David Bowie I am not

Okay, okay, it’s already 4:30pm on Wednesday, which means I’m one day and approximately two hours late for posting my new piece on Auds and Ends. I’m having a hard time finding a proofreader today, so I’ve decided to throw it up there in all its typoed glory. We like the misspellings, right? It’s more authentically Audrey. Or should I say, authenticly Audrey.

If you haven’t already figured out that my spelling is crap, well, then you don’t really know me all that well. Sure, I use spellcheck, but that doesn’t catch when I write “disgust” instead of “discussed” and “patients” instead of “patience.” (both mistakes that I made in the last week). I like to think I’m a creative speller.

Anyway, here’s an excerpt from my next piece about my complete lack of musical skills. Enjoy.

I can still remember the feel of my first violin in my arms. I rested my four-year-old dimpled chin on the cold black chinrest, felt the smooth wood press into my shoulder, and I hated it. My bow screeched painfully over the strings and made me wince. It was an inhuman screech. An unnatural noise that caused listeners physical and emotional pain, like the sound of a tape player eating your favorite mix tape. I looked at my parents with tears in my eyes while the dog hid under the couch. Read More...

Old ladies think I’m pretty

Last night I was invited to the opera at the Met with a distant family friend, age 80. At the second intermission, she turned to me and told me that I was pretty. It was completely out of the blue and unrelated to the polite conversation I was trying to make about the lead tenor.

A few weeks ago, I was waiting for traffic to slow so I could jaywalk across 8th Avenue, and a cabbie actually came to a screeching halt to let me walk in front of him.

“It takes a very pretty girl to get a New York driver to do that,” the elderly woman on the other side of the street told me as I stepped up on the curb.

And at Christmas dinner last month, Grandma told me I looked “sexy” in my new sweater.

I’m not sure whether to take these comments as compliments or insults. I mean, many old people can’t see very well anymore.

But the point to this post is this: if I wanted to, I totally could make out with the cast of the Golden Girls.

A black and white Brooklyn

It was too beautiful outside to go to sleep last night.

From where my head lay on my pillow, I could see the snow falling across the bare tree branches outside. Lit by the streetlight, it looked like something out of a fairytale. I couldn’t close my eyes because I couldn’t bear to stop watching the snow fall.

So I stared.

For over an hour, I stared into the black and white world of trees and snow and streetlights.

Finally around 1:30am, the flurry subsided and was able to fall asleep. I’d been watching the snow fall for so long that when I closed my eyes, white specs danced across the blackness of my eyelids.

Here’s the view looking out my bedroom window:

At least it's sunny

Everyone's waiting. I know they are. They’re all waiting for the sun-drenched California girl to crack in the cold. Well, I’m not gonna crack. Nope. You can keep waiting. Feels like –1 isn’t all that bad. I can take it.

I even made up a rhyme: “Negative one. Positive fun!”

Actually, the bitter ice-cold wind is sort of pleasant. Except when you have to go outside. Then it pretty much sucks.

Diary Thursday - "fuck that"

I like what I used to consider being productive vs. a waste of time. Education, clearly a waste of time. But making mix tapes, yes THAT led to a better future. By the way, this language is taken straight from my journal. Apparently I had a bit of a potty mouth.

Friday, September 7th, 1990, 11:15pm – thirteen-years-old

September, fall, school, fuck that. I don’t want to start school, this summer was so fun.

The other day I spent the whole day going through mom’s records taping all my favorite songs. I made a neat tape. I was very satisfied with myself. I thought it was a day well spent.

Today Amy came over and we made collages by cutting out people’s heads in magazines and putting them on different bodies. Another day well spent.

School is such a waste of time, I don’t want to go back.

Sperm Sisters

In keeping with my weekly Tuesday memoirs, I've posted another one up at Auds and Ends. This one illustrates the joys of growing up in an "alternative" Berkeley family.

The last month’s issue of Parenting Magazine had an article comparing the most popular names of 1900 to those of 1950 and 2000. As an unmarried, childless woman in my 20’s, Parenting is not a publication I’m usually seen reading, especially last month’s issue (if I’m going to read about trends in Parenting, they may as well be current) but it was in the seat next to me on the train, and I had forgotten to bring a book that morning. I was amazed that the Michaels, Jasons and Jennifers of my graduating class were Berthas, Harolds and Mildreds in the class of 1901, and are now Mackenzies, Jacksons and Skylers. Names have shockingly different trends, apparently, like clothing, though I have doubts that Euphemia will ever make as brave a return as the miniskirt has in recent months. “Wow, I love those cute bell-bottoms. Where’d you get them, Mabel?”
Read more.

The big one

“Yes, the Bay Area is beautiful,” my coworkers agree when I sing the praises of home. “But I could never live in California; the Big One is coming.”

The Big One, to which these silly New Yorkers refer is the big earthquake. It’s a common perception that cracks me up about East Coasters. Why is everyone so afraid of earthquakes? Hurricanes, murders, war, traffic accidents, terrorist attacks, those are scary. Earthquakes? Earthquakes are fun. Clearly these people have never experienced an earthquake. Granted, I’ve never had my house collapse, or had anyone close to me get hurt in an earthquake, but I was present in Berkeley for the “Big One” of 1989.

Here’s what I like about earthquakes: I view them as little rumbling reminders of who’s in charge.

It’s stupid humans that are responsible for disasters of every other kind. People’s negligence and poor driving cause fatal car accidents. The inequality of society results in riots, gang violence and murder. Our religious and national leaders can’t get along, creating wars and terrorism. Our pollution has messed up the weather patterns to intensify hurricanes and floods.

But seismic activity, that is simply out of our control. Ain’t no human gonna fuck with those giant tectonic plates. Ha.

First snow

Many children grew up in colder climates than I did. They woke up on winter mornings and looked outside to see the glowing, angelic white of freshly fallen snow. While I loved growing up in Berkeley, CA, this is an experience that I always felt I missed out on.

So you can imagine my joy and wonder this morning when I woke up in my own bed, turned off my alarm clock, stumbled over to the window in my pajamas, still yawning and half asleep, to look outside and see this:



It may not be much, but I was well impressed. I took 30 pictures on the way to the subway station.







Brooklyn, you just grew on me a little bit more.

Diary Thursdays - I like him as a friend

Glad to see that all the unrequited loves of my youth were not just on my side. My favorite thing about my old journals is how I change the subject in the middle of a paragraph.

Wednesday, September 12th, 1990, 11:15pm – thirteen-years-old

I have a big problem which is: Nick!!! He wants to see me. What am I gonna do??? I could move to Australia, get fatally, contagiously sick, or get married. In other words, I don’t want to see him. I knew from the start that this “going together” thing at camp was a bad idea.

I just like him as a friend (at most). I guess the only real solution is to dump him, nicely, but really I can’t bear to do it. I don’t mind talking to him on the phone but I’m always worried he’ll try to arrange a date. So every time the phone rings, I pray it’s not Nick. By the way, Dad’s in Louisiana.

Brrrr

New York is officially below freezing. Annoyingly, the sun is out and it’s a perfectly clear beautiful day, so there’s no snow in sight. But the puddles in the gutters have all frozen into little mini-ice skating rinks. I can’t stop poking them with the toe of my boot while I wait for the traffic lights to change. People have been giving me odd looks. I guess that’s not what adults are supposed to do. But the weather says it’s going to snow this weekend, and you can bet good money that I’ll be out there making snowmen in Prospect Park.

Not an ad for Apple

My next memoir, all about my electronic debacles of last week, is posted at Auds and Ends. Here’s a little snippet to get you in the mood…

"Must Restore Settings," my iPod Nano read when I plugged it in to my iBook.

"But I bought you like three months ago," I told it. "You can't be broken already."

"Not broken. Just corrupted," the cute young man at the Apple Genius Bar told me the following evening.

Apple Genius Bar. It was an appropriate name for the repair section of the Apple Store. On stools to either side of me, computer-illiterate patrons sat like I did, elbows on the bar, eagerly drinking up the knowledge that the Apple Geniuses dispensed.

Read more.

Not just a Boulevard

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A lot of things were backwards before he came along.*

Happy Martin Luther King Day. It’s a holiday that often passes by unnoticed, but one that I like to stop and reflect on. It’s hard to know what’s an appropriate activity to celebrate Martin Luther King Day. Last year I went to an amazing spoken word performance at Youth Speaks. The year before that, I led a March on Washington. No I didn't.

Today I went on a hike in Bear Mountain with Julie and Jeff. The thick white fog was oppressive, but we managed to overcome it and forge through to freedom. Or at least to a lovely hike in the woods.

So, even if you’re not engaging in a traditional Civil Rights activity, you can make it one by reflecting on Doctor Reverend Martin Luther King Junior and all the brave and important work he did. This is what I learned by attending Martin Luther King Junior Junior High for two years.

Here are some pics from the hike.





*I can’t take credit for this concept, I saw it on a poster once many years ago.

Con pollo

Today at lunch, I walked into a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant in Chelsea that advertised “San Francisco style” burritos. Intrigued, I ordered the San Franciscan Roasted Chicken burrito. I was not disappointed – the chicken was tender, ample pinto beans, salsa and sour cream. The difference: I ate it in about seven bites and it cost $8.75.

I miss Taqueria Cancun.

Diary Thursdays - first time for everything.

I guess firsts are always exciting, but this is seriously more space than I devoted to my first kiss.

Wednesday, September 5th, 1990, 11:15pm – 13-years-old

Oh, I have so much stuff to tell you, diary, I’ve been searching for you frantically for five days. Guess what. I shaved my legs!!! I feel so grown up. My legs are smooth and soft. I had such a terrible time deciding to start. At camp everyone did but me and I felt really, well, hairy!

I was gonna talk to Mom about it, but first I asked Annie when she planned to start shaving hers. When she lifted up her jeans and showed me her “bald” leg that settled it! That night, in the shower (with mom’s razor) I dehaired my limb, and was very pleased with the results. I’ve been excited about it for days.

Two Different Worlds

Reflections on this morning’s G-chat with Bronwyn:

I was telling her how excited I am about picking up my new jeans so I can wear them on my hot date this evening.

She was telling me how excited she is about the doctors inducing labor so she can give birth to her baby this evening.

Suddenly my jeans and date seem a little bit less important.

Brons – I’m super stoked for you! Push that little sucker out, we can’t wait to see him. Explain to baby Noah that he needs to join the world asap; he’s got an amazing mom and five honorary aunts that already love him very much!

Augusten Wannabe

I have a new idol. His name is Augusten Burroughs, and he’s recently joined the ranks in my mind of David Sedaris, Shel Silverstein, and the girl in Belle and Sebastian as people I want to be when I grow up.

This decision was made on the subway last week while reading “Possible Side Effects,” Burrough’s latest collection of memoirs. Unlike the internationally famous author/NPR personality, the famous children’s poet and the Scottish rock star, Augusten Burroughs and I actually have a lot in common. He used to be a hotshot copywriter in a big New York ad agency. While I’m not sure that I’ve reached hotshot status, I can certainly empathize with his pain at sitting through board meetings for Junior Mints in which they discuss consumers’ “Mint Threshold.” He doesn’t even know the pain of sitting a boardroom discussing online tools for constipation.

Years back, Burroughs quit advertising to publish his memoirs. And now that he’s successful, he’s ridding his home of all the items he bought with his “dirty advertising money.” Some day, that will be me.

Also, he gets frequent nosebleeds. Just like me! I know, scary, right? It’s like we were separated at birth. Except that he’s a neurotic, gay recovering alcoholic/drug addict. Minor details. But if that’s what it takes to be a successful writer, I’m willing to give up a few brain cells. Does anyone know where I score get some crack?

In addition to start smoking crack, I’ve decided to start writing my memoirs. It’s my new New Years Resolution, replacing that “Do more crosswords” one, because that was just dumb; everyone knows I can’t spell.

What are memoirs if not just extended blog posts? Actually, I started writing my memoirs a few years ago and then got bored and stopped. But this weekend, I started again and I’ve decided to publish them, here, on the World Wide Interwebs for all to read. And then perhaps someday in a book, so I can actually get paid, and then sell all the possessions I acquired with my dirty advertising money.

Go to my new memoir blog, entitled Auds and Ends (I know, cheesy), to read my first story about my recent experience buying designer clothes. I hope you’ll be very entertained.

over promising-shmover shmomising

As if it’s not bad enough that I’m writing about shit. I’m not even allowed to write well about shit. Advertising should be straightforward. It should be strong. It should be direct.

BUT, when it comes to pharmaceuticals, there are laws about advertising that prevent it being a number of things: straightforward, strong, direct and good, are just a few of them.

The clients, and the clients' lawyers are constantly concerned about “over-promising.” We can’t say that the drug will treat all your symptoms, because that would be over-promising. We can’t say that it provides consistent relief, because that would be over-promising. Implying that the drug WORKS is, in fact, over-promising.

Here is how my recent copy went to the client:

You’re on your way to relief.

It seems like you’ve tried everything to get rid of your symptoms but nothing works.
Chronic Constipation is a real medical conditions caused by a slow moving digestive system. As a physician, I know that fiber and laxatives don’t always help. You need real effective treatment.

That’s why _______ was invented. _______ is the only solution that helps your digestive system function more normally by coordinating the nerves, muscles and fluids in your GI tract. This provides ongoing relief so you can feel more like your real self.

Talk to your doctor today!

And this is how it looks now, after their lawyers hacked away at my creativity:

You’re might be on your way to somewhere near relief.

It seems like you may have tried some things to get rid of your symptoms but nothing works very well. Chronic Constipation may be a real medical conditions that might possibly be caused by a slow moving digestive system. As a physician, I have a feeling that fiber and laxatives may not help some of the time. You may desire a treatment that can be considered by some to be more effective.

_______ is one of many solutions that may possibly help your digestive system function slightly more normally by coordinating the nerves, muscles and fluids in your GI tract. This can potentially provide relief so you might start to feel a little bit better. Maybe.

You are more than welcome to talk to your doctor sometime soon. Maybe even today. Or next week. Whenever.

The Berkeley Crazies

Of course New York has its fair share of crazies. It’s always entertaining to be lectured about the end of the world during my morning subway ride, or have a homeless man in Brooklyn follow me three blocks yelling “I know you want my cock.” But my visit home last week reminded me how much I miss the Berkeley Crazies.

Nothing can compare to the Wackos of Berkeley. From the punk runaways that think being a hippy is still in style to the middle-aged rockers that never came down from that last acid trip, I love them all.

It was Christmas eve day that I walked my mom’s miniature poodle down to Live Oak Park, just a few blocks from the house I grew up in. Live Oak Park will always hold a special place in my heart – the creek I used to splash in, the mud I used to roll through, the jungle gym I used to fall from and the homeless people I used to wave hello to. Live Oak Park has always been home to a number of transients and as kids, we’d hide behind their junk-filled shopping carts during hide-and-seek and sardines, as natural a part of the park as the trees and rocks.

I walked up the muddy lawn past the other dog owners, following Stella (mom’s poodle) to the central bench area. Stella was sporting a pink hooded sweatshirt and I felt the need to explain to each human that passed “She’s not mine. My mom dressed her.” A young man with unkempt hair and dirt-encrusted skin sat on the benches holding a half-empty can of Natural Light. He stunk of beer and garbage.

“Is that a poodle? I love poodles” He flashed a toothless grin.

“She’s not mine. My mom dressed her.” I liked this drunk man and his lack front teeth.

“I just love dogs. I used to have three of them. I never called them my dogs though, I called them my kids. They liked that. They talked to me. I can understand what all dogs are saying. I speak dog.”

“Huh," Okay, maybe he’s a little too odd for me. "Well, I hope Stella’s saying nice things about her dorky sweater. See ya later.”

“Okay, well, it was really nice meeting you. Happy Hanukkah!”

I continued through Live Oak Park, passed the kids on the swings, passed the man in the turban playing electric guitar, and up onto the street. Yes, happy Hanukkah indeed. I love those Berkeley Crazies. Sigh, I miss home.

Diary Thursdays - sexy blue socks

Monday, October 1st, 1990 - 13-years-old

Today at school was fun. Even PE, which I hate. In English, Robert said Willie liked me. He could have been lying, I don’t even know (much less like) Willie nor Robert. He said Willie liked me because I “Looked good.” That made me happy. It was kind of a reassurance that I was still pretty, because I always thought I was.

Sounds like I had remarkably high self esteem for an 8th grader. So high that I thought I could get away with sporting bright blue socks under my blue Keds.

Perhaps I was being delusional. But then again, who wouldn’t want this hot piece of thirteen-year-old ass?

Trivial News

I’m rethinking the CNN idea from yesterday. Why? Because of people like this that make national news by letting their todler play in highway traffic. And then, when informed of their son’s actions, respond: “Oh, he got out again?”

I’m aware that people this negligent exist, I just don’t need to be reminded on a daily basis. It's too depressing.

Jolanka suggested the NY Times, a reputable news source, as my homepage. But I’m debating just going back to The Onion as my main source of world news. Because, at least the idiot people in The Onion aren’t real. This is why I usually don’t make New Year’s Resolutions.

I forgot to mention yesterday why I have a sudden newfound interest in the news. It’s because I played Trivial Pursuit twice over the holiday and was shocked at how little I knew about recent history and politics. I figure that if I stay aware of what’s going on now, I’ll rule the Trivial Pursuits of the decades ahead. So get my wedges ready, oh Trivial competitors of the future. I’m gonna kick your uninformed asses!

And hello, hangover

I love the tradition of starting off each new year with a pounding headache and a queasy stomach. It says: “This year has nowhere to go but up.”

The purpose of hangovers is to remind you of all the fun times you had the night before. Or, if you can’t remember them, your friends are there to feed you bagels and coffee and describe all the stupid shit you did while drunkenly ringing in the new year. Or, if your friends also forget, maybe you can watch the video of yourself turning into a dance-Nazi as you performed your jazz/modern happy new year choreography twenty times over in front of a crowd that didn’t really want to see it the first time. Maybe. If that happens to be what occurred.

But alas, New Years is over, as is Christmas and Hanukkah and everything that is fun. I enjoyed my ten days and nights in California, jam-packed with family and friends. One red eye flight later and I’m back to the New York routine… taking the A train to 15th street, writing about constipation on the 14th floor, and admiring the view. How odd that just this morning (or what feels like this morning, since I was awake all night on the plane) I was sitting in Stephanie’s living room and laughing with my SF friends.

And that’s why this post may be a little on the rambling side. Lack of sleep (and vodka-sodas) will do that to a person.

Anyway, to start 2007 off right, here are my resolutions:

1. Do more crossword puzzles.
2. Keep up to date with current events (already changed my homepage to cnn.com).
3. Think longer before speaking – prevent the times I bust out with something that could be hurtful, not realizing until after the fact.
4. Be more humble.
5. Drink more water.

And I think that about covers it. Happy 2007 everyone.