I've decided that forgetful Christian children should not be the only ones with acronymical moral guide questions carved into their jewelry.

A modest design proposal:

The question:

"Will This Action Help Me to Achieve Global Domination?"

The T does not get capitalized because "to" is a preposition, dammit, and even if I am the only person to abide by this rule, it is no less a rule.

In any event, today is my birthday and it would really be just the thing if somebody were to make me a bracelet following this design.

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.

When I say I want to file my strike plate, I mean it.

Despite the considerable handicap of being female, I am not a moron. (I could even be described as somewhat handy, as those who have availed themselves of my well-maintained toilet could attest.) I do not need you to try to talk me into a $50, all-afternoon solution to a $6, one-hour problem.

You make me want to light things on fire.

The Gates were every bit as cool as they were intended and reputed to be. And since we went into the park up in Harlem, the crowd was merely bustling rather than insane.

I got a swatch, so I think I may now consider myself the object of near-universal envy.

Photos here.

At least once a week, I will walk home over the Brooklyn Bridge from at least the City Hall stop (I don't think I can make myself go past Canal Street and remain sane). Sure, the photos I take will be shaky, since I haven't mastered setting the shutter speed on my (recently acquired) digital camera, there are cars rumbling beneath, and, for now at least, it's fucking freezing without gloves. But it's one of the few places to be thoroughly in the city without a full-blown crowd around, and with proper timing, I'm there as the sky changes colors. Even on rather crappy weather days, as below, it's beautiful and keeps the psychosis at bay.

Though my previous entry is dated the 13th, the photos were taken walking home on the 11th. Thus my walking over the bridge today constitutes adherence to my recently announced policy; I'm good until at least next Friday. Considering the sad fate of other resolutions I have made--I will only read books that challenge me! I will be a better correspondent! I will not plot coups!--this is remarkable progress indeed.

Fewer photos, though, and only one worth posting. It was cold, dammit.

If you've seen her new columns on Salon, her recent piece in the NYTimes, or anything else she's written, then you know too much about Ayelet Waldman. More seriously, you know way too much about the kids who are going to hate her with an unrivalled passion in juuuust a few years.

The invaluable Paige directed me to this dead-on parody of Waldman's writing. It's the perfect way to fuel the hate towards her without taking part in her campaign to completely wreck her children.

Where: Brooklyn-bound #2 train
Who: Young African-American gentleman who boarded at Park Place
Questionable fashion decision: Bullet-proof vest with graffiti tags on the back

Perchance I'm missing something, but this strikes me as rather ill-advised, what with there being cops in every subway station keeping an eye out for suspicious behavior. There is something about being outfitted for gunfire that doesn't say, "Just going about my business, Officer."

I was not the only one alarmed by it; the woman next to me said, "Is he wearing a VEST? Oh, shit!" We then discussed--quietly--our fervent hope that this was not the beginning of a trend.

My tally begins now.

The bad news (from my perspective), is that the Yankees lost--lost UGLY--the decisive game in the ALDS and are heading home for the winter. It was a weird but rewarding season, and I'm not one of the outraged fans who feel that the season is a waste of time if they don't win the World Series. But it still would've been nice if they'd lost while actually playing well; they may have lost anyway, since it's not as though the Angels dumbassed their way into the postseason, but it wouldn't have been such a depressing Game 5 to watch. Also, one prefers for one's favored team to be defeated by a team without a rally monkey in its sordid past. Alas. The Angels played well, the Yankees did not.

Now, I have to figure out how much of the remaining postseason I can stand to watch. Generally, I like watching baseball regardless of whether I have a rooting interest--live, on ESPN, on local TV, or even the Braves on TBS. But man, without the extra pull of needing to see how my favorite team fares, I don't know how much of Fox's Tim McCarver and Joe Buck I can endure.

Usually, when somebody sounds like Gomer Pyle, it's superficial; they're smart people who happen to share an accent with some fictional TV boob. But McCarver . . . oh, god, McCarver. I'm convinced he's to blame for 85% of Northern stereotypes about the South. The rambling anecdotes when the goddamn play is unfolding, the stupid pronouncements (personal favorite: a walk is as bad as a home run), and the fact that HE CAN'T TALK (what the fuck is a "splate", Tim?) . . . it's all too much. Joe Buck, meanwhile, is a fucking parody unworthy of further comment.

And it's not like the rest of the staff is loaded with aces: these are the people who called the Astros the Expos while they clinched their NLDS. But the worst of all their offenses came in the Angels-NYY series: the goddamn "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes" music video WITH FAKE KID HANDWRITING AND MISTY GRAPHICS that Fox made of a montage of wild Vlad Guerrero swings. THEY PLAYED IT WHILE PEOPLE WERE ON BASE AND THE NEXT AT BAT WAS CONTINUING. Because what baseball fans need isn't information on what's happening, it's a toddler video that looks like a douche ad.

In summary: though I regret the Yankees' loss, it has--in enabling me to tune out of future playoff games when I need to--at least kept my blood from shooting out of my eyeballs.

Oh, Tino, I will miss you. You, your fine play (particularly in actually troubling to field at first base), and your hotness (particularly your jawline and forearms).

Yankees Decline Option on Tino Martinez

The math of budgets and batting statistics means nothing to me, nothing compared to my love for Tino. I will not be reasoned out of it.

P.S. Please nobody write me stories about Tino Martinez snorting coke off a hooker's thigh at a Denny's in Kansas City. I don't wanna know. One of the perks about choosing non-pinups for meaningless crushes is that their venality is kept from public view. Let me enjoy that perk.

With a snip or two for blog-friendly brevity.

-------
Having had about 2 of every 3 Staples in-store experiences be frustrating, I find I have to make a few suggestions:

1. It would be immensely helpful to have samples of paper--especially photo paper!--out so customers can actually see what they're getting. A simple binder chained to the display with a sheet apiece of the different brands, finishes, and weights would cost you about two bucks and be very useful.

2. Tell the people at the copy counter that they're allowed to talk to customers, not just each other.

3. Let employees know that when they are inexplicably unable to process a form of payment that you accept--in this case, an Amex gift cheque--it is by no means incumbent upon them to act as though the customer deliberately brought this difficulty upon them in an effort to wreck their day. The store manager was polite and helpful, but by then I was already tempted to leave my purchases behind. The only thing that prevented my doing so was the knowledge that OfficeMax and Office Depot are every bit as frustrating.

4. Stop showing the Chappelle's Show "Popcopy" skit as your training video.

5. Stop insisting customers fill out their phone numbers before you will accept comment forms. You don't actually need that information, and thus should not demand it.

It's good. I know the people involved, so I'm biased. But I know what it is to dislike the work of somebody you like, and I still think this was brilliant.

Thursday-Sunday through Jan. 29.

http://www.twoheadedcalf.org/

For today, this 14th day of April in the year 2006 of the Common Era, Verizon Wireless has finally given me my goddamn deposit back. (I was young, my credit was new [not bad, dammit!], I foolishly thought I'd get it back promptly.)

It took three years of calling, faxing, emailing, and leashing a massive, unredirectable rage, BUT I DID IT. After biting my tongue in an effort at civility that became more difficult every time I called--because, of course, I could never speak to the same person twice, and any new rep with whom I was speaking could not justly be punished for the indifference/rudeness/incompetence of his or her predecessor--I finally managed to find a customer service rep who actually

a. Gives his real name and extension
b. Wants to solve problems
c. Follows up with others in his company
d. Calls back to update customers on his progress

It was a revelation. I do not know this man. I have never seen his face. We will never meet. And the only things we talked about were proofs of payment and cell phones. But all the same, I WILL LOVE HIM UNTIL MY DYING DAY.

By way of contrast:
Another rep told me to fax something to her attention and to expect a call from her the following Monday. The following Wednesday, I called her to ask what was going on, and could not be connected with her. When I asked if my fax had been received, this new person told me that unless my intended recipient was within yelling distance at the exact moment the fax was received, it would probably be tossed--that the volume of incoming faxes was so high that faxes weren't, say, put into people's inboxes or otherwise retained. Either this is true and they have the worst customer service system on earth, or it isn't true, and their reps lie, and they have the worst customer service system on earth. I wish I were making this shit up.

Anyway. Yes. Three years of frustration like that, of starting from scratch every time I called, of feeling angry every time I saw the Verizon logo--which was, you know, every time I used my phone, not to mention every time I went over the Manhattan Bridge on the train or turned on my TV. It was a lot of work to control the rage, but I did it; I was firm and tenacious but I was not rude to anyone. I'm proud of that. And now I'm finally free of it altogether. It's a great relief.

ADAIR: 1

The Man: 0

For a week and a half now, almost everything for which I have exchanged currency has either malfunctioned or not been what I wanted.

* I bought a new cell phone and it buzzed in my ear. Now it is being exchanged and I'm without a phone; mega fucking annoying. The cell phone place actually wanted me to pay to ship their defective product back to them. They then said that it may take them several days to process the return and if, when they exchange the phone, it has a higher price than when I initially purchased it, they will charge me the difference. I made them give me a shipping label to send it out to them and told them flat-out that I was not paying another cent, and they had better be prepared to eat any additional costs if the phone's price changes. I'm reasonably confident they will not stick to their ridiculous line. But it's exhausting having to put up a fight for what any reasonable person would consider the least the company should do. SINCE I WILL NOT HAVE A PHONE FOR A WEEK. Does anybody have decent customer service anymore?

* Went to get a bridesmaid dress hemmed and . . . I can't even go into all of it. Inconsideration, long waits, thinly veiled hostility: this is the shit you get away with when your customers can't go anywhere else.

* I went to get my hair highlighted, and I had to go someplace new because my usual guy moved to Jersey. I like to look like a brunette who has highlights rather than premature grays. Instead, my whole fucking head is lighter, but the highlights aren't even blonde, they're a brassy reddish brown, and when it doesn't make me want to cry, it makes me want to ram a meat hook through somebody's skull. I have to go back to get it fixed and part of me just KNOWS it will end up even worse.

* I tried to haul my old, busted monitor to Union Square this weekend for a free recycling day. Only things didn't work out right, the person helping me couldn't arrive till late, and we wound up having to take a car. Twenty bucks: cheaper than what most places charge to recycle a monitor, but still twenty dollars more than zero.

* I bought a microphone for my computer. It does not work.

* Without going into details, it also happened twice on the job--ordered something, got back something else.

In short, I am in heavy disgruntlement mode at this point and really want to pound something with a shovel. Repeatedly. If one more thing goes this way, I may have no choice but to stop where I stand and scream for a few hours until the rage dims.

Then I will offcially be one of those crazy people who walk around New York.

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

Because my time is not devoted exclusively to grief or to cell phone customer service rage, a quick update on other recent activities:

* Bridesmaided it up at my cousin's wedding.

I'd like to send a special shout-out to my skin for--for once!--waiting until after the highly-photographed event had passed to break out. I win!

* Saw a Mets game at Shea on Cinco de Mayo. As they were playing the Braves, whom I dislike a good deal, I actually rooted for them despite my unwavering Yankee fandom. (If you've got a comment on that, save it; it's a family tradition, geographically valid, and I've never chanted "[insert other team name] Suck" so I'm not your problem.) Anywho. As though designed to challenge my stance on not leaving games early except in extreme circumstances, the game went on for 14 innings. Fourteeen. Quartorze. Quattordici. At one point the Braves pulled ahead by a run and my friend Nat said, "Well, at least it will end soon." And I said that no, the Mets would score exactly one run and then go down in order. And I was right. It's not always good to be right.

My one real complaint: why the crap won't the soda vendors at Shea let me keep my bottle cap? I'm clumsy! I need closing capability or more than carbonation will be lost!

But my whining aside, it was a very good time on a lovely day. It's always great to attend a game with people who are willing to dance along with the ballpark DJ. Pics here:

* Got a new roommate as her predecessor went to travel the world. Do you know how terrible it is to know somebody who quits her job and travels the world? It's like a human reproach.

* Further solidified my adherence to the crazy cat spinster stereotype (tell me what's wrong with being a crazy cat spinster and maybe I'll work at fighting it) by getting Spike, who freaks out in regular carriers, an Outward Hound Pet-a-Roo Front Carrier. Spike's is in fetching red. I look for him to set new standards in adorability.

This represents the tail end of another misadventure in customer service that ended with the following outburst to my sister, Jonna: "I just want a goddamn cat bag! I'm 28 years old, why is this so fucking hard?"

Jonna took pity on me and got it. She is an excellent cat aunt. And she saved me from having to have another fight, so she is an awesome sister as well.

* Been reading lots of I Blame the Patriarchy and looking back wistfully to the days when I had a brain.

1. Listening to "I Got a Man". A lot. For 14 years, this song has brought joy and light to the world. My only regret is that it is not available for karaoke. For shame!

2. It has just come to my attention that the head of the World Anti-Doping Agency is a gentleman named Dick Pound.

Today, in a break with the howling and whining that have defined this journal of late, I praise my friend Kat Kinsman. For in addition to compelling me to blog in the first place by setting this up on one of her servers, Kat does the following wonderful things, in no particular order:

1. Spouts the most eloquent profanity:
"Seriously, though - he should just grab a fork for the cock buffet, make a stop at the hot turd dispensary for dessert, and not forget to receive his complimentary bag of dick on the way out."

2. Mixes the best Hemingway daiquiris ever.

3. Snaps important shots of neighborhood graffiti:

Your eyes do not deceive you. When the Gowanus Lounge died, it briefly became the GO ANUS. Kat made sure the world did not forget.

4. Always does her hair just so.

5. Sings songs about her rabbits and dogs.

6. Makes the notion of a Karl Rovian sexcapade even more horrifying than the phrase "Karl Rovian sexcapade" would suggest.

7. Listens to my bullshit.

8. Approaches culture actively. She listens to enough music, old and new, that she could probably pull off professional critiicism, but she does it without a whiff of pitchforkian snotbaggery. She reads constantly, writes everything from email to novels with thoughtful composition, creates both parodic and serious digital art, and even composes her outfits. All without caring if I turn up in jeans and a t-shirt that says "OKAY", while I listen to "I Got a Man" on my iPod.

9. Introduces me to the nicest people. Her boyfriend, her friends, her pets, even her plants--they're all preternaturally interesting and kind. Without, you know, being weird and culty.

10. Is thoughtful and generous for no reason at all. I'm looking at you, Yankee lunchbox.

is to avoid psyching myself into thinking that my first-ever hives are shingles.

I am crazy.

. . . 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!

Suzanne Vega, "Rock in This Pocket (Song of David)". Because when you're trying to get chump change back from people who just made a killing, and they can't remember your last name after four and a half years of cashing your checks, the refrain, "It's so small to you, and so large to me" will pop into your head.

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.

"'Cause Calvin Klein, no friend of mine
Don't want nobody's name on my behind."
--Run D.M.C., "Rock Box"

I dedicate this to the consumer victims of logo bags, jewelry, sunglasses, and t-shirts. Christ, people, if you're going to pay that much money, at least make the assholes DESIGN something. Don't pay for the privilege of being an ad.

And no, I don't give a crap that Run-DMC wrote "My Adidas." Their being hypocritical on this point doesn't make it a bad point.

My older brother and I, whenever we are on the phone, inevitably find ourselves engaging in a purely rhetorical debate; his role is to spout Panglossian proverbs and adages, and mine is to let forth an acid-filled counterargument. Then we laugh and resume normal conversation.

In playing the voice of harsh outrage in these jesting discussions, though, I often find that I'm not faking my scathing rejection of his clichés. It may not be the most traditional sibling bonding, but it's helped save my critical thinking muscles from atrophy. Some examples:

What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger.
My retort: "What doesn't kill you can leave you a hollow shell of your former self, completely unequipped for the challenges ahead!"
I really think I had a point. This is probably my least favorite cliché; it's nothing more than a cop-out, an attempt to pretend that affliction is a blessing. It isn't. That's why we call it affliction.

Life isn't fair.
My retort: "Of course not. The overall nature of the universe, however, does not excuse your conduct."

Pessimism never won any battle.
My retort: "No, but it probably prevented some really stupid ones that didn't need to be fought."

Further to this rejection of existing trite phrases, I've started creating my own variations: "ponies and rainbows" (a complimentary closing indicating politely suppressed ire), and the self-explanatory "encrapulation" and "thought-resistant".

We may never escape greeting cards. But we don't have to talk like them.

Last year around this time, my problems were:

After a hideously painful holiday season that I later described to a friend as "a parade of grotesquery I hope never to see rivaled", my grandmother on one side and grandfather on the other side died within days of each other. They both lived long lives and neither death was shocking, but both in themselves and in the larger context they were still upsetting. Coming right on top of each other like that, the deaths completely sent me back to square one in my grief for my father. So, last year about now, I was bracing for whatever the hell else was going to go wrong next, and having a really hard time caring about anything in the meantime.

This year, my big problem is:

My friends are too nice. And I am bewildered as to how to contend with it.

I really, really prefer this year's problems.

No point, no amusing anecdote, no photos. But I've been chided for slack posting and must make it up somehow. So I revert to the lamest mode of blogging: emotoblogging.

Today's quote from Rhinocéros:
"Contre tout le monde, je me défendrai, contre tout le monde, je me défendrai! Je suis le dernier homme, je le resterai jusqu’au bout! Je ne capitule pas!"

'Cept for the "homme" part, that is what I found myself ranting today. That is not a good sign.

Today's re-used graphic illustrating present mood:

Yes, that is a monkey giving the finger and lighting a fart on fire. Image courtesy of Yorik. Its necessity courtesy of The Man.

I have a very pointy, rather singular winter hat that I wear quite frequently. I adore it and have thus tended to it lovingly for years now, ever dreading the day when it will wear out or be irreparably harmed. So far, fortunately, it has proven quite hearty.

There is one problem, though: the false assumptions others make upon seeing me in my hat. "Cute hat!", they seem to say, "You must want me to accost you!" Not the case, I can assure you. To clear up this confusion, I am issuing a formal public declaration of my true thoughts as I wend my way through packs of left-walkers, sudden-stoppers, and other violators of the pedestrian code:

Yes, I am wearing a cute hat.

That does not mean I am your fucking friend.

Get out of my way.

Pardon the self-aggrandizement, but really, if I don't aggrandize me, who will?

I got my hair chopped off last week, which prompted a conversation with my sister about how tricky it can be in New York to get a decent haircut without getting robbed. I can't afford to spend $100 to get my hair cut. On the other hand, I noted:

"No one can afford a $5 haircut."

I'll be here all week.

This one's for the CS rep, not the complainant:

If you can't tell the customer's sex by the name on the email, don't guess. I already know that whatever is in the body of your message is likely to piss me off. Why compound it by fucking up in the salutation?

Despite the fact that I hate text messages (I am freakishly anal retentive about keeping written correspondence, and having text trapped on my phone galls me), I recognize that there are instances when it is preferable to calling. My favorite "huh, I really wrote that, didn't I?" moments are below.

Disclaimer: the grammar on many of these is atrocious. I do know better, but it's a phone, I have wee sausage fingers, and it just doesn't always come together.

Assuring others of my safe return home at later hours:
"Home
Taught driver much about Brooklyn, self"

Stalled while commuting:
"Been on f for hour, gone four stops
May cry
Pls tell [boss] i'ma comin"

To an old roommate who shared one of my odder TV loves:
"Watching shalom in the home and thinking of you"

To my sister, after I went by her apartment to double-check that there were no candles burning, and was attacked by her roommate's declawed cat:
"No fire
Alex did something to my leg
Drew blood
Ow"

Self-explanatory:
"Hate post office"

"People are so boring and predictable
Girl says 'i used to work at a sex shop'
Bartender says 'i don't usually do this but i want us to do shots'
Yawn"

"In a world of disappointments ricky bobby far exceeds all expectations"

I hate being sick.

But I give great thanks for my roommate Emily, who brought me home orange juice and OTC meds.

So in the weeks since I last wrote, one or two things have happened.

I made plans to move to Chicago for law school.
I gave notice at work and scheduled a Chicago apartment hunt.
I tried not to be spastic about moving halfway across the country to a city where I don't really know anybody, and instead to be thrilled about the wonderful school I would attend, the new friends I would make, and the new baseball stadia I would frequent.
I made plans for a "So Long, Stink Town" party so I could say goodbye to my NY friends.

Then I got into NYU Law.

NYU LAW!!

So I have the satisfaction of knowing I would have moved for the right school--and it would have been great--without actually having to, you know, bundle a screaming cat into the back of my sister's car. I get to go to an amazing school, start a whole new chapter in my life . . . and my commute will actually be shorter! SWEEEEEEEET.

This made Independence Day an even more festive affair than usual, especially since some long-departed friends have recently moved back to New York. So lovely an occasion was it, we did not mind mildly obstructed fireworks:

Of course, I had to cancel the "So Long, Stink Town" party, and instead marshalled the troops for an "I ♥ Stink Town" party (that's a [heart] if your browser doesn't catch the code). Needless to say, it ruled.

And lastly, I have continued to document the, um, forthright little delights that make Stink Town so damn lovable:

I love that it is signed by the plant. So magical.

is the first day of the rest of my life.

We'll see how this goes.

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.

1. Saw Nick Lowe live at 7 WTC last night. I found myself in the front for Lowe's set (sweet!) but next to one businessman with a horizontal stripe of facial hair across the middle of his face (excepting just the nose itself) and another man with a brand-new, terrifying nose job that I ardently hope was prompted by something more virulent than self-loathing, 'cause man would that nose not solve that particular problem. Despite these peculiar neighbors, I had a lovely time. Nick Lowe rules. He played solo acoustic, which is always effective for somber songs but can be tricky on more upbeat numbers. I had my concerns. They were misplaced; Nick Lowe knows what he's about. I may love him just a little.

And really, my own rather ordinary nose has never appeared to better advantage.

2. Going by the iTunes libraries visible to me on my school network, I may be the only person who cannot abide capitalization errors in my song files. I mostly knew this. But it's always dispiriting to be confronted with veritable walls of uppercase articles, conjunctions, and prepositions. It hurts my heart.

There are a lot of good things I can say about my experience thus far at law school. It's engaging, I like my fellow students, I like my professors, etc. But those are all important things. As we all know, it takes a trivial achievement to earn sincere affection.

So, today's reason I ♥ this place:

In an email sent out this morning to the student body, the dean of the law school used the phrase "first-come, first-served basis".

That's right. He didn't fall prey to the entirely nonsensical and maddening "first come first serve" error, AND he properly hyphenated the compound adjectives. My heart overflows. Sorry; I meant my ♥.

From the ad above what I swear was a totally innocuous gmail message:

Cornhole Sets, Bags - cornhole4sale.com

Sweet fancy Moses, people.

Doubtful Guest Pin.

I know it's nerdy. But it's less nerdy than the tattoo of such that I kind of want but don't trust anybody to do right.

Dear Weather,

You've been warm for six months. This is getting out of hand. I live in Brooklyn, which is supposed to have four seasons. You're running out of time to squeeze them all in, and I am watching you shut either my window for delightful, in-between, corduroy jacket weather, or my window for fun, romping-in-the-snow weather. (You simply will not have time for both if you keep this up. And we won't even talk about your sucking spring right into summer.) You are vexing me.

Please, cut it out.

Adair

1. Number of impositions of my will on the universe: 2.
A. Weather chilling [see below].
B. Shaming the would-be pseudometalhead F-train businessman into quieting his iPod with one eviscerating glare. Yeah, buddy, we've all heard "Master of Puppets". You still aren't scary.

2. Number of unsolicited compliments on my mouthing off today in class: 3.

3. Number of unsolicited compliments (truly! from strangers!) on my karaoke bellowing of "Bye Bye Love" at a school social function: 2.

This is what is known as "a good day".

Yesterday evening, as I prepared to head out for a friend's birthday party, I was not listening to the latest indie rock sensation. Oh no. I had C-SPAN's broadcast of the Fourth Circuit oral arguments in the Al-Marri case on. It wasn't even video. It was audio with still publicity shots of whichever judge or attorney was speaking at that moment.

The shame!

The probably quite wonderful, charming, noble, etc., fellow student who is sitting opposite me and banging each key on her laptop as though the keys are in danger of flying off in the absence of constant, violent suppression.

Esteemed fellow student, you're shaking the whole damn table. And you're loud. Knock it off.

Not a lot to say, as things are just zipping along toward finals. Soon, no doubt, there will be an incident that merits blogging, but right now there's nothing doing. Those looking for an amusing read would be well served by reading the Pinto Letters. If I live to be a hundred, I will never write anything as funny as that first e-mail.

"At that instant she felt that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends for moments of such painful confusion."
—Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 53

Responding to Shiny's challenge, I have made South Park versions of myself*. If you've done it before, do it again--there are more options now.

I, for instance, availed myself of the t-shirt text option to help embody my two major moods now that we're hitting finals (note the backpack!):

To answer a possible question: Yes, I really do have those shirts. (It started as an inside joke that's a bit too complicated to tell for the pay-off.) But I've discovered that when you're wearing a midnight blue shirt that says NOT OKAY, people are given fair notice of what they're dealing with.

And when you're wearing a bright red shirt that says OKAY? Everybody's your friend.

* I would like to note that I do not part my hair in the middle. I have not completely given up on myself.

Not a lot of time for discursive entries as finals make their demands. So, in quick digest format:

What I Have Learned This Week:

1. The word "faggot" is still a sufficiently incendiary insult that it can instantly escalate a simple snowball fight into an actual punching-people-on-the-subway fight. (This one was quickly broken up, fortunately.)
1a. Recent events notwithstanding, the conductor on whose train this occurs will be more concerned about the door being blocked than about the two teenagers battering one another.

2. Nothing in one's dress, appearance, or conduct can help one escape being called "a hot little number" if the other party is sufficiently drunk and inexplicably fixated. Eugheugheughgghghghgh.

3. There is no relief in completing one exam when two more are in the barrel.

What in the name of all that was ever sweet, just, and true are you DOING? I don't know what you're trying to microwave, but I guarantee you that it should not take you three solid minutes of continuous button-pushing, beeping, and door-slamming to get it done. Are you entering a launch code? Is that what is going on? Is that not, in fact, a microwave at all, despite its presence in the student lounge?

If so, I should remind you that the University's code of conduct, while liberal, surely frowns on the use of its resources for nuclear attack. So really, you should KNOCK IT THE FUCK OFF immediately.

Thank you.

Adair Iacono

Shiny tagged me to do this. I usually greet chain letters/emails/recipes with a wrathful binning, but since this one carries no threat and is instead a mere interesting exercise, I'm going along with it.

So:

Ten Weird Things about Adair

1. Capitalized prepositions hurt me. (That's why "about" is lowercase in the title; when not the first or last word of a title, a preposition of any length should be lowercase.) There's part of me that will never understand why people didn't absorb this rule in English class or don't care about getting it right.

2. I count words and have a weird system for doing so. This is going to make me sound absolutely batshit, I know, but here's how it all works:

When people speak, I count their words off on my fingers. Not always, but often. (When I was little and developed this habit, it was all the time.) I don't move my hands at all while doing this, just mentally assign the words to a digit and carry on conversation as though nothing else were happening. I don't just count off, though. It goes like this:

Counting the ten fingers:
Left pinkie, right pinkie; left thumb, right thumb; left ring, right ring, left pointer, right pointer, left middle, right middle -- from the outside in with the left going first.

Counting the spaces between:
Left between pinkie and ring, right between pinkie and ring; left between thumb and pointer, right between thumb and pointer. And so on, again working outside-in, left to right.

Unifying the hands:
Each hand gets a word of unification (left then right), and one word to unify them both. If this third, unifying word does not end a sentence, the unification does not happen at all. Instead, a cycle of 10 (and, if needed, 8) begins again. Unification can happen after any 10 or 8, but not any other time. When unification happens, I can start over or set it all aside.

And so, I love sentences of 13 and 21 words a lot.

3. When I was little, I had weird shoelace issues. I hated -- still kinda do -- the way the end of a lace will flap against your shoe after a bow is tied. So I would pull it in right against the knot. Since I also hated my shoes being loose, this meant that there would then be a hell of a lot of string in the bows -- bringing the annoying flop issue back into play. And so I would not just double-knot my laces, but stack knots on top of knots, all of them so tight as to render the knot superstructure immobile. When I went over my friend Christina Leonard's house to play and had to take my shoes off, it took forever.

4. Despite the crazy-train obsessiveness one would think is associated with habits like those detailed in #2 and #3, I am incredibly messy.

5. I hate Paul McCartney. It's atavistic and almost violent. Every time I hear his voice, all I can think is "BULLSHIT!" There is no life story associated with this, nothing about his personal history or any event in my life that makes this so. I've tried to like his work because everyone assumes that everyone else likes the Beatles and Paul, and it would make my life easier if I did. But whenever I hear his work, I am possessed with a certainty that he is where authenticity goes to die. And so I have no use for the Beatles' records, but get along famously with the Lennon solo albums and am friendly enough with George Harrison's solo work. Hell, even Ringo's put out a fun song or two. But Paul McCartney? HATE. HATE. HATE.

6. My left thumb is shorter than my right thumb. Dunno why. It looks like it didn't cook long enough or something -- the top phalange just stops short, nail bed included.

7. I remember lyrics to songs really well. This is an asset come karaoke time.

8. I hate coffee.

9. I love Mother Goose liverwurst. No substitutes. All other kinds -- peh. Good luck finding the good stuff, though.

10. I am very streaky. I'll want the same food for a long time, paint in the same color/style for a long time, listen to the same few songs for a long time. And then my fixation will wear down to a gentle affection.

The people I tag will be tagged in private, as I am fairly sure none of them will go for this. I don't need my pull dismissed publicly.