salut, mes copins, ca va?

voila… here it is—substantive communication in lieu of fragmented, nonsensical blurbs on facebook. happy holidays—i hope everyone’s enjoying a bit of fermented, egg-snot cheer, amid dousing your pheromones with mistletoe’s scent.

I’ve been rather busy, hence the brief, monosyllabic updates via texting and fb. sorry. i’m inhumane.

nyc’s lovely and full of energy—getting away for a bit was reenergizing, for sure. thus, i’m the new energizer bunny hopping around the advertising and editorial and dating scenes, finding mediocre trouble in all the right places, and rebuilding my wardrobe from the lackluster, moldy cotton crop, that feels like my old ‘drobe. in toto, that’s really been the extent of my life for the past two months, or so. I’m exploring new projects / opportunities, in hopes of fleeing the corporate, feudal regime. Standby….

As part of my transition to a more anthropological and writing-centric career, I created a blog (that currently features only 1 writing-intense blog entry). I encourage you to take especial interest in the dating schemata—it’s a tragic comedy.

no, i’m not a burgeoning lesbian… nyc’s a difficult city for dating—invariably, you must introspect on spending time in someone else’s tiny apartment, imbibing their idea of formidable pop culture and preservative-encrusted goodies, and pervading your cerebral space. it’s rather exhausting. Spending a week with the person will send you running for the hills (aka, your own tiny apartment, off the JMZ line). I’m not the only person suffering from this affliction, je promets.

Insert sardonic tone: 
The highlight of dating pertains to visiting the ER nurse’s apartment—he lives in a 110-yr old raildroad style apartment with five other people. Adjacent to the kitchen preparation area was a bathtub and a queen-size mattress (all an open area)… where the five people all bathed (separately, I surmise) and where he slept. so, while someone showers, and another person makes food—in the same room—he catches z’s, plays video games…. or commits, per catholic priests, self abuse of primordial ooze. I didn’t see him again after that night; obviously he didn’t realize the eminent stupidity of inviting a woman to your hybrid brothel + hostel…

I don’t know if the toilet was communal—or perhaps they use a cement outhouse… who knows.

I started a podcast with the guys at St. Dymphna’s—hopefully it’ll soon be featured on www.saintds.com. and, i’m getting involved  more with NightJar Creative—for whom i’ve been blogging at nightjar.tumblr.com. NJC’s purpose is a collective of creative disciplines that engenders a culture and project-base feeding into pop culture, sustainability, and crowd sourcing. it’s pretty interesting, especially feeding my anthropology interest.

Economically… everyone’s poor and grumpy. Whilst attending the girlie action holiday party, we were first asked to donate an instrument to their music education foundation. After proving that we didn’t have an instrument in hand (not even a cowbell to spare), we were asked to donate money… even just a dollar was sufficient—anything. Mike and I looked quizzically at each other like… is donating a dollar going to be extracted from the ramen fund or the subway pass fund? (I slightly jest.)

in terms of fashion… oy, i don’t know what to tell you guys. it’s also bleak up here. the recession has required that most fashion purchases are relegated to Uniqlo and H&M. The problem, though, is mass produced fashion is like wearing the communist manifesto: egalitarian threads that are completely unnoticeable; you might as well be a floating head.

everyone’s wearing flannel, plaid button ups—more paul bunyan than eddie vedder, being that most look bathed.

skinny jeans are still too too pervasive, though so skinny you see skin and bones and testes. It’s disturbing—there’s no room for thermals under that shit. They all go commando.

otherwise… go see the new Coen brothers’ movie—it’s sardonic and fabulous; it makes me want to become jewish because they can make fun of themselves. Avatar is a shit movie and anyone who thinks it’s brilliant, beyond the the cell shading and other technical measures, is a blatant doh-doh. (sorry—it’s potentially worse than titanic.)

Possible money-making enterprises include a line of yogurt made from Angelina Jolie’s breast milk and a line of condoms called the Barry White or the Ghengis Khan.

current venue for frivolous libations: death & co. Otherwise, Casimir and El Faro remain my favorite restaus. No Malice Palace is new on the charts for hip hopalicious tunes, and 151 Rivington is the best happy hour a la charlie brown’s shag palace.  lastly, my shoe fetish is an institution alive and kicking.

anyhow, that’s a synopsis of life up here—it’s not too-too informative, but I didn’t want to write a book. my brain is sufficiently appeased as i’m invariably engaged in worldly and educative conversations, and i’m surrounded by a flurry of activity. it’s lovely, really. :)

hope you guys are well—if appeasing a hankering to visit nyc, an open invitation remains extended to you all!  
ciao/x’s, eme