backypacky, boracha, boquerones (backpack, drunk, anchovies)

¡buenos días! today is my second in madrid, but i have still only slept about 10 hours since sunday so i am living in a fog.

oh wait, that's just the guy smoking next to me.

so, the final leg of the flight went nicely. got a couple hours of zzz's and rather enjoyed the meal. no, really. i am impressed with airplane meals, is that so wrong? air canada, way to represent your culinary credentials. i snagged a plastic bottle of red wine for the road and watched "star trek". am i just a trekkie deep down, or was that movie actually good? excuse me while i go do something really cool to make up for that admission. like punch someone in the face or buy a round of drinks for people i don't know, just cuz.

so we finally land in madrid and, man, i could not have been more thrilled to be done with my three-legged-dog of a flight. it's interesting (and great, i suppose) that, no matter how tired you are, you can rally if you need to. i mean, the plane touches down and all of a sudden your mind tells your body to man-up and, just like that, it's game time. pop up out of the seat (i was in an emergency exit row again! sans emergency!), grab the backypacky, and head for the exit. let me out into the hot air so i can see the spanish ladies who dress like tramps! i want to sit on the train and hear them speak so fast that i can only pick up two words out of 40. only because that means i'm actually here. and because it serves as a benchmark for how much more i expect to understand on the train ride back to the airport in october.

my gracious host, neil monnens (shameless plug: http://winebluebook.com/), gave me pretty stellar directions to his place from the airport; i was a woman on a mission and didn't feel like a helpless tourist. my mission is to blend. boom boom boom: the pink train to the brown train to this street, turn, turn, and you're there. too bad at this point i was in the same clothes for an eternity and smelled like a homeless person who had just played streetball for six hours in 100 degree sun (and lost). so i arrive at neil's street and start hunting down the address but, as it turns out, in spain they feel that numbers are arbitrary and can be used multiple times in succession on different buildings. thanks, spanish genius people, for making this so much easier. so i'm on his block and i come to one place with his number on it but it also has some random words under the number that, even with my super advanced command of the language, mean nothing to me. i ring the bell. nada. ok, let's keep walking, then. storefront, storefront, still somehow with the same number on the same street--what? ok, let's not get hung up on logic here. i've never wanted (needed) to bathe so badly. after the stores i come to another building with--yes, you guessed it--the same number. ok! now we're making progress. i can already smell the soap that will change my life. i get to the front door, which has the glass and gold circles, just as he described to me, and i am so fired up to ring the bell and say, "dude, i'm heeeeere!" when i see that there is a long list of apartment numbers, each with a button beside it (no names, mind you), and, oh wait, yet another list of buttons on the other side of the doorway. a total of, i'd say, maybe 30 or so options. i consult my notes again and hunt down the apartment number, but realize i don't have it. i don't yet have a phone yet, so calling him is not really in the cards. (person who invented cellular phone technology, i pine for you!) so i figure i have no choice but to just start trying buttons. methodically, of course. i think, let's start at the top. probably a nice view up there. they seem like they'd be nice view people (neil, chill, it's a compliment). so i ring one. no answer. ok, no problem. then i keep ringing, down the list, and people start answering. "hola?" i then reply, in my best half-baked español , asking if they know where neil & chrissy live. the americans. they say i have the wrong place and i say sorry and thank you. this goes on for another 10 minutes or so. BEEP, silence/brief spanish conversation, BEEP, etc. then this lady walks toward the building. i see her as garth envisions heather locklear in "wayne's world". "dreamweaver" plays in the background, her blonde hair blows in the wind, she is an angel. i snap out of my ridiculous daydream and ask if she lives here. yes. YES! i tell her i am coming to see neil & chrissy, the americans, and ask if she knows where they live. she says she thinks they live right below her, and ushers me in with her. I AM IN. elevator. first floor (oh lord--starting with the top floor buttons was the biggest mistake ever). she points to the door, i ring the bell, i hear footsteps running to open it, and it's neil! at long last, i have found the elusive abode. i say, thank you, heather locklear, i love you. then i go inside.

the place is magnificent. brand new kitchen.
huge windows looking onto the street and the ¡ay madre! fruit market below. i have my own room! and not only that, but they have taken a picture of me and my friend jenn (pilfered from facebook) and put it in a frame. there's a stack of spanish guide books. plush white five star hotel towels. is this for real? i have my own bathroom, too. the coveted shower will become my best friend, even though it's oh-so-skinny and tall. like tayshaun prince maybe, if any of you know who that is.


so i clean up, though my shower experience is (and will continue to be, i'm sure) clumsy and laughable, as i bend down to pick up the shampoo and hit my head on the soap dish (a move that only someone as graceful as i am is capable of pulling off with such effortless class) and neil and i hit the streets for some lunch. 2:00 pm is when lunch goes down around here. the streets are relatively quiet in this area since most people have taken off to the coast for the month of august to sunbathe at their vacation homes and throw sangria back like daily vitamins. many of the shops are closed through the end of the month, and the ones that are open in august are closed between 2:00-5:00 for siesta. also, is it ignorant of me to be surprised to discover there is an asian population here? (the answer is usually yes.) we see a few little kids, possibly chinese, speaking in spanish and eating ice cream bars. this is amazing to me. but why? why is it any different than people who look chinese but speak perfect english? just one of many cultural differences to get used to. but don't get me wrong--i like it.

so neil and i stumble into a little restaurant that he's never been to. from the prix fixe (yes, i realize that is french) menu i select gazpacho with jamon and egg and then "gallo a la plancha" which, according to my pocket dictionary could mean either "cock" or "john dory".
for some reason this is very amusing to me. i ask the waiter if it is indeed fish and then go for it. after a chicken lunch and dinner on the plane i need a break from beak and not ready to rip into some bloody meat yet. with our meal we also get a basket of bread, a bottle of wine and dessert/coffee. for 11.30 euro. not bad, eh? the gazpacho is delicious and so perfect for a hot day (90 degrees, maybe more). then my fish comes and it is a whole dude, skin off, flattened. eyes, check. bones, check. it's all there. time to go to town while avoiding death by bone-choking. that'd be a sad way to go. pretty good but nothing to write home about (though i suppose that's exactly what i'm doing right now). the red wine they bring is cheap and so-so but, hey, it's cheaper than bottled water so i am game. they also bring, per neil's ingenious request, a bottle of sparkling water (gaseosa) that we mix with the wine. and, like, magic, this drink is amazing. so amazing that we take down the whole bottle in no time, naturally.

after lunch we take a little walk and head back to the casa. i am losing steam, and fast. let's do a little math here. sleepwalking + half bottle of wine + 90 degrees = loopy lolo. for sure. neil (monnens, of http://winerelease.com/ fame) does some work and i fall into a very temporary coma, paranoid the whole time that i am going to pull a rip van winkle and sleep thru my entire two months here. so, 45 minutes later i pop up and resume my challenge to stay awake as late as i can in an attempt to set my clock right.

after some lounging (which includes a good hour of me tackling my latest internet woes--these seem to know no country bounds, as i have them everywhere i go), neil and i go out to do some errands and grab food for dinner. this place lives like the anti-costco. no bulk-buying. you buy it, you eat it--that same day. we go to a fruit market where you are not to touch the fruit yourself but rather tell the gent which you'd like and how much and he chooses the optimal edibles based on when you want to eat them. figs by the kilo. melons i've never seen before. perfection in the form of pears, cherries, grapes. we go to a fish market where we request salmon for sushi but david (dah-veed) tells us today's salmon would be better suited for cooking but tomorrow he will have sushi-grade on hand. we take the hint. thanks, dave, for keeping it real. so we table sushi for another night and grab a couple salmon steaks to cook up. we head back and lounge again for a bit until about 9:00 when we start cooking in the sleek, sexy kitchen that i have already grown to love.
dinner time here is 10:00. i can dig it. so we get to prepping. meanwhile, neil whips up a little pincho (aka tapas) dish with pickled banana peppers, anchovies, and green olives to eat while we cook. the way he stacks them on the toothpick, they look like weird little animals. but i eat anyway. mmm, mmm, weird little animals. then we pull together pan roasted potatoes w/ shallots, neil's stellar skillet salmon, a greenish-red tomato salad w/ garlic sherry vinegar, and some gazpacho. and of course some wine. this meal is, hands-down, better than lunch, and better than many things i've eaten in my life. we sit and talk about how great it is and other gastronomic tales. i feel like i'm on a food travel show, but there are no cameras. dream job, i'm coming for you! this is where i earn my stripes. (is that even the right expression?)


for dessert, neil freezes up some horchata in a dish. this is not the stuff we're used to in the states--the white liquid made of rice, almonds, and cinnamon, swishing around in a big plastic dispenser at mexican eateries in food courts everywhere. this is a drink made from the chufa (aka tiger) nut and, when half-frozen, can be scooped into a glass and devoured as a refreshing dessert. winner!


and like that, the day winds down. we watch some of anthony bourdain's spain show and, as engrossed as i am, my eyes droop. i have made it to nearly midnight! someone, give me a cookie. so i turn in, more tired than ever, but soon realize that, no matter how tired i may be, sleeping in 85 degree open-window nighttime heat with zero breeze is close to impossible. hours pass and nothing. toss, turn, go to the bathroom, toss, turn. meh. i then get up to wet a washcloth to take back to bed in hopes that this will somehow cool me into slumber. i suppose it eventually worked, around 3:00 am, because all of a sudden my casio says it is 10:00 am and i am truly so excited to realize i have somehow dozed off. welcome to day 2, laurena.

we eat some honey nut cheerios (that have a hint of onion flavor, oddly) and i head out to a cafe to sit and write. i grab an espresso on ice while in the background plays all the hit music videos, spanish and english alike. when the coffee is down and so have the details from my head, i head back to meet neil for another lunch adventure. we walk around looking for something intriguing. today we come upon yet another prix fixe spot and it looks bustling. we sit, order paella, chicken and fries, and sit with our wine for a couple hours as the man next to us, who neil thinks looks like a philosopher, wrangles strangers or friends (we're not sure) to consume with conversation. and all of a sudden there is a group of four men of all ages and walks taking beers down and talking about deep (and shallow) things in their casual spanish tongues.

now we are lounging with our lappytoppys trying not to overheat. later, neil is going to have me "try [my] hand at slicing" the jamon serrano in the kitchen. i hope this doesn't mean i will be slicing my hand. because that is something i am already quite skilled at.

journey to ma(rs)drid

hola, ye faithful readers. today begins my venture into other lands to find something new, and, knowing my luck, probably lose something old. i begin in san francisco and make my way to madrid, but my flight is not as direct as you might think. and by that i mean it is not direct at all. it is as indirect as telling someone to shut up by throwing your sandwich in the trash.

SFO: the first few crises seem to have been averted. i made it thru SF security with my nail file (aka weapon!), my semi-huge backypacky (thanks, christina!), and on time. now i sit and await boarding my first appendage of a three-legged flight. yes, it’s as awkward and wobbly as you’d imagine. like a canine war vet, maybe. i’m counting down seconds on my trusty int’l casio (purchased upon landing in rome two years ago and realizing that the previously reliable cell phone clock was not going to tell time at all and a watch [yes, they still make those] would be critical if my cohort and i were ever to make a train on time) until I can board my plane to vegas. yes, nevada. yes, a tiny one and a half hours from here. once i deplane there, i will be able to enjoy some quick slot action (which may even be code for another form of legal entertainment in LV, if you know what i mean) before boarding yet again to make my journey to toronto. i have two hours and forty five to look forward to in the great canadian oasis, so i am already contemplating the likelihood/feasibility of escaping the airport walls for a lightning-quick northeastern adventure. flash forward to 9:25 pm in (brisk and lovely?) toronto,iI am quasi-running, sweating like a retired overweight record exec in a beverly hills sauna and pushing through the airport crowds, digging deep for my best “rude american” attitude (and no, it’s not that much of a stretch, but thank you for that) in a dramatic attempt to make the doors to my final spanish leg (pierna) which leaves at 9:45. and back to now. perhaps it’d be best not to tempt the gods of transportation (as I surely have wronged one of them along the way in my days) and just stay within the confines of the undoubtedly glorious and stimulating airport.

in-flight: as i sit on the plane from sin city to canadia (which i just barely made, thanks to the one hour window between flights and the fact that air canada exists in a terminal miles (i swear) from where united let me out and necessitated a tram ride, rapid schlep, elevator, walk, shuttle all to get to the little “wings”-like facility where the northern north americans congregate to repent for their debauchery (if canadians are capable?) and recover from brutal (ve)gastrointestinal woes), before returning to their homeland, i lounge in my emergency exit window seat with no one next to me, which i choose to believe is merited by some good i once did to/for a transportation god, possibly knowing it would serve me one day. speaking of serving me, where’s my damn sandwich (that i have to pay for, you cheap, sad industry) i will say, however, i am off to a good start with my budget. thanks to the superb generosity of the great wongstradamus, my trip to SFO was cost-free, and thanks to my foresight and resourcefulness, i brought along a PB&J and drank milk on my first leg so breakfast cost me zero dollars. though i will say i felt like i was a rather “developed” kindergartener, spilling milk down my chin, chowing my smushed jammy-nutty bread wonder, sandwiched (no pun intended) between two grown men. awk-ward.

so yeah, sure, i can spring for a $7 mediocre bocadillo. god-willing, my red-eye from TOR to MAD will include some kind of sketchy paella or salisbury steak and green beans (that, by some miracle of the airplane cooking methods, are actually brown) so i can stash the rest of my euros til the morrow, when i touch down in my hot, sexy destination and give day 1 a run for its money. i mean, travel day is really just purgatory dressed up in a flight attendant’s uniform.

TOR: i now sit in the spacious toronto airport, enjoying the fact that everything is in french so i can feel like i am already kind of somewhere. i have stumbled upon a patch of internet that is FREE! FREE! FREE! which, let me tell you, has really saved me from trying to find something to do in a place where the only options seem to be buying perfume at the duty free shop and having a quesadilla at the bacardi rumbar & grill (how canadian, right?) now i am about an hour out from boarding and looking forward to whatever single-serving food items they throw my way. eating gets very discombobulated when you pass through entire 24 hour periods without sleeping. i expect my dinner a la air canada will be served around 11:00 pm EST, though at that point i will be somewhere over the ocean and thus farther into the night, and simultaneously it will be 8:00 pm back home, where i'm sure some prime time talent show is on, making "stars" out of americans who can whistle a country song with their butt. time to chomp some cheese puffs and twiddle my thumbs til i can sherpa my schmata back on the aircraft and call it a night.

tomorrow i shall be on euro soil, sleepwalking, and ready to rock. hasta luego.

the battle of sluggish sloth vs. busy bee

i don't get the feeling that every type of person finds productivity rewarding. there are those chronically lazy types (brad pitt in "true romance" comes to mind, for those who are loyal quentin tarantino fans and have seen what some men have called their favorite film of all time) who seem to want nothing more from life than, well, nothingness. the lack of activity (lacktivity? sounds lactation-related but i still like it) is the coveted oasis for this sect of the population. i, however, fall somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. i am not up at 7 on a saturday and raring to go on a 7 mile hike. i definitely enjoy pulling the covers over my head to block out the sun (who am i kidding--sun in SF?) and soaking up the fruits of leisure when i can, but sleeping until the late afternoon, getting up to eat a sandwich (or better yet, eating the sandwich in bed--ahem, george costanza), and then going back to bed is something i find depressing.

i value my days, to a certain extent, by the activities they contain and the satisfaction i gain. especially right now, as i prep for a 2.5 month voyage to spain and beyond, i have a set number of days until my departure and a list of logistics to get in order longer than rapunzel's hair. even though i intend to plan close to nothing and leave most adventures up to game-time decisions, there is still this excruciating minutiae to tackle before i can step off u.s. soil. if a (jobless) day goes by with nothing to show for it but a couple grilled cheese sandwiches and the depletion of my DVR archives, i begin to feel kind of worthless. at the risk of getting heavy and existential for a moment, what is the point of this life if nothing happens? if every day was a syndicated repeat of the same show from the previous day, would you still watch it over and over? some people want that numbing redundancy, the absence of decision-making and change. but i--and maybe you--crave that each day gives and does something unique. it needn't be hugely significant, but i want to say, "hello there, day. give me something. make me a little cooler, wiser, savvier, more ahead-of-the-curve, armed with a truly random experience i didn't have in my memory the day before." no matter how seemingly inconsequential, i am convinced that everything we see, say, do and play contributes to our persona and mindset. even when i go to trader joe's to arm my fridge and pantry for the upcoming weeks, i mandate that i buy something new with each visit. cheese puffs, tomatillo salsa, english toffee, snap peas. anything refreshingly atypical. without that, i end up filling my cart with a bounty identical to the prior trip and that makes me uneasy.

though i constantly feel like leonard in "memento" (a must-see if you haven't yet) with a horribly faulty short-term memory, i never want to feel as though i am living in "groundhog day"; routine redundancy squashes my potential for excitement like a careless foot on a sidewalk tomato (you know, because that happens all the time). really, there are two relevant factors that i regard with a certain amount of significance: productivity and variety. i try to achieve my ideal balance of effectiveness and relaxation, and simultaneously feel weakened by the lack of constant change and progression, no matter how minor. some routine is inevitable and, frankly, quite comforting, but the lack of it entirely makes me feel stale, stagnant, ineffectual. i fully acknowledge that everyone has their own recipe for daily living; what makes me feel that much better might make you feel that much worse. if you love lazing, don't let me stop you. after all, what do i know? i'm just one person, one mind, some of which is corrupt and twisted, some of which may be worthwhile. i don't want to be preachy so i leave it to you--be inspired, offended, or apathetic. in the end, balance is the tastiest treat i've been able to find and savor. stress a little less, do a little more, get down tonight.

i've got that gloom gloom pow

as i have had the recent misfortune of discovering, the freedom buzz is fleeting.

just a week ago, i stepped out into the scorching san fran sun and reveled in the sweet victory of crossing the line to the other side where alarms and timesheets don't exist (though nor do paychecks). i wore sandals and shorts and walked a few sweaty miles through countless siloed neighborhoods to reach what i will now call the slam district (glam + slum, aka dolores park & vicinity). knowing that my income henceforth ceased to exist, i was determined to stretch my dollar while still giving in to the notion that my first day of autonomy was deserving of certain indulgences. (full time employment during my collegiate tenure served as a financial boot camp for a frugal city dweller such as myself, so budgeting is something i see as a sick pleasure and a challenge.) i convened with a fellow jobless wonder and savored wine, gougère and delfina pizza, had a b-list celebrity sighting, soaked up the heat, chatted up some charmingly hip gay boys, and went to a nighttime hip hop class. i had a hard time believing my life had so abruptly become such a paradise of delicious luxury and leisure. pinch me, am i dreaming?

tragically for me (and thankfully for those who coveted my new lavish lifestyle), the glory was short lived. day one was the honeymoon, and no later than 9:00 am on the day that followed did i awaken to find myself covered in a mess of decisions, logistics, frustrations--you know, that whole "ok, now what?" virus that flares up from time to time. i popped up and showered, hoping to wash away the horrid stress that had appeared from nowhere, and prepared myself for another venture in the city, unchained and unsure. i can shake this, i thought. i'll get out in the sumptuous splendor of the hot city and peace and pleasure will be restored.
and then, just like that, i looked out the window and the clouds said, "hold, please. the sun is not ready to take your call at this time." you've gotta be kidding me. so i get one day of that sun-kissed divinity and then back to status quo? the universe is teasing me. testing me? forcing me to confront the bitter realness that perfection is only an illusion with a limited shelf-life.
so a couple more days followed. the weather again left much to be desired and i spent my time attempting to wrangle tasks from the ever-growing list (thanks, google, for this new gmail feature!) until the weekend arrived and i up and left for a lazy lake getaway where the temperature climbed 50 degrees and instantly reinvigorated my peace of mind and obnoxious joyfulness.

cut to: present day.
and now i'm back in the city, and so is the buzz kill of a climate. i find these days exhausting. my enthusiasm for possibility is wholly squandered by the doom. it has a choke hold on my inspiration and has transformed my vibrant daily vision into a black & white film with a weak storyline, muffled sound, and muted personalities. my stride is being broken by the intrepid emptiness of the dark sky and i am constantly struggling to find a way out of this mess. i want to cheat it, i want to win. i deserve to.

but why do i let the supercilious and preponderant sun dictate my mood? is there a way to bob and weave its crazed determination to ruin me? let me be victorious. i want to stick it to the sun like one shoves a marshmallow toward the flame. i want to find the code to unlock this absolute graying out of my motivation, wringing out of my wide-eyed optimism. when put into words it seems like such a trivial detail of daily life that shouldn't have such an intense influence on my frame of mind, but i find it entirely consuming and manipulative. so far, the only antidotes i am readily aware of are music and booze. the boozic solution. but i want to believe that there is a way to tap into my own brain and rewire my outlook, somehow tricking it into seeing lightness, brightness, and magnificence where i previously saw none.

and so i turn to you, faithful and inventive readers (especially those in portland, seattle, SF, etc.), how do you fight the muck muck?

brush up your hush up

knowing when to hold 'em and knowing when to fold 'em. that's important stuff. especially for people like my brother. and lady gaga. but knowing when to bite your tongue and when to speak your mind is arguably just as critical. i can't tell you how many times my verbal dam has let some insipid comment through the sieve that really should have been detained by security and escorted out of the building, never to see the light of day. those of you who have seen "mean girls" might be thinking of the phrase "word vomit", spoken by the character portrayed by the latterly lesbian and larcenous lindsay lohan, but written by the beloved witty MILF tina fey.

obviously everyone has their own level of expressiveness. some choose to mostly observe, ponder, and speak rarely. others have more of a tendency to let it all flow. these people would be a nightmare for the FCC to censor on-air with a three-second delay. those of you who know me can pretty easily determine in which category i fall. and of course there are various points along the spectrum for each person's individual makeup.

logic would support that those falling into the former category are less likely to commit these crimes of spoken spew, though there are always exceptions.

but are those who let the cat out of the bag, spill the beans, put their foot in their mouth, etc. fueled by a subconscious need or desire to release those words into the wild, emancipate them to a life of freedom where they are on longer being confined to an existence of bondage and suppression? despite the fallout, there is an inherent relief that is yielded by the exposure of these taboo thoughts, faux pas, and the like.

so you hate your friend's boyfriend. yeah, convention would dictate that you keep that little tidbit under wraps, but one night you have a few too many sidecars and all of a sudden you are telling her that you think he is a pompous misogynist with bad teeth. sure, she may not want to speak to you for a while, but maybe she was starting to question how much she really liked him. your unfortunate and inebriated slip could propel her to take scissors to the paper heart of their relationship and cut a zig-zag right down the middle. could it be that your logorrhea set forth a series of occurrences destined to happen? or is that just you trying to justify your misstep?

bottom line is, we all do it. we screw up and spit out something we shouldn't. our brains are connected to our voices but we can't always get the memo from one to the other with enough speed and accuracy to prevent a colossal miscue. it's as if we are each employing an unreliable office assistant who sometimes is too hungover or busy doing her nails to run from the mind to the mouth and say, "no, mr. stanwick, don't say that to her! she's not pregnant, she's just fat." but the least we can do is utilize a self-imposed three-second delay and run our thoughts through the strainer before allowing the final product to pass through and reach the open world.

no one is without flaw so, at the end of the day, after employing the self-censor, the best we can hope for is that our tactless word vomit somehow transforms an otherwise "oops" moment into a gift that at first you don't like and want to return but, after sitting around on your dresser, you start to understand the purpose of and get used to.

and ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.

hello, and welcome to funemployment

you can turn off your 7:30 alarm--you won't be needing that where you're going.

stock the pantry with ramen noodles and peanut butter. keep the hard alcohol out of easy
reach so that you at least have to work for it a little. assess the netflix queue--this may be the time when you actually catch up on those pesky recommendations from acquaintances.
you know, like "high school musical" or "transporter 3".

but what do i know? i am only a freshman on a team that has many seasoned players. the
varsity quarterback is listening to me now thinking, "oh, silly naive girl. you know nothing of the game. watch and learn." but i don't think i'm all that blind to the flexibility here. it is what i make it. for all intents and purposes, i am my own boss. and today i'm giving myself the day off.

at the risk of concoting the biggest cliche ever, i feel as though someone has given me an empty plate at a multicultural buffet and now i have to decide what to spoon onto my dish. i have issues mixing radically different foods in one meal--pad thai, calzone, shawarma, all intermingling, meshing and mucking flavors. meh. but i may need to get used to that notion as i now have room for all kinds of things that i need to consider making room for, like dayparts on a tv schedule. so far today i am keeping it pretty simple with a hefty serving of relief and excitement, a side of contemplation, and an iced coffee. when the day is done i will wash the plate and put it back on the shelf until i go at it again tomorrow. there's no telling how sustainable this lifestyle is or when the first curve ball (food poisoning?) will hit, but there is a certain comfort in not knowing any of that. today is the first day of this new way of dining. the first few hours are sitting well with me, and that's all i can be bothered to care about right now.

as my quarterlife crisis (?) and reassessment commences, i should note a couple other observations that may or may not be a sign of things to come:

i found another grey hair. i need to stop pulling them out. at the end of the day, silver fox > mr clean.

my new dermatological neck scars have the appearance of love bites. this is eliciting suspicious inquiries from curious friends/foes. i may need to craft a new explanation that is more exotic than routine cryotherapy.

how is emancipation going to affect my general temperament? will i mellow out? or will freedom fuel my calculating mind and propel me into a life in which i stack unthinkable adventures, one atop another?

as i celebrate bastille day, as well as the independence of the sheez from the shackles of employment, i shall venture out into the absurdly uncharacteristic 90 degree weather and let my brain wheels spin with reckless creativity. and work on evening out my tan.

god bless you all; your fate, your consciousness, your appetite for change, your hangover, your dysfunction, your attempt at baking, your lack of organization, your carnivorousness, your sinning ways, your propensity to jaywalk, your genuine craziness.

buy / sell / trade

everything's gotta be such a trade-off, doesn't it?

i'll give you my headache for a pain-free evening of insomnia.

take my boring dry sandwich for your aromatic curry that makes my stomach furious with me.

hand over your $4 and i'll show you a book that cost me $14 but i'm disinterested in and unable to return.

when you think about it, why is this a surprise? everything has an innate value. we put forth work/effort/sacrifice/risk to earn each dollar. once that money is ours, so is the decision of how it'll be spent. we can't just sit on the piggy, day in and out, not ever making a decision. this applies not only to money, but to any choice--the logic is the same. this for that; that for this. in economic terms, this is essentially opportunity cost.

as theoretical situations are not rooted in any substance and are purely abstract, we can't assess the "what if" in any sort of productive way. we will go mad with regret and frustration. but there is some peace, i believe, in seeing all decisions--no matter the scale--as having the potential to either reap a favorable return or to short-change you. yeah, they may not all be winners, but being slumped up in an old armchair with a tall glass of kahlua and milk waiting for decisions to make themselves isn't going to send you anywhere worth going, except maybe the toilet. there is a certain beauty and excitement to any risk--not knowing which way it'll go is part of what keeps us invested in our lives in a truly stimulating way. you know you can't always lose, and the wins give us such high peaks that our memories of the losses become hazier and less significant.

but the ups and downs should not be blind to cognition and can't always be as simple as a coin toss. decision-making is one of the few things you can control regardless of your rank, bank, face, place... you get it. this notion is endlessly empowering, yet i'd venture to assume most people completely forget. at this time more than ever, when the economy is less than a winning horse, we are at the nauseatingly proverbial crossroads more often than we ever expected to be, yet we are rarely forced into a corner. isn't there always a choice of some sort? sure, some are more glamorous than others, some more extreme, some more mundane. but stop thinking that the only roads allowing you access are the one straight ahead or slightly off to the right. sharpen your #2 pencil and start drawing the map around you if you have to, but do it.

don't be afraid of the trade-off.

turn it on.