i think i've narrowed down my christmas list.
i want a mini crockpot, a beard trimmer, a single-cup coffee maker, willie nelson on vinyl (preferably 'blue eyes cryin in the rain). and you know i wouldn't be mad at a little waylon either.
that man makes me want to name my son after him. as long as my son was from texas.
i know i'm procrastinating like a motherfucker, and not 100 percent through with this cold, and have a daunting stack of assignments due tomorrow...
but i can't help being extremely happy and grateful right now. i toured the times' newsroom today. my professors are kick ass people i respect. and i booked my tickets home for the holidays, and to see ash and jed in SF.
and in a couple weeks i will be done with a third of it, done with the hardest part, the beginning.
now it's time to get ready for some flexin. and ballin, smashin, stackin my endz.
out!
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
what I'm worth
my friend lauren friedman edited this audio piece from an in-class interview assignment.
check it out here.
check it out here.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
knockin over whiskeys
texas was perfect and worth it and i got back, dove head first onto the ground and into reporting. dangerously close to something big, but we'll see tomorrow how it pans out.
i should/could be writing some of it up right now but i think i'll just zone out instead, save it until tomorrow, dream on it and then hit it with maximum impact tomorrow.
plus i'm tired
my fingers is tired
my brain is too
so it's an early night of sleep.
learning these social media tricks, these deep-web searches, these background searches... reminds me (makes super clear) that i've got all sorts of wild shit out there. but i can't help it man, gotta live. even if that means babybirding out of a beer bong and having my mom stumble on the photo.
at least the video was emailed. and if it resurfaces in ten years, then this should too.
LIGHTEN UP GUYS! it ain't that serious. at least not in 2010 it's not.
the future is all speculation. but it's feeling pretty good.
i should/could be writing some of it up right now but i think i'll just zone out instead, save it until tomorrow, dream on it and then hit it with maximum impact tomorrow.
plus i'm tired
my fingers is tired
my brain is too
so it's an early night of sleep.
learning these social media tricks, these deep-web searches, these background searches... reminds me (makes super clear) that i've got all sorts of wild shit out there. but i can't help it man, gotta live. even if that means babybirding out of a beer bong and having my mom stumble on the photo.
at least the video was emailed. and if it resurfaces in ten years, then this should too.
LIGHTEN UP GUYS! it ain't that serious. at least not in 2010 it's not.
the future is all speculation. but it's feeling pretty good.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
“Desire is the diamond ring on the finger of eternity.”
The hand-painted façade of Port 41, scrawled with these words, beckons to the few stragglers who make their way down the alley next to the Port Authority on 41st Street near 9th Avenue.
Mostly the passersby are mailmen, pushing mailbags like wheelbarrows down the nearly empty block toward their warehouse. They ignore the signs.
Others are stragglers who come from the bus. Maybe their eyes light on the awning’s signs first. POOL. Or the other one. BIKINI.
A man stands outside puffing a Newport. “Why not?” he calls after someone who looks intrigued as they pass by.
He ducks back in, away from the cold, unbuttons his jacket. The girl at the bar is indeed in a bikini. Leopard print. A man sips a PBR tallboy and calls her “Maria” when he orders another.
The bar counter is red, with a dinged-up wooden edge, and there’s a sticker plastered on the cash register that says “Down By My Sins.”
The smoker from outside orders another. PBR is his drink as well. Maria bends over the trough full of ice to fetch the tallboy, and everyone peeks at the appealing curve of her ass.
Maria has a slight accent, light brown hair, kind eyes.
A sign near the bar lists “No sleeping anywhere in this bar” as one of its rules. The Newport smoker tells the other PBR drinker that he looks stressed out.
“Shit happens,” he says. “Welcome to the club.”
There are only men in the bar, besides Maria.
“I was critiqued!” A man yells on the TV at Dr. Phil, in response to a pointed question about why he felt he could sleep with other women, but not his wife. Maria changes the channel to a recap of the Giants’ win.
An older man in a black coat limps in on a cane. His Chuck Taylors are an unusual match with the rest of his outfit, which is distinguished, understated. The Chuck Taylors must be the key to why this man is here, in the Port 41 at 3 pm on a Tuesday.
His phone rings as he slides into a stool, and he answers it.
“House of Pain!” he shouts into the receiver. Maria smiles. She’s sitting carefully on the counter behind the bar, so as not to make any creases in her stomach. She fiddles with a personal-sized heater that’s directed at her legs.
The man with the Chuck Taylors hangs up the phone. “Well ain’t that a bunch of shit.”
He nods at Maria and limps out for a cigarette. His smokes are Marlboro Lights.
Mostly the passersby are mailmen, pushing mailbags like wheelbarrows down the nearly empty block toward their warehouse. They ignore the signs.
Others are stragglers who come from the bus. Maybe their eyes light on the awning’s signs first. POOL. Or the other one. BIKINI.
A man stands outside puffing a Newport. “Why not?” he calls after someone who looks intrigued as they pass by.
He ducks back in, away from the cold, unbuttons his jacket. The girl at the bar is indeed in a bikini. Leopard print. A man sips a PBR tallboy and calls her “Maria” when he orders another.
The bar counter is red, with a dinged-up wooden edge, and there’s a sticker plastered on the cash register that says “Down By My Sins.”
The smoker from outside orders another. PBR is his drink as well. Maria bends over the trough full of ice to fetch the tallboy, and everyone peeks at the appealing curve of her ass.
Maria has a slight accent, light brown hair, kind eyes.
A sign near the bar lists “No sleeping anywhere in this bar” as one of its rules. The Newport smoker tells the other PBR drinker that he looks stressed out.
“Shit happens,” he says. “Welcome to the club.”
There are only men in the bar, besides Maria.
“I was critiqued!” A man yells on the TV at Dr. Phil, in response to a pointed question about why he felt he could sleep with other women, but not his wife. Maria changes the channel to a recap of the Giants’ win.
An older man in a black coat limps in on a cane. His Chuck Taylors are an unusual match with the rest of his outfit, which is distinguished, understated. The Chuck Taylors must be the key to why this man is here, in the Port 41 at 3 pm on a Tuesday.
His phone rings as he slides into a stool, and he answers it.
“House of Pain!” he shouts into the receiver. Maria smiles. She’s sitting carefully on the counter behind the bar, so as not to make any creases in her stomach. She fiddles with a personal-sized heater that’s directed at her legs.
The man with the Chuck Taylors hangs up the phone. “Well ain’t that a bunch of shit.”
He nods at Maria and limps out for a cigarette. His smokes are Marlboro Lights.
cold is coming.
texas country's on, that's almost all i feel like hearing these days. waylon.
i'm in my old chap soccer hoodie and i'm drinkin chamomile tea. it's just starting to get cold now. this week i've been playing catch up for all the fun i had last weekend, when i didn't do anything but enjoy my best friends' company. ash and jed are my fam.
now the apartment is a cesspool and i'm running behind on all this week's assignments. hopefully by tomorrow night, when i get out of class, i will be on the side of the winners again.
this running behind is exhausting.
i talked to kel tonight, and her and ferrick are in love, and it fills my heart with happiness to hear it. she asked me how things were going besides school. i told her, there really isn't much besides school.
after the election, my brother will be ousted into his next phase. it's disappointing in a way, but exciting in another way.. because he's got all the things he needs to do all sorts of awesome things.
this weekend i'm going to the turkish bath. i'm going to clean everything, and make my home a cozy place for the winter. I think I'll buy some sweaters, too, and possibly a space heater. i'm just wondering if my heat will ever come on? my landlord says it's like a sauna in here when the heat comes on and maybe that's why he hasn't turned it on yet. the other day i woke up and it was 38 degrees and the apartment was like a freezer.
i'm a woman of the desert. turn the fuckin heater on.
i'm gonna make it through this winter. no telling just yet how hard it will be.
i'm in my old chap soccer hoodie and i'm drinkin chamomile tea. it's just starting to get cold now. this week i've been playing catch up for all the fun i had last weekend, when i didn't do anything but enjoy my best friends' company. ash and jed are my fam.
now the apartment is a cesspool and i'm running behind on all this week's assignments. hopefully by tomorrow night, when i get out of class, i will be on the side of the winners again.
this running behind is exhausting.
i talked to kel tonight, and her and ferrick are in love, and it fills my heart with happiness to hear it. she asked me how things were going besides school. i told her, there really isn't much besides school.
after the election, my brother will be ousted into his next phase. it's disappointing in a way, but exciting in another way.. because he's got all the things he needs to do all sorts of awesome things.
this weekend i'm going to the turkish bath. i'm going to clean everything, and make my home a cozy place for the winter. I think I'll buy some sweaters, too, and possibly a space heater. i'm just wondering if my heat will ever come on? my landlord says it's like a sauna in here when the heat comes on and maybe that's why he hasn't turned it on yet. the other day i woke up and it was 38 degrees and the apartment was like a freezer.
i'm a woman of the desert. turn the fuckin heater on.
i'm gonna make it through this winter. no telling just yet how hard it will be.
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