snitch open bar drinks were about the nastiest possible. they didn’t even HAVE malibu at the bar. their tequila tasted like puke, but tequila tends to taste that way as it is. emily got shitfaced. like 18 yr old college girl shitfaced. puked in the cab. sarge had to accompany her back to our place.

we tried going to r bar, which apparently has pole dancing? after snitch, but there was an hour and a half wait, even after usman trying to buy a bottle (the boy doesn’t even drink — now WHO is THAT generous?). but not even that worked, so we headed to our apartment. brian met us there. i was ready to crash. ryan then was like, “rach this is the city that never sleeps. we’re going back out.” they dragged me to a hooka bar and for some nyc pizza. i pretty much fell asleep at the hooka bar so we went home around 5am.

i’m still tired as hell at work today. and considering giving my two weeks…to write full time. whoever the f in my life gave me that idea is almost as stupid as me. how am i going to support myself in this city, paying $1200/mo for rent? i need a pimp.

Anyway, about what I shouldn’t scatter. The boy would kill me. The friend would too. The letter to J. Erlbaum maybe a little too personal. Whatever.

I went to Philly this past weekend. I had a boy (who we’ll refer to as F, for as in Rachel f’d up, or use your imagination for its other connotation) to visit, and he made the trip from X location, some couple of hours, to do the same. My friend, who we’ll refer to as T, for the first letter of her first name, was having a birthday party Saturday night.

So F and I were actually originally planning on NYC Friday night. F was going to drive up from X location for that, then take me to a fancy restaurant (as he’s a chef and wanted to check out a fancy NYC famous cooker-er), and then drive me down to Philly for Saturday night — this is like HUGE steps for the boy because he happens to be uber clueless when it comes to having Game, not in bed, but like in taking a girl out, being a boyfriend/date, being capable, etc. Sooo….weather prevented that from happening.

Meanwhile, I wake up Saturday and catch a bus down to Philly. I’m like in tears, no joke, the whole ride, just because it was one of those de-stabilized mood gone wild weeks for me – having nothing to do with F. And I’m txting him on the way there telling him I’m crazy and that he probably won’t want to deal. This obviously coming from a fragile, you’ll reject me like this, state of mind. F was all calm and rational and sweet about it, like, everything is ok, everything is ok. And when I saw him, it was. His only concern in getting there was that I was in a safe place. Not like, are you suicidal, but like literally as in location. Which was cute and gave him points, blah blah blah.

So seeing him kinda calmed me down, partly because he’s just super good looking and that was a distraction in itself. And continuing to move, which I have a tendency to not do when I’m in tears, was helpful as well. We roamed the city, I bought like my 7th guitar at some vintage shop – a chatty drunkerd tuned it up for me because it is so mini it needs to be upped a gear, as in start with A, rather than E…) – and we went to this food market, which was great for F, and me, because he’s amazingly passionate about it and knows so much, and walked around and talked, and got lost, got some beers at this brewery, then went to the hotel, which…was…beautiful. Like coming from a kid who is not only younger than me, which is not like me as it is, who has no game, like I said, he went WAY over his head here. Like 5 stars awesome. It was funny because they gave us two doubles, as they ran out of kings, and we pushed the two together. He was all, don’t feel confined…

So then we go to the party. F made a whole point of trying to gather what he could say to make T like him more, because for some reason that girl doesn’t (didn’t, now she probably feels bad for him), solely because she’s judgmental, despite the fact that he could have remained a dickhead one-night stand if he’d wanted. Considering the distance and the fact that I’d picked him up a liquor store.

Well yes, so then as we’re at T’s door, he’s like, can I kiss you before we go inside, all adorably. Then he made a stink about my lip gloss and made out with my dimpled cheek instead. It was a moment.

So we go inside and he compliments T totally on my behalf, just to let her know that she’s all “motown” like the theme of her party, that she’s done well, that her mini weiners were edible, etc. Made such an attempt to please one of my best friends. And then I go, per usual, chatting it up and around the apartment, finding exactly the wrong person to talk to, we’ll just call him BF (for taken), and so BF starts being nosy about F, wondering whats up, if we’re together, etc. Which, as a girl, got me thinking…well, why aren’t we? What’s wrong with me? Of course, the over thinking got started and it was downhill from there on out…

BF proceeds to convince me that I deserve more, that he’d just gotten in trouble for commenting on me before his GF, who clearly didn’t want to hear from him that he thought another girl was hot, so to speak. And so long story short, I practically (but didn’t) made out with BF, in front of both his GF and F. Meanwhile, T wanted to kick my ass shortly thereafter the whole scene. And it was a scene. Girlfriend walks in on us just before we kissed and repeated, “are you fucking kidding me?” about 18 times, getting louder and louder. They’d been (I hope still) dating 6 years.

Then F and I talk it out. He was nothing short of wonderful, in every way. Course I was like, I don’t expect anything, need anything, want anything more, don’t worry about it, blah blah blah. And he wanted to truly know how I felt, unafraid that a girl might want to lock him down, despite his incapableness. Then we fell asleep on T’s couch, got kicked off at 5am, were about to go to the hotel.

T comes in as we’re about to leave and starts up about the BF situation, like “dude that was messed up. You make out with him and now you’re going to fuck him (pointing at F).” Right in front of F.

So that completely killed the whole F and Rach had worked things out mood. And I got defensive and heated and turned to her and go, “do you really want to get into this? Do you really want to go here?” And she looks at me blank, like what what? What’re you gonna say?

She knew what I was going to say.

T’s been sleeping with a married man for a good 7 years. Lost her virginity to him. Fell in love with him. And I threw it right in her face. Said practically those exact words. Who was she to judge me?

Needless to say, F didn’t need to see all that. I got my shit thrown out of T’s room. Didn’t even get to grab the hat her and her roommate had bought for me. And F and I take a silent cab ride back to the beautiful hotel…at this point, I was gone (tipsy/drunk) and pissed/upset about the confrontation with T, the whole BF thing. Of course I’m sure it felt so much bigger than it all was. Lets not forget the crying on the bus before I even got to Philly.

So then to top the cake, I left. I walked out on F, left him in the dust. Told him I’d send him a check…like he’d even think of taking it.

I dunno, I dunno if I’d ever felt so bad. I took a 7am bus home. I hung out at the ghetto ass Philly bus station McDonald’s for two hours crying. I dried out my eyes. I wanted to go back and make it right with both F and T.

I emailed them both the other day to try to do so. At least F emailed me back. T, I almost don’t think will ever talk to me again. I knew how much hurt that relationship has caused her. It’s just too deep. I think I lost my favorite pot smoking buddy. But I’m gonna keep trying.

And I’m gonna go to the beach next weekend to try to work things out with F. He said he appreciated solo diners at his restaurant because it shows their loyalty. The plan is to just show up, unannounced and be one of them. Hoping that gives me a second chance…

I can’t even begin to imagine how much trouble I’d get in if my boss, or co-workers for that matter, knew I were writing my blog rather than finishing these marketing collateral graphics. But alas, this seems more important. I have a knack for needing to write when things are fresh in my mind, so here goes.

I sent you a message a few days ago asking for “permission” to send you my personal review/reflections on Have You Found Her. I did that imagining how incredible your inbox must be, overflowing with twenty-somethings like myself in search of their own I think I’VE found her in you. With that, I want to respect the fact that you seem so open and honest and heartfelt in responding, even via facebook. It’s pretty clear with that, and your memoirs, that you can’t help but want to be available, despite the fact that it might kick you in the ass or people might take advantage. So I write this with the hopes that you can trust me, unknowingly, that I’ve had my fair share of mentors, past and present — so I know how that works. This is not even really to kiss your ass. Only to let you know how your writing really gets through.

Truth is, I haven’t finished your book yet, so this is probably premature. I’m planning on coming to the reading later today, so I was hoping to have the excuse of giving you a read of mine to say hello. I never imagined being intimidated by a writer before. My dad is a full-time writer, so it really should be no big deal to approach one, or to avoid getting all tongue tied, afraid to miss the point.

I want to say this, despite the fact that I’m not done. I think your book so far, well quite obviously is a great follow up to Girlbomb. I am doubting you planned that, although it was probably well thought out once was all said and done. I secretly wish I had a before and after worth putting down, the later a mirror of the former. I’m sure I have it, we all do, I’m just still trying to find the right one to share. What I think I’m trying to say is that I love how Have You Found Her shows your change, how that shelter helped you, how you helped yourself, and most notably, your human want to help another do the same. From the reviews, it’s a shame I think I know how this book will end up. But you write brilliantly about both the beauty and what I assume, is the eventual hurt that comes from such a special relationship, like the one you had with Sam.

I guess Girlbomb hit me hard personally, because I was in a state of flux when I first picked it up at a beach book shop, not expecting it to impact and inspire me the way it did. Without going off on a ramble, what is so amazing to me about that memoir was your ability, at such a young age, to take note of right and wrong, to seek and protect yourself, despite whatever guilt or fear you felt, even to those you loved. Jake was a hard pull, but I guess you must have known in your heart that he’d be okay, and that you had to do what you had to do to be okay. There are times when I look back on my privileged, yet complicated (isn’t it always?) life and wish I’d had the strength, both back as a teenager/kid and now, to do what you did. And despite it being a book about a supposed runaway, your most recent work disputes that completely. You’ve spent your time in your city, flourished as a writer, found the right love, and are even whole enough to still believe in some form of unconditional love. I’ve seen people shut down left and right because these things are too hard, myself included. And because of that, I can’t help but feel that I’ve Found Her in you. The one I am working to be.

So through your writing, I think I’ve found a mentor. Which makes it even more incredible to me to be reading your first-hand account of how you’ve mentored in the past, how you’ve been taken for granted, and how even with that, you’re willing to respond and read from a random like me, which means you’re strong enough to continue to hope. Which is what I almost think it’s all about. The other day when I wanted to know straight from you that it’d get better, easier, more understood, without asking more of you than to just continue writing is because I’ve gotten so much from it, and from it alone. That’s almost all I need, out of respect to you. The story of Sam, if she did hurt you, is brave, just as Girlbomb was. Just as your moves to take care of yourself have been. You set an amazing example. I will read on. And I hope it’s okay that I plan to keep in touch and that you have someone out there just a tad jealous of all that you offered Sam.

-Rachel

1) Suzanne Vega, Gypsy. Most beautiful song ever.

2) Juno. Most awesome movie ever.

Anyway, I’m amazed at how they, the JCC aquatic people, keep their pool so unbelievably hot and steamy. Like a stinky sauna or hot tub. Really, this isn’t just a complaint. It’s the truth. They keep the pool at 85 degrees. They keep the air at 81. And then, for some reason, they post that up each day on a little bulletin board. Like, “Hey class, we’re gonna suffocate you today. Hope you don’t mind. By the way, here’s how much it’s gonna hurt.”

I am tempted to tackle the board, erase the numbers, and put down instead, a “turn the f’n temperature to 75 so I don’t die, thanks. Sincerely, Rach.” Rather I don’t. I haven’t yet. I think about it constantly. I mean I can get over the 20 yard issue. I can even get over the cloud of fog that accompanies the 85 degrees. But I can’t get over the 85 degrees. It’s like Hatha Yoga in a swimming pool. The anti of the purpose. If old wrinkles need the pool that warm, they should take a hot shower or find a real hot tub. Argh.

I was talking to a friend of mine the other day, telling her how well I thought Kiefer (ie. Jack) and I would get along in real life. He’s rugged. Real. No bullshit. Sexy hard. Pissed off. Fucked up, flawed, and perfect. She laughed of course, considering how ridiculous that is, to come to the conclusion over a mono-driven bored 4 weeks that somehow Jack Bauer is my new soul mate. Granted I realize(d) this as well, so I laughed with her, all the while knowing, deep down, that there MUST BE some truth to my delusion. There always is. Really.

Now all of that said, here I am. Kiefer Sutherland playing Kiefer Sutherland in front of me. A true test. Do we, as real peoples, get along like I think we would? Well, the easy and obvious answer to that is yes. Duh. He is scruffy and silly and maybe not as pissed off as his Jack Bauer character, but still quite perfect…in his intellect and a) ability to recognize talent in Rocco Deluca & the Burden b) humanism for taking the time out of his life to care enough about something he thinks of as awesome, but also to be so devoted to it, so much so that he’s willing to make a rockumentary about it. Jesus, that is great. I love you, K.

We’ve got nicknames now.

…This here is to say check it out: I Trust You to Kill Me. So dope.

For having a corporate day job, my work identity is similar to that of a rock star. As much as it can be in that kind of a setting. After nearly a 5 week absence, I practically got a standing ovation for returning, ready kickin’ and screamin’ for graphic requests. For a company of 1800 employees, they only have 2 graphic designers — me being the newer of the two means that I can easily be swayed by things like $125 spa gift certificates (which a vice president loaded me with just recently, along with 3 boxes of chocolate) or fresh and hot Dunkin Donuts Vanilla flavored coffee that a co-worker got and shared this morning, to replace the nasty trashcan grindings this $$$ company otherwise freely supplies for its hard workers.

What I’ve learned is that people have no problem sucking up here. Perhaps it’s genuine kindness. Perhaps they want me for my skills. Either way, I don’t care. Hook me up with chocolate, coffee, and things like spa gift certificates and I’ll do just about anything for you. Banner? White Paper? You can’t figure out how to cut a text box in word? Or how to delete a blur in Power point? Bring it here, my love. I’m all yours. Truly.

You know, and even better, the fact that they even allowed me to work remotely, after only having 2 months to prove myself worthy of such a thing. Granted I was sick, but now that my mature 25 yr old expectations are no longer driven by childish college-like naivety/ideologies (one huge lie), I can say with confidence that that is something worth appreciation…because it doesn’t happen all of the time. Because they could have cut my cord, called it quits, fired me, fuck you’d me like I would have been glad to do back in their face…if it came to that, of course…

All in all, my point is this: I’m back. Better than ever. Physically appreciative of having my physical health. Emotionally appreciative as well. Thankful for my parents for having supplied me with endless amounts of white meat chicken during my home stay, thankful for Sophie’s endless supply of Sophie love (my parents for not really enforcing her rules while I taught her to break them), thankful for my blockbuster and hollywood video memberships, Jack Bauer’s awesomeness and Chloe’s annoyingness, a nice clean Bethesda home without New York City germs, and every other chore my parents gladly took on, including laundry doing and folding, supplies supplying, care giving, etc. However all of that said, it is good to be done with mono. Or at least to be on the better end of it, able to look down and almost, just almost, say that much wanted “f you to my liver” I spoke of just a few weeks ago when this whole trip began.

Pandora kicks ass. I idolize, adore, admire what they’ve done. I wish it were mine. I wish I could be a part of it. I wish their life could be my life.

Now if that doesn’t sound slightly stupid, or slightly silly, then I don’t know what does. Maybe doing what they do for a job for free? Well, yes, now there it is. And that’s why I love Pandora so much.

It is what I do for free, all the time, made into the perfect dream job.

The thought, or so I assume, behind it is this: It enables the listener to get to know other artists (musicians) we wouldn’t have otherwise known about. Now for freaks like me, who research musicians for kicks (like an A&R junky) and would rather do that than almost anything, it’s the perfect deal. And it’s simple. You type in the name of an artist, like lets say, for the sake of being generic about it, Dave Matthews — what Pandora does then, is it compiles a list of similar sounding musicians. For the most part, the musicians that’ll come up for an artist like that would be a whole bunch that the usual average Joe listener wouldn’t have known. For example, Dave Matthews might lead to Howie Day, Joseph Arthur, Patrick Park, Eric Hutchinson, Joe Purdy, maybe even Damien Rice, and I’m sure many others (if I had either of my Macs on me at the moment I’d look more up in my itunes). But you get the point. Sure, a boat load of folk know of Howie Day or Damien Rice, but rarely do you find people talking about Joseph Arthur, Eric Hutchinson or Patrick Park during their free time. And with that, it’s pretty obvious that the craftsmen behind this must have spent countless hours of unpaid time, putting these musicians together, matching them with each other, studying chords that match and sounds that are similar, voices that remind them of voices, lyrics that are written with the right kind of eb and flo, etc.

Now here’s what inspires me about it: Imagine, like I do, a group of 20 or 30-something yr old dreamers with their boring ass day jobs, probably spent pecking on keyboards for mr. man a’ la corporate, and now here they are…doing just the opposite. They took a risk and banked on something special. And whoosh, their hard work is paying off right before our eyes (ears). Everybody wants it. Everybody hears it. Everybody is gettin’ to know it.

To me, Pandora is the culmination of a dream (my own and theirs) come true. Passing along the artist that needs to be heard. The underground, underpaid passionista playing in subways in Boston, on the corner of Club passim with a jar for cash and beat up Guild.

it’s like this vicious ghost. no cough. no runny nose. no blood or tears. just fatigue and wicked body aches you can’t quite explain. “yea, that right there, under my ribs. wtf is that?”

that’s me curled up in a ball bawling my poor eyes out, with my chest full of pain and my spleen and liver punching me from the inside out, laughin’ at me the whole way through, while my mom and dad feed me green jell-o and toast and take my temperature in between pops of advil. i’m getting quite acquainted with the sugar coating of that candy, let me tell you.

speaking of, i missed halloween. i mean completely. i didn’t even hand out candy. or consider a costume. i’m pretty much banned from having, or even thinking of having, any sort of fun for the next few weeks, months, however long this bastard is going to take till it get itself out of my system for good. then i’m gonna turn around, right on my liver, and say “f you sucka.”