celebrity sighting #2*

i passed jim jarmusch on bowery today. he was rockin' that crazy eraserhead hairdo and drawing hard on a cigarette, taller than i'd thought he was and wearing a signature patterned button-down shirt, looking real cool, even though it was damn hot. i had been walking for about an hour and was dirty and sweaty and bedraggled, wearing an ugly, unevenly faded pair of cropped khaki pants with a blood stain on the leg that are really only good for being dirty and sweaty and bedraggled in, and i did not look cool. but even if i had looked cool, i wouldn't have, because i was also trying to shove half of a very crumbly cookie about the size of my fist into my decidedly un-fist-sized mouth, and this futile square-peg-into-oblong-hole effort had spattered spelty debris all over my chin and chest. in addition to being elephantine, the cookie was fairly dry, which made it that much more difficult not to choke when my brain stage-whispered, "HEY! that's jim jarmusch! holy crap, that's jim jarmusch! jim jarmusch, who made down by law and night on earth and dead man and broken flowers! jesus, don't look at him! not with your cheeks all puffed out like a hamster's around that mouthful of cookie you can't swallow and that trail of grimy crumbs parading into your cleavage, come on, stop looking, he'll know and then he'll look at you, and then he'll see you, and it'll be AWFUL OH MY GOD DON'T LOOK DON'T LOOK!!!!"

but it was too late. i was lost in the beautifully confident ease of the hand holding his cigarette, of his stride, and i stared dead into his face, like a possum in love with a goodyear tripletred. our eyes met and we held the gaze for what seemed like an impossibly long time; what could he have been thinking? perhaps, "i wonder if that homeless girl is going to ask me for money? or maybe even an autograph? either way, i can always burn her with my cigarette and run." or maybe, "jesus, how stoned do you have to be to eat that much cookie in those pants in public?" maybe something less complicated, like, "please don't talk to me."

but then again it could have been something entirely different, something thoughtful or even touching, such as, "now that looks like a girl who would love a juniper titmouse." who knows? no one but jim, which means i will never know, and honestly, since what's done is done and i can't change any part of it, i guess i'd be equally willing to accept any of the above. he didn't try to burn me, anyway, so there's that.





* celebrity sighting #1 occurred a few weeks ago, but i didn't mention it, because really it's only alleged celebrity sighting #1. i am 99% certain that i passed jack mcbrayer in the union square station. for those of you who don't know, jack mcbrayer plays kenneth parcell on 30 rock and looks like this (on the right):


magically geekalicious, no? and i am thrilled to say that, if my sighting was legit, his actual everyday haircut is just like that, only dweebier. awesome.

sunday best-of blogging: the "i drove to new york city by myself because i'm a lovesick groupie" issue

Best. Musician. Ever.: evan dando! yay! yay, evan dando! you're so the love of my life i can't even stand myself. evan dando, for those of you who do not know, has been my #1 rock star crush since i was 13 years old. that's a long time—and he's earned every second of it. he ties with jon stewart, who is only not my #1 rock star crush because he can't play guitar*, unless he can and i just don't know it, in which case i might never be able to decide. for some reason, everyone everywhere on the planet is not obsessed with evan dando, and some people haven't even heard of him. i can't understand this at all, but i'm also foggy on calculus and people's fanaticism for excessively manicured lawns.

awwwwww! i wuv my boys. and so do their respective wives, but let's not think about them.

best fan at the 12/17 lemonheads show: a lovely 19-year-old boy from toronto, who took a train all the way to new york by himself and stayed in a room at a hostel with four strangers. that's devotion. i thought i was pretty hardcore, but this kid takes the cake, the serving platter and all the silverware. i was so impressed by his devotion that i bought him a beer, but that was before i knew he was nineteen. in my defense, he was already drinking when he started talking to me, and the bowery ballroom swore that it wasn't letting anyone under twenty-one inside. what can you do? whatever, he earned it; he had gone to see the lemonheads in providence a few weeks before, which i did not do, and i only live an hour away. i didn't ask him his name, but whoever he is, he's fantastic. way to go, young man.

best secret-boyfriend synchronicity: i only spoke to two people in the two days i spent in the city; one of them was the aforementioned boy from toronto, and the other was a guy from dorchester named mike, who introduced himself to me at the friday show and, in the course of our conversation and with zero mention from me of anything of the sort, told me the last book he read was the tipping point. while he's from dorchester, he works half the week in manhattan, and when i said, "i have such a crush on malcolm gladwell," he said, "let's go get him, he lives in columbus circle." he agreed with me that malcolm and i would be a smashing duo, but i declined, for no good reason that i can think of today. no matter; now i know which corners to stake out once i've hoarded enough candy and kix to stalk with my all, which malcolm certainly doesn't deserve less than.

most jarring disappointment: i got up early saturday and walked to 12 harrison street, the address given on ken brown's web page, assuming it was his home-base store and that i'd score bushels of bizarro swag. NO! 12 harrison street is an apartment building, where, presumably, ken brown lives and fills orders from. now, i could have buzzed him and demanded that he load me up with booty, since i'd come all that way, but i was so thrown by the situation that i just turned around and headed back the way i'd come. *sigh* it was a pleasant walk, anyhow, and i did get a cup of great coffee.

best catharsis of all lingering romantic demons: before now i have only ever been to new york city once in my life; that one time was five and a half years ago, and i made the trip to visit a boy. i met him in boston in february and liked him lots, and at the end of may he moved to the east village and invited me out, and i'd never been so excited about anything in my life. so i drove down, and we sat on his couch for an hour and a half and had a wonderful chat, and then his girlfriend came home. i did not know about the girlfriend, and he became somewhat agitated, which led me to believe that i was not supposed to know about the girlfriend. bastard. anyway, she didn't seem too terribly flustered, so i tried to make the best of it and asked her if she could recommend anything interesting for me to do while i was there, since i was a first-timer. the girl looked me dead in the eye and said, "interesting? interesting, interesting… gosh, i don't know, mostly i just shop." i sat very still and prayed for a punch line, but all i got was, "soho has the best shops, that's my favorite. they have so many beautiful things." i looked around and saw that the boy was across the room with his head in a drawer, not acknowledging anything that was taking place. i felt rather unwell. i left a short while later and wandered for a while without paying any attention to where i was going, and i wound up at union square, where i sat down under a tree and was promptly kicked off the grass (they close the grass in new york city. what the hell is that?). so i moved to a bench on the perimeter of the park and sat there for two hours, thinking dark thoughts and throwing bits of cinnamon bun at pigeons. every time i thought about new york after that day, i thought about that sequence of events, and so the city was a hideous place in my crazy, cloudy head.

but yesterday i retraced all my steps and buried my sad, ashy ghosts under that tree. to think i let one no-good punk and one shopaholic bubblehead ruin this entire place for me… but that's the end, i've had a lovely time here, and i hope to have many more lovely times here in the future. perhaps even in the very near future, but i won't get ahead of myself.

best sign: "ENDLESS FLAX." really, that's all it said, with a phone number beneath it. it was a fairly large sign, too, not something handmade or slapdash. i like flax, it's in my cereal and my crackers, it's tasty and good in its way, but endless? i can't imagine what else the sign's makers might have been trying to say, though; if you have suggestions, please, tell me. lest i be plagued by it all the rest of my days.

best horoscope to read the morning of a five-hour drive: "all signs indicate that you should not stray too far from home today, if you can possibly help it. you are easily distracted, making you prone to accidents. behind the wheel of a car is not the place for you to be right now. stay home and tackle all those little chores you've been meaning to get to." thanks, earthlink! if i hadn't been easily distracted before, i sure will be now. it's my own fault, i suppose, for choosing to read my horoscope even though i know i'm a superstitious neurotic.

most un-bad news about my grandmother's health: she hasn't gotten worse. that's all the information i've been able to obtain, and it comes second-hand from my mother, who has been forced to wrench it out of doctors and hospital staff, since my paternal relatives are insane and only hear every eighth word in a sentence. god knows what i would think if i were listening to them. thank you, everyone, for wishing us well. it truly is tremendously appreciated.




* jon stewart has earned semi-rock-star status, definitely in my heart just for being himself, but also on a more general scale, because he let marilyn manson burn things while playing "lunchbox" on his talk show and he once lit his farts on fire on trent reznor's tour bus. but still, as it stands, evan wins.

MY secret boyfriend is dreamier than YOUR secret boyfriend.

malcolm gladwell is speaking at two events in this year's new yorker festival, both on saturday, september 24. the first explores the american obsession with precociousness (which is uncannily similar to the dominant theme of each and every one of my family gatherings, "grampy's obsession with joon's precociousness." these lectures vary somewhat but inevitably end with the touching story of how, as a toddler, i would go into my grandparents' refrigerator and spend what sounds like it must have been hours passing silent judgment on their strawberries, trying to choose the biggest and reddest one. i enjoy this story, even after having heard it all these trillions of times, because it proves that my maximizing tendencies are inborn and probably not something i should beat myself up about. after all, it's not too much of a problem; i was always very pleased with my perfect strawberry, and still am), and the second is a talk with the hip-hop group the roots. how deliciously multifarious! he's covering education, developmental psychology and pop culture, all in one twelve-hour stretch, not to mention the many exciting things he'll have to say about projects still in the works. he also has a piece in the 8/29 issue of the new yorker on the shameful state of america's health care, and this piece in the 9/5 issue about the food industry's frankensteinian attempts to engineer a perfect cookie. *swoonyfawningsigh* top that, chad michael murray! who's hot stuff now, bright eyes? not you, you whiny, formulaic little wank! NOT YOU!!!

here's the thing... i can't go. but all of you in the manhattan area, this is your big chance to step up and prove to me that we really will be Best Friends Forever. you, my darlings, my zealously faithful minions, will have to stalk him in my stead. remember the rules: bring plenty of candy, maintain enough distance to keep things from turning creepy, and sing a pretty song. but not while he's talking, that would be rude. don't be rude. remember, you're my ambassadors. grant him your undivided attention until you're absolutely certain he's finished, tell him he's lovely, and pour some sugar on him.

but joon, you might ask, why can't you be there? don't you want to stand by your man? what kind of slouching, deadbeat excuse for a secret girlfriend are you, anyway?

well, i'll tell you. i will, too, and don't think i won't. here it comes, me telling you, so you'd better take a deep breath and grab hold of a large stationary object with a solid foundation, because you're about to get told. right now. i mean it. i hope you're sitting down, and if you're not, you can't say i didn't provide you with ample warning. i can't go because

*hrrrmmpphhhmmmuhkkkkn*








what? i'm sorry, did you not catch that? oh, well, what i said was--oh, oops, hello? hello? i can't quite hear you... these stupid tunnels, they get me every time. anyway, buy your tickets right away, and maybe you should look into some of the other events too, there might be someone else worth seeing. this sure is a long tunnel. I DON'T KNOW IF YOU CAN HEAR ME BUT I'M GOING TO HANG UP NOW. BYE.


update, 10:32 pm, 8/26/05: malcolm was just name-dropped on numb3rs, a show on cbs about another of my favorite nerds, this one a math genius. he's slightly less dreamy because he's imaginary, but my heart still went pitter-pat as the weight of the fact of one of them discussing the other right in my own bedroom gently warped the irridescent fabric of my silly little universe.

update, 10:47 am, 8/30/05: the precociousness lecture is already sold out. john updike's and ani difranco's events are not. i, um, well, we know how i feel about malcolm, but still... that's nuts.

aside, 1:24 am, 10/1/05: i see you, alissa quart. be polite and say hello.

'cause i'm hot (HOT!!!) sticky, sticky sweet...

was today's the last
warm rain of the year? don't sigh.
there will be more years.



i'm just talking to myself there. pay no mind. maybe it's always warm where you are. maybe i hate you.

maybe i don't. i guess you'll never know.

there was a visibly agitated green wing macaw just like ours on scrubs tonight. i know that they're at their most adorable when they're all poofy and whatnot, but it isn't generally a good thing to see, especially when the bird could reach you with a quick sudden jab. a word to the wise: do NOT let parrots sit on your shoulder, no matter how many times your pirate mentor calls you a scurvied wench. there's a very real chance that you could lose most of your face. i'm teeming with bruises and puncture wounds, and my crazy bird knows and trusts me. of course, in the end, it's your face and your decision. but if you've ever wondered why so many pirates wear eye patches, well, i think you can guess what my theory is.

i'm a fickle whore, but forget everything i've ever said, i'm going to quit my job and devote myself to stalking sufjan stevens. do you ever think about stalking people? i think about it sometimes, and what i think is that if i were going to do it, i would do it like this: i'd buy up about two hundred pounds of valentine's candy and stash it in the trunk of my car, which i would park somewhere near my beloved's homestead. every morning i'd fill an extra-large shopping bag with candy and get comfortable within sight of, but not unsettlingly close to, the front door; i figure across the street would be about right. whenever my stalkee entered or exited the house, i would keep pace with him from my side of the street as i hurled fistfuls of necco hearts and pink m&ms across the tarry divide. perhaps i would sing a song, maybe "pour some sugar on me." what do you think, three weeks before he was mine? less? it would win me over. and, too, you don't know this, but, i mean, i'm cuter than a freakin' button. does anyone know about almost bendy and the psychic bib productions? if so, you might be interested to know that i am also almost cuter than a zipper, and if you dig chicks who cut their own hair and never take the extremely chipped nail polish off of their jagged bitten-up nails, i'm verging on paper clip caliber.

please try to watch the presidential debates thursday. it's awfully important. i understand that public political statements are cultivated and groomed like topiary, but still. there's a chapter in "the man who mistook his wife for a hat" where the author talks about a group of psychiatric patients watching a televised presidential speech. most patients in the group have a brain disorder that has rendered them incapable of understanding the literal meanings of spoken words; they can still carry on conversations somewhat successfully, though, by interpreting the facial expression, tone and cadence of the speaker and deriving meaning from those patterns. during what would appear to be the most serious portions of the speech, the entire group consistently cracks up laughing, because they know the president is telling lies on top of lies.

there are some things you can only pick up in the moment, is what i'm saying, and most of us have to pay intensely close attention even then. so watch. it's your country, it's your planet, it needs your help.

the earth and i love you, even if you're not sufjan stevens, even if there's no hope of you ever carrying a tune. big sugary smooches to one and all. smooch. smoochsmooch.















smooch.