an unfortunate coincidence

I will be starting a new job as one of two general managers for Boston's first trendy cupcake cafe, "Sweet." I did not realize, however, that, by mentioning its name and location, I may have been leading people to believe that I will be managing at "Sweet-n-Nasty," the erotic bakeshop on the other corner of Commonwealth and Massachusetts Avenues. The unfortunate coincidence eluded me until a friend justifiably requested clarification. "Sweet," not "Sweet-n-Nasty"; delightful, not gross; me, not some pierced and tattooed goth chick.

P.S. stop by and try our sweet cuppin' cakes!

best day ever

When I graduated college, I was terrified that the few people who had made it a not-so-horrible experience would have nothing in common with me once they moved on to new cities, new jobs, and new experiences. A series of visits has worked hard to refute this possibility of awkward silence, culminating in what the only other college friend I have left in Boston called, the 'BEST DAY EVER!'

The day began on the beach, knocking back too-warm champagne from a Nalgene bottle, discussing America's food crisis--hoping in some narrow way to solve the problem with our discussion and the adoption of an expensive farm membership. After our Socratic session ended in a sea of complacent middle-classiness, we accepted our losses and looked forward to the Sangria we'd share hours later. Now, with skin crisped to perfection and egos properly alcoholically lubricated, we moved on to Harvard Square, where a number of local bands were to be performing outdoors to celebrate the Solstice (in lieu of virgin sacrifices, I suppose). We met up with one of my more recent friends and my boyfriend for a store opening and a dinner, even though my beach-going college friend and I agreed that world's colliding always seemed apocalyptic to us; two people who know me in two different ways in one room would certainly cause destruction.

Everyone had a delightful time, though, relating plenty of stories intended for common enjoyment. We were met by two more of my college friends, just in town from Chicago, to enjoy more drinks at my apartment and, obviously, watch Muriel's Wedding (we had been obsessing over Abba's 'Take a Chance on Me' during any time spent in a car). Maybe it was the Swedish disco and maybe it was the obscene amount of alcohol, but it seemed like college all over again (with better clothes and more money)--like nothing ever changed between my friends and me. It was reassuring and festive--the perfect way to begin the Summer without slaughtering a goat.

latoya is no longer employed at this location

I had finally settled in at work, anxious to check my e-mail and gaze hungrily at my plummeting bank account balance, when the phone rang, interrupting these very important plans. This is the exact conversation:

Official-sounding woman: "Do you have someone named Latoya working there?"
Me: "Latoya don't work here no' mo'."

Thank you to the popular song, "Shaniqua don't live here no' mo'," for infiltrating my mind in such a way as to cause this wildly inappropriate (and probably racially insensitive) response. Fact: Latoya did work here for about one second, until after I complained that her loudness was distracting. Now, Latoya don't work here no' mo'.

make it a double

Last Sunday, I waited anxiously for my friend to arrive to accompany me to a Pride function downtown. While I was waiting, I consumed two absinthe cocktails, mopped the floors in my apartment, and listened to Macy Gray's first album, On How Life Is. Jealous? What I thought was a particularly enjoyable Sunday morning (I began drinking somewhere between 11am and noon) and silly little look into my ridiculous habits has become a dire representation of my spiral into alcoholism, at least, so says Caroline Knapp, author of Drinking: A Love Story.

Probably intended for actual AA members, this memoir seemed out of my own psycho-social reach--representing the range of human emotion and trauma through beer goggles. The problem with the book becomes its ease of penetration; anyone reading this novel could easily step away from it thinking, "My name is Nick, and I am an alcoholic," though with his or her own name inserted in place of "Nick," of course. It did not help matters that her life paralleled mine: middle class up-bringing, liberal arts education, hope to succeed as a writer. She does bring up some interesting points regarding popular views of drinking, though. She notes that drinking seems to be a writer's territory, with notable creative minds all suffering from some form of alcoholism or addiction. She also mentions nuanced takes on masculinity and drinking--an exercise in brotherhood for men, yet unappealing and dangerous for women. Most interesting to me, though, were her thoughts on sophistication and alcoholic libations. She always saw her father sit down after a long day at work with his elegant gin martini; it was an adult thing, she thought. I've always felt that drinking brought with it a certain air of sophistication and sense that I'd finally grown up. Plus, as a frequent host, how was I to deny that alcoholic beverages are more of a classy conversation piece than Iced Tea, unless, of course, it is of the Long Island variety?

Unfortunately, the extent to which Ms. Knapp takes her drinking is downplayed by all of her philosophical insights, which had me sucking down Sangria in a pool of tears the night I got halfway through the book. I think I've finally come to my senses, realizing that the way I drink is controlled and sophisticated. For a writer, I'm sadly well-adjusted and sensible with regards to addictions, quitting smoking after realizing that it just made me sick and curbing my drinking when I decided that having money for just a few expensive bottles of champagne was far more enjoyable than getting plastered nightly.

Alcohol plays such a big part in society today, that it is hard for anyone to justify not going to AA. It's all incredibly personal, though, and if I want to enjoy two cocktails whilst listening to 90's classics, then, by God, I'm going to do it!

use your words

It's so unfortunate when thirty-somethings catch on to popular speech trends three years after they've been declared officially dead. For instance, over the past few days, I have heard a woman refer to her purchase of cardboard moving boxes as "Terrif" and another, slightly younger woman use "Perf" to describe her satisfaction with my answers both on the phone and in person. She even said it aloud to herself, then giggled, as if totally pleased with her adoption of this funky new trend. I obnoxiously inserted "perforated" into my own processing of her comment to amuse myself out of the possibility of tears.

Some of you may remember the rampant use of this text and instant message infused speech and how irritating it became when attempting to have an intelligent conversation. A friend of mine even wrote an essay for publication satirizing these "Unnes Abbreev's," as we liked to call them. We used these words only in jest, intending to criticize the modern need for such quick verbal exchanges. I thought I had finally moved outside the realm of half-speech, until it spread further, and in a totally unironic way. I can no longer jocularly say to someone "BRB" as I exit a room with the intention to return shortly; it just seems like I fully intended the abbreviation. My only hope is that the ironic understanding of this absurd speech pattern makes it to the appropriate populations in three years. That would be fab.

the city of almost

At the risk of seeming judgemental and snobbish, I'd like to offer some musings concerning the state of fashion, careers, and the general appeal of Boston, Massachusetts. Highly respected for its academia, Boston is where people go to 'get learned'; I, myself, assumed that the only place for a North easterner to go for college was Boston--certainly no other city would prove credible in the working world. As it turns out, I never wanted to be a member of the working world, and there are colleges in other places just as reputable as those packed densely into the city in which I now currently reside, fearing a total lack of connections if dislocated from the place I 'got learned.'

At the block party that marks the close of Boston's annual GLBTQ(and any other letter you want to throw in there) Pride festival, I became painfully aware of my lack of interest in Boston and its inhabitants. I am not by any means making such gross over generalizations as to the nature of every single person in the city; luckily I have made friends with the more fashion forward go-getters, who, as it were, also despise the city they are currently forced to call home due to any number of unavoidable situations. Of all 200 or so block party-goers, it seemed no one was informed of the death of the torn-apart boot cut jean, Adidas sandal, or skin-tight, label-screaming t-shirt. I was strangely disappointed by the subculture known for its particularly sharp sense of style. It was refreshing to have someone, who was the only other well-dressed attendee, complement my desert boots and teal jeans (yeah, that's right...teal). I don't know why everyone in Boston insists on dressing like it's 2001, especially since most people would be acceptably dressed sans one poorly chosen item. I found myself frequently whispering to my friend, "Almost."

My friend and I applied our "almost" theory to Boston in general. It seems that once you are at the top of your particular field, be it finance, publishing, or academia, there is no where else to go but out. Most people are staying in Boston just long enough to become established and then moving on to other cities, where the industry of their choice is booming. For instance, I will be finishing a publishing program in Boston, but moving to New York to utilize my skills and interests to their fullest, rather than having them slowly exhausted on sub-par publications and businesses.

Despite its picturesque architecture, Boston always seems to be just behind everywhere else in most regards. Almost, Boston, almost.

e! true hollywood story: half-asian john cusack look-alike

Kevin Ohi. Unless you are one of the enlightened denizens at Boston College who has discovered the school's practically non-existent queer theory program, that name is as much a mystery as the man behind it. Standing at a lanky and awkward 6 feet, this half-Asian John Cusack dreamboat seems to elude all the dreadful pigeonholes queer theory professors could accidentally lodge themselves into. His proclivity for 80's child stars, as evidenced by his collection of Corey Feldman t-shirts, and tendency to simultaneously horrify and delight his students with unlikely comparisons and quiet witticisms (he once compared the children from Botticelli paintings to boiled wontons) have made him somewhat of a BC celebrity. Although I graduated two years ago, I am still in contact with the enigmatic genius, which is a testament to his dedication to his students and probable propensity for young boys who flirt with him (I may or may not have punctuated his name with an exclamation point on every one of my papers for the two classes I took with him).

I mention this man now not just out of pure nostalgia, but also because his encouragement has made a huge impact on my success as a writer, as limited as it may be. Most recently, I was commissioned to write a weekly review on a television horror anthology called Fear, Itself for a website I regularly contribute to, Cinescare.com. All my previous work for the website has been unpaid, but it seems my persistence has gained enough respect in the Cinescare office for me to be offered $30 for four reviews--meager, I know. Although I might as well write the reviews for free, being paid at all for something I've written seems to justify labeling myself a "free-lance writer." Before, it was just a way to glide through family parties and awkward introductions without sounding like a degree-wasting imbecile, but now it's nearly the truth! I could not have accomplished this half-success were it not for the wide-open subject matter of the final paper for Kevin Ohi's queer theory course. It was a stunning meditation on the protection of the potentially queer child in the 80's vampire flick, The Lost Boys (coincidentally, starring both Corey Haim and Corey Feldman). The editors at the website loved the essay, and I've been churning out reviews of absurd horror films ever since.

To those who are already disciples of Mr. Kevin Ohi (you know who you are): his book, Innocence and Rapture, which I am currently plunking awkwardly through, contains language of unparalleled perfection, and reading it makes you feel like you are sitting in his classroom once again, though the edits make everything seem much less panicked and strange. I also had the pleasure of sitting in on one of his lectures at Harvard; he discussed annunciation in the Almodovar film, Talk to Her. His answers during the question portion of the lecture were eloquent, yet humble, as he frequently finished statements with "but I could be totally wrong." Then, as he spoke of the future of the article he was reading, he said "I still have to add a section on Proust...obviously." A strange little man with a big and scary brain, Kevin Ohi remains mostly a mystery.

terror train

Despite my best effort to maintain a high level of culture and class, my sarcastic urges have gotten the better of me; this blog needs a sprinkling of comedic self-indulgence. After a visit with a friend and fellow writer currently residing in NYC, it has become quite obvious that the only writing style meeting success and admiration these days is cheeky celebrity gossip designed to make us feel better about not being famous. Of course, no part of my personality allows me to become party to such a display, however, I would like to pique more interest in my writing with adorable anecdotes, sticky situations, and fantastic fiction (while maintaining my signature flagrant use of alliteration). That said, here's the first post for a revamped 'Solipsism for Sisyphus':

This morning at 8:20am, I commenced with my own daily Sisyphean task--relying on public transportation to get me to work by 9am. The train system in Boston was the first of its kind in the United States. Boston, due to its antiquity, is able to claim many such firsts. Unfortunately, quantity does not necessarily equal quality. In a city overflowing with over educated overachievers and top technical schools, such as MIT, one would assume we possess the tools necessary to build and organize an efficient and reliable form of public transportation that does not experience weekly derailments and minor fires. We don't. Recently, I have become quite reluctant to step onto the "T" (as it's called here in Boston), for fear of becoming its latest crash victim (this particular Spring has seen a record number of "incidents"). Rather than make the trip to the bike shop to have my bicycle--now replete with two flat tires and a bent frame caused by my own vehicular foible--put back in working condition, I take the chance on the T; I'm just that lazy.

Everything went off without a hitch this particular morning, until I made it to the stop where I switch from one green line train to the next. This train stop lies seemingly in the middle of the road--no awning, bench, or curb, even. The first train to arrive stops at the red light, but, taking advantage of a sick and sadistic ritual, keeps its doors fortified like an army barricade. Then, also rather ritualistically, an angry old Russian woman (of which there are millions in Brighton, most often recognized by their fur coats of unimaginable and unsettling colors) pleaded with the driver using an open palm bang on the door. The driver keeps her eyes straight ahead. I probably don't have to mention that it is pouring rain at this point and a small group of angry commuters has formed at the door, all wearing varying expressions of "what the hell?" The next train allowed passengers to board, and I made it to work with one minute to spare. Why do I live here, again?