Hiatus

Your favorite flaneur is taking a little break for the holidays, and will back soon, bigger and better than ever for the new year. Cheers!

Gettin' Dreamy Wit It

From: Jamie
Sent: Thursday, December 11, 2008 11:12 AM
To: Natalie
Subject: Nyquil-induced dreams

Last night were about attending a mass wedding with all my high school pals, but Bf was nowhere to be found.

Are you not at work because you are at this moment stalking Big Willy Style Smith??

From: Natalie
Sent: Thursday, December 11, 2008 11:20 AM
To: Jamie
Subject: Re: Nyquil-induced dreams

I dreamt I was in Venice on a date with Uncle-Jesse-John-Stamos from Full House and Indiana-Jones-era Harrison Ford.

I wanted Harrison Ford to totally have sex with me and do the “Ah, Venice!” line from The Last Crusade movie, but he was having none of that.

(He’d have the sex, but not do the line, and I wasn’t interested without it. Plus, I needed him to wear the Indiana Jones hat. We couldn’t reach a compromise.)

And John Stamos kept checking out other women, so I having none of that, and hopped on a boat all on my lonesome to go visit some grape vineyards with my parents.

I did sing the “Na na na na” part from Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It at the morning meeting. Does that count?

From: Jamie
Sent: Thursday, December 11, 2008 11:32 AM
To: Natalie
Subject: Nyquil-induced dreams

That so counts.

From: Natalie
Sent: Thursday, December 11, 2008 12:01 PM
To: Jamie
Subject: Re: Nyquil-induced dreams

You do know I’ll be putting this whole exchange on my blog, in lieu of doing any actual writing, right?

CEO Gheera

Did you collate that memo yet?


All your desk are belong to us!

Death-defying: A Bagheera Interlude

The further adventures of Bagheera Luno, Super Kitty, who is able to leap tall door frames from desk tops in a single bound. He keeps an ever vigilant watch on his panicked mother, who is unaware of his super powers.





I can haz Super Hero theme song?

We rest on shaky foundations

The Mayflower building, my home for the past 4 years, creaks in protest at my steps, leaks its worries and tears, calls quietly in the late hours to lost tenants, to sleeping guests, to missing footsteps of small children and loud song.

The building holds us both, me and a little black cat, in shaking arms -- we fight, we call, we complain, we cry.

The wooden floors ache with me, I bend them, break them, raze them in a fury of clean to rid 80 years of others from my presence but they linger, and I linger and I leave bits of myself over every surface and into the pores of the walls and into the cracks between the floorboards and dust myself into the dark shadows of the past.

The Mayflower echoes the sounds of the highway, tied to shaking foundations ironically or aptly named Independence.

Looking for the answer

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"

- Mary Oliver

Enlightened

Some lessons I have learned in life that I am absolutely certain are true:

- No-chip nail polish is a damn, dirty lie.

- Anyone who claims they are a ...

Poet
Writer
Artist
Musician

OR

Talented
Amazing
Fabulous
Humble

... isn't. Ever. If you are any of these, you don't have to say it. You just are.

- Kissing up to the boss will only get you so far in life.

- Headphones from CVS always break exactly 3.5 months after use.

- Thursdays are the longest freakin' work days.

Office Politics

Original Message:
From: Natalie
To: WORK
Sent: Dec 2, 2008 12:50 PM
Subject: Cherry cola?

Hi gang,

I had a Cherry Coke in the fridge for my lunch and now it is gone. Anyone seen it?

Your caffeine-deprived editor,
Natalie

Translation:
From: Righteous ball of pissed-off fury
To: Corporate quarter-wits
Sent: Dec 2, 2008 12:50 PM
Subject: That does not belong to you

You fucking vultures!

I will buy 6-inch stiletto heels to grind into your worthless eyeballs! Don't steal my damn soda you bloated rejects of pond scum! What the hell? Seriously. What the hell? How fucking old are we? If it's not yours, don't fucking take it! Gah.

Don't talk to me until I've had a fucking shot of espresso or 75 cents is placed in between my slotted fingers since I am obviously your personal vending machine,
Natalie

Bagheera Interlude

I can haz diane von furstenberg bag?

Today in a nutshell

A "little look" usually lasts 2-3 hours. Multiple "little looks" last all day.

Admiration

By the end of the day I am usually so brain dead from correcting writing mistakes (while pointing and laughing at the more unique, i.e. ridiculously stupid, ones) that any attempt to write something profound and witty of my own becomes the very thing I so mock. My own writing falls to the wayside in lieu of reading and dreaming and mentally dictating. If I were to really embrace my inner Lois Lane and fall headfirst into a devotion of news writing and reporting and overall journalism, now would be a terrible time to do it. (See post below.) Since the election is over I have let up on my constant Palin-bashing blogging over at the paper's Web site and relaxed back into meaningless celebrity gossip and funny pictures. But when I visit my favorite progressive Web sites and see the amazing things people are writing, I am equally inspired and blown away.

I Blame The Patriarchy is one of those sites.

It's feminism that pulls no punches. And I admire it. Simple as that.
Admire it for the honesty, for the brutal honesty, in pointing out that injustice is too soft a word for what happens every single day to half of the population.

A few quotes:

A black dude can get elected president, but a woman? When swine defy gravity. Racism flourishes, all righty, but it’s covert, on the DL, the embarrassing private luxury of elderly honkys and parochial-minded nincompoops, an imp of the perverse the public indulgence of which is becoming increasingly difficult both to justify and to legislate. It seems safe to say that if the majority of Americans wished to cling to racism as a defining aspect of their cult, last week’s election would have had rather a different outcome.

Misogyny, on the other hand, is bullet-proof. It’s not merely tolerated, it’s openly celebrated in the American street, the American courtroom, the American bedroom, the American internet. Except for a puny consortium of bruised and contused blamers calling blindly to the Vaginatariat through mists of dime store cologne, even the victims of this oppression embrace it. Thus is it possible for American voters to view straight male Barack Obama as a human being, but to view the queers seeking some of that liberty and justice as a bunch of deviant meatsock mutations to throw under the bus.

And this quote, from another post, is subtle, but more effective than many a tome from a Women's Study class.

Then, while in line at Whole Foods, I espied the current copy of Vanity Fair, and was repelled by a cover featuring, in full drag, the most famous dude-fantasy cipher of the 20th century, Marilyn Monroe. The cover story, which I haven’t read, purportedly contains vital new information on the “mystery” of her death. Pah. I’ll tell you what killed Marilyn Monroe. Femininity. It kills thousands of women every day.

Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Our medium is dying!

Item 1:

"When a newspaper cuts its staff, those who remain in the depleted newsroom
become valuable. But as The Star-Ledger of Newark, N.J. slowly says farewell
to 151 newsroom folks who took buyouts last month, at least two longtime
journalists have been reassigned to the mailroom.

Reporter Jason Jett and Assistant Deputy Photo Editor Mitchell Seidel have
been filing, sorting, and delivering mail for more than a week, according to
sources.

Jett and Seidel could not be reached for comment."


Item 2:

"Talk about a sign of the times in the journalism industry. Staffers at the
Longmont Times-Call recently received an internal e-mail inviting them to
work as valets at a private Christmas party for the Lehman family, who own
the paper. And at least two employees have already accepted the offer.

The party honors Ed Lehman, who's currently in his 51st year as the
Times-Call's publisher, and his wife Connie -- and Dean Lehman, the paper's
editor and president (and Ed's son), says valets are needed because many of
the guests are elderly and may need a little extra help. So, too, do
small-market journalists in a struggling economy, so Lehman saw it as
natural to give Times-Call workers the chance to earn a little extra cash as
Christmas approaches. He says valets will earn the same rate of pay they
receive at their day job for the hours they work.

Although most Times-Call employees aren't invited to this bash, they'll have
a holiday celebration of their own. Lehman says the entire workforce is
invited to a catered sit-down luncheon. Presumably, there'll be no need for
valet parking at this event."

Item 3:

"Ken Edelstein, editor of Atlanta Creative Loafing for the last ten years, 'was fired in a time of crisis because he talked back to [the CEO],' says one staffer. Last week, Edelstein said that CEO should trim the general administration staff before cutting the editorial side."

Yes We Can!

Still thrilled for our new President-elect, Barack Obama.

Photo of the month

Since the trend this election season seems to be choosing completely inexperienced women who no one has ever heard of for running mates, I would like to take this opportunity to offer my services to Barack Obama in lue of Biden. I may not be able to see Russia from my house, but I have been out of the country and do not need a $150,000 wardrobe, since I know how to dress myself properly and without using wolf fur as an accessory. The main reason I wish to offer my services to Mr. Obama is this: I’ll get you your own pretzel. Sure, Biden may share, but me? I’ll totally buy you a pretzel, Mr. President. Anytime.

Little Sarah McCain Palin

I have one word of advice to the newborn daughter of Mark Ciptak: Emancipation.

Sure to be nominated for the Republican Husband of the Year, Mark Ciptak decided that his newborn daughter shouldn't be called the lovely name Ava Grace, the name his wife picked out. He wanted his daughter to be named John McCain. And while his wife was recovering in the hospital from labor, he went behind her back and filled out the birth certificate form. Without consulting his wife or even telling her before telling the national press, Ciptak named his daughter Sarah McCain Palin. (My advice to Mrs. Ciptak: Divorce.)

Here's what the genius had to say for himself:

"I went ahead and asked my wife about it and let's just say that's not an option."

"She wanted Ava Grace."

"With a clear conscience, even though I know I was kind of going behind her back, I kind of secretly put down Sarah McCain Palin instead of Ava Grace on another set of forms I acquired from the front desk."

"As we were walking out the front of the hospital, I went ahead and gave those to the nurse."

"My wife actually found out the next day when I found out that it looked like it was going to make national news, so, for her fairness, I wanted to get that taken care of before the news hit nationally."

"At first she didn't really want to believe me. She sort of didn't want to talk about it."

"When she did realize it was the real deal...speechless. I felt a lot of cold air come from her way."

Ciptak said his wife is still speaking to him, but some relatives aren't. He said he does feel bad about going against his wife's wishes but said they're both excited at the hope of giving the McCain campaign a breath of fresh air.

He also said if his daughter grows up to be a Democrat, that's her freedom as an American, and he wishes her the best.

Mr. Ciptak? This election will be over in about 20 days. And if, just if, by the slightest of slight chance McCain happens to Bush his way into office, his days are limited to 8 years, tops. And Palin? Please. Yeah, there's a real role model for a girl. How long do you think Palin will last?

A name you give a child stays with them forever. Or at least until they hit 18 and legally have it changed.

Way to think ahead.

Looking for faith in humanity

Attention ladies:

If you are raped, not only will a judge and jury claim it's your own fault, but you are never, ever allowed to smile again. EVER. Especially not on Facebook. So says a British lawyer. Link Here.

A barrister has caused outrage by suggesting a rape victim could not have been upset by her ordeal because there were photos of her on Facebook looking happy.

The woman was attacked in 2001 when she was 19 and has since tried to kill herself.

Her attacker, Anthony Francis, was caught seven years later as a result of a DNA sample.

His barrister tried to persuade a judge to be lenient by showing pictures posted on the social networking site of the woman laughing and smiling at a fancy dress party in the years since the rape.

Colin McCarraher, defending, told Reading Crown Court last week: 'What we have is a person who has post traumatic stress but is quite capable of going out and having a good time at a fancy dress party.'

Mr McCarraher told the court that although he did not know when the images had been taken, they did not tally entirely with someone struggling to rebuild their life.

The barrister's attempt to save his client from a lengthy prison sentence failed and Deputy Circuit Judge Stanley Spence jailed Francis for five-and-a-half years.

I do believe the term "Fuck you, Barrister Colin McCarraher, and your demeaning, lazy, inconsiderate and completely irrelevant argument, you shitty excuse for a lawyer" means the same thing across the pond as it does here in the States, yes?

Disturbing

According to my flooded Gmail inbox, someone other than me was trying to log on to my Blogger account, and failed. Multiple times. Not cool.

Summary

From: Jamie
Sent: Wednesday, October 08, 2008 9:43 AM
To: Natalie
Subject: Re:

Were Nick and Nora so precious?

From: Natalie
Sent: Wednesday, October 08, 2008 9:50 AM
To: Jamie
Subject: Re:

Sadly, no.
2 spoiled hipster twits and their large memory chip holding multiple songs was disappointing and kinda dumb.

Here’s the whole movie:

Nick: “Wahh, ex-girlfriend!”
Norah: “Wahh, no one pays attention to me! Plus I hate you but secretly like you even though we only met 5 minutes ago because you listen to the same music I do so therefore we are soul mates!”
Nick: “Wahh, you’re mean!”
(They make out.)
Nick: “Wahhh, Norah!”
Norah: “Wahhh, Nick!”
(They have sex but somehow manage to keep every article of clothing on, despite wearing tight skinny hipster jeans.)
Nick: “No more wahhh!”
Norah: “I’m suddenly special because I had sex with a guy I just met, but it’s OK because we like the same music, so we’re soul mates!”
The end.

Still...

...part of the workforce. Yay employment!

Statistics

At 10 this morning, I was 85% sure I was not going to be let-go, since bankruptcy has frozen the company for the next 120 days. At 2, not so certain.
It's Friday, a few days after the financial panic, and the day when people are gently told they are being sent to the ether of the workforce; always somewhere around 5 p.m., when the week's work is done.
Is it time to see the writing on the wall?

Clarity

Yes, the company that owns the newspaper where I work has filed for bankruptcy.
Yes, I still have a job.
Yes, I will be paid this week.
And No, I don't know what will happen or how long it will last.

So. If I show up on your doorstep with a little black cat under one arm, a broken computer under the other, and heart concaved in sadness and defeat, just made me some Chai tea and let me sleep on your couch. Hell, we'll even have a Sex and the City marathon. See? Everyone wins.

No Happy Endings

-----Original Message-----
From: Jamie
Sent: Thursday, October 02, 2008 11:14 AM
To: Natalie
Subject: Re:

How are you? How's the just in case job hunt coming along?

From: Natalie
Sent: Thursday, October 02, 2008 11:21 AM
To: Jamie
Subject: Re:

Not so worried about the job, because if it ends, well,
it ends. And I'll find something else to do, and I'll be great at it. Maybe
I'll be a massage therapist. You know, the legal kind.

From: Jamie
Sent: Thursday, October 02, 2008 11:27 AM
To: Natalie
Subject: Re:

You can do whatever you want to, but I had no idea you enjoyed rubbing all
over half-naked strangers. I'd stick to the writing business if I were you.

From: Natalie
Sent: Thursday, October 02, 2008 11:32 AM
To: Jamie
Subject: Re:

Really? No idea? Hi, have we met?

From: Jamie
Sent: Thursday, October 02, 2008 11:36 AM
To: Natalie
Subject: Re:

Whatever tickles your pickle I guess.

From: Natalie
Sent: Thursday, October 02, 2008 11:38 AM
To: Jamie
Subject: Re:

No, no, I would be the legit kind -- no pickle tickling.

Besides, that costs extra.

Presumptuous

Caroline, the friendly receptionist, plopped a manila envelope on my desk today. I was thrilled: Actual snail mail! Whee!

I ripped it open to find a copy of Today's Pentecostal Evangel magazine, with a note attached that read: "Read And Family -- Holy Bible -- Buy." Inside, there were circled passages, telling me to "Read" and an image of the Bible, circled and labeled, stating for me to "Buy this Holy Bible."

Say what? Is Alice supposed to eat the mushrooms? I didn't chase any white rabbit, and these commands were a little confusing. Confusing, presumptuous, and a tad insulting.

"K-chan," I called over the cubicle wall, "did you get one of these?"
I held up the magazine.
"Yeah," she replied. "I think they think we're sinners."

I don't know, maybe we shouldn't jump to conclusions. After all, our company just filed for bankruptcy. Maybe some kind, grammatically challenged individual wants to lift our spirits. Fear of losing the entire fucking newspaper will do that.
But the post mark is Monday, Sept. 29, from Hewlett, NY. Weekly Planet did declare bankruptcy on Monday, but is that enough time for a kind gesture? Or maybe I'm being too kind in my thinking? It's a stretch, I know.

After all, weekly alternative newspapers are not a bastion of Pentecostal Evangelical ideals. And me, feminist liberal that I am, never personally sought to cover anything that wouldn't draw interest from readers who peruse the rag for the latest news that CNN and American Idol won't cover. Lately, like everyone else with a lick of sense, I've been raging against Sarah Palin and John McCain. If I could, I'd cover more of my own interests -- but my interests aren't usually that of the paper -- feminism, literature, poetry, unique film, and oh, by the way, Religion.

I got a shelf full of Bibles at home, thanks. Because I was a Religion (and Philosophy, whoo! Take that future career ambitions!) major in college. (English was my minor, hence the newspaper/writer gig.) Give me a book on comparative religion and I'm set for the night. A discussion on Buddhist and Christian parallels? Yes please. Mediation trends? Sure. Name that Hindu deity? I'm on it like a mouse on Ganesh. Ontological arguments on the existence of God? I'd bet a Pascal wager on that! The variety of theologies in the Protestant churches? I've got a flow-chart for it. The concept of Christian pacifism lost among the war-mongering right-wingers? Child, please. I wrote my senior thesis on it.

Because Religion is one of my main interests in life, so much so that I would spend 4 plus years studying it. Studying ALL of it. My Buddhist textbooks share space with my Atheism books on my shelves. My Philosophy books are crammed next to Confucius and the Puritan writings. All of them there, loved, studied, cherished.

And come Sunday morning, you may find me sipping a Starbucks on my way to the nondenominational liberal warehouse church. Or you may find me trekking it in heels and hose to spend it next to my parents to share their traditional pew. Or you may find me sleeping, talking to God in my dreams. Or laughing over brunch with my best friends and loving every minute of it.

Because where ever I am, and whatever I do, I'm still me. Church or no, my heart knows where it is. And for anyone to assume otherwise, however good their intentions, because of the work I do, or the beliefs I hold, is just presumptuous.

Just remember, Jesus was a feminist too.

My Motherboard, My Self

Geek Squad wants $519 to maybe fix my computer. Maybe. They won't know if it can be fixed until they crack it open and tinker with the insides. And if it can't be fixed, I'm out $519, plus $99.99 for the initial tinkering they did before they decided that $99.99 wasn't enough of my hard-earned money to line their corporate pockets.

The last photos of my grandfather are on that computer.

The revision of my 100+ page full-length play are on that computer.

Poems that I never printed.

Stories that I thought were incomplete, so never printed, waiting to be revised.

Words that I can never fully capture again are in that computer.

All trapped in that damn computer.

Office Blues

Thoughts from today:

I know that they mean it to be funny, but the "The beatings will continue until morale improves" sign on the company's dirty, ketchup-stained fridge just depresses me in its irony.



As sure as the Autumn breeze, everything ugly on the inside finds a way to seep out.

I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone

by Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by Annemarie S. Kidder

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
enough
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
enough
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everyday jug,
like my mother's face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm.

La fille occupée

It's been a really busy time for me lately, and I don't think that it's a terrible thing. By nature I am an introvert, so drawing energy from nightclub openings and parties is out of beat with my inner self. But that hasn't stopped me from dancing the night away.

I am breathing a huge sigh of relief that the "Best Of" issue is over. Today it hits the stands, tonight is the "Best Of" Party Uptown, and tomorrow things go back to a relative normalcy in the newspaper world. I stressed over this issue because I wanted my work to be flawless -- it's the biggest paper of the year, and I am but a cog in the wheel of the Weekly Planet, but damn it if I didn't want my cog to be the shiniest. We're all just drops in the ocean of time, but some of us drops sparkle in the sun. And I want to live a life of sparkles, thankyouverymuch.

I'm also happy that some of my writing sneaked its way into this issue, and I can have something tangible to point out to my parents when they ask what exactly it is I do in the newspaper world. Hell, something I can point out to everyone who asks what it exactly it is I do in the newspaper world. Even Sharsta's mom noted that I wasn't getting the bylines I used to, since I've been editing more than writing. And that's OK -- it's my job to edit. That doesn't mean that my loved ones don't miss my writing. I miss it too. But my Autumn goal is to write more of my own stuff, deadline free, and revise the work I already have to perfection. And if I sneak out to a club opening, or dance barefoot on the street until then, well, that's still not a terrible thing.

Sarah Palin loves rapists

I wish this headline was a joke. I sincerely do.

But what other explanation can there be when Sarah Palin charged rape victims -- victims, not the attackers -- $1,200 for a chance to catch the criminals who assaulted them?

Details via Feministing.com:

A rape kit is a sexual assault forensic evidence kit, used to collect DNA that can be used in criminal proceedings to assist in the conviction of those who commit sex crimes. The kit is performed as soon as possible after a sexual assault or attack has been committed. It is usually humiliating and uncomfortable for the victim -- imagine enduring that and then paying $1200 just so that the criminal who assaulted you might be caught.

Let's put this into perspective. One of the services that almost every American (with the exception of a few hardcore Libertarians, I suppose) agree that our government should provide is policing and investigation into crime, especially of a violent nature. Rape, one of the most difficult to prosecute, disproportionately affects women -- young women, in fact. If Palin wants to play fierce mother hen in her stump speeches, I suggest she explain how it is that she wouldn't do everything in her mayoral power to make sure that rapists be caught and prosecuted.

What adds insult to injury here is her stance on abortion for rape victims. So, not only did she neglect to support women who were raped in getting the evidence they needed to get justice, but she doesn't believe they should have the right to choose what happens with their bodies after they've endured such violation.

As one commenter put it:

She's a disgusting human being. How many women can honestly afford $1200 for a rape kit? And how soulless and spiritually bankrupt do you have to be to even consider charging women for this?

Today's e-mail

From: Natalie
Sent: Tuesday, September 09, 2008 10:54 AM
To: Mr. B
Subject: Depressed.

Too much Sarah Palin this morning has turned my stomach into knots and blackened my once pure, golden heart.
I need a bottle of anti-depressants and an ice pack.
I need hot tea and soothing Obama speeches.
I need to grab any woman in this office who thinks Palin is a wonderful god-send and slap some sense into her Republican-rattled brain before quarantining her ovaries.
I need to grab any man in this office who supports McCain and Palin and castrate him with a rusty knife before he reproduces.

I may need a hug.

Wake-up Call

(Jesus of NoDa, seen off of North Davidson, on the side of Niche Market, across the street from the old Fat City, watching over us all.)


Hello, world.

I'm at a dip in my creativity, obviously.

My brain circles ideas, holds delicately the fluttering births of wants and dreams, but stops short, sighs, and stays dormant, nesting.

We all have hills and crests of genius and creativity, but it's hard to force or assume when a good moment, a good idea, will rise to the top. And I've been pensive lately, reviewing thoughts and memories and drawing up past feelings in ways that have failed to bring me to a pen or keyboard; ideas that are held instead of written, held boiling over as I struggle to finish work or clean the apartment or maintain healthy friendships. I walk my usual haunts and carry you with me: thoughts, dreams, hopes. Abstract and concrete, all centered clearly in the part of my brain that is still unreachable.

Today I am able to shake myself up and speak, the shadows of me chased.

"You're very awake this morning," my co-worker said as I climbed on my desk to peek over the cubicle wall and say hello.

I feel like I've been sleeping for days, so that is a deeper compliment then her observation meant.

It's turned into one of those rare warm days when I feel as if I am good at my job, that writing my book is not impossible, and that the horizon is straight ahead, unseen.

I Concur

Does this count?

Slug Girl

I just can’t seem to wake up today.

Yesterday I passed it off as Monday blues, the sluggish feeling, the heavy tiredness. The Mean Reds, if you will.
Maybe there were some energy vampires in my midst, because I couldn’t seem to get motivated. Hello, Tuesday, and no better. My mind is more alert, but that may be from the can of Coca-Cola coated with condensation next to me. Of course, that could be the very reason I am not alert – the caffeine, the long hours, the little exercise.

Maybe the fog will clear with a jog around the park after work.

Maybe I’m just a little burned out by my job. I’ve had a lot to edit in a very short time.

Maybe I just need something more than lanes of concrete and office walls.

Maybe I just need to duck out of work right this second and go eat Indian food.

I’m taking option D.

In other news, 400 words of clichés do not a column make. Nor a blog entry. Future self, take note. You know what kind of writer not to be. Now try your hardest to be the kind of writer (and person) you would want desperately to imitate if you met them on the street.

Questionable

I don’t get it.

I really just ... don’t ... get it. To be fair, I didn’t "get" Hanson either, and these twits seem to the tight-pants reincarnation of the blonde boys-who-looked-like-girls. Supposedly, some of these are wax statues, but damned if I can tell them apart.

On a side note, my grandfather owned a pair of shoes just like the kid/statue in the tacky blue suit. Do The Jonas Brothers’ shop at the Goodwill in our fair city?

(This post can also be seen on the blog of the newspaper where I work, but I felt Flaneur needed some love today too. Sorry for the repeat, but I'm so swamped that I didn't have a chance to write something new. Hurry up, September!)

Note to myself

Remember to: Write how you felt, how bare and exposed, how bleached, the skeletal curve of your spine left in sun and out of the cold clear waters of the sea.

Unhealthy

My breakfast.

Seriously.

A can of Coca-Cola and Goldfish? Yeah. And as long as I am tied to my cubicle, vending machine fare will remain my constant diet. I don't know if evolution really prepared us to sit for 9-plus hours a day in gray walls lit with a glaring computer monitor and harsh fluorescent overheads.

Today, work is as about as appealing as sticking my bare hands into bee-covered poison ivy while naked in a field full of broken glass and rabid baboons on a scorching hot day.

If you love me, which you very well may, please appreciate your local alternative weekly paper so my hours will not be in vain.

(Seen on my desk, some random time today. And note that "Baked With Real Cheese" doesn't necessarily mean there is any real cheese in said crackers.)

Not a bad idea!

From: Natalie
Sent: Tuesday, August 12, 2008 10:59 AM
To: Jamie
Subject: Re: Tuesday

Whee! Tomorrow I’m getting my picture taken for my new (say in a booming voice) Official Press Pass!
So I can roll up onto crime scenes and say, “I’m with the Press!” and help the detectives solve mysteries. Sweet.

From: Jamie
Sent: Tuesday, August 12, 2008 11:09 AM
To: Natalie
Subject: Re: Tuesday

You are going the abuse the hell outta that thing. Gimme free Starbucks, I’m press.
Gimme free gas, I’m press. Gimme free booze, I’m press.

Busy, Busy, Busy

Blur = my vision and days

As much as I want to write on my little Flaneur blog, work has kept me from writing anything not deadline related, and two huge issues in one month make me hate looking at the computer screen.

Sorry, blog.

(Unintentionally artistic photo taken yesterday on my cell phone on the way out to dinner after the intense need to be neither in my apartment or in the office took over.)

The Lost Epidemic

Another sad earring found on Natalie's head, its mate lost somewhere in the office today.

I was going to write that this is the third earring I lost this month, but it's August 1st, so the tally starts anew.
At this rate, I have more earrings for one ear than Vincent Van Gogh. It confused me as to where I kept losing them but I've come up with a theory.



See that? That hair?

My hair is the Bermuda-freaking-Triangle of Earrings.

The earring equivalent of the Marie Celeste. The Roswell of earring cover-ups.

Because between the cell phone, head phones, and that tangled, almost-elbow length (longer now than seen in this picture), sweaty-because-it's-a-hundred-degrees-outside-and-I'm-almost-out-of-gas-so-no-
AC-in-the-car mane I will continue to post sad little pictures of my mate-less, lonely ear bobs.

Good Idea

It's a tad dark and blurry, but the sign reads: Do Not Enter. And in spray paint: Iran.

Seen by The Smelly Cat Coffeehouse, NoDa, on the evening July 24.

Pleasures

I don’t care if it is mid-July, the heat suffocating, the winter a forgotten twist of dead branch: Nothing pleases me more than the Van Gogh swirls of cream in a cup of hot tea.

(Photo: English Tea from lunch at Creation, today, July 17.)

Just a reminder...

(Photo: The only tourist moment I had, by the subway entrance next to Macy’s.)

Somewhere off of 13th St. and 5th Ave., as my mom and I were walking and chatting, a man stopped in front of me, looked me dead in the eyes and said,
“Jesus loves you.”

I sidestepped him, and gave a moment’s thought before turning my head and replying.
My mom didn’t hear what either of us said, but saw the man stop and heard me say something back.

She was protective and asked briskly, “What did that man say to you?” Her step fell beside mine in a natural movement as we continued our walk down the street.

“Jesus loves you.”

“Oh.” My mom relaxed. “What did you say to him?”

“Thank you.”

Simply, it seemed like the most appropriate response.

Those Summer Nights

I write poetry in my dreams but seem to have a hard time in real waking life.

The rain has stopped, leaving the Queen City wearing a drenched, heavy ball gown of steam and drooping branches; a chill in the night air; the scent of asphalt, crushed crepe myrtle petals and a heavy indescribable scent that clings to skin, of smog and leaves and the wings of green bugs.

It is summer again, fully ripened, burst from the vine.


(Photo: Skyline seen from the parking deck of Kings by Target, sunset, July 10.)

Lost

Sad. Somewhere between my desk and Creation Restaurant, I lost this earring’s mate. Which is why one should never pay more than Target prices for shiny, swingy earrings.
(I really liked that pair too!)

And I want to write them...

(Seen outside the Main Library, Sunday, June 22.)

8 Days a Week

June 13 – 17: Brief stint as Flaneur in the Bahamas.

June 18 – 21: Sinus and ear infection from the parts of the ocean that I carried home with me in my head. (As my intern Taylor said, I was overly ambitious. “You couldn’t just have a cold, could you?” Nope. When I do something, I go all the way. Even when sick.)

June 22: Heroes Con, nerdiness ensued, comics bought. Lunch at Ri-Ra’s with Mr. Boyfriend.

June 23: Screening of Hancock (“when I say ‘Hand!’, you say…!”), plus a pedicure. (See below for visual reference.)

June 24: Screening of WALL-E, beer at the Penguin with Sharsta and her Norwegian friends. I don’t speak Norwegian.

June 25 – Present: Work. Sleep. Work. Sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Guarantee

It’s summer in our fair city, which brings two certainties: Oppressive, blinding heat, and painted toenails.



Stay cool, friends. Stay cool.

Lunch Poem

Today, the most monumental
thing I will do
is walk in the rain to buy a cup of soup
and an apple
underneath my green umbrella
noticing nothing
and being noticed by no one
save for the puddles
where each precise splash
finds another girl walking underneath me
the underside of my umbrella, two upcast eyes
the rain, again

(Written last fall, when summer was a memory away)

Hello, Materialism

(Before: appropriate children's cartoon. After: mini-Paris Hilton wanna-be.)

If you weren't a child in the 1980s, I'm sorry. Because children born after that magical decade are sadly lacking in quality toys and Saturday morning cartoon role models. The company behind Strawberry Shortcake turned the lovable little girl into a mini-Bratz doll, complete with cellphone. (Who would a little magical girl who lives in a strawberry patch have to call? Pizza Hut?)

The kicker? The cellphone replaces her cat, Custard, as her favorite playmate. And we thought of the '80s as the "Me" decade of consumer indulgence.

Tuesday Bluesday

(Author's Note: Today's mistake was not this bad. But, almost.)

Grrr. Career worries are not fun. I genuinely care about my job, and I absolutely hate with a burning passion any mistakes that make it to print. This week was especially frustrating because I was handling 2 jobs at once -- my own and the job of a co-worker who was on vacation -- and I was extremely careful to ensure that nothing would go wrong.

One of the larger stories had some significant mistakes that needed correcting, and between the news editor, the editor-in-chief, and myself the corrections were made and sent in to the printer. Technicalities aside, I made all the necessary phone calls, e-mails for this page and edits to this page, pouring over it in the final pdf form to make certain that it was as clean as possible.

And when I opened the paper today?
There it was, one of the lead stories, full of mistakes.

The copy from before the massive edits went to print. My stomach constricted and a wave of dread passed over me. I had to grit my teeth and show it to the news editor, and then make a few calls to find out what went wrong, before braving the editor-in-chief. I did everything correctly, and it was a simple mistake at the printer, sending the wrong page to print.

A simple mistake that will be read by thousands, and a few pompous blowhards will send condescending e-mails about how retarded I am to let these mistakes happen. The majority of the e-mails will go to the writer, but what really embarrasses me the most is the ones who won't comment or e-mail, the people who know me in the office, who are my supervisors or friends, who will pick up today's paper and think, "Damn. Natalie can't do her job."

This Week's Cutline

Paparazzi catch young social writer slacking with beer in hand, despite her attempts to remain incognito. Man in blue looks on disdainfully.

(I always look good, even when posing as a budding alcoholic!)

The author is seen here with Mr. B, Karen, and the back of Anita's head on a miserably hot day. Thank God for sunglasses and cold beer.

I'd rather not, thanks...

Seen on a Dodge Caravan, at the intersection of Tryon and 7th, 8:55 a.m., on the plastic wrapped around the North Carolina license plate:

"I'd rather be at a Toby Keith concert!"

Spellcheck

Wonder what rasberries taste like?


(Seen June 3 with Matt at Camille's Sidewalk Cafe, East 3rd Street.)

Lazy Sunday Photo Blogging

It may be a few months until my birthday, but for future reference:
I want one of everything in this store. Thanks in advance.




Seen post-brunch with Sharsta at Pura Vida Worldly Art.

As opposed to bad ones...?

Seen on Morehead Street.

On 7th

There is a house I thought abandoned, on 7th street near where the fateful car crash happened a few months ago, with a large magnolia tree growing over the eves and thorns of its small plot. Yesterday, my house became too small to hold me, and the hours of work sat on my conscious, taunting me through the setting sun. I went strolling through the neighborhood, flaneur indeed, so that my evening was more than sleeping off the weight of the working day. The magnolia tree was bursting with white outstretched hands, blooms as large as my head and I couldn’t help but covet one for my yellow kitchen table. Sneaking into the yard, I climbed the embankment to an unopened flower sleeping on a low branch. It fell into my hand with little effort, the weight and color of a small dove nestled in my palm. It smelled like childhood, an intoxicating aroma of summer. As I trotted back to the sidewalk, I saw a pair of eyes from the seemingly abandoned house watching me. A black dog, witness to my thievery. Sorry, owners of the magnolia tree on 7th, for my thieving hands; Bagheera and I are enjoying it.




Bagheera and the magnolia; curiosity harmless, this time.

Desire

Things I know I could not live without, or, if forced to, would be greatly saddened by their absence:

* My grandfather’s blue armchair
* My torn and ratty silk sari patchwork comforter
* My favorite books, at arms reach
* A hot mug of tea; Earl Grey, English Breakfast or Chai
* The waking dream of Love, in its myriad forms

The Beginning

It is almost ridiculous that I take this path, under the heavy title of “writer,” afraid and quiet in the wake of my own thoughts. Through the dark places and doubt, through every writer’s cliché of suffering, I have nothing of spine and less of words. Every private fear fodder for ink, yet vaulted tightly against my own ambitions.
Coming clean, I would say that I am less of a writer and more of an observer to the written words that maze their way to my fingertips. The lucky words that mouse their way out of the obscure traps I line, the creaking wooden steps to the hope of my thoughts riddled with the broken necks of metaphors and simile.
It is not the world that creates a blockade; it is the things that make my world. Where there is sun in spring, and yellow-green hellos; there is me, crippled with fear that has begun to eat acidly through my fingers.

Is this writing the sun under a clouded eastern sky? We shall see if I rise with it or stay in perpetual night.