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I got a fucking bike. And I RODE it. I've learned that this fact is impressive to no one save me, but shit. I am impressed. I started small-- riding down quiet tree-lined one-way streets in Central Square-- until I said to myself "FUCK. My irrational fear of riding a bike in the city is kind of...irrational. If I so desire, I can, right now, ride ALL THE WAY BACK TO ALLSTON." And I did! For someone who probably netted about a day and a half of bike riding time during childhood, this is a momentous day indeed.

Yeah, and I think I'm going to officially declare my partial-to-total abandonment of livejournal. It's been a wild journey, but it's just not the thing for me at this moment in time. I've got a shitty bike that I got for free to ride! Also I'll be intermittantly updating (as awesome peterson) It Could Be Wirsing, the first stage in my pal Karl Wirsing's 2032 presidential bid. Come out and show your support! Wirsing is America! Also awesome peterson might one day soon be a blog in its own right, but we'll have to see.

By the way, the slogan "It Could Be Wirsing" was all me. Hi-ooooh!

p.s.-- The blogger "Federalist No. 2006" is none other than my former paramour Mike Moats, and you should all definitely read his shit. It's about politics, but in a good way. Also the kid is a crack wordsmith.
I had a birthday! 24 in an ongoing sequence. And then the next day America had a birthday, and that was pretty fun too. On both days I ate myself stupid and drank many bottles of beer. I also came to the conclusion that Addis Red Sea is my favorite restaurant in the Boston metropolitan area and that Hakim Stout is one of the most delicious beverages around.

I continue to be unemployed and to not be too bugged about it. With my time I've: read a pretty horrendous biography on Talking Heads that it became a defiant point of pride to slog through start to finish, took a Freedom Trail tour, visited the
Mapparium, and continued to develop a schoolgirl crush on Hendrik Hertzberg. My future plans include throwing a joint birthday party this Friday with the roommate, making a t-shirt that will read "Zach Braff is a pedophile," and attending a midnight screening of Stop Making Sense. My life is a rich one.

Andy service announcement

I have a friend named Andy. Andy is unemployed. Andy also came up with a pretty great idea for a t-shirt that if you are from or have ever lived in Massachusetts you are sure to love. Go here, buy a shirt, save Andy from the brink of ruin and formally declare your hatred for those MASSPIRG fuckers.
So I got dumped. By my job. What happened is, essentially, this:

-I was a permanent employee, which basically means you can take a shit in a cup and throw it on someone and not get fired. But, seeing as how I was going to be leaving the museum in September for greener pastures (i.e. killing myself with insane amounts of school and internship work), I decided to resign my permanent position and come back as temporary for the duration of the summer show, working just evenings and not weekends. Trust me, this makes sense. Anyway, I do this, and go off on a little voyage to teeth-extraction recovery land and Virginia, and I return to work my last weekend with the full expectation that I would immediately begin working evenings. Except...

-I am not listed on the schedule for the following week. I ask my immediate manager what the deal, and she tells me she has no clue, seeing as how she never talks to Dickface McCorporateslut, her immediate manager and the dude in charge of hiring and solidifying the workstaff. Well, I try for a couple days to call him and ask what the fuck, and following a tedious series of events finally get in touch. Our conversation went roughly as follows:

Me: Hey. So, when I said that I wanted to resign my permanent position and come back as temporary, I meant that I wanted to resign my permanent position and come back as temporary. Not, like, the opposite of that or anything.

Dickface: Uh, well, we actually weren't too clear on that. You see, the Member and Visitor Services department is run on the management theory that never communicating important information in a timely manner and treating our employees like retarded preschoolers is the key to success.

Me: I see. So am I, to put it bluntly, still an employee of the Museum of Fine Arts?

DF: Ah, well, no, actually. The thing is, we basically hate you.

Me: Yes. You're going to have to elaborate, I'm afraid.

DF: The way we see it is that you're a pretty stellar employee, job-doing-wise. You're the only MVS representative to ever achieve 100% on a mystery shop evaluation, you're always on time except for those, at most, three instances in your entire 9-month tenure for which you were scrupulous about detailing the precise cause of lateness, and you're pretty damned attractive to boot. We appreiate that in a front lines staff member.

Me: But.

DF: But. The thing is, we don't quite care for your attitude. You see, we, as management, work really hard at crafting ridiculous and arbitrary rules for our employees to follow so as to suck any shred of enjoyability or fulfillment from the position. And we get the sense that you aren't quite content with this arrangement, and flagrantly flaunt said rules at every opportunity.

Me: You got me there, Dickface.

DF: And so. Following the aforementioned management theory, it stands to reason that the best and most efficient way to deal with this situation is to not let on in any way that we have a problem with your attitude on the job, but to instead unilaterally decide that we will not be hiring you for the summer show. Had you not taken the initiative to contact me, you would have been left in the dark as to the reasons for your uncermonious jettison indefinitely.

Me: Yes. In light of the increasingly corporate and worker-unfreindly environment of the Museum of Fine Arts, this makes abundant sense. I mean, shit. You've already increased the cost of general admission to $17, making you the most expensive art museum in the world. And it's a scant eight dollars more to see the latest headline-grabbing exhibition consisting of othwerwise brilliant pieces arranged so as to drain them of any siginificance regarding art historical context and instead make them palatable to Boston matrons with allowance money to blow on socially acceptable cultural institutions. And with this influx of cash, you take care to maintain a frontline staff of temporary employees who are offered fuck all in terms of benefits or job security. Brilliant!

DF: Yes, we think so.

Me: Thanks for the heads-up! I hope you all choke on your own dicks. Plus your greed.

DF: Thanks! Take care!

So clearly, the main aspect of this situation that is galling is the fact that I intended to dump those fuckers first. But they beat me to it! And for a valid reason! Which is that it is basically a draining and will-crushing working environment and I made it no secret that I felt as such! The only sad part is that I have met some truly amazing folks working that job, and I'll miss commiserating about what tools the customers are and how I hate management even more white-hot intensely. But seriously, this is a good thing. I was already at the point where I was longing for a short-term office temp job where I can do something solitary and gloriously menial and not deal with insipid Massholes and their inability to fucking relax and enjoy a day at the museum without treating me like the reason the MFA is basically a cash-sucking amusement park without rides or struggling actors in animal costumes and instead features only art that SHOULD BE FREE FOR THE GENERAL PUBLIC TO SEE.

Because art is information and information needs to be accessible to everyone and oh yeah! That's why I'm in library school. Thanks, MFA, for a)dicking me over and b)the re-learning experience. You guys rock!
On my last night in Virginia, I went out to the old Silver Diner with three dear dear friends. We stole a mug (they're new! and awesome! and apparently are being swiped left and right by godless commie bastards like us!) and came up with the following throw-down:

"Last night, I fucked your mom so hard she went back in time and aborted you."

The only other thing that tops this, i believe, is Lauren's assertion that the final scene of David Cronenberg's Crash should be accompanied by a Looney Tunes-style fadeout, complete with music and Porky Pig's signature signoff. If you've seen the movie, you'll appreciate how true this is to it's overall ridiculousness.

Also I read Steinbeck's The Winter of Our Discontent and it fucking rules. A.P + J.S. = LUV.
In Northern Virginia:
-People smoke more.
-I smoke more.
-People make 2-minute drives.
-I make 7-minute walks, if sidewalks are available.
-There are many trees.
-There are no good bars. None.

In Washington, D.C.:
-People are still smoking.
-Me too.
-The Metro is for tourists and those of us quixotically cleaving to a quasi-Marxist idealization of Better Living through Public Transportation.
-There are good bars, but this is emphatically not a beer town. Discounting obviously beer-y places like the Brickskellar. Can anyone explain this phenomenon?

Last night I got drunk with some kids in the latter place and had burritos with my mom in the former. Tonight I'm going to Richmond. In Richmond:
-People don't bathe very often.
-Everyone seems happier, somehow.
-Smoking? Ha. HA! Yes.
-I bet more people do Oxy.

I said no boys!

Wouldn't it be fun if everyone shared screenshots? Yes! It would! Mostly I'm doing this because I'm copying something my cousin did many months ago. Except back then, I didn't know anything about Mac screenshots. But now I do. I'm curious!

Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting

I'm a bit obsessive about having a clean desktop. I didn't buy a Mac for nothing.

Tomorrow: the teeth come out. I'm a bit weirded out by the concept of general anesthesia, though not to the point of opting for local. Fuck that.

And Friday: Virginia!

May. 3rd, 2006

Has anyone seen the movie Safe? Well, I did this morning, and the more I think about it, the more I love it. Essentially, Julianne Moore plays a wealthy suburban housewife who becomes increasingly "allergic" to, basically, the 20th century. She gets a nose bleed while having her hair permed, vomits after smelling her husband's (ably played by perennial Hey! It's that guy! Xander Berkeley) spray-on deodorant and hair product, and finally collapses in a seizure after inhaling fumes at the dry cleaner's. After determining that she's suffering from "Environmental Illness," which means that her immune system can no longer defend her body against the onslaught of chemicals found in, well, everything, she checks into a new age-y treatment commune-type thing.

The basic plot sounds rife for melodrama and cheap terror, but as Todd Haynes is at the helm it's actually pretty damned well done. It's not a ham-fisted condemnation of the "modern world," (though, of course, there's plenty of inherent and well-executed criticism), and the commune doesn't fare too well either. The leaders spout feel-good and empty-sounding jargon and lead the residents in hokey sing-alongs, and the end finds J-Moore secluding herself in her bare porcelain "safe room," affirming to her refelection that she does, indeed, love herself. Creepy.

So. Good movie.

I would also suggest that everyone visit Mexico NOW, before it becomes overrun with hippie trustafarian assholes. Unless that's your thing.
I came to a realization the other day that for me, at this particular time and stage of my life, it's kind of worth it to buy expensive shoes. Now, when I say shoes, I am not including heels or otherwise coquettish fancy-dress things, which I wear maybe once every eight months for a maximum of five hours a shot. I mean shoes, real shoes, that I can wear to 98% of the places I go in life.

Now, growing up with the mom that I had, it was drilled into my brain bi-weekly that paying more than 50 dollars for a pair of shoes is a folly on par with driving drunk and eating lead paint. And while I still chafe at the thought of ever voluntarily setting foot in a Payless, I've stuck by this notion pretty faithfully. Until now. I live in a city. I don't have a car. I do a lot, and I do mean a lot, of walking. And when I realized that all of my shoes from last summer-- purchased from various DSWs and Rackrooms and Nine West outlets-- are developing strategic spots of wear that are verging on full-fledged holes, something clicked and for the first time the thought entered my head that maybe, just maybe, dropping over 100 bucks for a non-boot pair of shoes that will look cute while surviving longer than your average hamster is a worthwhile endeavor.

And so! I am the proud owner of a pair of pumpkin-colored Fluevogs, retail price $189.00. They are comfortable and sturdy and attractive don't seem at all hole-prone. I win!

Another positive development is that I snagged an internship at the MFA library for the fall. No lies! In a completely random series of events: I was sitting in the museum cafeteria, recovering from having just spent 200 fucking dollars for a pair of fucking shoes (a part of my mother lives on) and received an unlisted call that turned out to be from the internship coordinator. When he discovered that I was on museum premises, he jogged down to the cafeteria and interviewed me on the spot, and afterward gave me the number of the library internship guru, telling me to call her as soon as possible to set up another interview. So I did, and she described the internship duties, and I expressed strong interest, and then she asked my schedule for the fall, and I told her, and then she said "Well, give us a call in August, and we can set up a schedule." I paused, and then asked "So...should I...count on having an internship with you this fall?" The answer, my friends, was yes.

I think on the way home I'm going to buy a celebratory chipwich.

God in sandwich form

I think that today I ate one of the most perfect sandwiches I've had in several months. It brought me back to how joyful an experience it can be to eat a simple sandwich, made with simple but wonderful ingredients. I feel like the official stance on sandwiches these days is that more crazy, herb-infused crap = superior. Not so! I myself have fallen prey to this illusion, and have lovingly anticipated asiago focaccia and sundried tomato aioli and pepper avacado marshmallow southwestern-style fontina only to be, frankly, overwhelmed and less than satisfied.

But today! I ordered a sandwich from the deli at Cardullo's consisting of sliced lamb, lettuce, tomatoes, mayonnaise, and dijon mustard (my only slight concession to the tyranny of bistro-trendy ingredients) on sliced french bread. I carried it across the street to Tealuxe, ordered an iced ginger ginseng, and ate the hell out of it. It was truly, seriously one of the most wonderful things I've consumed in quite a length of time.