» Wednesday, November 30, 2005

How does the adage go? If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything? I don't have anything nice to say at all. What I have to say is the very definition of not-nice. I write and rewrite it in my head, what I have to say, unable yet to commit even to paper.

I am angrier than I've ever been.

I can't seem to write around it; it's clogging my mindpipe. In lieu of something new, I will share something from the vaults, a happy Christmas tale of yore. I've been sifting through old emails recently (I know, I always say it's bad for me and then I do it again) and I found this gem from the winter of 2002. Enjoy, my holiday lamblets.

Sent : Wednesday, December 25, 2002 10:19 AM
Subject : there is no decency left in this world

Lo, it's a quiet, snowy Christmas morning, and someone has broken into my garage and ransacked my car and my father's. Broken. Into. The GARAGE. No, I know what you're thinking: "We know Brooke's parents' neighborhood. They like to break into cars on the street and take stereos." No. Broke into the GARAGE to do it. On Christmas! Actually, I strongly believe it happened last night, perhaps by people who were counting on the families who keep larger presents in their cars to hide them from the kiddies.

What a wonderful world, Clarence.

So, my father's car was gutted — he uses a lot of electronics for his job, and they live in the car because he travels for work. Nothing was actually taken out of my car, I don't think, but EVERYTHING was gone through. I mean, GUM WRAPPERS. I am hysterical about the thought of them opening the laundry bag filled with cat-pee-soaked clothes I'd yet to remove and wash, though. I hope it Lady MacBeths their asses, and they never smell fresh again, the bastards.

Merry Christmas.

» Tuesday, November 15, 2005

It's nearly inconceivable to me that I have a unique smell - something identifying, under the shampoos and deodorants - that my loved ones know intimately but is a total mystery to me. No one will ever know me as I do, but this one thing - this one really important thing about me - I'm the only one in the world who can't know it. Well, me and the noseless. It's unsettling.

As are the noseless.

Likewise, apparently I'm the only one who can't feel the vibes I'm giving off. It seems that I've become an unwitting homing beacon; people are coming out of the woodwork in rapid succession. To wit: About a month ago, we went to see Jonathan Richman play at the Bowery. I saw a guy who looked remarkably like someone I used to know, eleven years ago. We were freshman at Brandeis together, then we lost touch - new dorm, new friends, some of us smoked our hobbies more than others. I don't think I'd thought of him in almost ten years.

It turns out he dropped out of school, at least for the time I was there. I know this because he emailed me a week after the show. It wasn't him, the guy I saw, after all. The old friend was firmly ensconsed in Chicago at the time. He found me on Myspace. The timing was random. It was completely a coincidence.

Within the following week, there were THREE more similar events, ranging from merely unexpected to nearly mind-blowing - there was a chance meeting with a very old, once-close friend - we parted nearly ten years ago over a stupid argument that would have ended instantly with a simple phone call that neither of us made, and we didn't make it, and we didn't make it, and after 5 years it's not really simple anymore. We ran into each other in a Target, in a city neither of us exactly belongs in. It was great.

So, listen: if we've lost touch and you want to say hi, but fear the shock will shatter my fragile heart, now's a great time. Nothing could shock my fragile heart now.

» Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Let's get one thing straight: I don't care what he says, the kid from the Encylopedia Brittanica commercials has never touched a girl. I realize he must be in his late 30s now. I maintain my position notwithstanding.

The big city is wearing me out. I work 10-12 hours a day; this is an efficient way to lose a year of your life. It helps that I like my job. I get to edit exclusive celebrity interviews, I get free cds sometimes and on Friday, our film editor gave me an ugly Chicken Little baseball cap, so everything's coming up roses. The sky is falling but my STAR IS RISING. Take that, chicken little, you alarmist.

I'm exhausted but I'm happy.

Every morning I am pulled through the tide of fast-paced commuters and know that I am among my own kind, the impatient and snarky. I love to be in a place where something is always happening, a thousand stories reach their peak every hour, and the greenmarket sells grapes that taste like grapes should. Have you ever wondered how wine was born of those impotent, anaemic subfruits in the supermarket? You can stop.