Gizoogle.com is really the name of a new website.

www.gizoogle.com

In the event that you want your site to be understood only by 14-year old, suburban, white kids, go here. Gizoogle.com allows you to "translate" your entire website into Snoop Dog lingo.

It's worth taking a look at, but like any gimmick, it becomes un-funny very quick. And by "very un-funny" I really mean "horribly gauche and not entertaining whatsoever." So, yeah, check it out.

So Very Gullible I Am

To understand the following post, you must know a few key factors:

A) I am gullible as hell

B) Jenny = Morris Ridgefield = this weird guy who has a self-righteous blog where he posts "advice," rants, and random email conversations he has with dumbass girls like me who will fall for it.

C) He must have got my email address from the Black Table masthead or from numberII magazine's contact page.

D) The absolute entire time (until the last couple entries, at least) I thought this was M and his friend messing with me.

Enjoy at my expense. Please. My stupidity amuses even me sometimes:

Jenny Lions <jennyboston@gmail.com > wrote:

Yo bitch,

stay away from my man. He is mine, just because you had sex with him, doesn't mean he is going to leave me. Grow up!

Jenny

GiGi to Jenny

Who are ya?

Jenny to GiGi

Don't take me for a fool bitch! Stay away from my Johnny! You think because your tits are bigger, he will like you more?


GiGi to M

Is this your chick? If so, tell her to leave me alone. Thanks, GiGi


GiGi to Jenny

[Now, thinking this was M and his friend messing around, I wrote back the following to "Jenny"]

Isn't it past your bedtime, M-ski? Stop thinking about me.You too, Burke. You guys need a new hobby.kisses.

Jenny to GiGi

[Going along with it, "Jenny" wrote back]
GiGi,

We are getting all hot and bothered thining about you! Care for a threesome?

GiGi to Jenny

Hmmm... Although having sex with two 35-year olds who are so bored they have to harass me via a fake email address on a Sunday night in lieu of, well, meeting a real girl, sounds enticing - I'm going to instead opt to clean the shelves in my medicine cabinet. You see, they have commenced rusting and I don't do well with rust. In any event, you can surely see my hesitancy at taking you fine lads up on this tempting proposition. But, please, don't feel obligated to cancel your plans on my account. After all, two is better than one - the latter with which I am sure you're very familiar.

M - be a dear and send me my Might mag.

Jenny Lions to GiGi

We even cut out your head and put it on the face of two lesbians...

You should take your PMS medicine more often. Your cabinet wouldn't rust out if you ever opened it. I'm sure with all the other pills you have in there (anti rage, anti constipation, laxatives) you do get confused at times.

haha, I am sure you and "Mr. Wiggles" know all about being alone.

Gigi to Jenny

Are you for real? I'm so happy it's over, lover.

I'm pretty sure I win. A reliance on laxative jokes pretty much confims this.

Morris Ridgefield to me

You've been punked!

Morris
http://askmorris.blogspot.com/ *

GiGi to Morris
[Still convinced it's M and his friend using a fake address, I continue writing...]

Cute blog. Comparing one's self to Maddox is pretty presumptious. Quoting Ashton Kutcher is ludicrous. Good night.

Oh yeah, good work on the alias.

Jenny Lions to GiGi

GiGi

As cute and intelligent as you are, I think you completly missed my point. I punked you. I have no clue who your friends are. Although I would be interested in talking to you more. You sound like a really interesting person.

Morris
http://askmorris.blogspot.com

GiGi to Jenny

Cool. Let's talk over coffee and a crumpet tomorrow (or scone, whatever you prefer, really). 7-ish? I've got a badminton game at 9:30.

Morris Ridgefield to GiGi

I think geographically we have an issue there, and I do have to work....

GiGi to Morris

Yeah, location has always been an issue with us, huh? That and personality defects.

Morris to GiGi

My dearest sweetie,

I would be more then happy to meet you some weekend, but my current parole doesn't allow me to leave Kentucky, so you can come to me, or we can just communicate virtually. What's your IM name? As for personaltiy defects, that really hurts!

GiGi to Morris

Sure, I'll come to Kentucky. I'm going to be in Boston tomorrow through wednesday, and then NYC until Friday. How 'bout Saturday or Sunday. Do they have crumpets in the big house?

Morris to GiGi

I'm under house arrest. I can get anything you want, even including some midol.

GiGi to Morris

You're boring me. Good night.

Morris to GiGi

Yeah I was just thinking the same thing. I'll talk to you tomorrow.

R to GiGi

Ha! Nope, not one of my old psychos. Who else you have sex with lately? Any guys with Boston ties? Burke and I could probably track this broad down if we had enough info. It's a small place. Now that I have her e-mail address, maybe I'll mess with her anyway...

GiGi to R

[Feeling like an imbecile at this point, I write back...]

Nah. No boston ties. Well, except my ex-boyfriend who I haven't seen since the ol' break up.As for sex, i don't kiss & tell, lover. Although I can assure you - I have no interest in any guys right now. I'm pretty focused on moving, so don't you worry your pretty little head off (I know you are). Y'all have fun with this one. I'm over it.good luck on your interview. Keep in touch.

Morris to GiGi

How did your badminton game go? Kick their ass?

GiGi to Morris

Of course. I am the badminton queen. In New Zealand they have a special name for me, but I can't remember what the hell it is.So, are you going to post my conversation with you? Do I get royalties? How does this all work out? I think you should post it, despite the fact that my replies were more skilled than yours. Yu'd have to alter your correspondence a bit to make yourself, well, seem more intelligent than me. I can help you out with this, of course

Morris to GiGi

You completely misunderstand me here. I am just trying to make a new friend! I have no intention of posting our convo. First of all, you are way too intelligent. The average person I look for is someone that would buy an extended warranty, and I know you wouldn't fall for that! People who buy an extended warranty are very gullible. If you would like to end our newly formed friendship I can understand.

GiGi to Morris

You are hilarious. I'm going to the airport. Talk to ya later!

Morris to GiGi

Hi,

Glad you aren't mad at me anymore. Saves me the $35 detective agency fee to find out who you are so I could send you flowers! But I don't need to do that anymore! I would have chose the cheap ones anyways and they usually die after a few days...I hope you have a fun trip!

*As far as I know, Morris never posted our conversation. He did ask me to talk to him on Google Talk, however. I declined. I'm bored, but not that bored.

Pattern Identified

Ha! I kill myself. And if you've read my recent posts, you might actually believe that this is a literal statement. Every month I have a nervous break down at about the same time. And every month it is for the same reason: I'm PMS'n. To a guy, this is no kind of excuse. To us chicks though, it is the difference between night and day - to use a cheap cliche, that is.

The funny thing is, I've been doing this freak out for no reason and then instantaneous revelation ("Oh shit, it was PMS...I should have known") for 13 years now and still the pattern never seems to occur to me until after the fact.

I ask myself why I'm so depressed, why I'm freaking out, why I'm so miserable. And the answer is always the same, yet I never seem to quite get it.

It would be ideal if I could pinpoint it beforehand, so I could hold my tongue the entire week. The following week is obligatory clean up week, wherein I call everyone I freaked out on to apologize. They too should start recognizing the pattern. Then maybe they would start calling me in order to collect their apologies. Or even better yet -- maybe they'll just stop picking up the phone when they see my name every second week of the month.

Whoa...On a much, much lighter note

I was sitting on the subway the other day, biting my nails, and I flicked the saliva-lacquered nail speck I had unhinged from the nail mainland, onto the leg of the lady sitting next to me - she, innocently reading the New York Post or Metro or something else that was free. Purely habitual. I gave myself a second before peaking out of the corner of my eye to see if she noticed. She didn't. However, I saw the girl sitting across from me chuckling because she had witnessed this little act. I discredited her opinion though. She was wearing flip-flops in February in New York.*



*Later that night, I was walking to the Rainbow Room in my new, stylish and oh so non-sensible, pointy shoes. As I felt the right one boaring a hole into my big toe, I wished I was wearing the flip flops. Cold feet are better than bloody ones. A little flap of raw toe skin haunted me for 2 days thereafter. Moral of this story? I'm pretty sure there isn't one, but there really should be.

The new site...

My old partner from the mag just moved out to NYC from San Diego a few nights ago. Yeehaw! His soul has been saved from the perfect weather and gorgeous scenery characteristic of California. Get out while you can, I warn thee my former San Diego brethren! San Diego is so beautiful and so perfect and so slow that it is so easy for one to do nothing and to really, really like it. After the mag ended, I realized that I was doing nothing and not really liking it at all. . That's why I had to come to New York. If you are in San Diego, doing nothing and liking it, there really is no chance for you. You are a victim of the system.

And on that note, I would like to introduce myself as a recently joined victim of a completely different system (That sounded weird -- as if I were insinuating that victims, like members of a club, are volunteers. Well, that, in fact, is not at all what I meant... So, there). Here is my latest update and the thinking that has led to my very voluntary victimization...

Cesar, the old mag partner who just moved here, is now looking for a job. As soon as that happens, it will be time to launch the new site, which I'm pretty sure I've never before mentioned, so my referring to it now - like it is some oft-discussed mutual friend - is very innappropriate. Oh well. So, we've been planning to launch the site for months, but, with my move, Cesar's move and the corresponding job searches, there wasn't a shot in hell of getting it up earlier (Insert dirty joke here about an old man's weener). The four of us who will be actively involved in the pending site are old numberII magazine veterans: Brian Rosen, Steve Lemig, Cesar Cruz, and yours truly, GiGi. I love being the only girl involved in boy projects. I am like the Gwen Stefani of the independent publication movement. Duh.

At first, we were going to veer toward creativity and underground-ness, but who exactly are we trying to kid? Only ourselves, my friends. Only ourselves. We already did that and fell on our once-beautiful, now-scraped faces. In response to that fatal plunge, I suggested we instead try to make some money this time around. I mean, after all, why is it so bad to have money as a primary motivator? I've spouted the evils of working for money for so long, and now I step back and slap myself on the wrist. Why is it so bad to work for money? Who the fuck am I trying to impress by working for free? If everyone else is jumping off of a bridge, do I? Hmmm? Never before, but now, yes, yes, yes! Mama needs a new damn pair of shoes and she'll be damned if her poor artistic cronies are going to buy them for her.

Basically, I've never embarked upon a creative venture with money in mind, and, in related news: I'm broke. My thinking is that if we produce a somewhat mainstream site with an underground "feel," we will attract visitors who will eventually follow us to the more literary, creative sites we plan to produce as offshoots.

That having been said, the site will essentially be a regularly updated news blog with a dash of crass humor and a touch off-the-wall intelligence. If it sounds like it has been done before, well then, that's because it has! While our template might not be 100% original, our design and content will be. We will call upon our inner trivia wells to make deep-seated connections between a series of entities that have no business whatsoever sharing a deap-seated connection. For instance, Brian wrote the following as a sample the other day. He really had no reason to connect Wilson Pickett and Ashlee Simpson, but, somehow it all worked out:

Singer Wilson Pickett Dead at 64; Ashlee Simpson Still Alive.

Beloved soul singer Wilson Pickett died on Thursday at the age of64. After waiting and waiting and waiting for the midnight hour, itfinally arrived. "Wicked" Wilson, as he was known both to fans and agirlfriend whom he assaulted in 1992, was a soul pioneer. Sweet ironythat a soul is all he has left. He is survived by all the remainingpeople alive on Planet Earth, including Ashlee Simpson. This is yetanother example of The Lord working in mysterious ways, as the greatWilson Pickett was selected for expiration while Ashlee Simpson keepschugging along. Ashlee, the sister of Juggy Simpson and daughter ofPervert Simpson, is beloved by tone deaf fans across the globe. Hersongs have inspired hundreds of record sales, and hundreds moresuicides. The Pickett family declined to comment on the tragicsurvival of Ashlee Simpson at the expense of their sometimes drunkdriving and pedestrian hitting, but always raspy-voiced, "Wicked"Wison. A viewing will take place in Virginia next week. No word yeton whether Simpson songs will be played.

All of this is to say, I'm entertaining delusions of working in my pajamas (just like the good ol' days), not showering for weeks on end, and advertisers contacting me, yes me, to give me money. Why would they give me money? Not a bad question and at this point I have a decent answer, but not one which I am sure I can support creatively. My creativity has been drained. For the life of me, I can not beckon my sanctum of offensive humor and tasteless wit. At once it lied at the tip of my fingers, now it is but a mere memory. Creativity and I are sullen lovers, looking for something to spice us up our sex life.

But seriously, something about the whole 9-5 routine is severely hindering me. That and the new long distance boyfriend who consumes the majority of my thoughts (isn't that gross?). I'll be back to report on those topics soon. For now, I just wanted to blab about the new site. My new baby. My new lover. My new obsession. Yayy.

I'm not writing a lot because...

I got a job. I will update with details soon. Remind me to start another company soon. Maybe -- just for fun -- I'll start one that actually generates revenue. Working for other people is for the birds. Pays the bills though, so ... chirp.

More M problems

D wasn't very happy about me having M in for the weekend, so I told him I would ask M to find another place to stay. After all, he has plenty of friends in the city and plenty of money to pay for a hotel should he not have access to friends (which he does because he is coming in to visit about 5 of them!)

Here's how it played out. The following is pretty much a summary of how our entire "relationship" played out. Me being nice. Him being rude.

From: GiGi
Sent: Monday, January 23, 2006 3:47 PM
To: M
Subject:

Hey M,

So it seems that D is, understandably, a bit uncomfortable with me having you come stay this weekend. You know how I am: I don't really take these things into consideration when making plans. Anyway, I wanted to see if you could possibly stay with another friend this weekend or if you want me to make alternative plans for you? I still want to see you (and I will at the BT party), but I'm not in the business of pissing off the lovers. Well, you might beg to differ on that front. Ha ha.

Let me know your situation and let me know if you want me to help. I have plenty of people you could stay with. Sorry to be so last minute on this one. I didn't realize how this was going to affect him...

gigi

On 1/24/06, R wrote:

This email was in my SPAM folder.

Do not make alternative arrangements for me.
Do not attend the Black Table party.
And you never mentioned you were sleeping with your roommate. I would not have asked to stay with you under those circumstances. I would -- however -- have made arrangements to stay with others. It is now too late for me to do that, which means, once again, your inability to be forthright is costing me money.
Do not come near me this weekend, and I strongly advise you do not use me as a reference for creative or professional endeavors in the future.

On 1/24/06, Gigi wrote:

I'm a bit confused right now. I didn't do anything intentionally vindictive or malicious, nor did I intend to hurt you. I'm not sleeping with my roommate. I'm sleeping with my boyfriend. I thought I mentioned that he would be in town. I didn't fail to be forthright, I just didn't know that D would feel so strongly about the situation. I would have liked to see you and have you over here. Sorry for offering to make alternative arrangements for you. I can see how that would be offensive? Sure, I'll skip the Black Table party too. I'm not that worried about it.

I'm curious as to when I was not "forthright" in the past. If you want to talk to me about something, you should. We've always had a problem with the whole communication thing.

GiGi

[I never received a response from M after this, so I wrote the following back]

On 1/25/06, Gigi wrote:

So, I think you are being a bit harsh about this, yet I'm still bummed. If you would step out of the situation, you would realize that no personal attacks toward you have been made.

At least write back and tell me what's up.

____

Needless to say, I haven't heard from him. He's such a pissy little boy.

Another Day, Another Interview.

At the Jewish New Year's Eve party I went to, some guy asked me what I do (Surprise, surprise -- imagine someone asking that at an NYC party) . I told the guy the truth:

"Nothing."

He laughed. "Ha. Me neither," and we toasted.

Of course, I imagine that he, unlike me, has a hefty trust fund that allows him to "do nothing" quite comfortably. That, or he already retired at age 29 from some cush job left to him by his father. In other words, to him this status report was a declaration of purpose; a compliment to self. To me it was but a disguised admittance of failure.

Fast forward to now. I have received a promotion. My status has changed. While I am still most certainly unemployed, I am no longer doing nothing. Now I am a professional interviewer. I try to fit in 2 or 3 a week - even got a job offer, which I kindly declined (well, after working there for one day). I started my NYC adventure as an amateur interviewing candidate -- displaying all of the tell-tale signs of such: desperation, anxiety and shyness. Following the aforementioned promotion, I have gained the confidence necessary to walk into a corporate office, snub the interviewer and pretend like I could care less whether I get the job. Sure, this is all an act, but it seems to be working well.

For instance, today I had an interview with a magazine in Brooklyn. Quite the hike, by the way. The position I interviewed for was Editor-in-Chief, but the publication isn't one that I would otherwise read and the pay package isn't very impressive. I'd rather take the job I interviewed for on Monday. The publisher asked me when I could start. I told him I was waiting to hear back from another place so I could weigh the options (them: yes, you: no), but Monday would be fine if I do, in fact, accept the job.

"But you will have a lot more fun here. I interviewed Bill Clinton, Ariel Sharon, Mayor Giuliani, [etc...] We go to parties. Look at these invitations. Next week you can go too..." His plea continued like so.

"Can I bring my boyfriend?" I inquired because a) I don't give a fuck; and b) D will be in town.

"Well, I will be your boyfriend that night."

"Oh, that's okay. I don't mind having two boyfriends."

"Perfect."

As he walked me out, he pointed out the pictures of him and a plethora of celebrity/politico figureheads in a "this could be you" fashion. I assured him that I'd be in touch.

I think that interviewing works the same way as snagging a boyfriend: Act as though you're not interested and they are so putty in your hands.

Style and Sensibility

I had a great interview yesterday. The position is doing PR for a publishing group. Perfect.

I've been applying for editiorial and PR positions, although editorial is my preference. However, it seems almost impossible to get the kind of editorial position I want - that being something similar to the position I described a few posts ago. I have many theories as to why I'm not being considered for these positions. They all culminate into the following conclusion: Maybe I just suck. But, I'm way too egocentric to accept this, so I flip it and assume that I'm just too overqualified. Yeah. That must be it.

I have a standing offer for a PR job, but it would be working on a project basis, which means I'd have to bartend or wait tables in between projects. This is something I am deftly trying to avoid. I've already paid my dues damnit. I've worked in the service industry for 10 years while trying to support myself through college and the starting a magazine. Haven't I earned some sort of universal credit? My former partner at the magazine would answer this query with an affirmative, "No. The world owes you nothing." He always kind of depressed me with that attitude problem of his. The depressed artist schtick. The "Woe is me, the world conspires against my happiness" mumbo jumbo. Don't get me wrong, I'm pretty sure the world is definitely conspiring against me at this time, but nevertheless, I'll stick to believing that, regardless, it owes me a cookie for my sacrifice. Chocolate chip, preferably. Then again, maybe I'm like Jesus and my sacrifice is to benefit others, not me. I just get killed in the end. Complete disrespect.

It's a possibility, right?

Anyhow, this job. After my interview, I sent the hiring lady my references and sample press releases -- one of which I borrowed from M since mine are all spin publicity and this is a pretty conservative position. (My dependence upon M further interferes with my ability to tell him that he can't stay with me. It's a big mess.) Anyway, the hiring lady wrote back immediately and said:

"Great and thanks. I like your style and sensibility. I'll be in touch."

I'm pretty sure that's a good thing. As a chick, I could analyze the sentence for hours.

-Maybe she's trying to let me down easy by giving me a compliment first.
-By "style" does she mean that I'm too "hip" for the position?
-"Sensibility." Hmmm. Maybe she wants somebody more irrational than me.
-"I'll be in touch." Sounds like a guy in a club who isn't really going to call. "I'll call you sometime." Sure you will, asshole.

Then again, it could simply mean that she likes my style and sensibility. It's a toss up for sure.

Black Table Update, Part 2

So, I gather that the Black Table will stop publishing because of the reasons given below. I was hoping there was some juicy insider reason that the underground lit site was discontinuing its reign, but I guess it's just as simple as the founding editors having been successful securing gainful jobs, being low on free time, etc...

Anyhow, they are having a farewell party Friday, January 27th here in NYC. I'll be there. Evidently, so will M.

M is supposed to stay with me. D isn't having it. I understand where he's coming from, so I will have to let M know. M will be at the Black Table party regardless. So will D and I.

I like where M and I are at this point. We have a lot of similar interests, but certainly have no business dating. We've come to terms with that (I imagine he before me). I would love to remain in contact with him. He's incredibly intelligent and has admirable insight. Plus, he tends to like my writing. I can't hate someone with such refined taste.

I just have to convince D that I am not at all interested in M. I'm really not.

Things I lost last night at Aer.

1 black glove.
1 earring.
1 black jacket.
$23


Not too bad, considering.

Poetry Hour a la GiGi

I wrote this rhyming poem a while ago and I find it hysterical, so I thought I'd post it. I think I submitted it to a couple of more "abstract" publications and they didn't get back to me. I then put it in my own magazine, but it was illegible; placed atop dark red and pink hearts, which I, for some reason, approved (displayed poorly below).



(We had to create a reason as to why we were publishing it, so we made it part of our "Valentine's Day Holiday Guide." Duh)

Oh yeah, after I initially wrote this, I gave a copy of it to my mom to read. She brought the copy with her to the sulphur baths at Glen Ivy Hotsprings. She read it to some lady who was soaking up the smell with her. Evidently the lady started crying. She thought I had written it for my mom. I find that humorous. It would be very sick if I wrote this for my mom. So, with that said, and without further ado, here is my lovely rhyming poem:

You’ve probably just arrived at the time you’re reading this.
(It’s only 7 hours later)
And at the time I am writing this,
I’m experiencing my first panic attack

Cause it’ll be ten days til you get back…

And I miss you like an injured runner misses the track...
Like a muted duck misses its quack...
Like a woman with breast cancer misses her rack...
(Or like a man with testicular cancer misses his sack)

You’re missed like the stares aged beauty used to attract...
Like the flowers that from her, men seem to retract...

I miss you like a recovering addict misses the smack...
Like a dieting fat chick misses her midnight snack...
Like a geek with no computer misses the hack...
Like the knick, the paddy & the whack miss the knack...

Cause you are the tic & I’m obviously the tac...
If you are the fiction, I’m definitely the fact...
You are the friction on my fast-paced track...

If you’re ‘lone in the cold, I’m the warm wooden shack...
If you are the player, I’m no doubt the mac...
If you are the coke, then I’m certainly the crack...
If you are the box, then please call me Jack...
Cause I’m an unstable Domino & you’re the falling stack...

Exactly, cause we’re all that goes hand in hand like:
The Ric and the Rac...
The fric and the frac...
The boom and the clack...
The hay and the stack...
2003 and the war with Iraq...

The prey, the hunter and the ravenous attack...
The clothes, the luggage and the annoying pack...
A corkboard, a post-it and a plastic tack...
A sugar-coated gummy and a mouth full of plaque...

Not to mention, the actor and the act...
The bloody, pointy fangs of a satisfied Drac…
On the Road and Jack Kerouac

A scraped floor’s affinity to a glossy schellack…
The robber in his outfit of plain ol’ black…
Or the Saved by the Bell characters, Kelly & Zack.

We’re symbiosis on a whole ‘nother level in fact…
Similar to moss growing from a dirted, cement crack…
Or a fat person eating a whopper—No, a big mac…
A mountain dwellin’ Tibetan & his milk producin’ yak…
A marine living from the resources in his bar-rack…
& If you’re feeling lazy, I’m here to pick up the slack

We’re photosynthesis too, if you look at it like that…
Consuming nutrients from one another, but quick to give ‘em back…
Oxidizing each other’s lives as if by fateful fact…
That our meeting was an effect of the stars, the moon
and the sun having aligned orbits in perfected tact…
That they were moving through the galaxy on a predestined track…
Oh, I’m stuck in your maze & there’s no turning back…
The space, the place & the time: Inexact.

And perhaps to you I seem an insane and estranged quack…
And maybe there is one card missing from my once full stack
But it seems to me that while you’re gone, it’s more like half the world that I lack.

(It’s been 7 hours since you left. There’ll be 233 more ‘til you get back)

Awww. Now, ain't that the sweetest thing you ever did read?

Happy Birthday D!

It's D's birthday. My fave day of the year.

Happy Birthday my sweet D!

Long distance absolutely sucks.

The Job Situation

I found a job listing for what would be my absolute dream job: an editor position at a women's publication where I would be responsible for feature articles, celebrity interviews, so on and so forth. I sent my resume and writing clips in and the recruiter responsible for hiring got back to me immediately. We spoke for 40 minutes. She loved my writing clips, although she did mention that the booger metaphors in the Matthew Lesko interview kinda grossed her out. She described every aspect of the job to me, asked me if I could make it to Chicago (yep, Chicago) for an interview and if I was willing to relocate. Yes and yes. D is in Chicago, so that's an added bonus, but he's willing to move to NYC if I ever land a job out here, so it's not, by any means, a driving force.

We ended the conversation with my promise to send her references (which I did in about .5 secs) and her getting back to me with word from the company. I didn't hear back from her the next day so I emailed her today and asked what was going on. You know, I wanted to know so I could make travel arrangements and all that...

She wrote back and said that they thought I was a little bit too "alternative" for them. That maybe I would be more comfortable at a "downtown" publication.

Huh?

I love corporate America! I especially love HR fuck-ups (read: family studies major flunkies) who play God with my life. Can't you point your cursatory finger at someone else? I've worked entirely way too hard for such blind judgment by similarly-sighted fools. And, on top of all that, I hate you. Every single one of you.

I wrote back and sent a very sterile writing clip I had from Chicago magazine. Maybe that will be dry enough. I hope so. I really want the job. Sob.

Black Table Update, Part 1

M is in touch with the people who run Black Table and even further, he is the one who introduced me to the site. Appropriately, I wrote him this morning to find out more. More or less in effort to keep my promise of getting the scoop on this sad, sad occasion. This is all I know right now:

Me to M:

So, any word on why the Black Table is closing up shop?

M to me:

I've been meaning to shoot a quick e-mail to Will, but I've been busy. I think they're all just busy with other stuff now that he's doing deadspin and Gillin went to Maxim.

Me to M:

Okay, thanks. Just let me know if you find anything out.


I'll keep the updates coming, given there are any updates to keep coming.

The Black Table is Coming to an End. Tears.

Ain't that some shit? I love the Black Table. After all, they were foolhardy enough to publish my work. So, for them I cry. But even more, for me I cry. I've lost one of my go-to sites. Pooh.

The end of a publication. Aaaghh. Brings back fond memories of torture (and I'll be damned if we don't all grieve for torture lost) -- although, I highly doubt this ending has anything to do with failure. No, no, no. What most likely happened is that those Black Table-ites probably experienced success. Way too much success; got jobs that paid them real life money and such. This in opposition to what I get paid. Nothing.

Well, gee golly. I'll do some research and get back to my non-existent reading audience. And by "research," I mean that I'll glance at their website with some frequency and see if they mention why they are folding.

Talking to myself has never been so much damn fun.

I've been busy...

...dating my ex-boyfriend's friend. I'll update and get up to date shortly. I'm busy having way too much sex right now.

M-Update

So now that I'm completely over M, I get a text message from him that says this:

"I need a place to crash when I'm in NYC on January 28th. One of my writers is putting on a one-act play."

[I live in NYC now, I just haven't updated in way too long. I will though, oh yes!]

My thoughts were thus:

1) Say please, please.
2) You make money. Get a hotel.
3) Stay with your friend.
4) I'm dating someone (refer to above entry) and I'm so not willing to fuck it up for you.

So, naturally, I told him it would be no problem. It will be a problem though. As it turns out, he who I am dating will be in town that weekend. Yes, it will most definitely be a problem.

On dropping my phone in the toilet.

I mentioned earlier that I dropped my phone in the toilet.
Here's a letter I got from a friend after doing so. I've always loved this letter:


You dropped your phone in the toilet. :) I swear you
are absolutely the loveliest person I know.

I think I'll have a place to stay, (my friends booked
a hotel room downtown...) but if I don't I'll need
your help. Of course, I don't want to be an
inconvenience, so let me know again if it's cool.

In other news:

I got into a fight with my parents (more specifically
my father) and am currently homeless.
My friend Jay has been kind enough to let me stay at
his apartment for the time being while I try to get
back on my feet.

Put simply and with as little drama as possible, my
father lost his temper for no rational reason and
caught me at a moment when I didn't want to placate
him. He was unequivocally wrong, knows it, and is too
proud to apologize.

My parents have always fallen back on the idea that
their higher status as parents in the traditional
Chinese filial piety hierarchy allows them to be free
of responsibility for what they do (i.e. They've got
an endless quantity of diplomatic immunity passports).
Ironically, their abuse of the relationship has
reversed what I perceive to be the natural order of
things, by requiring a standard of maturity and
rationality out of me that they don't require of
themselves.

I'll admit to losing my temper as well, but only after
the fact and in response to his tantrum. Its really
stupid, but I really had no choice but to move out of
the house.

Not that I wasn't planning to. I suppose this just
expedites things a bit. Nonetheless, I've been
uprooted. All of this is to say that I'm homeless,
jobless and broke. I'm debating whether or not to join
the military... HA HA HA

I'd love to write for the magazine. My only excuse
(and it's a pretty good one) is that my current
circumstances have made it pretty difficult for me to
write. I need to find a job right now....

Chris Tsai

New Years Eve, 2005

Last night, Shauna, my roommate, Ken, and I went to an "Eyes Wide Shut"-themed NYE party at some penthouse overlooking Jersey. Shauna had met the host a few months prior and he invited us out. This was perfect as I was looking to spend as little money as possible while getting as drunk as possible. I don't like spending a lot of money on New Year's Eve (nor ever, really). It's usually dissappointing at best. Amateur night. Those of us who have been partying since we've been walking & who have worked in the industry for way too long - we like to hang low when it comes to paying $300 to clubs we would otherwise get into for free.



(Thomas - the party host, Shauna, some hot guy, and me)

So, the party... There was a dj, a full bar, and table full of sushi and finger foods. It was great. The only thing missing was D - the guy I'm dating. He lives in Chicago, but flew out to Arizona for the big football game Tuesday (whatever that s). We text messaged all night, giving each other the obligatory Happy New Year's shout-outs, west and east coast times.

Some long-haired Jewish guy followed me around the whole night trying to kiss me. I told him I had a boyfriend, but he insisted I wouldn't kiss him because he had bad breath. Sure, whatever works for your ego. Personally, I would just believe the boyfriend line. I would think that realizing you have halitosis would just add to the pain of rejection.

After successfully ditching the Jew, I passed out in some random bedroom in the apartment. I was way too drunk. I've pretty small, so it doesn't take me much. I woke up and two people were having sex on my feet. No big deal. I non-chalantly greeted them (they weren't too formal as you might imagine), and walked out of the room. The makle hosts had, by then, transformed into character, wearing G-Strings and hiking boots. Ever the polite host, one of the G-String mavens asked if I was okay and if I needed anything.

"Just my coat."

We left. I went home and Shauna and Ken went to a bar where they commenced hooking up. They ended up here, but didn't get very far. Shauna and I had spent the first half of the night talking about our sexual adventures in front of Ken. Evidently she felt like a whore in his bed after having divulged some pretty risque and very recent acts. I'm sure Ken would have overlooked the details.

I lugged my camera around all night hoping to get some shots but all I got were three. And of those three, two are exactly the same. I'm pretty pissed that I didn't get a picture of the G-String Crew. Out of all the pictures I could have taken, that would have been the most representative. That, or a picture of the people fucking on my feet.



(Ken and I. Ken is obviously quite sober.)