10-26-03, 7:15 PM -

Sometimes nostalgia hits me. It's a nasty thingy, but I find it's rather unavoidable as your brain begins to file old chapters away to make room for new ones, and gets a little bit curious about how the place used to look before the remodel.

Lately, I find that as the new-car shine wears off of our New York experience, I tend to get a bit misty-eyed about the days when every little oddball difference between my hometown and the Capital of the World warranted a 20-minute dissertation and a clever Top Ten list of some sort.

Thankfully, I am assisted in my reminiscences by the handy-dandy Letter From NYC Archive, which reminds me just how hellish life in a Brooklyn squat can be.

My research shows that at this time last year, Wifely had only recently gotten her editing job, and we were poorer than a Bangladeshi church mouse. We had just returned from the big Iraq War protest in Washington, back when we thought there was some chance it wouldn't happen. We were stupid.

It was at this time last year that I met Cindy Frikkin' Crawford, who continues to be the most high-profile celebrity I've spotted thus far. The parents had just visited, and were polite enough not to point out that we were living in complete squalor.

And the damned CD was still in the can.

Now turn in your hymnals to October 26, 2003. We are no longer sharing a bathroom and kitchen with other poor bastards. The squalor hasn't completely abated, but it is mitigated by the benefits of Manhattan proximity and the presence of our cat, no longer exiled to friends' generosity.

The Wifely now has some tenure at her job. I have enough sense to stay home from the big Washington protest and just wait for the damned election.


I've sent out a million more, but these are the first two to slip me some skin. Go checkem out, they're my new best friends:

The Daily Vault (click the "M" listing)

South of Mainstream

Still have some left to send, and then I just have to sit back and wait for a bad review. I know it'll happen, and I won't feel right until it does. The test of a good album is whether it pisses at least one music critic off. C'mon, I know you're out there.

Don't really have much to say outside of that. I find that my letters are getting a bit shorter lately, since I'm actually DOING SOMETHING with my life. I'll be durned.

Just heard that I missed hundreds of naked women at Grand Central Station today for some artsy-fartsy photo shoot. Figures. Here I was at home, eatin' Atkins chocolate bars like a sucker.

Passed a big funeral procession on 9th Avenue. I'm not sure who it was for, since all the signs were in Spanish. Dammit, I need to get off my honky arse and learn some Espanol. Though I'm not sure if I want to know what the hot chicas on Telemundo are saying. If it's anything like what the hot chicks on the WB are saying, it'll just make my brain asphyxiate.

In other news of tiny-brained creatures, the cat has decided that she doesn't care if there's a screen between her and the pigeons out on our fire-escape bird feeder. She'll get all ruffled up and charge the screen kamikaze-style, running the birds off and waking us up before noon. Friggin' cat.

Saw a French TV chef who had made this huuuge castle out of big sheets of chocolate. He had put little chocolate bats on it so that it would be "vury scurry." Those crazy Frenchies.



Went out with Paul & the Wifely last night and proceeded to get myself fucked up on Cosmopolitans. I'm a big girl, it seems. The Wifely stuck to whiskey, and ended up the better for it. I'm still hurting a little, but I had fun. Everyone needs a chance to rant endlessly about what's wrong with the world now & then. And everyone else needs a chance to tell me to shut the fuck up already. Ain't alcohol great?

So I'll spare you the hangover ruminations and get back to stuffing envelopes. Go check out the reviews, and feel free to add reviews of your own on amazon.com, cdbaby.com, and cdstreet.com. Buzz is a beautiful thing. I'm told.

Dang, King of the Hill is on. Talk about your nostalgia. Must ignore television. Cranking the Floyd in the headphones...now.





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