I'm going to the archives for this, because it never fit anywhere on my site, yet is too awesome to languish unseen.

Back a few years ago, when I was an even lowlier minion than I am now, a man wrote me an email asking for the pub date of a book; being a good minion, I told him. He then cc'd me on every email he sent to anyone else about the book--because I must know that my word was going out! I must not lie about pub dates! Because I have nothing better to do!

In any event, he had some address book difficulties, and would often send me or cc me on emails meant for others; the first email below is a good example. Then, one day . . one magic, shining day when I came back from the Christmas holiday break to my cube, I found the third email below waiting for me. And such was its awesome power that I actually yelped, clapped one hand over my mouth, waved the other one at my cube neighbor so he'd come look, and jumped a foot in the air while sitting--all at once.

I don't dare paste in the text. I don't like the google keywords for which this page would suddenly be a result. Just read below!

If you're like me and want this on your office wall at all times, click on the image for a larger, more printable version.

I won! I won! I more than salvaged the sugar project. I learned from this morning's green experiment and tried again, this time in amber and this time actually trying to make the pull shapes. I was even able to make one with pulls on both ends that wrapped around the cake (see 9 o'clock on the photo below and the piece overlapping it--they're really the same). Fuck yeah! Looks like stained glass, burns like stained glass if mishandled, but oh, much better results when you eat it.

It was all I could do not to start punching into the air, screaming, "IN YOUR FACE!!!"

But I managed.

Haven't blogged in a long time, mostly 'cause when it takes about three hours a day to summon the will to live, there just isn't any time left over for self-absorbed Internet rambling.

But I did some real rambling in the snow today, and it was fun. Click the dog for more:

When I was in tenth grade, the confirmation into the Catholic Church that I'd managed to fight off for a year came around, and this time my mother insisted that I had to do it. I didn't believe in it, but I was 15 when the year began and few people think a 15 year old knows anything about what she believes; the feeling I got was that my mom wanted us all seen that far through our Catholic indoctrination so that she could say she had raised us Catholic. I could be doing her an injustice there, but then again, in our arguments about it, she never articulated a different or better reason.

So I had to go to weird CCD with the only other older kids who had for one reason or another not made it through in ninth grade like everybody else. And while I resented it mightily, the classes themselves were fine; I was a good student and could answer questions about the reading and doctrine. No one asked if you actually believed anything under discussion. Instead I would argue--not angrily, not even emotionally--with my father most weeks as he drove me to class. He didn't let me out of it, but he never dismissed me as some smug teenager who was just being spiteful.

Toward the end of my sophomore year, it was letter time in the confirmation process. We had to write letters to the monsignor about why we felt ready to join the Church as adults; we would in turn receive a letter from a parent and our confirmation sponsor when we went on a Saturday retreat in the church basement.

To show how Just Plain Off we often were in my family:

* My letter to the monsignor, which to my knowledge no one but he or I ever laid eyes on--assuming he actually did dutifully read the flood of Why I Am a Good Catholic essays he got--was all about my sincere doubts in Catholic doctrine and my growing feeling that being confirmed would be a form of serious disrespect.

* I didn't have a letter from my sponsor because my mom overruled my sponsor choice (my sister Jonna, older than me by one year) and we didn't rope my uncle into it in a timely manner.

The one good thing to come out of this is the letter I have from my father. Because we are Iaconos and that means we never have band-aids, juice, or stationery like normal people, it is handwritten on loose-leaf and folded inside a security envelope, an item that to my mind still always means "Dad". Despite being a horrifically messy person, I have held onto it for over a decade now. I can't reproduce it here verbatim, because it's too much my own. But it begins with him acknowledging and respecting that I didn't believe I should be there. Just taking me seriously, which means a lot at 16. He then said a handful of very kind, very loving, very wonderful things that were impossible to believe about myself at that age and are still not easy now. And lastly, and in perfect balance to the opening that treated my beliefs and feelings as real and worthy of respect, he ended it, "You'll always be the baby."

A short time later, I was confirmed. I have not gone to a mass since apart from weddings and funerals. The basic beliefs I had come to at 15--that I do not believe in a god that involves itself in our daily lives, that there is no afterlife and we are consequently obliged to make this one as just and humane as we can--have not changed. It is a year today since my father died, suddenly and without a goodbye, and the letter has been much more of a comfort than the well-meant assurances of others that "he's still here" or we'll meet again. I do not believe he is still here; I believe that the fact that he was here has to be enough. He was a very loving, very gentle, very funny man, and we were incredibly lucky to have had parents who never once made us question our importance in their lives. It's more than a lot of people get, and in this last year when I have cried more than I knew possible, I have kept trying to remind myself of that.

It hasn't always worked. I can remember vividly the first time I returned to my apartment after his funeral; there was a street fair going on and as I carried my bag of black clothing from the subway I wanted to punch everybody I saw in the face. (I didn't.) For the past year I've felt like I had no skin; like every breeze blew over a wound, like everyone knew just by looking at me that I was wrong, like every handshake was dangerous for me and unpleasant at best for the other person. As someone who is usually reserved--who updates this page so infrequently precisely because of discomfort with the world at large knowing too much about me--it's been strange, painful, and occasionally liberating to be so fucked up I can't contain it anymore and to realize that, even at this level of internal chaos, even feeling so itchy and clumsy and trapped, I still haven't done anyone harm or made too many excuses or seen the world end because people knew I had a problem.

To return to the sort-of point, I still haven't traded in my old beliefs. As comforting as it would be, I do not believe in a great afterlife where I will get to hug my dad again. I do not believe there is a silver lining to death. There are things to hold onto in the flood and things to learn. I'm holding onto what my dad was, what he taught me, how he radiated love for us from his every pore. I'm trying to learn how to live in such a way that people who meet me will know just how wonderful my parents were. (Progress needed.) And I'm trying to forgive this indifferent universe for the small, sharp pains of this loss (chief among those: my having had to ask the presumably well-meaning doctor "Is my father dead?" before she would finally tell me) as well as the great ones (just being without him, and him never knowing the grandson he would have loved so much). One forgiveness I was able to find: for our archdiocese, which stupidly and offensively no longer permits family members to eulogize in church. There's no good reason for it; certainly no doctrinal one or it wouldn't vary from region to region. Our priest's allowing my uncle to say a few impromptu words at the cemetery was kind, but not enough. But this church, which I fought not to join, did give me the letter. It's not my dad. But it is in his hand and his words saying how much he loved me. It may be as much of him as I'll ever have again. For that I thank them.

A long time ago, I got a voicemail from a woman named Naia who was looking for another woman (named Kimba) so that custody of a child could be transferred. Now, my voicemail greeting very clearly says "Adair". Not "Kimba." So it should be obvious to any caller at that stage that there is no Kimba to be found. That was problem one. Problem two was that even if I had wanted to call the angry-sounding woman back and tell her the mistake she'd made, I couldn't--her number was blocked from caller ID.

So I just ignored it.

Then, a while later, I got a follow-up voicemail. A voicemail of such surpassing brilliance that I saved it every three weeks for OVER A YEAR. It's not high quality, but I've finally managed to digitize it for you, my reading public:

If embed fails: The Glory of Naia

Emmett, an adorable, fluffy, slightly cross-eyed cat who harbored a great devotion to food and my mom, died today. He was almost 15, which is a good long life for a cat, and to the extent that complete comfort and adoration make for happiness, his was a happy life. But at the end he was suffering so much that it was just terrible to see. So my mom had to take him, probably her favorite cat in a lifetime that has always had at least one cat in it, to be put down.

Rather than dwell on his death, though, I want to celebrate his finest hour: the time he saved my dad's life. It's true! Read on.

The Rashomon of Emmett
My dad's version, via IM the morning of the incident.

Please allow for the confusion of crossing IMs; we kinda talked that way online. Also note that my dad wasn't yelling, he just had a cramped laptop and would hit the caps lock key by accident a lot.

My mom's version, via an email to the family that afternoon:

Friday brought bad tidings: our landlords have sold the building and out we go. It sucks out loud. We have until about the end of September to pull off a miracle: find another place in this neighborhood that we can actually afford.

I haven't swung into the hunt full force yet, but I will shortly. For now I'm just lamenting the loss of a home I've really loved for over four years. And beholding the prospect of moving--with its uncertainty, expense, and fatigue--with immense dread.

One thing that is making me feel better about the whole situation is the conduct of our next door neighbors. As mentioned before, they are partial to having incredibly loud parties into the morning hours. In their backyard. Which, measured generously, is approximately seven feet from my window and from my roommate's.

Where their last get-together was more salsa in theme, this weekend's was largely a return to the reggaeton blast that put them on the map. I wondered if my hatred for that genre--with it rapidfire cheap Casio drumming and misogyny--played a part in how annoyed I was to have it blaring. Sure, I'd be annoyed no matter what was keeping me awake past 4 in the morning, but perhaps I'd be less annoyed if it were music I enjoyed?

Then, for a break, they played "Hypnotize", a song of such danceability that no matter how aware I am of how dumb it is, I still like it. And even with a song I liked, I found myself praying for lightning to hit their PA system.

That's not a typo or overstatement, by the way. They have a PA system. Microphones. Loudspeakers. Etc.

They also had an MC for the evening, who punctuated his set with shout-outs to every Latin American country and commonwealth except, notably, Mexico.

"REPUBLICA DOMINICAAAAAAAAAAANAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

"BORICUA REPRESEEEEEEEEENT!"

"COLOMBIANOOSSSSS!"

And so forth. I wonder: why do my neighbors hate Mexico?

There were also periodic checks to see if Brooklyn was, in fact, in the house. Or rather, in the stamp-sized yard. It was this combination of screaming into the mic and blasting music that caused me to dub them the Carnaval de Douchebags. And so shall they be forevermore.

At about one in the morning, we went over to ask them to turn the music down and to turn off the floodlight on the side of their house that illuminates our living room and my roommate's bedroom like the sun. A woman of 50-odd years answered the door and told us that it wasn't her party, it was her brother's--as though that somehow made it any less her yard. We persisted, politely, and made our request, and they did turn the light off.

But they turned the music up.

DOUCHEBAGS.

Our upstairs neighbors, as frustrated by this horse shit as we are, are developing a theory based on circumstancial evidence (an "Officer ___ Way" sign in their yard, a shout-out to somebody's boys in the ____ squad) that somebody over there is a cop or connected to one. Again, I don't know for certain. But it would sure as shit explain why calling the fuzz, by 311 or direct to the precinct, doesn't get us so much as a minute's silence.

So, new owners/tenants of our building, who will doubtless rip it up, refurbish it to a full brownstonian glory, and turn it into condos: I hope you like Daddy Yankee, assholes.

. . . but as you value your sanity, stay far, far away from The Times They Are A-Changin', the Twyla Tharp/Bob Dylan abortion. I made the mistake of telling my roommate that though it looked dreadful, if she couldn't find anybody else to go with her, I would take her second free ticket.

Well, FREE IS NOT CHEAP ENOUGH. Free, a bottle of hooch, and a sharp object with which to pick the memories out of your brain: that is the price you should hold out for.

There are three elements to the show: a band, tucked above and away; singers; and dancers.

The band is fine.

The singers are all doing that dreadfully overenunciated, rock/pop-killing chest-voice singing you know from your worst memories of college a cappella groups. (Doot! Doot!) Imagine the a cappella group. Over and over, mangling one song after another. Now recall, if you will, how the most embarrassing moments for everybody in earshot during an a cappella show were those moments when the song calls for some slight trace of anything angry, righteous, or passionate in any way. Think about how you just kinda looked away when some grinning schmuck in a white button-down and black slacks trilled about being on the highway to hell. That's what we're working with here. Oh, how risqué you sound as you crisply blare your way through "Like a Rolling Stone" (a special side-barf to the aged boomers in the audience who clapped along with that horrifically neutered spectacle; hey, people, that's your past being ransacked, stripped, and regurgitated; don't you care?) and "Rainy Day Women." UGH.

The dancers are dressed as circus folk. Because the plot--such as it is; there is no dialogue at all--is about a mean circusmaster, Captain Ahrab, his son Coyote, and the woman who goes from one to the other (eeeeeew), Cleo. One of the dancers was dressed like a dog, but it was hard to tell if he was a clown pretending to be a dog or a real dog, since later on the actors also dressed up like animals. I'm not kidding. Also, the sheep costume? Looked like a giant albino koala. Shoddy. Anyway, the dancers were all quite bendy and I'm very happy for them, but other than that, there's not much to say; even my devil's advocate roommate called the numbers unfocused.

Worst offender is a toss-up:
--The aforementioned "Like a Rolling Stone": a contender because of the total deracination of the song from any emotion
--"Knockin' on Heaven's Door": horribly oversung by the newly cast-out circusmaster. In the dark. As dancers circle him with high-powered flashlights. Like high school.
--"Don't Think Twice, It's All Right": slowed down, over-emoted, and what the hell is with the clown/dog/thing shaking its butt and running up to the woman for a laugh-line at the end? What was the thought process here?
--"Mr. Tambourine Man": in which Coyote descends to the stage on a fracking moon. As nothing happens at all plotwise. This is a low contender only because the original version is not at all dear to me.
--"Lay Lady Lay": hey! let's butcher half of this, then make it into a medley with "I'll Be Your Baby Tonight"! Bring that bottle over here, indeed.

Run away!

One of many touching moments from my move:
I was packing, purging, self-recriminating, stressing, etc., and my sister came over to help out. I had just taken another bag to the curb when we had this exchange:

Me: It can be upsetting to actually see homeless people going through your stuff.
Alanna: Well, they need it. It's hard to begrudge them.
Me: No, that's not what I mean. There was a homeless guy out front going through a bag of underwear I threw out. Hello, Rock Bottom!

Needless to say, it is mortifying to watch someone drop your old undies onto the street one by one. I waited for him to finish, rebagged them, then buried them underneath some other trash, then stuffed the can good and tight with a pillow I was ditching. Thus did I narrowly avoid the death by shame that would surely have resulted had I only espied the disaster after the garbage truck had come and gone the next morning.

May I never have to pick my drawers up off the street again.

Late last night as I headed home on the F train, I espied this gentleman:

The best part was that he was reading a book called The Greatness Guide at the time. While I can't claim to have read that volume, I have to believe that it contains no directive to be completely fucking disgusting on mass transit. But it's just possible that it fails to tell its readers not to do so. So please, readers of this undoubtedly fine work, consider this a supplemental chapter:

Thank you.

Today I received one the most fascinating pieces of mail ever.

Strikingly, it was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Adair H. Iacono. As it happens, I am not a Mr. Nor am I married to myself. So that was something of a red flag. But the thing that really drew me in, that told me that this was going to attain a special place in the noble pantheon of shit I've been sent unsolicited, was this logo on the outside:

What would I have to face, and why now? Was it Jeebus? It had to be Jeebus, right?

But no! It was my own mortality!

Yes, they want me to send away for a brochure so that I can FACE IT NOW and get myself a mausoleum. It's kind of them, isn't it, to worry so about how prepared I am? The only qualms I have:

1. I'm not even thirty! I don't wanna fucking face it now!
2. The photos in their brochure are so creepy and out of date that they look like stills from the Zapruder film. Look at this! Look! (click to enlarge)

I could never possibly trust my eternal repose to an outfit with such a gross disregard for graphic design and photography. After all, a memorial park is for the people who have to look at it. If these clowns can't handle aesthetics, what good are they?

Anyway, the good things to come out of this:
1. I told my roommate my basic wishes: no religious acts or paraphernalia of any kind, make sure the Spikers gets looked after, and I'd rather be cremated.
2. I waved the pamphlet in my roommate's face and exhorted her to FACE IT NOW!!!!!
3. I have acquired a new masterpiece of Found Art.
4. I have added a new phrase to my--and, I almost dare to dream, our--vernacular. See my and my sister's IM exchange below:

Me: from now on
Me: when somebody is driving us to nigh-murderous rage
Me: can we say that they need to Face It Now?
Alanna: Yes
Alanna: yes we can
Alanna: ahahaha

That's all the sanction the phrase needed to become an official, Iacono Certified saying. Use it wisely, people.