a monkey, a fish and an owl walk into a bar …
saturday night found me decked out in spring finery, hair flouncing just so, and riding the train from providence to boston. fish met me at the train station, recognizing me immediately and giving me a big hug, while hungover. we traipsed the six blocks to fajitas & ritas, chatting about boys, the curse of tall-dark-and-handsome, and her identity twin the whole way.
we met monkey there, and he was fashionably late. it seems he’s read the etiquette books on exactly how late you can be to meet two ladies, and hit it right on the head – ten minutes after they get there, two minutes before they begin tapping their strappy little heels in frustration. a very well-advised entrance indeed.
[and girls, you know i'm going to dish here: he's just as good-looking and gentlemanly as you'd hope. we expect nothing less, clearly, but even this veteran owl was charmed silly by this bicycle's rakish charm. a lady can say no more, so you'll just have to find out yourselves.]
dinner was sizzling and delicious, conversation was bouncing from university experiences to drunken debaucherous tales to childhood hilarity and the differences between various kinds of texas pep squads. all in all, margaritas and beers were consumed, there was plenty laughter, and monkey and fish even consented to repair to the bar so that i could drink my last margarita while smoking.
charming. lovely. beautiful. those two make boston look distinctly less boring and fuddy-duddy.
where’s the love?
this weekend brought an amusingly disturbing visit to this cozy corner of the web. i won’t stoop to answer the baseless, inflammatory, somewhat madcap insults made here. but this is the deal: you want to insult me, that’s pretty much okay with me. you don’t really belong here, reading my website, if you disagree with everything about me – but you’re more than welcome anyway. have a seat, and would you like some tea with your hurling insults? fine.
the catch? you have to leave your email address when you take insulting liberties on my comment box.
why? because that’s what i call actually standing behind your opinions, and i can respect that, no matter what the opinions may be. so, you wanna flame? leave your name!
and if you post anonymously, i can take the liberty to ban you from further comments, because i consider anonymous flaming to be in very bad taste, and i’m sure many people will agree with me. it’s a liberty i’ve already taken with our madcap anonymous hater.
those are the ground rules around here. so wipe your feet at the door and mind your manners.
and failing that, my brother promised that he will totally kick your ass. so, nyah nyah nyah.
hi. my name is krissa c., and …
i know i said goodbye, and this is the blogger equivalent of that adolescent game of “you hang up! / no, you hang up!” – but there’s something i need to tell you, before our relationship gets any deeper.
i am a blossoming yuppie. yes, you heard it here first, before all the hipster-mags can slander my name and cast me out to the garden with martha. i am a yuppie. i live in the shabbiest-chic neighborhood – astoria – which says “yes, i’m concerned with not spending a chunk of money, but i’ll be damned if i have to live on staten island” and also says “i like to buck convention, turn my nose up at brooklyn, but still be able to enjoy some outdoor cafes for brunch.” i work at a magazine but i’ve got my sights trained on law school. and i don’t mind considering international law. so there.
my house is decorated according to the yuppie standard manual for members aged 22-26. this means i have plenty of slightly weathered yet authentic pieces of furniture from my parents’ house – like a cherry wood dining room table and a thomasville coffee table, but i also have funky retro deli signs found on street corners, crazy lampshades, and paintings done by talented friends. our hallway is filled with candid, charming photographs of friends, in cheap frames. i may have mismatching plate configurations, but they are coordinated mismatching. i buy good colombian coffee and cold-pressed olive oil, and don’t cook with margarine. my bedroom has elements of crate and barrel, childhood, and african art pieces. yes, oh yes. the house is straight out of yuppie paradise.
this isn’t about my politics. i’m smart, i read, i think, and i’m still essentially a capitalist with very liberal social beliefs. i understand things like retirement saving plans, health care systems, and globalization. i also understand about media brainwashing, the backlash against capitalism, free-market systems and the democratization of information and technology, and the flaws in the justice system. and anything i don’t know, i sure as hell don’t talk about until i do understand it. i am a well-rounded political being, and i know what i believe in. this isn’t what makes me a yuppie. this is what makes me smart and fascinating, and individual.
what truly makes me a yuppie is that i’ve suddenly had the urge to start going to driving ranges on the weekends to let off a little tension. that i covet clutch bags sold exclusively at barney’s. that i’ve started checking for wedding bands on men i’m attracted to. that i’m becoming just as attracted to the solid, friendly, smart ambitious suit-wearing guys as i always was to the tall, skinny, doe-eyed, song-writing vintage-tee boys of my halcyon college days. that the sight of a 30-something couple having fun in the park with their toddler makes me get all puppy-dog-eyed and swoony. that i read the wall street journal now, because i know it’s important.
did i mention the sudden urge to spend sunday mornings at the driving range?!
i would say my inner yuppie is showing her true colors. only, i think i’ve been this way all along.
oops, my bookworm is showing.
“In the system of globalization, the biggest challenge for American leadership is to sort
out which problems it can still shape alone, through classical state-to-state military
deterrence, and which problems it can shape today only with partners. [...] If America is not
prepared to do certain things alone, no one will follow. But if it seems as though it wants
to do everything alone, no one will follow either. The truth is, there has to be a combination of
the two approaches.”
Thomas Friedman, in his seminal book, The Lexus and the Olive Tree: Understanding Globalization, published in 1999 and re-issued in 2000.
thomas friedman in 2004!
some other fascinating books i’ve been poring through on my subway commute and my lunch breaks:
What Went Wrong: The Clash between Islam and Modernity in the Middle East by Bernard Lewis.
Pinstripes and Pearls: The Women of the Harvard Law Class of ’64, by Judith Richards Hope.
The Question of Palestine, by Edward Said.
I’m off to rhode island for a relaxing weekend of good food, time with the parents, and…
*drumroll*
saturday night? dinner in boston with the charming fish and my favorite bicycle, mbc. the fun’s going to be so hott, everyone will wear shades. ohh yess.
I do not like thee…
dear dominick dunne:
pathetic. sycophant. gossipmonger. aging useless socialite. circus act. starfucker. tragic waste of space. these are all words i use to describe you, dominick dunne. for years, i have loathed you from afar. i have read your column. i have seen your television show. and loathed.
you’re a pathetic excuse for a journalist. you write these juicy articles for that dribbling shit of a magazine, vanity fair. i use the words “article” and “magazine” loosely. in these “articles”, you ramble on with airy vapidity about people and events you hold in tantamount importance – namely, celebrity tragedy and scandal. robert blake was a recent obsession. martha moxley and the kennedy boy brought you to almost criminally punishable levels of self-importance. the safra murder brought out your sick sympathy for poor ted maher, and now you’ve fixed your starfucking sights on phil spector. you write things like: while dining at spago with a powerful socialite friend who’s certainly kept her figure, one of hollywood’s leading divas brushed by my shoulder and whispered this interesting detail about _____(fill in name of latest celebrity obsession). this is pathetic, dunne. this is tragic. this isn’t journalism. it’s vitriolic gossip-mongering during overpriced meals. if journalism had an avenging caped superhero, you’d be toast by now, you blithering name-dropping abuser of the sanctity of sources.
you know what else? your overdeveloped, out-of-proportion sense of your own importance is really starting to crawl under my skin and get on my last nerve, you whimpering angolphilic bow-tie wearing sycophant. A few months ago, some high-falutin’ banker who fled the justice system ten years ago was finally apprehended in the south pacific somewhere. dunne, you egotistical, meglomaniacal stiff – you actually said that your piddling little attempt at a true-crime series was part of the reason he was apprehended? after america’s most wanted had been covering this man for ten years?! you believe this stuff, don’t you, dunne. how very, very sad for you.
i rarely hate anyone, dunne. honestly. sure, i make fun of annie leibowitz, i think david lachapelle is a poseur, michael moore irritates the eyelashes off my face, and karl rove makes my skin crawl. but you! you make my fingernails curl, dunne. your casual disregard for the hallowed principles of investigative reporting, your blatant, pathetic name-throwing, your insipid obsessions with the seedy underbelly of luxury crime when there are thousands of people subjected to real violence out there every day, and your sickening delusions of grandeur – i do not like thee, dominick dunne.
and take off that ridiculous bow tie.
sincerely, and get out of my life -
le petit hiboux
nb – please refrain from taking me entirely seriously. or, go ahead – and face my witty erudite wrath upon your head.
completely unrelated, non-vitriolic side story
go downstairs to meet guy-pal j for mid-day cup of coffee? okay, so go to starbucks, purchase coffee products, right? standing outside consuming said coffee products, as JW is rollerblade-wearing - and decide must have cigarette, only don’t have cigarettes on self. time for time-honored female cigarette scam. so, approach nearest male figure, and use flirty feminine wiles to bum smoke, with my bad self, right? so, gloat over bad self, and cigarette-scamming-flirtation abilities … share cigarette with guy-pal j.
go upstairs to office. phone rings. receptionist says, “student-photographer is here, to meet with you.” this being meeting with previously-met student photographer, in order to return his prints to him, right? la di da, skip out to lobby to meet with previously-met student photog. let me stress again: already have met this particular student-photog, four months ago. skip out to lobby, shake hands with scruffy-looking student photog whom i’ve already met.
student photog smiles and says, “didn’t you just bum a cigarette from me?”
proceed to blush from head to toe with double-irony of not recognizing student-photog twice – first, when cigarette was bummed (he suspected it was me but didn’t say anything) and secondly when shaking hands with student-photog five minutes later.
would suspect something like kismet, or destiny, except that destiny isn’t really applicable when one fails to recognize one’s destiny mere seconds after bumming cigarette from him.
sigh. spring makes this owl rather flighty, methinks.
“remove thy beak from out my soul and thy form from off my chamber door!” Or, I Think I Have a Poltergeist
went to bed last night. was home alone, roomie spending night with friend. locked door. know i locked door.
woke up this morning, stumbled out to bathroom completely nude ….
apartment door was wide open.
then, closet doorknob fell off while closet was closed, thus making it impossible to get to sexy belt i had planned on wearing to turn hot outfit into hottt outfit.
coffee maker fritzed out circuit in kitchen.
dining room window is jammed.
my apartment is angry with me. will appease it with lovelorn promises of floor waxings and thorough window cleanings.
1,2,3 what are we fighting for?
I honestly don’t know what to do with myself these days. my normal morning routine is: wake up, pad into kitchen, make eggs and toast, brew coffee, chug orange juice, light cigarette, turn on television, watch the today show.
not this past week. this past week i do all those things, i desperately do all those things, and i think to myself [heartpounding, headpleading] maybe today will be different. maybe today, matt lauer will have returned from qatar, maybe al roker won’t report the weather in iraq, maybe david bloom won’t be wearing sand goggles.
let me explain. i wasn’t entirely against this war. sure, i wanted global support… sure, i wanted more than just great britain behind us, since they’re permanently wedged up america’s ass anyway. but deep down, in a place i rarely talked about at parties, i knew something had to give in the middle east, and i thought, sure – good a place as any to start.
but this isn’t about what i did, or didn’t, think about the war. this is like … this is like … you tell your 10 year old daughter she can try some makeup on, and she comes out looking like a washed up 2-bit bourbon street hooker. this is like, you drop a seed on the ground, turn around, and there’s a giant tree. there i was, two weeks ago, looking at the word “war” and thinking, hey, why not? thomas friedman isn’t vehemently against the war, and i consider him my barometer of foreign coolheadedness.
but we’re not far enough into this that i can start looking towards the reconstruction, but it’s already started and i can’t look away.
so instead, i eat my soggy toast every morning and cry when i see family members talk about their missing sons and daughters and think, what’s going on?
just a little something …
my brother and i, rio de janeiro, 2003.
you can’t really tell, but he’s got my mother’s eyes, the irish temper, and a sweetly condescending way of calling me baby and telling me to stay away from drugs.
aahh, older brothers.
a friendship in five chapters
***
chapter one:
girl meets boy. to be fair, girl sees boy from across campus and thinks he’s deliciously cute. girl spends a year wondering who boy is. boy spends that year doing god knows what – certainly not noticing girl. boy and girl meet. girl and boy go out one night, with mutual pals. girl and boy almost hook up. girl and boy spend next few months avoiding each other like the plague.
chapter two:
girl and boy’s lives tangle again. and again, both girl and boy walk away from brief entanglement thinking, “what is with that guy/girl!” boy decides to write for newspaper for which girl is slavishly dedicated editor. boy and girl finally begin to not violently dislike other. boy and girl start heading to diner for late night study/banter sessions. girl develops inappropriate crush on boy. boy notices, nicely tells girl he’s not interested in dating her. girl [being stuck in tragically-destructive low-self-esteem cycle] takes this to mean boy is violently unattracted to her because she is clearly, hideously ugly. boy meets girl’s friend. girl’s friend seems nice, and distinctly un-crazy. friend knows girl likes boy. friend and boy start dating anyway. disasterous results ensue, mostly due to latent, hidden craziness on part of friend. boy and girl get angry at each other, fight, squabble, and generally discard prior tenuous opinion of others’ coolness. summer begins, and boy and girl walk away from each other, thinking nevermind.
chapter three:
boy and girl return to school, having both shed the shackles of crazy friend madness – and start circling each other like uncertain forest animals, sniffing the air for disaster. girl has come out of tragically-destructive self-esteem phase. boy has come out of solely-dating-crazy-people stage. boy and girl finally discover what their friendship really is, spend all year [mostly] enjoying each other’s company, sharing beds platonically, and getting quietly possessive of others’ love interests. graduation ensues, talks of dating each other are had and discarded, boy and girl both move to Big City.
chapter four:
boy decided to high-tail it out of Big City. girl, as dearest gal-pal of boy, and confidante, supports leaving-decision fully, knowing it is truly what boy needs. boy stays with girl for last six days before leaving on that jet plane. boy and girl spend a lot of time smiling at other, enjoying others’ company. but suddenly, suddenly, girl realizes she will desperately miss boy. suddenly starts doubting all her high-minded platonic insistence. audience knows what happens next, clearly. there are looks exchanged, halting words, long nights, and rumpled sheets, and harried goodbyes. boy is gone. Big City is empty.
chapter five:
boy and girl spend months talking. boy and girl miss each other. girl and boy play scrabble online, listen to same radio stations at same time, and find comfort in friendship. girl tells all skeptical friends to shove off, boy is special to her. girl and boy don’t think this is easy, or fun, really. at different points, boy hurts girl, girl hurts boy*. freak outs are had. boy considers moving back. girl considers hopping on plane. boy and girl only really know one thing – four chapters of good and bad are too much to walk away from.
girl says to boy: this is nothing. we’ve seen worse.
boy says to girl: we’ve never had a problem we haven’t gotten through.
girl and boy laugh.
***
……. how will it end for our protagonists? stay tuned.
*girl is very, very sorry and would offer flowers if plant life could be squeezed through modem lines intact. as this is impossible, girl offers true-story-tribute as proof of affection. also, story will not wilt in a week. and does not require watering.
-
photos
More Photos
