(no subject)
(Written yesterday evening)
Right, so:
It’s only 7:25, and I’m already happily approaching tipsy-land. I did real, live big D work until about six, when it became beer-on-an-empty-stomach time. You have to love the cheap buzz. Nothing really doing of note, though the universe is clearly not my amigo this particular day. I shaved with a dull razor this morning, so I’m sporting some quality razor burn on my delicate baby-soft cheeks today. (That is the facial baby-softs, not the other set.) Work went fine, and I pored through twelve fun-filled criminal cases from the 1850s. I sat in Tea Lounge the whole time, which was, rather surprisingly baby-free for most of the time. When I’d met A there last week for a meeting, there was an actually baby-plus-yuppy-parent singalong gong down. It’s hard to talk dissertation with “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” rocking out off key behind you. But today, most of the annoying antics were relatively adult in nature, and noone really bothered me as I caffeinated myself into twitchyness, making a five dollar pot of Darjeeling last for five hours.
Something’s wrong with the Wonderschwinn, and so that and the Indian summer weather mean I’m shvitzing like a wild man from biking down here to Great Lakes on 5th Ave. At least I’m getting some exercise.
So, after one of my downtown tours last week, I threw down for some new pipe tobacco at a Barclay-Rex, a cigar joint that caters to the Wall Street trade. I’m trying to get into the whole pipe thing again. Actually, I’ve been making a new attempt a smoking about every eight months or so since I was fourteen. Sad, really that 1) all these years later I’m still trying to be like the cool kids, and 2) I have been failing at it for well more than a decade. (Of course, my lungs are happy that I never really get rocking on that front.)
I’ve resorted to Craig’s list in order to find people to play music with, since I was never going to make any such contacts in the real world, given that I don’t actually go out anymore. Somehow living in Williamsburg killed the fun of being out-n-about in the evenings for me. Too damn much hipness. Now that I’m over by Park Slope land of the McClaren Status Stroller, it’s procreation that I’m getting hostile about. Can’t stand the tropy baby. But I digress. Answering adds in Craig’s List makes me feel a bit like I’m computer dating, but if something actually comes of it, that’d be cool.
My first two job applications are in, but are incomplete because for the second time in my Grad School career, a death-in-the-family of one of my advisors means a key recommendation deadline got missed. (To say nothing of my fourth reference, who, I discovered when I went to knock on the door to ask for a rec, is in fucking Argentina. Way to plan ahead, Lodewick.) I fear I may be something of a black widow of my department. In addition to the two untimely deaths, half of my orals committee found themselves hospitalized before the actual test. Be Afraid.
Nothing else is really going on. I’ve been pretty well boring since hitting the fancy-pants opening for the Museum of Sex (which I saw on the news isn’t making their planned public opening date.)
I owe a call to LB in the worst way, but somehow, I just can’t bring myself to deal with that particular dog-n-pony show. Actually, it’s a long sad story of friendship and near romance, and no-one quite getting what they want. I’m just not sure it tells very well, so, for now I’ll spare you all (you all being, well, me, so far as I can tell. At any rate, if any of you care, I’ll fill you in, ad nauseum. Just ask, and I’m more than willing to share all my sad, sad stories.)
Right, so:
It’s only 7:25, and I’m already happily approaching tipsy-land. I did real, live big D work until about six, when it became beer-on-an-empty-stomach time. You have to love the cheap buzz. Nothing really doing of note, though the universe is clearly not my amigo this particular day. I shaved with a dull razor this morning, so I’m sporting some quality razor burn on my delicate baby-soft cheeks today. (That is the facial baby-softs, not the other set.) Work went fine, and I pored through twelve fun-filled criminal cases from the 1850s. I sat in Tea Lounge the whole time, which was, rather surprisingly baby-free for most of the time. When I’d met A there last week for a meeting, there was an actually baby-plus-yuppy-parent singalong gong down. It’s hard to talk dissertation with “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” rocking out off key behind you. But today, most of the annoying antics were relatively adult in nature, and noone really bothered me as I caffeinated myself into twitchyness, making a five dollar pot of Darjeeling last for five hours.
Something’s wrong with the Wonderschwinn, and so that and the Indian summer weather mean I’m shvitzing like a wild man from biking down here to Great Lakes on 5th Ave. At least I’m getting some exercise.
So, after one of my downtown tours last week, I threw down for some new pipe tobacco at a Barclay-Rex, a cigar joint that caters to the Wall Street trade. I’m trying to get into the whole pipe thing again. Actually, I’ve been making a new attempt a smoking about every eight months or so since I was fourteen. Sad, really that 1) all these years later I’m still trying to be like the cool kids, and 2) I have been failing at it for well more than a decade. (Of course, my lungs are happy that I never really get rocking on that front.)
I’ve resorted to Craig’s list in order to find people to play music with, since I was never going to make any such contacts in the real world, given that I don’t actually go out anymore. Somehow living in Williamsburg killed the fun of being out-n-about in the evenings for me. Too damn much hipness. Now that I’m over by Park Slope land of the McClaren Status Stroller, it’s procreation that I’m getting hostile about. Can’t stand the tropy baby. But I digress. Answering adds in Craig’s List makes me feel a bit like I’m computer dating, but if something actually comes of it, that’d be cool.
My first two job applications are in, but are incomplete because for the second time in my Grad School career, a death-in-the-family of one of my advisors means a key recommendation deadline got missed. (To say nothing of my fourth reference, who, I discovered when I went to knock on the door to ask for a rec, is in fucking Argentina. Way to plan ahead, Lodewick.) I fear I may be something of a black widow of my department. In addition to the two untimely deaths, half of my orals committee found themselves hospitalized before the actual test. Be Afraid.
Nothing else is really going on. I’ve been pretty well boring since hitting the fancy-pants opening for the Museum of Sex (which I saw on the news isn’t making their planned public opening date.)
I owe a call to LB in the worst way, but somehow, I just can’t bring myself to deal with that particular dog-n-pony show. Actually, it’s a long sad story of friendship and near romance, and no-one quite getting what they want. I’m just not sure it tells very well, so, for now I’ll spare you all (you all being, well, me, so far as I can tell. At any rate, if any of you care, I’ll fill you in, ad nauseum. Just ask, and I’m more than willing to share all my sad, sad stories.)