Sharp Like a Duck, Babe

Automating My Internship

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Wed, 27 Jun 2007 17:14:00 +0000

My internship this summer is at NYU medical school, much to my amusement. My mandatory ID, bright purple and official-like, basically identifies me as a med student, which is just the most untrue thing it could say. I doodled and cell-phone-gamed my way to a B- in high school bio and never looked back.

The job itself is slightly more appropriate, as I'm with the psychology department. Psych is something I'm majoring in and enjoy and all that good stuff. But damn, is this job boring. Here is a summary of my weekly activities:

Lit Reviews: compile a spreadsheet that's basically the abstracts of a bunch of articles (which I found myself on the Ovid databses) on various traumatic brain injury-related topics;

Labelling: Go through testing archives, use sharpie to hide everyone's name, and then cover it with a cheapo printed label with their secret ID number;

Filing: like the lit reviews, but instead of PDFs and computer searching, I have to comb through a backlog of physical journals dating back to before I was born;

Observation: quietly sitting in the back of a room while patients individually, silently do worksheets designed to improve cognitive function;

Photocopying: eponymous.

Now, let's go through how I could automate this with just a little programming skill and some moxie:

Lit Reviews:
- First, have a bot of some sort do the ovid search.
- Then, have it download each PDF (this is a one-click downlaod situation.)
- Then, using something akin to Mac OSX summarize or MS Word autosummarize, get the data out of each PDF.
Labelling: Use the super-secret code name from the beginning on all documents. If the patient mistakenly writes his/her/hir own name, cover it up that day. More ad hoc, but less time overall.

Filing: this just shouldn't be a job, period. I understand my boss is busy, but it might behoove someone who collects a lot of physical media like scholarly journals to file upon completion.

Alternately, journals should take to publishing ONLY by e-mailed PDFs, so that people would print out the articles relevant to them and ignore the rest. This would save the world paper and me a lot of time.

Observation: I actually like this okay, but the ratio of learning-about-patients to sitting-around-bored is kind of all whacked out, and thus this is sort of not worthwhile. Some sort of multimedia case-study system might be more relevant (video interviews, test results, comparison charts, whatever.)

By the way, people who write scholarly case studies should really make an effort to make them interesting. I'd love to get a New Yorker profilist in here with our tape recordings and a textbook.

Photocopying: Okay, this one's a little too people-powered. Robot arms, maybe?

So, there you go. Clearly, I'm not necessary here and should be spending the summer frolicking through parks and writing epic novels about lesbians. It's okay; I'll show myself out.

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Fri, 01 Jun 2007 00:57:00 +0000

I'll bite, Violent Acres Catchphrase Contest...

"Acre? I barely even know 're!"

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Mon, 26 Mar 2007 05:21:00 +0000

Actually, totally lied last post.

read this.

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Wed, 21 Mar 2007 19:34:00 +0000

Honestly, I can't think this much. I can't even think enough to make a TumbleLog.

If you really must see my zeitgeist, however, here are some articles I read.

An Open Letter to A Man With Dreadlocks

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Thu, 25 Jan 2007 07:23:00 +0000

(*)

Dear Justin,

I am writing this note to you via blog because I am in a different state than where I met you. Also, I'm sort of ashamed to go back in there. You are very unlikely to read this.

Anyway, I'd like to thank you. Not only for catching me, or for being less than a third as sketchy as you looked, but for, well, doing your job. It hurt, a little, of course. And it's not like you did anything special, far as I could tell. It was totally routine for you.

But it means a lot to me. You were there for me when I finally took advantage of the teenaged free pass to do things both entirely out of character and relatively permanent, at the tender almost-adult age of 19.

I know y'all probably thought I was drunk, what with it being 3 in the morning and my subsequent fainting spell, but I was totally sober (unless you count the natural high of song and dance), and had given this quite a bit of thought. Ever since I discovered the concept, I'd randomly touch my right ear while walking down the street, or in class, or on an airplane (whereupon I would almost knock over the soda of the Asian fellow next to me, with elbow room being the way it is in economy class).

I guess I knew that if it ever happened, it would have to be both impulsively and alone. I mean, it's not really impulsive if you think, at 11 pm, "I should do this after the movie!", keep it in the back of your mind for four hours, and then do it. But four hours without the internet to procrastinate me is like four weeks in real time, or something. And as for alone... well, I mean, look at me, then look at the gaggle of 22-year-olds getting matching Celtic knots in the other room. Can you spot the differences in this picture?

What I really intended to say, and I haven't said yet, is that I totally love it. It feels so cool. It reminds me that I am independent and can do stuff without my mom (in both the "whee I'm a grown up" and the "watch out you're gonna fuck it all up" ways, which is perfect). I barely feel it, except sometimes when the collar of my coat or the back of my pillow brushes against it, and I get a small rush of "gosh I'm groovy." I clean it twice a day--it's like a pet, what with teaching me responsibility, but it can't hide under my bed. Also, I think it makes me look older, which is crucial when you're almost 20 and you look about 12. (Y'all didn't card the damn drunk B&Ters. Just saying.)

Anyway, I've totally drifted into stuff you wouldn't care about reading. Also, you're likely on drugs, so you don't have the best attention span, so I should wrap it up. The point is: Thank you. I'd tip you more, if I dared go back down there.

Sincerely,
That Girl With Small Ears Who Totally Passed Out

(*) The picture, taken with my built in iSight camera, is reversed. It is on the right.

Best. Paragraph. Ever.

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Tue, 19 Dec 2006 08:13:00 +0000

One other, very very subtle point is related to God’s workflow. It seems illogical, in a sense, to create trees (the third day) before one has created the sun (the fourth). It is thus funny to imagine God finishing up his forest and then realizing that there’s something missing to make it actually work. Omniscient Gods should not need the expression “hindsight is 20/20."

-Me. who the hell else would dare?

That's What I Want (Money)

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Thu, 14 Dec 2006 00:15:00 +0000

So, in my effort to procrastinate from finals, I somehow managed to Become Famous.

Seriously, though, I wrote a quickie "guest post" for a blog called Adult ADD and Money, because I am almost an adult and I was thinking a lot about money last night.

So, go read that! And anyone who came here after reading that, any advice? And enjoy being here.

p.s. see how I reversed the order and parentheticals on the Beatles song? Gosh, I'm clever.

Clearly, not Getting anyThing Done

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Tue, 12 Dec 2006 00:54:00 +0000

Last day of classes for my third fucking whole semester of college! I have a ten page paper, a 5 page paper, and two major exams. And yet, I am not working on those. I am not cleaning my filthy, filthy room. I am blogging! Woot!

Today's topic is: productivity. (ha!)

I am an avid reader of lifehacker, for no particular reason. It's not that useful to me--a lot of DYI stuff I can't use, a lot of windows stuff I can't use, a lot of grown-up stuff I can't use. But clearly, it has taugt me a lot. Under the tutelage of this website I occasionally read, I have implemented a whole mess of tools that admittedly make my life easier, though I use that ease for less-than-productive means. Here are some things that changed my life:

Quicksilver: This mofo is so useful that I keep a copy on a flash drive and install it on every single lab computer I visit, which is a lot, as I work in the labs and try to procrastinate less by going to the labs. I don't even know why I love it so much. I just... I mean, google it. there's some eloquent lovefests out there.OS X only, suckas

Google Calendar: Look, everyone on the planet could use a calendar system, because it's useful to see chunks of time laid out like that, and it's a place to write down things like "review session" and "doctor's appointment" and "class." Google's is the prettiest. Also: synced with Quicksilver. God, computers are cool.

Firefox: The thing has extensions! You can basically customize it to your every whim! I mean, what more do you need in teh internets?
Ta-da Lists: Free online todolists in the hizzy. Here is example of my current todo list. Also, I have been using the associated Dashboard Widget. That part is OS X Only, suckas, but the rest is internetz.

The concept of "Getting Things Done": So, GTD is one of those guru-esque self-help books that spawns a marketing empire, but the concept is simple and easy to find on free websites like 43 Folders: Categorize stuff. Make folders for your e-mail, one for things to work on soon, one for things you'll need way in the future, and one for things to work on somewhere between those times (and then, anything immediate, you do and then delete). Break up tasks into lots of smaller tasks, and then treat the next tiny task as a "next action" and do it, well, next. Keep a physical "inbox" of papers to which you need to see. It all makes a lot of sense. The internet has like five bug-gillion tools and AppleScripts and freeware and shareware and tips and tricks and egg-timers, but each person can sort of implement their own system. Which, I guess, is what I'm doing.

That's probably not the only things I use, but that encompasses pretty much everything I've used today (including the egg-timer). Now, I can totally check off "blog this list," and then I think I'll do a time-based dash and clean as much of my floor as I can before 9:00. Maybe I'll even find my missing glove!

Schoolhouse

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Tue, 28 Nov 2006 13:11:00 +0000

Here is my schedule for next year, as it stands:

.MW. 11:00AM-12:20PM; RELI 489 - Black Religious and Urban History: Migration and Transformation
.MW. 01:10PM-02:30PM; RELI 284 - Magic and Religion in Latin America
.MW. 02:40PM-04:00PM; PSYC 213 - Research Methods in Social Psychology
.TR. 10:30AM-11:50AM; PSYC 268 - Organizational Psychology.

Hopefully, possibly, I'll drop 489 and 268 to take Psychopathology and the Philosophy of Religion, but honestly, I'm pretty happy with this. Nothing before 10:30, nothing after Thursday at noon (that means no Friday)... this is damn near a perfect schedule, actually. Maybe I won't change. I should talk to my advisor. Or my mother.

p.s. RAWK

Wherein I Dorkily Attempt To Join A Subculture I Oughtn't

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Mon, 27 Nov 2006 20:22:00 +0000

So, because sometimes I get into subculture blogs and read them compulsively, I've lately been browsing the archives of Body Modification blogs (often NSFW). Now, the whole "suspension" thing seems painful and humiliating and potentially permanently damaging, and scarification sounds needlessly crass, and why the HELL would you put metal in your vagina, but tattoos, unfortunately, can be pretty. Thus, I present to you, a list of tattoos I would get if I were so inclined:

*A strand of DNA (as pictured, but prettier) with the words Arthur, Elaine, Charles, Evelyn, Peter, Robin, and Elisa written on various nucleotides, because they're my closest genetic relatives. I guess I'd leave room for any future biokids, too. This would go across my lower back.

*A potrait of my teddy bear, Oggie(1), in my underarm, because that's where he sleeps.

*the Cheerios Logo, I don't know where.

*The electromagnetic visible spectrum, as it is both a rainbow for gayness and pretty for fun! Maybe somewhere on my back.

*The Hebrew word Yehudi (יהודי), because it is the etmylogic root of the word "Jewish" but, in many biblical texts, carries more of a sense of ethnic identity than of religious, which is what I am: an ethnic Jew. On my arm like a holocaust survivor? Or would that be crass? If so, then maybe on my wrist, so I could hide it under a watch.

*My surname (Shapiro), maybe in a foreign alphabet (Hebrew and Japanese are pretty), on the back of my neck.

*The (regular) alphabet, as an armband tattoo.

*Some sort of Significant Quote on my upper back. (I tried to think of one, but I all I came up with was "Very like a whale" from Hamlet, and why permanently mark myself as fat?)

So, what did this exercise prove? Nothing, except 1) I'm a nerd and 2) I probably shouldn't get a tattoo.

(1) Jesus H. Christ, my sister literally took 100 pictures of herself with my iSight camera in the like 3 days I was home for turkey. Also 15 of the cat. Do you have any idea how tedious it is to delete 100 photos of my sister making a "thug" sign with her hands? (I saved a few good ones.) Someone (mom and dad) better get her a digicam soon.
Oh, and that so wasn't the point of the footnote. The POINT was to say: No, my teddy bear does not wear a yarmulke. It used to be a Yankees cap, but the brim came off and only half the N of the logo is left. He also used to wear the pinstriped shirt. His name is Oggie like Yogi Berra, as pronounced by an infant.

In related news: I <3 my family, and wish I wasn't allergic to my apartment (and Frankie's!) so I could actually look forward to going back home.

I am THISCLOSE to being home for thanksgiving...

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Mon, 20 Nov 2006 10:33:00 +0000

...so pardon the urgency?

Yes, I did make a YouTube video out of a time lapse of me playing on my computer for an hour. I used this program to make it, after spending a few hours downloading freeware from that site (some other favorites: Burn, Bullet, Name that iTune, Sidenote, and Check Off--if you have a mac I strongly encourage you look into them). I also have two other videos up, but feel free to never ever look at them. I'll take them down as soon as I have some other interesting things made. (Me + my little sister + a cat + my video camer may well lead to madness.)

Earlier today, I added up the time commitment of my television shows, and, if I count half-hour networks as 20 minutes and hour networks as 40, I've got 6 1/3 hours of television every day. If I spent those hours at computer work, I'd have an extra 47 dollars a week, which might well cover my buying tshirts online habit, if not my other clothing or electronics. But no, why do something practical like that? Also, as a trainee, the max I can do is like 5 hours a week, which I well and covered this past one. (I also did 8 hours for the theater department, which needed a few extra hands what with two major shows going up. Yeah money.)

Don't think I don't know that it's 5:42 in the morning. I can't sleep. I'll probably just wander over to the gym as soon as it opens and make myself tired, if you know what I mean. I didn't exercise all last week, because of laziness and rain (I have Rain Affective Disorder or something, swear to god) and my weight is going up and I have to go to the doctor over break and what if I'm really high and mom makes me go back to fat camp? (let the record show that it will never, ever be fully my decision to go back. Even if I tell you so, I'll still be bitterly contemplating what I could get done in New York. It's stress, man, and the rain.)

Ooh! I forgot the key point of this post, which was: LESBIAN ANIME. Fansubbed. On YouTube. Involving some sort of boarding school/lesbian cult with an abnormal number of women with shortish blue hair. That one who rides horses is my favorite, but I also like Etolie-sama. That other one, though, Kenjou? Is a rapist, and I wish someone would bring that up. Because she's a creepy evil rapist who keeps trying to hurt little Hikari-chan and her stupid girlfriend just stands behind her and nods and takes baths with her while plotting evilly. And still they're on student council! what kind of a world is this? There are so many tricky issues of consent in this, actually--in the early episodes, Shizuma kind of has a mesmerizing effect on Nagisa, and like Nagisa couldn't move, so who knows if Nagisa actually wanted to kiss her? (She did. but what if she hadn't?) Also, the best friend character is a creepy stalker, and you will never convince me otherwise, show, no matter how sympathetic you try to make her.

Nobody cared about that paragraph, and I humbly apologize. Gomen, or whatever.

(Oh, man, I had the intensest dream last night about Power Rangers, in a seedy motel in Brookyln, and Jason refused to come out until Tommy/Billy (they were the same person?) tricked him, and they were happier for it, except Tommy/Billy wanted to maintain their independence, but no matter who they hit on they ended up in Jason's bed. There were also female counterparts, but the males were more vivid, and my dad was there, but not being gay? Once I had a dream where dad was gay and he had a beautiful sterile apartment full of antiques and art, and Le and I visited like once a week. That's neither here nor there.)

someone has an exam in two days

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Wed, 08 Nov 2006 07:02:00 +0000

Okay, seriously, am I the only person who literally SQUEES when watching clips from this show? Swear to god, it's worse than kittens. If my lesbians in my novel are half as squee as these two, I'll be soooo set. (natch, I'm developing crushes on my characters. Mostly the slightly butch and bullying, overly pedantic trial lawyer who is a reformed playah embarking on her first commitment. Possibly because her name is Logan, just like my boycrush. I bet she could lift me up. That would be cool. I could fly, like on Heroes.

Also attractive: Kate Walsh. I should find a copy of that movie where she and Sandra Oh are lovers.

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Mon, 06 Nov 2006 05:11:00 +0000

Yeah, so, I'm doing that thing. Thus, I sincerely doubt I'm going to blog a lot this month. Not that I blogged a lot last month, or any month since, oh, 2005. But still, I'm giving a heads-up this time. My novel is about a meek lesbian, her overbearing jockish girlfriend, another lesbian who is a rabbi, and maybe a doctor and a party planner, eventually. Look for my userprofile under "crayolarabbit," where you'll see a nice one-paragraph excerpt.

Also happening this month is NaBloPoMo, which I might do next month, to make it up to y'alls. There are no prizes next month, but whatever, the sense of satisfaction is all I need.

In other news, I just wrote 2124 words in 50 minutes. So in your FACE.

I also am very good at religion--I'm doing well in my classes for the first time since like high school or something. And also, it's consuming my brain--my characters keep talking about hermeneutics and the importance of ritual and Leviticus. I thought I was getting out of that by not writing my novel about the gay boy in a Christian cult (which is sometimes a Scientologist cult, and sometimes involves a Russian fellow seducing him, and sometimes involves a swimming pool). That'll be my next year, I reckon.

Is "The Hermeneutics of Relationships" a really dumb title? Am I obsessed with that word? What about teleology? Or... anyway, if you can think of some word that has to do with religion and say "of Relationships" and make it a beautiful chick lit title, let me know.

A Musing

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Thu, 19 Oct 2006 00:11:00 +0000

I do not walk home from the gym. I swagger.

I realized recently that the release of endorphins from exercise makes me feel superior, arrogant, and powerful. Even when I've done a lame pussy-workout compared to the majority of the room, I feel like I could fuckin' lift them in the air and spin them as a Globetrotter might a small orange basketball. And afterwards, I'm far less nervous about checking out girls in the locker room (though they've all seemingly mastered the art of towel-changing, a feat I'm so bad at that I tend to change in the wheelchair bathroom stall so I can flail in peace). I John-Wayne my way into the store, and when they don't have my food, I get the urge to stick the small Asian clerk's head in a toilet.

And then, I wondered--if acting like a jock in one way (working out) makes me want to act like a jock in others (bullying, ladies), could I find a biological explanation for other cliquish stereotypical behaviors? Is it endorphins's fault all along, not violent TV or whatever?

And then I couldn't think of other examples, but wanted to turn John-Wayne into a verb on my blog, so I posted about this anyway.

Post-partum depression.

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Sun, 01 Oct 2006 22:08:00 +0000

Today feels so incredibly dreary. I didn't manage to drag myself out of bed till 3 pm, which is terrible because I have to write a seven page paper by 4 pm tomorrow, and now it's 6 pm and I have done NOTHING of value.

I know, empirically, that it's just the post-play blues funk reggaeton (not that last one), but all I can really feel is sad and useless. I really _want_ to have rehearsal, you know? I like those kids. They're good people. They wrote me a nice note, which got all bent and folded because I was not quite myself yester-eve.

This play took a good physical toll, too. I've gained two pounds, burned my left thumb on a hot drill, stabbed the heel of my right hand with a different sharper drill, and gotten giant bruises on my left knee and right elbow after falling down. I also may or may not have acted retarded in front of people I have to know for a long time.

Whatever--the play was a success, it ran smoothly except for Thursday-night-about-which-I-shall-not-speak-ever-again, people enjoyed it (including my dad! who likes nothing!), knock wood it solidfied my reputation as a good stage manager, and double knock wood I made lasting acquaintanceships.

... I'd really rather a headache than this existential angst.

Procrastination is More Important Than Knowledge

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Sun, 17 Sep 2006 17:00:00 +0000

I am so incredibly bad at getting things done (and not just the official productivity system Getting Things Done tm. I mean actually doing shit).

I spent all of yesterday watching downloaded episodes of "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" (best show EVER! Anyone with iTunes, download episode 2-5, Mac Bangs Dennis' Mom), and reading an odd combination of blog archives: personal finance blogs, which made me want to start an IRA or at the very least get some laddered CDs up in here; personal development blogs, which made me want to start waking up at 6 in the morning to work out, then make money from my hobbies and my six-figure-hits blog about a topic that hasn't yet been covered and that I'm an expert in; literary agent blogs, which, contrary to the text of the blogs, made me want to write a novel; and dominatrix blogs, which made me want to make that novel pornographic. Among other things.

And then, at 2:30 am, I realized I'd done nothing of value, so I cleaned my room, separated my recycling from trash and threw it all out (which is quite an accomplishment, as I had the Garbage Stack that ate Nebraska over in the corner), did the dishes (nothing like sparkly silverware), and packed a bag for my all-day library extravaganza starting at 10 am!

Well, it's 10 am Pacific time, so perhaps I'm not as disappointing as I thought. But I have rehearsal from 7-10, and a thing I wanna go to at 5... so I better get on that bible thing.

Final thoughts: I know Jasmine is a very important part of the show I am working on, but by golly, I love that Belle. ("Heeeereee's where she meets Prince Charming, but she won't discover that it's him till chapter 3" is just such a preferable sentiment to "I'm a bratty princess and I complain about living a privledged life with a PET TIGER, for crying out loud." I mean, seriously! I would not be unhappy if I had an adorable and loving tiger! I have a tiger for my phone wallpaper right now and he's adorable and sitting in a pile of rocks. Burn on bright, y'all.)

'Sup.

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Tue, 12 Sep 2006 23:26:00 +0000

I am early for my rehearsal. For some reason I read 8 o'clock as 7 o'clock, but for some other reason I also decided to bring my bible, my guide to reading the bible properly, and my laptop, so I'm set for like ever. The bible, you see, is pretty much my homework, or part of it, every night, as I have two religion classes that focus on Judeo-Christianity and on interpretations of the Bible specificially. I am disproportionately pleased by it, despite the small text and long geneologies and repetitive stories and constant reminders of how poorly I uphold my covenant with YHWH. After all, "Literary and religious traditions from the pre-exilic period are radically transformed in this exilic and post-exilic period as the people shape a social and religious identity that distinguishes them cuturally and ideologically from their neighbors." Am I right? Ey, ey?

My professors are quite the bunch. My first professor I saw this year was a surprisingly un-ugly young lady (she can't be much over 30, I'd say) who teaches me Modern Christian Thought. She's very smart and makes me think very hard. Later, I see lord Voldemort. Seriously, my Social Psych professor has the bald head, snake-like features, and general creepiness of Ralph Fiennes in the 4th HP movie. He is, however, an engaging professor and whatnot, so I don't really mind. The next day I start with I have a kindly balding fellow who over-uses the word "extraordinary" and does that old Jewish person thing of occasionally slipping into a Jewish language, but with formal ancient Hebrew instead of bastardized yiddish. After him I see a unremarkable middle-aged man, sort of fat and pseudo-jolly, who repeats to me concepts I learned in high-school Astronomy. Then I have fitness, which means "running around a track and then walking after one lap because I have particularly unhappy lungs."

My stage managing duties are almost as fulfilling as finishing my reading assignments is. I get to sit and watch people act, correct them on their lines, moderate discussions between various behind-the-scenes folks who don't particularly agree with each other's visions, and generally feel very powerful and dominant in a very non-agressive or active way. I also am trying to take on more Second Stage-ly responsibilities (though this is harder with our bloated staff), and of course I applied for a couple other jobs, which, if I don't get them, you will never hear of again.

But do I have anything _interesting_ to say? This is basically an update post, a letter I would write to my mom if I didn't have a cell phone, AIM, and e-mail with which to live-update my life to her. I should analyze something, or make some sort of joke. God, this is so much pressure.

Okay, an observance: I've been realizing, more and more, how firm a grasp of my identity I have. I mean, obviously, I've been obsessing about who I am for ages, and write epic analyses and fill out countless memes (I actually fill out of a lot of them and don't post them anywhere because I guarantee you that you don't care) and go to a lot of therapy and fill out profiles on various social networking sites, but I never thought I'd actually have a consistent and entrenched point of view, like I'm pretty sure I do (rhymez). I wonder if all the navel-gazing lead to this stability of image, or if it was an obstacle that I've only recently overcome in order to start understanding. Also, am I a chicken or an egg? And when I fall in a forest, and nobody hears me, am I still singing Disney songs?

No! No enchilada!

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Fri, 01 Sep 2006 22:38:00 +0000

because I don't like cheese, that's why.

Tomorrow morning at 8 am, my father will wake me up and 83% of the girl who sulked back to the city back in May will return to the bustling metropolis of Middletown. I don't know how I feel about that.

On the one hand, I'm setting it up so that I will ROCK this year. I'm psyched for classes, I got a SM gig, I'm doing some gay thing this weekend, I have many half-assed plans and ambitions, and I got a shrink up there, so if I am sad again someone will be on my case about it.

On the other hand, I'm really comfortable in my home. For example, my bed. My bed was custom made for me when I was 2 years old ish. We went to the store and I sat on every bed and I saw this one and said "This one! This is my big pink bed!" (It had pink sheets.) We then tried every matress in the store and I selected the second-hardest available. They tried to coax me out of it, but I wanted that one and am stubborn like a duck. To this day, I am only truly comfortable on a matress that can hold up a glass while I'm lying there next to it.

Another for example is my books. I am sort of a book-a-holic (addited to bookahol). I don't necessarily read as much as I used to on paper, per se, but I spend most of my non-reading free time on the Internet, which involves as much technical "reading" as a book, and also I spend lots of time on quasi-educational sites, like about news or science. But the point is, I only get to bring a limited selection of my massive catalog of books, both read and unread. And I'm a big "comfort reader," as in I reread completely random books from my past and it makes me feel better. For example, yesterday on the toilet, I was compelled to read Maus. How is that comforting?, you might ask. It's about the holocaust! And a crazy old person! With mice! But it was important, and it was the only thing that possibly could've helped. Now, what if that'd happened when I was at school, and I hadn't brought Maus? I would've remained unsatisfied! So I have to anticipate the whims of Future-Shapiro, and I have to bring a good selection of books I haven't read, to feed the imagination.

Another example is the cat. However, I refuse to become a cat-blogger, because it is a cliché.

And finally, there is my mommy. Her leg hurts a lot, and she limps and complains and refuses to use her cane and makes me rub her leg and is seriously contemplating switching to Yiddish so that she can fully embody Walter Matthau in The Sunshine Boys (ENTAAAH!), but she's a comforting presence, what with her having birthed me and all. She also is probably the only person on the planet willing to listen to me ramble about my new (incredibly fuzzy and incomplete) theory about how we can totally interpret the Book of Genesis to confirm Evolution, thus ending all that hullaballoo.

All right, guys. If you need me, I'll be in the Middle of Town.

Losing My Religion. And Weight.

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Mon, 21 Aug 2006 03:01:00 +0000

Do I not look HOT? I am 25 pounds lighter than I am in that picture two posts ago. I am strong and energetic and eating on just this side of starvation, and am not particularly unhappy about it. Mind, I'd LOVE a pizza, but I figured out a way to eat a slice tomorrow without fucking life up. And I tasted an awesome fat-free brownie today. Who can ask for anything more?

I'm not going to bore you any more by talking about calories this and fat that and steps here and activity there. Instead, I wanna talk about religion. Which is also boring. The top story today, in my mind, is surprisingly not related to a) Muslims who hate me for being Jewish b) Christians who hate me for being gay or c) the three-four people of varying degrees of faith I met and actually managed to get along with at Fat Camp. Instead, it's about the Shakers.

First of all, I'm immensely amused by their real name--the United Society of Believers in Christ's Second Appearing. Because really, doesn't that apply to all Christians? And Jews for Jesus? Second of all, I'm immensely impressed by their ability to have survived for 259 years without reproduction. Can you imagine converting to Shakerism? I can't imagine ever being convinced enough of ANYTHING like that to officially declare myself a member and go through rights, not even something logical and popular and perfect for me (i.e. a religion that believes in unhealthy eating and VH1). But, if I think about it, I'm sort of half-tempted to convert just to be The Last of the Shake-hicans. I'd be trivia forever. "The last surviving member of the "Shaker" religion, she died in 2099." "Who is Laura Shapiro, Trebek-bot 5500?" Of course, this Jeopardy 2155 fantasy goes directly against the Shaker principle of putting the collective over the individual (see the anecdote in here about the Sabbathday Lake cemetery), but nonetheless, I've vaguely entertained it.

I'm so psyched for "Modern Christian Thought" and "The Old Testament," but now I kind of regret not taking any Islam classes yet, what with the freaking holy war. I guess Old Testament is a good start, though, on the Israel conflict, while Modern Christian Thought will get me in the mind of the US government. But it's the Lebanese and the Iraqis from whom I feel most alienated. Soon, though, I will understand them better than they do themselves! Bwhaahahahah!

Fat Camp Update

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Sat, 12 Aug 2006 18:49:00 +0000

I am so bored by fat camp. The food is very bad and the exercise is constant, and on top of all that we are supposed to be enthusiastically participating in some sort of "Color War" while all I want to do is obsess online about the real freaking war in The Holy Land and shit. I have, however, lost some weight (8.5 pounds so far!), acquired a new nickname (Shappy, which sounds best in a North Dakotan accent because they say their "a"s funny), made new facebook friends (facebook facebook ad infinitum), and climbed a mountain. Also played sports and shit, which is fun. Did I mention the horrible food? You've never seen chicken this dry. This chicken just went through the spin cycle on Delicates, and it is D-R-Y dry dry dry. And I missed the pudding last night. And now I have to go swimming, which is why I'm in the library blogging, of all time-consuming things. Oh, and I went to Canada and got rained on and bought an outdated Expos hat post-semi-ironically, but I can't wear it because it's blue and the Color War is Blue versus Orange and I'm Orange and nothing rhymes with orange (unless you count doorhinge, Frankie's dad always says).

So, okay, I should go swim, or cheer people from the sidelines and say I can't swim because I have a leg cramp (totally not a lie). But before I do, I'm going to share my Past and Present essay, which was a mandatory part of the system of obtaining privledges like phone time, computer time, and trips (like to Canada). It's an essay about My Food History, or, Why I Am At Fat Camp Now, Even Though I've Been Fat A While. My group therapy cohorts thought it was the funniest thing ever, and called me very sarcastic and a dry wit. I felt bad, because theirs were kind of sad and they are all fatter than me, technically, but I am still counted as fat because I am short. One girl is shorter than me and that's fun, but she's 23 so I don't get to feel superior at all. The point is, My Fat History.

The first thing I did after being born (besides screaming myself hoarse, mind) was suck my mom's finger so hard, she says she feared it would come off in my mouth. I was certainly a good eater.
My family life was pretty great. My parents are of a fairly liberal, lenient sort. Most notably, they never forced me to eat anything I didn't particularly want to. Thus began my lifelong avoidance of all things vegetable, fruit, or, essentially, remotely good for me.
I was an active child--my mother describes an incident in which I ran wild about the house for two hours straight, finally collapsing in a heap. This is notable because at the time, I had a 103 degree fever.
My eating habits have always been a source of cafeteria conversation. It begins with me refusing a salad in the lunch line, or a friend acknowledging the lack of healthful component in my brown bag. It then becomes an incredulous chorus of "they NEVER make you?" and "No veggies at ALL?" Then I am compelled to list the foods I DO eat. This repeats itself each time I eat with someone new. At subsequent meals, I am peer-pressured to try new things, taunted by vegetables thrown unto my plate, and eventually, ignored, or treated as an irritation, a stubborn and unhealthy fool.
As I aged, so did my little sister. We were brought to parks together, and placed in various little league sports. It quickly became clear that while I was an enthusiastic and good-natured sportsman, she possessed actual athletic skill. Gradually, I ceded the arena of exercise to her sole provenance.
Suddenly, in fifth grade, I hit puberty. With that came blood, sweat, tears, breasts, and rapid weight gain. In addition, fifth grade was the first year we were allowed to wander the streets of New York to purchase our own lunches, and I became a regular customer at the candy shops of the neighborhood.
A pattern began to emerge, one that continues to this day--my mother would nag me about losing weight, and I would ignore her and eat Hostess and Hagen Daaz to excess. In 8th grade, mom begged me to join the fledgling school "running club", ostensibly because my sister was joining (of course) and wanted company. I eventually joined, and while I was never able to run, per se, for more than a minute at a time, I walked a couple miles twice a week and lost about ten pounds. Mom was thrilled--prouder of me than of my sister's 6 minute mile.
High school was a fairly neutral time, weight-wise. I regained the running club weight within a year or two, and each summer a new gym membership or exercise program was purchased for my eventual disuse.
Our nagging/eating pattern continued until the 12th grade, when a routine blood test (I was on a dermatological medication that required monthly testing) revealed disturbingly high insulin and testosterone levels. A few more test revealed it was nothing serious yet, but I was officially pre-diabetic and at high risk for a cadre of other diseases. By that time, however, it was time I headed out for college.
Naturally, college was not a great place to lose weight. I gained ten pounds my first semester, disturbing my mom and the doctor's greatly. I promised to find the gym second semester, but around February, I entered a significant depression. I took to sleeping all day (except for the occasional class) and watching illegally downloaded television and eating cookie dough all night. I regularly ordered an entire pizza (sans cheese, of course, I was still a weirdo) AND a 12" hero sandwich to wash it down. I was up to three hot dogs a day.
My parents took note, and as soon as I got home I was pumped full of anti-depressants, forced to actually visit a gym, and told that I should seriously consider coming here. I agreed to that proposal, because it's not like I enjoyed being 80 pounds overweight. I complied with the exercise, told my employer of my upcoming absence, and ate less, if not yet well.
And here I am.

Big Blonde And Beautiful, Minus Two

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Sat, 22 Jul 2006 07:22:00 +0000

Time for a "let's face it" moment. Let's face it, then: I'm fat.

No, I'm not morbidly obese; I would, in fact, not be accepted at Fat Pride type groups. But I am, technically, obese--Obesity means a BMI over 30, and mine is 32.5. I am quite technically, a fatty.

It's fairly obvious why--if you've met me for long enough to eat with me, you'll have noticed that I eat nothing but greasy/fatty/sugary/carby foods, and en masse. I also am a lazy bum, and I also have deep-rooted issues involving a recurring fear that people are coming to take my food away. The very first thing I did, after emerging from the womb, was suck on my mother's finger so hard she was afraid it would come off (she's doing much better, btw. She's home, using her cane, doing her physical therapy. She's very mopey, of course, but you would be too, if you were hit by a fucking truck).

The point is, then, that I'm taking action. Not because of the way I look--if you've met me, you'll have noticed that I hardly make a fuss over that. But rather, because of doctors. According to them (as if they're a massive entity, like the Borg), I am "pre-diabetic,", which is doctor-slang for "if you don't lose weight, you're going to get diabetes and have to take shots three times a day, you fatty." I have been this way since the 11th grade. I have also gained 35 pounds since the 11th grade, the majority of them during College, which was stressful and wherein I had Depression. (a Great Depression, in fact--my stock was SO LOW. Okay, metaphor over.) The point is, the doctors are all "man, why you even gotta do a thing?" the thing being "gain so much weight, idiot?"

So, I'm going to fat camp. I'll see you in a month. I leave you now with two jokes I thought up last night and facebook-messaged myself.

The first is re: this photo album, which contains two pictures of Frankie talking to her Nebraskan boyfriend on the telephone. The telephone is "tagged" with said boyfriends name. The story goes:

Some random guy from Omaha Nebraska is going to click on "View More Photos of Ben Sherman" and they'll see a blurry-ass picture of Frankie, and they'll click on the album to be all "what's up with this shit?" and they'll see "poo party? what the fuck? this chick is weird." And then, years later, we'll all be staying at the same hotel (with a pool) for Frankie and Sherman's Hott Wedding, and I'll be sitting by the pool and remark "isn't this a great poo party? They took the L and made my name," and they'll be like "You're from the Internet!"

It was funnier out loud.

The second is re: The Rapture, which is a pet topic of mine. One day, when I am a successful religion major, I would like to study the Rapture. My main sources would be Revelations and the Left Behind franchise and the play "The Faculty Room." I'd have fun.

1) The Rapture Where Nobody Came -- all are evil -- like that one passage about Sodom and/or Gommorah

2) The Really Subtle Rapture -- People mysteriously disappeared, missing persons cases never solved, turns out, they were with Jesus.

3) New York Is The Kingdom of Heaven -- Well, you know, Jesus can't be everywhere at once, so he uses his God powers to make all good people move to New York, and then takes it up, wholesale.

Important: With all the bad things happening in Iraq, Israel, Lebannon, Iran, North Korea, The Sudan, Rwanda, France, and Peoria, perhaps now IS the End Times and we just haven't bothered to declare it such. Of course, knowing TV (embedd Youtube Video of "Brink of War?"), they'd take till the literal end of the universe (The Big Bing) to declare it the Brink of Apocalypse.

I Want My Mommy

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Fri, 14 Jul 2006 06:35:00 +0000

Imagine one of these slamming into your mother.

Just imagine it. Imagine your mother innocently stepping out onto 1st avenue, holding her arm out for a taxi that didn't appear to be coming, when suddenly, she finds herself hurtling through the air? She sees the above-pictured monster stopping just ahead of her, and suddenly finds herself looking up a Circle of Faces. The faces are all looking at her leg, which is apparently in a position no leg should ever see. She realizes her back suddenly hurts like a bitch. She screams "I'm dying!" then starts reciting your father's cell phone number.

And then you hear all this six hours later, two days before your birthday. And you go to meet your mom in the ER and her eye looks like... well, the closest I can come is this, but slightly grusomer, and also, it's your mother (her eye is improving steadily. Every day it's a smaller patch of black. She says she's stopped caring, though, and prefers to focus on the broken rib pain). And she's strung out on morphine and her leg is in traction and, although a few days later she'll be strolling around with just a walker and three surgical scars (from where they put a titanium fucking rod in her leg), at the time we're talking wheelchairs, laptops, multiple operations.

Mom is not a great sick person--she's spent too much time with her hypochondriac mother and on medical websites (and, of course, that year in medical sciences grad school), so she's often second-guessing people and worrying about stuff. Her roommate, one day (it's been a rotating cast) had leukemia, and cancer is her kryptonite. Her previous roommate had mistaken her for a large African-American burglar.

Mom also is having her own major mommy issues right now--as I mentioned, her mom is basically impossible to communciate with right now, so as of right now, she [grandma] has no clue about mom's accident. And, of course, my mommy wants her mommy, but her mommy seriously can't leave the house, and would also freak out because hypochondriac agoraphobe, but would have to freak out silently and internally, because unable to speak.

The worst of it is, of course, my internship has decided that this is the week to make me the delivery girl. So I spend half my day walking through the sweltering heat through traffic-y Soho streets, to the Hamptons Film Festival office and to a Mailboxes, Etc. and to a deli to buy 4 liters of water (fucking heavy). And I'm doing all this, which is irritating enough when I don't have a hearty fear of cars, with a hearty fear of cars.

In conclusion, I wish mom were healthy, but if she were, I wouldn't need her right now. Catch-22, 23-skidoo, 24 is the most addictive show on television, 25 is the silver anniversary.

What's My Age Again?

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Wed, 05 Jul 2006 17:20:00 +0000

(My birthday is on Saturday, I expect presents, or at least like a quarter.)

My father's side of my family has always seemed to me more grown up than my mother's. Perhaps that's because his parents were doctors, professionals with advanced degrees, while mom's parents were scraping by with high school diplomas and gumption. Perhaps its because one of my dad's sisters lives in Colorado and the other wasn't married till I was like 8 (thus making her appear to be a sophisticated 20-or-30-something like I always wished I was), while my mom's sister lives four blocks from us and still acts like a twelve year old to my mom's sophisticated seventeen-year-old college freshman. Or perhaps it's because my paternal grandfather died when I was young, while my maternal relations continued on as pseudo-sick, complaining, elderly yiddish caricatures.

Whatever the reason, it's been quite reversed lately. Visits to my mom's childhood home are depressing and emotionally draining; my grandmother's Parkinson's has taken away all but her smallest movements or sounds, and so we crowd around her bed and talk at her in strained, almost condescending sing-song, retelling her stories she told us and glossing over the details of our lives. My grandfather, meanwhile, is in better physical shape (his recently-repaired broken ribs and ongoing heart difficulties nonwithstanding), but Grandma's illness is really getting to him. Late in June he celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary, though they'd known each other for much longer. Mom told me that he spent almost all day trying to get her to remember, but she was pretty unresponsive. And thus, he is acting out. He's always basically been like a jolly Jewish Santa Claus figure--when they used to babysit us, Grandma was the one nagging us about safety and worrying about nonsense in the kitchen while Grandpa played games and told jokes with us in the living room. Mom once told me she'd never seen him really angry. And now, he's become... cranky. He yells at everyone (except us). He's fired every geriatric aide we've hired to help carry Grandma around and stuff. He calls Mom a billion times a day to complain about the TV, the aides, the nurses, his medications, what have you. In sum, my mom's side basically consists of a bed-ridden silent sickster and a grumpy olod man.

My dad's side, however, is now overrun with little children. His mother, though not in perfect health, seems fairly vibrant and fine. My cousins are 14, 7, 7, and 3. Both my dad's sisters married blondish goyim men who like golf and fishing and hiking and outdoorsy stuff, in stark contrast to my father (or, indeed, his father, who, I realized, I refer to primarily as "dead grandpa"), who spends perfectly good mountain-climbing weather days indoors watching movies or visiting museums.

I could never go on a vacation with my mom's family, not even her sister's husband and kid (Holly, now... 15? I'm never sure, is severely allergic to milk, and that built on the inherent overprotective nervous nebbish in my aunt and uncle to make them a very anxious bunch even to dine with. Also, Holly, like me, had a bout of elective mutism in her youth, and enjoys writing and the theater, and was born a day after me [years later, obvi], and thus, with all that in common, I can never think of anything to talk to her about).

However, I just returned from a vacation with my dad's. MIreya, the 3-year-old, is angelic and unobtrusive and utterly cooperative. Every time she saw me she shouted "Laura!" with pure joy, except the one time she slipped and called me "Aunt Laura," because to her I more resemble the grown-ups than anyone in her generation. Her brother Kyle, the 15-day-older 7 year old, is brash and obnoxious and "difficult." He doesn't really like sports, and asked me a bunch of questions after he learned I was going to take astronomy ("How many moons are there, in total, in the universe?"). His parents are quick to judge and blame him for everything. Meanwhile, the younger 7 year old, Aidan, is another of those blond angelic kids. He has big eyes and plays baseball and tennis and weighs like ten pounds. His sister, Paige, the 14-year-old, is a champion gymnast and thus a bit physically stunted. She enjoys the Disney Channel, Grey's Anatomy, and sulking whenever her mom speaks. In sum, they are kids. They are young. They are they world. They are physically draining and emotionally inspiring and I wish I could be them again. I wish Grandma (maternal) could be like that again. I wish we all could be 3, splashing around in a Sesame-Street floatie, explaining "the box says Beauty and the Beast but Beauty is in Sleeping Beauty so the movie is called Belle and the Beast" to a spell-bound and indulgent crowd of one elder, six grown ups, and 2-5 other children.

man why you even got to do a thing

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Thu, 15 Jun 2006 22:10:00 +0000

Today I slept through work because I have trouble falling asleep. I called and said I was feeling a little queasy, so I'm going in tomorrow instead.

The other day, my job was to "make myspace friends." So I spammed a couple "groups" with "add me!" bulletins. I don't think no-one did.

Since Frankie blogged about my cat, indirectly, I find it necessary to mention that she is adorable, and watching me type with marked interest.

In other news,
see more

Scenes From An Internship

noreply@blogger.com (Sharpie) — Thu, 08 Jun 2006 21:46:00 +0000

Author's Note: I'm working two internships this summer, this one three days a week and the other two. This one is for a documentary production company that most recently completed a film on a gay performance artist/film-maker/pothead who some consider influential. It has otherwisedistinguished itself by being located in a giant, insect-infested loft, having tarp instead of walls [even in the bathroom], having been working on an absolutely retarded printer problem for three straight days, and generally being ridiculous in the vein of my summer 2004 job.

DAY 1
10:04 A.M.
I wake up. I am to be 5.1 miles from my house in 56 minutes.

10:17
I enter taxi-cab.

10:39
I exit taxi-cab, a disgusting 21 minutes early.

10:42
I discover the disgusting, roach-infested Chinese bodega around the corner. I vow never to return.

10:59
I enter. I am greeted by the PRODUCER. He is a close talker. If this entry were presented in Smell-o-Vision, it would be time for you to leave the room.

PRODUCER: Hey! Is it Laura or Lauren?
ME: Laura.
PRODUCER: Okay, Lauren. Hey, do you like webcams?
ME: lying Sure.
PRODUCER: Great! Okay, I need a list of, like, the best ones for a project. Did you bring a laptop? No? Okay, well, here's a computer you can use.

I go to the computer. It is from 1995.

11:39
PRODUCER: So, have you got a list?
ME: Yup!
It is a beautiful list, with ratings from PCMag.com and Macworld.com, specs from the website, and both list and third-party retailer prices.
PRODUCER: Great! Do any of them run on, like, Mac OS 9?
ME: (not in so many words) Well, no, because new products ceased to be developed for that system in March 2001, when OS X was released.
PRODUCER: Um, maybe you can make a list of old ones from, like, ebay?

12:24 P.M.
ASSISTANT enters. She does not smell.

ASSISTANT: Hey, Laura, when you're done with that, I have something for you.
ME: I'm done.
ASSISTANT: Great! So, here is a 4" binder of licenses, release forms, and general legal documents. Unfortunately. the indexes don't match the contents. If you could make a new table of contents, including random legal terms you've never heard before despite both your parents being lawyers, that would be great.
ME: ... sure.

1:45
I kill myself.

2:10
I realize their lunch policy is "go out whenever." Nonetheless, I do not leave.

3:15
How long do they need me, again?

3:45
ME: Um, I'm not quite done, but... I have to go. To a doctor's appointment.
ASSISTANT: Oh, okay. Well, you can finish tomorrow. But, just so you know, we need you like, from 10-6 most days.

DAY 2
8:45 A.M.
I am awoken by a pack of gazelles.

8:47
The pack of gazelles begins to blast "Jesus Walks" in my ear from my own laptop computer.

8:48
I threaten to eat the pack of gazelles. She continues to bounce around like a 16-year-old idiot.

9:15
I repeat the process of getting a taxi-cab, somehow managing to have been late again.

9:50
I am again early. I decide to have a candy bar from that godforsaken bodega.

10:01
PRODUCER: So, you have, what, an hour on that legal thing, right?
ME: Sure.

10:04
The transfer from the PowerMac 6200 to my PowerBook G4 has caused the document to drastically reformat itself. I kill myself.

12:39 P.M.
I finish the fucking legal thing.

1:25
I return from lunch, which I took at the nice pizza place across the street.

1:39
PRODUCER: Okay, I have a SLJ for you.
ME: What?
PRODUCER: Shitty Little Job. Anyway, here's my e-mail password. I need you to go through and see all the e-mails that have gotten bounced back to me in the past while, and then delete them from my address book.

1:50
PRODUCER: Oh, hey, do you like mailing lists?
ME: Sure.
PRODUCER: Okay, we need some, like, software that can make a mailing list easy to join from online or whatever.

2:35
I finish the mailbox thing.

3:21
I start the mailing list thing.

3:45
ASSISTANT: Hey, Laura? I have a contract here for you... what name would you like if you do any credited work on a film?
ME: Laura's good.
ASSISTANT: Okay. And, you're 3 days a week? How bout Tuesday Wednesday Thursday? Can I put that down?
ME: Since I can't tell you that I have to check with my other job, I'll just tell you Sure.

4:37
PRODUCER: Hmm, all that software looks kind of expensive. Do you like BitTorrent?

4:40
I download BitTorrent.

4:55
I have searched every single popular and comprehensive torrent search site. None of them have any mailing list software, thought I do contemplate dling Photoshop.

5:05
I turn to freeware sites.

5:10
I get scared of all the coding language (I don't speak Perl) and procrastinate.

5:50
I realize I can leave in 10 minutes. I buckle down.

5:59
ME: I found the perfect software! it's even free! Should I e-mail you the link?
PRODUCER: Actually, could you try to set it up, like a trial run, and then show me?

6:34
ME: Okay, I made you a detailed How To Install document and e-mailed it to you. I tried it on my computer, and it worked fine. Please let me go.
PRODUCER: Okay. Oh, wow, it's 6:30.

7:15
I realize that I've walked so far in the wrong direction that I'm two subway stations away from the one near work.

9:30
I fall asleep on the couch. Not for a nap, like I did a bunch in college, but for reals.

DAY 3
9:40 A.M
The gazelles enter, telling me that I've been asleep for 13 hours and that I'm late.

10:34
I arrive at work, having stopped at the disgusting bodega for breakfast.

10:45
ASSISTANT: Okay, so, here's a 3" binder of inane press clippings, mostly from art magazines. Now, anything from before 2001 goes in a new binder, except for stuff about Executive Producer, who likes to see his name in print. We need a whole Excel file for this, too.

11:04
One of the "press clippings" is a picture of Britney Spears naked. I am puzzled, then realize that perhaps Assistant is as gay as Producer. N.B. both gay as in homosexual and gay as in tarded.)

11:30
PRODUCER: Hey, do you like dogs?
ME: Sure.
PRODUCER: Okay, can you walk the director's puppy? It's not raining too hard, so you could even take him to the park and like throw the stick around.

11:34
The dog poos. Luckily, I have a tissue in my pocket, so I don't break the law.

11:40
The dog drags me to a park way in the middle of Chinatown.

11:50
I drag the dog back.

12:45 P.M.
I have been done with the excel document for 30 minutes. I decide to compulsively reformat it.

1:00
The guys behind me (who have spent the past 3 days working reallllly hard on fixing the printer) come back from lunch.
GUY A: So, you like hops?
GUY B: I like all kinds. I'm like a beer connoisseur. I didn't like it in high-school, but in college I went to this German beer garden, and it was just amazing.
GUY A: Cool. ... so you like Heinken?
GUY B: A little too watery for my tastes.
GUY A: Oh, no, man, someone told me once that when they make beers for importing to America, they make 'em less than they make for their own countries.
GUY B: That makes sense.

1:05
I go to lunch.

2:12
I create a wikipedia page for the documentary. I neglect to include that it is being sued by the Village Voice guy, because I am so sick of his name (fucking legal documents binder.)

3:30
Nobody is giving me anything else to do. Of course, that may be related to the way I still have the binder of stuff open and Cmd-Tab to the Excel document every time someone passes.

4:00
I start writing this.

4:30
Either blogger is down or their printer problems have spread to their wireless internet.

4:53
They fixed the printer! Nobody, however, has fixed blogger.

5:19
Blogger comes back! Unfortunately, it comes back at the very SECOND that Assistant picks up the phone that's on the same frequency as AirPort. I consider eating my own hand.

5:28
This "old stuff" binder has their pitches, which come in Film, Gay, Fashion, Music, Theater, and Urban Culture. An excerpt from each.
FILM: "[Artist] was also among the first filmmakers to practice guerilla filmmaking. He filmed whenever and wherever he could, and made the baroque [famous movie of his] on a budget of $300 dollars."
GAY: "Ever fabulous, [Artist] inspired the glam rock movement of the 80s, chronicled in Todd Haynes's recent film Velvet Goldmine."
FASHION: "[Artist] was the originator of thrift-shop glam and glitter rock. The bold, theatrical, and glitter-infused sense of style that informed his art inspired the glam-rock movement of the 70s."
MUSIC: "[Artist]'s innovative intertwining of sound and image on stage quickly became one of the true eminent artists of the avant-garde."
THEATER: "By fusing art and theater, [Artist] predicted performance art as a genre."
URBAN CULTURE: "[Artist]'s work has come back into the spotlight, 15 years after his death of complications from AIDS."