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I spend a lot of time in Tribecca. It's a nice little section of Manhattan. Used to be nothing but run-down warehouses, low-rent housing, and lots of cobblestone streets.

Many of the side streets are still cobbled, and it really causes problems for a car's suspension, but the rest of the area has changed. I could never afford to live there today. All the old warehouses have been converted into exclusive and expensive lofts. And thanks to people like Robert DeNiro, Nathan Lane, and Gweneth Paltrow, Tribecca is one of the places to live.

Many of the restaurants are too expensive for words ($500 for mediocre sushi at Nobu, anyone?), but the old fashioned charm is still there, underneath everything, so long as you don't look at the price tag.

There are still some hidden jewels in the area; a handful of unpopulated parks, a couple of really good little pubs that managed to survive the "dead zone" created by the World Trade Center collapse on 9/11, the Mysterious Book Store, Korin, and, of course, the colorful people who inhabit Manhattan.

Tribecca is thankfully devoid of most tourist types like you find mid-town, so what you get is pure, unadulterated NYC people watching fodder at its finest.

These thoughts were prompted for me on Friday when I was on Greenwich Street, where I noticed a woman walking out of a store wearing an expensive gray suit, topped by a straw Japanese peasant's hat, presumably to keep the sun from beating down on her head while not messing up her hair. It couldn't have been a fashion statement. It just didn't make sense and she would have worn better shoes than just her Nikes.

I don't know why she struck me as she did. She wasn't even the most unusual looking person on the street...but in a land where the unusual is the usual, she did stand out. I couldn't see the woman's face, and her suit matched the look of just about everyone scrambling out of their offices at lunch time. I think maybe it was something beyond the hat, too.

When you spend a lot of time in NYC, you get very used to the people trying to look different and the types who, for whatever reason, really need or want to stand out. I think what I am coming to appreciate are the people who don't make a conscious effort to stand out, but for whatever reason, they just do manage to be noticable.

I need to look like I'm working, so typing usually does the trick.

I don't have anything particular to say at the moment, but rambling isn't always a bad thing, though I tend to do that often.

I'm out of work to do here in the office at the moment. And as I've existed in the corporate doghouse for quite a while, now, they are reluctant to give me work that can't necessarily be supervised. Apprently they don't like my attitude and they claim it has slipped into my work. Can't have a cynic editing textbooks, I guess. A real bit of history might slip into the books, kids will read it, get all kinds of ideas, and anarchy will ensue. On top of that, profits might slip...and we just can't have that, can we?

I was hired because of my newspaper background. They were impressed that I could meet deadlines. However, it took them a while to figure out that I think differently than they do, these burnt-out former teachers who couldn't cut it in the classroom anymore. I don't play it safe, I don't like remaining static. Change is good, but it scares them. I think I just don't respect what we do here. We water down history and literature so that politicians and parents can pass along their insipid, half-baked ideas to their children. So long as the boat isn't rocked and people stay in office, it's all good. I work with people who have stayed put for 15 or more years, doing the same things year in and year out...nothing ever changes in a Texas adoption and I'll be damned if I'm here for another one.

If I've learned nothing else by being here, I will value the lesson that I personally hate playing it safe. I need to be on the edge of something that changes. I can't sit at a desk every day and be content. Life moves by too quickly and I'll never see or experience it if I stay here.

Of course these feelings have to be balanced out by my need to pay rent. I have grown accustomed to a particular lifestyle...so I sit and I take what I have to for now to get by. It's hard picking my battles because they all seem so important in the moment.

I have a friend who is in prison. He did something stupid - he was hired muscle at big drug deal. He was stupid and broke, so he went in for it as a one-off. And that's what it turned out to be because he was caught in what turned out to be a sting operation by the police. He was indicted and plead guilty, so he's only in for 18 months.

The funny/ironic thing is that he doesn't use and never has. But, he's a scary looking dude whose had his share of street fights...probably more than his share...so I'm not surprised someone hired him to look mean.

So, he's been in just about a year now and I haven't gone to see him. At first I didn't go because I actually didn't know where he was. I found out several months ago, though, and decided that I can forgive someone for his greed. In desperate circumstances, there's no telling what anyone would do to get their hands on some cash.

A friend and I took a road trip yesterday to go see him. Two hours in the car on a sunny, though cold day through fields, past farms, into the middle of nowhere...and we got there five minutes too late to get in. Five minutes prevented us from seeing him. After a two-hour drive most people would have been pissed. I don't know what it was; good company and decent music and the drive wasn't so bad...so home we went.

Not sure when we're going to try again. It could be that by the time we get our act together he'll be done serving his time and ready to start his life over.

He's been heard to say that he committed a criminal act, but that he's not a criminal. I can understand that. I believe that if a person does something wrong, is caught and convicted, he gets what he deserves. However, for a great many crimes, I don't see any reason why a person can't be forgiven. Of course, if he keeps fucking up, then I have to reconsider my stand...but I don't think that's gonna happen.

Feeling off today.

Something isn’t right

With the universe or with me



Too restless and discontent

Need to crawl out of my skin

Keeping me bound up



Nothing to soothe or relax me

Nothing to keep me at peace

Nothing seems to fit



Feeling disconnected from

The way I should be

Something isn’t right

Things that were said have shown me what I can never be
Perhaps you can arrange for me to act the part
But 'til then I'll dance away and find myself.
Maybe a one-night stand is all we can be
Why do things have to be so hard?
It's always someone else who holds the needed card.

Go away, let me dance in peace
Until I can collect myself
I don't understand what it means to me
Just go away and let me be
It's all inside confusion.

The emotions I have felt
Were never on my list
It could be just as well they're not defined
It isn't love (or is it?). What does this mean?
It was never planned that my emotions should do this
Can you comprehend what is said?
I'll just dance away and get release.

So, I was just reading through some of today's posts and I ran across one from a new member who calls herself "Suicide." This got me thinking, is it true that all Goths are depressed and in need of medication? Not possible. Is it?

I thought of starting a discussion thread, but flipping through The Couch, I see the topic has been discussed ad nauseum. I still wanted to comment, though, because I don't believe we're all depressed and in need of therapy.

As an undergrad, people called me "Lydia" because of her "I am utterly alone" line in Beetlejuice. Lordy, I don't think depression hit me until I turned 30. Wearing black and crimping my hair didn't mean I needed Prozac. I like to think it was a reflection of my intelligence and my intellectual stirrings. Aside from my appearance and my predeliction for men in eyeliner, I believe I had the same wants, needs, and desires as any other pre-21-year-old...I wanted friends, I wanted to be loved, I wanted to somehow make a success of myself. Never had a dark thought concerning suicide and I never wanted to hurt myself or anyone else. I was a white chick from the suburbs. What did I really know about suffering?

Maybe I grew up in a simpler time. No one would have assumed I was going in to school to blow away my classmates just because of how I dressed. Life was still just as uncertain. I grew up at the end of the Cold War when the threat of being melted in a nuclear attack was pounded home every day in the news. I was nine when Three Mile Island had that near melt-down. I was also 9 when the hostages were taken in Iran...so we've always had trouble over there. I vaguely remember troops being pulled out of Vietnam and seeing Nixon leave office in disgrace. Hell, I even remember cigarette commercials on television.

So, when did I finally hit that brick wall called "depression?" When I realized my life was falling apart at 30 because my marriage wasn't working. I never wanted to kill myself, though. I just never wanted to get out of bed. I stopped caring that we were killing the whales and destroying the rainforests. I went on medication, got my shit together, got my divorce, and I figured out that life goes on because no one else cares what little dramas we have going on in our little worlds.

We create our own misery or our own happiness. No one does any of this for us. If I don't amuse myself, there's not one stranger who will do it for me.

I've got at least another 40 years for both bad and good things to happen to me before I die. Did I reach equilibrium as an adult and realize that I can be brooding and dark, with a unique fashion sense, and still feel secure about myself and my life? I'm Goth and I'm happy. I guess that's a contradiction.

Mondays always come way too soon for my liking, especially around the winter holidays.

I spent the past weekend Christmas party hopping. While that is a good thing, it takes a toll. What I really wish for at this moment is a few more hours of sleep. That's not possible, as I have a job and need to pay my rent, so I'm doing the next-best thing - drinking a rather large vanilla nut coffee with extra cream and sugar.

I don't drink nearly as much alcohol as I used to. As a matter of fact, there are some who would call me a tea-swilling old fuddy duddy. Sometimes I think they're not far off. Truth is, I've had more than my share of alcohol-induced comas, black-outs, scary moments of not being sure who I woke up next to. I've blown blood vessels in my eyes from getting sick after a rough night of partying. I don't care what kinds of contact lenses people are buying these days - that's just not a good look for anyone.

Lack of sleep is what I'm talking about. Having a good enough time to lose track of what the clock says. Being with people who, drunk or sober, make staying up past your bedtime worth while and memorable. Then waking up way too early the next morning in search of a big, greasy breakfast at a local diner with the same people...possibly wearing the same smoke-drenched clothes from the night before.

I pity the people who don't live on the northern East Coast of the U.S. and those who have never been fortunate enough to experience a good, old-fashioned diner. Nothing is better for a hangover, nor is there any better way to wake up fully than with a HUGE plate of eggs, lots of bacon, home fries smothered in ketchup, luke-warm toast, and a bottomless cup of coffee...all served by a waitress whose uniform never fits her right, and who probably got to work the night before, which would explain her rotten mood.

A friend from the UK visited the U.S. for the first time this past summer. One of her goals was to eat in a diner. So, after a very interesting night of carousing, causing havoc in Times Square, getting kicked out of the Hershey store, and watching her and my boyfriend literally stop traffic with their antics, it was time to show her what a real diner was about. After posing for innumerable pictures with the establishment's sign...and, oddly enough, the red fire hydrant out in front...we went inside. It took her at least half an hour to get through the menu, but more time to have certain things explained to her...like the importance of not bothering to order tea because it's never very good, nor is the water ever hot.

When I travel, I prefer to sample the local cuisine over things I'm familiar with. Aside from some annoying food allergies, I'm pretty much free to try anything...When I visit Texas it's about the BBQ or the Tex-Mex; in LA it's about the In-and-Out Burger; in the Midwest, gotta order the beef; Florida or New England, seafood. In London, my rule was no American imports - I had to have Indian or pub food (still trying to figure out WHY anyone would want beans on toast). It was very hard to avoid Starbucks, though...Did argue in a convenience store with a friend over the reasons why we should NOT buy a six-pack of Budweiser, so we settled on Stella (Belgian...I could handle that).

OK, so I've gone a long way off why I'm tired today. But, I started thinking about sitting in a diner yesterday morning, nursing my cuppa, and pitying the poor fools who have to settle for places like IHOP, Bob Evans, or Denny's...and they think that's just as good as a diner for waking up after a long night. Not even close.

So, I work in a corporate setting. I have a master's degree and can be considered as a white collar professional. Ironic, because today I am actually wearing a shirt with a white collar (first time in MONTHS).

One thing that has been consistent through most of my adult life is that I don't fit into the same image as my professional peers. I thought my boss would have a cow when I got my nose pierced. I wear black almost exclusively. I dye my hair magenta and still spike it on occasion.

What I really like about the past decade or so is that there is less and less they can do to me for my appearance. I follow the dress code and am "corporate" most of the time. I just don't wear color. The code says nothing about hair or skin, so I proudly display whatever tats I can and still be modestly covered. One thing I like about the emerging litigiousness is that they really can't make me conform...but they won't promote me either. So there is a trade-off. They don't want me to be more visible. They groom the more clean-cut editors for that.

I have been told by my well-meaning, yet passive-aggressive boss, that perception is everything in my office. And the perception of me is that despite the good work I do, I am seen as a rabble-rousing trouble maker who will rock the boat. This is an assessment based solely on my appearance. Well, OK. I have been known to speak my mind, but I NEVER use four-letter words, I always try to be respectful, AND I always use small words so most people can understand me.

I guess what I'm trying to say here is that you have to make choices in life and your appearance will play a large part in what goes on around you. I'd much rather be myself than move up the corporate ladder, though I am torn by the prospect of making oodles more money.

Bottom line, I really would rather be happy than rich.