It's lean times on the old blog, I admit... but just picture this: tomorrow, I am going to put in my first day of temp work in, let's see, six years. I am showing up to be some sort of administrative assistant to someone or other in the Human Resources department of some bland midtown office. Yes yes. Let's just think about that prospect for a moment... how long will it be, do you think, before someone asks me to file something and I forget my place and indignantly shout "I'm an editor!" and flee? Perhaps I should busy myself printing out lots of porn on the color printer, as a good friend did and maybe still does to while away the hours... in any case, I am feeling more connected with my just-out-of-college self than I have in quite a while.

Subjects of emails currently in my so-called work inbox:

bicycles
bike stuff
blurb
Bogosian's book picks
booze
can this be real?
fact checking position
funny
ha
haikus
heeb
hey
hey baby
hey sweetheart
hey!
hi
hmm
hola
ick
I'm giving it away!
like I was saying...
madness
one more time
paintball anyone?
resume
small thing
so....
speaking of S&M...
tee hee
the funny
the gig
the slope
the white stripes
wednesday sounds good!
whatever, whatever
whew
wow
you're welcome

So I go to this fancy event-thing on Saturday and I decide that I'm going to go all out and put on the high-heeled mary janes that I love so much but always dread wearing, and they really do lend an extra air of slinkiness to the outfit and I feel so much more at ease amongst all the crazy socialites... but then the party ends and we leave and have to walk, god forbid, two whole city blocks to get a cab and I am immediately hating life and wanting so badly to take off my shoes, and it occurs to me that this is why all those frosty New York women are the way they are... there is no way foot pain like that can coexist happily with a good sense of humor. No way.

Sort of obvious, and yet you never expected it to be phrased quite this way:

People Burn Half the Calories That Wild Animals Do

Last night, the driver of my car-service car home starts talking to me as soon as I get in the car, which I usually sort of hate... he asks me if I watch "Cops" (always a promising start) and then proceeds to describe this crazy car chase he's just seen, police car jumping over the median and screaming down the highway the wrong way, then tells me all about how he helps the cops out in his spare time by tackling criminals. Now, this guy is gigantic, you can just tell even from the back seat, he's big and, not fat exactly but meaty, and he's got a graying goatee and he just looks like someone who'd be really good at collaring bad guys. As it turns out, he also teaches kickboxing and hap-kido (very useful for ladies' self-defense, he says: "you seen any of them Steven Segal movies? It's all in the hands") and has children in their 30s. He is called Lefty. He is my new favorite driver. As I'm getting out of the car, he asks me what my name is, and I tell him Sara, and he starts to drive off then rolls down his window and says, "Isn't that the name of that girl in the movie where the guy's trying to kill her?" Uh... "You know, the Arnold movie." Yes! I so want to be associated with Sarah Connor. Let's hear it for Lefty.

There's nothing, nothing better than when you're having a really aimless day and wondering what the hell you're going to do with your life and you go to the gym in the middle of the afternoon and you're on the elliptical trainer- now you're not only metaphorically running in place, you're doing it literally too- and then on TV is, of all things, The Graduate.

Yet another way that pop culture has saturated my life to a frightening degree: I just compared my decision to continue bike messengering to that episode of The Brady Bunch in which Marcia joins the scout troop just to prove a point.

Am currently working on a review of a photography exhibit for my freelance writing class... this is very difficult given my next-to-nothing level of interest in art or art galleries....at least on a critical level. So I'm trying to come up with a pithy, intelligent 1000 words on the nuances of this dog photography show, when really if I was to just accurately portray my reaction I would turn in a piece of paper that says, "Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy? What a cutie... Look at that nose. Look at that fat little dachschund. He just wants to jump in my lap. Oh, man, I want a dog SO BAD." Somehow, I don't think this is marketable prose.

Check out my friend Anne's swanky new site...

Note to girls, on friendship: if you're thinking that you can, singlehandedly, buck the trend of awkward gender relations, and take it upon yourself to become Just Friends with guys, and act all nice and normal and friendly with them, just shooting the shit or whatever, being yourself, and assuming that they are thinking "hey, this is cool, she's not obsessing about dating, we're just hanging out and being friends," well, don't fool yourself. I have come to the perhaps-belated conclusion that unless the boy in question is gay, that the minute you make any attempt to be funny, or smart, or in any way demonstrate your capacity to be an interesting person, it will immediately be translated into "She wants to f me." Note to boys on my friendship: my being funny does not, in fact, mean that I want to f you. If I want to f you, you'll know it.

What do you with a day in which you went to the cleaners before work to pick up your laundry, only to realize you didn't have any money on you, so you had to find an ATM, and you went out of your way to go to a bank only to find that the screen on said ATM inexplicably said CLOSED, and then by the time you'd gotten some money you realized you'd forgotten your ticket, so the lady babbled at you for about ten minutes before relinquishing your stuff, and then you had to go out of your way to get coffee because your old place stopped being open in the morning, and at the Starbucks condiment counter there was only this big open container of sugar with a bug in it, so you had to ask for new sugar, and it took forever, and then of course when you got to the subway, already late for work, the train was just pulling out of the station? I mean- do you just call it a day at that point?

Finally saw Amelie last night, the movie everyone's been going on about for months, and I hate to admit it but I found it to be kind of a yawn. The beginning is terrific, all those descriptions of all the quirky things people like, and OK, the idea of going around doing random little acts of kindness (or revenge) is appealing, but by the fourth time she'd avoided meeting the porn-shop guy after she'd asked him to rendezvous at this or that photo booth, I was just annoyed. And if somebody ever did that to me, I'd be more inclined to avoid him than to go to his apartment and make out with him. Plus, the whole guy-with-bones-of-glass thing is sooo M. Night Shyamalan.

So yesterday was my first day of bike messengering. I really don’t think anyone had any confidence whatsoever in my actually showing up for work after the interview, judging from the surprised looks on the dispatcher’s faces. Of course this could just be the normal way one looks when one starts one’s day at SEVEN in the goddamn morning. Yes, I woke before the dawn, swilled some coffee and protein shake, schlepped my bike onto the subway and headed into midtown at an hour when the only people who should be commuting are those who are being paid so handsomely to do it that they can retire at thirty-five. But I am that desperate, and I dislike the idea of temping that much, and so.

Learned- sort of- how to use the two-way radio (he gave me a “special yellow one,” as if it were a Hello Kitty purse or something) and received a special bike courier windbreaker emblazoned with the company name, which I put on over my long sleeve T-shirt, thin fleece shirt, hooded sweatshirt and regular fleece. (Not to mention my turtle-fur neck thing and ear thing- never thought those would come in handy again). Wandered around in the waiting area for a few minutes. Every other courier is male. Many of them pass me and raise their eyebrows a little, and usually give me a friendly smile. I haven’t really conversed with any of them, because, well, none of them are that hot bike messenger guy I so often fantasize about meeting. And because it was early morning and I don’t talk to anyone before eleven. And because I wanted to be out on the road earning the not-at-all big bucks.

Headed out into the cold to deliver a bunch of paychecks to a bunch of people on the upper east side. The work is challenging but not exhausting. The traffic is heavy but not overwhelming. After making a few stupid mistakes (the numbers get bigger as they head out to the sides, not smaller), I felt like I was getting the hang of it. But the dirt- the dirt may do me in. By the end of the day I was sniffling and sneezing uncontrollably. I told the dispatcher I was sick and had to go home. But now I am fine… it will all very funny (read: not that funny at all) if yet another avenue of employment is closed off to me, and this one because of my finicky histamine system.

Still, an interesting experiment, if my nose settles down. Kind of fun to be drifting around the city on your own while everyone else toils away inside a building. I stopped when I felt like it and had a scone. I actually took the long way heading back to the base. I like being on my bike… I just wish it wasn’t as bad as smoking cigarettes to be out there breathing in all that shit. Maybe I’ll get a bandana and tie it over my nose and mouth, outlaw-style. People look at you funny anyway when you’re a girl courier. I kept wanting to turn to people and say, can you believe I’m doing this? What the hell is going on?

Time now for a tiny bit of largely uninformed political opinion: all you staunch Republican senators (many of whom, I'm sure, are devout readers of my weblog) ought to be ashamed of yourselves for ganging up on Kenny-Boy Lay like that. I mean, yes, what he did was completely reprehensible, but it really goes hand in hand with what you people are always trying to do- more money to the rich, private investment of 401K funds... and jesus christ, the guy gave more to your party than anyone else, like, EVER HAS, and this is how you repay him? With friends like you, who needs friends?

a few of these are pretty funny

How great is the bike messenger hiring process... in almost every other job I've ever pursued, you have to send in your resume (plus clips, plus kiss-ass cover letter), wait and wait and wait to hear back, maybe they grace you with an interview three weeks later, then wait and wait some more to hear if they want to meet with you again, then maaaaaybe they hire you.

Today I walk into the courier service- there's a guy smoking a cigarette behind the counter.

Me: Are you still hiring messengers?
Him: Uh... I dunno... we're kinda full.
Me: Cause I talked to someone yesterday...
Him: I gotta tell ya, girls don't usually last.
Me: Do you give them really heavy packages or something?
Him: No, I mean, we try not to, but they never last.
Me: Well, what are the hours?
Him: Oh, you know, just show up. When can you start?
Me: Thursday.
Him: OK, fill this (single sheet application) out and bring it in then.

Oh, please. Yahoo Health is telling me today that "Happy Family Life Decreases Men's Stroke Risk" . That's right up there with studies that prove Sex is Good for Your Complexion, and Job Satisfaction Leads to Lower Cholesterol Levels. I mean, duh... if you're living large, chances are your health is probably following suit. But the converse is the really annoying part: invariably, when I read one of those sex-is-so-good-for-you articles, I'm not getting any. Which then means that NOT ONLY am I not getting any, I also have worse skin than I would if I was, which will undoubtedly lead to more of my not getting any. Thanks, media!!

An open letter to Sarah with an h,

Wow, an open letter addressed just to me, that's so exciting... I do enjoy reading your blog, in fact, and I think that your friend's Ohio haiku came off quite successfully... it really captures that special feeling one gets from Ohio. I'll admit the closest I've come to living there is driving through it a bunch of times en route to college or home, but still... I felt it. And in answer to that looming question of pineappleness, well, here's the story: a friend of mine recently found my freshman year application to be a film editor at the arts paper, and on it the last question was: what's the worst joke you've ever heard? And that was it. Ask me if I'm a pineapple. (Punch line: no.)

I'm going to see if I can invent a slang word...help me out, use it as if it's an already-established term that your less-hip friends simply have not caught onto yet.

TEDIOUS. Meaning cool, interesting, fast-paced, not tedious. As in, "Dude, that new Spiderman movie looks tedious!"

this is the last one, I swear....

No more B or D
Everyone takes the F now
I miss sitting down

And one more...

The "sick passenger":
This guy looked perfectly fine
And then he threw up

From the annals of my extensive, recent work with subway-themed haikus. Perhaps there will be more to come...

Jay Street, 2 a.m.
No matter when you get there
You just missed the F

In another one of those news-imitates-the-Onion moments, I submit this headline from USA Today:

Amy Peterson, speedskater with chronic fatigue syndrome, picked to carry U.S. flag

OK, I take back some of that stuff I said about Heeb, as I wrote them an indignant email about last night (see below) and received a hugely apologetic email from the editor, who offered to buy me a drink and sounded basically just like I would if I were running a magazine.

The baked-potato cart guy is my hero for the day... I ordered a potato with not-so-much butter on it and he gave me a very disapproving look.... "that is no butter at all," he said, "that will not have any taste." He finally talked me into letting him put just a small dollop of cheese sauce on top of the broccoli. In a world of Diet Coke, fat-free muffins and tofu cream cheese, it's nice to know that someone is holding firm to stuff that is bad for you and tastes good.

Well, let's all have a moment of scorn for Heeb, the purported new hipster magazine out of Fort Greene, the "New Jew review" as it bills itself, which invited quite a few local members of their target audience (myself included) to their launch party on the lower east side last night, then proceeded to keep them waiting in line in the freezing cold while people on the press list were showered with attention and ushered inside. Thanks but no thanks, Heeb, I'll keep my subscription dollars and spend them elsewhere- perhaps on an issue of Mcsweeney's, a publication that actually holds events at which commoners are welcome.

Went to a fantastic show at the Mercury this weekend… the always amazing Kelly Hogan headlined… she’s like a latter-day Patsy Cline or something, if you’ve never heard her you should run right out and get an album or two. Also discovered an interesting new person in Bobby Bare Jr., known, it seems, as simply Bare Jr., who is from Nashville and sang songs about how all his friends date strippers, how all the good lyrics have been used up, and some really good but less intelligible songs as well, played with lots of heart and accompanied by an oddly goth mandolin player. He also very endearingly said that if we liked his stuff, he was really sorry but he didn’t have any CDs or T-shirts, but that he would be very glad to give anyone a big hug. I hadn’t realized how much I miss going to shows like this, because it feels so nice and homey and reminds me of being in Chicago where people didn’t look at you funny if you said you were excited to go hear some down-home music- and at the same time was reminded exactly of why I don’t go to shows more often, which is because everybody is smoking and there is always the Overly Tall Guy who drifts right in front of you as the headliner goes on. I would go on to talk about the shrill-voiced southern woman who talked all the way through Kelly’s set, sounding like an extra from the cast of Momma’s Family, but that would be slightly hypocritical as I actually committed a major faux-pas and talked most of the way through John Dee Graham’s set, because it was a long night and we’d already heard two other acts and his music was really not doing it for me. But in my defense, his music is loud as hell, whereas Kelly’s is torch songs with frequent meaningful pauses in between lines- much less well-suited to background chatter.