"Bottoms up!!"

I'm sure I'll be back in more detail when I'm far less exhausted, but for now I'd just like to note what a truly special birthday I had over here in the Southeast. Just grand; a culmination of all the best elements of this trip; grand and hilarious.

Slow ride, take it easy

Singapore is lovely and lazy. Because it's so damn hot, we usually just cat around the house, drinking coffee and eating fruit and blowing scrupulously through a stack of New Yorkers until the early afternoon, when we attempt some sort of adventure. Lucy's parents hosted a lovely dinner party for her father's birthday and invited all their kooky scientist friends, and we all became very drunk off an endless vat of champagne and excellent wine and ate the most delicious courses of squid and fennel and sweet corn and red snapper and lamb chops and, for dessert, vanilla ice cream with truffles, followed by an assortment of whiskeys and cigars. I drunkenly poured myself a snifter of Blue Label, proclaimed it tasted like gasoline, and switched back to champ. Let's see, what else have we done? We went to Chinatown and ate heaps of Chinese food for $1.50. A lot of our excursions have been gastronomically based, in accordance with my desire to, predictably, make this trip, if not my entire existence, "a culinary experience." Yesterday it rained so we stayed inside nursing our hangovers for most of the day, and then went to the movies, and then lost ourselves in this wild underground shopping mall, that was connected, via a series of underground tunnels, to another underground shopping mall, which was connected... you get the idea; one could shop for days without seeing the light of day. This place is a trip. This morning I predict we will make a fruit salad, polish off the remains of our "Asian Invasion" filmfest (1/2 of Lost In Translation + Chungking Express), and then decide how adventurous we are feeling.

Do you know the way to San Jose?

So drunk dude. Surrounded by scientists. Passing out.

plotless, endless

"The cigar, it turned out, was just a cigar; the sand flea just a sand flea. Nature was not 'a grave,' 'a kind parent,' 'a merciless stepmother.' It didn't 'abhor a vacuum,' or 'the old.' Alas, it didn't abhor anyone at all. It just went on, perfectly. If nature was a story, it was a new kind of story: plotless, endless, at once both circular and linear, so vast it seemed not to move at all--a millennium hand, an eon hand--yet everywhere seething with a strange and wondrous energy, telling over and over of two great armies folding into each other without rancor or victory ...we couldn't grasp it." -Mark Slouka explores the mysteriously transcendental, and makes a lot of sense.

And if you aren't the bearer of a Harper's subscription.. Well, I suggest you become one.

Stuck in the middle with you..

Turns out I've seen quite a bit of Brigid this summer. Photos by HBM3.

A condensed report

It's very humid here. Lucy's house is lovely and spacious, and the stairs don't creak once when you step on them. She has a big black lab/chow mix, named Rugby, whose big droopy eyes remind me of my yellow lab, and who apparently hoards off intruders, as the Chinese are superstitiously afraid of black dogs. Behind her house is a hill, and behind that a large expanse of land that consists of coarse, sharp grass up until the point where the forest sprouts. The grass is filled will billions of tiny ants. We sat outside and drank Corona after Corona after Corona, and talked, and I showed Lucy the footage from my fishing excursion. There are little bugs that swarm around, that have red and brown polka-dotted bodies, and whose tiny wings are yellow with brown stripes. Lucy's family doesn't have a car; they take taxis everywhere. When we were in the taxi last night, we would pass dozens of flatbed trucks with exhausted looking dark-skinned men in the back, apparently Malaysian day workers, who have to trudge back home every night through the congested Singapore traffic. We went to a cocktail party--a "free flowing wine party"--at a bar hidden inside of Lucy's father's place of work, "Biopolis," which is basically Disneyworld for biologists, which also, as Lucy explained, could never exist in America, because we don't believe in scientific research to that extent. Apparently Singapore is saturated by a constant stream of unfathomable wealth that pumps relentlessly into its open crevasses. The whole thing is very sexual. We mingled and shmoozed with all of Lucy's parents' friends, all biologists, and from all over, but who have all inevitably been sucked into this small, humid, modernized Asian oasis. "It's Singapore," I heard a few of them exclaim, a couple of times, in regard to the fact that they would have to attempt to wake up before eight on Monday morning for a round of golf in Malaysia after a Sunday night dripping with white wine and whisky, or something like that. I thought of the day workers in the truck, and wondered if they'd pass each other on the highway. A lot of the biologists were English, and I enjoyed being witness to their quippy jokes about Oxford, pubs in Oxford, people from Oxford. Lucy and I talked about Edinburgh to them, and ate noodles, and I attempted to resist coming off as completely, unbearably awkward whilst feigning off the petulant urge to just pass out in the bushes, overwhelmed with synonyms for 'fatigue'. It was breezy, a beautiful night. In the taxi home, before I passed out, I mentioned how tall the buildings were, and Lucy told me that because the country's so small, they're forced to build up opposed to out. Everything is very fertile. Overwhelmingly so.

"I died of fever on the sands of Singapore."

Off to celebrate my birthday on the other side of the world.

the interweaving of solemn respect and gossipy irreverence

"Nevertheless, and although he himself did not seem to notice it, those letters of recuperation and stimulation were slowly changing into pastoral letters of disenchantment. One winter night while the soup was boiling in the fireplace, he missed the heat of the back of his store, the buzzing of the sun on the dusty almond trees, the whistle of the train during the lethargy of siesta time, just as in Macondo he had missed the winter soup in the fireplace, the cries of the coffee vendor, and the fleeting larks of springtime. Upset by two nostalgias facing each other like two mirrors, he lost his marvelous sense of unreality and he ended up recommending to all of them that they leave Macondo, they they forget everything he had taught them about the world and the human heart, that they shit on Horace, and that wherever they might be they always remember that the past was a lie, that memory has no return, that every spring gone by could never be recovered, and that the wildest and most tenacious love was an ephemeral truth in the end." -One Hundred Years of Solitude

After a month and a half of enduring willfull anchorage to this book, I've finally reached its melancholy, tragic finale. It was great. Wonderful. Spectacular. A truly fine, incomparable work of literature. I'm going to enjoy letting the ending sink in all day as I go about my preparations for my trip.

Which brings me to the next issue: what book do I bring with me? I hate having to begin a new book on an airplane, and I'd hate to be stuck halfway across the world, trapped in the solitude of the Pacific in the summertime with some book that I really just ain't jivin' with. I've been reading The Collected Stories of William Faulkner for the past week or so.. I really am loving the collection--it's a fantastic display of Faulkner's stylistic versatility--but I think we've all learned from experience that he isn't necessarily the ideal vacation read. I foresee myself spending a good portion of today trying on novels, in between lending myself almost entirely to the Twilight Zone marathon (the apparently revived mid-'80s version) on television and facing the mountain of laundry sitting idly in my closet.

Take me to the river, put me in the water

Oooooh, this weekend. What? What was it? Straight glorious, eh. So, we (HBM, Brigid, et moi) spent the majority of the past two days lolling about on a small fishing boat in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay, fishing (but alas not catching) and tanning and drinking Rolling Rock and oggling at jellyfish and dropping our feet off the bow and into the warm water and letting them soak, all to the soothing sounds of Django Reinhardt and the Jackson Five and all that. Arts and crafts in the morning, drives to the coast. We sprawled out on the grass under the milky looking stars and talked about ludicrous things having to do with extraterrestrial life, and laughed. We also, on Thursday night, made the ambitious proclamation that we would make this weekend, "a culinary experience," and oh what a job we did. Goat cheese omlettes and fruit parfaits for breakfast. Yesterday Bailey made these insanely inventive wraps for lunch, with feta and strawberries, walnuts and mustard. Dinner was softshell crab, steamed crab, crabcakes, cornbread--the Eastern shore specialty. It was just a great weekend, a culmination of truly ideal summer activities, spent with good friends who leave lots of room for silliness.

And I can hardly believe I'm leaving for Singapore in two days! Should be a hell of a trip, two layovers in Vancouver and Hong Kong, landing me at the humid Chez Lucy two days after I leave here. Let's hope I make it.

"It all comes down, tritely enough, to this: If I were stranded on a desert island and could only take two books with me, I'd take two copies of 'Gravity's Rainbow.'" -David Kipen, a big Pynchon fan.

Just a warning

I'm considering switching to Tumblr because of their audio feature.

"I'm Chevy Chase, and you.. you are nothing."

The ideal mate.

My sister got lucky, married a yuppie

It seems that, if I'm not sitting at home feeling solitary this summer, I'm bound to be found driving around New Jersey trying to think of something to do. We drove around for hours yesterday, making pit stops every now and then for peach pie or non-dairy ice cream sandwiches, to be consumed on site, on a couple of crates out behind a farm, or a bench outside of the supermarket amongst the sea of pink flip-flops and mesh athletic shorts that is New Jersey in July. And it was really hot. I forgot about how hot New Jersey gets in the summer, as it is indisputably cooler down here, next to the bay. The summers up north are thick and drowsy. Other highlights of my twenty-four hour excursion up the east coast to clear my sludge-like thoughts: lots of deer, Lisa Greco, cold pizza, and an aged Jeff Koons puzzle on a dusty ping-pong table.

Now I'm back south. Thinking fondly about the deeper south, the Spanish moss, the breezy nights, and how I long to plunge deeper into this country. Entranced by the hollow glow of C-SPAN. Rolling joints on top of the Arts & Leisure section. Thinking, maybe I'll write today, maybe I won't, and who knows what's wrong with my ex boyfriend, my maniacally neurotic ex boyfriend, who calls me, urgently, at 5:30 in the morning, to insist he cannot be my friend. This weekend will be fishing and soft shell crab feasting, and next week, humid Singapore.

There oughta be a law against you comin' around

Anyone have any advice about how to make this ugly thing heal faster?

young fashioned ways

Bay Area Blues

What have I done today, you ask? I'll tell you. I've been watching The Real World: San Francisco, plucked from the antiquated heart of the surprisingly abundant MTV vault! This is some old school shit we're talking about, so the episodes are perfectly bite sized at a little under a half hour each, plus, more denim cut-offs in one vicinity than I bet you remembered could exist. One girl even went to Harvard. Sigh. The early '90s. When people could still communicate with each other, if only remotely.


Oh. And there's also Puck.

Winos throwing frisbees at the sun

Is it completely obnoxious to declare that I was somewhat disappointed with the recent Beck/Tom Waits interview? Both of them ended up sounding like embittered old crooners, yarning about nothing at all. Obviously they're both cool dudes. I just.. I was so excited to read it.. and it was just so boring.

But as long as we're talking misconceptions, who knew Daphne Guinness was a real person?

Athletics made cynical

"We started, as usual, with breakfast at Wimbledon. Then we had brunch at Wimbledon. Then we had lunch -- a cold chicken sandwich at Wimbledon. Our house guests had cocktails at Wimbledon. Then more cocktails at Wimbledon. We debated marinating a steak at Wimbledon. Then we grew terrified: was this all-time classic sporting event going to preempt NBC's "Merlin"?" The Wall Street Journal's Jason Gay recounts Wimbledon in a manner most satisfying, plus some quips about Lance Armstrong.

"Into the void."

Day 2 of life among the physically impaired. Everyone Says I Love You is on tv. I forgot Billy Crudup is in this; boy is he dreamy. Also, Vincent Gallo extends his presence a few times as Julia Roberts' husband. Honestly, I consider this to be one of Woody Allen's most entertaining movies. Anyway, onto more important things.

Apparently there's a clusterfuck of a Michael Jackson memorial service going down in the city of angels now. I didn't really keep track of any of the hullaballoo post hearing about his death from the guy who works in the toll booth right before you get on the Bay Bridge, and I think we can all agree that the whole thing has erupted in a fashion most tasteless. But, as long as we're gripped to the topic, might I (better late than never) take a moment and give a nod to Michael Thomas' piece in the NY Times regarding the star's death? I don't know. Maybe, for me, who inevitably bears some kind of displacement whenever something like this--some national tragedy--occurs, it's easier to find comfort when the events are stripped of their newscast format and translated into something more familiar. Like prose. A slice out of one pretty good writer's memoir. The anecdotes about his brother, I found so appropriately included.

Alas, a seemingly most fitting conclusion to this post. This movie is so quintessentially, ridiculously Woody Allen:

"Why can't we have frankfurters?"

..."Because, this is the Russian Tea Room, you wanna have a blintz or something. Besides, frankfurters give you cancer."

Can't really type. Burned my hand, steaming some milk at the bakery. Endowed with a bottle of some dangerously fun painkillers. Off work for a couple days. My job is becoming more and more surreal. Slowly trashing the empty house. Watching lots of Jacques Tati and Woody Allen. Reading.. uh.. Virginia Woolf. Yeah. Booking my flight to Singapore in a couple weeks. Both of my dogs are snoring in my bed. That is all.


::Edit::
Allow me, now that typing is a task slightly less cumbersome, to extend my props to Turner Classic Movies. Apparently every Sunday night is "Silent Sunday," on which they only play, you guessed it, silent films. Which is great! As I mentioned earlier, last night they played two or three Jacques Tati films, including Mr. Hulot's Holiday, and tonight, funnily enough, is Meryl Streep night, which after the day I've had and the amount of medication I've consumed, feels strangely perfect. Sophie's Choice is on just now and I'm pretty stoked to be watching Kevin Kline, but sort of wish I was watching A Fish Called Wanda instead. So thanks, TCM, for placating me. I really like the way you arrange nights by theme, and am usually on board in terms of considering most of your choices to be good, interesting ones. You're definitely the realest thing out there, as far as movie channels go.

Today, I feel abandoned

Phew. This week has been a whirlwind. I retract back to reality feeling a bit shaken, but kind of, in a good way. Embracing solitude. Gobbling up books and then lying around thinking about them, letting them sink in. Realizing that my boss could be certifiably insane; honestly, I could fill an entire blog about this woman, and the time I am forced to spend with her, and people would read it, more people than read this, and then, perhaps, one day, this entire charade will be adapted into a Meryl Streep film, in which Anne Hathaway will play me. I fucking hate Anne Hathaway. No, this isn't true. She is just, so loud.

Today is my ex boyfriend's birthday. I didn't think it would bother me, but then I remembered what day it was, and thought about where he is, how and with whom he is possibly celebrating, and it depressed me to have come up empty handed. I don't know what his life is like now, and he is bitter and cold when he sees me, and there is nothing I can do. Yesterday I didn't care, and I'd like to go back to that.

Like I said, it is the summer of Solitude. I'm looking forward to going back to school, getting away from all of this. Thinking back to this time last summer, I'm fairly certain I was obsessively preoccupied with the fact that things might turn out the way they indeed have. I don't really know what to do with that. And I'm sorry if all of this seems like unhappy overkill, it's just that getting it off my chest makes it easier to get off my ass and go to my shitty job. Then getting worked to the bone, leaving covered in hot water and every kind of sticky filth imaginable, rolling a joint in the parking lot, smoking it on the way home, then settling into the big, empty house and talking knowledgeably and at length to my cat, who is very dumb and really has no grasp on how to form and maintain any sort of being/being relationship. Had the idea of putting a bookshelf in the bathroom. Had the idea of invading my mom's paints while she's gone. Oh, whatever. This summer kind of sucks so far, and I'm fucking bored and fucking lonely and fucking sick of no one else bringing anything to the table.