Flagged for removal

Your posting has been flagged for removal.

Approximately 98% of postings removed are in violation of craigslist posting guidelines.

Please make sure you are abiding by all posted site rules, including our terms of use:

http://www.craigslist.org/about/terms.of.use.html

If you need help figuring out why your posting was flagged, try asking in our flag help forum: http://forums.craigslist.org/?forumID=3. Include posting title, body, category, city, how often posted, any images, HTML markup, etc.

If your posting was wrongly flagged down (2% of flagged ads are) please accept our apologies and feel free to repost.

Sorry for the hassle, and thanks for your understanding.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Date: 1241010249
PostID: 1145587608
Title: (free stuff) For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn.

e-mail Ernest.





 Location: Brooklyn
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

Bridge Burning 101

I just stopped this all of a sudden. I don't know why.

After months and months of not talking to my ex, I sent an e-mail (which was ignored), and followed it up with an instant message two days later. They are reproduced below to help explain what's floating around in my head.

e-mail:

subject: hey

This sucks. I write you these notes now and then and never send them,
just to get them out of my system i guess. But really what they
amount to is just wanting to say hi I think. I have no idea what
you're doing-- I guess that's the point of this silence, but it's
pretty lame. I feel like super avoiding you and contact with you is
just making shit weird for no reason.


--Bill S. Preston Esq.

IM conversation:

6:17 PM me: just a recognition that we both exist is all

6 minutes

6:24 PM g: i can recognize that.

6:25 PM me: thanks buddy. it's just been a long time of that existence being kind of in the ether in some way.

6:29 PM g: i don't want to have a friendship with you sam.

6:31 PM me: I have trouble understanding how you can be so intimately involved in someone's life for so long and then just not care at all about them anymore. I'm not looking for a date to go get a burrito or anything, I'm just occasionally curious what you 're up to and would like to entertain the idea that if we ran into each other at some point we would be able to speak in that regard.

6:34 PM g: No, I'm sorry.

6:35 PM me: I guess I just should have said nothing so at least I'd get a hello.

6:36 PM So now the awkward anxiety of a meeting can return... as opposed to me just being able to say hi and turn around and get a drink or something, now what am I supposed to do? Pretending I never knew someone seems absurd.

6:38 PM We share a handful of common friends I have been avoiding to alot this space (for myself, more so), but it just seems silly.

g: i don't know what you're talking about specifically.

I'm busy at work and can't really talk about this

6:39 PM me: I apologize. I really just wanted to say hello, and was curious what you were working on. It was just about that scenario, of running into you. I should have left it out there and if it came up just said "hi"

...from afar.


After that I got no more responses.

sms

my friend joe and i made a suicide-suicide/murder-suicide pact some time ago.

this ensures that neither one of us will off ourselves before things are really miserable. i think it's a great idea. i have told joe if he kills himself without running it by me first and getting agreement and approval, i will "dig you up and beat the shit out of you."

here is a text message exchange from yesterday (friday) night, around 8pm:

sam: one of those verizon fios cable guy ads actually just made me laugh

joe: i just read about rick ross being fake

sam: we are both having really successful friday nights

joe: totally -- murder suicide

sam: i am drinking caffeine just so i don't pass out at like 830pm. but all im gonna do is stay up and do nothing.

joe: at least valentine's day is coming up

joe: hopefully i will get some crazy razor blades and some pcp

sam: i'm going to get a pair of tin snips and cut a heart out of a razor and slice my veins with it then swallow it with a gulp of festive red colored drano

sam: also, i will carve "i loved you" into my chest as a suicide note, and people will argue over who it was meant for and i'll finally be famous

joe: will it be meant for jon grace

(jon is our crazy friend who is always in jail who just joined the army after a long petitioning process to convince them to let him in and is now in boot camp)

sam: obviously

joe: at least he will be remembered

sam: as i'm dying, you can carve a portrait of him in an army helmet on my back as your pills kick in. as you fade away, the lines will become more and more abstract until you finally collapse, falling to the ground, a switchblade will rest in your hand as you lay across the now blood soaked floor.

sam: (this will be shown by following the knife, slowly pulling the camera back to reveal you beginning to die, and as you fall backwards, the camera slowly rises up while tilting down to end in an aerial shot of the tragic scene)

joe: where will these festivities take place

sam: i think a really swank penthouse with a nice glossy floor and high ceilings, for art's sake

sam: oh, also, there should be a girl passed out in a corner, like slumped over. it will fade to black, but it will be obvious that upon her awakening she discovers the scene.

sam: actually, it'll cut to black. not fade.

joe: sounds like an instant classic

sam: it's the taxi driver for a new generation man

joe: i mean its either that or donate sperm profferinoaly [sic]

joe: that word is from the future

sam: my sperm is from the future

jumping for joy

Dear Journal,
It's been ages since my words touched your sweet ivory pages.

Yesterday "21 internet bloggers" (as opposed to, you know, "life bloggers") were on set. I am writing in this blog thing, but I hope I am never referred to as an, "internet blogger." That would really bum me out.

One of the PA's on this shoot I've become friends with (on set) sent me his script he's trying to shoot in June. First off, this kid has never made a film ("but I've worked on so many, I have a lot of experience"), and second, it's a feature. Yesterday I forced myself to read up to page 23 in this 121 page screenplay. I have never had a harder time reading anything, ever. He's a nice kid, and seems smart, but it's really apparent from his writing that he has no idea what emotions are, or how people respond to tragedy. From what I can tell so far, the whole thing is based around a kid whose parents died I guess, and he goes to his uncle's warehouse to ask him for a job and instead his uncle sends him all the way to New York City ("cut between montage of big buildings, flashing lights, fire escapes, and protaganist's fascinated face" -- seriously, this is in the script, and it doesn't even make since because the kid is supposedly from Chicago, which isn't a rural area by any means) to check on his daughter who recently had her new roommate (she found him on craigslist!) kill himself in his room within days after moving in. Needless to say, she was rushed to the hospital and diagnosed with a "stress disorder" and now takes three different kinds of pills. The kicker, is that the girl's father (the protagonist's uncle who apparently took care of him when he was younger-- which you finally learn on page 23, along with some other necessary character description, like the protagonists age) "used to drink quite a bit" and I guess took it out on our poor hero. This description makes no sense, but that's basically how the script is, too. So whatever. Imagine that, with a lot of camera/editing direction and unnecessary capitalization written in, too ("SLOW ZOOM on CHARLIE's FACE" "SMASH CUT to eggs in a SKILLET").

***

This past Sunday I found a great convertible loveseat on the street outside of our place. This was an especially awesome occurrence since literally earlier in the night I had been talking about how I had really wanted to go out and get a small sofa for my room this week, but then I got called to work on set and had to rule that out. In reality though, even if I hadn't been working, I've been feeling like I shouldn't be spending money on things like that, so I had been going back and forth on the whole thing.

Anyway, walking a friend to the train I spotted a nice brown microsuede couch (revealed to be a sofabed when we tried to turn it sideways and a bed popped out). It was set out with the trash, but with some finesse, two matching throw pillows thoughtfully placed on either side of the seat cushion. We sat on it and watched traffic pass by, smelled it to make sure it wasn't covered in urine or something, and set to take it into my room. Which we did thanks to my downstairs neighbor who helped me get it up the stairs.

After walking my friend back to the train, I went upstairs, stood in my kitchen, and couldn't stop smiling. Then I literally started jumping up and down (quietly so neither of my roommates would walk in and see how crazy I was being) because I was so happy. I don't think I've ever really jumped out of happiness before, or been as happy over a piece of furniture.

Tuesday night I went over the couch with a steamer, and now it's a lovely part of my room (which I desperately need to clean and arrange in some sort of manner that makes since).

I think one of the fish I've grown quite attached to is sick and will be dying soon. That's always kind of a bummer, but one you also tend to forget almost immediately upon turning your head away from the tank. Not like when I was a kid and I stayed home from school one day because I was such a wreck over my fish dying. Still, it's a bummer. Also, I think he's blind.

raining frogs

When I woke up this morning I decided to call State Farm to get the warranty information to get my car stereo repaired. I put the call on speaker, picked up the tv remote, and sat down on the couch while I waited on hold for Claims Team 6 to answer.

Feet on the coffee table, phone by my side, I looked down at the floor where a big dark hairball of dust and lint twitched. I stared at it for a second, wondering how this much crap had amassed under the table not even 24 hours after sweeping when it twitched again. Clearly a movement of something alive. Not dust. Not hair. But covered in both.

I hung up the phone that was still by my side playing muddled, too-quiet-to-make-out hold music, carefully put my feet back down on the floor, and leaned over to push the table in front of me out of the way.

A frog. This dust is in the shape of a frog. A frog is on my floor, in my living room, 3 stories up in the middle of Brooklyn. A real, alive for all intents and purposes, frog. It didn't really look like a frog. It had the basic shape, but appeared to just be a frog shaped dust bunny. But it had to be a frog under all that dust. It was moving.

I didn't know what to do. How to pick it up. I grabbed a magazine subscription card having long fallen out of its host and slid the hairball frog on to it. Setting the card and dust frog on the table, I carefully tried to remove the hair and dust covering the thing. It was too hard. Too knotted and tangled. But yes, under it all, there was a frog.

I got a bowl of water and dipped the living room frog-based tumbleweed into it slowly to help in sorting out the mess. I untangled its tiny body with the most delicate touch I could manage, piling the wet lint next to the bowl. The frog floated there in the shallow water, not necessarily "moving" by any means, but also not appearing to be just quite dead.

He was maybe an inch long, and one of its arms appeared to be broken, or at least missing its tiny frog hand. I'm not sure if frogs can break bones, but I'm sure frogs can be broken, and he looked like he had been through quite a lot. He must have crawled quite far to have amassed the amount of dust and hair and all that he did. Like a little frog based tumbleweed.

...


He's some sort of aquatic frog. He doesn't move much, but he's alive. I don't know if he will stay alive, or even if he's made it through while I've been writing this down. Maybe there is too much chlorine in the water. Maybe if he was still alive after crawling around in dust and hair on my living room floor he should just stay dry. I don't think I have the means to care for a frog. I have a bigger bowl, and maybe he can live in that. I guess we'll see if he makes it through the day, and then I'll figure things out from there.

Life in the first world

I thought I was watching some kid pray to mecca at the indian museum
today.

On closer inspection he was kneeling down facing a wall playing a
video game.

"… But some explanation may be of value to the less introspective signs. We can say that the hydra can mean many things: jealousy, vengeance, resentment, anger, frustrated sexuality, violence. Scorpio is a sign of intense desire; and the hydra's many heads can mean the many desires of the uncivilized human heart. Left to grow in the darkness, they can become poisonous, and begin to destroy others. But they cannot be dealt with by repression. They must be understood, held up to the light, respected as part of oneself. And although vanquished, it is a good idea to remember that one immortal head. For Scorpio, all human beings carry within them the seeds of good and evil. Evil is not an abstract thing, or somebody else's fault; it is in everyone. Human brutality cannot be blamed on society, but ultimately only on oneself. It is relevant to realize that Sigmund Freud, the great founder of modern depth psychology, had Scorpio rising. Therein lies the deepest meaning of Scorpio's myth: come to terms with the hydra in yourself, and you redeem the world.


Astrologers broadly agree that the following are the characteristics of Scorpio:

* Intense
* Powerful
* Determined / tenacious / persevering
* Emotional / sensitive
* Calm but seething
* Reserved / withdrawn
* Secretive
* Deep / profound
* Revengeful (if hurt) / unforgiving
* Passionate / sexual
* Loyal / devotional
* Ambitious
* Extreme
* Willful / fanatical
* Mysterious / magnetically attractive / exciting
* Deeply resentful / brooding / potentially destructive
* Scorpio is the Zodiac sign that indicates the deepest interest in sexual matters, and for most Scorpios, sex is an expression of love."

All that astrology stuff is so stupid.

Except for me.

For me it is dead fucking on.

A Problem I Have

it is so windy. it feels like my windows are open.

they aren't.

Because the night

Never have I been so blown off. Waiting outside in the "wint'ry mix"
for so long to be told they "didn't think I was really coming" and my
role was double booked, to be filled by another.
As soon as I solidify alternate plans, my original dream evening plan
calls.

This is what happens I guess.

The internet (myself included) doesn't have time to read.

This is why twitter is such a craze, and this is why I hate it.


Despite the fact that I don't have an attention span either...

I just hate writing and then looking at the post and going, "man, that is so wordy... what a long block of text." There is no reason that should be a negative thing, but it is now.

Boil it down. Reduce it to 140 characters. And then update 50 times a day.

People are more likely to read 100 short entries they can quickly scan over and through than one long entry like the one I just posted.

But, like I said, that goes for me too. What a bummer.

What have we done?

I feel like I am catching up on sleep I've been missing for the past god knows how many weeks. Today I wanted to accomplish a lot, but I just wound up getting my oil changed and buying a new fish.

I cleaned out my car, too. That sounds like a small task, but if you saw some before and afters, you'd understand.

The day wasn't a total bust I guess, but when it came time for the sun going down, I had no plans, and just felt too tired to really try to make any.

Tomorrow is some sort of locations department lunch thing near the production office. We're supposed to be in the throes of the blizzard of the century (two inches, maybe more!!!) when I wake up tomorrow, so I'm thinking I'm going to have to take the train. This is something that gives me a great amount of anxiety, as I am taking a subway line I have sworn off on, to a neighborhood I have sworn off on, to a subway stop I have most certainly sworn off on. Directly into the domain and neighborhood of ex-girlfriend du jour who apparently happens to live (with her former ex-boyfriend) directly next to our production offices in Greenpoint.

I worry about this blog basically turning into my old livejournal. The subjects of my depression/anxiety are often what I talk about in the non-computer world though, so I guess it makes sense for it to bleed into whatever vessel I'm expressing myself into.

There's no work until the 5th for me at the earliest (more likely the 7th or 8th). I'm trying to figure out what the hell I'm going to do with my time. Coming up with some ideas for the documentary I want to make would be a good iea, but I need some sort of motivation in that regard. I'm quite bad at pushing myself to do things to get them done in any sort of timely fashion if they are just for myself.

I have to get the pictures off of my iphone, and then maybe I'll make some sort of fun picture post with all the amazing things I've done lately. Ha. There's been one such instance I think... I ate a lot of nice meat with Maiko and Bob the other night, and that was quite nice. I have a pretty solid photo of a gigantic plate of said meat.

After the meat-y dinner, I went out to meet up with a lady-friend and the guy she is infatuated with at a horrible bar in [the far reaches of] Park Slope. It could not have been a weirder scene. I think everyone was wearing white button up shirts in a cocktail bar ("Cabana") painted entirely white with white furniture and only them in the place. Of course I walked in all in black like the rain cloud I am, sat down, drank a mojito ($9) I didn't pay for, and left promptly thereafter.

This is the kind of thing I fear about writing in an online journal, and the kind of line-item I really work to redact and leave information out of. That stinks. I hate editing myself and not just talking about people directly and bitching like I would to someone in private company.

The whole fucking thing was so awkward. I don't understand this girl, or at least not her relationship with the infatuee, I don't think anyone does, and we've all been trying to figure it out for over a year.

If you are reading this and don't know what the hell I'm talking about, this is entirely uninteresting. If you're reading this and you know basically what I'm talking about, I might as well just tell you about it in meat space. What a horrible term, "meat space."

I will wind up deleting this entry.

Tonight at 4:50 in the morning I watched a girl run home, checking
behind herself every few paces.

cactus attack

I was moving a chair from this weird office room at the castle to sit in, and this cactus attacked me. I had my side to it, and I guess I just didn't see it. Anyway, it fell on my arm, full force. Not knowing what it was-- just knowing that something was falling, and my arm was stopping it from hitting the ground-- I quickly swung my arm around to help catch it and put it back. The pain of six or so 3/4" thorns piercing into my muscle tissue in my arm hadn't been made sense of yet by my brain I suppose.

With the back of the hand I shot out to stop the fall I did in fact manage to stop it from crashing on the floor. I wound up with a few of these killer thorns breaking off inside the flesh of my fingers, flesh which I did not think had enough room to have things violate it so well.

I looked down at my hand which was not bleeding yet, and saw a couple thorns still sticking out of my skin. I pulled two out with my teeth and then lifted my sleeve up to check on the damage to my arm. Like trackmarks down the back of my forearm, I had been stuck, but there was no lasting damage (besides what I'm sure will be serious bruising from the massive weight of the cactus).

Walking outside of the little office room, the pain started to come in my hand as if my joints were swelling, and when I curled my fingers to inspect the source, I realized one of the thorns had gone almost all the way through my pointer finger at the first knuckle. The sharp end was just sticking out the other side, and the part that had broken off the cactus was about flush with my skin.

Walking outside-- my finger as straight as possible-- I walked toward my car to get my leatherman, as I couldn't get this one out with my teeth, and looking at it and feeling it inside of me was starting to make me nauseous. With some patience and some initial pain, I managed to pull the thing out. I wish I had taken a picture, but that wasn't really on my mind at the time.

It still hurts, and there are nice little poke marks all over my hand which look very gentle which is quite misleading.


I'm thinking of posting music on this thing I want other people to hear, since I'm a big fan of blogs that do that. I guess then I'll have to make this thing more public if I expect anyone to care.

bagels with lox

This job has got to be the worst job I could have in hopes of
distracting myself from my thoughts. When I'm on set (what, 10% of the
time?) it's alright, but really the great majority of the work is
literally sitting in my car, alone, listening to the radio. I'd say
that when I leave my house at 6am to return around 6pm, I spend maybe
an hour or two tops around other people, spread throughout the day.
It's starting to make me a little wacky, desperate-for-company-wise. I
mean, if I was going home to somebody, or going out after work or
something, that would help out. But really, during the week the only
other person I see who I talk to a bit is my roommate.
I guess now I have the fishtank. As pretty as they are, fish make for
pretty poor company. I bought myself a 20 gallon tank for my birthday,
and have been working pretty hard the past couple of weeks filling it
with a little community.
I just got a message from my roommate that 2 neons died (out of the 5
I got yesterday). I'm curious if this means when I get home in 9 hours
I'll have to deal with removing their tiny carcasses from the tank, or
if he'll take care of it. Actually, fuck it. I know I'll have to deal
with it.
What a bummer for the other fish, having to live with the poorly
floating bodies of their peers all day. They probably don't care.

Thanksgiving was all right. A pleasantly uneventful drive both down
there an back up. Stopped by to see my father's side of the family
which includes my grandmother. Seeing them is always strange. I see
them once or twice a year, for a few hours. They're all Christians
(episcopalian?), and just totally different from anything I could
imagine my "family" being like. I can't describe that in any way that
really makes any sense without showing pictures or video or something
comparing the two.
I'm going to go walk through the castle I'm sitting in my car outside
of, and "check up" on the set dressers.

At least I'm hearing a lot of new music thanks to WNYE/KEXP (wake up/
john in the morning). That's always a positive.

last night. i just wanted to try uploading a picture to this thing to see how it works.

Being at home is always a little weird after so much time away, but there are always those little comforting things you've been doing since you were tiny that make everything perfect.

Getting home last night at 4am after driving down from NY, I started up the shower and just laid down in the tub. Old school deep tub, never ending hot water, and just total comfort.


I have also decided that I need a girlfriend to at the very least to help me fold sheets. I don't know if I could look more ridiculous doing my laundry and constantly ending up with sheets on my head trying to fold them all alone.

You know, that and the whole crippling winter depression thing.

Working on Maggie's farm

Back on the farm again today. Spent my day off yesterday going all
over Brooklyn checking out different pet stores and stocking up on
fish supplies for my new tank which I'll post pictures of later.
This morning I got here a little late and the setdressers were already
unloading their truck into set when I got here. When I walked up, all
the little chicks and their mother that I hung out with for like a
week last time I was prepping this location alllll came running up to
me and started peeping. The setdressers were all surprised and said
the chicks didn't do that for any of them... So basically I am a
father, and will post pictures of my chicken-children later.
I mean it's obviously because I fed them constantly when they were
tiny, last time I was here... But, whatever works to have adorable
chicks follow you around. If only human females would accept my
offerings of ripped up pieces of gross bagels. I'd be a regular Don
Juan.

I think this might be the worst written thing I've ever done. Posting
from a tiny phone keyboard has this weird way of making you write like
a child.

Today I decided I'm done with my nosering.

I think they look good on girls, but I'm not a girl. So, that's it.

I'm also not 13 I guess.


I still can't get over Paul Newman.

I'm really upset I never visited. I had planned for years to visit him on his birthday in Connecticut.

I had a dream while I was napping this morning that I was driving too
fast down a road filled with chickens and chicks.
It was the most anxious feeling ever, trying to slow down and make
sure no tiny chicks that disappeared beneath the hood quickly become
just pops or crunches.
They were all fine, hundreds of them, but it was terrifying. I knew
once I turned the corner and saw them that I must have seen a "drive
slowly, chickens" sign earlier, but I failed I heed it's warning.

Well, it all turned out fine. Now it's back to picking trash at the
castle.