The Log

Wednesday, October 20th

It occurred to me early last month that the year was almost up and I
hadn't taken any of my vacation. I had a lot of it stored up,
practically a month. Summer came and went, marked only by assorted
political conventions and a few roof parties here and there. Like anyone
else I wanted to go someplace warm and sunny and not on the Euro, but
then I realized that I still had Things to Do. I still had rehearsal for
my choral group, I still had stories to write and I was suddenly being
bitten by a new novel that wants to be written, now that PARTY GIRL is
being batted around by assorted agents.

I'm sure anyone who's a writer knows what it's like when the need to act
on an idea hits. You could be walking down the street or grocery
shopping and characters and passages start dancing around your head like
sea monkeys on pogo sticks. For a second you may think you're crazy but
then it occurs to you, "Hey, I'm not crazy. I just have an idea." Yeah.
Ideas. Remember those?

Anyway, so I took two weeks off from work to hide out in my bunker in
Gramercy with Pookie, my fearless cat. I ate a lot of bagels and lox,
drank a lot of coffee and on more than one occasion got on my hands and
knees and cleaned the kitchen floor. One day I will write a Log about
the joys of cleaning one's own house, about the therapeutic qualities of
cleanser fumes, but there is other business to attend to now.

Friday, October 8, 2004
Happy Hour at Pioneer

My vacation started aptly with a happy hour down at Pioneer on the
Bowery. Those who know me know of my penchant for Glenlivet, but
apparently Pioneer did not and they ran out of it after fixing me just
one highball.

"Not too worry," the bartender said, "I have Glenfiddich, which is
practically the same thing."

My friends, I can assure you of one thing in this life: Glenfiddich is
not the same as Glenlivet for a lot of reasons. Glenlivet is better. It
will not make your local CVS seem to spin when you stop in on your way
home for Snapple and Danish butter cookies. It will not make you wake up
in the middle of the night to throw up in your bathtub. It will not make
you lose your keys for three days.

I don't know what was wrong with that Glenfiddich Pioneer served me.
Maybe it was the same, crusty bottle they had when Pioneer opened two
years ago. Regardless, I can assure you I will never drink the stuff
again. Now, could someone please send me a case of Glenlivet? Standards
must be upheld.

Saturday, October 9, 2004

I may live in Manhattan but that does not mean I never go to Brooklyn.
In fact, two years ago when I was looking to live alone, I wish someone
had told me about the Carroll Gardens/Cobble Hill section. I stumbled
upon it a few weeks after signing my lease in Gramercy and honestly, had
I known about it, I would have seriously considered it.

With that in mind I was more than willing to hop the subway for Will
Leitch's birthday gathering at Floyd. I was still in terrible shape from
the Glenfiddich debacle, so I spent most of the night sipping water or
diet coke and feeding the eclectic jukebox. The crowd was a happy and
hip mix of writers and assorted media folk. Everyone was friendly and
smart, which is par for the course, I've noticed, at all Black Table
(www.blacktable.com) events. Despite the cab fare home, it was well
worth the outing. I also reconnected with Tricia, an old friend from
Syracuse. It's always good to have a new [potential] partner in crime.

Monday, October 11 until Friday, October 15th, 2004

I have little recollection of these days, because most of them were
likely spent waking up at noon, going out for a bagel and then shopping.
I spent a great deal of money on new autumn clothing and I must say, it
was well worth it. I also had three choir rehearsals and went to a book
release gathering for the Ducts' magazine anthology, partly put out by
my old Syracuse professor Charles Salzberg. You can buy a copy of it
here (hotlink www.ducts.org)

By and large, the goal of this vacation was to sleep, because I don't do
that a lot when I am working on a regular basis. I also wanted to sit
down and get some writing done; good, creative writing, the kind that I
don't get to do when I'm sitting on a news desk all day long. After
working with the written word for eight hours a day the last thing I
want to do is come home and do more if it. I'm happy to report I've done
just that and gotten some feedback. I feel like I'm making progress.

Saturday, October 16, 2004
Vice Magazine Party

A friend of mine and I have been trying to have dinner at Raoul's in
SoHo for a week, but he was overcome with a cold and couldn't make it. I
figured I would just stay home and write, but then the phone rang. It
was my friend and book editor Daniel Maurer and he told me about the
Vice Magazine party over on Hudson Street. I promptly hopped out of my
sweats and into the shower to make myself hipster-chic.

We were lucky we got there at 9:00 PM sharp. There were already about 50
people waiting outside and being that we didn't have any passes to get
in, I figured we would need all the help we could get. But Daniel was
quick with the smooth talking and the next thing I knew I was checking
my coat and sampling the various free Bacardi rums. Some band started
playing at the front of the room but we stayed mostly towards the back,
where we could actually have a conversation and get in some quality
people watching.

The party was silly with hipsters and I felt underdressed in my denim
skirts and knee high boots, kind of like a mom chaperoning a junior high
dance. It was also silly with Sparks, this new-ish alcoholic energy
drinks that tastes like a mix of red Gatorade and cough medicine. It
gets mixed reviews but I liked it, more so because it was free. Buy
buyer beware: This stuff will keep you up all night. I am not kidding.

The party was getting a little repetitive so we all hopped a cab over to
the Lower East Side for a birthday party for one of Daniel's friends. We
were late, the only people there and so in my Bacardi/Sparks haze I
started eating all the leftover cheese, humus and birthday cake. When we
parted ways I stopped at the pizza joint on Houston for a slice and then
tried to walk home to 20th Street. But it was cold, damn cold, and I had
to cave in and get a cab.

Monday, October 18th, 2004

My only goal today was to go down to Delancey Street and buy some new
sunglasses from a dollar store I discovered a few weeks ago. It's
amazing how when you cut out a job how simple life becomes. First I
stopped at The Strand, sold some books and then walked further downtown.
I was trying to stay focused on the $3.99 sunglasses I set out to buy,
but I was quickly distracted by all the other shops on the Lower East
Side.

By the time I got home three hours later I was the proud owner of, yes,
the sunglasses, as well as three new pairs of shoes (all purchased at
bargain prices, I can assure you) a new purple notebook, some pens,
Raisonettes and two bottles of water. I also had lunch at Life Café on
10th Street and Avenue B, which was rather anticlimactic. Then I baked
some chicken for dinner and made some Jel-lo. Sometimes my culinary
skills astound me.

Wednesday, October 20th, 2004

I am starting to understand why freelance writers say working from home
drives them crazy. For starters, there are a lot of distractions. Every
time I want to sit down and write I think about the chicken I have
defrosting in the refrigerator, the basket under the television that is
full of old magazines and the laundry that needs to be done. Then there
is the issue of cable television, which I must have if I want my cable
modem to work. Just this afternoon I watched, "Annie," one of the best
films ever made. I could recite that film if you wanted me to, thanks to
the 936 times or so I probably watched it when I was younger.

Then there is Pookie, my fearless cat. Many a great writer, including
Hemingway, had cats. This was one of my main motivations for keeping
Pookie when I agreed to take him in over a year ago. He spends most of
his day sleeping and eating, but if I've got string or his brush then
he's up for all kinds of fun and games.

About an hour ago I looked over and he was asleep on my bed, but asleep
with one eye wide open. How bizarre. So I stroked his head and woke him
up and he hissed at me, which was strange, even for Pookie. Maybe he was
having a nightmare. He never hisses at anyone, not even waterbugs. Then
he climbed over to me, nuzzled my chin and sat on my lap. Ah, homelife.