Friday, March 28, 2003
hi. my name is krissa c., and ...
i know i said goodbye, and this is the blogger equivalent of that adolescent game of "you hang up! / no, you hang up!" - but there's something i need to tell you, before our relationship gets any deeper.
i am a blossoming yuppie. yes, you heard it here first, before all the hipster-mags can slander my name and cast me out to the garden with martha. i am a yuppie. i live in the shabbiest-chic neighborhood - astoria - which says "yes, i'm concerned with not spending a chunk of money, but i'll be damned if i have to live on staten island" and also says "i like to buck convention, turn my nose up at brooklyn, but still be able to enjoy some outdoor cafes for brunch." i work at a magazine but i've got my sights trained on law school. and i don't mind considering international law. so there.
my house is decorated according to the yuppie standard manual for members aged 22-26. this means i have plenty of slightly weathered yet authentic pieces of furniture from my parents' house - like a cherry wood dining room table and a thomasville coffee table, but i also have funky retro deli signs found on street corners, crazy lampshades, and paintings done by talented friends. our hallway is filled with candid, charming photographs of friends, in cheap frames. i may have mismatching plate configurations, but they are coordinated mismatching. i buy good colombian coffee and cold-pressed olive oil, and don't cook with margarine. my bedroom has elements of crate and barrel, childhood, and african art pieces. yes, oh yes. the house is straight out of yuppie paradise.
this isn't about my politics. i'm smart, i read, i think, and i'm still essentially a capitalist with very liberal social beliefs. i understand things like retirement saving plans, health care systems, and globalization. i also understand about media brainwashing, the backlash against capitalism, free-market systems and the democratization of information and technology, and the flaws in the justice system. and anything i don't know, i sure as hell don't talk about until i do understand it. i am a well-rounded political being, and i know what i believe in. this isn't what makes me a yuppie. this is what makes me smart and fascinating, and individual.
what truly makes me a yuppie is that i've suddenly had the urge to start going to driving ranges on the weekends to let off a little tension. that i covet clutch bags sold exclusively at barney's. that i've started checking for wedding bands on men i'm attracted to. that i'm becoming just as attracted to the solid, friendly, smart ambitious suit-wearing guys as i always was to the tall, skinny, doe-eyed, song-writing vintage-tee boys of my halcyon college days. that the sight of a 30-something couple having fun in the park with their toddler makes me get all puppy-dog-eyed and swoony. that i read the wall street journal now, because i know it's important.
did i mention the sudden urge to spend sunday mornings at the driving range?!
i would say my inner yuppie is showing her true colors. only, i think i've been this way all along.
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oops, my bookworm is showing.
"In the system of globalization, the biggest challenge for American leadership is to sort
out which problems it can still shape alone, through classical state-to-state military
deterrence, and which problems it can shape today only with partners. [...] If America is not
prepared to do certain things alone, no one will follow. But if it seems as though it wants
to do everything alone, no one will follow either. The truth is, there has to be a combination of
the two approaches."
Thomas Friedman, in his seminal book, The Lexus and the Olive Tree: Understanding Globalization, published in 1999 and re-issued in 2000.
thomas friedman in 2004!
some other fascinating books i've been poring through on my subway commute and my lunch breaks:
What Went Wrong: The Clash between Islam and Modernity in the Middle East by Bernard Lewis.
Pinstripes and Pearls: The Women of the Harvard Law Class of '64, by Judith Richards Hope.
The Question of Palestine, by Edward Said.
I'm off to rhode island for a relaxing weekend of good food, time with the parents, and...
saturday night? dinner in boston with the charming fish and my favorite bicycle, mbc. the fun's going to be so hott, everyone will wear shades. ohh yess.
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Thursday, March 27, 2003
I do not like thee...
dear dominick dunne:
pathetic. sycophant. gossipmonger. aging useless socialite. circus act. starfucker. tragic waste of space. these are all words i use to describe you, dominick dunne. for years, i have loathed you from afar. i have read your column. i have seen your television show. and loathed.
you're a pathetic excuse for a journalist. you write these juicy articles for that dribbling shit of a magazine, vanity fair. i use the words "article" and "magazine" loosely. in these "articles", you ramble on with airy vapidity about people and events you hold in tantamount importance - namely, celebrity tragedy and scandal. robert blake was a recent obsession. martha moxley and the kennedy boy brought you to almost criminally punishable levels of self-importance. the safra murder brought out your sick sympathy for poor ted maher, and now you've fixed your starfucking sights on phil spector. you write things like: while dining at spago with a powerful socialite friend who's certainly kept her figure, one of hollywood's leading divas brushed by my shoulder and whispered this interesting detail about _____(fill in name of latest celebrity obsession). this is pathetic, dunne. this is tragic. this isn't journalism. it's vitriolic gossip-mongering during overpriced meals. if journalism had an avenging caped superhero, you'd be toast by now, you blithering name-dropping abuser of the sanctity of sources.
you know what else? your overdeveloped, out-of-proportion sense of your own importance is really starting to crawl under my skin and get on my last nerve, you whimpering angolphilic bow-tie wearing sycophant. A few months ago, some high-falutin' banker who fled the justice system ten years ago was finally apprehended in the south pacific somewhere. dunne, you egotistical, meglomaniacal stiff - you actually said that your piddling little attempt at a true-crime series was part of the reason he was apprehended? after america's most wanted had been covering this man for ten years?! you believe this stuff, don't you, dunne. how very, very sad for you.
i rarely hate anyone, dunne. honestly. sure, i make fun of annie leibowitz, i think david lachapelle is a poseur, michael moore irritates the eyelashes off my face, and karl rove makes my skin crawl. but you! you make my fingernails curl, dunne. your casual disregard for the hallowed principles of investigative reporting, your blatant, pathetic name-throwing, your insipid obsessions with the seedy underbelly of luxury crime when there are thousands of people subjected to real violence out there every day, and your sickening delusions of grandeur - i do not like thee, dominick dunne.
and take off that ridiculous bow tie.
sincerely, and get out of my life -
le petit hiboux
nb - please refrain from taking me entirely seriously. or, go ahead - and face my witty erudite wrath upon your head.
completely unrelated, non-vitriolic side story
go downstairs to meet guy-pal j for mid-day cup of coffee? okay, so go to starbucks, purchase coffee products, right? standing outside consuming said coffee products, as JW is rollerblade-wearing - and decide must have cigarette, only don't have cigarettes on self. time for time-honored female cigarette scam. so, approach nearest male figure, and use flirty feminine wiles to bum smoke, with my bad self, right? so, gloat over bad self, and cigarette-scamming-flirtation abilities ... share cigarette with guy-pal j.
go upstairs to office. phone rings. receptionist says, "student-photographer is here, to meet with you." this being meeting with previously-met student photographer, in order to return his prints to him, right? la di da, skip out to lobby to meet with previously-met student photog. let me stress again: already have met this particular student-photog, four months ago. skip out to lobby, shake hands with scruffy-looking student photog whom i've already met.
student photog smiles and says, "didn't you just bum a cigarette from me?"
proceed to blush from head to toe with double-irony of not recognizing student-photog twice - first, when cigarette was bummed (he suspected it was me but didn't say anything) and secondly when shaking hands with student-photog five minutes later.
would suspect something like kismet, or destiny, except that destiny isn't really applicable when one fails to recognize one's destiny mere seconds after bumming cigarette from him.
sigh. spring makes this owl rather flighty, methinks.
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"remove thy beak from out my soul and thy form from off my chamber door!" Or, I Think I Have a Poltergeist
went to bed last night. was home alone, roomie spending night with friend. locked door. know i locked door.
woke up this morning, stumbled out to bathroom completely nude ....
apartment door was wide open.
then, closet doorknob fell off while closet was closed, thus making it impossible to get to sexy belt i had planned on wearing to turn hot outfit into hottt outfit.
coffee maker fritzed out circuit in kitchen.
dining room window is jammed.
my apartment is angry with me. will appease it with lovelorn promises of floor waxings and thorough window cleanings.
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1,2,3 what are we fighting for?
I honestly don't know what to do with myself these days. my normal morning routine is: wake up, pad into kitchen, make eggs and toast, brew coffee, chug orange juice, light cigarette, turn on television, watch the today show.
not this past week. this past week i do all those things, i desperately do all those things, and i think to myself [heartpounding, headpleading] maybe today will be different. maybe today, matt lauer will have returned from qatar, maybe al roker won't report the weather in iraq, maybe david bloom won't be wearing sand goggles.
let me explain. i wasn't entirely against this war. sure, i wanted global support... sure, i wanted more than just great britain behind us, since they're permanently wedged up america's ass anyway. but deep down, in a place i rarely talked about at parties, i knew something had to give in the middle east, and i thought, sure - good a place as any to start.
but this isn't about what i did, or didn't, think about the war. this is like ... this is like ... you tell your 10 year old daughter she can try some makeup on, and she comes out looking like a washed up 2-bit bourbon street hooker. this is like, you drop a seed on the ground, turn around, and there's a giant tree. there i was, two weeks ago, looking at the word "war" and thinking, hey, why not? thomas friedman isn't vehemently against the war, and i consider him my barometer of foreign coolheadedness.
but we're not far enough into this that i can start looking towards the reconstruction, but it's already started and i can't look away.
so instead, i eat my soggy toast every morning and cry when i see family members talk about their missing sons and daughters and think, what's going on?
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Tuesday, March 25, 2003
just a little something ...
my brother and i, rio de janeiro, 2003.
you can't really tell, but he's got my mother's eyes, the irish temper, and a sweetly condescending way of calling me baby and telling me to stay away from drugs.
aahh, older brothers.
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