Christmas in my house is truly the only holiday steeped in tradition, and I love it. Take, for instance, the journey of the Three Kings to Emerson Drive.

Yes, a mixture of international secular and religious customs resulted in an annual Christmas visit from the Magi. The Three Kings gave Jesus frankincense and myrrh, but they gave us underwear and socks. We put our shoes on the window sill (a twist on the Dutch thing), and come morning they were filled with undergarments from the Orient. Apparently, gift-bearing moved from cryptic to totally practical across the ages.

As a child, I had to resolve the question of transporation, or more specifically, home entry. Since the Three Kings were arriving on Christmas Eve--not on December 6th, as the shoes might lead you to believe and not on January 6th, as the crowns might lead you to believe--this left them with limited options. I mean, Santa had the well-documented sled/reindeer and chimney approach; the roof was off limits. (The absence of a fireplace meant that he actually entered the house through my closet, but let's not get lost in the details.) And they couldn't very well walk through the front door: that would be completely unmysterious, the antithesis of the Three Wisemen, the birth of Jesus, underwear. Besides, if they walked through the front door they'd have to walk through our rooms to get to the window. How, then, did the Three Kings get in? Clearly, they traveled by camel and then used a rope to climb up the side of the house together à la Adam West-era Batman and Robin. This gave them access to the windows without waking us and without stepping on the toes or hooves of other magical guests.

The big question, of course, was why no one else we knew had received presents from the kings.

Today I was watching The Lord of the Rings, wondering what the story meant to an eighth grade Bob and what it means to him now. The movie and family and how do the stories of our youth shape us? What will be believed in. Good and evil. And not going back, Frodo adding a very Mike Y touch at the end.

Gentlemen, I could use an epiphany.



Happy Birthday, Hannah!



Beaujolais Nouveau.

The toner is low. AND in the midst of this long stretch of late nights, our room was warned that our dry erase board should be erased because apparently people get angry when there are any signs of enjoying yourself at work written upon it. Dry Erase policy at the company is hard to navigate: the one in the lunch room can't be erased (three years and counting), and now the other ones can't be written on.

La goutte d'eau qui fait déborder la vase.


Late Nights

I've survived the week from hell at work, but there's no sign that the coming weeks will be any different. That is frightening.

And I don't understand the way my brain works. Everything snowballs. I stay late at work, and then I resign myself to the mindset that "life sucks," which further leads me to reflect upon everything that supports this hypothesis, which by this point in the freaking out, is not difficult. Then I get so caught up in this thinking that I don't realize it's a BAD idea to try to open a can of soda between my legs while driving and the Diet Coke explodes all over my pants which at any other time might be quite hysterical but now demonstrates definitively that life sucks. Then I chastise myself for being so small-minded, because we all know things could be a lot worse than spilt Diet Coke and the darker thoughts that led up to it. So, how about those Mets?

Homecoming was fun. Sometimes I feel my heart is in Philadelphia; it is a very stubborn organ. (It could teach my bladder a few things. That boy needs some toughening up.) In reality, it's the people I met there that cause such a sentimental attachment to the physical place, whether the people happen to still be there, or in Peru, or in Belgium, or in Boston, or New York, or God Knows Where. Where they have traveled doesn't change the fact that when I return to Philadelphia it does indeed feel like going home.

Oh, don't be such a bitch, NJ. There's room enough for the both of you.


Rollin' on a River

"Y’ know, every now and then
I think you might like to hear something from us
Nice and easy
But there’s just one thing
You see we never ever do nothing
Nice and easy
We always do it nice and rough
So we’re gonna take the beginning of this song
And do it easy
But then we’re gonna do the finish rough
The way we do 'Proud Mary.'"--Tina Turner

I hope you love this song.


Thoughts on the Party

My mind has settled down.

Dani had a party this weekend, featuring Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle masks, Barnes & Noble personnel, the Brothers Murgittroyd, and an average dose of drink-induced drama. I think my friends and I were suprisingly sociable with the strangers. This may be due in part to Nicholas' cruise directing tactics.

What happened to Dani's pants, though?

It annoys me slightly that Mike thinks I'd hook up with anyone. Horny does not equal whorish. I do not assume that if a guy is straight, he will go for any girl. It's not different for me. As Dan points out in "Savage Love" this week, "Gay people like other gay people at about the same rate that straight people like other straight people -- that is to say, rarely."

However, I'm not mad at Mike. He had my back in the clash with the Threesome Guys (a situation which proves Mr. Savage's statement). We should have brawled. It would have been fun, and clearly we would have kicked their asses. Bros before homos!

It was good to see Craig and Wicked.


Comings and Goings

I had a very nice weekend in Boston, in spite of my prejudices against it as a horrible city to drive in.

I ran into the oldest of friends, whose name we have appropriated to replace Vodka Collins.

I tried Vietnamese food, attended a sarangi recital, dined at the kids' table, and had excellent coffee, with Hari.

I shopped, danced, and brunched with a varied assortment of Penn Singers alums and their groupies. Gilbert is my homeboy.

Meanwhile, back in Whippany:

God has been attempting to create a third gender known as Andronathan Bower from Dani's rib.

Andrea and Cristine are geographically independent women.

Bob came to town, with Julie. She apparently does not resemble Avril Lavigne.


Dear Bitchlog: 70 MPH

There's a certain class of motorists I hate: the 70 mile-per-hour driver. The 70 mile-per-hour driver is found in the fast lane. He/she thinks,"I'm driving above the speed limit! Look at me whizzing by the masses!" Then, when you come by, driving 75 or 80 or 85, the bastard refuses to budge from the left lane because, "I'm driving above the speed limit. Naturally, my place is here." WELL IT ISN'T. FUCK YOU.

Also disturbing my commute is the unexpected cancellation of the Radio Chick. You finally find a morning show you like...

There's a castle in Tarrytown. What is it?



Rufus has a new CD out. I suggest lending an ear to track #1: it is very good, and you might just chuckle.

The new guilty pleasure.


RIP Dodge Spirit

Work has started off very well indeed.

This weekend I found myself at Jockey Hollow. When's the last time you have been to Tempe Wick House?

Today please take a moment to observe the passing of a Spirit. Remember its lush maroon interior with strange markings on the passenger door. Remember the rain guards, although I was never sure what those really were. The secret language it spoke in its later years. Remember all the laughs you had at its expense (Raina). "Do you point this at everyone who rides gun?" (Bob). Sue's lovely ABBA sticker on the bumper. Rich Y's mock trial disk in the glove compartment. A disco ball, Michelle's yearbook, or a bomb from Utopia Limited in the trunk.

Oh Spirit, with whom will I share my escapist tendencies now?


Ugly, Fat, Old

A New Jerseyan seeks out the beautiful in the ugly. Hannah's favorite refinery is on the way to Philadelphia via the Walt Whitman bridge; it looks like glowing trambones. Bob's favorite smokestacks can be seen from the Pulaski Skyway, just before Jersey City.

It is a sad day for Brian. None of his pants fit him.

James Marsters is forty-one years old? I just extended the limits of my dating consideration set. It could happen, ya hear! (Love that radio spot for the New York Lotto.)


Pop Culture Note

Madonna kisses Britney and Christina: "These are my daughters, with whom I am well pleased," says the Pop Goddess. And everyone with a Y chromosome dreams sweet dreams.


Summer Goal Achieved

I learned how to drive stick. The babes can't resist me.

One of my old nemeses, decorative soap, has returned and invaded both bathrooms of my house.



Erin, Dani, and I trekked up to Vermont, where we outsmarted a serial killer and escaped death. (That is, if you consider a person driving in a serial killer-like car to be a serial killer, and you assume outsmarting means continuing to drive.) Thus, we arrived safely in Burlington to celebrate Suesday with our favorite Sue.

The weekend was chock full of Polaroids, Aviators, and Rotel. Our sexy sextet--the quartet from Jersey, joined by Zeitz and J. Funlap--rocked Charlie O's in Montpelier. Yeah capital city! Dig The Kent Variety!

Yesterday night, Mu and I attended the Justified/Stripped concert. Good times! Christina's acoustic "Come on Over, Baby" was chill, but the songs that got me going were "Fighter" and JT's "Señorita."

This week has been a reunion of sorts, and it felt good.



I've debated whether I was going to continue doing the journal thing.

Perhaps it was MY's cogent arguments. And maybe I will start a trend, and then if we fail to keep in touch, we really won't fail. The website will be a constant in these changing times. What would the world be like without ¡Bailamos!?

That being said, here is the update:

In college there seemed to be many units of measurement for time. Life could be divided according to semesters, vacations, shows, exam schedules (damn two midterms + final bullshit). Now it seems like there are only days.

I am employed!

Last week I felt like I was setting fire to my own little world and taking everyone down with me. That is sooo over. No, wait.

We've listened to Fleetwood Mac a lot. They're the new Temptations.

I've enjoyed my trips to Chicago and Philadelphia. Long Island: never a dull moment!

One of my summer goals from 2001 was achieved this week. Actually, I've learned a little guitar, and may soon have a car with a manual transmission. That would take care of all three goals. Wow, look at Brian "Go-Getter"! Please disregard the two-year time to completion.

My imaginary boyfriend, Jacob JCC, is doing fine, thank you. Meanwhile, the Eastern Seaboard Conversion Plan, or The Great Leap Gayward, is progressing smoothly.



The summer was sworn in with a trip to Long Beach Island and a bottle of wine.

Brooke and I visited each other's hometowns!

We stalked Davy Dunkin one night, and then sat on a bench another night. But the pace picked up over the weekend with a free Guster concert, a fab party in Philly, and a free Rufus concert in Central Park.

I hear that shoulders are the new boobs, and Thailand is the new black. Just wanted to pass along the style tips.

I'm still looking.

¡Bailamos! is turning three years old this month, but I suppose it's time to find a new home.

Barbara's Buttcrack!


See You In Hell

Which circle of hell are you going to? I spend eternity in the Ninth circle, along with fellow procrastinator Hannah. She says, "Well, if I have to be completely submerged in ice at the center of the Earth, held in Lucifer's mouth, I'm glad I'm going to be there with you." Join the party!!



I think I should start updating my page again. It's hard to know where to begin.

I've been busy. There was a utopia, limited. There was a wild party. There is no job. There will be a thesis.

There was a visit from J.P. There were mountains of snow. There was handing in a management paper three weeks late. There was a return to Lyon, and a visit to Becky in Florence. There was plotting with Hannah. There was the discovery of Frank O'Hara . There was Buffy bonding time. There was Raina finally succumbing to my wishes to watch Birthday Girl. There were fan games back in Whippany, and visits to Philadelphia. There was a graduation dinner, and singing in the rain.

Mostly, there was the conspicuous absence of someone so important in my life that made these months especially hard. I've got to admit it's getting better.

There has been the impending sadness of graduation. There has been the growing nostalgic energy in every single picture, inside joke, story from France, dinner with friends, cast party, that makes me want to cry or go drink.



"That particular month was harder than you'd believe," quoth Alanis.


Obsolete Note About A Home Stretch

Doesn't the Roman numeral on the front page look classy? It makes the college thing seem so epic.

This is the home stretch.