No One Belongs On The Subway More Than You

Last night I went to see John Zorn and co. celebrate, via marathon, an award he'd just won. It was a good show, only enhanced by the fact that I skipped the second act in favor of hanging out with a friend in her graduate-smartypants-school lounge. After an hour I was back in my seat in time for "Cobra" — whatever— and I noted the time and that the crowd had thinned. All the empty chairs led to lots of seat shifting which seemed appropriate given the piece being performed.

The show was long, but my travel time longer. I read Miranda July's new book from beginning to end during the rides. The stories are as good as the striking cover design. I felt reassured carrying it. Like the title gave me permission to be everywhere I was.

And You're Not In This Business To Entertain

Next season's Random House catalogues arrived in the mail. Guess what I want to read first? Melissa Plaut's How I Stopped Worrying About What to Do with My Life and Started Driving a Yellow Cab, out in August.

Maybe she'll do a mobile book tour? I guess all tours are inherently mobile, but it seems like a tie-in to her return to driving could be sweet.

Things, Some

• Something about saying "He's the DJ, I'm the rapper," in real life.
• Something about not having notes.
• Something about my plants dying in your possession.
• Something about sharing a table with strangers, and bad tofu.
• Something about running out of bags on Bayard Street.
• Something about membership fees, cardboard coffee cup sheaths, and structural support.
• Something about stationary.
• Something about using science to schedule a ride.

Caring is Creepy, Convenient?

If you see your dentist at a bar on Friday night and then his office calls you on Monday morning to see if you want to schedule a check-up appointment, should you think that it's cool and convenient or a comment on the state of your teeth?

5B22

Appeared to be a grumpy jerk, a jerky driver, and possibly drunk.
I asked to be let out, as soon as I discovered this, near the median.

Backseat Shooter: A New Kind Of Computer

No, not the old kind. Or, that's what he said.

Things, Some

• Something about getting really excited when you pick a new password and then really sad when you remember that you shouldn't share it with anyone.
• Something about admitting that the intern knows much more about what you do than you ever will.
• Something about un-Happy Shabu Shabu and Cafe.
• Something about leaving me a voicemail message while jumping rope.
  

1F48

"You talk in your sleep," he told me.

I know this. Lots of people know this. But I didn't know that he knew this. How he knew this. It was morning. And we hadn't gone far enough for me to sleep or for me to talk or for him to know this or to tape it.

Yes, he told me that he taped it. Repeatedly as I paid my fare and rushed to shut the door.

Like A Hug, But Harder

Q: Why did I get two copies of The New Republic in the mail this week?

A: Because I want to read "Hunting Henry Heimlich" twice.*





*I haven't finished it yet, so this may not be true.

As If They Knew

I think I could write a book about what I think about weddings. (Although, if we've talked in the past few years, you probably knew that.) But, I admit, I love this song. I love it in a way that makes me want to write an essay about it. Or to tap dance.



I danced to it in a recital when I was 9. Our costumes had red hearts and sequins. I still remember the steps. (Our moves were more similar to those of the singers in this video than to the gawky white girls interpreting-it-up in the background. But we were the gawky white girls. I'm not sure we have a video.)

No Heat

What got to me was the way you insisted on swiping at the windshield with a towel, as if you could stop every drop even though you were inside the car and the rain outside, and it was pouring, and the defroster was on, so it wasn't like it was necessary for you to wipe away steam and, oh, I don't know. Your compulsion was troubling, to say the least.

British, But...

John Oliver is the newest member of 826NYC's advisory board. And he's British. But he's very funny.

The World, Explained explained

I'm a fan of that syntax, and if you are my friend then you must like it too. And so I'll see you at said show, tonight.

On Tuesday, April 10, you should join 826NYC, 826LA, and McSweeney's for THE WORLD, EXPLAINED: an evening of erudite comedy and fact-based entertainment. (Which means: stories, music, and extreme Powerpoint presentations.)

John Oliver (Daily Show correspondent), David Rakoff (author of Fraud), Joshua Davis (the lightest man ever to compete in the U.S. Sumo Open), and Rodney Rothman (former Undeclared and Letterman writer) will explain The World to you. Or, parts of it. The confusing parts. Parts like: The Intricacies Of Lightweight Sumo Wrestling, How To Create Your Own Fake Boy Band, 525,600 Reasons To Pay Your Rent, and A Mystery Topic Yet To Be Revealed.

Our own ad hoc indie rock supergroup (featuring members of Wolf Parade, Islands, Black Mountain, and Les Savy Fav) might even explain to you why they decided to perform under the name FINAL FANTASY: ONLINE A.K.A. INTERNET.

The details:
Symphony Space (2537 Broadway at 95th Street, NY). Tuesday, April 10 at 8:00 P.M. Tickets are $21 advance, $26 day of show, and are available through www.symphonyspace.org or 212.864.5400.

All proceeds, of course, go to 826NYC and 826LA.

Things, Some

• Something about I love you. For like ever.
  
• Something about thank you. I think.
  
• Something about the international sign for: I am allergic to this.
  
• Something about pantomiming dying.
  
• Something about the death of pantomime, not a wordless action for death.
  

Short Trip

Concept cabs. (NYT)

Livery

You live two blocks away from me?

It would have been less creepy if you'd kept that to yourself.

Class

Michael Hastings is a good reporter and a good person. So the fact that young media is behaving so badly is — sadly — no surprise. Mockery mixed up with an April Fools excuse? A mass email with nothing other than the entire contents of your take-down post?! And no disclosure of who worked for who was involved with who, of course. Classy.

Time (Ex)

I'm not sure who reset my clock. Or how.
I am sure of how I lost track of time.
It has nothing to do with the reset. This is reassuring. I had fun.

But those text messages I sent in the middle of the night? I'm sorry. In the cab it felt like morning.