Two crazy go in — only one crazy come out!

In this corner: occupying a single seat surrounded by an uninhabitable five-foot surrounding perimeter of psychosis and stank: Crazy Homeless Dude!

And in this corner, occupying three seats (ass on the middle one, legs spread wide enough to render the two on either side useless to other riders), blasting iPod leakage at an obscene volume: Borderline Personality Douchebag!

The bell sounds, the doors close, and Crazy Homeless Dude seems to be a little bit less than interested in this match, frankly, he’s muttering and checking out his shoes. Meanwhile, Borderline Personality Douchebag is going great guns. He’s taking up his full allotment of three seats and doing — well, something nearly indescribable. If you’ve ever ridden the New York City subway, you’ll recognize it immediately, otherwise you may have to use your imagination. He’s spread wide over the seats, his upper body hunched over, head down, arms slightly raised and dropped at the elbows, in the universally recognized posture denoting “Rar! I’m a monstah,” while shifting, rocking and lurching his hulking upper body spastically, in some perverse approximation of the rhythm blasting from his headphones.

This continues until the train leaves the tunnel and approaches the bridge, at which point — Borderline Personality Douchebag is on the move! He’s out of his seat! He’s blocking the door! He’s now doing his lurching hulk dance from a standing position! This is incredible! I’ve never seen anything like — oh, my God! He’s attracted Crazy Homeless Dude’s attention! Crazy Homeless Dude catches Borderline Personality Douchebag’s antics from the corner his eye and — he’s off! Crazy Homeless Dude executes a near-flawless double take! Crazy Homeless Dude is clearly not liking the look of this, aaaaannnnnnnnnnd! There it is! Crazy Homeless Dude is now cautiously flitting his eyes about, scanning the faces of his fellow passengers, clearly with but one question in mind:

“Can anybody else see that?”

Crazy Homeless Dude shifts a wary glance back in Borderline Personality Douchebag’s direction, and the expression on Crazy Homeless Dude’s face tells the whole story:

“No, seriously, am I the only one who can see this, because — okay, straight up? I sold those pills they gave me for malt liquor. But this is … new. And quite frankly, troubling."

And the referee has called it: It’s Crazy Homeless Dude by Technical Knockout!

Because seriously, Borderline Personality Douchebag: when the psychotic homeless guy thinks you look like you’re nuts, that’s basically the whole shootin' match, right there.

That's all from me here at the PsychoDome, see you all next time on New York City Subway Crazy -- Tag Team Edition!

So I’m walking down the street behind these two dudes, one of whom has this little yippy dog on a leash. And they’re a couple of pretty big guys, older, like late 50s, early 60s, and the dog is of some small, terrier-like variety. And as they’re walking along, the dog … well, the dog makes a little tinkle on the sidewalk, which, okay. Is kind of what dogs do, so no biggie. Except that upon discovering this, the dudes stop walking, acknowledge the little pool of tinkly water on the pavement, and at that point, Dude 1 reaches into his pocket and extracts a handkerchief, a cloth handkerchief, and makes as if to mop up the pee. And I’m like, DUDE, NO! You don’t — what — holy — WTF? Seriously? And just when I think it can’t get any weirder, Dude the Second reaches into his pocket and produces a washcloth — an actual, terrycloth washcloth — and says chivalrously, “no, don’t use that. Here, take this.” At which point my mind basically collapses into itself like an imploding star and I’m all DUUUUDE NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! You don’t — it’s not — you aren’t expected to clean up your dog’s pee! I mean, good on you for doing your part to keep our city clean, eh? And I’d be the last person in the world to object to anyone trying to, you know, clean anything. I have no quarrel with the intent, it’s your method of execution that’s losing me. I mean, okay, sure, fine, you want to clean up after little Snickers’ every bodily emanation, more power to you. You want to carry around a wad of paper towels and a pocketful of plastic baggies, Mr. Monk, I’d salute your ingenuity and your sense of civic responsibility but Jesus H. Christ, what are you seriously planning to do with that thing once you’re done? PUT IT BACK IN YOUR POCKET?!??! Are you really going to spend the rest of the day carrying around a dog pee-saturated wash cloth, until he either whizzes again or you get home and put the infernal thing in the laundry?? WITH YOUR TOWELS THAT YOU USE WHEN YOU TAKE A SHOWER?!?!?! WITH THE SHEETS AND PILLOWCASES THAT YOU SLEEP ON?!?!??! What the hell is WRONG with you?!?! Good lord.

Don’t get me wrong. I am all for anything that helps to rid our streets of any unpleasantness but sweet Christ with a side of onion rings people are fucking nuts.

So, there was this table on ebay. It's been there for about three or four months without any takers. What would happen was, the owner put it up on the "buy it now" section for $150. NOthing. I was vaguely interested but not completely committed and at $150, I thought, not so much.

So eventually it was taken down from buy it now and put up for regular auction with an opening bid of $35. Again, I wasn't utterly persuaded by it and didn't bid.

Another few weeks go by. Thing doesn't sell.

It goes back up on "buy it now" for another month or six weeks or whatever. Nothing.

Then it goes back again into the auctions, and this time I thought aw, screw it. I'll bid $50. No one else bids, but hte opening bid was $35, so through this whole auction my $35 remains in place -- until about an hour before the bidding ended, at which point someone comes in, places a single bid (of $51). They didn't work their way up from $36, mind you (at least not as far as I can tell. Just randomly opened at $51, and I lose the table.

Now, for obvious reasons I don't really mind that much, but am I the only one who wonders if this was an entirely legitimate process, or if the owner maybe just had a friend or something "rescue" her table so she wouldn't have to let it go for less than she wanted?

Playwright needed to write a play (manhattan)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 2009-09-22, 2:04PM EDT
Reply to:XXXXX@yahoo.com [Errors when replying to ads?]

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


WE ARE IN NEED OF A PLAYWRIGHT TO WRITE A PLAY SO THAT OUR CURRENT LISTING OF ACTORS & ACTRESSES CAN ACT OUT THE PLAY THAT YOU WRITE,CONSISTING OF 14 CHARACTERS.if you are GOOD at writiing plays,then you are the one.Please send email info with number and our secretary will call you back.We look forward to working with you......


Location: manhattan
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Compensation: TO BE DISCUSSED


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


ASLO INDEED OF CARPENTER FOR BUILDING HOUSE SO THAT OUR PAINTERS CAN APPLY TO IT WITH BRUSHES SOME PAINT,CONSISTING OF ME AND MY FRIENDS AND MABE MY BROTHER AND HIS ROOMATE SCRAPING PLASTERING BRUSHES if you are GOOD at bilding houses, send me your adress and I will have my girl getback to you. Hurry please our brushes are drying out and also we yearn to ACT!!!

And that concludes today’s “Profiles in craigslist.” craigslist. Putting the cart just a wee smidge before the horse since 1995.

Looking Possibly for comedy co-writer (Midtown)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 2009-09-15, 6:26PM EDT
Reply to: gigs-XXXXXXXX@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Looking Possibly for comedy co-writer
I know I'm funny. Looking for a cowriter with similar comedic sensibilities and tastes. And be funny.
If you like anything on MTV or similar low class garbage-we're not a match.
If you like Jack Benny,Jackie Vernon (points if these days you even know who they are) Rodney Dangerfield, Don Rickels (up to a point), yes Bea Arthur and currently Larry David, we may get along.
I consider sex 'jokes' idiotic,' and political' jokes moronic. I'm into sharp, witty,(though that word sounds too pretensious-and don't think Marx Brothers-too boring), down-to-earth, in your face hilarity. Maybe a sitcom or more, movies, Think Borscht belt. Don't think Monty Python!
Think Jackie Mason. Don't think Bill Mahr (yich!!!). Think Bea Arthur-don't think Sally Silverman or Lucille Ball. Think Henny Youngman. Don't think Bill Cosby (ewhh!) Think Buddy Hackett. Don't think Woody Allen (at least the current version). Think Jewish (although you don't have to be Jewish-it can't hurt-give em some chicken soup-whatever, blah blah blah). Don't think Waspy. (There, I said it!!!) I'm open to suggestions.
And yes I currently live in New Jersey. I'll prove it to you:
"What can I do ya for!" See. There!
And no. I'm not looking for someone to 'evaluate' my ideas and give me 'free' (and worth every penny) suggestions as how to 'develop' the 'characters' like this is some type of faggotized (there I said that) writing class-where they suck all of the spontanaety, life and enjoyment out of every pure idea. No I (maybe we-who knows) have the ideas-that's what
partners do-develop ideas into full fledged scripts, concepts, sitcoms. Skits. Standup, movies. Obviously I haven't been able to do this by myself up to now, that's where “two heads are better than one” comes in-Jack! (or Jill !)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And that concludes to today’s “Profiles in craigslist.” craigslist: Blurring the line between brilliant satire and what happens when you start stashing the yellow pills between the mattress and box spring since 1995.

I’m sitting here right now in a kind of startled state of self-reproach. It’s a long story, but it’s kind of a life lesson in listening to your gut, so here goes.

First, a little back story: Back in the early to mid-90s, I was enjoying the single most wonderful period of happiness, creativity, productivity and just flat out joy of my entire life before or since. My then-collaborator and I were working on a project we were both crazy in love with, and every week, without fail, we would go out on Tuesday and pick up a copy of the NYPress, a paper neither of us really appreciated the political POV of, but which was an early adopter of David Sedaris and which, every week, featured the Rob Brezhny horoscope.

We used to live in weekly anticipation of that horoscope. Not in a cow-eyed, gullible way so much as in the way in which some people look forward to their first cup of coffee or their first cigarette, or their morning shower or their morning run. It was how we started our week, and it used to amaze and charm and excite us how often Rob’s predictions were right in tune with where we actually were, the obstacles we were facing, the successes we were having. It was a little weekly ritual and when we were in doubt about what course to take, we would listen to Rob. If Rob said, “this is a time to sit back and meditate on challenges, rather than trying to meet them directly,” we wouldn’t even try to fix that creaky scene in the second act until he said, “this is your moment to tackle those problems!” If we’d been in the same time zone, we would have set our watches by Rob’s horoscopes.

My thing with horoscopes is, I think they can be a fun little boost; the advice contained in them is general and so typically optimistic and common sensible that they rarely say anything you didn’t already sort of know intuitively, so I think they can kind of cut through a lot of the mental plaque and help get you to the heart of the matter. You may know perfectly well, deep down inside, where you’re soft, like a woman, that it’s time to quit the job that’s been making you miserable for a year. You’re smart and have skills and you’d probably be okay, and besides, you’re miserable. But sometimes you just stay in denial about it until the day your horoscope says: “April brings a signal from the universe to cut the ties that bind. Leap, and assume the universe will catch you!” And that’s when you know. That’s how you know. And that’s why I like horoscopes. That’s why, in a sense, I might almost say I “believe” in them

So, recently I happened to start reading my monthly horoscope, and I couldn’t help take note of the fact that the astrologer I was reading kept emphasizing this amazing, miraculous, joyful productive, several-year long cycle I was entering, and that I hadn’t seen a phase like this since, well, the early-to-mid nineties. And in fact, that is very true. And for the second week of September, she was all about the huge amount of work I would be tackling, which I sort of blew off, because in fact I really didn’t have much work scheduled for that period at all.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, I heard that co-worker of mine had been awarded an NEA grant. And I mean, I like this woman, she’s a lovely person and for all I know very talented, but of course my first thought was. “How did so-and-so wind up with an NEA grant?” And of course the answer came back loud and clear: “Well, for starters, I’m guessing she probably APPLIED for one.” Then, on the Saturday before Labor Day, as I was lying in bed half-awake, I had one of those very clear, not-quite-awake moments of “there are all kinds of big money awards out there for musical theater. You need to fill out some applications.” And I knew I had a notebook somewhere that had all the deadline dates written in it, but it was packed away with some old papers.

Or at least, it had been packed away with some old papers until a couple of days before, when just coincidentally I had been looking for something else and left the notebook right on my bedroom dresser. So I checked the list, and of course all of the deadlines had past, except for one. But that was the big one: the Kleban award, which is a $100,000 cash award. Actually, two: one for lyricists and one for librettists. And I recently finished a very good musical theater libretto. So. The only problem was, the only deadline information I had was “September.” So if was September 1, then I was screwed, since it was already the 5th, but if it was the 30th, then there was every chance I could pull this off.

Naturally, I couldn’t get to a computer to check until Sunday afternoon, and when I did it turned out that the deadline was September 15. Oh, and even for a libretto submission, you still had to show all the lyrics. They didn’t need music, but they did to see lyrics.

And I thought to myself, I thought: hmmm. I wonder if there’s some way I could fudge this. It wouldn’t be easy, but I had seven days. Could I write ten to fifteen musical theater lyrics in that amount of time? It would obviously be extremely difficult, and it was a long-shot at best, but, I thought, how could I not at least try? And I decided I would be positive, extremely positive. I would just assume it could be done. I would simply not entertain any thought that it could not be done, because believe it or not, that almost always works for me.

Except that it wasn’t really ten days, because I was traveling most of the day on Monday, and Tuesday through Friday were work days. But I worked where I could find time, and I was actually not doing as badly as you might think, until at 10:30 on Saturday night, the document in which I had been working simply winked out of existence, never to be seen or heard from again. And at that point I was terribly resolute and thought, well, okay. It was probably never meant to be, and it might not have been the best thing to submit a rush job, and hell, as I said elsewhere. It’s not like I still won’t want the hundred grand next year. So I decided not to kill myself over it and just calmly admitted defeat. Then, today, I happened to be directed to Rob’s website by someone else’s facebook post, and this was my horoscope for last week:

“If you build it, they will probably come. If you just pretend to build it, they may come anyway, and end up sticking around because of your charming attunement to life's deeper rhythms. If, as you build it or pretend to build it, you act manic or send out mixed messages, they may be intrigued and attracted, but they definitely won't come. So my advice, Pisces, is to suppress your mood swings as you at least start pretending to build the thing in earnest.”

And I am here to tell you, if I had seen that sucker a week ago? There is no power on earth that would have prevented me from completing and submitting that script. There’s a story about some turn lady swimmer, I want to say Annette Kellerman, but anyway, she was one of the first people to attempt to swim the English Channel, and she swam it on a very foggy day, and in the end, she didn’t make it. But what’s weird is, she gave up just a few hundred feet from the shore. She said later, if only she had known; if it hadn’t been so foggy, if she had been able to see the shore, there’s no doubt in her mind she would have made it. I believe her.

This wasn’t some big catastrophe or anything. The submission year for everything is pretty much over now, and next year is coming up bleeding fast. I’ll have a much better chance at those awards then, and in the meantime, I did some good work and overcame a big hurdle in even starting to work on the score of this show at all (which I’ve been kind of nervous about doing). So it’s all good. But I feel like maybe the Universe was trying to tell me something. I think I need to start listening to my gut again. It’s almost always right, and it was probably right this time. I just let reality get in my way. If I had believed at the outset, however superstitiously, that this was Meant To Be, I would have found a way to make it happen.

Next time I’ll try to remember that.

Yesterday I was in The Container Store, you know. Shopping for containers. And I heard a voice behind me say, “Yo, that is GANGSTA!” And I turned to see a young twenty-something-ish man talking on his cell phone. And this, in its entirety, was what I overheard him to say to the person on the other end of the conversation:

“Yo, that is GANGSTA! They got one of those things you put your keys in, only it’s magnetic and you can stick it on the door.”

Now, I realize that I personally may have just slightly less street cred than Florence Henderson, so I suspected that possibly, I might not be the best person to comment on this particular use of the term “gangsta,” so out of pure curiosity, I checked out urbandictionary.com and sure enough, under the entry for “gangsta,” I found the following:

Ex: “Check it out, this magnetic key holder from the Container Store is gangsta! That shit be way more dope than that acrylic hook you found out the Hold Everything catalogue.”

So it turns out I’m even more out of touch with the young people of today than I realized. Go figure.

Need proctor to sopervious two exams (Midtown West)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 2009-08-16, 9:19PM EDT
Reply to: gigs-XXXXXXXXXXX@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]

I am in need for a proctor to supervisor two exams I need to take.


________________________

The second is in something else. I’m feeling pretty confident about that one.

And that concludes today’s “Profiles in craigslist.” craigslist. Just plain goofy sometimes since 1995.

that my first thought when I see this photo is: "Sssoooooooooooooo, laydieeeeeeees. Step right this way..."

Folks, my morning routine as a rule is fairly, well, routine. I get up, I shower, I putter. I take a walk, whatever. But the last hour before I leave to go to work is generally pretty much the same: Between 10 and 10:30, I make a cup of tea, I eat breakfast, I sit with my ice pack on my back, all while watching Frasier. Between 10:30 and 11, I wash the dishes, brush my teeth and wash my face while watching Decorating Cents on HGTV. During “trash to treasure,” which is usually a pretty stupid segment, I put on my clothes and shoes, grab my keys and by 11 o’clock I’m out the door. My train leaves at about 11:15 and that gets me to work by noon.

Well, today, apparently Thumpy McBangBang upstairs took a sick day or something, because at around 10 a.m. she comes slamming and clattering back into her apartment, and about two minutes later the assault of the boombox began. I stuck this out until around 10:30, but then it turned out that I had seen this particular Decorating Cents a couple times, and it wasn’t a particularly good one, and the thing is this: I need those few, precious golden hours between 8 and 11 in the morning. I need that time to detox, unwind, decompress. To recover from being awakened at 6 a.m., after a night of the somewhat imperfect sleep one typically finds between the layers of non-stop TV din from upstairs and the constant white noise generated by the fan I keep running 365 days a year to drown out the TV din from upstairs. Lately, it’s been pretty hot, and I’m guessing Thumpy has the AC going pretty much constantly when she’s home, which I’m guessing makes a lot of noise in her apartment, which causes her to turn the TV up even louder, so that for the past few weeks, I’ve been having to turn the fan up from low to medium to drown out the sound of the TV that I keep the fan running to drown out the sound of. With.

Now, the funny thing is that this has been going on for so long now I’m pretty well inured to it. As long as I get my quiet time. Because the thing is, if I don’t get those two or three hours of relative peace and quiet before I have to suit up and face my day, especially that first large chunk of my day that’s spent on the subway, being assaulted by the noise blasting from thirty random sets of iPod headphones, my blood pressure spikes, my heart rate goes thready and by four pm I’m twitching at my desk like a crack-addicted Cappuccine monkey after a couple of double-shot espressos.

So.

When I realized I didn’t particularly need to see this particular episode of “the Cents,” again I said to myself, I said Self, I said, who needs this two-bit crackerjack hustle? Let’s blow this popsicle stand. You and me baby, two for the road, what say? Because whenever I’m pissed off and sleep-deprived, the voices in my head start to sound like the Gig Young character from an early ‘50s “adult” romantic comedy.

So I left the house a half hour early and walked up to Century 21, just to see if any of those towels were left, and sure enough, they were both still there, and I bought the pair. And now, from the sales tag, I had one tiny additional nugget of information to work with, which was that apparently, the towels were made by Bardwil.

So I google that, and tada:

http://www.hometextilestoday.com/article/CA6643714.html

Apparently, earlier this year, Bardwil had in fact resurrected the Vera line.

Sources report that nobody was interested, and nobody cared. Maybe it’s just the downturn in the economy, but it would appear it was not a big hit. Macy’s carried some placemats for a while, but that was about it.

Another article however, informed me that there was something called The Vera Company, which has it’s own website, and apparently she does mostly clothing now. Also, I’m not as crazy about her newer designs. Frankly, I like the vintage stuff better. Although I may need to invest in that Central Park scarf, not to wear, but to frame and hang on the wall.

Oh, and also:

http://www.theveracompany.blogspot.com/

ETA: Huh. According to that blog, Macy's only started carrying the line about a week ago. So maybe it's not that they don't carry the stuff anymore, so much as they're just gearing up to get it in the store.

So this is kind of weird.

Yesterday I was in Century 21, just browsing because I happened to be in the neighborhood. I was wandering through the kitchenware department, and I saw this kitchen towel — the kind of non-terry cloth one that I don’t really care for because they aren’t very absorbent and are really more decorative than anything else. It was bright orange, had an attractive, eye-catching pattern on it, and I was immediately drawn to it. When I took it off the shelf, I saw that it had the “Vera” signature/logo on it, which I thought was odd, since that line has been out of print for a couple of decades, but also explained why I liked it so much. Both my mom and my aunt (her sister) had a lot of sheets, towels and bath things of hers back in the 70s, and the big, bold graphics were deeply imprinted on my aesthetic sense-memory. Also, I had recently decided to incorporate orange as an accent color in my living room, which has a kind of mid-century theme going on, and since my kitchen opens onto my living room, I thought it might be nice to have a little flash of orange in there too. There were only two of these towels in the store, they were marked down to 99 cents each, and I thought what the hell. I’ll buy them. So I went to pay for them, and it was just one of those very busy days, where the line virtually looped two or three times through the store, and I was like, you know, I don’t think I really want anything that badly, let alone two 99-cent dishrags. So I put them down and I left without them.

Now, today, I’m googling around and I see no trace whatsoever of these towels. I mean, there are a few 30+-year-old vintage pieces on etsy and ebay, but no indication at all of new, current Vera-branded merchandise. It’s the weirdest thing. And now, since I’m beginning to think those two were the only ones out there anywhere, I kind of regret not just sticking it out on the line. I suppose it’s possible that the Vera name was bought up by another company, and the stuff is being marketed under that name instead. Still, it’s pretty random.

Ideal lj fodder, in fact.

(For those who are design freaks, yes, I did try searching under “pappelina” too, but that yielded even less than the vera/vera neumann search).

Travel Rate Wars

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reply to: comm-XXXXX@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]
Date: 2009-07-15, 5:38PM EDT









CLICK HERE TO VIEW DREAM TRAVEL

world flight Hong white security way wanted not all hey of security the helpless pretty just from burned law they wind look all time of Rider Hong got fly Round the shadowy plenty If pot rainbows where world taught Cheryl always the crusade tough

------------------------------------------------

Always the crusade tough, Cheryl. Always the crusade tough.

College Girl Needs Phenomenal Literary Agent! (Downtown)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reply to: xxxxxxxxxzx@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]
Date: 2009-07-09, 6:50PM EDT



I am a 22 year old student who has just finished her first 300 page fiction novel. I am going through the process of editing it myself and tightening up loose ends. I have 4 other novels planned, 1 of which already has 100 pages completed.


I am looking for a literary agent who has the means to get me an amazing book deal with a big publisher. I want this literary agent to stick with me through all of my novels so that we can both profit. I want to be close to my agent as if we were family. I'm young, very marketable, and basically guarantee that I am not just a one-time novel writer. I started this book last september, finished most of it by january, took a couple months break to concentrate on classes, and then finished it in the past 2 months. I move quick, but my work is quality


it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Compensation: negotiate

———————————————————————————————————

Also, I would like a pony and a tiara, no — make that two tiaras, one regular and one where the diamonds are pink. I would prefer it if you would pick up the tab for our first meeting, and I’m partial to the Russian Tea Room, but I’d settle for the bar at the Algonquin, even though I know what a cliché that must sound like lol. Let's just call it "ironic" lol.

Now, as for my advance. I’m thinking in the low-to-mid millions, but between you and me, I’ll give you permission to settle for the higher 750’s-to-800 thousands if push comes to shove, seeing as how there’s a depression and also I realize I have to pay my dues. But in that case I must absolutely insist upon retaining the film rights, up to and including full script approval and consultation on casting. I don’t think that’s unreasonable, because this book is me, it is my baby and it is my soul and that’s hard for people to understand but all the greats feel this way, I assure you, about their writing.

Finally, I’d like to get all this petty paper-pushing nonsense wrapped up and out of the way by the end of the summer — sooner if possible so I can take a couple of weeks around Labor Day to just decompress at the beach and get ready for Novel Two, so if you can get back to me ASAP about this that would be awesome. I'll have my cell turned off tonight and most of Saturday because of plans with friends (whom you must understand come first with me, always) but I will be free most of Sunday so possibly we can do brunch? If that's too "short notice" any time during this coming week would be okay too I guess.

So I guess that's it. I'm eager to get to work and so are you I'm sure so, shoot me an e-mail and let's get started! So excited lol!

Oh and Binky you bitch, if you’re reading this now you can just go eff off, you had your chance and you blew it.

And that concludes today’s Profiles In craigslist. craigslist. Leaving me smiling quietly to myself since 1995.

I can hardly express the degree to which this fills me with joy.

There is now no longer a solitary split second in your entire fucking life on earth in which you need suffer the outrage and indignity of knowing a blessed moment’s privacy.

Or do you think this coffee table is supposed to look like underpants?

Recently I was at Jack's on 45th Street, which is basically a little discount store that sells discontinued and overstocked stuff and crap. More discontinued/overstock than crap, usually. And they had these little planting kits, that consisted of a little glazed, ceramic flower pot, soil and seeds for about $3, so I bought three little pink pots of sweet peas for my bedroom window.

It took a while for me to get around to it, but when I finally put the things together, I had a total blast. It turns out that the soil wasn’t actually soil, but these little … disks, like small hockey pucks, the size of like, a can of Fancy Feast, only thinner: maybe half an inch thick. And you dropped these things like Alka Seltzers into a dish of water, and they would swell up to around five times their original size and become this very rich, moist planting medium, enough to fill the whole pot. This utterly enchanted me, so much so that I went out at lunch time today to buy several more pots for my sister’s kids and for her boyfriend’s kids also. I don’t know why it is, but I am completely in thrall to almost anything that swells up in water. A few years ago, I got my nephew a set of these little bugs, maybe an inch or so overall, that you could soak in water overnight, and the next day they would be the size of a small tricycle. Okay, not really, but they got incredibly large and I think I enjoyed them more than he did.

Anyway, I planted the seeds and put them in the sun and the next thing I know, Nature is happening all the fuck over my windowsill. Within two days, they were already starting to sprout, and within a week, I had seedlings. After ten days, these fuckers are catapulting toward the eight-inch mark in height. Not only that, but nearly all of them “took” and they’re so sturdy I actually suspect they may live long enough to bloom. I honestly have no idea if this is about right, time-wise, or if the planting medium had some kind of magic go-boom dust in it or something. But it’s completely fascinating to me. The first thing I do every morning now is go and visit my little green things, to check on their size and overall condition, and it’s amazing. The past couple of days, I swear these things have grown more than an inch overnight. And the hilarious part is, I feel really good about it. Which is insane, but it actually feels like some kind of achievement. Like I’ve accomplished something. And they don’t care. They’re all, like, “look, just gimme water and don’t knock me off the sill, okay? I got this, really. I’m good.”

But I watch them, and I marvel at how cute and strong and self-reliant they are, and I'm careful to water-but-not-overwater, and I switch their positions around so that each one gets a chance to be in the middle for at least a couple of days (for some reason, the one in the middle always seems to be the tallest, and I have theorized that this is because the light is most direct there) and I blog about them and think I’m doing something right, or even at all. It’s awesome.

Now I understand why people have kids.

by the impeccable condition of her pantyhose.