent humidity. It is, literally, like a sauna. I am, literally, in need of popsicles, but they will melt on the walk home.

I found out who Dave's dating: it's my friend Emily. She emailed me and told me. I am strangely okay with it. Not distressed, not jealous, not upset. I haven't had the urge to cry; I haven't even teared up. This is odd to me, the girl who cries at the most insignificant beauty, the girl who weeps at the symphony, the girl who cries as a means of relieving stress. It's made me realize that I really didn't like him as much as I thought I did. I was so emotionally involved that I kidded myself into thinking I adored him. There are a lot of things about him I like--a lot--but heck, I was rarely myself around him, at least not the side of myself I consider my best side. He didn't bring that out in me. It never would've worked is what I'm trying to say, and any residual melancholy I feel isn't so much over losing him--it's over not having found anyone better.

Montauk was a blast. A serious blast. We saw Jay-Z in the Hamptons. My skin is so sunburned, I feel like I'm going to morph (Animorphs!) into an alligator. My legs are covered in welts from mosquito bites. My luscious lips are cracked and tend toward bleeding (though they haven't actually bled yet). But I love it all. I love feeling. I love being uncomfortable. I love knowing I am alive.

When I was at Fairway a few weeks ago (for those of you who don't know, Fairway is a posh grocer here in Manhattan), I accidentally bought No Sodium bread. Not just Low Sodium, we're talking ZERO sodium. And it was also $3.00. Rather than throwing away twelve perfectly good sandwiches, I've slowly been consuming this tasteless brown matter, sometimes sprinkling a little salt directly on the bread to make it more palatable. I will not make this mistake again.

My editor, Laarni, asked me today if I would cover the launch of Guitar Hero 3. Would I?! Anyone who knows me well knows that I can't get enough of that game. My records on all my friend's memory cards proves it. So yes. Come July 26 I will meet my greatest weakness face to face: it--new and improved, me--out of practice and fingers out of shape. Let's hope I can rock it still. Hopefully I'll get some cool RedOctane swag too.

My band may get back together this fall. You see, my beautiful friend Barbie is moving back to Utah! She got a job as the lead designer for the Salt Lake Tribune, quite an accomplishment for a barely graduated college student. So luckily I will have her back this fall. Wonderful!

PS I am so in love with love.

I don't wanna be defeated.

I'm still doing the shuffle thing. I'm on song 677.

Work is going really well. They're using my web stories in the print version. They're trusting me with editing (meaning cutting, like actually altering the text as I see fit) the print version. It's really cool. I am flattered. I am also grateful to be a good writer and that I was blessed with this talent, because I really like doing it, be it tech writing, criticism, or blogging. Blogging is my favorite though. Or writing little vignettes about my thoughts and experiences.

When I am truly happy, I discover little insights. I must be truly happy right now, because I find a few insights each day. This morning, it was that I must've been a punk rocker in a past life. I say this because since I've been doing my iPod shuffle thing, my heart noticeably skips a beat when a Mission of Burma song comes on, or when a Wipers song starts, or when I hear the rip-rockin' chords of a Buzzcocks tune. I truly was born in the wrong era, but it's probably better I was born in this era when no good punk rock is being made so I don't become some junkie.

I'm excited for my Super 8 class this fall. I have a lot of ideas for what I want to do, both shots and narration. Every shot I think of involves shooting into the sun, into its amber-colored tentacles. I love shooting into the sun. It can be tricky, but with some practice I think I'll get it right. It creates such an ethereal tone and instantly enlivens whatever your subject is. I love it. Some of my favorite photos I've taken were of JR on the Shandy Hall roof last fall. Shot into the sun at sunset, used a fill flash to light him. They're pretty cool.

Now I'm on song 682. "Bed For the Scraping" by Fugazi off Red Medicine.

Oh you know, just living the dream.

Thirty hours until I leave for Montauk. Meet me in Montauk.

Today I edited a bunch of stories at work. The em dash is overused.

Tonight I am tired. I had good things to write, things about the subway and about how lovely people are, but I am too tired. Well, I'll write a little.

Today I left work and decided to go to SoHo, only I didn't end up going to SoHo. I walked down Park Avenue, from 28th to 14th, to Union Square. I couldn't help but be in love with everyone who walked by. Everyone I passed was just. So. Beautiful. They seemed to smile, even if they weren't really. They were magical. I feel this way a lot though. This time was no more special than any other except for the fact that it happened today. It will probably happen tomorrow too.

Did you know my blog is still on west coast/pacific time? I've never changed it. But I did leave my heart in San Francisco when I first moved to Provo (four years ago), so it's only fitting.

Five weeks left in New York. I think I will be ready to leave Provo come December after all. I'm thinking maybe I'll move to the beach. Maybe I can convince John-Ross to move to Italy with me when he's done with school. (He would have to be my mouthpiece since I can only speak opera lyrics that sing about love and heartache. Then again, I may be able to win a few Italian hearts that way). Maybe I'll join the Peace Corps. Maybe I'll move to the forest so I can meditate all day, every day, and pick up tai chi again. I was happier when I did tai chi.

Why did the Beatles put children's voices in "Across the Universe"? Maybe they thought the kids sounded like angels. I think they sound like gross.

Observations on the Subway: Brooklyn to Manhattan, 1 am to 2:30 am

• boyfriend feeling up girlfriend directly across from me on the Q. I was repulsed. I switched cars.
• child screaming from DeKalb to wherever...Brooklyn to halfway through Manhattan
• Riding backward on the subway is my favorite. The motions are contradictory. I'm facing the past, but the future comes nonetheless. Symbolic of my current state.
• The graffiti on the Brooklyn side is much better than the graffiti on the Manhattan side. One might expect this. I found a secret subway station off the Q. I have no clue where to find it again. The Ninja Turtles probably live there.
• I fall in love with a different man every time I ride the subway. Last night it was a boy with wavy brown hair, layered surfer-style to his shoulders, grey carpenter pants, a darling grin, green Crocs, stained t-shirt, olive skin. He was foreign. He was smiling at me.
• Black men check me out more than men from any other race. I think that's why I like Brooklyn so much. I feel sexy there. Manhattan is only fruitful for skinny white girls. I think black men are probably led on my buxom front side, but disappointed by my lack of a ba-donk-a-donk rear.
• Most black women I interact with here call me "Baby" or "Babe." If anyone else called me this, I would find it condescending. Otherwise, it's oddly endearing.
• There are a few different guys I wouldn't mind dating, but I don't think they know I exist. Or maybe they do, but they don't know I'm a girl. Either way, New York needs to step it up.
• The highest compliment ever paid to me was by my mom's cousin Janet. It was late August in Salem, Oregon. We were at my aunt and uncle's 50th wedding anniversary. Janet had had a few glasses of wine. She was neither drunk nor tipsy, sober nor stable. She cam e over to me toward the end of the party, glass of champagne in hand. "Lisa," she said, "you have a light about you. It's a light a know well. It's the light your mother has. Your eyes sparkle. Your smile lights up the room. It's uncanny how much you look like your mother when she was your age. I feel like I'm in the '70s again, looking at your mother. You have the same air and the same energy." My mother is the best woman I know, next to Grandma Betty, with John-Ross' mother closing in the rear. How lucky I am to have them in my life. This is my greatest goal--to be one of these women.
• Dave is already dating a new girl. I feel very meaningless.
  

It's a beautiful world.

Humans are 95 percent similar. We're all composed of the same parts. We have the same organs, the same emotions, the same general abilities. We are hardly as unique as we think we are. Black, white, Asian, Dominican, rich, poor, stuck-up, humble. That five percent difference accounts for practically nothing, yet somehow that's where we place all the emphasis. That five percent difference is why people are racist, why there are hair salons specifically for black women, why Asians have narrow eyes, why my last name wreaks of bratwurst. That five percent difference is what breeds the bulk of the hatred infesting the world.

This morning on the subway, a homeless man started his schpiel about how he was hungry and all he wanted was some change for a coffee or warm sandwich. I hear this story at least once a day. My heart is mostly hardened to it. I kept my eyes in my book (The Book of Mormon, ironically) and casually glanced at those better than I who gave him some change, a dollar, anything. We passed 50th, arrived at 42nd Times Square. The homeless man turned to a yuppie white guy, garbed in Lands End, and asked, "This is Times Square right?" Yuppie guy ignored the homeless man. He repeated, "Is this Times Square?"

Yuppie man knew full well that homeless guy was talking to him, yet he still straight up ignored him. Yuppie guy turned to leave, still fully avoiding homeless guy, and homeless guy yells, "F*** you, man." It was the only fitting thing to say, I suppose, and it was deserved.

It's that darn five percent.

Let me count the ways.

New York is great.

GREAT!

Yesterday I helped Trent and Phil and Joe move from my house in north Manhattan to their house in Brooklyn. It took us...TWO AND A HALF HOURS TO GET THERE! I couldn't believe it. It was ridiculous. First, the A only ran to 4th street, so we had to switch to the D. Then we had to switch to the Q. It was the pits. But luckily, they live right next to Prospect Park, so I spent much of the afternoon napping and exploring that gorgeous, lovely park.

Last night was the best! We went to my friend Adeline's birthday party. Addie was an exchange student from France who stayed with my family eight years ago, and now she works for a French company in New York. I have never wanted to drink wine so badly in my life. She had a huge spread of bread and cheese (Oh, the cheese! It was so delicious) and a counter with probably fifteen different wines. We (me, Trent and Phil) were the only native English speakers -- as well as the only non-imbibers -- at the party. Addie lovingly remembered that some Mormons don't drink caffeine, so she got me caffeine free Diet Coke! Everyone else was French, and SO COOL! There was this one guy Charles (Trent and Phil thought he said his name was Jazz) who was very obviously the self-appointed life of the party. This kid was rattling off in French alllllllllll night, and he'd pull one of those "I'm talking loudly is everyone watching me" routines where he'd look around and make sure all eyes were on him. He was great. But France! My love is renewed; my anger at myself for letting my French slip is intensified. I hardly understood anything last night, granted they were all inebriated and talking a mile a minute. But! France!

Today I went to church. It was a great day. A GREAT day. A boy I once had a purely physical relationship with is getting married. Good for him! I don't know the girl, but I pray they'll be very happy. I met many wonderful people, including a girl named Sara who's 29 and moved to New York a year ago after working for a designer lady in Boise, and now Sara goes to Pratt and she's interning with Steinway! Like Steinway pianos! She said I can come play piano there anytime I want to! We exchanged numbers so we can be friends. After church, Chris, Yancy and Lacey came over to my house for a short while, and I heard Yancy's ring tone (DRAGONFORCE!! I heard his phone ring and I actually looked around for Rory!) before we all trekked back to Fort Tryon Park for this boy Collin's birthday party. It was so fun! Megan had her Polaroid and we took photos. She also had her baseball mits, so we played catch. Anne made delicious cupcakes and cake, and she brought games like "Stick the butterfly on Curious George," which bears a striking resemblance to Pin the Tail on the Donkey minus the concise name, and we wore party hats, and flew a kite, and blew bubbles, and later I ran along a rock wall that had a 20 or 30 foot drop down one side. Luckily Yancy held my hand for comfort, and Megan took an amazing photo of it. Everyone walking by was jealous. I would've been too. It was a marvelous evening. The weather was perfect. The mood was perfect. Everything was perfect. Also, Fort Tryon is my most favorite park in Manhattan, if not all of New York City. It is gorgeous. Windy, overgrown, mysterious, enchanting. I will return there oft.

Now I'm at home listening to the Beatles. Maybe I'll update my ipod. I'm still doing the shuffle thing. I'm on song 378 out of 5,150. I'm doing pretty well, eh?

The moral of the story is that New York is a lot of fun, and I will miss it come August 9.

This week for the 4th of July I'm seeing the New Pornographers for free, watching the Macy*s fireworks, and then this weekend I'm going camping in Montauk, meet me in Montauk.

My life is like, so shoes.

Love (truly),
Lisa