My Knees have Eyes!

Okay, so clearly we are still bored.

I heart Bloomberg

"For their own selfish reasons, the TWU has decided that their demands are more important than the law, the City and the people they serve. This is not only an affront to the concept of public service; it is a cowardly attempt by Roger Toussaint and the TWU to bring the City to its knees to create leverage for their own bargaining position. We cannot give the TWU the satisfaction of causing the havoc they desperately seek to create."
- Michael Bloomberg on 12/20/05, Mayor, New York City.

This is why I love our Billionaire mayor. In the wee hours on 12/20/05, at the dawn of the first MTA strike in a quarter of a century, we see Mr.Bloomberg orating, in all his machismo with a twist of wry, standing in front of hundreds of hungry camera flashes, clad in a black mock-neck sweater that reads "I heart NY," after which he proceeded to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, alongside hundreds of poor, cold souls, then joining the millions of other workers who must, somehow, get to their destination.

More indulgence

Ah, heck. How vain of me -- innundating my blog with kid pictures. I guess the redeeming factor in all of this is that these are not even the cute ones. In this example, I am either a) constipated b) bored with Mom and Dad's dinner guests and their photo ops c) meditating.

Card me.

After much deliberation I decided in favor of sending holiday cards this year. I will submit that a part of me is disapppointed that I chose to partake in this exercise in kitsch. But in order to appear socially acceptable, one has to sacrifice some principles. And so begins this exchange of sacchrine greetings -- an attempt to convince each other that forgiveness for a year's worth of neglect can be bought with a 3x5 card, most likely promising some future meeting that will be postponed into oblivion.

I think myself too cynical for this season. But do not let this deter you from sending expensive gifts my way. Season's Greetings.

Mr. Isaak sings the blues.

It was only time that I succumbed to that sexy voice (or was it merely that it reminded me so much of Mr. Phoenix in Walk the Line) and now I cannot stop listening to Wicked Game. Perhaps it was the romantic in me finally emerging, or my reflexive response to Adam's strange but mildly charming predilection to listening to country music during mad bouts of sex, or that it takes me back to that video with Helena Christianson on the beach.

In any case, Mr. Isaak has successfully seduced me, 15 years after my parents canceled cable after having seen his video.

Smile!

I think growing up, I clearly had a dearth of cute photos. (I guess I just wasn't Gerber enough.) Especially between the ages of 4-6, where apparently I had that awful bowl cut.



Last week, I asked my sister to pick kid pictures for me for my yearbook page. She chose this one, of me, on the doorsteps of my grandparents' house in Shanghai, posing next to what looks like a can of paint and a chamber pot. Cheese!

(And No, I did not pick this one.)

I don't get it.

This is where my ignorance on matters of world affairs turns into social embarrassment. 2 hours of the 146 minute-long Syriana was spent in utter confusion. As if the segmented and multifaceted storyline, with characters seemingly peripheral to each other, speaking in coded terms, wasn't obnoxious enough, the fact that my knowledge of the material was superficial at best frustrated me to no end.

And so Adam asked me the dreaded question -- what'd ya think? As much as I would have liked to express some profound insight into corruption and oil in the Middle East, I was reduced to it was good. I don't think I was all that convincing.

So much for being well-rounded.

My Chumps

Oh good. Among those who have any inkling of good musical taste, someone has finally spoken for the rest of us. (Thank you Slate, as always)

Bottom line: I do not understand. Perhaps there are those who are moved by the music video whose depth is exemplified by Ms. Fergie's micro-skirted bottom (all that ass) gyrating across the television screen, or by the sheer inability to discern any sense of melody throughout the entire song (can we call it a song in the traditional sense?), or perhaps by the artfully disguised message insinuating copulation (but oh so subtly), as exemplified by the lyrics:

What u gon’ do with all that ass?
All that ass inside them jeans?
I’m a make, make, make, make you scream Make u scream, make you scream.

Oh the beautiful syntax, that exquisite poetic prowess.

I shudder to think how we've regressed to this. But then again, Mozart was controversial in his time.

Bliss (?)

One always remembers the beginning of affairs with such fondness, recalling only the first kiss, the hand holding, the sharing of secrets, the cathartic release of sexual tension tantamount to the rush of orgasm. But only in experiencing it does one remember the composite side -- that which is laden with insecurity, with doubt, with this incessant fluctuation of emotions, with this pain that persists when the other is gone, and the anxiety that will not be quelled until the phone shows his name. Maybe it depends on the pessimistic versus optimistic nature of the person. But being one (unfortunately) always with a tragic outlook, more to prevent myself from potential woe, it becomes impossible to enjoy the moment. I will not trade this for the world, because I believe myself, for the first time, to be truly truly blissful, but faced with the fact I will not see him for a mere 4 days (maybe 5!) is pure torture.

The curse of my nature (and perhaps that of womankind) is this insecurity that pervades and extinguishes any attempt at satisfaction. You learn to dwell on the minutiae, that he dates often, has no qualms about having sex early in the relationship, is too good with women, forgeting that perhaps you have the same deterring tendencies. You want to know where this is going, but cannot ask, and continue to slowly simmer in this torture and agony. Being hurt before, unexpectedly, you want to avoid previous mistakes, with the caveat that you, having received little to no feedback, may be doomed to repeat them.

I know this is too early to make any conclusions. At the end of the day, he is surprisingly sweet, honest, and funny. As hard as it is, we can only expect to take one step at a time.