Winter Melancholy

I have always lived in northern parts, and always, therefore, endured real winter. Detroit, a forever flat twiggy-treed gray; Boston, a bumpy bitter cold snow heap trodden by an even colder bunch of austere white folk; and New York, jammed, concrete and almost season-less. It's the little things that bring season to the 365-day incessant stream of life here in the boroughs. Summer is made by tank tops on the street and vacant weekend streets, spring by Central Park hysteria, fall by a deluge of social activities, art openings and busy-busy days.

What makes winter in New York a New York winter? For me it's the beloved blizzards (or snow storms, for you Minnesotans who scoff at the drama of the word "blizzard"). As my suprervisor said as she stared down at 42nd street snow chaos, "Nothing brings New Yorkers together like Terrorism, power outages and snow storms!" True, true. Nothing does bring New Yorkers together more than buckets of snow that wall in their cars and whisk aside the petty parking rules. Trains stop running, cars are powerless, you can barely get to work, so why even bother at all. Snow days make us all seven years old again. Snow days are awesome.

So why do I have the winter gloomies? There's barely any light. I yawn, sketch out my day, and the sun is already ending its tenure. Why bother. It's nine degrees outside and my head is strained by making sure I have my hat, my gloves, my pod, my phone, my book, all in this Michelin-man coat that hides my body even from myself. Maybe because it's also still close to the weight of New Years resolutions and the pressure of momentous life change… have to do this, have to do that. February is around the corner, the shortest month in days, but-- as everyone knows-- it is the longest month in sadness, drama, and emotions. Dark days and lots of snow make sexiness harder, loneliness a lot easier. A lover's quarrel can make you feel bluer than blue... at least bluer than in other seasons. Winter Melancholy is pure because it feels endless. Thank God I have places to go, people to poke my nose around.

When is spring again? Fifty more days. I think I'll give my body a long, hot bath.

Overheard on the bus...

"Is it possible to have a crush on your job? Everyone is like, so nice there."

She was a typical 25 year-old New York girl. Wool jacket wrapped around spindley body. Ah yes, that crush on your job. Like many crushes, it blows over. The newness of any love is a good thing to remember, because sooner or later, you get swamped with the hum-drum and drudgery of paper work.

As my dear departed father oft said, "Nothing lasts forever except Death and Taxes".

Computers are Bad

Above, Mitchissmo wears Ben Gay extra large patches.

This is what happens when you go on vacation, come back and have to work really, really hard at a computer. Too much sitting, too much mousing, too much too much.

This is the end of this typing session (ouch!)

The Last Cigarette, Cookie and Temper Tantrum

Above, the love of Mitchissmo: Chocolate Chip cookies packaged in lusty cellophane and sold in the revolving vending machine of ______ (an undisclosed location in Times Square)

For sufferers of A.D.D./O.C.D and general manic behavior (shout out to my bloggin' homies!), tinged with a Catholic guilt-inspired drive for constant self improvement, the month of January represents the tome of New Years Resolutions, Volume I and II.

Besides the mundane "no more cigarettes, no more cookies" (I will miss you chocolate chip!)) here is the list for 2005:

1. Attain perfection.

2. In order to attain #1 above, purge self of all anger.

3. In order to reach #2 above, meditate 50 minutes a day.

4. Amend #1-3 by meditating for 120 seconds before all utterances.

5. Write Senator and Congressmen/women every day telling them how to vote on various pieces of legislation of the day.

6. Write Senator and Congressmen/women every day telling them they are doing a good/bad job, based on whether they followed your advice listed above in #5.


7. Write Senator and Congressmen/women every day about what you're up to, trying to make them care.

8. In order to reach #1 listed above, keep living environs SPOTLESS!!! (emphasis added)

a. Eradicate dust:

(i) wash all pens daily, preventing pen handle grime, etc.

(ii) scrub skin with falafel or loofah.

(iii) scrub everything with falafel or loofah.

b. Wage war on the invasion of small scraps of paper:

(i) contact all animals rights groups which fill your mailbox daily and say "fuck you I aint givin you no money", use one or two of their kitten address labels, and then throw it all out;

(ii) while looking at small pile of mementos from Ex, meditate and ask yourself, "was he/she worth it?", then throw it all out.

(iii) after (i) and (ii) above, meditate

9. Find Your True Love and Higher Purpose

10. Should #9 above fail by 2.14.05, either:

a. meditate
b. fuck this whole project~

Sunday of Sadness

Lorimer street, Greenpoint Brooklyn, 1-9-05, 9:33 pm
Woman: For Christ's sake, lift it higher-- you're gettin' needles all over the hallway!
Man: I wasn't the one who wanted a goddamned bushy one.
Woman: Just shut it Paul and leave it on the goddamned curb.

And with that, the man named Paul dragged the fir bodies to the curb, where they joined the heap of other Christmas trees mauled by ruthless children, rendering them mere mementos of yet another already forgotten holiday... as well as welcomed canine pit stops.

YO SACRAMENTO! I AM A GIRL!

I am not a DUDE. I am a GRRRL.

A little bit of Texas in JFK

apropos of the Patriot Act, Mitchssimo could not photograph the melee and was forced to use pencil...

Forget that you can't find good Tex-Mex in New York-- just go to JFK if you miss Texas, where (as any good hyperbolist knows) EVERYTHING bad comes from. To attain that Texas je-ne-sais-quoi feeling of The Law gone wild and ready to frisk you up the bum in some naughty (albeit illegal) way, just book an international flight to Kennedy (irony not lost here) and see what Ashcroft has really been up to . Indeed, a fantasy for you bondage folks from Dayton and Queens alike. I mean, who let the boot jacks crash our party? Hey, guys-- give the people what they want and bring in some Smart Cartes, 'cuz there was almost homicide goin' on.

Finally out of customs, I bring in the new year right.

Freelancer Fireworks! Paguesters Embrace the Free Market

New Year's Eve: a Lush's Heaven, a Drunkard's Hell, a Purgatory for the Lay Man. New Year's Eve in Prague with your family? Why waitor, a little tasting of all of the above, please.

I began putting a close to the last day of 2004 with a Czech facial. The beautician's name was ________-ia, she was 20 and spoke little English. As the facial came to an end and I could no longer contain my narcy vanity any longer and burst out with "Does my skin look old?" (wink wink), she gave me what I deserved by smiling and saying "YES!"

Later that night, around 8:30...

Only once we had been seated at the tres chere "C'est La Vie" restaurant did we notice the effect of "The Business" on current Czech high livin', or at least on tourists gettin' a ride. Brother Frugal scratched his chin and looked around at this $150-a-head dining room (alcoholic nourishment not included!) and observed that half the room was staying at our hotel. Hmmm.... Brother Frugal shook his head and lifted his martini. "Screwed again". Slurp.



Indeed, cheeky Concierge Dvorkin (at the brimming-with-saucy-Brits Le Palais hotel) appeared to be getting a sweet cut of the action by rounding up all us suckers out of our rooms and sending us to this little dig (in marked-up a la carte hotel cars, nonetheless), where ketchup and bread cost $25. While Brother Frugal's theory seemed proven, the food was good. Financially comforting miniscule portions, but how else to maximize the drama of four waitors lifting silver dome covers, nodding to each other (okay, we gonna do this thing?) before the unveiling and "Voila!" Perhaps not worth $250 (mystery add-ons add up!), but hell, c'est La Vie!

WARNING WARNING! About those waitors. The top tier waitors appear to have been trained to inflect in a question mark sing song fashion (and madame for yuuoooo-OOO?!), apparently to emulate our lame way of speaking and appeal to the American love for hiding the ugly truth (i.e., we are totally padding your bill, you widowed blondie). So Generation X be warned: we must stop ending all sentences with question marks (The thing is? It was so intense I didn't even know what to do?) That means YOU, Williamsburg!

But again, enough ranting, for I am grateful for the Five best things about New Year's Eve in Praha.

Best thing #1: the goofy guy from LA (or a perfectly mastered inflection) doing magic at our table. He almost took my mom's ring-- phew!



Best thing #2: the other goofy guy from nowhere and everywhere, a travelling musician born in Winnipeg, who cranked out the goofy tunes. Billed as "The Night's Entertainment" (his first time to Prague!), this fella was one of the night's marketing features. He got better as he got drunker.



Best thing #3: FIREWORKS!!! These guys are nuts! No rules here-- just let it rip. True evidence of embracing the Free Market, it's every man for himself. Watch where you're walking-- there's a cracker under your shoe. Eat that, Giuliani.


Best Thing #4:

Later that night, around 12:30...

FINALLY, after jaws dropping at the bill and an ensuing all cast drama, Brother Frugal, Brother W and I escape from the four hour-long dinner and bust loose across the river. We catch up with throngs of youngsters and wander through winding roads like wanna-be football rioters. It's a pack of roaming L-Trainers at 6:30pm gone wild!

Best Thing #5:



Not being able to get into any clubs. Ah, the trolling of the streets looking for a club (Karlovy Lazne and its sea of peops!), or any establishment that will have you on New Year's Eve after 10pm. The more things are different, the more they are the same. New York is home and home is everywhere.