Holly Northrop Blog

So this is fun, I had some of my flesh voluntary seared off. I went to a dermatologist and he went to town on several 'suspicious' freckles. Mostly on my arms but there is a big one on my face next to my right eye. (Sexy) My arms look as if I have been burning myself with cigarettes. You know, no matter how fucking depressed I've managed to be in the past, nothing will ever make me intentionally burn a hole in my skin. That shit hurts. It hurts even more when every few seconds you are being told not to move and then someone freezes/burns you.

Did I mention that I've been testing a Kiev 88? Oh my, how funny is life? I've wanted a Kiev for sometime for reasons that are not snooty photographic reasons but just out of shear curiosity. It looks like it might be fun to shoot with, kind of screwy to figure out and well, it is Russian.

A few weeks ago, Martha brought a Kiev 88 bag full of goodies home. A friend's sister wanted to know what the whole thing was worth. It was her fathers and dad is now no longer shooting so...

Inside the bag were all kinds of good stuff. A Kiev 88 with the complete standard package, PLUS, four other big times lenses, a few hoods AND a Polaroid back. Woo Hoo!

So I've been screwing around with various configurations with the lenses and film loading attempts. I've lost two rolls to loading errors and I fucking hate that. Ok, one roll sure, the thing is a little buggy, but two rolls piss me off. Film is expensive.

I shot two rolls of color just to see how bad the light leaks were. Black and white can hide that. I wanted to try a different lab closer to midtown because why? Because I had another dental appointment, what else?

I dropped off the film super early with the request that it was to be ready no later than 1:30. No problem.

At 1:30 the film was not ready.

After a few minutes, the owner came out, apologizing like crazy in a heavy, heavy Russian accent. The film was not Russian, he just happened to be Russian. All things Russian seem to be in my life right now.

Anyway, he very sincerely apologized to me.

"The guy…the guy, his clock was half hour off." He said.
I look at him, tilt my head slightly to the right and roll my eyes.
"I know. Sounds stupid believe me, I know. That is what he is. Stupid."

So I waited for twenty-seven minutes, grabbed the film, jumped on the 6 train and I was in the dental chair within fifteen minutes. As the dental assistant lowered me back, I warned her, "I'm sorry but I've had two iced coffees and a fruit cup. God only know what my breath must smell like."

Stuff like that just amazes me. I managed to go from 23rd & Park to 59th & Park, door-to-chair in fifteen minutes.

"Wouldn't it be great if they could just inject little shots of Novocain into your back?" I asked Martha while sitting in the car during our long commute home. She hates Wednesdays when she is trapped in the car with me. She calls Wednesday's 'challenging'. Mostly because I will not shut up.

"You know, little shots here and there, just where it hurts." I added.
"I've never had Novocain." She sighed.
"What?"
"You keep forgetting this, but I've never had Novocain."
I just sat there paralyzed, gazing out the front window. My mind had seized up and I was unable to speak. A welcome moment for Martha I'm sure.

"I don't know what to say to that. I used to have to have topical just so they could clean my teeth. Now it's not so bad, but I can't imagine with the shit that I've had done and not have had Novocain." I blather on and on...
"I've never had a root canal or any of the shit you've had done. That is why I can't understand these goddamn dental bills. I get a cavity, they just drill it, and it is over. Plus I don't have very many cavities."
"Man, I have Novocain at least once a month. It's like my period."
"I can't image what it must be like to be one of your dentists." Martha mumbled.

I have more bling in my mouth, via a new gold tooth. Yes, that makes two. It's in the back so who cares but it is kind of fun to have. I told Martha she doesn't have to buy me jewelry just buy me teeth.

For the first time in my life, I have borrowed a camera from a friend. I know, I know I'm scared too but this camera he has is very unique and I couldn't help myself. It is a Horizon 202 and it shoots pans but what makes it super cool is the look and feel of the pans. Plus, it's Russian. I have a thing for Russian cameras. I've wanted to Kiev 88 (basically a Russian Hasselblad) for years and my Lubital, while heavy and a picky bitch, is super fun to play with.

Anyway I'm going to take the beast into Manhattan this week and well, we'll see what I get. Just because the camera is cool doesn't mean I know what the hell I'm doing with it.

Jasmine has started looking for an apartment in Pittsburgh. Ah yes, the average Pittsburgh landlord is truly unique to the region. South Side, Squirrel Hill, Bloomfield, Friendship and Shadyside all have distinct 'characters' and so do the Landlords.

Just in Pittsburgh alone I've lived in seven places, ten if I count the three dorm rooms I was in while I lived on the campus of Duquesne University. One of those places was a four bedroom brick house that Martha and I owned in Friendship. The funny thing about Pittsburgh is that I'm not from there I just happen to end up living there a lot. I went to college there but then I've moved back (of my own free will) two other times. Martha, who is from there, would move back in a heartbeat.

So now Jazz has begun the process of meeting prospective new landlords and witnessing just how fucked up people can live.

Two apartments come to mind that I've had the misfortune of standing in while apartment hunting in Pittsburgh. Both are from the same hunt and I think they were both on the same day. It is from the time period that Martha and I were looking for our first apartment together. I was unemployed (surprise, surprise) and Martha worked all day, (again surprise, surprise) so it was my 'job' to scope out a good apartment and then bring her back later for final approval.

The first place was a one bedroom right on the edge of Shadyside near The Center of the Arts. They allowed pets, but it was on street parking. The outside of the building was awesome Big old sloppy Pittsburgh row house. Just huge. It was four stories high and the apartment was on the top floor. It had amazing original woodwork and the bedroom was possibly the largest bedroom I've ever seen. It was the whole top floor and while the ceilings were slanted in that attic way, there was good overall floor space and it had a balcony just off of the kitchen. There was just one MAJOR problem.

The floor looked bizarre. It was wall-to-wall carpet but it had a weird texture to it. When I asked the crunchy hippy chick who lived there what kind of carpet it was, that is when she told me that she had never vacuumed the floor in the ENTIRE two years that she had been living there. She had a cute little dog and the carpet was COVERED in dog hair.

My mouth dropped open and I looked at her and then the owner and then back at her in total disgust and confusion. How could you not vacuum a carpet for over two years AND how could you show an apartment in that condition and think for one second that anyone is going to rent it. What was even more bizarre was when I made the comment that the whole thing was disgusting she shot back with a 'vacuum cleaners are expensive' explanation.

The second apartment was just down the street, also in Shadyside and had an even more disgusting problem. The place was huge (two bedroom) and again, I would have totally considered it except the kitchen had roaches crawling all over everything. The stove, the counter tops, you name it they were there. Some dead, some living and all of them not even running away from us.

This apartment still had people living in it so really, I'm not sure what the hell was going on. There was a kid's room, so there was a child living there and the furniture was nice but the apartment was infested with roaches. And again the owner just shrugged her shoulders and went rambling on in some heavy Slovak accent about how great the neighborhood was.

Needless to say, Martha never saw either one of those places.

Jasmine has asked me to burn all my Joy Division for her. She swears she's not depressed, that she just likes the music and I do believe her but part of me did pause when she asked me. It's one thing when I decide to 'go there' but it's a whole other can of worms if your child 'goes there'.

"Mom, I also listen to Tool, but that doesn't make me want to go out and kill myself."
Although she was making a point I never got past the "I listen to Tool" part of that sentence. Tool makes many people want to go out and kill themselves.

She's coming home for her birthday and I can't wait to see her. She's driving and the cost of gas alone is going to be as much as a night at the Waldorf.

Can I just say that the West Fourth Street subway station is a total pit of shit? I hate when I have to use it and will walk the extra blocks just to avoid the damn place. Every time I'm down there I feel like I'm either going to be mugged or shoved in front of a train. It's one of the few stations in Manhattan that makes me feel that way. Even the station in the South Bronx didn't make me as uncomfortable as West Fourth Street.

I don't know why but that station just creeps me out, the vibe is all wrong. It's super spooky when you're all dressed for an interview, (or a job on Wall Street), you become a target for bullshit. I've seen it with other people and I've seen it with me. Dress like any other scourge of the earth and no one looks twice, but slap and pair of dress shoes and a Fossil Red Leather Business Tote on your ass and well, here they come.

Again with the dental visits, another Wednesday, another filling. I am seeing these people on such a weekly basis that I'm starting to know their lives, you know how their weekend was, etc. I could be an employee, except there is no way I could stick my hands in another person's mouth. I can barely tolerate the sight of my own horrible teeth let alone the fucked up crap of someone else's nightmare.

Funny, my dad was always trying to get me to go to dental school. That's all he used to say to me all through high school. "You know Holly, those dental hygienists make damn good money."

He'd always say that after he'd had a dental visit, which if I recall was with about the same frequency that I have. I get my shitty teeth from his Irish/German side of the family tree. Come to think of it, I get a lot of shitty things from that side of the family. Interesting how he never thought I could actually be a dentist but that I just might be smart enough to handle teeth cleaning.

Speaking of stupid, for two days last week, I periodically watched two guys from National Grid dig a hole in our front yard.

Union Street is undergoing a MAJOR construction project, in fact all of Hudson is but now they have started on our street. They are replacing all of the gas lines, the main one and the one that feeds into each and every house. So the drilling, tarring jack hammering, and general jackassiery should be a good time for all of us. It wouldn't suck so much if everything wasn't in the front of the house. My studio, the living room and the bedroom all have direct viewing of the construction. The only place I can hide out in is either the kitchen or Martha's office.

They have marked up the road in front of each house with colorful orange, blue and white spray-paint. It looks like HTML markup. I do notice that our house seems to have quite a few more notes then either one of our neighbors. Not sure what that means but I'm sure it sucks. It's been my experience that anything that has more code around it or special notations is most likely problematic.

The first day of the project is when they started digging the hole. They were looking for the main gas line. They found our pipe with out any real trouble. It's only about two feet down and right in front of our driveway, but the main line was a mystery, wrapped in a enigma that was stuffed inside a Triple Whopper^TM with Cheese. The magnet that they use to find pipe indicated that the main line was in our yard, so they started digging. Digging, digging and digging. End of day one: nothing so they covered the hole up put a bunch of orange cones with yellow tape around it and went home.

Day two. They dug out the hole that they had just filled fifteen hours before and then they dug further. By now, this hole had interested a neighbor, he came over to stand there, and watch Darrel and Darrel dig a hole.

He stood there for over thirty minutes, looking down at the hole. Amazing. I don't get it, I don't understand what part of the brain wants' to watch someone dig a hole. This is such a man thing. Is this the same thing as when we watch each other put makeup on? Just stupid brain shit, kind of like the power save on the computer.

They finally found the main line three feet over and under the road instead of in our yard. So they filled up the hole, and dug a new one, out in the road.

Saturday morning I woke up at 7am to the sound of aluminum ladders being extended and the general clanking that aluminum can cause. The weather has been so nice here that for over a week we've had the windows open and I'd like to keep it that way. Air conditioners cost money and seeing how I'm unemployed and the entire country is in some form of biblical disaster, (flood, fire and food are all attacking us), I figure the less I can crank up the air the better.

After a few clanking moments, I hear a weird noise coming from across the street. I look out and see a man standing by the neighbor's big tree in the front yard. He has the ladder and is looking up at the tree.

Ok whatever, the neighbors are having something done to their house, painted, shutter stuff, whatever, don't care I move on, pissed that I'm awake so early on a Saturday. But this weird noise keeps drifting over. I think it's either a treed cat or one of those crazy squirrels. I figure whatever it is, it's some kind of animal that is caught in the tree and because the workers are right there, it's freaked out. I know a woodpecker lives there but I wasn't sure they make a growl-moan sound.

Finally I figure it out. One of the workers is a mute. He's not deaf because there isn't any signing going on, just loud moaning sounds after everything the other guy tells him to do, which like normal conversation is every few seconds. He sounds like Peter Boyle in Young Frankenstein.

"We don't have enough errands to be away from that all day." I said to Martha.
"Well, we're just going to have to take the long way." She said.

Sunday was rough. I have no idea why but it was rough from almost the get go. Sunday was flea day. I hate the day when we give the girls flea treatments. We never had to do it until we moved up here and I just hate it. Zoe always acts like we've stuck a piece of tape to the back of her neck, staring up at the ceiling then flipping her head from left to right in a vein attempt to lick the back of her head. She looks like she is hearing voices. She can do this for hours and she makes me nuts. She drives me crazy, which drives Martha crazy and before too long, one of us (me) is sleeping on the couch with a little prescription overdose. I hate flea day.

In the middle of talking to Martha about how fucked up my head was (and chewing gum) my temporary crown fell out. Like right in front of her. I wish I could say that this was the first time she has ever seen this but alas I have had many a temporary crowns in my mouth and she is way over the shock of seeing something fall off my body. Sixteen years is a lifetime.

Well, I made it through the first of four dental appointments on Wednesday. I have a standing Wednesday afternoon reservation through the month of June. While walking around midtown shooting and killing time before my appointment, I started taking Xanax because of nerves and back pain.

By the time I was inside the building and around other people I realized that I just might have taken a little to much. I know this because while sitting in the waiting room all I wanted to do was go drink and have a cigarette.

But it's good for me to calm down at the dentist, otherwise it's just hell on everyone involved.

In this batch of unemployment, I have managed to become addicted to Law and Order. In over the twelve years that the show has been on air, I have never once watched it. Oh no, but now, since I've become part of the national statistic number of "The Unemployed" that show is so on. It's on because it's always on. They run hours and hours of it, all shows I've never seen before. It's fucking ridiculous and driving Martha crazy. I can't help it, I find an odd comfort in it consistency, and that "always on" feeling. It seems as though I am finally ready for the Orwellian Present.

I had an interview last Friday the 13th, with nice normal people who were so unlike the lovable lunatic fringe that I used to work with that I could not stop smiling at everyone. An odd site I'm sure.

With this job the not so lovable lunatic fringe is on the outside of the building seeing how the company is located in the World Financial Center, World Financial Center 1 to be exact, which by the way has the same damn elevator look and feel as the Twin Towers used to have. The main lobby has a stunning, jarring, disturbing, (pick one), view of the pit.

Once inside the building the offices themselves face Jersey, directly across from our old apartment. If I get the job, this image should only bother me at least once everyday when I think about how I could have been at work in under ten minutes, as compared to the over two-hour commute that would lie ahead of me on any given day.

Rough shit, I tell you, but like I said, really nice people.

Been having trouble sleeping for about a month or so and I'm not sure why. That whole counting sheep thing has never really worked for me. I fixate on too much on the details. How many sheep? Are they in a field? What color are they, brown or white? Are they shaved? Do they look like sheep, whose faces are super creepy and kind of demonic/human looking, or do they look like the sheep in the Serta Commercial? Is there a fence and if so what color is the fence? White picket or barbwire? Is there grass or dirt and are there other animals around?

It goes on and on and before I know it, I'm more awake then I was before.

Now, what sometimes works for me is rather odd indeed.

I imagine that I'm in a dark space, not so much a room as a void. No ceiling, walls or floor, just darkness all around me and I am suspended from a rope that is tied to my head. The rope leads up to nothing, kind of like one of the cages in Time Bandits.

My body dangles and all my muscles relax, my head is held steady, not so much as choking, but more like a block thing. I imagine that gravity is stretching out my spine.

Sometimes if my back is really killing me, I'll imagine hanging upside down, pulling my spine out the other way, just for a different take on the whole thing.

More work this weekend on Martha's room and I think I'm going to die. Her 3000-pound desk arrived and it took us all of Saturday and well into Saturday night to build most of it, taxing all of my problem solving and geometrical relationships skills. We stopped working only because our backs were broken, I was unable to hold things with either one of my hands and I could no longer think straight.

The house is still a misfortunate mess but her space already has a real good vibe and once it is finally finished, (we still have to build the bookcases and then go through everything, file it and organize the whole mess), it will be a great office. Unlike the fucking disaster, it was before. I wanted to take before and after photos but no one needs to see the before. However, here is the almost done photo and another of Miss M at her new desk.

The outside of our house is turning into crazy cute, which after the cold dead winter look combined with the whole foil thing, we are very happy to at least look normal. It's just the inside that has problems.

Sunday we had to drive a framed print down to Connecticut for a show I'm going to be in at the Ridgefield Guild of Artists. While the whole thing was not so much fun due to back pain and general stiffness that both of us were suffering from. I felt extra bad about making Martha burn a weekend day in the car but we did it. Drove all the way down to Ridgefield, dropped off the print but then we got a little lost when we drove off the Taconic to look at a golf course. Not just any golf course but the James Baird Gold Course, which was built in 1948, apparently an historic landmark of golf course lore.

We then drove around some weird little back roads until we finally came upon civilization and spotted a Dunkin Donuts where just like that, all was made better with coffee and a muffin.

Wednesday I have to pick up another print for a Landscape show up here in Hudson and I just found out that I'm going to be published in Lightleaks.

More home projects on the horizon include a new floor for the sunroom. I had wanted to just rip up the nasty carpet that was in there but right before the last snowstorm in February, I noticed that the floor was buckling in front of the door. So now we have to replace the floor but we can save a shitload of money if I do the demo. Now that is going to be fucking painful. I am scared for my back, shoulders and the general whole body area.

Speaking of pain, I get to go to the dentist every Wednesday for the entire month of June. I've also moved my therapy to Wednesday night, so um, Wednesdays are going to be full. I will either be having a filling filled, a mold made or a crown put in, and not all on one tooth. This a la carte presentation spans several teeth on all four corners of my mouth.

Then after fucking with my mouth, I get to ride the train to Martha and then another hour to therapy where for another hour I'll probably talk about my teeth and all the nuttiness the entire thing is causing me. You know loss of control, pain and that nasty persecution thing that is on an endless loop in my dizzy brain.

The whole thing is a total drag in that I'll have to break up my day of shooting to go to the dentist, not just once but for four weeks in a row. How the hell is that going to work. Start placing your bets now as to what week you think I'm going to crack.

After $2,700 and a week and a half later, Jasmine finally has the Jeep back and not a day too soon seeing how she moved Saturday and Sunday. Her living situation has always been a little screwy but this one was down right stupid. Now she's in another place until August, when by all accounts she is supposed to graduate. She's not going to walk though, she'll just have the diploma sent here, where upon opening it, Martha and I will drop to our knees and weep.

Like all bad relationships that do not end in gunplay, eventually someone either leaves on their own, or walks away after being told to get the fuck out. I have been in a nasty staring contest for about six-months with the mothership and finally, they blinked. Of no real surprise to anyone, I was officially laid-off on Monday, I was asked to leave.

I have numerous mixed feelings about all of this but the foremost reaction I have is the desire to take a sauna everyday for about month so I can sweat the past two years of ugliness out of my pores.

Having worked there for over six years; the last two being one of the worst professional spans of my career, forced to watch well over 100 people leave either voluntary or involuntary; I am a little weirded out by the length of it all. It was the longest job I have ever had, so it will probably take me some time to get my bearings.

I guess the best way to gauge my state of mind is to review what I did upon leaving the building for the last time. I walked down Bowery, deep into Chinatown and shot two rolls of film. As I slowly wiggled my way back up to C-Lab to pick up a roll of color film, I stopped and had coffee at Starfucks, where I openly and aggressively applied Tiger Balm to my back while sucking down a tall coffee. Walking further up Broadway, I slid into Best Buy and bought the new Cat Power with a Christmas gift card that I had been carrying around with me. All extremely normal things.

I was hired at the Voice on my 39th birthday, one week after my unemployment had run out and three months after the Towers fell. The pit would continue to burn for another two months and every day on my way into work, out to lunch and on the way home, the air smelt like a combination of chemicals and wet earth that would get up in the sinuses and linger on the tongue.

How I got the job was a simple matter of having a friend who used to work there. He made a call for me and before I knew it, I was hired. The funny thing about my interview was, deep down in my gut I just knew I was going to work there. Before my interview, I sat over in Cooper Square Park smoking a cigarette, looking around I could just see myself there. The other funny thing is that for the past two years I haven't seen myself there at all. Long gone are the folks whom I respected and enjoyed working with, replaced with people who never wanted to have anything to do with me; an interesting environment to say the least.

Yes, my last day at the Voice ended quietly. After shooting for several hours, I made my way to Hoboken where I jumped on a train to meet Martha. I dived right into the post-apocalyptic nightmare that is known as The Road, which I am right in the middle of. Then something completely unheard of happened. I managed to have a whole three-seater to myself all the way to Suffern, New York.

Crazy Isn't Stupid, Stupid is Just Stupid
Moving on, spring is coming, I can tell even though we still have white snow and brown deer poop in the yard. We start this week out as week five of the siding people and with the exception of some kind a weather issue; they just might finish the job. No. Fucking. Way. I know, right?

Martha and I did what we always do when one of us is let go and our financial future is sent into a tailspin, we bought something pricey. We consider it the layoff gift, because we're that damn weird and being laid off isn't a big enough gift in and of it's self, we bought art. Excuse me we bought Photography, apparently, a dying art form, which complete strangers delight in telling me once they see a Holga around my neck. People are so damn strange.

I remember years ago when Martha bought me a digital camera for my 40th birthday. I fooled around with it for days, shooting in all different modes and all the different settings. Eventually I settled on a programmed setting of no flash, white balanced, ASA 400, no beep, no sound and one shot only. Basically over time I navigated as close to my 35mm as possible. I goofed around with the Black & White setting but the whole thing felt stupid. I shot hundreds and hundreds of digital images over the course of two and a half years. The very first version of my website was almost all digital. Roughly all the Voice work I shot was digital, except for a few features where I was able to use the Holga for that 'Holga Look'. On a side note, I find if very funny that the last thing I shot for the Voice was this, although, it is not the one I would have picked. I would have chosen this one, but I'm just a picky bitch.

Countless times when I am out shooting or just walking from one place to another in New York the soundtrack in my ears perfectly matches the visuals of my path. Some are obvious like walking down McDougal Street while listening to Dylan or walking in step to Marquee Moon, over by Bowery and Bleecker, even though all that exists down there are hi-rise apartments full of Upper East Side Blonde girls who suddenly want to live the 'Downtown Lifestyle'. Thank god for places like Avalon Bowery Place, (Studios starting at $2,895) that can make those dreams safely come true. For Martha and I to live there, it would cost us around $6,500 a month and I wouldn't be able to have a darkroom.

Anyway, despite New York's continual slide into wealth management, I am talking about the delightful musical surprises that happen. Things like listening to Elvis in the middle of Union Square, or the Pixies in SoHo. Weird little bits of musical chance that can make the most miserable event tolerable.

One such moment happened last week when I was on the 6 Train going uptown to what I thought was to be a routine dental visit, but more on that in a minute. I had to stand on the train, which normally I don't mind but when the train is crammed full of shithead foreign tourists coming fresh off a Ground Zero stop, I turn into one big cranky face.

Just when I decided that I hated everyone, through my ear buds the sounds of the Butthole Surfers, Leave Me Alone flowed faintly in the background. In the process of yanking my hand up to adjust the volume control, I smacked the ass of the girl in front of me.

She jumped up and around allowing me the full on force of her lunch choice involving buckets of garlic. I smiled, she didn't, I rolled my eyes and shifted my direction by precisely one inch to the left and turned up the music. Standing three inches from my face and mouth breathing garlic at me, she glared at me for exactly one whole subway stop, and then looked away once we passed 14th street, having taught me a harsh, harsh lesson. (Like that had any effect on me, honestly now, all you did was stare at me and make my eyes water.)

This particular 6 train was being driven by Mr. Fuck-You-I'm-in-the-Union-Driver. You know the guy. He doesn't give a fuck about any of it and pushes the train to go as fast as he can, stopping on a dime in every station, laughing to himself in his little booth at the sounds of bodies banging about each subway car. He's the guy that we've all seen get off his shift and slide out of the subway car like Superfly, saying "Hey Baby" while pointing to all the female Transit employees.

Riding with Youngblood, you know the drill, find a nook and ride the wave. While traveling between subway stations and well beyond 60 miles per hour on some of the long stretches, for a split second your feet can actually leave the ground. It's the slamming on of the brakes that you have to be ready for. Every stop, all the tourists went flying, yet oddly, they never stopped talking to each other. Hands on pole, legs in the air, yak, yak, yak. I know they are talking because I can see their mouths moving around, but thankfully, all I hear is Butthole.

Once we get to my stop, I birth myself out of the subway car and immediately moved into the salmon upstream sensation of 59th street at lunch hour. It doesn't matter what direction you are headed, it is always the opposite of the flow. It's like a blizzard, always in your face and way too bright.

I am late when I get to the dentist so within seconds I am in the chair with the little napkin thing around my neck. Things move along like normal when the hygienist notices something about my upper left molar. Great. Okay, well, let's see what it is.

Now my relationship with this particular dentist is long and strong. For years, she was the only professional of any kind that I was seeing. That means that she was my therapist, my doctor consult and a life coach. She went through Jasmine's cancer with me where I would go there for check ups, just lay in the chair, and cry. Sad but true.

All this drives Martha crazy because:
a: Dr B (as she is known) is out of network;
b: she's fucking crazy Park Avenue expensive; and
c: I simply will not consider anyone else.

I can guarantee that as Martha is reading this, her hands are sweating and she's getting a headache, combined with a little stomach upset.

Dr. B pokes around in my mouth and does not like what she sees. Three shots of Novocain and a laser procedure later, I am numb and slightly shaken. But it wasn't as bad (meaning I wasn't as bad) as it can be. In fact, Dr. B touched my shoulder and said, "I just want you to know that was the most normal I've ever seen you. You're almost like a normal patient."

Drugs and therapy baby, drugs and therapy.

So, good feeling gone when I go to check out. The total for the day came to $4,500. Upon hearing that, I just started to ball. Dr. B walked over to me and hugged me then told the billing clerk to cut the bill in half.

Half is still crazy but not $4,500 crazy as I pointed out to Martha later on that evening, when she about had a heart attack.

I may be unemployed but as Martha pointed out to me while lying in bed one morning, "Thank god you're on medication."

Martha and I actually went out to a movie. Hard to believe I know, but we did it. Saturday night (date night), we went to see 3:10 to Yuma. I love a good western and Christian Bale and Russell Crow, please; I will pretty much watch anything that has Christian Bale in it. He totally won me over with The Machinist and his super disturbing portrayal of Patrick Bateman that carried American Psycho. Russell Crow, well sometimes, I just can't seem to get on board with the grandness of his choices but 3:10 to Yuma was fun. At one point during the movie the owner of the theater came over to us to see what the little orange light was that was resting between Martha and I in the drink holder. I had to explain that it was a TENS unit and not a Handycam® Camcorder.

I have just one week left on my fantastic month off and just what have I accomplished? Well, in-between getting the shit beat out of me at physical therapy and Novocain injections in my mouth, (I wish someone would just stick a big needle of Novocain in my back) I have managed to get a great deal of personal work done. The biggest part of the battle with submitting work to galleries, grants and what ever else I stumble upon is sitting down and pulling the work. Depression and self-doubt lurk around every corner and if I'm not in the right headspace, or more likely, something or someone has gotten into my head, well then forget it. Pulling work becomes nightmarish.

I think I'm going to go spend a day at ICP. I've only been there once for a special exhibit but I've never had the time to loiter around the permanent collections. Now is the time to go look at stuff that no one who actually lives here can get near. All those places are usually jammed packed with tourists and strollers but if I go early enough it might not be as soul crushing. I've noticed that Monday-Thursday before 12:30 pm things in Manhattan are a little easier to do. Friday, forget it the whole day is fucked.

Congratulations are in order to someone who I used to work with at the Voice and now has managed to snag a really sweet job at NPR. Impressive and great timing. NPR has always been in DC, (fucking kill me, no.) but they have sent a small group over the Mason-Dixon Line into good old Yankee town, Manhattan.

I had two dental appointments last week, one on Monday that cost $350 dollars and then one on Friday that cost $300 dollars. Kind of like bookends. The week before I had one dental visit that cost $2200 so within that span of ten days I have spent $2800 dollars on my teeth. Martha is not amused, although she did say that the one tooth (my right fang) looked a lot better.

The colossal Sharp TV is to be delivered this week and honestly, I am a little afraid of it. Our living room is not that big and this thing is going to be a monster. My concern is that I will not be able to get far enough away from it to enjoy anything. That sitting on my couch will be like sitting to close in a movie theater and to be able to enjoy anything I'll have to stand in the driveway and look in through the window.

There was a murder in Hudson! Just down the street from our house back in the woods by the train tracks. It made the news, well the local news up here. Super weird seeing how there has been like one (1) murder in Hudson in past seven years. Channel 10 said that it happened between 6-9 Sunday morning. Martha saw all the police cars while walking back from yoga. Creepy.

Overheard on the train into Manhattan:

"Look, there is the Empire State Building!" small blonde pre-teen child screaming wildly while pointing out the window.
"Can we go to the top?" the child's older blonder sister asked the parents.
"Yes, we will go to the top." The father answered.
"Can we go stand outside?" both children ask in unison.
"Yes, we can walk around on a platform." The father answered, already sounding exhausted.
After a few minutes of quiet the small pre-teen child asked her father, "Do you think they will bomb us today, daddy?"
"No honey, not today." The father smiled.

The Other White Metal
I had a filling fall out of my mouth earlier in the week and now, twenty-two hundred dollars later I have a nice, off-white temporary crown in its place. In two weeks, I will get the new color-matched crown. Seems that when things fall out that's bad, which is true for so much more then just fillings.

If I had known that I was going to need a porcelain-fused-to-metal crown instead of a simple filling, I would have self-medicated better. Especially seeing how I have a major gag reflex, (that's right not just in life but also for real) and the more uptight I am the more difficult it is to make a molding of my mouth. So without going into to much detail, let me just say that now, two more people on the planet consider me to be a nutty mess after having to spend two hours knee-deep in my mouth.

I couldn't see my regular, "Out of Network" dentist because he was booked solid until late September so I had to see his "Out of Network" protégé. Too bad there wasn't a price break on his latest charge.

Looking at the hole in my mouth with his little mirror, Dr. Protégé said, "You might need more then just a simple filling. You might need an Inlay."
"What the hell is that?" I asked, while straining to look down the hall for my usual dentist.
"An Inlay is where the surface of the tooth is still your tooth but the inside would be filled with gold."
"Gold, right, and how much does that cost? - ish" I sighed.
"Sixteen hundred dollars - ish." he replied.
"Fa-uck. Oh, I'm sorry." I said apologizing for dropping an F-Bomb so early in our relationship.
"I've heard worse," he whispered.

As Dr. Protégé began tilting my chair back, my back started having spasms. I quickly turned my TENS unit up. Thank god I already had it on. I wasn't even going to bring it let alone wear it. That is like the only thing I had any foresight on.

"What ever happened to gas? They used to give gas for everything. I remember getting gas for a cleaning." I started in with the nervous chatter that overwhelms me in stressful situations.
"We still have it but we only use it for patients that need to take the edge off."

Clearly, he was not seeing me for what I was.

"Hello? Right here." I said while raising my hand.
"Well, let's get in there and see what we have. Gas doesn't really do anything but get you high."
I just sighed and opened my mouth.

After what seemed like an eternity of suction, drilling, two additional shots of Novocain, enough water to drown me and wads of cotton rods, the assistant sat me up so I could rinse out all the old residue from the failed filling. As I was spitting out mouthfuls of silver chunks Dr. Protégé began speaking to my back, "Well, I have good news and I have bad news. Which do you prefer first?"

I roll my eyes at the wall, spit out another mouthful of dark grey water and said, "How about you don't fuck with me and just tell me."
"She's so funny." his assistant chimes in.
"Okay," clearing his throat, "…um well you don't need a root canal, but you do need a crown. There was a great deal of decay under the…"
"How much does that cost?" I interrupted.
"Eighteen hundred dollars - ish." I could tell he was trying to smile under his white mask.
"Of course it does." I laughed.

I considered calling Martha from the dentist to let her know just what the hell was happening but I knew that I was already on the edge of loosing it. So I thought I'd save that for outside, on the street amongst my fellow New Yorkers, where with a splitting headache I could stand over by Tony Rosenthal's bronze piece "Rondo" and watch my own distorted reflection crying into a cell phone.

All this comes on the tail of spending two hundred dollars for my "Out of Network" back doctor the day before, (which now pales in comparison), but I did manage to stave off the eight hundred dollar neck injections for now. Fuck it just chew more pain pills and shut up.

Money, money and money. It freaks me out when I know that I personally have spent over three grand in one week. That can't possibly be okay.

The timing on this is lousy. But then again, spending that kind of money is never, ever going to be light and causal. But see Martha and I just last week finally decided to deal with getting my ring resized. Martha bought me a beautiful diamond ring six years ago and I've hardly ever worn it. First it was because I was doing a lot more street photography and didn't want to walk around the Bowery with a rock on my finger. Then it I lost a shitload of weight and it didn't even fit on my thumb. But now seemed like a good time to take the ring to a jeweler. (Well, not now but a week ago.) We picked out a nice setting, something that was kind of ugly and looks more like a ring that I would have inherited, if I actually would have inherited anything. The ring is beautiful and I love it. It has two sapphires on either side of the diamond. We are celebrating sixteen years together next month and it just felt right to finally deal with the ring. But I know that if we would have had any idea that my mouth (of all things) was going to cost over twice as much as a new ring setting, well we wouldn't have done it and my diamond would still be sitting in a jewelry box, or used as filling in my mouth.

Ah yes, but all this is just the ramp up to that wacky month, September. And soon that special thirty day festival will be upon us. In an effort to narrow the odds a tad, I have taken the month off. The price for this vacation will be high but Martha and I knew that going in, and damn if it didn't work like a charm. If I've learned nothing else, I've at least learned this; evil is so predictable and things fall out when the soul has rotted away.

I had to shoot a neighborhood of Staten Island on Sunday and honestly, it was kind of fun. We had to drive, which usually sucks but in this case, it was the best way to move around the big ole land of weirdness. It reminded me of all the places I used to live smashed into one island.

We were in a suburb that was so exclusive and isolated that after having driven around the island looking for other cool shit to shoot, I would guess to say that Egbertville is not the norm. I kept thinking that the neighbors were going to call the cops if we didn't hurry up and get the hell out of there. This was suburbia and I'm walking around with one camera around my neck and one camera in my hand while an SUV with Jersey plates slowly follows behind me. I would have called the cops on me.

One thing that I had read about and had wanted to try to photograph was The Boatyard at Rossville [The Elephants Graveyard]. Martha and I hugged the edges of Staten Island trying to get near the abandon tugboats that were scuttled in Arthur Kill. We couldn't get close enough by car and the only way I could figure out how to get the shots I wanted was to swim or wade out there at low tide.

Or I could stand by the edge of the road, with my telephoto lens, right next to the 200-year-old abandon family graveyard that is nestled between the wheatgrass and a hillbilly shed with a 'No Trespassing' sign clanging off a metal spike that has been jammed into the ground at my feet. All the while, a crazy black dog, tied to a tree, its metal chain pulled taut, barks its fucking head off at me. Not too much pressure, eh?

But I didn't bring my telephoto and there is no fucking way I will EVER let Arthur Kill water, or any local water, touch my skin. What are you kidding? I already have hives just by walking around here. So I shot a few Holgas and made Martha take a few shots with her high powered digital.

Staten Island is very leafy, except around the massive Fresh Kills area. That's all flat and funky looking. At one point on 440, if you look all around you, out every window, the landscape is flat. In every direction are the man-made hills of NYC trash, glazed over and ready to be called a park. There are no houses, trees, or people but there are plenty of birds. Thousands of them. Yep, nothing but birds and a dead cat by the side of the highway.

In a bizarre way, I like it over there. Yeah, I know, I am driven to odd trash. Martha made such a big stink about it but honestly we live in Jersey so what is the big deal. I am certainly interested in shooting more of it. It is unlike any other borough, that's for damn sure.

WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION
As of Monday, Jasmine will be home for the holidays, although I'm not sure for how long. She has been subpoenaed to appear in District Court on January 6th for a Criminal/Summary case in which she is a witness for the Commonwealth of PA. All this goes back to when she saw a kid get hit by a car while she was out partying with her friends. That night, Miss Yappy not only called 911, which I support, but then she hung around and gave a fricken statement to the police. Now look at what good that did. PA has charged this kid with something, (none of our business but my guess is possession) and now Jazz has to testify AGAINST him. But the biggest pain in the ass is this. On January 6th she is supposed to be here working. She is supposed to work her ass off to save money for her rent. Classes don't even start back up until the 16th. All that needs to happen is for PA to move this stupid trial one week ahead. Just one week and then she will be back in her apartment. Now I don't know. She'll have to call them to try and negotiate a better date. Yeah, right, bargain with a DA. Have fun with that, peanut.

SANTA LAND
My office has turned into gift storage & wrapping central and we still haven't bought a Christmas tree. We are waiting for Jazz—well I am, anyway. Martha keeps holding out for another free tree to appear in the Magic Trash Room, I think we might want to take the plunge and go buy one. I know it is hard for her to hear but a free tree comes around only once in a lifetime, if you are lucky. Wednesday looks like it might be the all-important day. Jazz is off and she and I can drag one home after work. I love doing that kind of stuff on the Path. It is such an urban thing to drag a tree onto public transportation. It's like when people move via the subway. It really is something to see.

BIG SNOW BALLS
I spent $746 in one visit to the dentist last week. Yep. That's' right, the dental wars have begun. The whole time she was digging around in there, I kept trying to remember when the last time I built a snowman was. I think it was when Jazz was small and if that is true, well then this winter I need to get the hell away from all the dirty city snow and roll one out. Life is short.

I get to shoot one of my favorite things this year. Christmas. I'm going to walk down 57th street and then 5th Ave, shooting all that I see. I love that kind of shit. Block after block of Christmas explosions. The Voice is going to run it in as a slideshow over the holidays. How cool. That is unless MTA strikes and then I won't be walking around up there. Oh no. I'll be walking around near The Path trains along with 8 million other people. I'll be the one with the tree.

Choosing to be part of the problem rather than part of the solution, Martha and I drove our gas guzzling SUV right through the heart of Pennsyltucky last Friday to pick up princess Jasmine at college and drag her pickled body back home to Jersey City. There is nothing like a road trip akin to that to make a person realize just how much FOX News has a chokehold on the spoon-fed minds of the middle class. Between the Bush/Cheney bumper stickers tastefully displayed on various shades of deep red Buick LeSabres and the 'Support Our Troops' magnetic yellow ribbons slapped on the ass of the basic Ford Taurus, it was hard for me to gauge which one bothered me more. It was easy to tell however which one drove Martha crazy. Every time a we came upon a Bush/Cheney sticker (and there were PLENTY of those, let me tell you) Martha make a 'Uch' sound and flipped into road rage mode as she would flick on the blinker, hit the gas and zoom around them. Those cars can only appear in the rearview mirror.

Ah yes, but Pennsyltucky is almost the same as I left it, a complex five years ago, only now, more of why I left is on display everywhere. One could not help but notice under the deep blue skies and shining sun, flags as big as my entire living room whipping around passionately in the wind as fat-as-fuck natives shuffle between Wal-Mart and Eat-N-Park, their eyes dilated from constant hording.

But back to the task at hand. We made good time getting to Jasmine's small college town and without much fan fair, thank god, we actually moved her out of her dorm and into a storage space under the four-hour allotted timeframe. We even met one of her hippie chick friends (Yes, I got a photo) who was in the process of moving to California. But really the big thing for Martha was the Friday night dinner where we could talk about the "New House Rules" for the summer. All very exciting for Martha but not so much for Jasmine, who tends to get frumpy whenever ANYTHING changes. Turning Jasmine on to closed caption instead of blasting the volume on the TV is going to be hard, but I think it's a good way for her to learn to read.

Traveling in true lesbian form, we needed to stop at the grocery store twice for just an overnight stay. Ah well, there is shit you need and then there is the shit you forget to bring. Besides, who knew our hotel room had a refrigerator? And sweet Jesus, where else could I stand in line at the Bi-Lo and listen to Aerosmith's Lick and Promise while waiting to purchase fat free half-n-half and crossword puzzles. Well, maybe in Ohio, which makes sense if you think about it because those borders do touch. This explains why while I was in line, singing along with Steven, I had a flashback to the summer of 1976 when I spent a few months sniffing glue with a small group of dope fiends that I met in summer school. We would go over to the hardware store next to the Harley shop and buy a big tube of white airplane glue, always making sure to get a brown bag at checkout so we have something to squeeze the goo into. Then, we would scurry off behind the condos on Montgomery Road where the woods was thick and dark. So thick that the sun hardly passed through the trees and the forest floor was covered in cool sweet moss. It was the summer of the Bicentennial and the Seven Year Locust and those crazy bugs were everywhere in the woods, clicking away all around us as we sniffed glue and fried our brains.

Funny what a song can do, eh? It's like one big smear of the bizarre. No wonder I have a tumor.

The drive home was enchanting for about thirty minutes in that I met a friend's mom in Milton, PA where we picked up a wall clock and a bread maker. Weirder small town photo stuff is really the driving force here but Milton was quaint without the usual past religious percussion vibe that most small towns in PA seem to carry. After that, it was around three hours of nothing but studying the black crows hanging out in the barren trees of the Pocono's all along the side of interstate 80, patiently waiting for the next road kill. I guess they view the highway as a 24/7 deli. Just sit and wait, any minute now something is going to try to cross the road. Why do they do it? Only the crows know.

THE WEEKS LIST
What weekend isn't complete without a little trip up the road for some barium and meat? I have to have yet another CT scan at 8:15 Monday morning so Sunday is berry flavored Barium Sulfate Suspension day and we need to go to the grocery store. The chores of life even on Mother's Day.

I spent $700 at the dentist last Thursday where I had to get nine (9) shots of some kind of crap I need to counteract the damage that the tumor and blood pressure medicine are doing to my teeth. My stomach has been killing me for about a week, I have no idea why, probably nerves, but fuck if not one thing would do the job and make it stop. I am actually thinking of drinking whisky just to see if that still works. It was only when I was at the dentist and I accidentally swallowed a big lump of topical novocaine that it eased up for a few hours. The cramping and nausea returned for the following two days but for those few hours it was great.

Big, big week here and only two days of it are going to be spent at work. Aside from the awesome CT scan with 1 mil cuts of my pesky adrenal gland, Martha and I are traveling to NC to visit her unbelievably old but totally inspiring parents. They are both 85 and an absolute joy to be around. I cannot wait to see them. The whole deal down there is so low key that the only big thing of every day is lunch. I'm going to read, nap and laugh my ass off because they are a riot. Actually, it's the three of them, Martha and her parents, that is where the laughter and the love is crazy fun.

Wednesday is Martha's 42nd birthday. She opened her brand new digital camera on Saturday night after we came home. A good chunk of Wednesday will be spent dealing with more doctor horseshit but I hope I can at least take her out for dinner or something.

I had the weirdest dream about Jasmine the other night. The whole thing was screwy but all I remember now is that I bitch slapped her because I caught her huffing cleaning supplies in the living room. I'm not sure what THAT all means but the whole damn day was stained with that fucked up image. The big 'ta da' for her last week was that she changed her major. Miss Jasmine Rai Northrop is now majoring in Journalism. I am so very proud and thrilled that she has found something she likes to do. So two photographers made a writer - the cycle of poverty continues.

After a little bit of typical Middle American confusion Jasmine's lease is all secure for her apartment next year. Being that she is living in a small college town all of the apartments have over-drafted leases to protect themselves for non-payment of rent. Yeah, no shit. So it was no surprise at all when they wanted Jasmine's parents to guarantee payment. Okay, sure, we know all about crazy leases but when this paper work came it was ridiculous. They wanted to guarantee the guarantor by having Jasmine's father, to not only sign it, but to have the dumb thing notarized. Yeah, right like that is going to happen or make a difference for that matter. Martha called them and explained that although he is not dead, he is, oh what is that word... 'estranged' Yes, that is the polite way to explain the situation. Martha also proposed that she could sign it too as my lesbian partner of 13 years but they declined the offer. The really funny part, well at least I think it's amusing, it that the whole nine months rent on this place is just a little more than what we pay for one month here. Is that sick or what?

MY DISTAL IS FINE
I was so fucking happy last week after leaving my root guy's office that I almost did pirouettes down Park Avenue all the way to Grand Central. I was totally having a klutzy ballerina moment that is for sure. But I couldn't help it and in any other city, someone would have carted me away. I had been dreading that visit for days because my teeth are nose-diving like crazy since I have been on this blood pressure medicine. I already had two cavities that we knew about. I personally can't believe that I have any of my original teeth left to decay. I think they are held together via a series of fillings. A few on x-ray look like filled Swiss cheese. Anyway, I had been very pensive about this visit because I don't have any extra patience what's so ever or an extra $1800 for more bling bling.

Oh he tried all his little tricks to make me jump in the chair but that tooth is fine. Now I do have another dental visit on Thursday but that is for my six-week root scraping. Nice eh? Living large, living larger.

I'M IN-LOVE WITH PLASTIC
I am in love with my new scanner and the Holga camera. The combination is unbeatable. It is so bad that I didn't even take my digital out of the house for three days last week. I only had my Holga with me. I have film in the freezer, in-camera and at Spectra Photo. It feels great and I love it. Everywhere I go I have the Holga around my neck and I look like a total jackass with a black plastic toy camera on top of my coat. Whatever. It can take any weather that is pummeled at it 'cause it's plastic. The only metal on the thing is the spring inside and the two clips on the outside that hold it together. But I have black photo tape around both of those so the back won't accidentally spring open. On the subway, folks always look at my camera and then look at me. It's a tourist thing to have a camera around your neck but I look nothing like the basic New York City tourist. Anyway, I love the shots I'm getting even if Martha is starting to do the simple math of film, processing and contact. If I can keep it to no more than two rolls a week then she shouldn't freak out too bad. The Polaroid is similar with its dollar-a-shot principal and I've managed to keep it reasonable - sort of.

Ah whatever, the camera is too much fun and the scanner is a gas.

OCD ON MY BODY, BABY
I honest to god think that some days my doctors are just making weird shit up that they can do to me. Like in some kind of bizarre frat hazing. Now, they want to stick a catheter in my groin (their word not mine) and run it up the artery to my left adrenal. I'll be awake but sedated. You got that right and they might want to take me to the point of coma 'cause the 'ick' factor is pretty high with this latest torture test. Apparently, while that shit is going on I'll be on a table under a florescent plate of glass and the doctors will "Oooo and ahh" as they observe the little plastic tube crawling up my artery. When it gets to the adrenal, it will then measure the blood that is zooming out of the gland to determine if this is the source of the tumor or if it is a secondary site. These fuckers are convinced that the tumor is somewhere else too. Despite constantly injecting me with radiation and scanning me for days on end, it is only showing up in the FUCKING LEFT ADRENIAL. The obsessive-compulsive desire to test me repeatedly is leading me to think that all of my doctors have OCD.

SURREALISTIC THRONGS
The Salvador Dalí exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art was amazing on so many levels but one word really sums it all up for me. And that one word is, volume.

The volume of pieces on display were impressive as was the volume of Pennsylvanian yahoos who stood around with headphones on and refused to move about the exhibit. It was damn near impossible to see anything. There were eight or nine rooms packed with art and retards. The crowd that Martha and I were shoved through with had to have been bussed in from the 'burbs of PA. I'd recognize that marble mouthed pronunciation anywhere on the globe. We were all packed in there so tight and up each other's asses just like stacks of waxed rimed drink cups. Drink cups with headphones on.

At least the whole stroller thing was outlawed (thank God) but still there were stupid mothers with infants strapped to their fronts in that external womb concoction. These things make a kid look like it's skydiving off of mom's body. All of the child's screaming and kicking are forced outward and onto the rest of us. One mother was so close to me that her baby grabbed my hair with her sticky little fingers and would not let go of it. The mom thought is was funny until I turned around and flames of white hot fire shot out of my eyes. I found not one nanosecond of humor in any of it and while yes, that is my problem in general when placed in large, unruly crowds I tend to loose all sense of fun, I also exist in a city of 8 million people who understand how to 'move about the room'. We all do it every day in a million ways and in five years, no one has grabbed my hair and screeched like a seagull.

But, but, but - what I did manage to punch my way though to and stand before was stunning. Dalí was an amazing painter and that whole 'attention to detail' and 'use of color' thing was jaw dropping. No reproduction can even come close to holding the color on that CMYK + what, probably 7? His compositions have always been the crazy thing but one needs to get up close to see his real obsession with detail.

Martha and I have two Dalí prints at home, one she bought me the first year we were together and one I bought her five or six years ago. The Philadelphia museum had a study of 'The Ghost of Vermeer of Delft Which Can Be Used as a Table' and they also had 'Untitled (Female Figure with Head of Flowers)' and it was pretty cool to see the originals.

While the whole thing was breathtaking however, I hold the Philadelphia Museum of Art totally responsible for orchestrating a near unsafe crowd control policy and Martha was so pissed that she wrote a letter to the museum director. I, of course, am awaiting the bird flu that will hopefully shave a few million off the top of this here latté and give some of us a little more space.

Martha bought me a scanner. How cool is that? Seriously, she is pretty fucking great if you ask me. She is my very own "bad kitty" Yes, yes I hinted at every chance but she could have pushed me off quite easily seeing as how we really do not have any money. But, that is how she is. She is my biggest fan AND my psychiatric nurse. She rocks.

Now I can scan the Holga stuff but just need the time and energy to play with my new toy.

Speaking of energy, I went back to work last week and Christ if it didn't almost kill me. One night I came home so tired that I fell asleep by 8:30, just like grandma. I am still doped up all the time but I cannot take any more time off unless someone is going to step up and operate on me.

I need to stay medicated because of reasons that I could not care less about but what it all means is that I am pretty much a paranoid scatterbrain at work. It is all so ridiculous that I actually cried in front of my boss. You know, I can count on one hand the amount of times that I have cried at work in the past twenty years. Days like the day Jasmine was diagnosed with cancer, shit like that, but never ever because some paper work was filled out wrong. Jesus Christ it was such a chick thing and I hate it.

I tried to shoot the Lower East Side this weekend for the Neighborhoods column but the whole thing was more like a pilgrimage then anything enjoyable. Aside from feeling like I am an observer in Koyaanisqatsi, I did manage to get few shots and I most certainly did not phone it in, but... [sigh] I want my fucking life back. If I had more energy, I'd kick someone's ass.

Big news this week is that I now need another root canal. Yes that's right a root canal. So in addition to my doctor issues I now have to go see my 'Root Guy', and the regular dentist for another gold tooth. (Bling, Bling). Not only is going to cost around $2000, (nice) I cannot have regular novocaine. I have to have something else because of the epinephrine that is in regular novocaine and the reaction that my tumor has. The irony here is all this blood pressure medication that I have been on since September is what is causing my already fragile teeth to rot out of my head. Since September, I have had to go to the dentist every 4 weeks to have my roots scraped and that still hasn't helped. And let me tell you, you have no idea what kind of promises you will make to the demons that visit you in your dreams until you find yourself in the screwy cycle of one Thursday of every month, for five months straight, you have a woman scrap each root of every tooth. I would sell Jasmine to make it all stop.

So in review my choices are take pills all day long that in the end are destroying my teeth and my career or stop the meds and have a heart attack. Hmm, now that is a tough one.

SUREALISM IS MY LIFE
Martha and I are going to Philly Saturday to see the Salvador Dali exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. A very sexy cool thing is that we are taking a train. Oh God, I do love Amtrak. A little train ride to Philly, a little surrealism art thing and then a little train ride back, sounds perfect. We never do shit like that and I am excited like a giddy schoolgirl. Only the enticement is art. That sounds about right. The surrealists get me going better then just about anything else.

BA BAM
Miss Jasmine is coming home for spring break this Saturday. Greyhound bound once again she will be here a whole week. She'll have one solid week of riding the red couch, Grand Theft Auto and eating all of our food. Considering that she could be one of those wretched college fucks that go to Florida and terrorizes the coastal cities with their drunken stupidity and Girls Gone Wild mentality, I would say that she is a fine, fine young woman. At least I will not be seeing her on TV, drunk with her tits hanging out and shaking her tattooed booty on the beach. I could live my whole life without ever having to witness that, although, now that I think about it, I might video tape something like that for future use.

BLACK OUT
Sunday night the cable went out and not only did I miss the News, 60 Minutes and The Academy Awards but I missed The L Word. I'm so pissed. How on earth in this day and age of flick a switch technology can the cable go out all fucking night and into the next day? Are they serious with that shit? Sunday night is, honest to God, the only night that I actually look forward to TV. Sad but true. The L Word is just crazy candy but 60 Minutes is the real deal as is the News. The weekends are when The Whitehouse does bad shit in the hopes that big media will not pick it up. However, if the networks do report some crazy right wing confirmation or sweeping changes in The Constitution, The Whitehouse then relies on the fact that most Americans are too busy fucking off watching the "GAME" to tune into the Sunday Night News.

THE BEST INTENTIONS
I made a CD for a friend's birthday and I was supposed to mail it last week but I cannot stop tinkering with it. This is the first true mixed CD I've made and I have to say I don't like the process all that much. I am still a diehard mixed tape maker and making a mixed CD just isn't as personal. Well it is if you keep fucking around with it like I have been doing. Changing songs, moving things around, endless tweaking. But there is something very creative about standing in front of the stereo and all of your records and really thinking about shit, listening to it all the way through and feeling the moment, that I find more of a gift to someone instead of something just tossed together. But most folks don't even own a tape deck these days so I didn't want to give her something that she can't listen to - because of the format. If she can't listen to it because of the content, well then, not much I can do about that. So, Melissa, if you are reading this it is going in the mail today, I promise.

IN HEAVEN ALL THE INTERESTING PEOPLE ARE MISSING*
I heard somewhere that Hunter was on the phone with his wife when he put the phone down and shot himself in the head. This made me laugh when I heard it and even days later I still think its funny, regardless if it is true or not. I know myself that there are people whom I have been on the phone with and if I would have had a gun in my hand at the time, why yes I probably would have shot something; the phone, a random person walking by my window, one of the cats or even my very own head. Conversations either so ridiculous or intense that simply hanging up could not possibly end the rotation of torment. The logic being "Now is as good as a time as any, I suppose." Every day is a good day to die, eh?

* Nietzsche

Ah, haw, haw, haw.

The cruise talk is running amok in the house and my vote is for Bermuda. Yes sir, I am thinking that the three of us should soooo be in the Bermuda triangle. Just might shake some of this strange juju off us. As Jasmine said to me straight faced and kitty cat eyed..."Maybe, we could be one of those missing ships. I so want to be missing."

You got that right peanut.

Martha, however, is not so convinced. She is taunting me with new speakers instead of a cruise. Suddenly she has turned into Monty Hall and I have to decide between curtain number 1, 2 or 3 while the audience screams at me to keep the cash or to go for it. The audience being Jasmine and the two cats, of course.

Speaking of game shows, the Little Things That Make Me Hate Bush Game is quite fun. Oh sure there are plenty of big reasons like the war, economy and the whole gay marriage/health insurance thing that piss me off to no end, but how often can any of us say that those "little proclamations" that monkey-boy has made directly effect your life. Because he did this now I have to do that, kind of thing.

Roughly every three months I have oral surgery and the latest occasion was last Thursday - the day we lost the apartment. Ta-fucking-da. Anyway, while it is always a good time and I have even named it as 'my quarterly mouth gouging', all shits and giggles aside, one of the procedures that I have done involves the use of knowledge that was gained through human stem cell research. This makes it possible for me to keep my teeth and grow bone. Like bone that I need in my jaw. Now, scientists, in a work around to Bush's ban on stem cell research of human embryos (a fetus is an embryo and a fetus can feel, right? RIGHT?) are now instead using pig embryos. I have pig in my jaw in three separate places and I'm feeling sexy. I am now part of the Pig Borg Collective.

Miss Simon and the Fabulous Keri are coming to town over the weekend. I cannot wait to see them and I think it has been over a year since they have been here. Not sure, but all I know is that I am sick to death of missing folks that I can't seem to see anymore for whatever screwed-up logistical reason.