5 Tips for Buying a Certified Used Car from a Dealership

I grew up in the suburbs and was fortunate that my parents provided me with a vehicle once I became of driving age.  Due to a wild constellation of facts, I have a long list of cars in my driving history.  To wit (in order of appearance):

1984 Honda Prelude
2000 Toyota Corolla
2004 Toyota Camry
2002 Acura MDX
1999 Volkswagen Passat
2004 Volvo S80
2002 Volvo S40
2014 Toyota Prius V

The two Volvos were my foray into buying from private parties on Craigslist.  Given that I just bought the Prius yesterday, certified used from a dealership, I thought I'd share some tips on the car-buying experience and insights I've gained on the question of whether to buy from a dealer vs. private party.

If buying from a dealer:

1. Break your visit up into different days. Even in the nicest, most consumer-friendly and patient of dealerships, the fact is, a dealership is a car store, and they do everything in their power to make buying the car appealing.  And by "appealing," I also mean "easier than resisting" and "a way to get the torture over with."  It can take a long time to look at cars and arrive at a reasonable price (it took us 6 hours, but we also had to feed a baby and change a diaper).  Once you've gotten to that point, stop. Cool off.  Return in a few days when you are fresh to sign paperwork (took another 2 hours).
2. Sign the stuff YOU want to know about 1st, before you get weary and tired.  I would suggest looking at the warranty documents 1st, making sure all pages are in place, and signing those.  Next, the loan document.  There will be a GIANT stack of documents to sign.  Remember, you have the power, and until the loan document is signed, you hold the power.  Why not sign the documents in the order you would like to?  There is a "sales order"-looking document that you will have to sign.  I'm inclined to say this document is not binding.  Take a look at the language.  I will scan and upload images of the documents I was faced with to help guide you through this process.  Some documents are just there to tire you out or make you think you have reached the point of no return.
3. Bring a calculator, pen, a pad of paper, and some post-its.  They're asking you to spend 1000s of dollars.  There's no shame in wanting the terms laid out, taking time to calculate things, etc.  They're doing all of that in their office--why shouldn't you be able to, as well? 
4. Bring snacks, take breaks, and remember you have the power, even when you are in the Finance person's office.  She will be intimidating (maybe in a friendly way), talk like you've already purchased the car, and make it incumbent upon YOU to stop the train, inconvenience her, make a scene, and say no.  SAY NO.  Say you need time.  Walk away.  She's the real salesperson in the dealership.  And a formidable one.  They make it seem like they're doing you a favor by selling you a car.  You gotta be kidding me!  This is the one store I know of where they bully you into buying things.
5. Don't get too excited about the warranties.  Just don't.  Don't count on them when you buy the car and don't buy any extras.  

Overall, the experience was mildly entertaining, very enlightening, incredibly exhausting, intimidating, and a little insulting to my intelligence.  I'm frugal, a savvy consumer, and have a formal background in reading fine print.  The dealership treated me politely.  Nonetheless, I left feeling a touch bullied by the Finance Manager.  I can only imagine how abused and taken advantage of your everyday buyer must feel, and even moreso if you are less empowered due to language ability, perceived naivete, etc.

Fresh off the dealership experience, I'd say I prefer a private party sale with a pre-purchase inspection from a mechanic I trust over a dealership sale almost any day.  Private party sales are more fun and don't leave you feeling like you just overpaid to participate in the consumer-financing-industrial complex.

Awesome High School Teacher - Food, Land, and You

Article from the NY Times. Omg, I should really get started on my nonprofit project.

Learning What Food Looks Like Before It Goes Into the Package

By HANNAH WALLACE

Published: February 5, 2010

About 20 high school students stood behind the butcher counter, staring at a 160-pound piece of meat from a recently slaughtered cow.

“All of our meat comes from local farms, and we get it all whole,” said Tom Mylan, 33, one of three butchers at the Meat Hook, a new butcher shop in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, that buys its meat locally and prizes nose-to-tail eating. “We don’t just buy steaks or pork chops or whatever.”

“How much does the whole cow cost?” one boy in a white hoodie had asked moments before. Answer: about $3.25 a pound. “Do you slaughter here?” asked another. Short answer: no—most slaughterhouses are upstate. “What is chorizo?” asked a girl. Answer: a spicy Spanish sausage.

These curious students, all juniors and seniors at Automotive High School in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, are taking a class called “Food, Land, and You.” Introduced by Jenny Kessler, a teacher at the school, three years ago, this elective English course is a primer about food broadly defined — its social, political and economic aspects. While dozens of New York City public schools have edible gardens, or offer student-grown food on the cafeteria menu, Ms. Kessler’s class is unusual in the wider perspective it takes.

“Food justice is a huge issue,” Ms. Kessler, 31, said. “But we study and talk blatantly about it — who has access to this food and why.”

Ms. Kessler’s pupils study factory farming and corn subsidies, read articles by Michael Pollan and Wendell Berry and watch documentaries like “Food, Inc.,” a dark look at the nation’s industrialized food system. They also tend a 2,500-square-foot organic vegetable garden that borders their school, financing it with funds they raise and with support from the New York chapter of Slow Food U.S.A. In season, their plot teems with cucumbers, eggplant, okra, peas, red cabbage, spinach, tomatoes and many herbs. The teenagers can take the food home free, and they sell the rest at an after-school farm stand.

But the popularity of Ms. Kessler’s class — it is one of the most sought-after at the school, according to Mary Brouder, the principal — may be due to the frequent trips, like the one to the Meat Hook.

In the fall, for example, Ms. Kessler took her charges to the Queens County Farm Museum, where they collected eggs, worked with compost and helped clear garden beds. She also secured a stand for her students at the Union Square Greenmarket, where they ran cooking demonstrations, and she organized a volunteer stint for them at the Bowery Mission, where they made lunch for the homeless.

Twice a year, Ms. Kessler also takes her students to Hawthorne Valley Farm in Ghent, N.Y., where they make apple cider and apple pies from scratch, feed the pigs and sweep up cow manure. For many of these students, who hail from gritty neighborhoods like Bedford-Stuyvesant and East New York, that excursion marks their first visit to a farm.

Back at the Meat Hook, another butcher, Brent Young, 27, was displaying the tools of his trade.

“Ninety percent of our work is done with our knives, most importantly this five-inch European-style breaking knife,” Mr. Young said, pulling the tool out of his scabbard for all to see. He then pointed out the band saw (used for cutting through thick bones), the three-horsepower meat grinder (for sausages and ground beef) and a hand saw (for cutting through muscle and bone). When a student asked if there were ever any accidents, Mr. Mylan produced a chain-mail vest, which he said the butchers use “when we’re doing really serious work.”

“Sometimes,” he added, “the dense bone and hard muscle is not exactly where you thought it was and that knife will just come through and you can really hurt yourself.”

When it came time to sampling some raw meat — something these butchers do every day to ensure the meat is of high quality — the students hesitated.

“If it’s nasty, I’m not going to try it again,” said Denzel Conze, 18.

Ben Turley, 29, another of the Meat Hook butchers, cut a raw flatiron steak into thin slices, sprinkling each with some salt.

“It tastes like salty gummy bears,” Jamie Colon, 16, said after a bite of the meat.

Most of Ms. Kessler’s students live in “food deserts”—neighborhoods with lots of fast food but little fresh produce or other healthy fare. Automotive High School’s students are predominantly low income, too, with 75 percent of them qualifying for a free lunch, according to Ms. Brouder.

Though the students may not return to the Meat Hook to buy the homemade sausages ($10.99 a pound), or even the grass-fed beef ($6 a pound), that’s not really the point. “The purpose of going there is just for them to know it’s out there,” Ms. Kessler said. “It’s really hard to cement in their heads that there are other options to industrial food.”

Dairy Diary

This week in Dairy Diary, I deviate slightly from the established format to (1) answer a question I posed in Entry 1 and (2) discuss that more frequently produced waste product: URINE.

Dairy Diary: Homeless Defecation and Urine

1. What do homeless people do when they get diarrhea? While I do not have an answer to homeless diarrhea, I am now the privileged owner of an answer to homeless defecation. Much to my dismay, it seems other homeless people have not yet gotten wise to the utility of a plastic bag-cum-toilet. On my way out of the Lexington Avenue station of the E train the other day, I peeped a homeless squatting on the edge of the platform dropping feces directly onto the floor. Tsk tsk!

Aside: If homeless people had dogs, they would soon learn the beneficial uses of plastic bags, and maybe then we could avoid getting fecal matter onto subway platforms. Plus, area animal shelters are overburdened as is. Providing each homeless person in NYC with a dog could therefore be a cost-effective route to enhancing the quality of life of all New Yorkers.

2. Urine. I have taken to guzzling R.W. Knudsen's Just Cranberry juice of late. Though it leaves a disappointing aftertaste that is not unlike that which is left in the mouth after an episode of vomiting, its rapid and salutary impact on the bladder and urinary tract absolutely cannot be denied. Two snaps up.

Hipsters Gone Wild

Two weekends ago, I walk-jog-scurried to my apartment building at 3:45am to find a disheveled damsel asking me to let her in because she had "just been attacked."

A white male wearing a white fedora with a black stripe had thrown her to the sidewalk and tried to snatch her purse.

You know times are hard when hipsters have stopped being ironic and started giving in to their baser needs. Now where can I get some pepper spray?

Tired and Feathered

Yowzers!

I recently moved, and for the first time in all the many times I've lived in NYC, I must furnish my living space from scratch.

It's been a struggle, to say the least. Furniture is expensive, so I definitely can't buy it all at once, and locating furniture and other home furnishings that are at once space-appropriate and consistent with my aesthetic goals compounds the difficulte. Not to mention the financial and physical challenge of hauling something to my apartment or being home Monday-Friday during the day to accept a delivery.

Aside: why do furniture stores for Manhattanites even sell full-sized couches and dining tables? Surely
# of shoebox apartments > # of properly proportioned apartments here, non?

Aaanyway, to add more financial insult to financial injury and more hassle to hassle, my existing possessions are deteriorating rapidly (see earlier post entitled "10-year replacement cycle"). Case in point: my down comforter. I woke up one chilly November morning to find my bed and person covered in loose feathers. Covered! Tarred and feathered, minus the tar. It was as if a gaggle of girls had taken over my bedroom under the cover of night and thrown the archetypal slumber party. I wonder how many secrets got whispered behind hands and into ears that night. I hope it was a lot, and I hope they were juicy because otherwise I'm suffering for nought.

Oh my god. It was such an utter desastre in my apartment and covered me so completely from head to toe in feathers that I had two, count 'em TWO strangers who saw me that morning inquire as to what on earth happened to me.

Ugh. Fortunately, today, I finally purchased a new comforter. Now, if I could just get my hands on a decent broom.

Pepper Spray Revisited.

Yesterday at 9am, a non-crazy man followed and talked at me for a few blocks on the rush-hour-filled streets of Manhattan while I was walking Li'l Puff. He followed me, talking on his phone to the police about the bite to the neck my dog had just given him and how I, the owner, was just walking away.

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Allow me to backtrack.

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I was walking L'il Puff yesterday morning. Li'l Puff won't walk in the middle of a sidewalk for nothing, so until obedience classes prepare me otherwise, I hug the wall with her to avoid monopolizing the sidewalk. Plus, I think it puts minimal burden on the oncoming traffic of pedestrians to walk around us when we are against the wall. On this morning, while hugging a wall, I was surprised when I saw a man walk directly towards my dog, and then into her, instead of opting to take the more typical route of avoiding an obstruction. But because I know people get frustrated at dog-owners for not moving their dogs out of people's way, I thought little of it. But, then. Then! Then, the man turned into an infant.

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The man started to cry that my dog bit him. Doubtful as I was, I entertained the notion just in case. He whined about the dog bite for about two minutes, during which time I apologized if that was the case. He then decided to show me the proof--a 1/2-inch by 1/2-inch tear in the denim of his jeans near his knee. This is a mid-20 to -30-year-old man who is about 5'10", mind you, so his knee is over 20 inches above ground, and my dog is about 10 inches tall. I responded with "that is an existing hole," said "this is ridiculous," and walked away. "No, no, it's not an existing hole," he whined, while following me and telling me he's not going to let this go so easily. Then it occurred to him that it's time to show me the actual bite. He lifted up his pant leg and revealed to me a 6-inch by 1-inch swath of scar tissue on his lower shin near his foot, a substantial distance from the tear in his jeans. I informed him that that is a scar, not a dog bite, and walk away. He whined some more that it is so a dog bite and said he's going to ask someone else. He stopped a random stranger who also happened to be walking a small dog (this man has good taste in allies!). The random stranger's dog started yapping like crazy, and the random stranger walked away. I, too, walk away. He followed me down the street telling me he is calling the police. I hear him talking into his phone saying that a dog just bit him in the neck and the woman (that's me) is doing nothing but walking away.

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I reached my apartment building and briskly walked in, announcing to the doormen that this man (pointing behind me, because the man is now following me into the building) is claiming that my dog bit him. I then rushed into the elevator and disappeared. I felt bad about abandoning the doormen and leaving them to deal with this guy without any further explanation from me, but I was scared and just wanted to get away from him. As I walked into the elevator, I saw that the doormen had created a formidable human barricade, all bouncer-like, to block him from penetrating further. At this moment, I learned the value of living in a doorman building in NYC.

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I had a casanova over who needed to get out of the building, and I myself needed to get to work ASAP, so I put on big sunglasses, and together we left the building through an alternate door, all secret-passageway-like.

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Apparently the man came back later in the day asking about me, claiming he had gotten two shots from the doctor, and carrying a doctor's note stating as much. And he called the police over. The doorman rightfully refused to give out any of my information, though, and even denied recollection of the morning's events (YAY, doorman!!). I am not confident that this man won't persist in looking for me, though, especially now that he knows where I live, so I'm henceforth altering my schedules and routes. In addition, I am going to start carrying pepper spray (again). [recall: campus lake/mace story].

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Much to my dismay, information regarding carrying pepper spray for self-defense in New York state/New York City is inaccessible. The NYC website, which is quite remarkable in other ways, makes no mention of pepper spray rules/regulations, despite the presence of other safety tips. The city's catch-all live information hotline, 311, is also of no use. Nor are the police precincts that 311 operators connect my call to. And so I'm therefore providing the information below in the hopes that it will help other curious and cautious New York residents seeking information about carrying pepper spray:

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Carrying pepper spray in New York is legal (Penal Law § 265.20[14]).

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You must:

• be over 18
  
• not have been previously convicted in NY of a felony or any assault
  
• not have been convicted of a crime outside the state of New York if that crime, if committed in New York, would constitute a felony or an "assault crime"

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Where to buy pepper spray in New York

Pepper spray is hard to find! Officially, only licensed firearms dealers, licensed pharmacies, and other vendors authorized and approved by the superintendent of state police sell it. I hear you can get it other places, e.g., hardware stores, too, though, so you could ask around.

I got mine from a lovely local pharmacy, Esco Pharmacy, 687 9TH Ave New York, NY 10036 (between 47th & 48th Streets), which I was referred to by a nice man (not a robot!) at the phone number for Self Defenses, a New York company that sells(makes?) pepper spray. I bought their "Pocket Pistol, as seen on TV," which is small and permissible to pack into your checked luggage on a flight.

• Unfortunately, pharmacies at our ubiquitous Duane Reade do not seem to carry pepper spray.

This wikianswers, "Is Pepper Spray Legal to Carry in NYC", which I found after much sifting on the internet, was kind of valuable. It pointed me to the Self Defenses website, but I think this wikianswers thing contains inaccurate information. Here's why: (1) I don't think the law requires you to buy it from an authorized/licensed dealer (buy it wherever you can!) and (2) if you do buy it from such a dealer, you will have to give proof that you are over 18 and complete and sign a form saying that you have not been convicted of a felony or any crime involving an assault. The dealer then keeps that form on file and will give it to the police on demand. I did this at Esco. I'm guessing the form is a lesser version of what you have to do when you buy a gun because pepper spray is like a lesser version of a gun.

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As an aside, according to Womens [sic] Defense Center, you want pepper spray that:

• is at least 8% pepper and


• more importantly, has a 1.5 mil to 2 mil Scoville Heat Unit (SHU) rating

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My Pocket Pistol is 10% pepper but there is no SHU rating. Some say the absence of an SHU rating means the spray is probably a joke and will only enrage an assailant, but I trust the one I bought because of the Self Defenses website and the nice Self Defenses man on the phone.

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Lesson Remembered

• do not allow a stranger to lure me into a conversation that only they want to have

can't stand ya

Last night I dreamt that I was helping George Costanza with his Manhattan apartment hunt. Specifically, I went with him to check out a $1050/month studio broker apartment in my neighborhood with a private balcony and an impossible woodsy view of a Chapel Hill, NC forest. The balcony and view were amazing, but the apartment and the rest of the apartment building were a touch delapidated, which explained the low price but still seemed unusual because of the location and private balconies.

The whole time I was thinking in the back of my head how I was going to feel with George being in my neighborhood. It would mean we would become better friends and I would get scooped up into the Seinfeld clan, which would be pretty neat, I thought, since I had enjoyed their company when they were on television. But then I gave it further thought, and it occurred to me that I probably wouldn't really get along with that group. And George would probably grow extremely annoying extremely quickly.

I can't believe how ridiculous I am. Now, in my waking life, I'm actually kind of bummed at the realization that I wouldn't like Seinfeld and his fictitious buddies. For this bizarre blurring of my boundaries between fiction and reality, I blame TBS.com, which has full episodes online for me to listen to while I mutter and putter around my apartment.

lossed

I'm all lost again, and I was unable to take any action in light thereof, so I gave myself a deadline of the end of March to gain clarity & take action (about 4 weeks). Then, with about 1 week left, I gave myself a 1-week extension to April 6th. Given the impending deadline, I need to spend some focused time contemplating myself and my future self this weekend.

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So I am organizing these three quotes/maxims in one place to keep me from losing further sight of things:

1. It doesn't matter where you are but what you're doing.
2. On moving: wherever you go, there you are. You have to be the panacea you wish to see in the world.
3. Bloom where you're planted.

The first two are courtesy of The Wise Messr. Alexander. The bloom notion is courtesy of Joel Osteen in Your Best Life Now discussing god (apparently), but widely applicable, I think.

The bloom notion elaborated:

I was walking in the woods one day when I came to a big, open field that was full of tall weeds. Everywhere I looked, all I could see were ugly, brown, dried-up weeds. But when I went a little farther down the path, I noticed one beautiful flower standing in the midst of all the weeds. It was so colorful, so vivid and, amazingly, it had blossomed right there in the midst of those drab, dreary weeds. You may live or work around a bunch of weeds, but don't let that stop you from blooming. Realize that your environment does not prevent you from being happy. Some people spend all their time trying to pull up all the weeds. Meanwhile, they miss much of their lives.

my doorman is a doormat

One of the +/- 5 revolving doormen (not to be confused with revolving door doormen or revolving revolving door doormen) in my building is such a stickler for rules and regulations that he ruins everyone's lives. Today, he ruined mine.

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In the interest of self-preservation, he unfailingly sides with building management on all things tenant-related. In short, he's a tool.

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People in the service/hospitality industry can accommodate someone whose needs might fall in a gray area of the rulebook while still being a good employee. In fact, that's probably at least 85% of what being an effective doorman is all about: (1) knowing the rules and (2) knowing when you should bend them. The other 15% would include, inter alia, sound judgment, brawn, and observational skills. With this combination, a doorman in NYC can make out with at least 4 figures in tips at the end of the year and build goodwill, which can take you farther than $9,999 ever could.

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* * *

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Analyzing the shortcomings of my doorman has given me peace. I think I'll print a copy of this post and share my genius with him.

no more delays

i've been giving much thought to my future (what's left of it, egads) and have come to the conclusion that i need to stop delaying what i expect my life to be. if i expect it to be X, then it should be X right now, not later, when A, B, & C happen and Y finally falls into place. make it X now.

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in consequence, i've been mulling over some major life decisions of late. my conclusions are still incomplete, but the most valuable aspect of my racing mind is the sensation that i need to come to grips with the reality of my life as i never have before. this is my life. i can't keep wishing or waiting for it to be something else--it is what it is. and if it is not what i've been waiting for it to be, then i need to stop waiting. i need to make it what i wish it to be right here and now.

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* * *

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i am many things at heart, one of which is a yuppie, through and through. on valentine's day, the new york times ran an article about the eyesore that a house becomes once children enter the scene (read the article, "Parent Shock: Children Are Not Décor," here).

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it may be that everything i read these days lights a fire under my ass, but this article lit an atomic bomb. it resonated with a lot of my recent thinkings. in sum, it interviews 3+ couples who had just gotten to a place in their lives when they could get their house interiors the way they wanted, and then they had children and the decor went to hell (ugly children's toys, begrudging safety precautions, etc.).

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i'm 28, and though i have great interest in interior design, i have thus far delayed having a home of any permanence or aesthetic accomplishment due to what i have perceived as my transitory life. granted, i've lived a more transitory life than many others, but shouldn't i breathe fullness into each step i take? if i keep postponing the transformation of a living space into the coveted paradise i fantasize about in my head, then i may never get around to having that paradise.

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corollary - am i:

1. who i strive to be
2. who i am on occasion
3. who i am usually or
4. who i end up being through inadvertance?

likewise, if i keep postponing the proper routine of domesticity that i want to have, then i will never have such a routine, and i will never be the person i want to be (e.g., i'm not martha stewart until i act like martha stewart).

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* * *

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i've focused this discussion on interior design, but the thought process i'm teasing apart is applicable to all facets of my life. distilled down, it amounts to two maxims:

1. don't delay
2. be what i want to be & live the life i want to live right here and now

i'm eustressed and distressed with these revelations. i feel i'm seeing things with a clarity that is unprecedented. and for the first time in my life, i know that i'm on the brink of something good.

tomorrow, the bronx

today, i go to staten island. should i stay in new york city, i choose to live in a backwater.

fyi

and my doormen can go to hell, too.

the square community

i suppress 85% myself in my working life. is this choice or necessity? i feel it's necessity. in an effort to be who they want me to be, i feel i can't be me, and so i turn into an empty canvas. no personality, no opinions, no style.
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i've been waging a war against the square community for almost a decade now, and it's starting to feel like the squares are winning. they're making me bland. i'm conforming to their lackluster desires. i'm wearing their lackluster clothing and following their lackluster schedule and letting their pathetic hopes, dreams, fears, comforts, and existence seep into mine.
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i need to move to an abandoned warehouse in the country.
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i need to know what claude monet and rainer maria rilke did besides paint and write.
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these 2 writings are helpful:

1) Failure is the best thing ever because it broadens your horizons and equips you in ways success never could - an article in Men's Health (as posted in someone else's blog). Excerpt:

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Maybe failure isn’t the problem. Maybe expectation is.
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After I was fired from my TV show, I was certain I’d never work in television again. I’d been given a great opportunity and blown it. The studio and network were out millions of dollars. But then the phone started ringing, with studios and networks asking whether I’d consider doing TV again. What had changed?
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Nothing. I’d simply forgotten what folks working in TV take as a given: Most shows fail. Every spring, the networks introduce new products to replace the fall and winter die-off. When a show tanks, they don’t spend weeks wondering why. They put a new show in its place.
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They expect failure, and are delighted when it doesn’t come.
In the case of Tom, my hunch is that he’d become stuck in an expectation loop. He’d spent years carefully mapping out his ascent: student-body president, law-school review, a great internship. He expected to succeed - we all should - but he hadn’t considered alternate paths to success. One misstep sent him scrambling, questioning all his other assumptions. Of course, it’d be wrong for me to write Tom off. Maybe his latest failure will force him to reassess his expectations. Maybe it’ll be what finally propels him to success.
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Most of us will never run a TV show or run for elected office. But we will all fail, repeatedly. Failure is a universal condition. We lose our jobs; we lose our marriages; we lose to the dealer’s flush in Vegas.
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When these traumas happen, we generally find ourselves on the familiar Kübler-Ross stages of loss: denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But how we cope is less important than how we remember the experiences afterward. The best failures aren’t forgotten; they’re incorporated into our life’s narrative.
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My D.C. debacle, as miserable as it was to live through, has become a cherished memory. It’s a small scar that invites a big story, with big personalities. At first, I framed myself as the innocent victim in the drama, but over the years I came to view the whole thing as more of a hurricane that we all weathered together.
The great thing about surviving a storm is that you’re much better prepared the next time the winds start kicking up. You recognize the early warnings. You stock up on essentials. And, most crucial, you go in knowing that no matter what happens, you can always rebuild.
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Failure makes you ready in ways that success never could.
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The next time I found myself pitching a show, I had a much clearer idea of what I wanted. I knew what I was good at and what I was better off delegating to others. I knew that as much as I believed in the show, if it all went south, I’d be okay.
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Because I’d failed, I wasn’t afraid of failing. And that enabled me to push a lot harder for what I believed in.
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The movie is unconventional and questionably commercial. In its wildest success, it might play festivals and arthouses before hitting DVD. Given all these risks, why do it?
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Because even in failure, I knew I’d grow from it. There were things I needed to learn about movies - and myself - that I wasn’t going to learn from writing another script.
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It’s just like weight training, really. You push yourself until your muscles fail. That’s how you grow stronger. Likewise, in life, unless you seek you’ll never mentally develop beyond that scrawny kid from high school.
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That’s why you have to drop to one knee and propose to the girl you’re pretty sure you love. That’s why you have to send out your résumé, even though your job is just fine. That’s why you have to climb that 14,000-foot mountain. It won’t always work out. You may get divorced. Or fired. Or frostbitten. But the alternative is a life of vague disappointment.
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When that nagging little voice pops up, wondering what’s going to happen if you fail, just ignore it. Yes, it’s hard. As humans, we’re programmed for loss aversion. But money is just money. Your job is just your job. Your life - the adventure of your life - is all you really have that’s yours.
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When things go wrong, when you’re sliding toward an unavoidable crash, don’t panic. In those long seconds before the impact, look around and figure out how you entered into this mess. Think about how you’ll frame the story a year from now, over a few beers. Can you come up with an honest version that ends, “So in a funny way, it was the best thing that ever happened to me”?
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Perfect. Then brace yourself.

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2) Perhaps it's time to take a leap instead of muddling through - Passion Ave & Conformity St, a blog post about making a choice when faced with crossroads. Not all that insightful in and of itself, but it does have that great title and these quotes that make me restless and keep me questioning work, my job, money, life, etc.:

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Work is necessary: “Without work, all life goes rotten. But when work is soulless, life stifles and dies.” —Albert Camus

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Stupid 401k: “Chase your passion, not your pension.”— Denis Waitley
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Don't settle: “Is not life a hundred times too short for us to bore ourselves?”—Friedrich Nietzsche
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Need to love the work: “With out passion you don’t have energy, with out energy you have nothing.”— Donald Trump

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The time is now: “Waste no more time talking about great souls and how they should be. Become one yourself!”-Marcus Aurelius Antoninus
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You have to try: “Do the one thing you think you cannot do. Fail at it. Try again. Do better the second time. The only people who never tumble are those who never mount the high wire. This is your moment. Own it.”-Oprah Winfrey

Waste (The Swan Song)

Waste pains me. Not so much the waste of money (there are some things I can blow my wad on as fast as the next guy) or food (my interest in physical/mental health trumps this one) but most certainly the waste of:

1. another man's treasure (please donate/sell instead of throwing out) and
2. small-scale natural resources (please print double-sided).

The endeavor in Sweden discussed in this Reuters article both pleases and disgusts me:

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STOCKHOLM (Reuters) - A Swedish state-owned firm has found a cheap, eco-friendly source of energy to warm one of its offices: body heat from a quarter million commuters steaming through Stockholm's central train station.
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Body heat already warms the station itself but the surplus, currently let out in thin air, will be redirected to provide as much as 15 percent of the heating in a planned 4,000 square meter office building, real estate firm Jernhusen said.
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"We had a look at it and thought 'We might actually be able to use this'," said Karl Sundholm, project leader at Jernhusen, which also owns the station. "This feels good. Instead of just airing the leftover heat out we try to make use of it."
Jernhusen markets the building as "environment smart" and aims for its energy consumption to be half of what a corresponding building usually is.
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The bodily warmth from the central station will be redirected to heat up water. The investment will be around 200,000 Swedish crowns ($31,200), Sundholm said.
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"The ventilator aggregates are already there, and even some of the pipes. All we need to do is complement with a few pumps and pipes."
(Reporting by Anna Ringstrom)

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My disgust with my fellow man and woman on the subway during rush hour has already caused me to start walking to work in wintry mornings as often as possible. Should my workplace follow the Swedes, I'd probably risk contaminating myself with my own E. coli over washing my hands using malodorous infectious warmth.

friends of friends

my roommate, whom i enjoy, has friends who don't always acknowledge my physical existence when they enter the apartment. even if they have to pass right by my person in our narrow hallway, and even if i look right at them with a friendly expression, and even if i move my dog/random arts+crafts crap out of their way while uttering an apology. it is very strange, tres impoli, and utterly inexplicable, as far as my mind can think.

one might postulate that my roommate talks the doodoo about me to her friends, and in their loyalty to her, they wish to snub me. but my roommate and i are amicable and friendly, so what's the proverbial dealio?

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a) immaturity

b) awkwardness in social skills

c) rudeness incarnate

d) a higher level of social evolution

e) it's not them it's me

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i am inclined to 86 b) and e). b) is out because these are entirely normal, socially mainstream, typically adjusted individuals. e) is out because i radiate pure approachable friendliness to these folks (none of my friends would recognize me!).

mmmm

my sister sent me a care package last month. check out the bounty!

in addition to delectable foodstuffs, li'l puff got herself a fancy necklace (that's what the "monopet" box contained).

Brand New Bag

I switched up my doggie bag situation recently, and I've taken to taking Li'l Puff with me on trips big and small.

E.g., -->

How handy is that?

Lately, Itzo Notzo Crowded

Yesterday and today, it's been quiet at the workplace, and the subways have been waay less crowded during rush hour. Everyone's observing Rosh Hashanah! For largely inexplicable reasons, it gives me great pleasure to see how much impact a Jewish holiday can have on the pulse of life here. In celebration of my pleasure, I think I'll make use of some of the grocery items I trucked all the way from home and make a big pot of matzo ball soup this weekend.

Haste Makes Waste

one thing i've always enjoyed wherever i am is finding random stuff on the side of the street by serendipity. it's my prissy/lazy/squeamish way of dumpster diving. some of the best finds are made off of the streets of new york city (okay, so there's one reason to like this place). of course, the competition from my fellow cheapskates, hipsters, self-aggrandizing yippies, and the homeless (there's a homeless person inside of me that's just waiting to come out) means i have to act fast if i see something juicy.

last night, i found this set of linens that, despite their freshly laundered scent, i'm too scared of to treat with any respect.

i'll either wash them or return them to the streets, depending on how much i start hating them and how bad i feel about taking bounty that could have gone to a homeless person. i'm sure the former will end up being the deciding factor, since i've noticed that i'm starting to lose patience for homeless people.

To Do

Last night was my first night alone in my new apartment. I've often felt lonely in NYC, and so it was familiar and almost comforting to be here and lonely yesterday.

1) go to West Elm store in Chelsea to try to buy a bed

2) figure out a temporary lighting solution

3) unpack work clothes

4) (buy iron if necessary)

5) put boxes into categories

6) go to Ikea this weekend to purchase more permanent lighting solution

Since I couldn't sleep last night, I devoured some recent Trader Joe's acquisitions and did a little bit of unpacking of kitchen-related items. I haven't gotten out of bed yet this morning to see my nocturnal handiwork, but I actually think it might now look even worse than pictured.

I'm going to have to figure out what to do with my precious cast iron pots/pans and other valuable kitchenery--is it indeed time to live alone?