The Thought Spot

Schedule of Comedies

2011-07-21T08:51:00.000-07:00

Dipping A Toe In The Public Pool of Consciousness

2011-07-14T13:03:00.000-07:00

Brrr. It is cold here. Or maybe it's just me. I've been stewing in my own stagnant warm puddles - though I am proud to say, not of my own bodily making - and now by contrast the outside world feels cold. Will they love me again? Will they be amused by my musings or disgusted by my unabashed need for their affection? Oh, these elusive "they", how I've missed "them". "Missed" them. "I've" missed them. I have.

Right now I am at my job. At my work. Sitting at my desk, in my office. Okay, it's not just my office - I share it with my boss. I like that there are two big windows and green plants, but I don't like that my desk is positioned with my back towards the door and the center of the room - making me feel always vulnerable. I've become a master web browser window collapser by now, with the ears of a bat. (Note: my ears are in fact a little pointy and bat-like - a source of great pride, as they make me look elfish.) The point is, as all things in my life, my situation here is quite imperfect. Thus, the guilt that blogging on company time should engender in any conscientious worker is kept at a bare minimum. I'm happier here than I've been at any job before, so I relish the tiny guilt pangs that seep through the general buzzing ennui in my brain. They make me feel authentic and sincere, like I'm a good person who just sometimes does not so good things. You know? The misunderstood bad girl who blogs at work.

I decided it's important for me to document my comings and goings after all. I realized this the other day when someone quoted me something I said to them in conversation, espousing a view, or perhaps even a belief, that I never remembered discussing with said person in the first place. Goes to show you how important beliefs are to me! I have them and all - at least I think I do - but I never seem to really use them as valid criteria for choosing which people I interact with, for instance. The point is, my life is moving at an ever-increasing pace, and I don't want to miss any important turns. Not that anything is particularly important. Or is everything important? I just don't know!

The main struggle I seem to be having internally these days is one between a life of material asceticism and the pursuit of spiritual enlightenment, and a life of so-called success, as measured by layman's standards: status, prestige, disposable income, the works. Right now I am straddling the fence between the two, and all I have to show for it is a chafed crotch. It's really a matter of poor time management, isn't it? And isn't this rambling entry a case-in-point? Even if I am choosing to spend this time allotted for work on NOT work-related activities, I could be doing something else more "productive". Like, re-working my resume, or uploading the most recent podcast, or writing jokes, or looking into finally having my comedy website built, or looking for other jobs, or reading the news, or any number of things that can yield a measurable reward. But no. I have this mental itch to COMMUNICATE, to SHARE, to CONNECT - but with WHOM?! WHY?!

I am as lonely as ever. And that's all there is to it.

Sacking Up

2010-12-04T14:06:00.000-08:00

I've been having the adventure of my life. Every single day has felt magical. What sort of drug am I on, eh? What is it that keeps me so happy, even when things don't seem so peachy? Good question, Mariya. I'm glad you asked. Why, certainly, Mariya!

I mean, this is going to sound totally insane and egomaniacal, but I'm kind of awesome. I'm very awesome in certain very specific ways that have almost no practical application in the "real world", but nonetheless, I am a master.

After years and years of suffering from crippling, never-leave-the-house anxiety and shame, I have suddenly learned to master my brain; to direct the flow of neurons only through the passageways of my choosing. Each time a synapse fires, it's because General Me bade it so. Every time an emotion floods my bloodstream, it's because I've admitted it. It goes without saying that I PREFER to feel good, I mean, who wouldn't? So here I am, happy as a clam. Wait, can clams experience happiness? Why not happy as a mussel? Who makes these absurd rules we all live by?

Things aren't exactly perfect. It's very difficult, for instance, to not feel at least a tinge of heartache when a person rejects me. And rejection can come in all forms. Any breach of contact - if the contact is enjoyable - feels as it should, like a tiny laceration on your soul. But then I remember that not everyone feels so freely and willingly. Not everyone can make room in their heart for everyone - even the people who don't fit within the contrived roles society writes for us. What motivates me more than anything is meaningful communication and learning. Sex dynamics often muddy that experience, and rob me of potential friendship and intellectual companionship. It's not like I'm all alone - of course not. My world is practically teeming with people I love, but it's not like it ever stops. The people never stop. There are so many many people out there, and they are all a part of each other and a part of me. It's dizzying to imagine the implications. But I don't live in this idealistic abstraction. I live around people who are afraid to tell each other how they feel. They are afraid to be alone, so they alienate one another preemptively. How are any of us supposed to get to that ultimate intimacy of which we all dream if we can't even begin to understand what we really want ourselves? How can another person complete us if we're not ready to fully examine what might be missing? So I'm on a mission to not waste a moment, but figure it out. Figure out how to perfect communication.

Impending NOT Doom

2010-11-06T09:14:00.000-07:00

Circuitous motion.

No, not circuitous. More like endless waves. Crests and troughs of emotion through time and space, interwoven with a constant nagging suspicion that something big is missing.
Family, love, friendship - all the things that anchor you as a person - are missing from me. This isn't to discount my nuclear family of parents and sister (and beautiful feline babies). This isn't to say that my new blossoming friendships are unsatisfying. I'm just tired of feeling so anonymous. I have so many daily interactions, but am never left with a clear understanding of what any of them mean. I just want someone to know me. I just want to find a place to really call home.

The more I live this way, the less I am open to really caring about someone. I crave it more than anything, but when I'm faced with an opportunity to do it, I shrink back in fear. Fear of having my heart handed to be on a plate after it's been run through a meat grinder. Fear of being bored. Fear of being forced to feel ashamed of myself, of holding my mind reined in, of letting my dreams die.

I'm tired of cynics.

I won't let myself become one.

Happiness is just around the corner. I can feel it.

Until then, I have batteries and "Californication" on Netflix instant viewing. And a silly dream that miracles can happen when you least expect.

Oh boy

2010-10-11T20:57:00.000-07:00

People can really surprise you sometimes.

In a good way.

*sigh*

Vagina (Wisdom) Teeth

2010-10-11T17:41:00.000-07:00

Kayla and I are writing a book. I don't know the title yet. I don't know if it's going to be one continuous flow of a narrative/account, or more like anecdotal essays, but the theme is going to be our common experience: extricating ourselves from bad abusive marriages that we got into way too young, and having to deal with the world newly alone and scared, but how that's still more satisfying than the horrible lives we would have had if we'd stayed married but comfortable. And we use the term "comfortable" very loosely. I mean, what's so comfortable about coming home every day and dodging insults or various projectiles thrown at you in anger? Nothing. It fucking sucks.

I managed to carve out some time to read the news today, for the first time in weeks. Boy, what a mistake THAT was. I mean, not really. I personally found it fascinating that Justin Bieber is starting his own nail polish line, or that some asshole actually threw a book at Obama at a recent rally. But there were also nonstop stories about murders and violent crimes of all sorts, and teenage suicides, and bullying, and just people behaving atrociously toward one another. This is so disheartening to me. Something is really amiss in the world when everyone is feeling so frazzled all the time, and has no idea how to process emotions, letting them all turn into aggression and fear. This isn't just some vague general feeling, either. I see it manifest itself every day on an interpersonal level too. People are afraid to care about one another. And, by the same token, some broken people use faux, generic affection to prey upon those they perceive to be weaker, to manipulate and control them. I don't even know what I find more bearable. I think I'd rather have all-out aggression than some of the twisted mindfucky soul leeching I've had to endure.

Believe me, I don't like to think in stereotypes, and I've always been drawn to men as friends, so this isn't a typical woman's complaint.. but what in the world is wrong with you people?! Seriously! Like having a penis excuses you from having common decency or integrity! My opinions of people I've admired and respected have drastically, let us say, evolved of late. And it seems like the nicer a guy believes himself to be, the more grotesque his hypocrisy and selfishness ultimately is. And GOD, am I tired of pity parties. Psychologically sound explanations for complete lapses in ethical consciousness. All of it. Grow up!

Like, I know life is turning out very disappointingly, when this actually starts to make sense:

It's like the crazy lady is speaking from experience.

I love that she's dressed like a librarian, has the eyes of a meth-head, and an obvious talent for writing erotica.

Will I become like that lady?

Here I go admitting too much about myself again.

I just did yoga, you see. It helps a great deal with feelings that otherwise would be unbearable. And also you feel like just for one more day you've done your part to fight the battle against unwarranted size increases. I can't afford to go shopping all the time, you know.

No, but for realsies. I want to teach you yoga. I had a blast instructing my sister. My favorite moment is when I adjust a person's pose to where it's supposed to REALLY be and their eyes start bulging out of their heads because FUCK it hurts muscles you didn't even know you had... (I know, it's still relatively new to me) Well, that moment is priceless.

My right shoulder hurts.

Night.

Blue Machine

2010-10-11T06:54:00.000-07:00

My heart feels like it's locked in one of those medieval torture devices, with the spikes inside, and it just keeps pressing tighter and tighter.

Could be all the horrendous fatty food I've been craving almost robotically the past few days. I guess my body is trying to build a nice layer of blubber to get me through the harsh winter. But how can I grow the emotional blubber I need to sustain my soul?

Spoke to my ex-husband today. So trippy and weird. The person who used to be dearest to me is now for all intents and purposes an awkward stranger.

So it goes.

Life is a series of meaningless vignettes. Or, rather, there is meaning sealed into each one, but they don't necessarily relate to one another, or flow in any sensible way. Life is like a goddamned indie art flick. There's all this emotion and angst and beauty, bubbling just beneath the surface, but try to make others understand it, or garner some real universal meaning, and you fail. That's why Hollywood movies will never go out of style. It's nice to be able to pretend, at least for a little while, as your eyes are glued to the screen, that things make sense. That stories have beginnings and middles and ends. That it isn't all just one big clusterfucky soup we're all swimming in blindly.

Saturday night after my unexciting comedy show in Columbia, MD, Kayla and I met a trio of "revolutionaries", as they called themselves. They were the strangest, most mis-matched group of people I've ever seen together, on a late-night outing no less. One was a 70-something-year-old man who was obsessed with my feet and my hair, another was a short greasy-haired artsy-bearded weasel who was pretty damn talkative and entertaining, the third a tall Viking of a creature covered in tattoos, with a shaved head. We shared some surprisingly affectionate moments, right at the bar of Chadwick's, as Pete looked on.

He turned out to be this guy:

http://www.lowerbranch.com/artists/christopheranway/

Incredibly talented. Quiet. Punched out Andy Dick at a bar in San Francisco. What a life.

I don't expect to hear from him again. *sigh*

I just want to get through this week and get the hell out of here. Really looking forward to going to New England with Kayla Thursday night.

I don't know what I would do if it wasn't for her, always listening to my whining, going to stupid open mics with me, making me feel not alone.

I hope I can be a good friend to her.

I need to go to yoga.

Let The Sun Shine

2010-10-07T20:00:00.000-07:00

I feel animated and alert and kind of thrilled.

I just watched the latest Hulu episode of The Simpsons and while it wasn't necessarily LOL-inducing, it made me feel somehow excited about life again. I mean, it wasn't just the episode or anything. All day today I've been kind of teetering on the edge of a delirium.

The episode, in any case, before I so rudely interrupted myself, was about micro-financing and Facebook and different ways that people interact with money. Lately I am consumed with thinking about money, like most people in this country, and I think I am tired of pretending that making money doesn't matter to me. It suddenly matters to me a great deal and that is scary/exciting to observe. Maybe because I've never stood so realistically close to actually making it. My new job is providing a wealth of information and opportunity, and I intend to capitalize on it. My jellyfish-like state of mind feels good. Jellyfish don't have minds, I don't think, but they themselves are Zen incarnate. They just go with the flow. They don't worry about the consequences of their movements. Their place in the ocean doesn't matter to them. They are simply designed to survive as long as they can. I mean, they can always get eaten or wash up on the shore, where they can sting random beach goers, causing their friends to helpfully urinate on them... but that's beside the point. They are pretty and floaty and unabashedly unique, and my brain is becoming more and more like a jellyfish each day.

Ramble, ramble, ramble.

I am going to chisel out the truth from life. That is my mission.

Truth can only exist where there is love, though. The truth can only hurt if people don't really love one another. And I mean all people. Really. Love.

I just want to be clear so that last night's post doesn't come off too venomous. It was obviously a whimper of defeat, but also a defiant cry. To myself, more than anything. My experience is real, and I am still capable of being the me I was before any of this happened - the comedy, the heartbreak, everything. Writing has been my way of life since I can remember. No, that's not true. I never really had the desire to write for fun back in "Zee Mahzer Land". It was the English language that seduced me. That's when everything began to take on a narrative form. For me, to write is to exist. No matter how seemingly nonsensical, no matter how base or crass - it helps us shape the great human story, forever preserved in time. I am always puzzled by the depths of the human psyche, and the greatly varying degrees to which people are willing to explore them.

Things people always tend to have major hang-ups about:

1) sex

2) relationships

Any other thing a person claims is at the root of his/her existence is a decoy.

Look, even Mark Zuckerberg was motivated by nothing but being scorned by a girl/trying to win back the girl.

I've also found it immensely fascinating reading Clark's new book because while from his music tastes it can easily be gathered that he IS a pensive soul, his book reveals a level of depravity I didn't expect from this quiet brooding creature. He DOES have mischievous eyes.

What I guess I am trying to say is that for an artist, there is nothing more valuable than her/his particular unique way of processing reality. How that reality gets deconstructed and presented will greatly vary from person to person, but each artist will feel just as attached to her/his reality as the other artists to theirs. It's not really a conscious choice. It's just something that permeates deeply into your brain, and becomes a constant voice and companion.

"You exist, you exist, you exist."

"Now this is happening, and now this, and now this..."

"What does it mean? Does it mean anything? Surely it means something."

This is a long elaborate excuse for narcissism.

BEAU-TI-FUL.

I had a point somewhere...

Oh yeah. I'm gonna figure things out. Bit by bit.

In the meantime, this thing keeps growing....That seriously blows my mind.

Fiddling My Mental Banjo

2010-10-06T18:00:00.000-07:00

Okay. Let's try not to be melodramatic about this. So I haven't written in a while. What's the big deal? No one cares about what I say anyway. No one gives a shit. Out of some sort of pride, or fear, I've stopped myself from being indulgent. I've given up on letting my passion consume me. I've tried my best to be temperate and steady and patient, but what I've really found myself being is BORED!

I've spent most of the evening tonight looking over some old notebooks. It's funny, Randolph told me today that's what I should do, but he was referring to old joke notebooks. He had no idea how far back my obsession goes. What I'm reading is pages and pages of anecdotes, journals, lists, and most of all, poems. Long poems, short poems. I used to think in word rhythms and rhymes. Gosh, I was so young! My whole stupid life is contained in those pages. I'm tempted to share some of it here.

Like, what in god's name was I going on about?

***Untitled***

Such clever preparation
For a sorry administration -
Now I hurt
From within.

Such impatient levitation
When you spit your adoration -
I cry,
I never win.

Shake me 'till
I'm but a fizzing bottle
Boiling over
Wilting flames

Of disillusion
And confusion
And a million
Ugly names.

Don't agree
When you don't know.
I refuse to play
Sex goddess.

All this self-hate
Is to show
How good I am,
And just how modest.

Only when habitual
Feeding frenzies
Disperse for quiet
Self-absorption,

Will the digital
Life-like image
Give way to natural
Distortion.

*********************

Umm, is it just me or is that pretty neat? I kind of like it. It's moody. It's revealing enough, but vague enough. *sigh* I should be so inspired every day, for god's sakes! WHY, adult life, WHY have you done this to me?

I came close to tears several times today.

It's been only 5 days or so, but it already feels like eternity. I told the person I'd most recently let myself love, and let myself be seen by, and felt understood by, and that I too completely understood, to fuck off and never speak to me. Because he doesn't really love me, I think. He doesn't care for me as a human being at all. I don't really believe that, but it hurts less to think that than to think that he really does care, but in spite of that went off to have a serious committed relationship with an exotic-looking Asian woman with gums that show just a little too much when she smiles, if you ask me. She may have a perfect little button nose, with a stylish little stud through one of the nostrils, but her body is stockier, her bone structure more massive. Her eyes are just a tad crossed and empty. These are subtle details. I'm sure he doesn't notice anything but her beautiful tan skin and big hair. Men equate big hair with sexiness. I have big hair too, but lack the exotic Asian features, which are on every white man's bucket list.

Anyway, I told him to fuck off. I couldn't continue the fake non-friendship that existed in the dark chasms of our awareness. I could never bring myself to say it before, but we'd had an affair. I let him dump me abruptly, for another woman, then proceeded to have an affair with him for what felt like a hellish forever. I blamed him for starting it, sure, but every fiber of my being wanted it. Each text, or phone call, or better yet, voicemail, would be a treasured trophy - a victory! I'd managed to keep his interest for yet another measurable span of time. I'd managed to weaken him this much...

I was the truly weak one, of course.

It's just hard because although I am surrounded by wonderful, interesting, talented people every day, I feel afraid to initiate the process of opening up again. I didn't feel this tender after the dissolution of my marriage. That hurt like hell, but this somehow feels more damaging. Maybe because my husband's disregard for me manifested itself in violent anger, I felt more able to distance myself from him. With my stupid interesting-nosed, secret ex-whateverthefuck, there was never anything but pure bliss when we were together. Time apart was agony, because I spent it thinking of nothing but the next time we could be together again.... But either way, the wanting never really abated, but the circumstances changed. He simply became unavailable.

And it's making emotionally unavailable for someone new. But someone new is what I need most desperately. That's really the only cure for such a state. Some would argue that time heals all wounds, but time is something I don't have right now. My whole world is spinning at a dizzying pace, and I need someone to hold my hand so I don't keel over. But I'm afraid to chase. I need someone to be brave. It would be that much easier for me to give myself again, if I knew that I was being given to as well.

Or I just need a whoooooole lot of money.

That would help me kill the right amount of time alone while I healed, a la Julia Roberts, eating and praying and loving all over the place. They forgot to include sleep in that movie, now that I think about it. "Eat, pray, love, and SLEEP".

I've got to come back to this. The pandora's box has been opened.

So much tired.

Pass out... must....

to kill the child within

2009-04-06T22:03:00.000-07:00

I don't know exactly where this romantic notion of "the child within" came from. We idealize youth in really stupid ways, in my opinion. I mean, sure, who hasn't looked at a lithe teenage body and drooled a little? We've all been there! But let's face it, despite their physical beauty, kids do stupid shit. They ask too many questions. They have no personal boundaries. They are curious about sex. They dream of bigger things. They get in trouble. They play pretend. They have imaginary friends. They think that something being boring is enough of a reason not to do it.

I say this in the heat of my own little epiphany. I am an emotional infant, and possibly mentally challenged. I am hopelessly old - quarter-life-crisis-ready, beaten and bruised by adult life - but I have never felt more like a child. Instead of enjoying an ice-cream cone or spinning joyously around in circles for no reason at all, however, I feel helpless and lost. I do not enjoy this feeling. Being a child is frightening.

What missing ingredient was there in my development? So many of my peers have it, but I don't. They book appointments, go to work, grocery shop, join gyms, have power lunches, pick out new drapes - and all like they have a clear idea of why they are doing these things. I do stuff as well, sure, but for the life of me I can't figure out what any of it is for.

I dwell on the details.

My thoughts are utterly grandiose.

I want to be a fireman.

No, a police officer!

No, no! President!

I just want some peace.

I want someone to pull a lever and spin my brain like a slot machine, and make me arbitrarily live out the course of my life according to the random pattern of events the aligning wheels would illustrate. Instead of cherries and lemons and apples, the symbols would be more akin to hieroglyphs or Chinese characters. Each one would provide its own chapter to the book of my silly life, a sentence in a Madlib story, a character in an improv scene. I would be a happy robot then.

For if I were a robot, I wouldn't question the feelings my maker endowed me with. If I felt fear or desire, or pleasure, or love, I would accept all that as part of my robot nature. I would do what I do without ever wondering what else there might be. I would love what I love because I was made to love it. There would be no possibility of questioning the source of this love, or its motive. There would be no shame.

But instead of an adult robot, I am a baby primate. Great ape. I am not a suitable house pet. I may want to drive cars and then eat somebody's face. I may look civilized because I know how to use eating utensils and the toilet, but I am still a wild beast.

Oh, if only being shot with a tranquilizer gun didn't hurt...

on blogging about blogging

2009-03-15T00:28:00.001-07:00

Please make sure to check out a new blog I added to my favorite blog list. Since I have nothing of any interest to offer you lately, I thought I could at least do you the service of pointing out who really DOES have a point of view on things outside of their own broken emotions. I mean, let's face it. If you're not interested in mental agony and general schizoid behavior, there isn't much to see here. This is why I am hereby releasing you to float through the blogosphere like helium-filled balloons to look over the fascinating lives of others, enjoying their quirky sense of humor and well-readness about current events.

Start here:

http://goodnightmoon.tumblr.com/

Remember, this is one of my best friends, so I get half credit for everything witty and funny she says.

Please stay tuned for more hot blog on blog action.

guilty?

2009-03-02T02:52:00.000-08:00

It's the first real snow storm of the season. Everyone was so excited. Everyone but me, that is. I am the sucker that agreed to "dump" at 6 AM at the radio station, and woke up this morning dreading the decision I would have to make. To dump or not to dump? That is the question.

My car is like a sardine can of a death trap. The wheels are balding, one of the headlights went out AGAIN, even though I just replaced it like last week (must be some electrical issue), and the break pads need to be changed soon. This really isn't the ideal vehicle to take me all the way to Fairfax in these precarious conditions. All that is bad enough in its own right, but when I thought about the fact that my reward for the arduous journey I would have to undertake is barely above minimum wage, I decided I couldn't in my right mind do that to myself. There's a dump button in the on-air studio, after all. They don't really NEED me. Maybe they can try to tone it down this morning with the sexual innuendo. These are scary times for everyone. No time for cheap laughs. I could very well be kissing my potential references and recommendations good-bye for this, but my defiant spirit says it's better to live reference-less but intact, than to die referred and mangled.

To punish myself for my pesky survival instincts and to prove to the universe that I am NOT being lazy and looking for a stolen day of sleeping in, I will stay up and watch Woody Allen movies on my Netflix instant viewing. "Mighty Aphrodite" - here I come!

New podcasts are up, by the way. Check them out.

http://www.switchpod.com/p19578.html

life is like a twizzler pull-n-peel

2009-01-12T10:10:00.000-08:00

My mind is unraveling. Nothing makes any sense right now. I thought I had made progress - that rationality was my muse.

I can't strike from my memory the very essence of what I felt like last Tuesday: light, free, content yet exhilarated. If we are nothing but masses of energy percolating with different frequencies, then it really seems extra unfair that mundane, physical circumstance is preventing a potentially beautiful and fruitful co-vibration. It will take time for my brain to readjust to this new level of perception. It will take my heart even longer to stop aching at the thought of what could never be. I know I will survive any disappointment. I know I am complete already... But who can resist basking in the glow of unfettered joy when the opportunity throws itself at one's feet? And who can willingly relinquish the right to even remember that joy once it's gone?

Appropriately enough, I've lost my voice. The raspy gasps my throat emits when I attempt to speak match the ugliness of my societally sanctioned self-denial.

To live in peace can mean so many different things. At least I seem to have a clearer idea of what it means to me. I'm not there yet.

Happy new year?

2009-01-05T21:14:00.001-08:00

I realize that I am still technically young, but I certainly never expected to still be this underdeveloped, emotionally stunted, almost helpless husk of a human being by this time in my life. In Soviet Union time, I'm not only an adult, but should be raising my second or third child by now... WHILE going to work as an engineer at some office, and cooking dinner at home every night.

You know what I had for dinner today? A strawberry popsicle. Actually, it's an organic frozen juice bar from Trader Joe's, but that doesn't make it any more of a complete meal - just less poisonous.

Anyhow, I only wanted to take a brief inventory of everything I have and am while I have my wits about me. Of course no personal accounting can take place so quickly, nor should it be taken lightly, but I never seem to be able to play by the rules, so let's make light of my baseness, my weak moral character, and fat stack of failures, shall we?

1) My marriage is not what I intended it to be - that is, it's currently over, or at least on long-term hold. I counted on this man to save me, and he certainly gave me a great boost at the beginning, if only through allegorical inspiration, but ultimately, he needed me to save him even more. I think I gave him a good head start too. I pointed him in the right direction, emotionally and mentally. I cannot be the one to guide him through anything right now, though, as I myself am suffering from severe growing pains. Where is my wild-haired, clear-eyed, robe-clad sage?

2) I find myself painfully attracted to people who have absolutely no interest in me. This seems to give my mundane existence excitement. I don't know why I find suffering so exciting. Hi, my name is Mariya and I am a sadomasochist. And I like to drink and smoke, too.

3) I have finally enrolled in an improv class. Appropriately enough, it will be at the DC Improv. Monday nights, starting in March. I believe it will culminate with a showcase performance. This excites me and frightens me greatly.

4) Speaking of painful attraction - I am surprised by the sheer number of people I have been feeling these "vibes" from or towards. Am I just lonely? A sexual deviant? A self-aggrandizing fool?

5) Despite all this emotional turmoil, I still manage to get intellectually inspired from day to day, which is reassuring. Maybe all this falling in and out of love is just part of my experience. I shouldn't try to will it to be different. Maybe it has to be this way.

6) I am poor.

7) Truly disturbed to see tiny signs of aging start to creep up on my face. I miss the passion I felt when I first started this pseudo-vegan lifestyle. Back then "no dairy" meant "no dairy". Now it's "no dairy unless I really really want some and haven't had any in a while". Terrible. That's what I get. If I don't commit to not getting feeble and infirm and wrinkly, I can't very well expect to accomplish anything in that regard. When was the last time I had a proper work-out? Who even knows?! I need to re-read "Jitterbug Perfume" and get inspired again.

8) Windows Vista is not as bad as everyone tries to make it out to be. So far I don't see how it's bad at all. I'm just glad to have a new computer.

9) I keep having very vivid, sensory, emotional dreams.

10) When the clock struck midnight on New Year's Eve, and as Dick Clark was stroke-mouthing the last of his unsettling count-down, I was in the car with my sister. We shared a brief ironical giggle as we made our way to an unlikely Russian party with red caviar and vodka and such delicacies as smoked pickled herring under a bed of shredded beets, potatoes and boiled eggs with mayonnaise. Mouth-watering, I tell you. It's like a salt-fish potato salad slaw.

Good night!

make it good

2008-12-21T16:54:00.000-08:00

I really do amaze myself sometimes. How is it I can be so pragmatic and unemotional about certain things, but then completely lose my mind when it comes to a few select others? I guess "lose my mind" is the wrong expression. I don't think crazy thoughts about these delicate issues, but I seem to constantly be feeling strong feelings that manifest themselves in uncomfortable physical conditions, like a constantly tightened diaphragm, shortness of breath, stress stored in painful lumps at the base of the neck. My rational mind knows what is happening, knows it is powerless to control the situation in any way, but my cardiovascular system and adrenal glands don't see it that way. My body sees this thing as a constant threat to its wellbeing, perhaps its very existence. So how do I eliminate from the body the thing that has permanently altered the mind, like a rare hallucinogen? The cerebral effects are somewhat pleasing even when they are unwelcome and unexpected, but the physical overstimulation is more than I can stand. I ache all over.

I'm not really scared, either. It is merely uncomfortable.

This all could just as easily be the fresh array of symptoms from some degenerative disease that has been dormant until now.

Strange, though, how it coincides with this utterly absurd time in my life. I wonder how this absurd time will measure against all the others I've already lived through. Does this take the cake? Mmm, cake. I had a chocolate muffin from Robeks today.

I feel like I need a full body cast just not to melt into a puddle of human fragility. I need something solid to contain my strange ethereal essence. Feeling connected to everything all at once, even on a purely philosophical level, is exhausting... As is pining away for something you can probably never have.

Also I am newly addicted to Nat Shermans.

Merry holidays!

false gods?

2008-12-12T05:42:00.000-08:00

uncomfortably numb

2008-12-08T07:10:00.000-08:00

Ariana Huffington encourages people to blog their passions.

My passions have never been easily articulated. Activities that I enjoy immensely can also bring me emotional agony. My only passion is experience - the solid, tangible feeling of "doing something" and deriving sensations and thoughts through that action.

I love to read and write, but not when my mind is preoccupied with longing.

I love to sing, but not when the sound of my own voice makes me cringe with disgust.

I crave attention and affection, but resent it when it's given as a matter of routine.

I love to learn, but can't seem to find any practical use for my knowledge.

Being back from my short trip to New York feels surreal. This is the life I thought I was used to, but it only took a couple of days in a totally different environment to make me feel like a stranger here. I suppose I always felt that way, but didn't allow this awareness to creep into my conscious thoughts. At least in a big, bustling city I can be one among many strangers. Here, I am truly alone.

Listen to the latest podcasts, won't ya?

http://www.switchpod.com/p19578.html

my beautiful disorder

2008-11-24T09:17:00.000-08:00

For what seemed like the hundredth time, I was reading today about personality disorders, or PD's, as they are lovingly dubbed within the psycho-therapeutic community. More than anything else I fit the profile of a person "suffering" from Histrionic Personality Disorder. The word "histrionic" itself stems from a Latin word for "actor", and quite logically, this disorder is characterized by theatrical, animated behavior, the need for attention and acceptance, and inappropriate seductiveness and sexuality. Incidentally, this is a disorder apparently plaguing the female population... Meaning that any time a woman expresses any sexual tendency or extroverted behavior, she is abnormal. In the ancient world, it was referred to as "wandering womb". By the middle ages, any behavior perceived to be improper in women was blamed on witchcraft, moral weakness, and demonic possession. In the age of psychoanalysis, such great minds as Sigmund Freud and Wilhelm Reich blamed women's "weak nervous systems" and "penis envy" for their troubles. Apparently it was strange to them that women that lived either as idle slaves (wives if the wealthy) or actual slaves (wives of the poor), were bored and unsatisfied with their lot in life.

As I read such garbage and reflect upon my life thus far, I realize just how deep-rooted and corrupt society's attitudes are towards women. Virtually every conflict I've ever experienced has stemmed from such thinking, perpetuated even by women themselves. We are taught to hate ourselves for our natural desires, our appearance, our mental flexibility. Even our brave new "modern" world offers no real solace. We question our every move, wondering if we'll be perceived as improper or too aggressive, or too passive, or just plain dull. Whether we are politicians or doctors or housewives, the stigma of weakness and being inherently flawed follows us everywhere.

It is prudent to note, too, that all the major world religions, including Buddhism and Hinduism, help to instill this view of women in our collective psyche. This helps to explain why someone like Sarah Palin was so poorly received by most rational women. Her belief in a patriarchal religious system supercedes her empathy toward other women and their struggles.

In any case, I'm not sorry. My histrionics keep life fun.

i like it

2008-11-22T06:30:00.001-08:00

about chicken?

2008-11-19T20:15:00.000-08:00

The other day my husband made me watch a random documentary available for instant viewing on Netflix about chicken(s).

It started on a happy note, showing how chickens live on small farms. People apparently become very attached to their avian friends, cooing to them lovingly, holding and petting them like little lap cats. This one old woman even gave a hen of hers mouth-to-mouth resuscitation after she got caught in a sudden snow while brooding in the small wood around the farm. The poor hen froze to what seemed like death, but the old woman thawed her out and breathed life back into her. I really hope she only uses her hens to lay eggs. It would really be a shame to slaughter someone whose beak you've pressed against your lips in a gesture of ultimate love.

Other stories included strange men who had unhealthy attractions to cocks... As in roosters, you sickos! They would raise prize fighting roosters, clearly to compensate for some lack in manliness on their part, but unable to afford a luxury vehicle to replace this cock obssession... It struck me as very peculiar that these unattractively mustached men doted on their cocks to distraction, raising them like their own children, showing them plenty of affection... only to send them into a violent, bloody, untimely death.

The saddest of all, though, were the factory chickens. It showed lonely rows of eggs in giant rotating incubators. Then the baby chickens would begin to hatch, in an empty metallic space, surrounded by what must appear to them to be a sea of other baby chicks, but with no mother hens in sight. Then the conveyer belt would send them, scambling over one another, down a chute to a sorting facility, where hair-netted ladies would grab the babies by whatever appendage was handy and pluck them out of the steadily pouring stream of fuzzy yellow life, and throw them into one of several bins or piles, like they were mere objects being readied for packaging. By what criteria they were sorted, I cannot even begin to imagine. All the chicks looked fragile, and yellow, and tiny, and squeaked incessantly. But the factory workers just grabbed them and threw them according to some pre-established order, no doubt mangling and maiming them in the process. Then it showed the sad, pale, confused adult chickens in the factory, sitting atop one another, scrambling for air, for food, for comfort, for anything that didn't feel like raw panic. An endless sea of struggling, suffering, debased creatures - they reminded me most of the pale skeletal ghosts of people in Nazi concentration camps: forlorn, betrayed, alive, but just barely.

There was more to the film, but I had to stop there. The tears started to choke me. The idea that this is the way food is produced for mass consumption is sickening to me. I got into the habit of saying that I gave up eating meat mainly for health reasons. People tend to react to that in a positive, encouraging manner. Caring about one's health is admirable. Not eating meat for moral reasons, however, provokes hostility. Forced to examine the moral correctness of eating their precious McNuggets or rotisserie roaster, people get defensive. It's hard to imagine that something so delicious can be a sentient, noble being. Being a coward, I would learn to shy away from total honesty, and just stick to my health story. Now I feel a bit more compelled to be perfectly candid and tell people I encounter that not only is eating meat unhealthy, but that under current conditions, it amounts to endorsing mass genocide of the most wasteful kind.
The bill passed in California providing for more rights for factory chickens is definitely a step in the right direction, but I still can't help but feel that somewhere down the road we went totally awry in how we deal with our food. Killing animals for food has been an integral part of human evolution, but we never used to care so little about doing it.

listen!

2008-11-13T19:02:00.000-08:00

Tammy Bruce is just one in a chorus of Liberal-hating, "freedom"-loving conservatives. Just like her counterparts, she is extremely unpleasant, has a very bad sense of humor, and exudes an aura that is the antithesis of sexy. There's just one thing that makes her "special". Unlike most other self-proclaimed conservatives, Tammy Bruce is a lesbian. The fact that by her own philosophy she should fear and hate herself seems to be lost on her, and that is why she is a prominent topic on the most recent edition of The Mariya Alexander Show.

Check out the podcast here:
http://www.switchpod.com/p19578.html

Or find it on iTunes. Simply search your iTunes store for The Mariya Alexander Show and catch up on all the podcasts you've missed.

an old short story remnant

2008-10-27T18:12:00.000-07:00

I began my working career at the ripe age of 16, and was always very proud of it. My mother convinced a good friend of hers, a middle aged, mustached and moderately paunched Greek man named Andros to hire me as a hostess at his restaurant, but I immediately started to think of myself as prime employable real estate, sought after by companies nationwide. That same notion of indestructibility still haunts me today, but at 16 and quite unpopular among my new American classmates, I was glad I at least had something to be proud of.

I was an awkward teenager, very thin and brittle looking, and at the time was slowly trying to wean myself off of padded bras and gel inserts. It just looked unconvincing – a walking stick figure with a sharp chin and pronounced nose, and perfectly round spheres protruding from a clearly defined ribcage. This, of course, didn’t stop Andros from being enthralled with me. When he saw me that first day at the restaurant, Chef Dino’s, his shockingly beautiful hazel eyes lit up like two votive candles in front of a Byzantine icon of a lecherous saint. His thick mustache quivered with delight in what should have been a disturbing manner for me at the time, but I was just so desperate for someone to like me, that I actually stuck around and let him show me around and brief me on my duties.

“Ah, hunnee, look at you! My God! Those beautiful eyes, those lips, AAH-HA-HA, you are like an angel!”

I stared at him blankly, waiting for him to regain his composure and actually teach me something about my job.

“Look at that soft skin of yours,” he cooed, “God, what I wouldn’t give to be young again and have a chance with a little minx like you!”

His tendency to refer to the Lord while verbally molesting his new young employee was unsettling, and perhaps should have been enough to make me walk away, slowly, without turning my back for a moment. I suppose I ultimately must have found his naïve, idiotic rambles flattering – or rather wanted to believe that it was my sheer beauty that provoked such outbursts. Sure, this man had a reputation for being a self-proclaimed womanizer, but I was the youngest one to ever affect him this way!

After saying a few more words about the possible color of my panties, and what a lucky guy my boyfriend is if I have one, Andros finally calmed down a bit and got down to business. It was my job to greet the customers, seat them in the appropriate section so that no waiter at any given time has too many more tables than the others, and to ensure proper operations in his absence. I would process all cash and credit transactions, close out the register at the end of the day, and lead the wait staff in setting up the salad bar in the morning, and dismantling it at night. He had the utmost confidence in me, and proved it by grabbing my hand and putting it over his hairy chest, which presumably contained his heart, which I was then to feel beating with excitement and joy. I mainly felt his wiry, partly gray chest hairs, and smelled his pungent cologne, but can’t recall much about his heart’s health and condition. I comforted myself by remembering that since he was charging me with so many managerial duties, he would most likely not be working with me every day, and prayed for the ordeal to be over.

I had found it strange that Andros was willing to trust a teenager to be in charge of his establishment in his absence, but after meeting the rest of the staff on my first day, I understood. They were all very nice people, my team at Chef Dino’s, but had all by that point reached a certain level of jadedness and emotional discontent that often prevented them from paying attention to, or talking about, anything but the numerous personal problems they were having. There was Sherrie, a white-haired woman in her 60’s who chain-smoked and lived with a flaky roommate and five cats. There was an older Greek gentleman only known by the name of Mr. Vassily with enormous ears and absolutely no neck. There was also Carlos, a petite, meek-mannered man from El Salvador who always had a dreamy expression on his fairly handsome face, but barely spoke a word of English, and then there was Christopher… Christopher was also from El Salvador, also had a problem with the English language, but whereas Carlos was polite, compact, and overall pleasant, Christopher was elongated, pale, hook-nosed and cheeky, with a mouth full of shiny gold teeth. I, of course, kept my opinions of him to myself. Christopher, however, found it necessary to express his feelings for me immediately, and all the time from that point on; usually with grand gestures like bouquets of red roses and poorly scribbled love notes scattered throughout the restaurants for me to find, written exclusively in grammatically unsound Spanish.

In general the clientele at Chef Dino’s was mainly senior citizens from a nearby retirement community. They would hobble or limp in, sometimes in optimistic groups of three or four or at least in pairs, but mostly taking sad and lonely tables for one, and after greeting them and finding them a seat they didn’t mind, I would watch from the bar as one of my fine waiters worked for their meager tips off of orders mainly consisting of coffee, toast, and the occasional Rueben sandwich. The restaurant actually had a pretty good menu of traditional Greek dishes, and other more substantial fare, but for the most part these old farts knew nothing of it, and the waiters all hated them for it. If Mr. Vassily wasn’t out on the dining room floor, or out in Saint Dino’s Cathedral, as I referred to it due to its long aisle between pew-like rows of booths which led to a small apse-like open area in the back with a few tables scattered about, he would join me at the bar for a drink, especially during Sunday brunches. I was 16, but that didn’t stop him from offering me beer or champagne, which I was only willing to accept in coffee cups, for fear of being discovered. He would grumble about how unfairly Andros treated him, something about disrespect and injustice, while pulling bottle after frosty bottle of beer from the cooler and gulping it down like a desert nomad who just stumbled upon an oasis. It was strange to see a man dressed in a black tuxedo-like suit, looking as dignified as a mad opera singer or impassioned symphony conductor, act like a street corner hobo, but I wasn’t about to complain. I enjoyed the feeling of boldness and power that clouded my head as I drank my contraband coffee-cup alcoholic beverages right in the open, in front of naïve old people catching the early bird special.

an international affair

2008-10-20T19:00:00.000-07:00

I sort of miss livejournal. Every day, I used to look forward to being able to sit down and write. For some reason this blogger business isn't as compelling to me. Maybe because livejournal had communities, and great photo-sharing capablities. Maybe because I managed to grow a decent little readership (for me, anyway) over a three-year period that made me feel obligated to deliver. For some strange reason, I had the distinct impression that the people who subscribed to my blog had sincerely grown to care about me, and were invested in me the same way I invest in my favorite TV characters. On here it feels lonely. No one cares.

But time keeps slipping, slipping, slipping into this so-called future.

But tonight was a blast from the past. My precious Rongles called me at exactly 5 PM. My phone died as it began to singe my ear at exactly 8 PM, just as Gossip Girl was starting. It was an international call.

He mentioned that his health continues to slowly deteriorate, and as always, the thought that I can do nothing to stop this made my heart skip a beat. The fact that the overwhelming sense I am left with after our conversation is pure peace, peace at the thought of knowing true comradership, is a testament to how little his ailment has affected his brilliant mind. In reality - in physical reality - it's probably a lot. Like his body, his brain has been altered greatly by everything he has been through. It absolutely amazes me that not only has his brain adjusted, but his mind, his intellect has thrived with less and less physical real estate to run its operation. As far as I know, I'm running on all cylinders, and I can barely keep up with him. He is the only human being with whom I have been able to stay on the phone for hours - nay, even prolonged minutes - without awkward pauses and grasping for things to say. Let me be very clear: the nature of our conversation is never swapping pleasantries or drunken escapade stories. Talking to him makes me feel like I'm an Athenian boy in Aristotle's academy. Or Aristotle, getting ready to lovingly pat a young lad's firm behind while giving him the gift of thought and reason. Or was that Plato? Plato was definitely a big, lecherous queen.

Anyway, I just wanted to say that right now I am happy. Does it make me an elitist to love my brain and to love others for theirs?

PS. Search for The Mariya Alexander Show on iTunes or at switchpod.com!!! All your wildest dreams will come true, my imaginary reader.

another blatant lie from the McCain campaign...

2008-10-03T19:00:00.000-07:00

READ THIS

This just in: absolutely nothing new happened!

2008-10-02T20:40:00.000-07:00

As always, no one won tonight's debate, and nothing makes any more sense than anything else. That's a nice, rational, real, concrete world we live in, isn't it?

I understand that we have the "right" to "believe" in anything we want to in this "god"-forsaken country of ours, but I don't see how we can expect to play any significant role on the global stage if we can't even agree on what we see as empirical, unquestionable reality.

It's sad that it doesn't surprise me, but of course all the post-debate analyses have expertly declared that there was no "clear winner" out of Joe Biden and Sarah Palin tonight, and that each campaign should feel "pretty happy" with their candidate's performance.

So in the words of Sarah-The-Retard-Breeding Palin herself,

UMMMMM.....

DUUUUH!

*WINK*

Our news professionals have really gone off the deep end in trying to stay neutral in this blatant war of the religiously motivated fanatical morons against the rationally thinking, normal human beings. To the Associated Press' credit, they did just come out with a respectable piece dispelling the mis-facts mentioned tonight (http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/debate_fact_check), but we all know that the average American isn't going to see that. All the "six pack Joes" out there watch TV and listen to what those dickheads named Topper, Brick, Chip, Chet, Brock, etc, have to say - and the message is that Sarah Palin's grammatically atrocious, nonsensical, but animated ramblings are just as valid as Joe Biden's specific, logically formulated arguments. She actually openly refused to answer questions, but was praised for it being a great strategy to not reveal weaknesses...
I don't think this is okay. They aim to not give an opinion that leans in any one direction, but they still sell their analysis in the form of personal thoughts - not hard facts. If they were to start focusing on those, however, they would be forced to say that Sarah Palin seldom made any actual sense, even within one phrase or sentence that she uttered at any given point; and they would be forced to say that at several points in the debate she openly refused to answer direct questions, reverting instead to the same exact lines we all so enjoyed hearing her use during her TV interviews... They would be forced to say that she winked a whole lot.... They would be forced to say that when Gwen Ifill asked her a complex question, at the heart of which was the question of whether she actually knows the vice president's role as designated by the US constitution (the one about Cheney's interpretation of the VP office), Sarah Palin actually shrugged and looked at Gwen helplessly for several seconds, before vaguely muttering something to the effect of "I agree with him", when the question never contained anything for her to agree or disagree with... And by the same token, they would be forced to acknowledge that Joe Biden knew exactly what Gwen meant, and spoke very confidently and concisely about the historical, constitutionally mandated role of the VP in the legislative process... Even a person of modest intellect can deduce that this was due to the fact that Joe Biden actually understands how US government works, historically and practically, and Sarah Palin does not, at least not nearly as thoroughly as one running for such high office should.

After all, she studied journalism. Her motivation was never a feeling of patriotic duty to serve her country. Everything about her demeanor and past career as a beauty queen and TV reporter screams of a desperate desire for attention and recognition for her god-given "talents". Actually, I don't want to downplay those. She is frighteningly cute. The entire campaign, I couldn't help thinking that what she really wanted to be doing was reading a beer commercial or lipstick commercial script or something. She just wants to be famous. She certainly has the aptitude for THAT. Hollywood, quickly, offer her a movie part already and get her off of our backs! I guarantee you she would withdraw herself from the race if they offered her a part in the next Shia Labeouf film.

Poop.

2008-09-04T10:41:00.000-07:00

I know that politics is all BS and that everyone says things to get voted in and don't necessarily mean them, but wow. Doesn't it at least matter to anyone that Republicans aren't even saying anything that make sense in order to get elected? I mean, rhetoric or not, doesn't it sound better to hear someone say
"We want to bring hope by researching new energy, and providing universal healthcare, and giving women the right to choose what they do with their bodies, and giving tax breaks to people who commit to a college education"

rather than

"We want to give everyone guns, illegalize abortions, promote birthing retards but cut government funding for health care programs and social security benefits, and that's exactly what Jesus would do!"

No, but seriously.

Sarah Palin, unsurprisingly, sounds exactly like Cartman's mom. South Park will never be the same again. Her husband is a fisherman, and apparently likes to race snow cars. That was the bulk of her speech last night - inane ranting about her inbred, lumberjack family. Now the media seems to be praising her for "energizing" the republican party. I think that just like we shouldn't allow people to drive or operate machinery after a certain age, by the same token we should not allow those same old farts to vote. Then we would see how energized the Republican party would be. We're keeping people alive too long, we really are. Why should some ancient sack of flesh be in any way influencing what happens to me?

"Oh, I'm Sarah Palin! I wear a neat bun, and shoot defenseless animals whom I skin alive and bathe in their blood, but a retarded fetus is just too much of a waste of life! The world is suffering from epidemics of sexually transmitted diseases, but I want to do away with sexual education, and the teaching of evolution to boot! I was a part of the party that wanted Alaska to secede from the United States because that's how much I hate people who like gays and don't hunt"

"I saw Barack Obama touching people..""

2008-08-27T20:39:00.000-07:00

I love Joe Biden, and no less so for the quote so cleverly featured in the title of this entry.

No, but seriously, I am embarrassed to admit that I, like the people allegedly touched by Mr. Obama, am experiencing strange warm feelings throughout the course of this Democratic convention. My cool, cynical, Facebook-ready third person outer narrator is ashamed, but my secret inner flag-saluting patriot is sticking feathers in her cap and calling them Macaroni. In other words, I am moved.

I do eventually want to see an America where more than just two parties dominate national and local politics, but for now I am finally excited about one of those two actually doing something in any way positive.

PLEASE VOTE OBAMA/BIDEN in 2008!!!

blogger's clog

2008-08-25T18:20:00.000-07:00

I believe a particularly lazy (see: typical) psychiatrist would diagnose this general malaise and listlessness as depression, but that's really not the case. I am not unable to experience joy. I have happy little moments every day. I make clever observations about the world and smugly nod at my own wittiness on the hour, like weather and traffic. It's when it comes down to expressing it in here, oh my dear weblog, that my stubborn proud nature forces me to look the sad truth in the face: what's the damn point and who cares? Doing the weekly radio show has been satisfying my need for a cathartic ritual of mental diarrhea, but even that is starting to gnaw at my better senses. People only care about what you think if they think it can make them seem more important and special by caring about you think. Nowadays people rarely allow themselves to have a philosophical dialogue or intellectual connection with another human being unless she/he is getting paid handsomely for holding the views she/he holds. People always talk about how democratized communication has become with the advent of the Internet, but let's face it: even the "blogosphere" is becoming highly commercialized and neatly packaged. The most popular blogs discuss the most superficial aspects of the human experience: video games, TV shows, the latest fashions, politics - consumer products, basically. Philosophy seems to be dead. Every time I walk into a book store in search of some hidden nugget of mental inspiration, I walk away disappointed. Just more motivational, self-help, new age garbage lines the shelves, and everyone seems to be aboard the "this is the way things should be" train. It isn't the world that's dysfunctional. It's YOU. That's the message the powers that be send us, and on my worst days, I almost buy in.

But I for one have always questioned the fundamental structure of society and how it evolved into the mess we live in now. I just wish I had access to people who shared my desire to discuss and dissect the nature of things without being ridiculed as being pretentious. I'm just a curious, wide-eyed girlchild, lost in a sea of scary angry men.

There is one person who gives me hope.

http://www.alaindebotton.com/

People who think for thinking's sake still exist.

And now it's time to watch the Democratic convention.

Podcasts for Sunday 08-03-2008

2008-08-05T10:43:00.000-07:00

Check out Sunday's show if you missed it!

Segment 1:

http://www.switchpod.com/users/mariyaalexander/08032008TheMariyaAlexanderShow1.mp3

Segment 2:

http://www.switchpod.com/users/mariyaalexander/08032008TheMariyaAlexanderShowPt2.mp3

Spank you very much!

cerebral flatulence

2008-07-26T18:42:00.000-07:00

I could have sworn that just last week summer was beginning. Where has the time gone? Where? I have yet to enjoy even a single day of good-old-fashioned summer fun in the sun. So to make up for all the skin cancer I may not have been getting, I went to the tanning salon twice in the past month. I am a shallow ass-hole of a person, because I like myself so much more when I am tan and even-toned. The Semitic beak on my face still bothers me, but at least I've got my killer personality. Just the other day, in fact, I killed an entire army of invading ants. I can't believe I can love animals so much and hate insects that much more, especially ants. They're just like people. They capture slaves, they farm other insects, they serve a big bloated dictator and fulfill their societal roles without any forethought.
Did I mention I am actually in a great mood? There is clearly no reason for it, for I am still me, and I still hate this sick sad world, but yet I flash myself saucy smiles every time I pass a mirror. I am like a freakin' martyr, I swear - a shining example of laughing in the face of absurdity and unfulfilled expectations!

I am busier than ever. I'm tired. I'm giddy. I'm excited.

I'm ronery.

I miss my friends.

Thank you Jeebus for not letting Twitch get voted off of "So You Think You Can Dance"!

Speaking of lively competition, has anyone seen this yet:
http://www.japanesebugfights.com/ ?

It's morbidly addictive.

Speaking of other morbid things, check out my show Sunday at 1 PM!!!

Listen every Sunday at 1 here: http://stations.swcast.net/urbancowgirl777

Also, I am looking for a new book to read. After finishing the magical "The Testament of Gideon Mack" and the disturbing "Lolita", I am pondering my next literary adventure. Suggestions?

Irony Deficiency

2008-06-30T05:04:00.000-07:00

I am sitting in a windowless dungeon of a room somewhere in the depths of the building housing my precious WJFK. My job is officially called "content editor" but more humorously referred to as "the dumper". Little do they know as they joke in this manner that dumping is something I take very seriously, usually while reading classic literature or solving sophisticated crossword puzzles. In any case this is an awkward position for me because while I understand my duties, I can't help feeling strange about having to essentially censor people at the precise moment that they're actually saying something interesting and provocative. So much for the land of the free and the home of the brave when silly little words like "penis", "vagina", "boobies", "handjob" and the like must be guarded against with the same vigilance we're dedicating to fighting global terror... Which is another crock of buttered excrement, if we're on the topic, which we're not...

Had a barbecue at mother-in-law's yesterday. Had a lovely discussion (and I use the term "lovely" very loosely) about the dangers of letting gay couples adopt children. Even the 84-year-old grandma chimed in, purely in Greek, to denounce the effect of those toxic gays on poor impressionable young minds. My husband and I attempted to stand up for our homo loving ways, but were outnumbered, so eventually just gave up. To drive the point home - that theirs is a red-blooded, all-American BBQ - several people tried to feed us skirt steak, even going so far as to hold it hopefully in front of our faces. We did not break. We pursed our lips indignantly and munched on the chickpeas and portabellos and potato salad we filled our plates with. There were also crabs and shrimp, and while I tried to partake in that, it was difficult. The shrimp were too big and too meaty, and I was unable to suppress my feelings of empathy for the poor dead creatures. And just imagine how horrible the steamed crabs were! I saw their guts and their gills, and realized once and for all that I'd effectively killed the carnivore instinct inside of me. I used to love munching on ribs and chicken bones, sucking the juices and meat shreds down my throat, but now the idea of it really troubles me. I am made of the same meat and bones as all those other critters, and I don't think I would smile upon being devoured in an orgiastic feast, being boiled alive! My addiction to baked sole filets and smoked salmon will be hard to break, but I'm seriously considering stopping it all together. Then I will be 99% vegan. I doubt I'll ever give up eggs. I'm not a masochist, after all.

In other great news, children's thongs are now on the market and available for mass consumption!

And for those blood-thirsty devils among you, check this out:

Japanesebugfights.com

It was featured in this Maxim magazine left for me in my "editing" cell.

Show Outline

2008-05-31T18:05:00.000-07:00

I suppose the best way forward is the truth. They say that it's supposed to set you free, and though that has never been the case in my own life, I'm willing to give it a shot on the air tomorrow to entertain the masses. And by masses, I mean the 5-10 people who listen to my ramblings every Sunday. Whatever. The past however long has been a blur punctuated by various noteworthy yet utterly insignificant events, and by god, I will share them with you whether you like it or not!

First and foremost, what the hell was I thinking agreeing to work at 6 AM at WJFK tomorrow morning?! I was so eager to please, and so stupidly flattered by the offer of some ungodly, unwanted by anyone hours, that I blindly agreed to work them, and now I will enjoy another red-eyed, suicidal day. Everyone at the station congratulated me upon the end of my internship last week when they found out I'd be coming back for part-time work, but what did those congratulations really mean coming from the lips of on-air talent? "Congratulations! I'm very glad that I will never have to deal with your unsettling presence again, you stupid girl. Go and sulk in the background, operating machinery and feeling grateful for even being here like the rest of our happy-go-lucky board-ops."
Well the only problem is that I am delusional, and know in my heart of hearts that I am deserving of respect and glory, god dammit. I don't want to develop the pallor and passivity endemic in the radio techie race. I am a talent! Sure I may not have any movie films to review, and sure I am not a flamboyant homosexual boy with soft hips... but I love to talk into big black microphones all the same. If I were gearing up to do that at 6 AM tomorrow morning, I'd be happy. Instead I'll have to yawn my way through 6 long hours of playing other people's pre-recorded shows from CD's and making sure all the commercials play at the right times. THEN I'll have to drive down the street to another, lesser known, broadcasting facility, where I will have to conduct The Mariya Alexander Show bitter, tired and alone, heard by almost no one.

Since I haven't had the time or energy to book any guests, or plan any of what they refer to in the entertainment industry as "bits", my plan for tomorrow's show is going to be an honest hard look at my sad little life. Much like in the real thing, I will be alone. The room will be dimly lit, a little cold and musty. My hair will be a wild mess, and my thoughts will flow out over the cable and internet "air" waves like the pungent smells wafting through a hallway of an apartment building heavily populated by ethnic peoples. Like those odors, my words will disturb and displease many, but will be noticed and remarked upon by any who come across them.

Talking points for tomorrow's show:

1) First ever photography commission leaves me paralyzed by fear and sheer awkwardness, as it was given to me by very friendly, younger acquaintance of husband who creates these types of situations to cement a stronger friendship between us and him and his significant other (We like them anyway, is the thing)

2) Working at a hair salon has made me begin to rethink my whole "women are just as cool and funny and smart as men" stance. I can at least say with certainty that the current generation of late 40-somethings to 60-year-olds are forged in the depths of hell by Satan herself. Not that it really matters, but I am prepared to name names and reveal the most awful perpetrators of crimes against youth and beauty.

3) Emotionally ill loved ones - how to cope when you can't get dope. (AKA The split personality husband)

4) Proactiv - another gimmick that left me with huge painful zits bubbling under the surface of my tortured skin.

5) Being a size 0 but still managing to have fatty thighs and calves. What the hell?

6) Paying someone for the chance to do a migrant laborer's day's work in the strawberry fields: the benefits there of.

7) Feeling lonely and isolated even in the cyberworlds of MySpace and Facebook.... How does one throw decency and consideration out the window and boldly coerce people into doing what you want them to do?

All that and much much more on this week's edition of
"The Mariya Alexander Show"!!!!!

Listen live, Sundays at 1 PM!

http://stations.swcast.net/urbancowgirl777

DC Comedy

2008-05-26T15:43:00.000-07:00

Blessed be the baby Jesus for letting me get out of work early today and take advantage of this beautiful, sunny day dedicated to the tragic demise of many fallen war heroes. I honestly can't believe how many people I heard saying "Happy memorial day!" to one another today. It's disgusting.

But since I don't care about people or memorials or wars, I'm getting ready for the first official outing with my newly 21-year-old sister. We're going to hit up an open mic comedy night in Adams Morgan, hosted by some of the lovely folks from http://dccomedy4now.blogspot.com . I am desperately trying to cling onto the few acquaintances I've managed to make in the DC comedy scene, because let's face it, if there is any scene to be a part of, the comedy scene is the only one where you can actually make fun of people for being pretentious, so I like it. The rave scene, my former stomping ground, was full of phonies (myself included), but no one was too keen on having that pointed out.

Comedy rules. Maybe if I get drunk enough I'll get up and say a few disparaging words about myself.... outloud this time.

.......

2008-05-05T14:56:00.000-07:00

The best part of today has been that I didn't have to leave my cats alone all day. I slept in, foregoing the internship in honor of the anniversary of my birth, and cuddled with my babies. Then I watched them watch the birds and chipmunks and bunnies gather around the feeder we put in the backyard. They made quiet little squealing noises from excitement at seeing so many living creatures at once, and watching it all made my heart melt time and time again.

The faint aroma of imaginary success

2008-04-29T18:07:00.000-07:00

Doing the show on my own this past Sunday was liberating, and by all accounts was decidedly better than every other show I had done with the former co-host. My comedian guests, Ian Salmon and Sarah Newell, were fabulous and very generous to spend their time with me on Sunday after doing a huge gig the night before - a Def Comedy Jam event! Look these people up on MySpace, they're really nice and fun, and overall I was very very happy with how the show went. I need to upload it for sure. This one I am actually proud of, minus me stumbling over the very long call letters and legal ID of the station at the opening of the show. It just sucks not having almost any time to dedicate to serious production work. It should already be edited and ready for your listening pleasure, but I am so tired, I can barely dress myself in the morning.
Which brings me to my next point. As much as I honestly heart the Junkies, and Bret O, and pretty much everyone at WJFK, I don't know how much more of this schedule I can take. My internship is officially done in a few weeks, so naturally I would like to have a sit-down with the PD and see if they can make any room for me at all there. I can't imagine not ever seeing any of the wonderful people I've met at the station. The thought of it really makes me sad. But come on, waking up at 3:30 AM three times a week for FREE?! I mean, if I can at least get some paid hours at the station, I could cut back more at the salon and live more like a human and less like a zombie. We'll see what happens. Maybe I'll become the most hated Junkette! Ha ha ha.

Whatever, it's time to brag. A famous person who may or may not have appeared on the show in recent weeks called me today! He actually called me! I am honestly floored by how kind and wonderful and cordial people can be, when you least expect it. Am I retarded to hope for an actual long-term friendship? Every time someone expresses any form of liking me, my first response is to laugh in my own face. But why the hell not? Total retards go around liking people and being liked back, so I deserve a little bit of love and respect too, and it might as well be from well-known public figures. Maybe if I got more of it as a sickly infant, I wouldn't feel so doubtful about it all now... Yes, it all comes back to the mommy issues. Wah, wah, wah! No, but seriously.... When I think about the fact that my mom got married and knocked up with me by age 20, I just feel bad for her. I really did ruin her life. No wonder she pawned me off to my grandparents for much of my baby-hood so she could at least finish college. She claims she's happy, but I know that when my birthday rolls around on Monday, AKA Cinco de Mayo, she will remind me once again about how the labor almost killed her. She just can't help herself. I know it was traumatic, but I can't spend my entire life feeling guilty for existing. Or maybe I can. My guilt levels are always at a nice, steady level, peaking in the red during holidays.

This coming up Sunday, another really funny local comedian will join me in studio. I met him at a bar downtown. His name is Peter. Before I even knew he was a comedian, he made me crack up while serving us drinks. He made fun of yuppy people in the neighborhood who call their children Dylan, Declan, Madison, and Carter without any provocation, without thinking twice that perhaps MY name is Dylan, Declan, Madison, or Carter. I liked that about him. He just knew it would make us all laugh. He made fun of us too, right to our faces. I respect that kind of person. So anyway, he'll be my guest and it's guaranteed to be a great show!

cringe

2008-04-21T11:48:00.000-07:00

What a disaster this last show was. I feel truly embarrassed, and wish I could erase the day not only from my own memory, but from the memories of those unfortunate souls who chanced to hear the debacle.
Despite several warnings and pleas to my former co-host for proper, professional conduct, he hi-jacked the show and took it completely off the rails with his vulgar, simplistic, and completely out of place comments. The charm of working with him at first was that he was quiet and only spoke in response to my topics. I had always liked him during school and enjoyed the audio projects he created, so when I first thought of working with him, I couldn't even suspect that he would turn out to be such a loose cannon. Well, that's exactly what he was. He interrupted me, our callers, and made me feel truly comfortable. I wanted to cut the program short and run away crying, but alas, I had to sit there and wait it out. He was probably just excited and couldn't control himself, which is bad... but what if he ultimately doesn't care that I'm the one that created the show, and that he has to recognize his place in the scheme of things? That's much worse, isn't it? He just wants to do what he wants to do, and say the things he likes to say, which are pretty much too absurd and too foul even for me.

For the love of the baby Jesus, please tune in next Sunday and give the new and improved show a chance! There will be guests, there will be calls, and I'll actually try to round up prizes for anyone who even bothers to participate in the show interactively; i.e. calling in, e-mailing, supporting in any way. There will be no more wild, overbearing co-host. Only the strangely addicting phenomenon that is me ;-)

But the truth is I feel awful and nervous. I don't like conflict of any kind, so writing the email breaking off the on-air relationship was very difficult. I wish him all the best of luck, but I just know that I can't wait around for him to mature as a performer. I honestly hate this feeling. This is how it felt when I would first start dating someone and then realize within a day or two that he was creepy, while he was completely oblivious and thought things were going great. The break-up would hit him completely out of the blue, and after that point all the affection he felt for me would turn into bitter resentment. That's what I hope doesn't happen now. Enough people out there hate me already.

*sigh*

The Mariya Alexander Show - Episode 2

2008-04-12T17:30:00.000-07:00

Join me tomorrow, Sunday April 13 @ 1 PM for another exciting hour of The Mariya Alexander Show featuring The Incredible White Bean aka Chris Green.

Is Barrack Obama really a long-legged mack daddy? Would you be a pedophile for a day if it meant you made someone's dying wish come true? Don't the poor women in Darfur deserve to not be raped and tortured as they forage for fire wood? (This one is serious.) There is no topic we won't cover, and no body part we won't expose as we court the attention of our fickle, barely there audience. Tune into:

http://stations.swcast.net/urbancowgirl777

or, if you're a resident of Fairfax County you can catch us on:

Cox channel 37
or
Comcast channel 27

every Sunday at 1 PM !!!!

If you have a charity or creative endeavor you'd like to promote, or if you have a great idea you'd like to hear on the fake radio, OR if you have no life and the generosity of Mother Teresa and simply want to help out with promotion and organization, please leave a comment or email me: mariyamedia@verizon.net.
Angry redneck stalkers need not apply. Stalkers of other varieties possibly welcome.

Uncle Sam is a selfish bastard who only cares about himself

2008-04-08T14:29:00.000-07:00

I was late for my internship at WJFK on Monday because it took forever to get our taxes done. My poor grandma didn't realize what a circus she was in for. "You'll be out of here in like 40 minutes," she said, but NO DICE. With five W-2's between the both of us, as well as two 1099's from Thanasi, we were there until like 11, trying to knock down the monster debt to something a little more manageable. This meant I didn't fall asleep 'till like 11:30, which led to my not even reacting to my alarm when it rang to wake me up at 4 AM. I woke up in a panic about 5 minutes before the Junkies went live, and called Bret the producer, and of course, always being the sweetheart that he is, he said it was "Cool". I wonder if "cool" really means "I don't give two shits whether you're here or not, your presence is felt so little". I rushed over there anyway, with ragged hair and almost no make-up. I felt really out of sorts all day.

After listening to my show on Sunday, my parents complained that I made them look bad by confessing to the audience - all 10 of them - that we were very poor when we came to the US and that I had horrid, mis-matched clothes from thrift stores and the salvation army and kids made fun of me. In fact, they accused me of lying and exaggerating, claiming that I never wore second-hand clothes. It's amazing how little they remember about those times. I know they were busy working and trying to improve our situation, but my sister and I DID live through some frightening times. I even have a shirt that we got at some thrift store, or that the Jewish Community Center donated to us, still folded in my closet. I still wear it sometimes! My mother demanded I show it to her as proof, but I know that they won't acknowledge the fact that I was a complete and utter loser, mostly through no fault of my own.
"But we brought over our own clothes with us, that we bought in Turkey and Italy when we used to travel for our business back home!" they said defensively.
Yeah, well, the problem with those clothes was that they looked absolutely nothing like what the American kids were wearing, probably because everything I had was meant for adults, hung strangely on me, and by that point was obviously outdated. Every time I see old photos, I literally cringe, and I got to do a lot of that on Sunday! My parents are in the middle of remodeling their entire house, so all my old albums and yearbooks have resurfaced. I'll try to scan in some photos sometime soon so everyone can see what the fuck I'm talking about! It isn't a joke. I'm traumatized, damn it! And the yearbooks are the worst. All the inane, superficial comments, just so we don't have to feel alone... *sigh*

Oh well. Life sucks. Feeling alone is a permanent state of mind for me and I've come to accept it.

So, like totally K.I.T. and H.A.G.S. y'all!

HURRAH!

2008-04-06T12:09:00.000-07:00

The first broadcast of the Mariya Alexander Show featuring the great White Bean AKA Beanus W, was a stellar success. This is especially true considering that I ran the board, fired sound effects and clips from a CD instead of a handy sound effect machine, and that we really didn't have the opportunity to practice or really plan anything major due to Beanus' circumstances with jobs and finances. We even had some phone calls! Of course my mom had to call in, even though she was so nervous, she just stammered her way through it and hung up quickly; and Emily from the salon called in, baby Jesus bless her heart; but otherwise the calls were from actual random listeners! A guy in Canada somehow stumbled upon the webcast, and a local woman also called, as did another girl whose show comes on after ours, and all to tell us that we didn't suck! Well, I can promise that next week we will not suck even more. We're going to get together and plan bits and topics, and do a better job of promoting. I waited until the last minute to let people know to listen because frankly I almost didn't want everyone to judge it in such a raw state, but I don't care anymore. It is what it is, and compared to the garbage that dominates most of the airwaves -on commercial and underground radio stations alike - our show definitely stands out. We aren't a "buddy" show with two brain-dead, identical clones talking about getting drunk together and hating people, we aren't uptight NPR-like drones who care too much about "issues"... We're just fun people who like gay pandas!

I DID mess up by arming the recorder and then not actually recording our show, so that sucks. I wanted to put it up on YouTube, but now everyone will have to wait until next Sunday to hear us live. I'll definitely make sure and record that one, so that should be up on YouTube and maybe MySpace? I guess now would be a good time to get some sort of podcasting site membership too. I'm so retarded at this part. I need a publicist and a producer! Any volunteers? We can't afford to pay you, but you will feel loved.

Also, if you have a band, or maybe you're a blingin' rapper, or maybe you have an interesting fetish, or just about anything at all that can make for good radio, please give me a holler. =)

Ta ta for now. It's time to go to Grandma's house so she can do our taxes. That's right. I got people.

"We will restore chaos..."

2008-03-18T05:03:00.000-07:00

I found the most incredible British website with the most extensive collection of Bush-isms ever! They have clips that American media either missed or purposely chose to ignore, and they are all hilarious! I always knew Mr. Prez wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed - though a tool to be certain - but I have never ever ever heard anyone talk such gibberish in such a comical manner! There are clips in which it's not even possible to get a gist of what he's trying to say, that's how garbled his thoughts are. Congratulations America. You have officially elected a mentally retarded man to be your leader. Time to smoke him out! ;-)

So speaking of places you can hear such funny audio clips and more, my show proposal did get approved by the program director at Fairfax Public Access, so now I am waiting for a time slot to be assigned. I just received the letter on Saturday. I'm pretty excited. Good thing I've been spending every free moment stalking the internet for audio content and interesting stories. The Mariya Alexander Show will prevail - you mark my words, oh haters and silent admirers alike!

On the personal front, Janey's visit home was too short for how ridiculously saturated my schedule is. I really only got to hang out with her a day and a half, and naturally, we spent the last part of that time bickering. As soon as I picked her up from the airport on Wednesday afternoon, I had to run to work and stay there until about 8:30. And that's after already being up since 3:30 AM and doing my time at WJFK. It really is amazing that anyone could question my devotion to the station and to the show. I get up at the most ungodly hours to go work for FREE. I ASKED to be assigned to this show too. I could have chosen a different show to work with when I applied for the internship. I could have had more sleep. I could have had some semblance of a sex life. (Yes, unfortunately there has been a temporary drought for the past week, due to utter exhaustion.) I wanted to work for the best show at WJFK, though, and so here I am. Hate if you must, but I am anything but ungrateful and un-dedicated.
Boy, how I digressed! Anyway, so Wednesday went by, and Thursday went by even quicker. I worked all day, 9 AM until about 8:30. Then Friday it was back to the radio station in the morning, and then back to work at the salon in the afternoon. At least Janey and Thanasi and I had time to grab some lunch at Ri Ra before I went to work on Friday. Ri Ra is THE BEST Irish restaurant ever, by the way! Even their vegetarian options are delicious and flavorful. I always feel like restaurants don't even bother with trying to make their veggie dishes taste good - they just have them to be politically correct. This place, on the other hand, infuses each dish with flavor and fresh ingredients. And the waiters are so cute! I have a weakness for the Irish and their sexy accents. If you do too, go to Ri Ra in Bethesda and enjoy!

Now for the pay-off of this whole entry. If you've read this far and managed to stay awake, stay tuned just a bit longer, because my life is the most awkward, painful experience ever! So remember how I mentioned that I liked the nice Japanese girl who applied for the receptionist position? Well, as soon as I began to train her, she turned into that little creature from "The Grudge" and started to scare the living shit out of me and everyone at the salon. It really is surreal how I attract the most crazy of the crazies. Within a couple hours of being at the salon ON HER FIRST DAY, she began going for breaks every 15 minutes or so. She kept complaining of being tired and having a headache. Then she asked if it would be alright if instead of coming in at 9 AM when she's supposed to actually be there, she would come at 9:30. I said that no, that would not be alright because we hired her to work specific hours and she said she could do it. So then she confessed to being on several strong psychiatric medications which often prevent her from waking up at a decent hour in the morning. I tried to keep my composure and be encouraging, but frankly I knew right then that her time with us was to be short-lived. She then continued to regale me with stories of parental abuse and long stays at mental hospitals. Then, to top it all off, when I asked her to pick up the phone and start confirming appointments, she looked me dead in the face and said "Oh... I'm scared... I have really bad phone anxiety." Talk about lying at your interview! This girl may be crazy, but she was smart enough to lie to us and convince us that she had at least some basic social skills. We just thought she was foreign and cute with her accent. Turns out she's just off her rocker and can't even control the inflection of her voice because she's so disconnected from how normal humans interact and behave. She asked me in her high-pitched voice "Mariyaaaaaa, whaat do I doooo if I really liiiiike someone but he doesn't seeeem to liiiiike me at aaaalllll?"
"Who is this someone?" I asked her. "Someone you went to school with? How do you know him?"
"He's just some guuuuuuy that works at Trader Joooes. I reaaallly like taaaaalking to hiiiiim, but a coooouple of daaaays ago I toooold him abooouut a psychooootic episooode I haaad, and heee called me a psyyyychoooo." (She really draws out her vowels like that)
What the fuck was I supposed to say to that? That was her second day at work, and at that point we had all had enough. The clients were afraid of her, all the stylists were flabbergasted by her, and so the salon owners told me to call her and let her down gently. The salon environment and the extremely social, busy, PHONE-oriented work it involves simply wasn't right for a phone-phobic, episode-having freak. I really actually liked her on a personal level - she entertained the hell out of me and was so deferential that I could have really gotten used to having her around to cheer me on. But alas, I did what I had to do. I called her, couldn't reach her, so left a polite message on her voicemail telling her not to come in the next morning.....
That night (Friday), as Janey and Thanasi and I were chilling out with some beers and queers (okay, no queers), my phone rang at about 11:30 PM. It was HER! Boy, all that depressive niceness went right out the window! She was suddenly fierce!

"Whaaaat am IIII suppoooosed tooo dooooo?! Thiiiiis is veeerrryy unfaaaaaaair! I aaaalreeeeaaaaady quiiiiit my ooother joooooob. I waaaaant to seeeeee a coooopy of the emploooooyment contraaaaact!"

Contract? It's some shitty hair salon! She filled out an application, not a contract! No one owes her anything. It even says on the application that the company reserves the right to fire anyone at any time for any reason, and she signed it! I tried to explain all this nicely, gently, but she was relentless. I've never seen or heard anyone fight so fiercely against being fired. Finally I had to basically cut her off because I was beginning to nod off. It was late! I quickly said good-bye and hung up, cursing myself for giving her my cell #, and praying that she wouldn't find out where I live. Janey, my darling little sister, had a Japanese stalker once -a virtual stranger that became obsessed with her and showered her with gifts and late-night suicide calls. I remember this lasted for years. I don't have time for something like that right now.

On Saturday I had to work all day too, 9-5. This day flew by quickly, though, and brought a final solution to all our problems. I don't mean final solution as in the eradication of all the crazy Japanese girls, but rather as in the hiring of my dear friend Jenn to work at the salon. It just so happened that she left her old job a day or two before, and the timing couldn't be more perfect! The owners and the stylists really liked her, so we put her to work immediately after the informal interview. I could finally relax and cut back on my hours like I've been wanting to do!

After work on Saturday, we had to run to meet my parents for dinner at Tara Thai. We hadn't seen them in weeks, and they really wanted to at least get us all together while Jane was in town. It was a regular old dinner with my folks - slurping, burping and overeating (mostly my Dad's accomplishments). It was yummy and fun nonetheless. I love the casual relationship I've always had with my parents. We can literally talk about anything - sex, drugs, rock and roll - nothing makes them blush. So as we were sitting there and having a great time, Thanasi suddenly tensed up as he looked out the window.

"Oh shit, here come my mom and sister!" We all started acting like awkward teenagers trying to avoid someone - looking down at the table, whistling, shifting around in our seats. Then we realized that we were acting like jerks - we couldn't just avoid my husband's mother and his sister no matter how badly we wanted to. We ambushed them at the door and greeted them a little too warmly and enthusiastically. We forced them to join our table, even though we were half-way done with our dinner, and they looked like they wanted to cry and run away too. Everyone tried to make polite conversation, but I could tell we were all dying inside. So just as the waitress brought out mother-in-law's and sister-in-law's main course, my husband and sister and I did the best possible thing. We got up and left. We had to leave anyway - we had a friend's dance performance to catch at Joy of Motion, but the timing just couldn't have worked out better and funnier. My poor parents! My poor mother-in-law! They were left to navigate the murky waters of forced small talk on their own. I only wished we had a way to watch the whole thing come crashing down after our departure. I can laugh about it now, but I honestly almost fainted from anxiety.

The dance performance was an adventure too! It was a showcase of all the different dance styles offered at Joy of Motion, with each class performing a choreographed, complicated number for our amusement. With evidently no standards for any prerequisite level of expertise to participate in this show, you can imagine how hilarious it was to see people of all ages and shapes and sizes gyrate and contort to music together. I could have sworn I saw an old Jewish lady that goes to our salon doing the "jazz hands" and lifting up her skirt to reveal her scraggly legs during a big Broadway number.
The friend we were there to support was good, though. I've been out dancing with her, and already knew I could expect a good show.
Afterwards, her entire group wanted to go out and celebrate. We walked to a nearby bar/restaurant, and everyone spent about half an hour trying to figure out where to sit. We ended up breaking away from the pack and just went to the bar, where I met a pretty funny stand-up comedian/bartender named Pete. He was chubby, he was balding, he was angry - hilarious! I got his email and will friend him on MySpace as soon as I finish writing this epic entry.
And that's about it for my weekend. After having a few drinks, we left the merry group to celebrate and went back to the house. I amazed myself by staying up until like 1 and drinking several more Heineken Lights. I guess I was revved up from all the excitement of watching tutu-clad senior citizens and fatties prance around. I would definitely recommend attending such dance recitals often. They are cheap, if not free, and guaranteed to please!

Janey Poo and other types of poo too

2008-03-12T09:06:00.000-07:00

My little sister will be here in about an hour and I couldn't be more excited! This creature has been a pain in my ass for so long, I honestly can't believe how close we've become lately. It's amazing what growing boobs and getting drunk together can do for a relationship. She's the one that has done most of the boob-growing in our family, so I can't take any credit there, but still. My little baby is all grown up! I can't wait to see her.

Today was my first day back at the station since the grand club-fest on Monday's show, and it was uneventful and quiet, which is good. As thrilling as all that attention was - the suggestions to fire me, the name-calling - my racing heart needed a little rest. The good news is that The Big O himself smiled at me and said hello very nicely when I greeted him today, complimenting me on a job well done, so I guess I really can't ever turn down his request for a sandwich as I previously planned on doing. ;-) Also, a friendly member of the custodial staff is now leering at me suggestively and calling me "hot" whenever he sees me. Ladies and gentlemen (mostly gentlemen), I have arrived!

Last night was fun. My dear Jenn came over and entertained me with stories of almost joining a Mexican gang in Cali while Mr. T was teaching his class. Then we ran to Chipotle and darted through the door literally as they were about to lock up for the night. I know all those poor people behind the counter were wishing they could spit into our food. Instead they seemed to have made my burrito extra spicy, which led to unfortunate circumstances during my private contemplation time this morning. How can something be even spicier coming out than it was going in?! Despite this, I just polished off the remaining spicy green salsa (medium by Chipotle's ludicrous standards) with some chips, and expect more pain to come later tonight. I never learn. How do Hispanic and Asian peoples deal with this problem? Are their rectums numb?

meat bikinis

2008-03-10T15:07:00.000-07:00

This has really been an exciting day on many fronts. Besides the obvious on-air spectacle - the unveiling of this god-forsaken blog - I also contributed my share to fight racism in the workplace, and even went grocery shopping too! I guess if I make any comment on the weak criticisms I've received from the few unhealthily obsessed fans of the show so far, I should say that whatever somebody's opinion of me personally may be, their comments on my "grammer" are completely out of place. I received a perfect score on the English part of the SAT's, actually scoring in the top 2% of the country, and have never gotten anything besides an A on an essay or paper; so to all the rednecks with their flannel boxers in a bunch over sentences that may be too long for their comprehension: I cannot be deported because I am a permanent resident of these great United States! I endured persecution and prejudice in the Mazerland (say it with a thick Russian accent), and I guess I'll have to keep suffering the same fate here just because I have a sense of humor. So be it. But if I were an overweight, bald man who spent his time trolling online message boards (i.e. the Junkies message board... you'll know him when you see him), I wouldn't publicly announce my hatred of women and completely kill all the slim chances of ever getting laid again. Just a thought.

Anyway, what I really wanted to say was that I just received the funniest email from a girl I recently interviewed for the salon position. We've been looking for a part-time receptionist to cover those precious hours that I'm interning and making so many people so angry, and this really attractive, stylish, articulate young black woman came in for a meeting. I asked her about her work experience, her ability to deal with insanely rich and finicky old ladies, and her answers were very appropriate. She seemed like the perfect fit, except that she said she has a full-time job and is only available evenings and weekends. After the owners and I complemented her and assured her that she would be an asset to our salon, we explained that we would have to call her after we find someone to cover the times I can't be there in the mornings and then would try to find some hours for her. We told her we would call her when that happened and sent her on her merry way. Well today I got a hilarious email accusing us of being racists because it was such a short interview, claiming we were surprised that she was "an African American woman" because she sounded so "Caucasian and professional" on the phone, and that her friend even suggested she contact the NAACP. I just can't help but run into crazies! I explained to her that all of us actually loved her and were upset she wasn't available more hours, but were definitely planning on calling her. I mean, what did she expect? It's a freakin' salon! It pretty much takes a couple of moments to ascertain that someone can successfully answer a telephone and book an appointment, but I guess she wanted us to really delve into the inner qualities and life experiences that would have made her a stellar receptionist despite being a disadvantaged black woman. She wrote back embarrassed and apologized. I sympathize with her hasty display of emotion so badly, I feel obligated to still offer her the job. She and I are sisters in our vulnerability - she is black, and I am a Ukrainian Jew who really loves hip-hop. I doubt she would take it, though, and I don't really want to work with the kind of unstable person who always feels so insecure in her own skin. We'll see what happens. Right now the morning slot forerunner is a Japanese immigrant with a really cute accent. She even signed the application with Japanese characters, which I thought was the coolest thing I've ever seen. As far as I'm concerned, she's hired based on that alone, but we'll see what the owners say after she comes in for a little trial run tomorrow.

Last night's "Family Guy", by the way, was probably my favorite ever. Peter's stroke face was genius.

May the baby Jesus bless you all.

God Knows You Lonely Souls

2008-03-04T18:07:00.000-08:00

I'm exhausted - a walking zombie - but alas, I can't sleep without my beloved. He's away at the Torpedo Factory, making art torpedoes... or teaching random people how to sculpt the human nakedness. Either way, he isn't here, and I can't sleep without him. Thus I am caught in a cycle of sleep deprivation throughout the week, which culminates in a completely useless Sunday, when I lay around comatose and feel guilty for not accomplishing something during my long-awaited "free" time. Just like this past Sunday. What a waste.

There are just too many things to think about. I am not the type to know what to do about all of them, so I just sit and think and worry. Or run around and think and worry. I try to chip away, one little thing at a time, and I try to reward myself by allowing tiny moments of feeling good, but mostly I am just scared. But I keep pushing myself to do the pointless things I do anyway.

This Saturday is the last radio production class at Fairfax Public Access. I have to submit my show proposal and then my very own weekly 1-hour show will be bestowed upon me. I want to be excited, but I just feel numb. It's no huge accomplishment, really. No one really pays attention to public access/cable-cast/web-cast little shows, do they? I need a web guru to help me promote. Better yet, I need a hilarious, jaunty co-host, but where is he? I decided that I would definitely prefer a HE, because a SHE would compete too much. I need to be unique. So far I'm doing okay on my own with the little practice runs we've been doing on the air, but come on. How long can I sit and talk to myself before I start to lose touch with reality? I need someone who can at least argue with me a little bit, make fun of my utter insanity. Where could that someone be? Why do all my friends have to be so flaky and/or nonexistent? *sigh*

But enough whining. I really shouldn't complain. Things are moving right along. My internship at 106.7 WJFK is going swell. The guys, the locally famous Sports Junkies, or just The Junkies, as they are now known, treat me great... considering I am a girl. It's just really depressing to be surrounded by so many men and feel their physical attraction to me and their simultaneous indifference toward me in every other regard. They can't even fathom that I may know more than them about the world at large, or that my IQ is most likely higher than their IQs averaged... maybe even put together.. haha. But either way, they have no idea about any of this. All they want to know is when the last time I hooked up with a girl was, and do I prefer to have sperm land somewhere on my body, on my face, or in my mouth. I mean, the very idea that any woman actually likes for sperm to land anywhere near her is preposterous, but whatever. That's the world I am in. Sperm, and sports, and machismo oozing out of every crevice. And honestly, I wouldn't trade it for the world. Okay, I would trade it for the world and many different things in the world, but I wouldn't trade it for any regular office, or retail, or customer service job. And I ultimately really like everyone I work with on a personal level. It's just frustrating to not have everyone immediately recognize my greatness! But why should they? They need to see a finished product of some sort before they can judge me. So that's what I'm doing with this whole public access business. Hopefully some semi-decent demos will be made so that for once I can look someone in the eyes and ask them where they like their sperm.

Lindsay Blowhan

2008-02-22T15:36:00.001-08:00

Okay, is it just me or is Lindsay Lohan aging prematurely? Those atrocious "Marilyn Monroe" photos of her do the complete opposite of flattering her flabby, freckly body. She's got droopy boobs, cellulite-ridden thighs, and absolutely no waist! And this is coming from someone who used to think she was seriously sexy! This may piss some people off, but she clearly looked her best when she was anorexic or whatever. Emaciated is the only good look for her. It's that damn rehab, I just know it! They always teach people to replace their "destructive" alcohol and drug addictions with something else. Most people turn to cigarettes and sugary foods, and thus die an even more miserable, untimely death than they would have had they just stuck to the Mary Jane or the peppy nose powder. Poor Lindsay. She has what my art professor husband calls a "peasant proportion" body type, meaning her torso is stout, and her limbs are short and stubby. Is there anything wrong with peasants? I don't think so. I like them as people and appreciate what they do, but do I want to look at them naked? Not usually, no. I blame this debacle on her choice of photographer. She worked with the same guy who shot the original Marilyn series which they attempted to recreate - Bert Stern. The only problem is that technology has since evolved to allow us to completely alter a person's appearance on camera for the better and he is clearly oblivious to it. He is also probably old and senile by now, and in his day fat, butter-guzzling ladies were the pinnacle of beauty and elegance. Someone really should have cautioned Lindsay against working with him. If she wanted to show her ta-tas, either Playboy or Maxim could have done a much better job on making her actually look like a 20-something year old rather than an over-the-hill trailer park mother of seven. That's all I have to say. I hope I never feel compelled to actually comment on celebrity news with such passion ever again.
Check out the photos here:
http://media.nymag.com/fashion/08/spring/44247/

PS. Tune into http://stations.swcast.net/urbancowgirl777

on Saturday Feb. 23 between 9 AM and 12 PM to hear a ten-minute teaser of my weekly radio show, The Mariya Alexander Show.

A Star Is Born

2007-11-13T09:41:00.000-08:00

A handsome old friend (who has recently popped up in a dream of mine) asked today if The Thought Spot has no new posts, does it mean I'm not thinking... And it got me to thinking about the tornado of thoughts I've been living with for the last several months without any real outlet and how rusty my brain hinges have probably become by now. This is unacceptable, my faithful audience of at least one confirmed reader! I will now reveal all - prickly legs and bruised shins - the whole package!

If I remember when we last left off, I was struggling through an unsatisfying job as a salon receptionist. I was engaged in a catty, prolonged battle with the so-called salon manager with horrible linguistic skills, and I am proud to declare that I ultimately won. I drove her completely mad with my physical near-perfection and sharp wit and made her quit without notice or any hope for referrals after her 6 years of slave-like servitude. Even though this satisfied my ego for about two weeks, this ended up being a disaster for me personally. I naturally became the new manager, and immediately realized that I don't ever want to manage anything, especially a hair salon owned by an old, half-senile, self-deluded Jew who thinks himself the local Vidal Sassoon. My cushy schedule of about 30 hours per week turned into an arduous 50+ hours without any overtime pay. If I was at least paid overtime, then the decrease in sex-like activity would have been just a bit more bearable. As things were going during those hellish summer months, however, I was becoming suicidal. My sister working by my side during her summer break helped a little, but not much. Let me just conclude this sad little chapter by saying that by the time I gave my two weeks notice in September, I knew exactly what had made the former salon manager so peevish and short-tempered. I can't account for her inability to pronounce or spell simple words, but I know that her anger and anxiety stemmed from the truly evil atmosphere that permeated that whole place. The stylists were like rabid dogs, the clients like deformed trolls and goblins out of a Clive Barker novel, and the delusional owner who spent his days oiling his unsightly, amateurish sculptures was pointedly oblivious to the demoralizing state of things.

Quitting the salon opened up my schedule to dedicate all my free time to school work. Even though we met for class only two nights a week, I must have spent almost every waking second in the studio suites working on my video and audio editing projects, writing and recording commercials, skits, jingles, etc. That was probably the most satisfying period of time - no stupid job to get in the way of creativity - but it was also the most financially trying. My husband's salary kept us alive and well enough fed, but I can assure you, no exciting new purses or boots were added to my collection of redundant luxuries, and this fact still pains me. At any rate, I did what I had to - made good projects, made connections, forged bonds with my classmates - and I suppose it ultimately paid off. Now the semester is over, and I am second in my class GPA-wise, but I received more awards than any of my classmates for various achievements, and I was voted "The Rising Star of The Class" by all my teachers - a unique award in its own category. Am I bragging? Yes, yes I am. It's nice when people see the plain truth without being told to see it. I may not have the most distinctive speaking voice, and I may not be a good song announcer, but I've got the most unique brain inside this new blonde head of mine, and through my big blue eyes (and my sharp, slightly inappropriate one-liners) others were able to see through my cranium to view this splendid brain in action. Of course the next step is to apply my star-like qualities towards the acquisition of a job in the field, which I am just about ready to start doing. This is the first week that I can actually spend some time at home, and I'm taking full advantage of this rare opportunity to vedge. I have to admit, though, as much as my body is enjoying the relaxation, my aforementioned brilliant brain is restless, anxious for the next exciting thing to happen.

In other news, in my attempts to become familiar with the world of showbusiness, I've gotten myself some spiffy headshots and gone on a couple of auditions, just to experience the sort of interaction that takes place at these things. The only problem is that DC is probably the last place in the world you would want to be if you're trying to act, model, or entertain in any other way - unless of course you're a stripper or a naked model, in which case you're always in need. It's really quite insulting to have to convince the hacky locals of your talents as you read their ridiculous college thesis script with the full awareness that their movie will never ever become anything worthwhile. Another great example was when I went to audition for what was advertised as a part for a car commercial, but ended up being a solicitation for a "spokesperson" for a dealership in some ungodly part of rural Maryland where the lucky candidate's job would be to attend special sales events and greet customers while acting dumb and pretty. There was a vague possibility of a commercial to be shot, but the panel of obese, horribly dressed "judges" (the owners and managers of the dealership) didn't seem to care much about that or about the acting skills of all those auditioning. The question they kept raising was "What does PERSONALITY mean to YOU?! Because we need someone with PERSONALITY!!! " In an attempt to showcase my personality I rolled my eyes a lot and told one of the dealership owners he looks and sounds like Dr. Phil, but I guess that wasn't what the rednecks had in mind. Two days after the hilarious ordeal I, along with the other rejected girls - received an email with a sad face in the subject line informing us that some other lucky girl got the much-coveted part of balloon distributor for this fine auto import retailer. Wow. A sad face in the subject line. These people are clearly seasoned professionals.

Less embarrassingly, I am in the talks with an old acquaintance who now works for a development company about a photo commission for the lobby of a big new office building. I don't want to say any more, lest it falls through and I feel stupid, but this is a guy that has always liked me work and is a true art enthusiast, so I know he'll do what he can to make it happen.

On the personal front things are quiet. My old friend Ruth disappeared during her last visit to the area. She had me pick her up from the bus station, and then just never called me again, even after my repeated attempts to get in touch with her. I can only conclude that ultimately my company wasn't as enjoyable for her as the company of her other friends who unconditionally worship her every word, regardless of its irrationality or stupidity, and I can only wish her the best. I had great hopes for her - her spunky quirkiness used to be so refreshing - but then I realized her youth and immaturity and the sheer desire to be outrageous were the driving factors behind everything she said and did. Her thought process was starting to make less and less sense to me. When asked to articulate how she arrived at a certain idea, she would get frustrated and pick a fight. It would have been no problem for me - I like controversy and enjoy stirring it up among my family and friends - but I suppose for her the blind support of an admirer was more important than the scrutiny of an honest friend. So be it. From her myriad of new MySpace and Facebook photos, she's having the drunken time of her life in Brooklyn.

An old high school friend of mine moved into the neighborhood. I look forward to having someone close-by to hang out with.

And I really miss my dear old Erin. She's busy with school too, so at least I don't have to seethe with jealousy that someone else is taking up her time instead of me. But still. It would be nice to get together for some stiff drinks and cynical commentary on the world at large.

As for my marriage, it's rolling along. I suppose we are now reaching the first real speedbumps in what has so far been a fairy-tale romance. My being so busy lately has majorly cut into our intimacy. Leaving the house at the crack of dawn and getting back near midnight almost every day was so exhausting that it never even occurred to me to have a sexual thought. It's sad, too, because when I look at Thanasi purely objectively, when he's getting dressed for work or doing the dishes or something, I feel truly moved by his beauty and feel very stirred. It just always seems to happen when we don't actually have the time to act on these impulses. We need a tropical vacation, big time! Maybe we can get away for a quick Miami frolic during winter break. That would be wonderful.

p.s. Last week I began my orthodontic treatment. I now wear a bite fixer (retainer-like thing) which makes me sound like a mildly retarded person with a lisp. I am also trying desperately to find a way to fund the making of my new nose - apparently $5,000 doesn't just fall out of the sky exactly when you need it, god dammit! I would take out a loan, but with my student loan and the monthly payments I have to make for my teeth, that doesn't seem like an option right now. So if any benefactor wants to bestow some money on me without the expectation of sexual favors, that would be super.

pathetic

2007-10-01T12:47:00.000-07:00

You know, it doesn't matter how old I get and how much I evolve - getting stood up by so-called "friends" never seems to hurt any less. This weekend brought a new level of disappointment when an old friend my husband and I haven't seen in a really long time didn't call or show up after the last thing that we said to one another earlier that day was "Okay, I'm driving up there now. I'm going to pick up my girlfriend , and we'll meet up as soon as I do."

Another similar instance involved my so-called "best" friend who is back home from NY for a week, and who called me before any of her other friends to tell me she's coming into town because she needed a ride from the bus station, but then ignored my calls for the entire weekend while partying with these "other" friends. What am I, some sort of social cripple? I like parties. I like meeting new people, but she purposely makes excuses to not invite me and to avoid me when she hangs out with these people.

Whatever. It's just embarrassing to find myself in such a vulnerable, needy state. I shouldn't care. All I do when I am around people is innumerate their flaws in my mind and smirk with satisfaction. I guess it just eats me that I've been deprived of the opportunity to do it this weekend. It would have been nice to see our dear old friend interact with his white trash girlfriend who is really just messing with his head. Likewise, it would have been great to see my ditsy "BFF" vie for the attention and approval of her other friends. The times I have seen her outside of the private clique consisting of her and me, she behaved herself in a much more reserved, rather dull fashion. With me she is boisterous, witty and scathingly funny. I guess her maddening need for acceptance drives her into the midsts of these mediocre groups of adolescents where she isn't pressured to think and express herself. I guess being friends with someone like me is exhausting. Because I hate so much about myself, I hate it all even more in others. Actually, I just really hate others in general, so maybe it's all for the better that we got stood up anyway. Instead of going out and wasting money, my husband and I bonded and frolicked by ourselves. We went to brunch, we did mundane house things, and we indulged in carnal activities. We played with our cats, we watched a great Parker Posie film ("The House of Yes"), and laughed and laughed and laughed. I guess this is growing up and having a life. Why else did I get married? When you find truly great company, someone who makes you feel at ease no matter what else is happening, you begin to realize that losing other people only hurts your pride and ego, not really you.

Or so I keep telling myself.

dreams

2007-09-26T11:18:00.000-07:00

I had a dream last night that Muslim terrorists attacked a cruise ship on which I was celebrating some fancy occasion with a lot of random people I have known in life. I was also with little children, which I don't believe were mine, but were under my care. In any case, they rushed in on the celebration and surrounded everyone and loudly pronounced that in just a few moments everyone would go to Allah. One of the terrorists, with a pirate-like head wrap, rather than a turban, ran toward me and grabbed my arm, yelling some angry unintelligible nonsense at me, but I tried to talk to him and explain to him that because I am not an American, I should be spared. I begged with him to spare me and the children and I guess it worked, because next thing I remembered, I was in a hotel-like room. There was noise and chaos outside the doors, and I kept the lights off, not to give our presence away. I was laying down on the floor, urging the children to do the same. I was worried that I didn't know where my husband was. Both of my cats were there too, and they were running around the room as if nothing was wrong. Then suddenly he came - the terrorist that spared my life. He was angry, but seemed tired from all the slaughter and marauding he was just engaged in. Without hesitation, I stabbed him in the neck with a blue Bic pen multiple times, but he just wouldn't die. He would stagger about, bleeding a shockingly small amount of blood from the multiple wounds I inflicted on him. I stabbed him several more times in the neck, and then in the chest and back, and I think finally it worked. He collapsed. I was frustrated - I felt myself exerting the force necessary to slay him, I felt the resistance of his muscles to the relatively dull pen. I don't remember what happened next because I soon woke up. I was in a cold sweat. It was disturbing in a way I can't quite put a word to. My determination to kill this man was frighteningly intense.

Surely I am going insane.

Chapter 1

2007-05-23T16:32:00.000-07:00

I can hardly believe it - here I am in my brand new, old house, with my young, older husband, with my new but tired old job, writing the same old nonsense in a brand new blog. This house looks so different from how it used to be when my parents lived here - it's actually pretty and clean, but it's still small and awkward, and practically reeks of poverty. Only poor people's houses have closets built in as incongruous afterthoughts, and have brassy yellow doorknobs on all the cardboard doors. I know they are cardboard because I accidentally kicked a hole through the upstairs bathroom door while trying to break in to extract my then hysterical husband. He isn't usually hysterical, so that day was especially scary, giving me superhuman powers which allowed me to kick that hole in the door. It's just about patched now, but it's still impressive and big - the size of a small watermelon.
I wish I could kick a hole the size of a watermelon through my so-called "manager's" thick head - a young woman who refers to sneaky underhanded people as "vouchers" (see:vultures), has been told by many that she is "condensed" (see:condescending) - what a bright girl - and writes me and my other co-workers barely intelligible notes about our shortcomings as her employees and reads them out loud to us, and sets up meetings on days off where she asks us questions like "where do you see yourself in five years?" and "how can you apply what we do at this job toward those goals and dreams?". We work at a hair salon, by the way, as receptionists, and unless I plan on entering a lot of old ladies' names into a computerized appointment book - names like Cookie, Bea, Dotty, Bev, Loretta, and Rochelle - I can't for the life of me fathom how this stupid job can ever help me on my quest to rule the world with my sagely wisdom and stunning good looks. I do meet a lot of people - some of them rich, some of them just plain crazy but pretending to be rich - and as soon as I can exploit this boundless source of networking contacts, I will do so with all my might. Maybe not. They're all mostly ancient anyway - that's the trouble with working at a salon that's been around for so long and is so damn reputable. All the damn people who started going there in the last millennium still go, though their husbands are dead, and they shuffle in with their walkers and oxygen tanks, and complain of colon prolapses. I feel sad for them and humor them with kind words like "honey", "darling", and "dear", especially "dear". It's become an annoying habit of mine, to call people "dear", but in certain contexts it works.

Fuck this job anyway. I am counting the days until school starts. I never thought I would ever think that, or say that out loud, or write it out loud in a public forum that no one yet reads... Either way I am consumed with the drive to get on TV or the radio, which is why I successfully applied to broadcasting school. I had to audition and everything, which a hammy person like me just lives for. By hammy I don't mean porky, as in lardy, as in junky-trunked. I mean brilliant and perfect in every way, the kind of person a camera adores and an audience hates for being so flawless. And by flawless I mean with crooked teeth, random chin hairs, and a noticeably Semitic nose which awkwardly sits on a slim, elegant face with big, animated blue eyes with lush eyelashes and pouty lips. Strangely enough, it works, but my appearance has nonetheless given me a plethora of insecurities and neuroses. What better way to overcome them than by parading myself for the world to see, all the while spewing brain-stew of a similar nature.

This is just my warm-up. I've been thinking a lot, thinking too much, mentally articulating my philosophies on life. My ideas are great, but they are for a world not so far gone. But they still exist, and I intend to record them. Maybe one day someone will dig up my writings and pore over them like we do over ancient texts today. Oh how I pity that fool.