miss anthrope's Journal

No, I'm not coming back regularly. I'm still busy, and I'm working on another project that I'll link to in the fall. But no one ever said I was good at making a clean break.

Lazing around on a Sunday morning once, a boyfriend told me the difference between him and me was that I was an activist.

This was 2003, mid-winter, when I was in the middle of ignoring my thesis project, not formulating a plan for my future, and not doing much of anything except stumbling downtown for weekend bagel runs, the better to fuel the three-day binges of “Sex and the City” reruns in the suite lounge. Active was as unlikely a word as any to describe me. We all remember cocoon Erin, right?

Sure, I’d written some stuff. Some of it got me in trouble. I had a chip on my shoulder, and I occasionally inspired anger and outright hatred among the readers of the college paper. All 50 of them.

Anyway, the girl lounging in bed that winter morning didn’t really appreciate the tone of voice in which “activist” was delivered. He didn’t mean anything by it. Just wanted to point out that some people get bothered by stuff and some people don’t, and no matter how lazy I was I’d probably always be one of the former. I furrowed my brow, tried to object, and gave up because there was probably a chocolate chip bagel waiting.

So time passes. I graduate, move on. I find a job in which I can take as little responsibility and credit for the work I produce every day. There’s pride to be found in practicing a craft behind the scenes, and I get pretty good at doing that.

That boy disappeared soon after the conversation. In the absence of hard facts, I like to imagine he’s riding the rails in the Pacific Northwest, the world’s last remaining hobo, sailing from one high-end coffee hut to the next.

Meanwhile, that toiling-behind-the-scenes, nonactivist chick testified before Congress last week.

Dear Livejournal,

It's been a while since we've talked. I'm sorry about that, really. It's just...well...there's someone else. Lots of someone elses, actually. And they're...gosh, i don't know how to say this. They're real, ok? They buy me beer, and they go out for pie with me. And they play pool at Rocket Bar once in a while and it's just a lot of fun. I get home late, and I'm sorry I haven't made time for you. I know you're probably jealous about Flickr taking a lot of the time I used to give to you, and if you could you'd probably glare at that pile of books I'm slowly working my way through. These things take time away from you, but they make me feel so much less self-indulgent than you do. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is.

We shared some fun times, livejournal. Years, even. Years of my life, all right here, ready to go back and stew over whenever I feel like taking a dip in the nostalgia bath. You're always there for me. I respect the devotion, really. I can't get over the betrayal, though. Don't you feel a little guilty that you're so accessible? That people I don't know anymore can just...can just pull you up and there you are divulging details about my life? No? Well, you should. You're a willing partner in the 21st century crime of cyberstalking, and I can't quite participate in that right now. At least Flickr doesn't divulge IP addresses when it participates in the same sort of malfeasance.

I just need some space right now. Maybe in a few weeks or something we'll chat. Maybe it's just a phase I'm working through. Maybe it's the heat. Lord knows it's like the surface of Tatooine out there these days.

Or maybe fall will roll around and I'll finally be over this. I'll take a few hours to download the archives, and then we'll be done. I'll have moved on to blogger or typepad, someplace where I don't quite have the same baggage. You can't really say you didn't see it coming, though, right?

Take care, livejournal.

Love,
Erin

What was their treasure again?
Goddamn you, motherfucking George Lucas. Goddamn you. What did the movie-going public ever, ever do to you except line your pockets with gold and worship you? You are a false idol, Mr. Lucas. Motherfucker.

when last we heard from our intrepid and undercaffinated heroine, she was struggling to hold herself together amid a frustrating professional situation, feeling overworked, and waiting anxiously for the arrival of a pollen-free spring. Let's check in and see what's become of her in this fragile state

I DON'T WANT TO WORK TOMORROW! I want to stay home and listen to Social Distortion all day long and only get off the couch long enough to get cookie dough out of the fridge. I want to play on flickr for hours. I don't want to face the new computer system and the cranky people tasked with implementing it.

I am exceedingly jealous that Brad is in Budapest and London and all sorts of other places I'd like to be right now. And that he gets to miss four weeks of dreary April showers.

Sigh.

Oh, and my tripod broke.

Happier news: I get to see Eddie Izzard on Thursday. And I got to have beer outside last night with Andy. And I will have a kick-ass rocking time at the DC Roller Derby event on Saturday, even if I do have to bust my ass at work to get out of there in time. And, thank god for this, summer movies start hitting theaters next week. These are the things I need to keep me sane. Just Eddie Izzard, chicks on skates, Indiana Jones and beer. Oh, and Social Distortion. And a tripod that isn't broken.

Will she survive the indesign installation? Will she use the Magical Stimulus Package to buy happiness int he form of a new tripod? Will George "I ruin treasured childhood movies" Lucas break her heart again? stay tuned...

The City Paper blog assures me that the storefront previously known as Murky Coffee will eventually be rented out to ... another indie coffee shop. It's hard to explain how much joy this fills me with. Here, I'll let Leo do it for me:

"Oh joy, another coffee shop. I was beginning to worry that the city had gotten dangerously low."

Thanks, jerk. Now I'll just have to spend tomorrow sending you pictures of puppies, kittens and baby pandas with blood on their teeth to get you to come even close to experiencing the kinda of warm fuzzy feeling I get when I am secure in the knowledge that I can buy expensive coffee from judgmental hipsters at one more location near my home.

Seriously, this is a good thing. I am very happy. I need coffee. Coffee-less Erin is not a pretty thing. You know how my default mode is moody and cranky? And how I sometimes seem like I'm about 10 seconds away from snapping? Amp that up a bit, and that's the coffee-less me. No, I don't like it either.

And so I welcome you, so-far-nameless indie coffee shop, to the Capitol Hill 'hood. Please make sure you pay your taxes on time, OK?

Lesson learned today:

After rushing out the door in your second-least-creative outfit and less-than-artfully-dried hair, it is a fact of life that you *will* run into that guy who had a crush on you in high school. And his kid. And his pregnant wife.

My brain is currently operating under the delusion that it's 1998 and I am 17 years old again. I've got crap to do, but all my brain wants to do is play on the Internet and listen to the Meat Puppets all night long. It wants to stay up until dawn and remember what it was like not to have to be Somewhere Important nearly every day of my life. I don't know how to tell my brain that as fun as that might seem, I still need it to be functional tomorrow at work. So while I'd ~~probably~~ absolutely enjoy listening to "Too High To Die" until the birds start chirping, I've got to get to work convincing my brain that its resources are better spent coming up with ways for me to get through the next week at work.

(I'd also like to ask part of my brain to get to work on figuring out a way not to be so annoyed at the frequency of visits paid to this site by Creepy Cleveland-based Web Stalker and His Boy Wonder Sidekick. It's...it's just weird, ok, guys? Knock it off. Or actually send me an e-mail. But this little one-sided watching thing we've got going on? The one where you ignore my e-mails but visit my livejournal six times a week? It's annoying. So I'll assign a few last brain cells to the task of getting over that, too.)

Murky Coffee, you broke my heart.

We had some laughs, you and I. Long, sunny afternoons sitting around listening to music. You introduced me to Cold War Kids, and National, too, I think. We bonded over Johnny Cash and a classic cappucino. It was bliss.

Oh, there were signs. You raised your prices and I pulled back a little, wondering if this was really built to last. But that sweet-talking note you posted about higher costs for beans and dairy calmed my fears. I came back, tentatively at first. And then it was just like old times.

And then those cupcakes showed up! Our relationship was better than ever, though I knew I was giving you more than I could really afford. I had to keep something for myself, too, you know. But your $5 hot chocolate was just too good for me to resist. I lost myself for a while.

Now I know you're just like all the others. A beautiful exterior masking a financially fucked mess. Skinny jeans, Arcade Fire CDs and tragically hip haircuts don't pay for themselves, you know. Mamma's gotta buy a new Macbook Pro.

And then it all fell apart for good. The doors slammed shut. Ugly signs taped to the door and windows. Eviction. Withdrawal.

I still walk by sometimes. I can see my reflection in your dark windows. I pause every few days and remember better times.

These days I keep walking, up the street to Port City Java. It's a bit brighter in there, not really my type, and oh god, the music. They play James Taylor! Unironically!

But they pay their rent on time. They take credit cards. Their bill with the DC tax office is current. And I guess that's what I need right now.

I hope we'll meet up some day, Murky. Years from now, maybe you'll be in a better place. Maybe we can try again. I'd like that.

things done and things to do
Today: commit career suicide. Then go spend $40 on film at Penn Camera to make myself feel better.
This evening: continue to nurse the same headache I've had for seven days. Walk down to CVS for more tylenol and some cough syrup. Mourn the loss of Murky Coffee's Hill location and curse the idiotic hipster jerk who though he could get out of paying sales tax.
Tonight: Realize at 9:30 that once again I've forgotten to eat dinner. Marvel at the number of friends whose facebook status implies that they feel about as crappy as I do.

Tomorrow: Wish that career suicide thing was literal, because then I wouldn't have to be at work at 7:30 to wire edit.
Tomorrow afternoon: Figure out some way to kill the time between 4 and 7:30 that should probably involve food. And possibly a nap, because I am apparently 68 years old.
Tomorrow night: Macbeth! 4 blocks from my apartment! With design by Teller! Ruckus!

March 29: Eels Rock Show at 6th and I. Not sure how my now-68-year-old body will handle this one, what with the actual going out on a saturday night *gasp*

After that: Blossom time. Freebase Allegra to make it through.

May 1: IZZZZZZZZZZZZARD at DAR.

I...I THINK that's it, for the immediate future and long-term planning. Right? Andy? Proof this for me, would ya? I don't want to wake up one day and discover that I've made plans to, like, go to Montreal and forgot to mark it down in my calendar.

Things that are not working properly:

my head
my throat
my nose
Metro
my TiVo

You may guess which one bothers me most.

Also, while watching "The Daily Show" through a haze of cold meds and sleepiness last week (on, *sniff* the now-dead TiVo), I made the startling discovery that Creepy Cleveland-based Web Stalker bears a striking resemblance to Grover Norquist.

Brief recap of yesterday: Wake up at 4:30, feel like crap. Continue dozing for 2 hours. Finally take a shower. Continue feeling like crap. Thermometer reads 101.7, so I feel justified in taking my first sick day in, oh, a year. Spend the next 90 minutes leaving my boss voice messages and texting a co-worker so I know just when to call so I can talk to the nice boss-type person instead of the angry one who fills me with dread. Finally, at 8:30, with tea made and a fresh pillow on the couch, settle in to read and move as little as possible. At 5 p.m., wake up and notice I never did touch that tea.

On a more fun note: Spot the Erin! (http://www.flickr.com/search/?q=dcist+exposed&s=rec&page=5). That night, by the way, is probably why I spent yesterday in a feverish mess of mindless dozing.

And wow, I have tomorrow off. And it'll be 60! Hurrah! Got a roll of 120 to develop and a photo date at 6.

Seriously, this thing is the most coherent I've been all day.

Evidence in support of the theory that all of my moods can be represented by prominent Canadians (real or fictional):

Angry and anti-consumerist, while bizarrely doing most of my shopping at Whole Foods: Naomi Klein
Snarky and idealistic, while simultaneously craving vintage clothing: Ellen Page
Jonesing for a sing-a-long: Barenaked Ladies
Romantic and prone to overdramatizing: Anne Shirley
Passive about romantic interests: Gilbert Blythe
Unable to see a concept or idea through to a satisfactory conclusion: Lynn Johnston
Frightened and screamy, as if my life were not entirely in my control: Fay Wray
Trivia-loving: Scott Abbott
Violent and cinematic: David Cronenberg
Never quite able to catch a break, professionally speaking: Nathan Fillion
Deeply nostalgic for a made-up past: Miriam Toews
In need of a haircut: Wolverine

Thanks to Mike Doughty, I've set a record between eMusic refreshing (around 8:00) and total depletion of a month's downloads (8:37).

That should make getting up and being out the door by 6:30 tomorrow morning for that long cold walk to work a bit easier.

Wait...what? New live album includes Mike Doughty riffing on Brimful of Asha and Call Me Al. Maybe I should go see him at the 9:30 after all.

Yeah, 'cause I'm not spending *enough* money this month. Speaking of which, Andy, yes I know damn well I still owe you for Macbeth. You've been very polite so far.

Wow, so, at, like 3 today everyone was warning me that the sugar crash after that mocha from Borders was gonna hurt. I laughed at you all. I giggled with a glee that can only be attained during a complete and total sugar submission. I vaguely remember claiming superpowers, and I'm pretty sure I wrote some headlines in there somewhere. I even stayed 90 minutes late at work to finish up a project, such was my sugar-induced naivety. Holy god I'm tired now. I'm having a hard time finding the energy to watch a Tivo'd rerun of "Wings," for crying out loud, fearing that I don't have the mental capacity to see it through. Why did I ignore your warnings, friends, why?

Another Saturday, another 8 hours of losing feeling in my fingers. Stupid office. Stupid winter. Stupid not-warm-enough sweater. Stupid (but adorable) purple fingerless gloves, why must you fail me like this?

Another Saturday, another playlist. Today it's Social Distortion. "A broken nose and a broke heart, an empty bottle of gin..."

Another Saturday, another post-Coen hangover. Last night's entry was "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" which I think may have been the first AFI movie I've gone to that I actually remember seeing the first time around. It made me feel old, underneath all that giddiness at watching my favorite Coen brothers movie on that big-ass screen in that art deco movie palace. I started laughing before "Do. Not. Seek. The. Treasure." and kinda missed the line's actual delivery. Andy is to be forgiven for thinking I was going into convulsions every 10 minutes.

Lest you think my movie experiences are all Coen brothers and milkshake drinking, I went to see "Definitely, Maybe" last week. It's the cinematic equivalent of a Sister Hazel song--overly charming, vaguely reminiscent of the Clinton years, not necessarily bad in any way. It is because of that movie that "All For You" has climbed embarrassingly high on my playlists this week, and I'm not sure I can forgive that.

Thanks to Newsweek and the Chinese government, I now know where I stand among the world's potential occupations:

A "clean up the expats" drive kicked off last August to combat the "gray market" visa industry run by shady agents who bribe crooked cops, allowing footloose foreigners to take casual jobs in Beijing. They include American copy editors, Philippine nannies and Russian traders, with some prostitutes and drug dealers thrown into the mix

Is this a top-down list? Just a bottom-of-the-barrel approach? I guess I'm glad to be above Russian crack whore who moonlights as a nanny for her Philippine dealer, but I kinda already knew that already.

Last night's AFI adventures featured the return of Inappropriate Laughter Guy. I love that guy. Andy may not appreciate what he brings to the popcorn-covered table, but I get a kick out of hearing someone chuckle every time Steve Buscemi gets bloodied. And man does that happen a lot in "Fargo."

I'm listening to "Icky Thump" today at work, which has the unfortunate effect of making me think it's summer outside. That's what happens when I listen to an album over and over and over and over in a short time span--The White Stripes and Paul Westerberg make me think of August in the darkroom; Jim Bryson is winter in the darkroom; the Frames make me think of my last morning in Prague; "Thirty-three" reminds me of thunderstorms; Jon Langford puts me in the mood to clean out my closet. Voxtrot is really, really good to design pages to, but Jon Coulton is not.

What I really, really wish I had right now, though, is a playlist or a button on my iPod that makes me feel like I'm not having my soul sucked out at work.

The Googles are a truly wondrous place. I was happy enough yesterday when I had a reason to use the word "yurt" in conversation. Now, every time I go to gmail, they show me links like this.

What's not to love about that?

Wow, I am lazy. Unbelievably so. As in, there are things I should be doing today--things that would earn me more money--and I am too lazy to do them. Instead, I sit here at Murky Coffee with four Word docs open in the background, unable to transfer words from my head to my computer in sentence form. I used to write things, right? Hell, I have in the past gotten paid to write things. Just not so much lately.

I was at home for most of the afternoon, figuring that I couldn't work there because there was a stack of 3 currently being read books on my coffee table. So I charged up the macbook and came down here, and darn if the Internet didn't follow me here, too. And no one's made any Scrabulous moves in a while, so I don't even that that mildly productive excuse to distract me.

Sigh.

I met Andy at Teaism last night, where I had curry and Andy did not. I played the word "IF" for 28--that's right 28 points--in what was possibly the Greatest Scrabble Moment of My Life. I may be 0 for 10 in that cheap Facebook knockoff, but I still know how to throw some tiles around.

I seriously considered just now not using the word "Scrabble" in describing the Greatest Scrabble Moment of My Life. I suppose that's a good indication that maybe I need to, uh, calm down and do some other stuff.

I'm going home now, where I will repeat the "log on, stare at screen, wander over to facebook" cycle, only at home I won't be surrounded by people in black shirts, emo glasses and sleeve tats.

Back in my day, we had to drive hours through snow and ice to see such wondrous things.

Advertisement