San Diego was swell. Even though I got the flu in the last two days I was there, and my head is still all weirdly pressurized from the stupid airplane. And it's New Year's Eve and I pretty much feel like crappy pants. Bleah.

It was colder than it was supposed to be, for which I curse the weather gods.

I didn't really get to hang out with anyone, because I was too busy trying to hang out with everyone. But it was still good to see all the peeps, if not to have any actual conversations.

Nunu's is exactly the same, which is mostly why I love it.

I got to see the Pacific Ocean, which will hopefully tide me over until the next time I get to see the Pacific Ocean.

I put way too much mint in the mashed potatoes, so they were kind of like toothpaste mashed potatoes.

I still feel like crappy pants.

Yay New Year's.

Why doesn't Andie end up with Duckie at the end of Pretty in Pink? I can't fathom how someone with a crooked face who never says anything interesting wins out over The Duck Man.

The hair. The shoes. The amazing dancing skills. I would pick Duckie anyday. No question.

Cursing Massachusetts:

Apparently, one cannot buy beer or wine on Thanksgiving Day.

I now have to appear at my friend's mother's house empty handed, because I somehow doubt she would appreciate leftover pizza or macaroni and cheese.

Massachusetts is dumb.

Things I am obsessed with right now: The All-Music Guide, Echo & the Bunnymen, Red Stripe with a lime, learning to play pool, Bookbuilders of Boston, V-8, J. Crew jeans, Sondre Lerche, cursing Massachusetts, vodka marinara, weather, The Mittens, bad 80s movies, California, socks, clean sheets, reading The Shining, The Art of the Mix, Neutrogena Body Oil, "Pass the Dutchie," grocery stores, jangly guitar pop c. 1992, Scrabble.

And this is why I love Ms. Alice. How I miss my slutty friends! How I miss the sharing of indelicate details, the casual sex, the addition of notches on the bedpost! The excitement of ending up in bed unexpectedly with someone new and unknown, the discovery of an unfamiliar body. Oh Christ, it's been too long.

Back in Santa Cruz, I was surrounded by sluts, sluts who had no compunction, no remorse, no regret. Sluts who weren't out looking for "something more." Who didn't agonize over whether they slept with him "too soon," whether he'll call or why he hasn't. Awesome, awesome ladies who got some because they wanted some and never looked back. Goddammit, where are my girlies? Why am I now surrounded by women who, while very cool in very many ways, really, really just want a boyfriend? I think that even if I did get laid, I wouldn't want to tell any of them about it, because they wouldn't understand if I didn't give a damn whether I ever saw him again, they wouldn't understand if I didn't remember his name, they would just give me that look. That look they give me when I know they think I'm from another planet.

The fact, though, is this: I'm picky, and I'm not likely to meet someone I actually want a relationship with anytime soon. Why in hell should I let that stop me from getting laid? And why doesn't anyone out here understand that?

Oh, Alice, how I miss you, you salacious, slutty slammerkin.

Interesting statistic of the day:

"With unemployment rates among young people soaring, about 40 percent of recent college graduates intend to move back home." - BusinessWeek

Cheerful thought, isn't it?

The job search is so debilitating. I don't even want to talk about it.

I can't believe it's already November. My mom used to tell me that when I was older, I would wish time didn't pass so quickly, I would wish to be a kid again. Of course I didn't believe her, because I think you're never supposed to believe anything your mom tells you until you're old enough. And as with most other things she told me, she was right. However, I still get carded to buy cigarettes, so obviously I don't yet look older than 18. Sweet.

I read a great book last night: The Blue Bedspread by Raj Kamal Jha. It is sweet, and sad, and lovely, and haunting. A man spends a night writing the stories of his family for his newly orphaned, one-day-old baby niece, who sleeps on a blue bedspread, a bedspread that threads its way through his stories. They are full of circular images, phrases that repeat, quietly, here and there. If you're looking for plot, or traditional narrative, or a book that will answer all of your questions at the end, you won't find it here. You will find, instead, something heartbreaking and diffuse, but beautiful nonetheless.

I have also been reading the stories of Paul Bowles, but I'm not quite sure how I feel about them yet.

I watched Focus last night, and likewise, I'm not sure how I feel about it yet.

I think I'm getting stupid.

I just spent way too much time discovering the strangeness of newsgroups. There are about a gazillion usenet newsgroups out there. How is one to decide between alt.dirty.whores and alt.fan.dan-quayle? What is the point? Why are people so endlessly specific in their interests? I'm intriqued. Of course, I had to subscribe to the alt.beer newsgroup, and the alt.cynicism group, and who could neglect alt.culture.theory? I'll probably be bored with all this in about three days.

I'm still not bored with Friendster, though.

I am bored with looking for a job. I just pray that I won't have to be doing this periodically still when I'm in my forties. Cause it sucks.

We're going to see School of Rock tomorrow. John Vanderslice this weekend. Death Cab next weekend. Oh the joy.

The New England autumn is definitely upon us. It's getting cold and I don't have nearly enough sweaters. I went to New Hampshah last weekend, and it was lovely, despite the fact that it rained the entire time. I saw a loon. And leaves that were a strange red color. We don't have those in Cafilornia.

Speaking of Cafilornia, it's certain now: I can never move back. Why, you ask? It should be obvious.

Last night my housemates and I went to Target. This was a very exciting field trip we had been planning for weeks. You scoff at the excitement level of a trip to Target, but you underestimate its magic and allure. Target is far away, out in the wilds of Somerville, so this trip was an undertaking akin to Conrad's journey into the heart of the jungle. We got lots of neat stuff, including (are you sitting down? This is very thrilling.) a crock pot! Yay crock pots! Or, as the French call them, mijoteuses. Yeahhh. Hours (and hours and hours) of slow cooking joy await the girls of 31 A Asticou Road.

The Red Sox are down two games, and Boston is holding one big collective breath. I didn't realize people could take baseball this seriously. But I'm all wrapped up myself, so I can't really laugh at them. It's exciting, and the Yankees should lose because the Yankees are bad for baseball. And the Red Sox are good because...because...well, they won't tell me the reason, but I'm sure they have one.

I finally watched Citizen Kane last night, after borrowing it from Will about 4 months ago and promising everytime I saw him that I would watch it that week. So, it was really good. It was really long. But it was great! And I feel like a better person for having seen it.

I've been hugely antisocial lately and I don't really know why. I don't go out anymore, ever. I only hang out with two people, besides my housemates, and we only ever sit around watching movies. Everytime I do venture out of doors to a pub or restaurant or something, I spend the whole time wanting to go home. Is something wrong with me? For anyone who knows me at all, this is highly unusual. Maybe I've been taken over by strange alien lifeforms. Domestic, homebody lifeforms. It's a possibility.

Mmmm. I'm still basking in the glow of our Target adventure. Target. Yeahhh.

When I created this whole web log thing I never intended it to usurp the main writing I was supposed to do for this site. I obviously underestimated my own laziness. It's amazing, really. You'd think that after 24 years I would know my own laziness backwards and forwards, and never give it the benefit of the doubt. You'd be wrong.

It's not that I sit and stare at the walls. I've been reading all kinds of books. And watching all kinds of movies.

I was working on a very cool book for Beacon.

Yeah, alright, I'm a lazy bum.

Alright, I suppose it's about time that I do some updatin'. Life in Boston has been lovely recently, but I haven't had much to say. It's starting to turn into fall, about which I can't decide if I'm happy or scared. I quit my job at the crappy cafe, although I am still waitress extraordinaire at Bella Luna. How could I give up those $2 beers?

The exciting thing is that I'm a bona fide freelancer. So what if right now I'm only getting typing assignments? Typing is exciting...or something. It's my plan to pick up some copyediting assignments soon, so I've been spending a lot of my time perusing the Chicago Manual of Style (you know I'm a dork because I find it genuinely interesting), and talking to my compatriots at Beacon Press. They have been awesome to me there, and are teaching me many and varied important publishing things. It's swell.

I've been watching lots of movies (I just watched Bull Durham for the million and twelfth time; it was great), and playing with my fancy new 'puter, and burning CDs like a banshee on fire. Yeah. Anyway, my music collection is expanding exponentially. I'm a music thief!!! Mwah ha ha ha ha!

I have plans to revise the main and important parts of this website, and will have plenty of free time in the coming week to do so. So just you wait. It'll be so exciting. You'll pee your pants, that's how exciting it's going to be. Mmm hm.

"I take a breath,
pull the air in til there's nothing left.
I'm feeling green,
like teenage lovers between the sheets.

Knuckles clenched to white
as the landing gear detract for flight.
My head's a balloon,
inflating with the altitude.

I watch the patchwork farms
slow fade
into the ocean's arms.
From here they can't see me stare;
the stale taste of recycled air.
Calm down, release your cares;
the stale taste of recycled air."

-The Postal Service

A pile of random zines mysteriously appeared on our coffee table the other night. I used to be a zine addict, but sometime during my second year of college, when I no longer had the time or energy to create my own, my addiction faded and I really haven't even glimpsed one since then. I had kind of forgotten all about them. And now, this mysterious pile of them in our living room.

A lot of them are just amazing and beautiful. There are lovely silkscreened covers and fancy typography and one has a tiny envelope pasted to the inside backcover, with another tiny zine inside, closed up with little silver star sticker. So much energy, and time, and dedication, and creativity put into intricate projects for no real reason whatsoever. I loved this little corner of the world, these people. I miss it all. I remember that there was a time in my life when I actually did things.

Now I just sit around on the couch and read books all day. I don't create anything. Nothing original or interesting comes out of my head.

I can't decide if reading all these mystery zines is making me happy and excited to do something again, or just sad and even more exhausted.

Why do I feel like such an old lady?

Oh if I could only find the time, the energy, the mental prowess, to write. Something...anything. I can't even write a decent email anymore. I no longer have anything interesting whatsoever to say. According to some people, I never did have anything interesting to say, but I know those people (and you know who you are) were really just jealous of my eloquence and wit. So ha.

You have nothing to be jealous of anymore, however, as both the eloquence and wit have disappeared.

Just go read the news, it's much better than this. And then come back and tell me what's happening in the world, as I no longer pay any attention. Yeah, theeeeanks.

I'd give my big toe to get out of going to work today. These 11 hour days are kicking my arse to hell and back, and I'm not sure how much longer I can keep it up.

I interviewed for an Editorial Assistant position yesterday. This is the job I moved here for, this is the company I moved here to work with, I want it so badly it's like an itch somewhere deep in my brain that I can't scratch, and I think I really fucked up the the interview. Oy. I am quite possibly the world's worst interviewee. I'm going to be a waitress forever, I can feel it.

Shoot me.

I think I realized why I feel so at home in Boston, why I loved it almost instantly. Boston clings as tenaciously to its history as I do to mine. It feeds on its history, it obsesses over its history, it seizes every opportunity to talk about its history and point out significant features and events. History settles over the landscape of Boston like a fine, golden dust. Things that are happening right now in Boston are already history; you can almost hear the city figuring out how it's going to tell the story later on, in the future.

I am the same way. Me and Boston, we're like soulmates.

I work way too much. Way, way too much. And when I'm not at work I'm usually too tired to do much of anything besides sleep. I haven't written anything in I don't even know how long, and it's taking me over two weeks to read one measly book (About Town: The New Yorker and the World it Made), which is unprecedented. But by some kind of blessed miracle, I have tomorrow off. ('Yes,' most of you are probably thinking 'of course she does, it's the 4th of July.' You've obviously never worked in the food service industry.)

I turn 24 on Sunday. Half of the time I feel like I'm still 13. The other half, I feel 80. Does anyone ever feel like they are the age they are most of the time? Is it some kind of weird generational glitch that people my age feel like it's impossible for us to grow up? And is it ok for me to hate all those people who were published in The New Yorker by the time they were my age?

I'm starting to doubt that I'll ever be a writer. I guess I'm starting to doubt a lot of things. Like my sanity.

But to answer my own pondering non-question of the last post: I love Boston. I remembered it the minute I got on the train coming back from the airport. I don't really know why, but I love Boston intensely. Is that strange?

Hm. I still need more coffee.

I'm heading back to Massachusetts. Sweaty humid goodness...yeehaw.

Kick me in the arse if you will, but I'm starting to wonder what the hell I'm doing out there.

I know I couldn't live in Santa Cruz anymore. I know I love Boston, and it's good that I live there, and I don't regret it in the slightest. But...

Hm. I need coffee.

Ahhh California. I am beginning to realize that even if I never come back to reside in this state, it will always, always be home. And despite my all too frequent complaints about Santa Cruz, it has an insurmountable charm. Sitting in the Poet and Patriot yesterday afternoon I realized that, while Boston may be the US capitol of Irish pubs, the Poet blows them all away. I fear I may never find a pub as great as that one. Le sigh.

Everything is the same, and yet slightly, almost imperceptibly not. I feel at home and yet displaced. It's strange, but I'm still happy to be here. I got my tasty nachos, I saw my favorite Zachary's peeps, I got to drink beer in the Rush Inn and complain about the fact that it's being overrun by hipsters, and the weather...oh, the weather. It's fantastic.

But I'm tired and hungover, and I have to get ready to eat excellent Chinese food tonight (once you've eaten at the O'mei, no other Chinese food will satisfy you, I promise you that). I don't care what I say, I heart Santa Cruz. We just have a very volatile relationship.

I'm heading out to Santa Cruz tomorrow YAY!! Four whole days of normal California weather (where it stops raining when spring is over), and bars I can still smoke in (in Santa Cruz they know when laws are meant to be broken), and Mexican food! Real, live Mexican food!!! And Kathy! And Kim! And Mikey! Oh my!

In the meantime, I've been trying to write, but I'm wondering if maybe I just have to hang up my hat (er, pen?) and realize once and for all I'm not really a writer. I guess I'll have four whole days to ponder this, too.

From the joys of unemployment to the wonders of overemployment. The fun never ends. I've been working my arse off, but it's really not bad. After the first 10 hours you can't even feel your feet anymore, so it doesn't really matter that they hurt. And the delirium from lack of a sleep makes trying to give water to 13 people simulataneously feel like a very strange but entertaining game.

Actually, I'm really pretty happy with it all. I've met some very cool people, I'm making pretty good money, and my addiction to espresso is strong and healthy once again. Oh yeah, and I have a crush, which is always fun. I haven't had a crush on anyone interesting in along time. I forgot how exciting and silly they are, with all the giddiness and the flirting and the telling your friends how very, very cool Super Person X is (yeah, I'm stealing that from Crystal. Thanks Crystal.). Hee hee hee. I feel like a 15 year old. It's great.

The only thing that is stupid in my life right now is that I'm supposed to be in a field with thousands of people listening to Radiohead. Field Day Fest was cancelled, the bastards. They cancelled it on Wednesday. I was supposed to go see the Matthew Barney show at the Guggenheim, too, but no Field Day, no trip to New York. Stupid stupid.

Even that's really ok, though. At least now I have a few days to recuperate and sit on the couch watching old episodes of Sex and the City. And I get to hang out with Crystal. And I get to sleep.

New reviews should be up soon. For now, I'm going to go drink more coffee and read the paper. I heart Saturday mornings.

I have now rejoined the ranks of the gainfully employed. Yeehaw! Not only did I get a job, I got TWO jobs. I'll be your friendly waitperson at Bella Luna, and the person who aids and abets you in your caffeine addiction at Torrefazione.

It's been awhile since I've done the customer service thing, and I think it's going to take me a few more days to readjust, but so far I like it a lot. And service jobs are definitely more conducive to meeting people than temping in an office somewhere; I already heart my coworkers. So yeah, I'm a happy kitty.

And the $2 beers at the Milky Way don't hurt, either.

Oh yeah, and I get to go back to Santa Cruz for a few days. My excitement is boundless. Kathy is my goddess. Kathy, if you're reading this, you are my goddess. God. Dess. Those of you at the Rush Inn...be forewarned. I'm coming back. Mwah ha ha ha ha!!!

I'm doing my best not to let the thrills of unemployment get the best of me. I'm putting up a semi-decent fight. I think.

I just started an internship at Beacon Press, and this internship was one of the things that I had high hopes about before I even got out to Boston, so that's a good thing. It's one day a week, unpaid, but even after only one day I feel like I've learned new things. I'm excited just to be there. And I just hope I meet all those important people I could potentially meet who could potentially find me a real, live job some day. I'll just have to brush up on my networking skills. Or something. Yeah.

And I'm pretty sure I got a job at this coffee shop down on Newbury Street, Torrefazione. The manager told me that I was basically hired, but that, due the changing student schedules and all that other fun, end of school year stuff, he doesn't yet know when or how often he's going to need me. So I just have to sit tight for a week or two (hopefully only for a week or two) and then I'll be back behind the counter, your friendly espresso queen once again. I'm actually kind of excited about the prospect of working in a coffee shop again. I really miss it.

I'm heading down to the bookstore this afternoon to beg for a job. Wish me luck.

God all this job search stuff is boring. Sorry. I promise to be more entertaining next time.

So, the company I interviewed with didn't hire me. And the temp place kicked my arse the curb. Apparently my distaste for the job was more apparent than I thought. So I have joined the ranks of the unemployed. I actually just found out that said company didn't hire me, so I'm still in the early stages of disappointment and I'm feeling more than a little deflated.

Good thing we have Spinal Tap to watch tonight.

I moved all the way across the country because I wanted to work in one specific industry. I want to be an editor, it's the only thing I really want to do in the world. I know I'm qualified, and I know I'd be damn good at it. I don't want to waste the hours of my day being an Administrative Assistant for some company I don't care about, or serving eggs to a bunch of snarky people who probably look down on me because they have great jobs and they assume I'm uneducated. I want to be an editor, and I wouldn't even mind starting out in the freakin mail room, or serving the boss coffee, as long as I was doing it in a publishing house. I'm not in college anymore and I don't want to the kinds of jobs I had when I was in college. And I'm pissed that I live in a time when people have to spend their whole lives working the kinds of jobs they had in college because there is nothing else out there.

Oy, I'm just venting because I'm frustrated. I'm trying to be optimistic, and even to look on the bright side of working in a restaurant or coffee shop- at least I'd be able to meet people, and possibly have some kind of social life again.

I'm not always this grumpy. I just want a job.

Oy. I wish I had something interesting to say, but I don't. I just need to kill time. I'm struggling to stay sane. The last 15 minutes of work sometimes seem to be the worst. They were obviously invented by the Axis of Evil. I don't know what I'm going to do if this company I interviewed with doesn't hire me. I haven't had any other prospects return my call for gainful employment, and this temp thing is the worst thing I've ever done.

In other news, I'm getting kind of addicted to this.

This might be one of the funniest articles I've ever read. These people can't be real. They are characters from some wacky novel. I swear.

Whoo-hoo! Updates!!! It's like a miracle or stuff. I actually wrote something. And let's just say that from now on, you can expect updates weekly. Riiiight.

My friend put this song on a mix tape she made for me, but she neglected to write who it is on the case. Jeorb. It sounds a little like Pinback. But I can't tell. It's driving me mad.

As is this temp job.

This sounds like a great idea.

I'm trying to convince myself the living in the US is not becoming a nauseating endeavor, but my convinction wanes a little more everyday.

"Lt. Gen. David McKiernan, the commander of ground forces in Iraq, issued a proclamation putting Iraq's politicians on notice, saying, 'The coalition alone retains absolute authority within Iraq.' He warned that anyone challenging the American-led authority would be subject to arrest."

But we aren't there to run the country for them. We're fully committed to an Iraqi government for Iraqis, made up of Iraqis, and under Iraqi control. Obviously.

You can read the article from which the above quote comes here.

"We've made clear to Iran that we would oppose any outside interference in Iraq's road to democracy." -Ari Fleisher, White House spokesman

Right. Because the US obviously doesn't constitute outside influence. This must be a new game, the "Let's See How Arrogant We Can Get" foreign policy game.

You can read all about it here.

Wow. I'm on some kind of roll - another new review up today.

If I don't find a decent job soon, I'm going to go completely batty. This place is starting to make me feel all full of rage and impotence or something. I hate doing busy work just for the sake of being kept busy. Especially when you know that what you're doing really isn't useful to anyone. I really don't want to complain too much. I'm just tired. I kept dreaming that our cat was breaking into my room and trying to eat my hand. Plus, I think I heard mice scuttling around upstairs, which made it nearly impossible to sleep. Jeorb.

In much more exciting news - my housemate and I went to see The Postal Service on Sunday night, and they were so badass. It might be the best show I've seen so far. The actually covered Phil Collins. HA! It was phenomenal. I have a new love.

I'm hoping to convince my good friend, the Empress Crystal, to write some words of wisdom for the Smarmy Gator, so you might actually have something interesting to look forward to.

That's all for today. Bye now.

Real, live updates! Can you believe it? So, they're not as extensive as I had planned. Yet. But it's something, right?

For the second time in a week, I've seen the phrase "betwixt and between" in print. Perhaps the word does not mean what I think it means. Either that or redudancy is coming into journalistic fashion.

I got a second interview with the promising company I mentioned last week. I guess the first interview went better than I thought. Maybe queen laura will have a real, live job soon and will be able to extract herself from temp purgatory. It's an Editorial Assistant position, and getting an Editorial Assistant position was the whole reason I moved to Boston. I'm well on my way to world domination.

The weather is fantastic. So of course it's supposed to snow later this week. Bastards.

Yeah, my life is boring. If I could write about my secret agent undercover life, this website would be much more interesting.

It appears our grassroots campaign for the re-emergence of the word "betwixt" is beginning to show results. And even though the word is, well, superfluous in this particular sentence, one small step for "betwixt," one giant step for...oh nevermind.

I promised I would have new and improved smarmy content elsewhere at the site about 2 weeks ago, and as you've likely noticed, no such thing has occurred at this juncture. That's because I'm a lazy bum. I'd like to blame it on some kind of writer's block and lack of inspiration, because that excuse at least appears to have some heft and substance to it. But no. I'm just a lazy bum.

Our party was rad. I saw Spoon the band last night and they were Spoonirific. I have a very promising job interview tomorrow. I've been reading some very excellent books. I haven't been getting nearly enough sleep. I've been trying to continue my recent venture into the world of linoleum printmaking. This is my life. There isn't very much writing in it these days.

But there will be. I should stop making promises, but I can very nearly almost guarantee that in the next few weeks you will find on the Smarmy Alligator:
-A review of the splendid Spoon show
-A review of "Leaving Atlanta," and quite possibly an interview with the author, Tayari Jones
-An article on temping and the current working environment
-More advice from Wilson Phillips and other pop stars past their moment of glory
-Probably some other stuff

So I got in trouble for "using the internet for personal reasons" here at work. Hence, updates are going to be even more infrequent until I can figure out how to get myself a computer at home.

This temp job is crap.

But it's April 1, meaning it's almost spring (even though it snowed yesterday), and we're having a party this weekend. So I'm trying not to care about how much crap this job is.

Yeah.

Last night my housemates both concocted emergency plans with their folks in case of, well, emergency. Now that we've actually started dropping the bombs, everyone's guessing that it's only a matter of time before some kind of holy hell is dropped on us. My mom was worried when I talked to her on the phone. Being in Boston, I'm apparently much closer to the "danger zone" than I was in Santa Cruz (the only reason one would attack Santa Cruz would be a strong hatred of patchouli stink), but I politely scoffed at my mom's concern, and told her I didn't think there was really much of anythng to worry about.

So I was pretty surprised when one of my housemates told me her family's emergency plan was to meet at the family farm in Texas. I mean, I was thinking emergency plan of the duck and cover variety, not Stephen's King's The Stand variety. Suddenly I'm having mental pictures of travelling across a country of burnt rubble, searching for any other form of human life. Am I naive in thinking that's really not bloody likely?

Alright, so maybe a lot of people would say I'm naive as hell, and that that naivete is what makes Americans so stupid, provincial, and hated by pretty much everyone in the world. (And don't think that because some nations are 'supporting' us in this war means they don't hate our stinking guts. They're just smart enough to know that if they don't have a lot of global clout, they should keep their hatred to themselves.) But am I the only one who thinks our Department of Homeland Security protection measures are a fucking joke? I mean really. A color-coded alert level chart seems more suited to Sesame Street than to domestic security. Duct tape and plastic sheeting? I want to know how shifting a bunch of bureaucratic departments around in Washington to create a big new department with a pathetic sounding name is going to protect anyone.

I said it a year and a half ago, and I'm going to say it again. The only way we can prevent terrorism against us is to stop terrorizing other people. We still have yet to take a good, long look at our foreign policy, and our history of international interference. Maybe, just maybe, talking to people about their grievances, and about our own, instead of running around like a bunch of belligerant 14 year old boys, would be a much more efficient and intelligent first step in the "war on terror." But I suppose that would require intelligent people in charge of this country, and god forbid we allow that to happen.

Oy vey.

There's only one good thing that can come of this - maybe people will start to realize that Bushie is a moron, and we'll get a new and improved president in 2 years. Although I'm not sure that would really make much of a difference.

So it's completely pathetic that I haven't written anything new in over a month. I keep telling myself that I'm still adjusting to the move, and that once I'm settled I'll get back to writing, but that's really just a half-arsed excuse because I'm lazy. And I've been spending too much time watching the first season of Six Feet Under on DVD. My housemates and are obsessed. I mean, I've been obsessed for a year now, but I made sure they became obsessed, too. I'm serious. Once you start watching it, it's like a drug. And having the season on DVD means you can just keep watching. I'm glad we didn't rent every episode at once, or I probably wouldn't have had any sleep in the past week. I am usually much too attention deprived to watch tv for more than an hour. That's how good this show is. But I digress.

I really want to write something. There are crazy things going on in the world, and I feel like I should have something to say about them. I just moved across country, to a strange and foreign land (if you're from California, everywhere else is a strange and foreign land), and I feel like I should have something to say about that, too. I've been reading a lot of excellent books, and seeing a lot of great movies, so I should probably have something to say about those. My brain just doesn't want to function in any way that would allow me to write a cohesive, polished narrative about anything at all. The most I can manage to pull out of my arse are brief sentences, maybe even a whole paragraph. Anything more just feels repetitive and pointless.

Hm.

I'll have updates by Monday. Real ones. I promise.

Hm. This is very strange. Today was my first day at a very thrilling I'm sure new temp assignment. I arrived at the office of the Worker's Comp Research Institute at 8.45 am, ready to begin very thrilling I'm sure tasks like data entry and filing and what have you. Well. I've been here for over 3 hours now and have yet to speak to my immediate supervisor, or be given anything resembling work to do. This is unusual. In all my years of working for temp agencies, and being sent on assignment to all manner of strange places of business, I have never been left to sit alone for 3+ HOURS on my very first day. I already read the news (which I haven't really been able to do for a few weeks, so that was great) and caught up on all my email, even writing to people to whom I nothing of interest to say. I'm feeling paranoid that I'm going to get caught fucking around on the job, but there is no job to speak of! And they specifically wanted me to come in today instead of Monday for why?

In other news, it is damned cold today. I'm not just saying this because I'm a wimpy little California girl, oh no. Even the natives are shocked and dismayed at the extent of the evil cold today. I thought my head was going to freeze and fall off on my short walk from the train station to the office. The wind was intent on hurling little particle of icy badness into my eyes, and I think some very crucial part of my brain is now frostbitten.

Is it time to take a lunch break yet? I mean jeez, I've been working so hard.

So here I am in Boston. It snowed yesterday. A lot. Alright, it probably wasn't a lot to the natives, but to me, it was a lot. Today it's all melting and muddy, but I still think it's pretty.

A funny thing I read and an interesting, in a scary, thought-provoking kind of way, thing I read:

-People have apparently taken to calling the French "cheese eating surrender monkeys." I think that is one of the funniest things I've ever heard.

-As reported in the Washington Post: Nearly half of all the duct tape sold in America is manufactured by Henkel Consumer Adhesives in Avon, Ohio. Henkel founder Jack Kahl gave more than $100,000 to Republicans in the 2000 elections.

I still don't have very consistent internet access, so the Smarmy Alligator will be relatively silent for awhile as I search for gainful employment. Wish me luck.

Yesterday we went to the new Salt Lake City Library. For some reason, I really didn't expect such an amazing library in Salt Lake City, Utah. And I thought the library in Boston was neat.

So I left Santa Cruz and am on my way to Boston, with a pitstop in Salt Lake City (which is where I am right now). Today we're going to go look at the mormons.

I won't be updating too much for awhile, but be patient. I will return shortly.

Oh. My. God.

I was perusing old yearbooks the other day (god knows what incited me to do that), and now I'm on a mission. I somehow managed to lose touch with a good friend, for which I am still kicking myself in the arse, and I'm determined to find her. This girl was a gem and a half, and together, we could rule the world. I'm sure of it. We were hell on wheels, baby.

Of course I scoured the ubiquitous Classmates.com, and from there I managed to find this website. Apparently she is now married, but that's all I know. The trail has gone cold.

If you're out there, Ms. Kathryn (Kayte) Cannon, now McCord, I'm hunting you down. But in a good way! Wherrrrrrrrre arrrrre youuuuuu?????

Alright, so it looks like Mr. Kucinich might not be one of the strongest candidates for the presidency at this point. I appreciate his positions on the war, on unionization, on education reform, and most specifically, on NAFTA. But the man's a vegan, for Christ sake.

Oh, so this is what he meant by "endless war."

You need some advice?

My boss asked me to create a Procedural manual detailing the tasks I do here in the office before I LEAVE THIS JOB FOREVER TOMORROW. I just sat down to start writing this handy dandy manual, and I'm realizing that this is one of the most pointless things ever. It's not like anything I had to do here was difficult. I feel like such a dork writing "Step One: Affix label to upper right hand corner of form. Step Two: Enter information from database onto label in designated spaces" or whatever it is that I'm supposed to write.

It's very bizarre to sit and write step-by-step instructions for actions you don't think about doing too much. Try it, you'll see, it's bizarre! "Step One: Insert lock into car door. Step Two: Turn key clockwise until small plastic locky thingy pops up inside door. Step Three: Open the door, you dumbass."

So I'm realizing I am way too lazy to deal with the full HTML code deal everytime I want to post something minor and insignificant. Blogger to the rescue! Now every one of my fleeting thoughts can be published for the world to see, and I can further humour my own feelings of self-importance. Right on.