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Trip to NYC went off well. Contrary to expectations of friend's mother, three feet of snow did not fall on the five burroughs. LS, LG, A, and I stayed in M's 5th floor walk-up in the Cobble Hill section of Brooklyn. Nice place. I could definitely live there.

My tummy felt better by Friday night. No vomiting, so yay for that. We ordered out and I got chicken soup. It was a tub of chicken broth and vegetables with spaghetti noodles, and submerged in it was a giant chunk of chicken bigger than my fist. Friends got the garlickiest garlic bread in the history of Italian take-out. Disturbing.

Saturday we went to some bead shops in the west 30s so LS could pick up some findings (the metal bits that go at the end of the strand, for the non-bead initiated). The world of beads is far more vast and complex than I ever would have thought.

That night, as our Christmas present from M we went to Studio 54 to see Cabaret with Molly Ringwald as Sally Bowles and Neil Patrick Harris as the Emcee. And! Tom Bosley. Yes, that's right, Father Dowling himself. Very exciting. Molly was good, though nothing to write home about. Doogie, though, was fabulous. We also imbibed some excellent Cosmopolitans. All in all, quite awesome. Then we went to the East Village and had dinner in a very hip little place, Stingy Lulu's Luncheonette, where I had the Best. Burger. Ever. and we all had a very good time.

Sunday we slept ridiculously late and didn't get out of the apartment until four. Hey, there were five of us and one bathroom, and we got sucked into watching The Exorcist and that episode of ST:TNG where Data and Tasha Yar have the sex. We finally packed up our stuff and put it in the car, and as we were walking around Cobble Hill looking for someplace to eat it started to snow lightly. We found a nice place to eat that was far too upscale to be calling itself a diner, where LS measured the surface area and capacity of two different kinds of sugar packets and detemined that the traditional rectangular ones are wasteful and inefficient compared to the tubular kind. Ah, science.

Said goobye and thanks to M, big hugs, and set off just as the snow was coming down a little more seriously. Got lost on the BQE. Finally managed to find our way onto the turnpike. Was sort of slushy slow going, but no big deal. Sang along to Les Mis, Little Mermaid, and Singers and Songwriters of the 70s. Didn't get home in time for Alias, which sucks, but oh well. Was definitely worth it.

Had a fantastic time. Am very, very glad I didn't get all mopey and wuss out on going. I *heart* my friends. I *heart* NY.

So, this sucks. Remember back in the fall when I was so happy about being a size 6 at the Gap? Well, after five or six months of depression and junk food, I no longer fit in the size sixes. Or, for that matter, the eights. Or, apparently, the tens. (Although this last may only be because a)they just came out of the dryer and b)I think I'm bloated.)

I'm supposed to go visiting in NYC this weekend with some friends. Here's what's going wrong so far:

1. The weather's doing what it does in the winter, and one friend is close to chickening out on the trip.

2. Abovementioned weight gain and bloating assures I have no stylish or comfortable clothing to pack. Let's not even talk about clean.

3. This morning I continued my recent habit of eating lots and lots of random crap until I felt ill, and drinking half a pot of coffee. Although it's possible that it's the coffee that made me ill. Probably a combination. Anyway, it seems to be a rule that on travel days I have to have some sort of intestinal ailment. Oh, God, coffee is evil to me.

Questions:

1. Will my friend's weather-wussy-worrywort mother convince her not to come with us, thereby causing all sorts of future resentments?

2. Can I get away with wearing sweatpants all weekend?

3. Am I going to throw up, or is my body just going to do that horrible thing where it produces excess saliva and threatens to throw up? Urrrrrgh.

I now have a matched set of eyebrows. You're all very relieved, I know.

Watched an interesting documentary on Frontline last night examining the theory that the works we attribute to Shakespeare were not actually written by the guy called Shakespeare, but rather by Christopher Marlowe (you know, Rupert Everett), who it turns out didn't die in a bar fight in 1593 after all. They say he actually faked his death to avoid the Star Chamber, and went to live in exile in Italy, writing plays and sonnets and sending them back to England through his patron, and using that guy from Stratford as a frontman.

Much Ado About Something.

It's kind of a wacky theory, but a hell of a story, true or not. The main strike against it in my mind is that it kind of makes too much sense. Real life, real history, isn't plotted that tightly. Everything doesn't tie together neatly like in a novel or a play. People do things that make no sense, for no reason. People have contradictions of character that can't be resolved. People lead implausible lives. Events happen at random. People get stabbed in the head and die in bar fights for no reason.

I enjoy conspiracy theories--they're intriguing and entertaining, and among their adherents are some of the very cleverest people--but I tend not to believe them, because they seem to work more like fiction than like life.

XPN listeners, I am so disappointed in you. I could argue with several of the placements on the listener-voted Top 50 Albums of 2002 countdown, but I'm willing to admit a certain amount of leeway for subjective tastes. What I will not go so far as to accept is that Norah Jones had the best album of the year. I mean, it's nice and all, in a 'and my mom likes it, too!' kind of way, but better than Aimee Mann? Better than Patty Griffin? Better even than snobbish hipster staples like Beck and Wilco? Enough people selected Come Away With Me--music that's nice for having dinner parties, writing English papers, or falling asleep to--as their most very favoritest album of 2002 that it topped the list of 50 releases by 50 prestigious artists.

That's insane, man.

How to Write Like a Wanker

So it's six a.m., I've been up all night watching crap tv and making really poor food decisions, and I suddenly decided it's time to pluck my eyebrows. This takes me a really long time, and it hurts. By the time I got the right eyebrow decently shaped, I was so tired of plucking that every time I took the tweezers to the left eyebrow I wanted to cry. Because, you know, plucking hurts. Ow.

So I gave it up and came back to my room. I'll have to go back to it later. As of right now over my right eye is an adequately feminine yet hopefully natural looking brow. Over the left: big fuzzy caterpillar.

Just looked in the mirror and realized my neck is still covered in dark splotches from coloring my hair yesterday (back to brown). Looks like I have a skin disease. Kind of amusing, actually.

Ahh, a totally fucking awesome concert and back in time for Letterman. This was a good day. It went thusly:

As I predicted last night, I didn't manage to leave the room until after Guiding Light. Didn't have time to pretty myself up for the concert, but it was for the best, as it was raining out. Clean pants, relatively clean sweater, ass-kickin' boots, a little lipstick and out the door. Confirmed ticket at the will-call. Got change for the bus. Caught said bus. Exited on Craig St. in Oakland, hit the ATM (and it was even my bank, so no evil fee), and since I had almost three hours until the doors opened at Carnegie Music Hall, proceeded to shop. Bwa ha.

Picked up Christmas presents for the folks at Townsend Booksellers, a fantastic little used and rare bookshop. Very cozy. They even had a fire going in the fireplace, it was so cozy. I could have spent a thousand dollars there, but I restrained myself and didn't get anything for myself. Very noble. What I did get: an 1879 children's reader for Mom, who likes old children's and school books (she's an elementary ed. teacher) and a book on Practical Carpentry for Dad--can't find a year on it, but it's probably not older than the thirties. Also an old French road atlas of Paris, Champagne, and Ardennes. Then I went straight for Phantom in the Attic and bought a crapload of comic books for myself. Not even gonna give you the total there, it's embarrassing, and not noble at all. God bless the Discover card.

Went to pick up my ticket, still had an hour to kill, so I walked back to Craig and had a pot of green tea and a Singapore rice noodle plate at a pan-Asian noodle shop I can't remember the name of (and I just realized I forgot to take my receipt, whoops), but it was great. I don't mind dining alone, but it's funny the odd looks one gets. I could tell they wanted to hustle me out of there so they could use the table.

Carnegie Music Hall is a beautiful venue, straight out of the Gilded Age. I had a fairly good seat, in the last row of the first floor circle toward the right side. Good view of the stage, no complaints. By the time I got to the theater I had no cash left, so I had to forego both the bar and the merchandise. Unfortunate, because I really wanted a t-shirt. And after I saw Maia Sharp's opening set I really wanted her CDs.

Maia Sharp went on promptly at eightish, and played for about forty-five minutes. She played acoustic guitar, keyboard, and did a few amazing solos on what may have been an alto sax (I don't know beans about woodwinds), and was backed by a guy on guitar and vocals, and drums. It was a wonderful performance. I was familiar with about half her set just from listening to XPN. It was one of those "Oh, so that's who sings this song! I love this song!" moments. Her voice is warm and honey-smooth, and her musicianship is excellent, but the real draw is her songwriting. Wonderful little stories of loss and longing and just a hint of desperation. Yet upbeat, and occasionally funky. I really recommend checking her out, and I think this is going to end up like when I went to see Lucinda Williams last fall and discovered Ron Sexsmith. CDs will be purchased.

After Maia Sharp's set I quickly jaunted to the bathroom (I did mention that pot of green tea, right?). When I got there there were five people in line. When I went back to my seat there were about fifty. Go me, fast on my feet, oh yeah. I chatted a bit with the generic middle-aged guy sitting next to me, who couldn't get any of his friends to come with him either. It's amazing how I can put on a facade of sociability.

Then the house lights went down, and there was lighting and some pre-recorded music started playing that made me feel like I was about to see Burt Bacharach at the Hollywood Bowl. It was terrific. The music faded out, the lights went down, and Aimee came onstage. She played "It's Not Safe" in a white spot, just her and acoustic guitar. I broke into a grin. Could tell it was going to be a great show. I immediately began to wish I'd brought a pen to take down the setlist. If I go through my CDs right now I might be able to remember which songs were played, but the order has already gone out of my head. The band came out--drums, bass, guitar, and Korg--and the lights went up and they rocked the next number. It might have been "The Moth" or "Calling It Quits." I wish I could adequately describe the lighting in this show. It was really dynamic and theatrical and present. All kinds of gels and spots and magical shiny things I don't know the names for. It might have been too much if the music wasn't so together, but the music was so together, so absolutely on, that the lighting just enhanced the experience. The setlist was a nice cross-section of Aimee's solo albums: two from Whatever, five from I'm With Stupid, four from Bachelor No. 2, two from Magnolia (not including "Deathly", which I counted on BN2), and five from Lost in Space, including "Humpty Dumpty", my current depressive theme song. No "Momentum" (or "It's Not", "Superball", "Ghost World", "I Know There's A Word", or...) but I am in no way complaining. I can't really say there's an Aimee Mann song I don't like.

There was some funny banter, even though Aimee proclaimed herself lousy at it. Turns out the band had watched the movie "Rock Star" on the bus, and she berated it. Heh. And did you know "You Could Make A Killing" was written about Noel Gallagher? Also heh. There was great energy on stage; the audience was a teensy bit subdued at first but really warmed up by the end of the show. (Of course there are always those morons who think they're so witty they just have to yell out their bon mots. God, I hate those people.) We got two encores, five songs total, ending with..."Deathly"? I think? Dammit. I'll have to look up the setlist somewhere later. Anyway, by the end of the show the atmosphere was just so incredible and exhilarating, and I was so, so happy to be there. Best $27 I could have spent. Really, really great show. I wanna follow the band.

Really, you should see how I'm smiling right now.

::contented sigh::

Last time we had a fire drill for some reason we got a talking-to from Public Safety and Residence Life about Proper Fire Drill Procedure and Decorum. (Although I don't really think anyone in either of those offices would use the word "decorum". Vocab is scary.) We were admonished not to stop to gather personal belongings before exiting the building, during either fire drill or actual fire. Robe and slippers were deemed acceptable if one was in a state of undress. What about wallets? I wondered. If I can find it in under a minute, and I usually know where my wallet is, I'm grabbing the damn thing. I believe they were speaking of general valuables and posessions, specifically mentioning cd players.

Here's the thing. In my room I have a 2-3' plastic penguin. His name is Frank, and he's currently wearing a fez (he's not a shriner, it just looks so smart on him). Not really an irreplaceable heirloom, but if I am around for the next fire drill, I am probablydefinitely going to carry the penguin out with me. This would be even better if it's one of those microwave popcorn false alarms when the fire trucks actually come to campus. "What? I couldn't leave Frank! The alarms frightened him so! Look, you can see it in his eyes! Oh my God, I've lost his fez!"

If I were on the second floor instead of the third, Frank would so be standing in the snow on the roof outside my window right now. But the poor fellow would need a scarf.

This is why I hate the word "postfeminist". Oh goody, we can jiggle our boobs and blow shit up! The struggle is over, sisters!