Yes, I said nymphomaniacal.  Not only is this a) an actual adjective that accurately describes my situation and b) a real word, it is the second serendipitous word discovery of the day, the first being analogical.  I can  argue endlessly in favor of all things anal.

Preface:  Seeing as my attempts at quitting my dearest, most friendly, lustful vice have epically failed, or more factually, reasonably failed, I am now documenting some thoughts on my recent trip to Amsterdam and Prague.  I do, however, plan on once again jumping into the very lethal and prickly thorns of smoking cessation in the (near) future, making this somehow relevant to my initial intentions.

Amsterdam.  It is lovely with its extensive canals and gingerbread facades.  It is lethal in its main means of transportation.  Near death experience 1:  A sudden thunderstorm broke.  We were (other persons present protected for various legal and personal repercussions) at the waterfront behind Central Station, a gorgeous building.  Rain, wind and other gusting elements from beyond racked the greying skies.  As we deftly made our way back towards our hotel, by Dam Square, I nearly met the sweet, hallowed cheeks of death in the form of an aggravated Dutch biker.  As I defensively looked right, then left, then right -as we are taught in driver’s ed and some other pedestrian traffic courses I am well versed in, he came from the left, yes, the other left that is neglected in this triangular defensive formation that clearly does not take into regard that two rights and one left clearly neglects the OTHER LEFT!!

Incident 2:  It seems that within the immediate throws of tequila and Coors Light, I cannot clearly recall the exact circumstance of the second incident.  This is probably for the better, as I needed to resort to such diversions in order to heal.  I think it involved a bike whizzing by millimeters from my body.  Seconds, my friend, seconds.

Transportation is extremely bike-oriented.  This is followed by the tram, then car.  You must be aware of the extreme slew of bikers, the tram lines, and the car lanes-I will argue, more dangerous than New York, because bikers there do not follow traffic signals, and as they outnumber other vehicles-it’s a free for all in terms of potential bike death.  I was much more aware as a pedestrian in Amsterdam-two near death incidents in under 48 hours.

Stay tuned to this riveting blog for more anecdotes, conspiracies and meandering observations regarding my travels.

Unfortunately, the existing National Girl Scout Policy prohibits the online sale of cookies.  If I want to obtain this decadence, I must participate in face-to-face time with a girl scout, unless I find a minion to do it for me.  I can also enter my zip code into the site and will be emailed a location where I can find these sellers of cookie crackdom.  Now, before I had to resort to such drastic measures, a savior so very kindly purchased the Thin Mints for me, as he happened upon one of the little greenies this weekend.  Thank you.  I now have Monday morning breakfast, and peace of mind for the duration of two sleeves.

http://www.girlscoutcookies.org/meet_the_cookies.asp

Clarity, however dust-ridden and obfuscated in its little niche behind my couch, sometimes finds its way out, usually on a weekday.  The pattern I discovered shows me footless and motionless Saturday and Sunday, exceptionally anxious and pissed off upon realization of consciousness at 6.55A Monday  morning, followed by extreme hyperactivity and productivity due to an extreme lack of activity for the preceding 48 hours.  This cycle has been apparent for at least a month now, yet any attempts at breaking it, generally feeble, have unsurprisingly failed.

Notes on this thus far productive Monday, March 2- (blizzard):

A wavering flirtation with spring throughout February intensifies one’s awareness of sudden loss at any moment, deepens appreciation of even small advances, but conversely desensitizes one against the cold, as if due to its unusual lateness, its reality is lessened to some degree.  Because it will probably not last long, because it may be the last cold of the season, it does not so deeply affect us.  This function of perception; potentially devastating, redeeming, or moot?

The two main topics on my mind this morning as I rode the train to work were as follows:

a)  I miss the bus.  Specifically, the pre-high school bus rides in which I was above ground for my commute.  You don’t realize how this can be taken for granted until your musical landscape is composed of other people’s undesirable parts, as well as a minimal, but unwavering  tension that almost always exists between strangers crammed into small spaces.

b) The place where I take violin lessons is quite possibly also a hotbed of S&M instruction.  We’re talking informative and educational courses covering an array of topics such as: golden showers, knifeplay, caning and my personal favorite, suturing!  Yes, we’re talking sewing flesh to flesh, baby.  Now, how I came across this information, and whether it is verified, you may wonder.  In doing some work-related research I happened upon an organization that offered these classes.  The address looked oddly familiar–google maps happened-and there it was.  Same building, same floor.  I find this very intriguing, but am not yet sure what the next step is beyond wondering if someone is pissing in someone else’s mouth while I’m practicing Jingle Bells.  (We played Jingle Bells in August, so it’s entirely possible, even in February.)   Fingers crossed.

Having nearly recovered from two gloriously hedonistic and lackadaisical weeks off work, and having been back for two weeks of hard-travail, it is time to kick some old ghosts.  Unfortunately, without the rigorous daily routine provided by employment, I slept an inordinate amount, ate erratically, and most detrimentally and notably–became addicted to the tawdry clove!  Seeing that the inception of this very blog had nearly everything to do with nicotine deprivation and the resultant insanity brought forth by such-this should be a pretty monumental, devastating, perhaps monumentally devastating or devastatingly monumental happening.  Personally, I’ve distanced myself from these shocking developments, mostly with the aid of alcohol, repression (mostly with the aid of alcohol), and denial.

I’d like to take this moment to dispel some myths about my new lover.  No, cloves are NOT worse than cigarettes.  Assuming worse implies higher nicotine and tar levels, imported cloves are in fact  similar to the average cigarette.  This myth most likely comes from partial fact-cloves, or kretek, in Indonesia do in fact contain around three times the levels of nicotine and tar than the average American cigarette.  They are not imported at such levels.

So, yeah, I have relapsed.  Officially fucking fallen off the wagon.  My intentions have come around, once again, to bite me in the ass.  A side diversion intended to prevent me from relapse has become relapse.   A cloying, 7th grade habit that once nauseated me, now holds more allure than my dear ol’ friend of 10 years, the cigarette.  That’s fucked up.

That reminds me of a few other fucked up things…specifically, the holidays in New York City.  If you know where to go, i.e. the East Village, for example, on Christmas or Xmas Eve, you will most likely encounter some very odd behavior.  By odd, I don’t mean drunken, although that is a near certainty.  There is a somber starkness to the Village streets on Xmas Eve-unsettling and tense, amiss–one feels something is a bit off, but cannot describe it beyond the lack of people.  It is in this environment that one witnesses a man chasing another man, screaming racial obscenities, holding a smashed bottle of red wine as a weapon.  It is in this environment that one meets two brothers from North Carolina, one polite, intelligent and conversational, the other blatantly trashed, singing odes to passersby he manages to chase down.  The oddness to various bar districts in the city during this time isn’t due to mere holiday loneliness, stragglers out because they have nothing else to do.  The city itself emanates an estranged, twilight zone feel (perhaps this is helped by the actual xmas lighting overdone in too many bars), a strained and forced happiness that doesn’t coincide with the dankness.  This is the pinnacle of palpable contemporary urban alienation.

On a lighter, more relevant note, I’m going to go smoke a clove now.

I am amazed and appalled that the following a.) exists and b.) tastes so akin to death lingering in my mouth.   Although, in death’s defense, I knew what I was getting into beforehand.  This, on the other hand, was far viler than I could ever imagine.   The “Kickbutt: Amped Energy Ballz” are supposedly cappuccino flavored and taste as wretched as you can imagine, probably worse.  Why did I even participate in this grandiose, overwrought energy-seeking scheme?  Extreme sleep deprivation followed by an extraordinary amount of food, followed by egg nog.  The coma-inducing combo of food + booze at noon, after no sleep, is fairly lethal.  One must truly focus all mental capacities on remaining upright and conscious.  It was a battle that I won after the Ballz and a Guru ( not a terribly unpleasant energy drink-the name, however is a bit much.)

Once again, a holiday festivity gone awry, mainly due to the presence of alcohol.  Luckily, this time there was no grinding-to my knowledge.

As I debated writing this, hesitation mostly due to the dizziness, fatigue and nausea that is impeding me from any type of productivity or functional activity, I deemed it a necessary part of the holiday party hangover experience.  Sometimes, they say there is nowhere else to go but up. This is one of those situations.  Go back to start, no real use in trying to collect those fragments of dignity scattered on the dance floor, or perhaps lodged somewhere down your colleague’s  throat and/or pants.  This isn’t necessarily the worst position to be in.  You can’t really get dirtier or more shameless so deep in the gutter, therefore, only improvement lies ahead.  Beyond the anachronistic disco-lighted dance floor and leering party crashers there is a tree-lined lane, dappled with sunlight.  You’ll (probably) reach that lane, one day, and it won’t matter how many people you made out with, how many vodkas you vomited, or how you really didn’t pull off those stripper moves even after ten minutes of relentless attempts.   It’s all okay because of the Holiday Party Clause.

So you fucked your assistant?  Did it happen the night of the holiday party?  In the cloak room?  Twice?  Exempt.

Did you make out with two too many colleagues?  Exempt and exempt.

Did you smoke a shit ton of cigarettes, even though you “quit”?  Exempt.

So he tripped, hit his head…you didn’t know it was Special K!  You thought it was just blow!  Fuck.  Exempt, exempt, exempt.

As so accurately put to me this afternoon, the annual company holiday party is the epicenter of a year’s worth of scandal.   That is why the holiday party exists.  It is inevitable drunken mayhem in order to provide fodder for office gossip and intrigue.  We all knew this going in.  And, we will continue to look forward to and participate in holiday parties.  It’s pretty sadistic as well as masochistic, but what the hell else would we talk about between emails?

There is a distinct difference between lapse and relapse, or so I’m told by my generically branded nicotine gum pamphlet.  According to this, I have not relapsed if I smoked a few drunken cigarettes, or in my case, chain smoked a pack or two of cloves last weekend.  That is merely a “lapse.”  I realize that when it comes to drinking, I’m utterly fucked.  There really is no way around it…nicotine gum doesn’t cut it at a bar, especially when trashed enough to attend cranberry wrestling at a goth club.  This is why during the week I have to either be a) sleeping or unconscious b) involved in extreme physical activity i.e. intense yoga or sex, or c) extreme cleaning projects such as scrubbing the bathtub, vigorously, naked, with bleach.  I’d like to say that I am exaggerating or over- simplifying, but in all honesty, that is really all I have to fall back on right now. Given my long smoking career, I don’t think I’m doing too shabby at all.  And I really don’t care what you think, unless you are a rehabilitated 10+ year smoker, with a hot body and charm.

I’d like to move along to a discussion of subway art.  That is perhaps a misleading term, as I’m talking about ad space in the trains, which seems to be highly occupied by podiatrists and dermatologists who employ graphic designers who specialize in the late 80′s aesthetic.  By the way, in order to smoothly tie this in to my previous topic, nicotine gum significantly increases my ability to cope with and dare I say, relax, during subway commutes.  So, this morning, cool and calmly detached on the L train, listening to  electrofunk because it’s Friday, and therefore celebratory, I noticed a change in ad space scenery.  Now, any of you who regularly use the subway know what I am about to describe; a space about 24 inches long and perhaps a foot tall, parallel with the bench, that usually features some MTA-hired artist (looking up his name now)…Ok, I now know all about the Arts for Transit program but could not find this specific artist, which is probably for the best.  I did however, find the image:

Personally, I really cannot stand this artist’s whimsical style.  In fact, I always found the rabbit disconcerting.  And really, come on…I’m riding the train during rush hour, trying to avoid being berated physically or verbally, also trying to avoid direct eye contact, and praying someone doesn’t urinate (which has occurred during my morning commute.)  It’s not a magical bunny floating through a cerulean sky.  It’s a dirty, washed out beige palette with fluorescent lighting, grime and rats.  And I’m fine with that, really.  So, this morning I realize there is new subway art on the L train!  And I like it!

This totally tops the rabbit.  The analogy to the subway is much more appropriate, and the background palette is more akin to actual subway lighting and colors.  It has a subterranean feel to it.  I look at this, I think NYC.  I look at the rabbit, I think…an Alice in Wonderland sans the acid. Unfortunately the MTA does not list the artist on their Arts for Transit site.  Boo, MTA.  I did, however, discover the artist of above rabbit; Dave Calver.  He also did the accursed Hand poster..which is even worse than the rabbit.  In fact, I would go so far as to say, I fucking loathe this poster:

It is a lame attempt at Surrealism.  There’s some Kandisky influence thrown in as well.  I think my disdain is culminated in the hands-that whimsical curve of the hand really pisses me off.  Please, explore that psychologically and get back to me, I am just as intrigued.

Luckily, I have nicotine gum to get me through bad art commutes.

Coming soon:  My first topic request! Little Goth Me: An Exploration of Black Lipstick, Fishnets and Catholic School Angst.  Hey, it’s not my idea-but you asked.