The Strange Disappearance of Tania Lidov

Yeah, I’ve been shitty about blogging recently. Like really shitty. There are a couple of reasons for this.

The primary one is that my mind is being pulled in a million different directions as my cross-country move creeps closer and thus becomes “real.” I leave New York in six weeks and Natalie, who is preceeding me and will hunt down an apartment for us, leaves in 8 days! In exchange for her apartment acquisition services, I’m going to coordinate shipping her belongings in addition to my own. So that has already begun to happen in the past couple of weeks.

And then there’s everything that needs to happen in the next six weeks. Suffice it to say that having lived in New York my whole life, I’m deeply rooted here in pretty much every respect you could imagine. Uprooting myself is proving  something of a mindfuck.

So every time I start to think about blogging, there is this voice in my head that goes, “No, you shouldn’t think about that, you should think about your family, packing, money, selling your furniture, selling your books, money, your health insurance, the shit at your parents’ apartment, the shit at your grandmother’s apartment, money some more, your friends, flying your cat, craigslist ads, a motherfucking CAR,” and on and on. And there’s been some illness and upheaval in my family (nothing catastrophic though, thank god) that’s making certain logistics more intricate than they would be otherwise. So yes, it’s distracting, and blogging is kind of an afterthought at best.

The secondary reason it’s an afterthought is that I’m reconsidering what kind of writerly/professional presence I want to have on the internet. I haven’t decided anything definitive yet, and it’s certainly not at the top of the priority list given everything else, but the nature of my personal website is likely to change down the line. I may even try to increase my (completely nonexistent) web design savvy if I can find the time and patience.

Meanwhile, I’ll attempt not to completely abandon this blog, and will certainly keep posting long-winded and only semi-relevant comments on the blogs of others. So don’t worry, I won’t be too far away. In fact, if you live in Los Angeles, I will gradually be moving closer, in body and especially in spirit.

Aaaannnnnd…

I just gave notice at my job. Unemployment commences in T-6 weeks.

California, here I come.

The title of this blog is taking on a whole ‘nother level of meaning for me right now.

I really don’t enjoy the cold. In fact, I kind of hate it. Thus it should come as no surprise that I do not like winter, at all. Especially in New York City. Yes, there is a certain awe in that glittering white silence that descends when all that brick and metal and concrete is obscured by a heavy snowfall. Yes, there is a certain magical quality to low afternoon sunlight, how it cuts through the glassy air, and the particular yellow-white cast it gives to the stone buildings. Yes, it is all very pretty and bright and still.

For a couple of hours, maybe. Then the snow turns into those filthy, slushy mountains that you have to struggle through to run the most mundane errands like going to the grocery store to buy bananas (bananas are very important). And I do mean struggle. Walking four blocks should not make you winded. It should not give you weird muscle aches in your shins and ankles. It should not require that you spend as much time heaping layers of clothing onto your body as you spend on the  errand itself. It should not be such an ordeal that you would almost rather just deal with being hungry than bother going to the store.

Does this animal look smug to you?

And going downtown to hang out with your much-loved friends, from whom you will soon be separated by the length of an entire continent, should not have to be such odyssey that by the time you get home at 4am after 3 subways (because no cab will take you all the way up to Harlem in such weather) and a half-mile walk through unplowed, unshoveled windy misery, you’re wondering whether the entire evening was worth it. In spite of the fact that the bars you were at were playing really awesome music and your friends are really fun to be around these days, it’s kind of hard to fully appreciate the awesomeness when your feet are frozen from trekking from Stanton to Delancey in the snow even though you wore warm boots (though not your warmest, because you would never be caught dead in Uggs in such a setting). There was also the part of the evening where a small portion of your hair caught fire, but that’s another story.

So yeah, I fucking hate winter. I’m not one to shy away from difficulty, but this is the kind of difficulty that I just don’t see any merit in. I don’t like it when things like buying groceries, doing the laundry, or having fun with my friends turn into massive physical struggles. I don’t like the fear of freezing being the deciding factor when I choose an outfit. I don’t like being so cold when I get home at night that I have to pile on three layers of PJs and pull the covers all the way over my head in order to get warm enough to fall asleep. And I don’t like that this level of cold goes on for THREE EFFING MONTHS, though granted it’s not usually snowing as intensely as it was yesterday.

But you know what I do like? Bone-dry heat. Like the kind they have in Los Angeles in the summer. I may not handle cold well, and I’m not crazy about humidity, but give me those desert afternoons and I will be happy as a clam.  I was in LA this past August during what was supposedly a fairly significant heatwave (I think it was close to 100 degrees). And I was  walking around Silver Lake in shorts and a tank-top, covered in sunblock and sipping from my water bottle, and I was in heaven. To say nothing of sitting in the shade with a book and an iced coffee in such weather. Paradise indeed. Sweating is WAYYY more my style than shivering.

So yes, Los Angeles, towards you I run with a full heart and open arms. I’m just pissed that have to endure another two months of this frosty bullshit before I get there. But at least I’ll have something to bitch about, and we all know how much I love to complain.

I’m not really sure what this post is about…

It has become apparent to me that the aforeposted morsel of anthropological scholarship known as “Bobby Bottleservice” has been one-upped by something known as “Jersey Shore.” Which is brought to us, of course, by the poet-philosophers in charge of original programming at MTV. God love ‘em.

Of course this one-upmanship is made even more potent by the fact that “Jersey Shore” is ostensibly real, whereas “Bobby Bottleservice” is a fictional character conceived as parody. And I do in fact choose to believe that “Jersey Shore” is real, because something that embodies so many levels “train wreck” simultaneously can’t be anything but. Seriously, you just cannot make that shit up. “Bobby Bottleservice” can’t even glimpse the altitude of awesome at which “Jersey Shore” has set up residence.

There is so much that can be said about “Jersey Shore,” as evidenced by the fact that there is a lot of very impassioned saying going on already. But really all I want to talk about is the situation known as The Situation–specifically, the incredible fact that there exists a person who refers to himself, in the third person, as “The Situation.” And The Situation bestowed this nickname upon himself in reference to the situation that is his bronzed, lovingly manscaped six-pack. And The Situation (human) often introduces himself to people by pulling up his shirt so they can asses the full extent of the situation (six-pack) for themselves.

So really, what The Situation has done is simplify the “getting to know you” process by making it clear straight off the bat that the essence of his entire being can be understood by observing his oily, overgroomed abs. I’m pretty sure there is some dissertation-worthy comment about the nature of man and the body/mind dichotomy in there somewhere, but my brain just wasn’t built to comprehend such profundity.

So I’m just doing my part by reintroducing the phrase “the situation” back into my daily vocabulary as much as possible. As in, “can we talk about the situation that is that woman’s studded pants?” or, “I don’t feel equipped to handle the situation, but I can recommend a good pizza parlor if you’d like.” Because now this phrase indicates not only that the topic at hand is something of An Event, but that said Event is of a particular Ed Hardy-esque, don’t-get-too-close-unless-HERPES! variety.

See, this is what I love about language–its perpetual evolution, the layers of nuance it accumulates as it bumps up against the engines of time, place, and culture. The richness of expression, the ever-increasing options we are presented with when selecting the most precise, situationally appropriate way to communicate our true meaning. So thank you, Jersey Shore, thank you. For your inspiration, your inebriation, your everything.

———–

UPDATE: Wow, I really need to proofread these things before I hit “post,” especially when I rattle them off in 30 min. after a serious caffeine crash. So if you read this last night, whoops!

No post for two weeks = extra long rant!!

My towel has abandoned me. Seriously. One of the two big, fluffy towels I keep hanging in my bathroom has up and disappeared. This is really getting my fucking goat because I live in a 350 sq. ft studio apartment and there are only so many places a big green bath towel (or “bath sheet,” as I believe towels of this magnitude are often called) can hide. I’m pretty sure the damn thing developed legs and hightailed it on outta here.

That would make one hell of a screenplay, wouldn’t it? The Animated Adventures of Boris the Bath Sheet. Boris the Bath Sheet’s Happy Harlem Hijinks! Fun for the whole fucking family. You can just cut me that million dollar check right now. Thanks.

But seriously, one needs to have an extra bath towel because what if one has an overnight guest? That guest may be in need of a shower, and following that, a towel. And I’d like to be able to be a good hostess and oblige. I really just think my apartment–nay, my life–has morphed into an abyss of malfunctions and annoyances. Let’s tally them up, shall we?

1) The light in my bathroom burnt out, and the fixture thing that you have to remove in order to change the bulb seems to be welded on. I have tried both elbow grease and a variety of tools and this thing will not budge. And getting a hold of my super to do anything takes time and patience. So I’ve been showering in the dark, leaving the door open to let in some light from the hallway, which is kind of a rough situation because–

2) It is fucking FREEZING in my apartment. I had kind of managed to forget/block out the level of frigidity that my apartment reached last winter due to the somewhat leaky windows, but man is it coming back to me now. I was just so fucking cold when I got out of the shower a couple of hours ago. AND I’m currently only in possession of one bath towel, so I couldn’t wrap the extra one around my hair to keep my head warm.

3) Speaking of my tresses, there is a mess of brown hair dye staining my floor near the mirror. This is entirely my fault, cause I’m too much of a lazyass to put down newspaper when engaging in elaborately researched DYI dye jobs but it’s still really fucking annoying. At least my hair looks good.

4) And speaking of stains, there was a massive disaster involving my winter coat last week and it’s currently on an extended (and likely very costly) hiatus at the dry cleaner, which is just so fucking awesome seeing as how it’s suddenly gotten really damn cold here in NYC.

5). The aforementioned disaster involving my winter coat also indirectly lead to the loss of my ipod touch, which was in the pocket of said winter coat before it went missing.

6) And in the realm of personal electronics, I managed to totally fuck up the lower left quadrant of my laptop display in a moment of epic clumsiness. I can technically work around the afflicted area (as evidenced by this post), but it is, like other things, really fucking annoying. And I’m terrified to know how much it will cost to repair, and I really just want a new laptop because this one is almost four years old, but spending $1000+ on a MacBook when I’m moving across the country in two months with no job lined up is maybe not the best idea.

I fucking hate money. Or really, I hate the choices that not having quite as much of it as you’d like constantly necessitates. Because I would really like a laptop with a fully functional screen seeing as how I’m a writer and spend gobs of time working at my computer, but I would also like to have a decent amount of money saved come February so that I can afford to move into an apartment/procure an automobile/not have a nervous breakdown once I hit LA. And I’d also like a new pair of jeans, cable television, and a couple of tickets to City Ballet’s winter season because ballet is good for my soul.

AND I WOULD REALLY LIKE TO FIND THAT FUCKING BATH TOWEL because if I get laid in the near future I’d like to be able to offer the man in question the chance to shower in the morning (if he’s particularly deserving and I let him stick around that long), and I don’t want to be that sad, undomesticated miscreant who only has one effing towel and a broken bathroom light. Especially if he’s the deserving sort who warrants use of my bathroom. I’m about to be 25, people. I need to get my shit together.

In case you don’t know what “B&T” means…

This is making me die a little inside, but in like the best possible way:

This Nick Kroll person knows his shit.  Seriously. This is why any  self-respecting New Yorker never goes near any remotely “hot” nightspot on a Friday or Saturday. Sunday – Thursday ONLY. And since 2006-or-so it’s generally been safest to avoid the Meatpacking District altogether. Unless you want chlamydia, or a rash in the shape of a dragon raping a lion on a skateboard.

Don’t say I never taught you anything.

Ack! What’s going on??

 A couple of things . I have…

1) for all intents and purposes “finished” the second draft of the screenplay I’m working on. Thank GOD. Now I can send it to a couple of people for notes, and just not look at or think about the damn thing for a little while without feelng like a soulless, amoral procrastinator.

2) started a couple of semi-promising essays, born of late-night insomnia and the mental fidgets  that comes with such things.

3) borne witness, not without some trepidation, as my body has professed its determination to increase its mass by 30% over the next 6 weeks.  Stufffinnnngggg. Piiiiieeeee. Yummmmmmmmmm.

4) done absolutely no “black friday” shopping. I’d like to say this stems from some honorable determination to stick it to the man and beat my tiny wings against the cage of our consumerist society, but really it’s more like I’m too broke to buy presents.

5) spilled coffee on my shirt (ok, really that was just right now).

6) read some more amazing Joan Didion.

7) started to freak out about how I’m gonna sell off all the furniture in my fifth floor walk-up apartment.

abused substances.

9) saw Rosemary’s Baby for the first time (I know! I’m really late! Don’t yell at me!!) and among other reactions, was really entertained by the fact that I knew people  in The Apthorp growing up. I often have this reaction to movies set on the Upper West Side–it’s the only reason I can deal with You’ve Got Mail. In fact, to be perfectly honest, You’ve Got Mail never fails to make me tingle with hometown pride. At least I’m willing to admit it. I love the Upper West Side.

10) taken a number of long nocturnal walks through the city.

11) gotten really, really effing excited about moving to Los Angeles. Really effing excited.

How was ya’lls Thanksgiving? Lovely and full of gastronomical pleasure (and digestive displeasure) I hope.

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UPDATE: No! WordPress is turning my “numeral eight close parenthesis” into a creepy little bespectacled emoticon without my permission! I can’t get it to stop!!! HOW DO I MAKE IT STOP???? Help me!

Q: Where the fuck have I been? A: I have no fucking idea.

Wow,  that was a big lapse. I blame it on the unpleasant illness that struck me down in the middle of last week, and my bizarrely hectic schedule in the days since my recovery. Every free moment I’ve had for writing (and I haven’t had many) has been devoted to cleaning up the second draft of my screenplay, which I will soon be sending to a qualified acquaintance for notes.

And today I’m exhausted and mainlining caffeine with even more desperation than usual–last night I was at an event for work (our fanciest of fancy fundraisers) and didn’t get home until almost midnight. Working for 14 hours straight has a way of sucking the life right out of you, especially when the last 5 or so of those hours involve unforgiving marble floors and uncomfortable shoes. Thank god it’s Friday–I can’t even begin to express how excited I am to make use of my recovered health by doing nothing that requires any effort whatsoever for two whole days.

God, I’m tired. And braindead. And tired.

And I just read this:

Still Sucks to Be a Female Writer in Hollywood

Sigh.

Next week should be much calmer, so hopefully you’ll be hearing a lot more from me then.

Aaaannnd I probably just jinxed it by daring to put such optimistic fuckery into writing. Fuck.

Why I Love Joan Didion (reason 1,912)

I could probably write about ten posts on why I have come to more-or-less worship Joan Didion in the past few months. Maybe one of these days I’ll get around to one or two of them.

But anyway, last night in my feverish state (the microbes were advancing) I picked up Slouching Towards Bethlehem and came across the essay “On Self Respect.” And it was perfect. I’m going to be lazy and not delve into details, but I will post a couple of excerpts as food for thought, and so that you can marvel at her perfectly styled prose and unparalleled ability to articulate complicated emotions and ideas:

There is a common superstition that “self-respect” is a kind of charm against snakes, something that keeps those who have it locked in some unblighted Eden, out of strange beds, ambivalent conversations, and trouble in general. It does not at all. It has nothing to do with the face of things, but concerns instead a separate peace, a private reconciliation.

And from the conclusion of the essay:

To have that sense of one’s intrinsic worth which constitutes self-respect is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent. To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference. If we do not respect ourselves, we are the one hand forced to despise those who have so few resources as to consort with us, so little perception as to remain blind to our fatal weaknesses. On the other, we are peculiarly in thrall to everyone we see, curiously determined to live out – since our self-image is untenable – their false notion of us. We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gist for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give. Of course I will play Francesca to your Paolo, Helen Keller to anyone’s Annie Sullivan; no expectation is too misplaced, no role too ludicrous. At the mercy of those we cannot but hold in contempt, we play roles doomed to failure before they are begun, each defeat generating fresh despair at the urgency of divining and meting the next demand made upon us.

It is the phenomenon sometimes called “alienation from self.” In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the specter of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that answering it becomes out of the question. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves – there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.

Los Angeles or bust

So I seem to have taken an unannounced hiatus from blogging last week, which I hope will not be a frequent occurrence. However, I do think I’m going to have to scale back from my initial ambitious goal of posting every day. Given the uptick in my work load, the incredibly long list of books, movies, and screenplays I want to get through in the next couple of months, and the fact that I’m trying to schedule in substantially more time for friends, family, and other New York- specific activities as my move draws closer, I think it’s unrealistic to assume I’m gonna be able to devote time to this every day.

I’m also convinced that my body has been waging some sort of war against microbial invasion for the past few weeks, and it’s been negatively affecting my energy level, concentration, and my concept of what I can and can’t accomplish. Today in particular I am feeling weirdly fatigued and asthmatic and full of aches and pains. I have no intention of disappearing from the internet–I do intend to try to try to post at least a couple of times per week, and sometimes I may be able to pull off a post a day. But I feel the need to temper expectations, my own most of all.

But my life is definitely driving forward in some ways–yesterday I officially declined to renew my lease for another year. As of mid-February I will have no space in New York to call my own. This is the first  official step I’ve taken towards moving–the first tie to my life in New York that I’ve severed–and it felt very exciting and a little bit scary.

I’ve never been without a place to call home in Manhattan. For the first 22 years it was my parents’ apartment, and since then it’s been my little jr. 1-bedroom in Harlem. Even when I was enrolled in college half way across the country I still “lived” at my parents place and spent a total of five months out of the year in New York.

But mom and dad, god love ‘em, have made it pretty clear that barring dire emergency I can never again expect to stay at their place for any indefinite length of time. The day (literally, the exact day) that I moved out they converted my bedroom into an office. And it would take an act of God (I’m talking life-shattering emergency) to cause me to go through the trouble and expense of moving into a new apartment in Manhattan having given up the unbelievably sweet deal I have at my current one. It would probably cost at least as much, if not more, than moving across the country (I wish I were kidding, renting in Manhattan is INSANE).

So saying the word and giving up my apartment felt very point-of-no-return.  I am moving to Los Angeles. In February.  Given how poor I anticipate being, I will be lucky if I can pull it together to fly back and visit for more than a week or two out of the year. And I will, in fact be a visitor. Come February, I will not have my own space anywhere in this city. That is fucking CRAZY. And I think it will be amazing, and exciting, and very beneficial to my growth as a human being. And of course there’s the practical fact that I need to do this in order to pursue my chosen career.

But yeah, CRAZY. I mean I am such a fucking New Yorker it’s sick. I pay $1100/mo for 350 sq. feet and consider it a massive fucking steal.  I talk too fast, walk too fast, have a wardrobe composed 80% of neutral colors,  and do unbelievably risky things in order to cross the street as a matter of course. And those things are integral to my sense of self. I wonder if I’ll always be that way, no matter how long I live somewhere else. I guess I’ll find out.