Things Containing Less Bullshit than Bush's State of the Union Address

Four-acre stockyard.

James Frey's memoir, A Million Little Pieces

Six-acre stockyard.

Ten-acre stockyard.

The Terrible Follow-Up

I was reading today in the New York Times about the Arctic Monkeys, whose debut album

"Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not" (Domino), has been instantly -- and accurately -- hailed as a modern classic, even though it was only released a week ago. The British music magazine NME ranked it at No. 5 on a recent list of the greatest British albums ever.

And I thought, How do they follow up something like that? The singer and lyricist just turned twenty. It seems awfully young to peak. And then I thought of the old saying about bands, which also applies to writers: You have your whole life to write your first album, and one year to write the second. What if it took twenty years to write this album? Does that mean they won't be able to do another until they're forty?

The other day I grabbed issue #4 of Optic Nerve, an indie comic put out by Drawn & Quarterly. It's a graphic novella about a twenty-six year-old writer whose first novel was a decent success, but he finds when he's trying to write the follow-up, that he has nothing left to say.

"I'm still stuck on the new book," the main character, Martin, says. "Every idea I get is just some variation on the first book! I don't have enough real experiences to write about, and I can't do some made-up fiction thing... I don't really know how to make stuff up."

And that's just where I am, at least creatively. All of the three books I've started after The Cranberry Hush have been Hush-lite. My favorite author, John Steinbeck, said that there's only one book to a man, and that everything before it is practice. That's fine, but what happens if that one great book is the first one? What if the Arctic Monkeys said all they had to say with their first album?

The strategy of Martin, mentioned above, was to subconsciously (or maybe consciously) start creating drama in his life, in order to get material for a new book. It doesn't say how long it's going to take him to amass enough experience for that new book; all we know is that is costs him his relationship. I'm not about to go sabotaging my life. I just wish there was more I could wring out of the past.

25 and the Dream Job

Many of my friends have turned 25 in the last two months, and many more 25th birthdays are on 2006's calendar. A year ago, we celebrated the first 25th birthday within our group in Las Vegas. The vacation was fun, but the birthday itself was not treated as a big deal. The birthday boy did not give it a second thought and neither did the rest of us. It was not the mark of adulthood, not an indication that, by now, you should definitely have made something of your life. Now the 25th birthdays are ticking off one-by-one as the days go by (four this month). Those who are now a quarter-century old are not taking it as well as last year's Turning-25-Frontrunner. I've heard: "I'm 25 and haven't done shit with my life" "I thought I'd be married by now" "I thought I'd have kids by now" "I thought I'd have accomplished something by now." Many of them took the occasion as an opportunity to quietly freak out about the current state of their love lives and careers. I don't think I'll be that upset about turning 25. (Maybe that's because it's a year and a half away.) The number itself doesn't intimidate me; it will be like all my other birthdays in the last five years. I usually have a day or two around every birthday in which I weigh my life progress, let myself get bogged down by what-ifs and regrets, and kick myself for not accomplishing more yet. Then I get presents or phone calls, listen to out-of-tune voices singing to me, and cheer up. What I'm getting at is: How many people are truly happy with where they are? At 25, at 35, at 45, at 55? At an informal breakfast meeting with our company's president, attended by about 15 people from different departments of the company, we were each asked about our dream job. All of these people, who seem to live and breathe their current occupations, had dream jobs that were completely different. Someone said they would be a pilot, another said they'd want to coach a college football team, another said they'd want to write a novel, another said they'd want to be a photojournalist for National Geographic. Why aren't they doing that? Do they go to bed on the night of their birthday each year feeling like their life is a disappointment? It's the cliche career advice: "What's your dream job?" and whatever you answer should be the job you pursue. I know it's not that easy. But I wonder why it's not that easy. Why do people let themselves be intimidated by the things they want more than anything? Why are we afraid of taking risks in relationships or jobs that could have infinite payoff? How (and why) do we let our lives meander so off-target from our initial aspirations?

I Wanna Drive the Zamboni

Whenever I walk past the Boston Common skating rink, which I do twice a day, and the zamboni is out, all eyes are glued to the ice. Passersby stare at the zamboni, slackjawed, like children in Toys R Us. So enthralled are they by this ice-resurfacing vehicle that they trip over things, crash into one another, tumble down small embankments. And I can't blame them.

What is it about the zamboni? I too, since the hockey games I went to when I was little, have always been echanted. Is it the mystery? (How exactly does a zamboni do what it does?) Is it that one drives a zamboni standing up? Is it the crystal path it leaves in its wake? Are we intrigued by its potential, its ability to restore things fresh and new?

Whatever the reason, it's safe to say that the zamboni is a vehicle of dreams and dreamers. Moreso than the Space Shuttle or a Stealth bomber, our collective human imagination belongs to this ridiculous, beautiful smoother of ice.

The Night I Made Eggs

Tonight I made eggs, which is notable only because it's the first time I made eggs successfully. The only way I can tolerate eggs is when they're cooked over-easy. Unfortunately, over-easy is anything but.

Here, though, is my masterpiece. First, view it in the pan:


At this point it looks pretty much like every egg I've ever made. Beautiful, but pre-flipped. It's the flipping that destroys. Not this time. The flipping was a success. View in awe:


Look at that (the pink circle is fried bologna)! And to prove it was perfectly runny:


There are more photos, but that's all I'll post for fear of devastating your self-esteem, dear reader. Finally, here is a picture of my enthusiastic audience, who went so completely gaga with amazement and admiration, it was almost embarrassing.

New Year's Resolutions: Where Are They Now?

Resolution: Do push-ups and sit-ups. They'll provide worthwhile increases in strength and stamina.

Status: Failed. On January 3rd I pulled a tricep and that, my friends, was the end of that.

Resolution: Call my friends more. Email and IM is fine, but there's nothing like hearing a person's voice.

Status: Failed. In 2006 the fact remains: I still hate telephones.

Resolution: Write in your blog more.

Status: Failed to write in the old blog but succeeded in starting a new one!(!!!)

Resolution: Stop endlessly tinkering with the book I've already written and write another one, or at least a few short stories.

Status: Does revising a four-year-old short story count? Oh, there was also the one about the homeless man who commits suicide for spite, but that wasn't too great.

Bathroom Discourse, Part 4

I am not uptight about Number 2 in public places like malls, but I care a lot about it at work. I do end up going here sometimes, but if I walk into the bathroom with Number 2 intent and someone is in here, I leave. If I am in the stall and no one else is there and someone comes in, I look under the stalls to see their shoes and try to recognize them. If it's someone I know and work with daily, then I will not continue going until they leave. Unless they are someone who has farted in my presence in the bathroom. In that case, I figure their embarassment is far worse than mine could ever be, so I continue. And, yes, I recall each person who I have heard fart because I was so embarassed to be there when it happened and so embarassed for them, since they obviously weren't wasting any time or dignity on mortification.

When I am peeing and someone comes into the bathroom, I will finish and flush as soon as possible to lessen the suspicion that a Number 2 might have been going on. Also, if the bathroom is smelly from someone else's Number 2, I will make the walk downstairs to the second floor's bathroom rather than suffer the potential blame that the stench belongs to me (if I use the bathroom while it smells and am then caught leaving as another person is entering the bathroom and their nostrils are just detecting the odor).

Bathroom Discourse, Part 3

I think women probably have a more social bathroom atmosphere than men. I think only on television do men talk in bathrooms. As I said, my public bathroom experience is limited, but I don't recall ever hearing anyone speak.

I never, ever go Number 2 in a public bathroom. I have been known to withstand large amounts of abdominal pain waiting to get home. I can't understand how other people can do it so easily. My pal Josh, for example, goes #2 at every single bathroom he comes across, with no more regard for awkwardness than the typical breather has for inhaling. Josh is Josh, so I can live with it, but if the offender is an authority figure or someone attractive, I would think, "oh well, that's over." If HotNewGuy had gone into the stall instead of the urinal, he would have become just NewGuy.

The ladies' room farting is suprising. I can't even imagine doing such a thing. As far as I'm concerned farting is farting, no matter what room you're in. I would chew up my shirt sleeve trying to hold it in. When I was about ten my family vacationed at a campground -- because we were camping for a few days I had to eventually go #2. It made a loud plopping noise as it hit the water and I heard the two other kids in the bathroom start to giggle. I was absolutely mortified. Maybe I was traumatized, and that contributed to my distaste for public pooping.

Bathroom Discourse, Part 2

I have many issues with the office bathroom. There are three stalls. I always choose the farthest one away because that way no one passes by it and so they don't see me in it (although I'm not sure it matters, but I don't like the thought of being recognized through the little cracks around the door). When I am wearing black or another non-recognizable color, I am more okay with using the middle or closest stall because it is less likely that someone will recognize me in those colors, versus, for example, today's bright blue shirt I'm wearing. I think I don't like to be recognized because I don't like it when people come in once I'm already in a stall because I hate to think that they might assume that I've been in there for a long time.

I hate being in the bathroom when there are other people there because I hate the judgement surrounding hand washing. I wash my hands, but I won't do it when there are other people there because I don't want them to think I'm doing it only because I have to, or because I should. So I wait to wash my hands until whoever is also at the counter leaves. I'll pretend to fuss with my hair or my clothes to kill time until they go.

I know is uptight, but I am frequently horrified when people are in there for Number 2 reasons. Not because I'm denial about our body functions, but because some people are not at all uptight, and it makes me feel awkward. Example: An editor will be standing in the bathroom and having a conversation with me about a story we've worked on together or whatever, and then, when she goes into a stall and I turn to wash my hands (sometimes I wash them if someone is in the bathroom, but not actually there to see) and she farts loudly from the stall. I think, 'Wouldn't she try to hold it until she hears me leave?' I would care if someone heard me fart like that and knew it was me. If someone heard me fart, I'd think that would be all they'd ever remember about me. They'd be thinking about it when I'm talking to them about what book we should review or what source I found for the new story.

Another time I heard a godawful fart (followed by a noise like the one a garden hose makes when you first turn it on) from someone in the closest stall (when I was in the farthest) and I looked at the feet to see if I could recognize them. It was one of the young designers. I could tell because she wears these socks that have little pom-poms on the heel.

Bathroom Discourse, Part 1

I didn't leave work for lunch yesterday, which called for a mid-afternoon bathroom stop on-premises. I hate public bathrooms and avoid them at all costs. I don't understand how men can be comfortable peeing next to each other. There are several bathrooms where I work, both in the main office and outside in the classrooms corridor. On the rare occasions that I don't go out for lunch, I use the outer bathroom, which is more likely to be used by customers or students than fellow staff members. I figure, if I have to pee beside someone, I don't want to know them.

There are three small urinals and one stall. The stall, while more comfortable, I avoid because being seen using it would showcase my urinal discomfort. The leftmost urinal never has any water in it, so I avoid that too. I always use the middle one. They are small and close together.

So anyway, I'm going, trying to be quick about it like always, when I hear the bathroom door open. I brace myself, step closer to the urinal, as I suddenly feel very exposed.

"Just pee and flee," I tell myself.

The person steps to the urinal on my right, unzips. I sense awkwardness. I keep my eyes down, but I can tell via peripheral vision that it's HotNewGuy because he wears the same collared Gap polo shirts as me. He's also taller than I realized. I don't know if I should talk to him. Does one acknowledge another in the bathroom? Do people chat while peeing? I have no idea what bathroom etiquette is. He doesn't say anything and neither do I. I zip up (it seems so loud!), turn quickly to the left and step away from the urinal. I wash my hands. And as I'm pulling a sheet of paper towel, I hear him start to *go.* I had to chuckle. For some reason I felt empowered by the fact that it took him at least 45 seconds to get a stream going. If we had both been uncomfortable by the other's presence, he was the only one to reveal it. I was a bathroom master.

Office Attire

My office is a casual place. People wear jeans, often not just on Fridays. Unless it's a company meeting day, or something special is going on, everyone dresses in the way I imagine they'd dress to go to the grocery store or a doctor appointment. Not frumpy, but not much effort either.

The other two editorial assistants are very well dressed. They seem to go with my schedule: I try to dress well, and professionally all week, allowing myself jeans only on Fridays. Each of them have perfectly fitting clothes, and they each always look as though they are dressed for the job interview of their lifetime.

I mention this because it seems that the higher-ranking you are here, the more casually you dress. Meanwhile, the entry-level folks (or new people) look polished all the time. I guess it makes sense, but it struck me as funny.

Survey Says

Do you ever take those CNN Polls they have down on the bottom right corner of the page? I take them every day. Some days they are pretty superficial: "Who do you think will win the Super Bowl?" or "Will you watch the Golden Globes?" Most days the poll asks for opinions on top stories, or political goings-on. "Do you think the government did all it could to respond to Hurricane Katrina?" "How much of an economic affect will the gas price increase have on your household?" "Do you think Alito can give fair rulings on controversial issues like abortion?"

I take the polls every day and am always enforced by them because the vote I cast is usually the majority vote. The results pop up and I think, Wow, there are a lot of people out there who feel like me. Then I wonder why things are the way they are if most people think there should not be wire taps, the president is wrong most of the time, Alito should not be confirmed, etc. Then I try to remind myself that this poll is not a reflection of our nation. Anyone who is going to take the time to peruse CNN online and to answer the poll question is probably not an uninformed yokel, the type that we Massachusetts liberals look down our noses at. I know that's extremely partisan of me, but is there another explanation why the poll responses are always weighted towards a more liberal outlook?

A Netflix Viewer's Thoughts on "Six Feet Under," as of Season 3 Disc 1

Let's start with Brenda. She's a crazy manipulative bitch. I never felt like she belonged with Nate and I never bought that she actually cared about him, which was all the more painful because Nate is such a nice guy. To Brenda he was a just a game, an experiment, someone to screw with to get revenge for her own messed-up childhood (which she talked about way too much and blamed all of her problems on). I never trusted Brenda as far as I could throw her. That said, she's a delight to watch, maybe because she fires such fury in me. Her psychologist parents are out of control also, and her brother, while gorgeous, has a personality like knuckles on a cheese-grater.

Nate is, I think, the only likable character on the show. If David has a single redeeming quality I haven't discovered it yet. Rico is an over-macho shrimpy asshole. Keith's anger-management issues make him a demon. Ruth is infuriatingly passive-aggressive and thinks she can solve everyone's problems by making them a sandwich. And Claire is frustrating. And yet I love every one of them as though they were my own children.

I'm not sure what to make of the time-jump between Seasons 2 and 3, though. Nate and Lisa are together now? I feel betrayed to have missed their entire courtship and marriage -- the writers were either ballsy or stupid to have skipped over a whopping seven months of the characters' lives (I haven't decided which yet). And as much as I hated Brenda, it doesn't feel right with her missing, and with Nate married to someone else. Season 3 so far feels more like a spin-off of the original series than a continuation. But unlike most spin-offs, it doesn't suck. It's just taking some getting used to.

On to Disc 2.

A Re-Introduction

Esther's Porn Stash, while a fun name, proved too uncomfortable for a work environment. This was illustrated by the near-heartattack I had over the routine software maintenance mentioned below.

Also, we want you, dear reader, to be able to enjoy (or at least read) our blog at your own office, when you're supposed to be working, with no fears of having to make awkward explanations to your IT guy.

So let us re-introduce ourselves. After some discussion, we thought, "Let's call it nothing."

And that's just what we're going to do.

Welcome again.

A Porn Stash by Any Other Name

So, weird occurrence: I was typing an email and my computer got taken over by the IT guy here at work. His log-in window appeared on my screen and the mouse started moving by itself. I immediately panicked, figuring some web filter had detected the name of our blog in my address field and he was logging into my desktop to see what kind of "innapropriate content" I was looking at. I ran upstairs to tell him that E.P.S. wasn't X-rated. He laughed. Turns out the computer take-over was merely to install some new software and it had happened to everyone. I think our deceiving name has put me on edge.

And thus:

A Re-Introduction

How Does [This Candy] Make You Feel?

Sometimes it's weird that co-workers discuss their bodies. The Intern was talking about how all the candy laying around here has affected his energy levels. My manager talks semi-often about her running, pulled muscles, et cetera. One of copyeditors talks about the way heavy, greasy foods, like these deliciously thick bready breadsticks in the cafeteria, make her feel sluggish.

With friends or family, I'm completely open to any conversation about body issues or functions or malfunctions, but at work it feels different.

What people decide to share with others is interesting.

Shelter Dogs

If I had to take sides in the Cat v. Dog debate, I'd probably say I'm a cat person. This isn't because I like cats more than dogs, but because of my personality and current lifestyle: I'm uptight, lazy, and resistant to long-term commitment.

For example, I'm a little weird about germs when it comes to animals. I always wash my hands immediately after playing with or touching a pet. But, since cats don't go outdoors and are generally revered as very clean creatures, they get the edge over dogs. I wouldn't want a dog to sleep on my bed, but I let our first (and so far only) foster kitten sleep under the covers, walk on the pillow, and lick my face. I would not let a dog do those things.

Also, I'm lazy. I like that little has to be done to care for cats. They don't need you to take them out. They don't need walks. Which leads into the third point: my resistance to being tied down to something. In theory, although it might not be nice, you could leave a cat alone for a couple of days if you left enough food out. Whereas a dog would require you to be home with some regularity (unless it was one of those teeny dogs that could be litter-trained, but I wouldn't want one of those. I want a big dog.) Cats get another point for being more self-sufficient.

Nonetheless, I like dogs better. There's more responsibility, there's more commitment, but there's more pay-off too. Dogs seem to be like life companions while cats are sleeping buddies or TV buddies. I would call a dog a friend. I would talk to a dog.

But, until I get over the fear of a decade-long commitment to caring for an animal (and until I get an apartment that would accommodate a big dog), I am grateful that I can go to the shelter and walk them. Most of the dogs there are big, which is often the reason why they are there. I especially like walking a hulky husky, and a big senior-citizen german shepard. This is Comet, a foxhound(not big), who came to the shelter last week with his brother, Crafty.
Although Comet and Crafty aren't 'big dogs', I would still take them. I wish I lived on a farm or in the middle of nowhere and could have a pack of dogs. For some reason, it would be a lot easier to commit in that scenario than it is working a 9-5 and living in an apartment in a metro area. Or is that my excuse?

Overheard: Sad gum

I bought cinnamon gum. I almost always buy some kind of mint, but today I picked cinnamon. And the smell of it is giving me an empty/sad feeling, like I have a sad memory attached to cinnamon I can't place.

Of Mothers and Memoir

Hey Maggie, did you see my mother's comment to my warts post? Since it was my very first post, it must appear as though I've been harboring wart-trauma for the past decade. In reality I hadn't thought about warts for almost that long, and in fact had to make up the locations of two out of three because I couldn't even remember where they were. But now she thinks she's a bad mother for not sensing my teenage insecurity and offering to get them removed. To mothers there is no fiction, only memoir riddled with clues about things they may have done wrong. And we love them for it.

On the subject of ringtones

People in my office keep their cellphones on vibrate, so only they are aware of their incoming calls. Then, out of the blue for everyone else, they'll randomly start talking. "Hey man, what's up?" If it's a bad connection or they don't know the caller, all you hear from within your neighbor's cubicle is him confusedly asking "Hello? Hello?"

I always keep my ringer on, no matter how rude or annoying it may be when it rings, because I need that lead-in before I use my voice. I need people to know I'm about to speak, and why. When I go up to my boss's desk I always jingle my keys on the way so she's already looking up when I get there.

I like to evaluate and judge people based on their ringtones. The editorial assistant who was here before Calvino had a jingling whir for a ringtone, like a cartoon sound-effect of electronic bees. I liked it, and so I liked her. The IT guy upstairs has a ringtone wherein an impatient voice shouts his name (Bob) and demands that he answer the phone. I'm annoyed by this ringtone and, consequently, by him too.

My ringtone is the ring of an early 20th century phone, the kind of phone where when you answer the operator has to "patch you through." The ring is simple, does only what it has to do, and betrays nothing about me except for a possible appreciation of retro-ness.

A Princely King

I was reading the New York Times review of Stephen King's new novel, Cell (they like it), and I was surprised by the photo.

I present to you, below-top, a photo representative of every other one I've ever seen of King. And below-bottom, the photo from the new review.



Has Mr. King gotten a makeover? You be the judge.

Recent Reports of Floating Children

The first time I saw a kid wearing what I now know to be Heelys was at Logan Airport. It was very early in the morning, even before dawn. I was waiting for a flight and eating a hard bagel. I happened to look up and there was a boy, maybe 7 or 8, floating down the terminal -- hovering -- at a pretty good clip.

My first reaction was that he was on a moving sidewalk, but that wasn't the case. And then the boy stopped hovering and began to walk awkwardly on his toes, as though he were wearing high heels.

He took a few steps on his toes, rocked back onto his heels, and began floating again. And it occured to me: he had wheels in his heels.

"Did you see that?" I exclaimed to my dozing travel partner. "Did you see that?"

It's been almost a year since my first sighting of Heelys, and since then I've seen perhaps a dozen or more cases of both boys and girls, all around 10 years old, floating around or walking like they have high heels on. I feel like cheering each time I see one. The awesomeness of it astounds me.

I used to like to complain about how, when I was these kids' age, all my sneakers did was light up. "I want them for adults!" I would say. But it has recently come to my attention that they do in fact make Heelys for adults.

I may have to get a pair.

Ajar

My neighbors never lock the door of their apartment. How do I know this, you ask? Do you imagine I'm the type to go peeping around in there when they're not home? I wish. No, the truth is that my building, being rather decrepit, has few working doorknobs. Unless a door is locked, it falls open.

The only time I see my neighbor's door closed is when there is a strip of light beneath it and voices from within. If they're not home, the door is open, ajar. Always ajar about four inches.

Always.

My neighbors are in college, and when they left for a month-long winter break, they left their door open. A run to the mailbox or to the market, maybe, I can understand. But to leave for a month and not lock your door? Do they not care about their possessions? (There appears to be a full stock of furniture in there.) Are they some kind of Commies who feel as though, if someone does steal their things, the robbers must need the stuff more than they do?

They do appear to value privacy because, as I said, they lock the door when they're home. But they seem to want to stake no claim to the apartment when they're not there, like it's a perpetual open-house. What would they think if, when they got home from work or class, there was someone sleeping on the couch?

Maybe they're just against keys.

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

When I was little, every time I watched a movie, I’d want to be it. Whatever the lead characters did, I wanted to do. For example, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, where Sarah Jessica Parker enters a dance contest at the encouragement of a pretty young Helen Hunt? Every time I watched that as a kid, I’d spend the rest of the day dancing around, putting together various 80’s ensembles that involved knotted t-shirt ends, and jumping off couches to copy the freeze-frame final scene. I’d ask my mom if I could take dance lessons. Or take karate lessons, after watching The Three Ninjas. Horseback lessons, ice-skating lessons, I needed to become what I saw onscreen. Immediately.

This is probably a common childhood occurrence. I bet you’ve got a story in which you were going to become a wrestler, a ninja (maybe even a ninja turtle), or Gem, or a wizard, whatever.

I expected that this wouldn’t continue into adulthood. And yet, whenever I read something in the lifestyle section of the newspapers or in a tell-all, trashy memoir, I want to do it. I start making plans. Looking into schools, or at maps, or wondering where I could score some heroin. I read a memoir about a difficult time as a lesbian adolescent and wish I was gay.

Then I watch ‘America’s Next Top Model’ and think, ‘I could put up with being a model. I wouldn’t mind being treated like a sub-human. I could torment the other girls by scarfing pizza.’ And I make a mental note to check their website at work the next day, to see when the next ANTM auditions are. I add whitening strips and fake-tan lotion to my shopping list. I practice my runway walk in the reflective surfaces.

Then I read John Steinbeck’s Travels With Charley, his account of a lengthy American road trip. Naturally, I start checking out maps, looking into admission prices to Yellowstone National Park, and wondering how I could get three weeks or more off from work. ‘Who would I go with,’ I think. ‘Should I go by myself? With Mike and make it a romantic thing? With Ben and make it a literary thing? With Sean and make it a best-friends-forever thing? With Kelly and Jessica and Megan and make it a Woo Hoo Girls thing?

I’m reading a memoir about a girl who started stripping because her life was boring and she wanted to be wild before she turned thirty. So now I’m sitting here thinking about this personal essay I read in Intro to Personal Essay at Emerson. The girl wrote about how she worked at a strip club the year before, and made $3,000 in a month. She worked in nudie booths. I could do that – no contact, lots of money. I’m genuinely thinking of looking into it. If I made more money, I could shed my couple-with-a-third-roommate status. And there would be the added bonus of something to write about, and crazy stories to divulge in emails sent in the middle of the workday.

What keeps me from doing these things is that I don’t act soon enough. I lose the initial passion about whatever nutty thing I just read about doing. Just like when I was a kid, soon enough I’d find something else to fascinate me within the next day or so. I’d move on. And on again.

This makes me worry – am I unable to think for myself? Why do I latch so strongly onto these ideas? Does everyone do this? Still playing What I’ll Be When I Grow Up, the only difference being no parents to witness it.

Or, if it’s not an issue of thinking for myself, do I lack creativity to think of my own activities? Ballroom dancing, painting, photography? I saw it all on TV or in the movies. I’m not sure how we started playing poker years back, but I’m sure it was a direct influence of Rounders, or Ocean’s Eleven, or World Poker Series. We saw it on TV. And it looked so cool.

Am I just really suggestible? If kidnapped, would I get Stockholm syndrome in less than an hour?

Diary of an Antarctic Refugee

Third day since my plane went down. There's a blur of frost on my glasses that won't go away no matter how hard I breathe on them. My breath must be just as cold as the air. But food is in good supply, and the dog seems chipper.

Last night I read Dickens to her, leaning against the paralyzed engine with her head in my lap. She likes when I do the cockney accent, I think--her ears perk up. We are reading Nicholas Nickleby; she is my Smike. I have even taken to calling her that. "Lucy" seems inappropriate under the aurora austrialis.

This afternoon Smike and I chased a group of penguins across a stretch of ice. They really are silly creatures, the fathers running along pigeon-toed with babies perched on their flippers. No need to slaughter any just yet (as I said, food is good for now), but there's a slow one I made note of should the need arise.

Spent the rest of this afternoon at the radio until the battery died quietly around 5 o'clock. Part of me knows that that small happening will affect my life more than anything before it. But I try not to think about it. I put the headset on its cradle and climbed out of the cockpit. Smike jumped around on the broken wing to greet me. A nice fire beneath the fuselage makes things less alone, but I keep it small--there's only so much in the plane I can burn.

For now I am in good spirits. There is something comforting about knowing for absolute sure one's manner of death. I know I will not die in a car accident or be gunned down by a convenience-store robber. There is no blood or pain in my future. Only some night soon while I sleep the cold will get me, and in the morning I just won't wake up.

I do worry about Smike, though. She is more compact and furry and generally more suited to these extremes than me. I'm sure she'll carry on long after I'm gone. I imagine her becoming a hunter of penguins, taking one down every few days or so, or as the mood strikes her. Will she remain at the plane, or will she become nomadic and feral over time?

I will read to her more tonight. We're coming to the part where Nicholas and Smike join the theater. We'll see how she likes my singing.

Jon Stewart, Why Have You Forsaken Me?

I feel weird about having my first post be about one of my favorite TV shows. I don't like TV - I try not to watch it, I don't like sitting in front of it for more than an hour, I don't like feeling like I'm part of brain-dead America. And, this will be the only thing to define me until I post something else. But, then again, Ben's first post was about his warts, so here I go.

I was not happy when The Daily Show spin-off The Colbert Report was announced. Although a half hour of Stephen (instead of his three-minute spots on TDS) sounded like a great idea, I knew it would take a lot away from my enjoyment of Jon Stewart's 22 minutes a night. And it has.

TDS was already kind of losing it's charm for me. They peaked during the 2004 primaries and election time. Now Stephen is off on his own show, Samantha Bee isn't around because she's pregnant (or a new mom by now), Rob Corddry has a pilot show on Fox, and Steve Carrell has a TV and movie career of his own. Ed Helms is still there, and it's a good thing, because other than him, the co-anchors are unfamiliar. None of them has caught on yet; no one has developed their own shtick, like Lewis Black has his rant, and Colbert had This Week in God.

One of the things that made TDS awesome was Jon and Stephen's chemistry. They played off each other in a fantastic way. Even when things didn't go as planned, they found a way to make it damn funny. I feel nervous because I love this show. But I'm not enjoying it lately (or enjoying the spin-off a whole lot either). And I want to enjoy it. But instead of watching the 8 p.m. reruns each night like I used to, I'm finding myself tuning into Gilmore Girls instead. Jon Stewart is losing to Gilmore Girls reruns?

And, worse still, the fading allure of TDS is turning me into something I don't want to be: someone who aimlessly channel surfs until they find something half-acceptable to occupy them. I want my TV viewing habits to be clearcut: if there's something I want to watch, I tune it at the right time, watch it, and then shut the TV off. Unlikes my two roommates, who have it on anytime they're awake, watching whatever is on, even though they often say, "Nothing's on" and "This show sucks."

Toodle-oo

This afternoon the other editorial assistant here, who henceforth will be called Calvino, was telling me about his lunch hour. He had been sitting in the bagel shop reading a book.

"I was engrossed in my book," he says, already beginning to smirk, "and then I hear this loud knocking on my table. I look up and it's--" he points down the line of cubicles--"what's his name?"

"The temp?" I say. "Dan."

"Dan. I look up and he's knocking on my table." And then, imitating Dan, Calvino gives a friendly cock of the hand, a half-wave. "And he says, toodle-oo, and walks away."

"He said toodle-oo??" It was an energetic toodle-oo.

"Toodle-oo. And then he just walks away."

"And that's all he said?" I ask.

"Just toodle-oo."

Amazing.

When Calvino was leaving tonight, I offered my customary "See ya." But it ocurred to me moments later that I should've instead said "toodle-oo." I never think of these things in time.

Warts

Warts are caused by some kind of virus that never goes away. I'm not sure what determines when or where they appear, though.

I had three warts over the course of middle school and high school. Wart #1 was on the lowest pad of the middle finger of my left hand. It didn't bother me much self-esteem-wise because it wasn't very visible, but I played with it with my thumb the way a man strokes the secret place where the wedding band he "accidentally" left in the soapdish belongs.

But wart #2 bothered me. It was on my right pinky at the base of the nail. I hated that one. The hands of the girl down the street, who lived on a farm and who was always kind of dirty, were covered with warts. She had a cute smile but her hands were the hands of fairy-tale villains. I didn't like that we had warts in common. I was careful to always have a fist.

Warts #1 and #2 lasted for years and then magically went away. The third I discovered in history class my junior year of high school. I recognized the signs immediately. First it feels as though you have a sliver, but when you examine up close for the offending bit of wood, you see tiny bubbles of wart-material instead. It was on the fleshy web between the thumb and pointer finger of my right hand. I had that one for a long time, too. Before college, a place at which I wanted to arrive new and pristine, I did some home-remedy research. I read that rubbing lemon juice into the wart was supposed to dissolve it.

I raided the fridge for the plastic lemon of juice we kept for the rare occasions when fish was served at my house, and squirted it liberally into my hands (having a bittersweet lick or two in the process). In a few days wart #3 got white and disappeared. A short time later lemon juice aborted the fetus of what would've been wart #4.

I haven't had any warts since high school. I almost wish I would get one so I'd have an excuse to use that Freez-Away wart remover, with the liquid nitrogen, which they advertise on television. I think it would be really fun to play with. In fact, I'm tempted to get it anyway and try freezing a freckle.

"Esther's Porn Stash" Goes Public

I'm walking in the Common, my cellphone afixed to my ear.

"Maggie and I are starting a blog," I say to my caller. "It's called --"

I pause. There's an old lady -- white hair, long dark coat -- shuffling in my direction. I'm trying to hold the title until after she has passed. "It's called ......uh ......" Well, this lady is walking too slow for my impatient caller.

"Esther's Porn Stash," I say, the lady now right at my side. She makes a little frown. I feel rebellious and deviant and young, to have said these words in front of her.

"Porn Stash," I repeat, because my caller mistakenly heard "porn star."

"Of course not," I say. "No nudey pictures."

"Stories and stuff. Anecdotes. All the things we couldn't get into McSweeney's."

And with that, welcome to Esther's Porn Stash. Here are all the things we couldn't get into McSweeney's.