Behind the times

I have entered the 21st century, folks. Finally.

Horatio came and set up DirecTV in my tiny studio today. What does it really mean? No more does it have to be a minor holiday for a Law & Order Marathon! Nope! I can now watch it seven days a week and even two at a time. Now that's living.

And after, chances are, a 12 year break from watching MTV, now I see that there are no longer such things as music videos. Who knew?!?

Waiting

I've already mentioned my all too frequent use of cabs in the city. I know. Geez, Anne, get with the program...GO GREEN already! But it's freezing out, people! And sometimes, well, I'm just running late. Excuses, excuses. But I have to say, it's really nice finding that, at 3:32 in the morning, my cabdriver has waited to be sure I got into my building safe before speeding off into the night.

I know this city is shockingly safer than it has been. And my fare tonight was less than 5 bucks. And, yes, I gave the driver a decent tip. But it's rare that anyone look out for you, walk you home, safeguard that you are where you're supposed to be. Not that that's always a bad thing. Sometimes it's wonderful that no one knows where you live. Sometimes you prefer that certain people didn't know where you live. It's just that in those moments when people you know you'll never see again exhibit such care...in those moments you realize that there is no real difference between any of us.

I flashed a peace sign once I realized he had waited to be sure I got in the door. That was the best I could do. I know it was lame, especially compared to how I felt. Chivalry is not dead. At least not for this man. Thanks, whoever you are. With the smallest kindness, you kindled hope in me.

First things...wait...what was I saying?

Do you know what's wrong with writing first drafts on a computer? You lose. Train of thought. Original idea. The point.

Lately I've been trying to write on the computer only. Or perhaps it's more that I haven't been writing enough in a journal or notebook. Hence, the scarcity of entries.

I was just inspired by a funny story, started to type it out on the computer, and as of this moment have no idea what the point is.

Is it aging? Or just a flaw in my usual process and habit?

By the way, keep in mind, I'm younger than most of you (except my cousin Heather--hope you still check in!!) who read this. Pick your battles.

P.M.S.

I know, I know. If you're not a woman (and even we cower at the thought), who wants to hear about that?? I bring it up, nonetheless, only to make an official proposal for a new definition of the anagram. My initials, ACS, stand not only for my full name but also for the American Cancer Society as well as the city's Administration of Children's Services. Great, right? Well, here's my theory.

In this day and age, it seems more appropriate that P.M.S. stand for "prescribe me something." Not exactly glamorous, in fact vernacular and an imperative to boot, this explanation of those initials seems far more indicative of our current climate. Besides, premenstrual syndrome is passe, now that there's a pill for it.

On the one hand, we have our naturalists. I call them grassroots folks, those who eat mostly grass and roots, who enjoy a back-to-nature lifestyle. Many eat only organic, raw foods and base that decision on personal health and global philosophy. If I understand at all, the notion is that we don't have to kill to eat. At the same time, any of these followers I've met also relies upon vitamins, herbs and/or supplements to gain nutrients necessary to achieving personal health. So it would it seem that something is missing.

On the other hand, we have the medicinalists. Quick fixers, I like to call them, also known affectionately as pill poppers, they enjoy remedying whatever may ail them with the latest prescription. I can understand the mentality. If this thing fixes the problem and makes me feel better, why not take it?

But here's what's interesting to me. Is any of us under control of herself? Is there something missing or wrong with each of us that needs be fixed, remedied? Whether on one side of the spectrum or the other, or hiding out in the middle somewhere, does each of us harbor a void? And can it be filled with herbs, aromatherapy, heroin, zoloft?

Ok, ok, ok. Maybe I should make it "pickle me something." Everything's good pickled.

89

Happy birthday, Grandma Ruth! I think you would've been 89 today. Anyway, we all miss you and hope you're looking out!

Gobble, gobble, gobble...shot!?!

Thanks for giving me...a martini?!?

Worried was I that Thanksgiving would be a solo event this year. Not so much because I didn't have anywhere to go, but more that I didn't feel that I'd be much fun wherever I went. Something's amiss in Miss Anne's world. More later on that...

So Heather texted me at 6 am this morning, in a sticky situation, that she'd be bailing on the family festivities. Could she be my partner in crime in wreaking holiday madness?

Quite last minute we found a spot with turkey, Brussel sprouts and pumpkin pie. Oh, and did I mention liquor?

Happy Thanksgiginv!!

Tag, you're it?

New York is an animal, a creature built by those able, often required to live atop one another. A metropolis of the cramped, an island of sardines. Yet somehow each of us remains anonymous. At most, you see those you wish to see in your own neighborhood. But as you trek through the city, eyes and ears open, the strangers, buildings, parks of your every day life start to seep into your world. Some become your friends. Others your enemies.

Graffiti artists, commissioned painters, hacks, classically trained violinists, panhandlers, Mexican mariachis...some days you encounter each of them trying to make it. Working the subway. The streets. The C-Towns.

For a while now, "Chef Pants" has been inching into my realm. I'm sure my friend Tony objects to even the mention of the name. Whether sprayed on a restaurant awning, a UPS truck, a mailbox, even your own apartment building (as pictured), Chef Pants has struck the city. All things considered, chef pants themselves aren't the most attractive or flattering attire one could don. They remind of MC Hammer and his ridiculous dances from back in the day. In all honesty, I can't figure out why one would choose that as a tag. And as it turns out, Chef Pants is a girl. A friend of a friend knows her. Maybe she's a chef. From the way she tags things, I surmise she's left-handed.

And then there's AnaPeru, PeruAna. She writes her name and country and then the reverse on top of each other with a Sharpie. I've seen her tag on restaurant furniture, sidewalks, flowerpots. A girl from Peru named Ana. And of course, a female Peruvian is called a Peruana. It's clever. Isn't it also technically vandalism?

I understand the desire to make one's mark on this Earth but am curious whether this method is effective or counter-productive. If you're found out, you're anonymity gone, does anything change? Do people respect that you've become a household name from writing your chosen name all over the city? Does it make you an artist? Or just a nuisance? I applaud expression. And all things considered, am writing right now because of it. Who am I to knock it?

And here's one of the latest posters to have gone up in the neighborhood. Is it art? Political commentary? Original? Abraham Lincoln and Barack Obama. Now, there's a project.