unanticipated perk of nyu library database access

dr. phil's advice columns in the oprah magazine are more interesting than ann 'here's the 800 number for the domestic abuse hotline' landers, yet also uninhibited by the nyt mag ethicist's occasionally tiresome mantle of intellect and do-gooderism. they are pure voyeurism, and dr. phil's answers have a satisfying pop (which the meandering and verbose cary tennis of salon would do well to learn from).

through eight months in the journalism program, it had never occurred to me to use my proquest and nexis access to read trash. yes, i have arrived. tho i still think a real-life subscription to us weekly is in order, since you can't see pictures in the databases. goodbye mother jones, hello brangelina.

a downside to this unprecedented wallowing is realizing to an even fuller extent what a retard chuck klosterman is. oh well. i suppose knowledge has always had its compromises.

poisonous people who unfairly escape retribution and humiliation

or, people i shouldn't let get to me, but who do anyway.

1. PR people, esp. in press offices
2. real-estate agents you aren't paying
3. real-estate agents you are paying
4. subway pushers
5. hairdressers who don't listen

suggestions welcome.

hooray for backposting! i meant to add this at the time and now i'm typing in preview mode and the letters pop up in the heading right as i type them.

yesterday i interviewed for an internship at a magazine i'd really like to work for. i thought i would just be talking to this one scruffy guy who recently graduated from my program, but instead i was faced with a mini-conference room of 3 important people to charm. i think it worked—they asked me to bare my soul, talk about my dream job, what i really want from work and hence life, and i totally confessed to wanting to be a series of old men: harper's ed lewis lapham, septagenarian (but so sexy!) brit artman john berger, and my media theory hero thomas de z, the only one of the group under 60. i left feeling pried open and good, but slightly embarrassed in that morning-after way, when you wake up realizing you got too drunk on a first date and revealed your soul to a cute guy you'd like to see again, except he hardly talked about himself at all.

myself as a man

it has taken me till 4 to start on the day's task, even tho i got up at 8:30. that is because it's a tedious one. for my anthropologie project i must transcribe an hour-plus-long interview (normally i reconstruct conversations from my notes, which is faster, but this must be a word-for-word transcription, as stipulated by the prof).

i'm doing slow playback so that i can get everything, which makes my interviewee and me sound like men. stoned men. yet gay, because we are being chatty women, talking about clothes, and that rhythm and inflection comes through even in slow-mo.

this is funny because the company is run by a gay couple, who live in philly but keep a pied-a-terre in manhattan. the headboard on their bed was inspired by an english garden gate from the 1870s, i recently learned from a shelter mag. they had repros made for the store, and now you can own one, too—for $1,348.

sparkles, ruffles, and other grownup pursuits

almost two years ago i found this bag at a now-defunct boutique on curry row in the east village. but like so many over-the-top things that i love, the purse, i determined after a mental assessment of my wardrobe, belonged with dorothy.

i was right, but later i missed it dearly, just like dorothy now misses the ruffle she cut off the bottom in a pointless bout of asceticism. we both looked for the bag online, googling for the mysterious 'malina' scripted in plastic and dangling from a removable string on the handle. nothing. the boutique made it out to be from a local designer, which is probably true, if by designer you mean machine and by local you mean china.

fast forward to last weekend, when ed and i were eating at a peruvian place around the corner from our apartment. the woman at the table next to us had a bag that looked just like this one, except it was pink and had brass handles. when i interrupted her conversation with her date, i learned that she had gotten it on the street in new orleans and that her date hates holding it for her.

less than an hour later i had found the same green one as d's on ebay and bought-it-now. along with my yellow cherry dress from anthropologie, this bag signals my early-life crisis, in which i buy up fashion items i could've only dreamed about as a five-year-old.

still looking for those blue-gray sparkle mary janes, tho.

amazing and pathetic food-industry interest group

i'm up early/late preempting a hangover with leftover chinese and cheese toast. this week's new yorker is on the table, opened to an ad that says 'concerned about mercury? you shouldn't be, unless you eat this,' around a fictional can of whale meat. after some explanatory text that poses a no-win hyphenation setup—'heavy fish-eaters'—the ad says 'fish is good for you. baseless anxiety (or whale blubber) isn't' and refers the reader to fishscam.com.

the page is run by the innocuous sounding center for consumer freedom, whose press releases unite the government and PETA in a conspiracy to make us all anxious as hell and not buy foods that are good for us.

here's my favorite quote:

'Is there any doubt that the animal rights movement is targeting your kids? In a new report, "Your Kids, PETA's Pawns," the Center for Consumer Freedom explores how one group, the $24 million People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA), devotes substantial resources toward capturing children -- the next generation of potential meat eaters, milk drinkers, circus-goers, and fishermen -- in its cult-like web.'

and this headline from the fishscam site should retire to the onion: Fishy Mercury Scare Based On Study Of Whale-Heavy Diets, Says Ad in U.S. News & World Report.

now in brooklyn: edwards key lime

the pie finder is wrong! heretofore unavailable in new york city, the delicious key lime pie has found its way to target on atlantic avenue, formerly a total hellhole. now it's a total hellhole with a prize gleaming in the freezer section.

i got the last one. not even a whole pie, but the box of two slices, which cost $2.02. i am serious, this pie is better than any i have ever made. and yes, it's frozen. the best way to eat it is only partially defrosted and accompanied by cheap asti, as we in jam304 found.

in other news, i got really excited and then partially bummed, but still sort of excited. my culture-critic hero, thomas de zengotita, was slotted to teach a class on the history of media theory in the fall in a different program. i emailed him—spending hours on a few simple lines, of course—to ask permission to register for it, and he got back to me very quickly. unfo, the class will be next spring, after i've graduated (unless i get especially delinquent these next few months), tho i imagine i'll still be able to audit.

he signs his emails 'tdez.' that's pretty awesome.

fifteen minutes early and 3.5 months late

as of 11:45 last night, i am finally done with my incomplete. now i can in good conscience drink the bottle of prosecco ginny brought before my last week of school in december. tho it was not a gift meant in reward for finishing, it became a symbol for it, and so all winter and through the very late beginning of spring here in ny (i.e., last week), that beribboned bottle has sat atop my fridge, taunting me with the knowledge that i have made it halfway through the program without managing to finish my first semester. but now. it is time to drink. at 8:56am saturday morning. yeah. no. instead, it's time to go to the whitney biennial.