Pork & Milk

Last night I went out to dinner with Toby and Joe. We went to go see Matt play piano at Sid Gold's Request Room, Toby sang Weezer and Radiohead and Joe and I sang "I Will Follow You Into the Dark" by Death Cab For Cutie. You know, uplifting, crowd-pleasing, rah-rah songs. They were possibly the worst karaoke songs you could sing to a crowded room of strangers. We didn't exactly get the audience clapping and singing along.

Afterwards we ate at Cafeteria, a trendy diner-ish restaurant that's open 24-hours a day. I had my first birthday party in NYC there and I remember I was so pleased to have actual people (friends, I daresay) in attendance, having moved to the city less than a month before.

Anyway, I ordered pork belly and a chocolate milkshake, and if you're thinking "those don't sound like they would go well together" you are smart!! The milkshake tasted like hershey's chocolate syrup (in a bad way) and the pork was a fatty grease pile. I nonetheless ate and drank such sustenance at a rapid pace, which my stomach immediately took issue with. I almost had a panic attack I felt so weird, like I needed to burp and vomit at the same time. I was afraid I was going to keel over and pass out in the booth mid-dinner. I was completely fine, of course, but do not recommend scarfing down pork and a milkshake. Even just written on the page it looks disgusting. What was I thinking?

This morning was a nice lazy one, and much needed after the past two weekends.

Megan is quitting her job as a music manager to pursue song writing. She is light-weight freaking out, but in the normal, healthy way that comes with big life changes.

She was singing an impromptu song about going over to her friend Laura's house. She stopped singing to enlighten me and my other roommate sitting on the couch that, "You can make up a song about anything."

Neither of us responded. This was hardly a revelation, on the heels of what she was just singing.

Megan invited us to give her a word, and she would sing a song about it. Hannah sat looking at her phone and after a moment offered "tissue", but Megan was already back in her room at that point and did not hear, so we never got the tissue song. But we did get to hear about this 12-year-old Brazilian kid, MC Pedrinho, making strange, upsettingly catchy music. He is like a Brazilian Justin Bieber, but looks even douchier brattier. (Feels wrong to call a 12 year-old douchey.)

Here is the song:

I know, I know. Listen to it twice though.

It is obnoxious, strange, simple and bizarrely mesmerizing. "This is the direction pop music will be heading in," declared Megan and I must say I agree with her. You heard it here first.

I cleaned the box fan on my windowsill today after seeing Megan clean hers a couple weeks ago. It had accumulated a layer of grime from sitting in my open window for two summers but since you need to screw off the front screen to clean it, I had lamely decided it was unclean-able from day one. Megan proved this to be not true and when I walked past her open door and saw her gleaming white fan in her window I knew I must needs do the same. It was labor intensive considering the small impact in has to overall bedroom cleanliness but boy did it feel satisfying. If you learn anything here, let it be this: Take the time to clean your fan, be it box, ceiling or standing.

I feel so accomplished. What can't I do?