sunny day!
today was a nice 80 degrees. i wandered around in a skirt, which was also nice. I hung out with Sweet Viva, we went and got smokes and sat on the back of my car, watching the day cool off. Lunch was at a’Mangiare, with Marky Mark, class was outside, and a very ill-advised nap was had from 7 to 11, woken up by the great Erwin, calling my mobile for advice. Boys, we decided over the course of a few cigarettes, are often stupid tools who want to have their cake and eat it too, which is a worn-out axiom with a fair amount of truth behind it. Boy That is Pestering Erwin: I respect you a lot, because she does, but if you cross her anymore, i’m going to come and rearrange your face.
It’s always wonderful with her and i – we call each other for advice (her now, me at the airport while waiting to meet M…) and we manage to give each other exactly the advice we both need. Now if we could just switch places and live each other’s lives with more efficiency than we can our own… well, i suppose that’s why we have such wonderful people in our lives.
I have to go figure out how i’m going to get back to bed at a decent hour…. any ideas?
cheers, K.
amazing people, thus long post
krissa, foreign correspondent – reporting live from providence, RI… well, okay, i suppose rhode island isn’t it’s own country (though it should be…) but still, has a nice ring to it, no? i spent a wonderful evening at a panel discussion that Yaniv organized here at Brown (Yaniv being Katrina’s boyfriend, Katrina being Payan’s sister… yes. i know. confusing). Tom Carver from the BBC, Victor Simpson from AP in Rome, Sharon Tiller from PBS’s Frontline (she’s Lowell Bergman’s wife! wow. what a team.) and Rick MacArthur, the publisher for Harper’s. It was amazing, inspiring, to see all these foreign journalists talking about news, and media, and the politics of international journalism… and then afterwards, i got to talk to each and every one of them. I even went out to a bar with Tom and Sharon and Yaniv and Katrina and a bunch of the Brown organizers – the Trinity Brewhouse, a lovely little local brew place here in downtown prov-town.
Can you tell I’m ecstatic? Thanks for inviting me, Yanivi. Very inspiring.
In other news, I had an absolutely lovely time with the Svelte Vika last night, wherein she convinced me how terrible breast-reduction surgery is and also, that her dad is nuts. We just sat around my room and talked about everything, it was quite refreshing. Before that, we’d gone to Boris Mikhalov’s opening at Pace/McGill in midtown, with Sweet Viva and the four Oxford kids. Dinner followed at Saigon Grill, a wonderful Vietnamese place on 87th and Broadway, in case you’re ever in the neighborhood and want to stuff your tummy with good cheap food. The Brits were charming – Emily and Shiva have changed my mind about stuffy English girls and Mike and Nathan were a total riot.
Then today before I drove to RI, I met up with Bither-bee and J-Dill for bagels at Park Place, always a good time.
So, the point to all this? I’ve had a solid 24 hours of wonderful conversation and interesting people.
for those interesting wonderful people who I wasn’t in present company with (especially you, Payan – you should have come to RI!) – don’t worry, we’ll have interesting wonderful fun soon.
matthieu the frog prince – shame on you for not calling back!
cheers, k.
before i sleep
i opened my other window tonight, to air out my room, and i don’t usually open that one because it’s behind my dresser and hard to reach. well, they’re doing some sort of construction on I-87, but i’m far away enough that it doesn’t sound like intermittent jackhammers (which it is) but rather, like waves crashing on the beach.
last year, something similar happened – i was cleaning dishes late at night in the kitchen, sometime in march, and the buzzing of the street lamps outside sounded just enough like the cicadas of early texas summers.
these things make me very happy – mainly because i know they’re not the noises i love, noises that mean i’m in places i love (texas, the ocean) but because i’m just here, in my little room, somehow it’s so much better.
here’s to soothing nighttime sounds that come from streetlamps and far away jackhammers. and here’s to you.
cheers, k.
some indications you are addicted to your computer
provided courtesy of your friends here at petithiboux
1. you have to regularly trim your away message lists on IM because they’re overflowing.
2. you check other people’s away messages, even when you haven’t talked to them in years.
3. you have all your friends subdivided into categories, or in my case, regional divisions (Texas Posse, Kenya Posse, SLC Posse, Roving Posse, and People I Don’t Like)
4. You change your desktop graphic according to your mood.
5. You spend lots of time rearranging your icon fonts and background colors.
6. Your computer is programmed to make a Homer Simpson ‘doh! when you mess up.
7. Your email is always open and in your tool bar, and you leave your sound on at night because sometimes, at 7:30 in the morning, emails arrive from a boy in London and you actually get up to read them and return to bed happier (well, that may go beyond addiction to the computer…)
and the most important warning sign that you’re addicted to your computer is :
8. Once, it asked you to turn it off just so it could rest it’s eye.
here at petithiboux, we revealed such geeky impulses just to make it easier for you to cope with your own addictions. mocking, disparaging remarks to your friends here at petithiboux will not assist in the healing process. thank you.
look, here, this situation is absurd
am i the only person in the world who, upon feeling strong emotions toward or about someone, actually expresses them for what they are, instead of wrapping them up in cold emotionless language (i.e., “i really enjoy being with you”) or making some cop-out airy declaration about not needing to say the words? listen, people, and listen good. you know how half the world’s personal problems could be solved? if you just say the damn words. whatever they are. just say them.
if you care about someone, just tell them. if you were walking down the street, and a smell, or a taste, or a sight, reminded you strongly of someone you haven’t thought about in years, find them. if you miss someone, let them know. if someone gives you their number, then just call them. if someone you love does something that hurts you, telling them is usually prefererable and relationship-saving to keeping it inside.
and if you don’t know how to tell someone that you love them, “hey, ____, I love you” has proven a tried and true formula.
words, people. most people say about four thousand words a day that are completely meaningless the minute they’re out. so pick some important words, and say them to the right people, for once.
The Infamous Monkey Email – this stuff fucks my shit right up. it’s so damn funny. and it’s one of those things everyone thinks is hilarious, and no one can access at a moment’s notice. so here it is. for posterity. enjoy. also, read the Donald Trump siting directly below this post. hee hee.
cheers, k.
I like monkeys.
The pet store was selling them for 5¢ a piece. I thought that odd since they were normally a couple thousand each. I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I bought 200. I like monkeys.
I took my 200 monkeys home. I have a big car. I let one drive. His name was Sigmund. He was retarded. In fact, none of them were really bright. They kept punching themselves in their genitals. I laughed. Then they punched my genitals. I stopped laughing.
I herded them into my room. They didn’t adapt very well to their new environment. They would screech, hurl themselves off of the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall. Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into its third hour.
Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive: they all died. No apparent reason. They all just sorta’ dropped dead. Kinda’ like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later. Damn cheap monkeys.
I didn’t know what to do. There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my room, on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It looked like I had 200 throw rugs.
I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn’t work. It got stuck. Then I had one dead, wet monkey and 199 dead, dry monkeys.
I tried pretending that they were just stuffed animals. That worked for a while, that is until they began to decompose. It started to smell real bad.
I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in the toilet and I didn’t want to call the plumber. I was embarrassed.
I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them. Unfortunately there was only enough room for two monkeys at a time so I had to change them every 30 seconds. I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn’t all go bad. I tried burning them. Little did I know my bed was flammable. I had to extinguish the fire.
Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in my freezer, and 197 dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed. The odor wasn’t improving.
I became agitated at my inability to dispose of my monkeys and to use the bathroom. I severely beat one of my monkeys. I felt better.
I tried throwing them way but the garbage man said that the city wasn’t allowed to dispose of charred primates. I told him that I had a wet one. He couldn’t take that one either. I didn’t bother asking about the frozen ones.
I finally arrived at a solution. I gave them out as Christmas gifts. My friends didn’t know quite what to say. They pretended that they like them but I could tell they were lying. Ingrates. So I punched them in the genitals.
I like monkeys.
The DL on DT…
Well well well. Look who’s cool now. The Sultry Victoria Smolkin, The Quirky Genevieve Mercatante, and the, well, and me, went to a chi-chi* Magazine-of-Employment party on wednesday night, and there were gigantic supermodels by the dozen, as well as many, many posers. And there was also, lo and behold, the Great Toupeed One, The Master of His Domain, Donald (freakin’!) Trump. He was there, followed around all night by some snivelling Entertainment Weekly** folk. Also, The Sultry Vika returned from the bathroom to regale us with the tale of two eight-foot-tall supermodels who leaned over each other’s stall doors and talked like 15 year old hooligans from Baltimore, despite their million dollar clothes and see-through rib cages….. well, I guess you can take the girl outta Baltimore…
The whole POINT of this story is that the party was, well, ridiculous. It was a cross-section between “eat-something” model-thinnies and too-hip brkln tunnel trash. As the Great Wise Erwin always says, “never trust people that need an extra hour in the morning to put on their attitude.” Wisely put, my dear friend.
Thank you, Vika and Viva, for accompanying me on such a remarkably silly escapade.
cheers, k.
* chi-chi: anything remotely chic, trendy, kitschy, frou-frou, Manolo-Blanhik-wearing, or really anything that people on Sex in the City would do.
** the scum of journalism. the lowest of the low. Entertainment Weekly, bow your celebrity-ass-kissing head in shame.
