revafisheye: October 2004

I got those DMV blues

On the block

Last night, while attempting to mail a parcel that weighed more than one pound, I realized I lost my driver's license. When or where, I have no idea. So, it's off to the DMV for me; I'll need that sucker to vote on Tuesday. ARG. Why does one always lose one's ID before a major event that requires proof of identification, such as an election or air travel? It's a universal mystery.

The upshot is I am sadly lacking in required proof of existence (lost SS card, Mom has birth certificate and lives in another state) and may encounter some trouble in obtaining my new license in this era of "heightened security." Wish me luck.

Things to be thankful for:
- today's clear blue sky
- the eclipse last night - sweet!
- Belle and Sebastian
- maGs
- getcrafty

Updated at 3:38 PM:

Look, Ma, I'm on TV!

While I wasn’t shattered into a million pieces and then sent over the air waves into a Wonkavision set only to be put back together again only much, much smaller, I was interviewed by Channel 4 News (my local NBC affiliate) about voter registration snafus at the DMV. Why me, you ask? Because I was smoking a cigarette outside the DMV while I waited to get my new license (which was surprisingly quick and painless). A reporter and cameraman approached me, and before I could say, “Agh! Get that thing away from me,” the reporter was asking me what I thought and I was answering her.

It seems a man registered to vote when he got his driver’s license and then called the Board of Elections to make sure everything was okay and they couldn’t find his registration. The reporter asked me a) what I thought of that, b) what I thought happened to the paperwork and c) if I was concerned that these problems are happening. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but something along the lines of: a) I’m not surprised, b) I have no idea and c) there must be major election reform if voters are to ever feel confident that their votes count. Then the reporter looked at the cameraman and said, “That was great!” and then to me, “Very well-spoken. Thank you!” and then she tongue-kissed me. Okay, everything but the last part is true.

I forgot to ask her when it would be on. Doink.

That song in my head

Passing the prep school behind my office.

"Light and Day" Polyphonic Spree

Just running to the corner for tissues and a peppermint patty.

It's late October and you know what that means: time to celebrate everyone's favorite chronic resperatory disease, ASTHMA. Ever year around this time, I like to honor this sneaky, misunderstood ailment by allowing my inhaler to run out over the weekend with no refills remaining at the pharmacy. Then, I do something productive, like sweep out from behind my craft table and reorganize my shelves, stirring up dust.

Now, I know what you're thinking: behind every sexy asthmatic, there is a patient and caring doctor; she'd be happy to call in a replacement inhaler on a Saturday or Sunday. Well, just you wait, Henry Higgins. As an uninsured performer/writer, I go to a sliding-scale clinic only when necessary and, to get a refill, I have to go in for a check-up...on Monday.

Thank you for celebrating AsthmaFest 2004! Really, I do this every year.

...wheeze...

I should really leave the house

Yes, the WC.

Tattoo me

MacDougal Tattoo on Sullivan Street

Last night, in a fit of impulse and inspiration, I got my first tattoo. I accompanied my friend Cat to her friend Pete’s tattoo parlor on Sullivan Street and by the end of the evening I had my own. Pete was friendly and fun and I felt so comfortable in his studio. Once he got started on Cat's tattoo, I couldn't take my eyes off of it. I had been skeptical of the choices - the colors, the location, the subject - but once Pete got down to business, I was stunned. It was beautiful.

I've daydreamed about getting a tattoo since I was a kid, but never felt particularly moved by any specific design. People were often surprised that I didn't have a tattoo; I've had a nose ring for years. Cat joked that I should get something before we left. “What would I get,” I laughed, “a semicolon?”

Ping! The light bulb flashed above my head.

The semicolon is one of the most underrated and misused forms of punctuation. The beauty of the semicolon is in its simplicity; it joins two complimentary phrases that could otherwise stand alone.

An inch-long, black semicolon now graces my left wrist, just above my hand; I'll never wear a watch again.

Where have you gone, Marcy Lewis?

The newest issue of Bitch came in my mailbox yesterday, but it was craft night so I didn't tear it open until today. Travel mug of tea in one hand and back pack on my lap, I flipped through the pages, back to front, in keeping with my life-long habit, looking for a short article to read on my commute. I read about The Office (sigh...Tim...) and Female Friend Cuture; I glanced at the Janeane Garofalo interview. As I reached the front pages, always chock full of interesting tibits, my heart sank and tears welled up in my eyes. There, next to a smiling photo of my one of my favorite childhood authors, Paula Danziger, it read 1944 - 2004.

The Cat Ate My Gymsuit, and its sequel, There's a Bat in Bunk Five, got me through 7th grade. I was the new kid, an alien from the midwest that had infiltrated the south, I was shy and I was fat. Okay, Gramma, pleasingly plump. I had read Cat... the year before in sixth grade, but I returned to it in a time of crisis. It was like my little, 12-year-old Bible, my guarantee that life, with all its trials and tribulations, would be good if I just believed. Through Marcy, I could laugh at myself, be angry with my parents and dream of something beyond W.C. Friday Jr. High. I carried that book to school with me everyday. I didn't have my own copy; money was tight and the library was my home away from home. If the school copy was checked out, I would have my mom take me to the public library. I would renew it over and over. I saw myself in Marcy and Marcy always won in the end.

When I first moved to New York 9 years ago, I waited tables on the Upper West Side at a popular brunch spot. One evening a stout woman wearing purple reading glasses, multi-colored Doc Marten's and draped in Joseph's technicolor dreamcoat, joined a group of people in my section. Paula Danziger, my own personal Jesus, the woman who wrote my bible, was sitting at my table. I was too awestruck to tell her how much she touched me; how she made me believe, way down in a tiny corner of my adolescent heart, that I was beautiful; how she helped a timid seventh grader through the worst year of her young life.

Ms. Danziger, you did all of those things, laughing all the way. Thank you.