why does it hurt so bad

My new job is wearing me out.
My feet hurt (it's a short walk to work — but farther than I ever had to schlep during my carefree days as a shut in freelance writer).
My knee hurts (banged on the side of Jimmy's sofa bed this weekend; I was down in D.C. for his birthday celebration).
My wrist hurts (carpal tunnel? or maybe it's the result of working on a P.O.S. computer these past two days).
My brain hurts (writing purty is hard).

Please tell me it gets better from here.

***
In happier news, JP has moved to the Big Apple. And Dr. Bob has a new blog.
Nifty!

***
Finally, here's an update to my previous post about A9. So that's how they do it.

on the street where you i live

Is anyone else creeped out in the least by the new Amazon search engine?
The home page for A9 is boring and innocent enough — fairly similar to most other search sites out there.
The disturbing stuff comes when you go to their maps feature. It's awfully similar to Google maps on the surface. But in certain cities, A9 gives you not only a map of the location but also a series of photographs of the acutal block. (Pictured below is the corner closest to my apartment.)
I can't articulate why, but it just freaks me out that someone from Amazon drove slowly down my street (apparently pretty recently) taking photos of every address. And what about those poor unknowing pedestrians who ended up caught on film?
Isn't this an invasion of privacy of some sort?
Who knew that Big Brother would start out as an online bookstore.

lord, jim

Saturday night the BF and I had some of our Chelsea boys over for cocktails.
Though the locals warned us that it was a bad idea, we ended up at Heaven for their weekly Gay College Party. Suffice it to say that Heaven is not a place on earth, Belinda Carlisle be damned.
Now, I have nothing against hapless twinks who have an appetite for top 40s faggot pop. In the right circumstance, said twinks can be plenty of fun. (See: Sunday nights at Avalon, where even I've been known to scream the words to Ciara once or twice.) But this crowd was, as one of the Chelsea elite said, "all bridges and tunnels." Again, which is fine — if they're cute. Which, they weren't.
Our night took a turn for the worst when former American Idol contestant Jim Verraros took the stage. He suffered through a couple of numbers and then co-hosted a sort of mini-Idol contest, with four audience members singing impromtu acappella snippets of songs of their choice.
And this is when I started to really feel old. Because of the four singers, I knew two of the songs. One was Christina Aguilera. The other (I'm pretty sure) was R. Kelly. The other two? No fucking clue. Except, everyone else in the club knew all the words. It was a twink sing-along, and the BF and I stood there silently. (Our friends had long since left us. Losers.)
After the contest we left, too, walking back to our apartment and wondering where the fun guys go, the ones who are old enough to know better but not yet too old to just sit home and watch "Family Guy" reruns on a Saturday night.

Sunday the BF and I caught a matinee of March of the Penguins. Loved loved loved it. I nearly cried. No kidding. For a National Geographic doc, it's awfully touching.

Which may just prove the point that we're getting old. We both agreed that we prefer penguins to chicken.

one maniac

The BF comes bounding through our apartment singing:
"These are the days ... doot doot do doot ..."
Me: Whatcha singing?
BF: You know that song.
He launches into another rendition of the chorus.
Me: Not sure I know that one.
BF. Yeah you do. It's the Indigo Girls! It's like their most popular song.
Me. long pause
BF. Jeez.

A few days later, the scene repeats.
BF: (singing) These are the days ... doot doot do doot.
Me: I still don't know that song.
BF: Yeah you do. It's the Indigo Girls.
Me: I think it's actually 10,000 Maniacs.
I find the song in the iTunes Music Store and play the 30-second sample.
BF: Oh yeah. That's what I meant.
Me: You thought this was the Indigo Girls? Ha!
BF: Stop it, Tray.
Me: long pause, with smirk
BF: God, I wish I had a BF who knew something about pop culture. He continues singing.

67 things

I will confess that I scoffed (just a little bit) when I read the Boy's Briefs item about making a Life List, a summary of the things you want to do before you die. I mean, that's such a typical story for a men's magazine — "I dreamed of climbing Kilamanjaro, and then I actually did it, dude!" High-fives all around.
But then I read the Men's Journal story. Funny how that changes things.
I realized that I've also had a Life List of my own for many years, but not one that's ever made it into a formal document. So I sat down last night and put it all out there. Good exercise. You should try it. I came up with 30 places to see and 37 things to do.

My list surprised me. There were a mixture of mundane tasks ("Grow orchids," "Take piano lessons") and great adventures ("Experience Kenya," "Do Sydney's Mardi Gras"). Some items I'll cross off in the next few months, due to plans that are already in place. Others, I'm not so sure about.

You can read the full text of the story (in PDF) here.
Further reading: 43 Things.
And, I'll again plug The Power of Now. I'm reading it slowly for maximum digestion.

play missy for me

It's a double dose of the M-word for me this week in the Window publications.
My review of Missy Higgins' debut is in Southern Voice. Meanwhile, my Missy Elliott piece is the cover of David.
Tomorrow I interview the lovely and talented Shelby Lynne. Is there a subtle theme here or am I just imagining something?

living for the cité

Montreal made me sick.
I mean, I loved the city. It's gorgeous, with the mountain on one side and the water on the other, I was reminded of Barcelona, just a little bit. And our hosts for the weekend, Chris and Alex from Divers/Cité, definitely showed us a good time. Those Quebecois are so welcoming!
The thing is, ever since I got back, I've had a serious sinus infection. As in, my face literally hurts. (Insert joke here about how my face has been hurting people for over 30 years.)
But the sniffles are worth it for all the fun we had.

Some highlights:
* John Oswald at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts. He does these amazing video/photo installations called chronophotics. Creepy and cool.
* Sex Garage. The festival's center stage hosts a glam- and indie-rock spectacle that will curl your toes.
* French. Lots of it. Everywhere. Zoot alors!
* John Lennon. I saw the hotel suite where he and Yoko staged their "bed-in" and recorded "Give Peace a Chance." Groovy.
* Dalida. Beloved (and dead) songstress whose legend lives on — in Quebec, at least. A new friend gave me a CD of her greatest hits on Sunday. It's quite lovely.

Overall, Divers/Cité is a delight. I'd like to take a big group of friends back next year. Anyone interested?