Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.

      -Philip K. Dick

Hello friends and foes…I’m back.

Not sure for just how long, but I felt compelled to write this evening. It’s been a hell of a couple of weeks on Stephanie Street. Won’t get into the details, but I think it’s time to refocus. Get my priorities straight. Get all the bullshit out of my life. I’m halfway there, but change is not easy. Change takes motivation. And direction. I really have neither, but I like to pretend sometimes.

I’m trying.

STAY TUNED FOR EXCITING LIFE CHANGES(/musings on nothing productive whatsoever)!

(Love you, mom-mom.)

Dear Friends,

Over the past few months, Stephanie Street has lost some steam. While I don’t want to end this blog, per se, I would like to direct your attention to a NEW blog I’m writing for. It’s called Nonplused, and it was started by my friend Tiffany and I as an exercise in getting a little bit of brain activity going in our mindless cubicle life. So. Enjoy.

Sincerely,

Stephanie

go america.

I only have one thing to say:

Biden v. Palin is going to be hilarious and awesome and will once and for all show definitely that Palin is an ignorant, glorified PTA mom who knows about as much about the issues as Kitty from Florida who cited her “good character”, and ONLY “good character”, as the sole reason Palin is ready to be Vice President. I could go on. But I did say I only had one thing to say. You don’t want to hear all the other nasty things I could say. It might get ugly.

Also, read this.

Or, rather, overheard on my cell phone. After 6 months with a terribly obnoxious digital ringtone, I’ve recently upgraded to an almost as obnoxious real song ringtone! Yippee! I really can’t get enough of “Valerie” by Mark Ronson and Amy Winehouse. I had heard it a couple of times at different bars or clubs I’d gone to, and it always ALWAYS got me going. As is most of Winehouse’s music, it’s kind of a throwback. Hand claps, a nice little shuffle beat, backing horns, you know the drill. The ringtone enters in “why don’t you come on over Valerie”, the horns bouncing in vintage-style as Amy sings, “Valeriiiiieeee”.

I’ve never really been a fan of using real songs as ringtones, but I just couldn’t resist with this one. And as my phone rang at work this morning (thanks, Mom), my first instinct was to cringe. I mean, it is a bit inappropriate in the workplace for an interjection such as that. But then, what the hell, it’s a nice change of pace, right? A welcomed break/disctraction in an otherwise humdrum day.

You’re welcome, co-workers.

Bored at work? Want to learn about all the super sweet and awesome things people are doing to save the world? Check out planetwize.com…..Yours truly has just begun writing for them. It deals with the intersection of global culture, music, and social action.

Pretty cool stuff. I recommend.

Well, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything, and in case you were wondering, I’ve semi-failed at this no smoking thing. I pretty much only smoke in the comfort of my own home, don’t bring them out with me, etc, etc.

Anyway, I was standing in line for the bathroom in Starbucks yesterday, and this homeless guy walks in and gets in line behind me. Nevermind his AWESOME beard, nevermind the homeless-guy stench that overwhelmed my senses as he stood next to me. A thought struck me. Is it appropriate to offer change to this man, standing in line for the bathroom? Isn’t he, technically, on break from panhandling? Now, I would imagine that any homeless man wouldn’t turn down an unsolicited offer for money, but there seems to be something out of place about doing so in that situation. I mean, usually if you give money to a homeless person, you drop some change into their cup and walk away–you feel good cause you helped out a homeless person, and they feel good cause they have more money. And then immediately each of you moves onto the next thought. But say I were to have given the guy some money. Then we’d just be standing there, musing on the exchange that just took place. Likely, I would have felt some sadness for the guy, maybe a little guilt for not giving more when I clearly could have, not to mention non-homeless-person guilt in general. Not that these things aren’t there regardless, cause they are, but I would think that they would be heightened by the exchange of money from my hands to his.

And then other questions started roaming around in my head, questions that I wanted to ask the guy, but just couldn’t bring myself to. Like, do you have a panhandling work schedule? Do you like being self-employed? Is there an unofficial homeless person union? A kind of community? Or is it a dog-eat-dog underbelly of New York? I then wondered if the homeless guy would appreciate me asking these questions. Would he find it rude? I certainly wouldn’t want to offend him, for both my and his sake. I would imagine there’s an element of embarassement associated with being homeless, but I wonder, if you’re homeless for long enough, do you start to become comfortable and accepting of your status?

Is all of this offensive? Homeless people are both invisible and an eyesore, a nuisance and a subject of public concern. I’m just trying to be honest about my experience of being in proximity to a homeless person outside of their…campground?…it really doesn’t happen very often, and it kind of threw me for a loop. Clearly.

“It’s like bad timing and good intentions are busting in karma’s face” (That ain’t no quote, ladies and gents, that’s a Stephanie original. ba-ba-bam.)

Which means, well, whatever you want it to mean (ooooh, how postmodern of me.)

It means a few things in particular to me, but I don’t really feel like sharing them. I’m sharing that line because, one, I think it’s kind of funny. And two, it just might strike you in a similar way when you read it that it struck me when I thought it. And isn’t that the whole point of writing in a public space? In a lot of respects, it doesn’t matter what it means to me. I appreciate when people ask out of interest what I mean, but meaning is (again, forgive me for being so damn postmodern) so delightfully fluid that if I were to explain to you what it means to me, wouldn’t that take half the fun out of it?

Or maybe I’m just being annoyingly obtuse. Whatever.

I always thought I was in the minority being a smoker. Smoking has been demonized, and as such, the theory goes, people start quitting. This has certainly been the rule among my peers. I was one of the last real smokers standing among my friends. That’s right, I hung in there til the bitter end. I persevered through the death rattle. But now that I’ve decided enough is enough, one thing has become abundantly clear. My GOD, a lot of people in New York smoke. And it seems I’ve developed a sixth sense for spotting smokers in the 2 days I’ve been off cigarettes.

Bam, smoker against the wall next to the statue outside my office building. Hey, smoker walking down the sidewalk, no jacket or tie cause it’s so damn nice out. Oh jeez, smoker sitting on a park bench. This last one particularly killed me. How lovely it is to smoke a cigarette in a situation like that. Completely relaxed, at peace, breathing in carcinogenic pollutants.

Anyway, I’ve found myself, when I’m walking past or behind someone with a cigarette, taking big, deep breaths, on the offchance that I can get even a small whiff of that delicious fragrance. Is that cheating? Nope, I don’t think so at all. Taking a drag of a cigarette, yes, that would be cheating, but not this. And you would think it would make me want a cigarette more. But it actually satiates my appetite for that moment. I get one deep smoky breath, my lungs are full, my body satisfied. That is, until I sit back down at my desk and think to myself, “damn, I really wish I were outside smoking a cigarette.”

Aaahhhh, addiction.

Hours: 45

Pieces of Nicorette: 10

Pen caps chewed to the point of destruction: 2

I quit smoking yesterday. I tried to do this a few months ago, and failed miserably in something like 3 days, in part thanks to a presidential primary-induced drunken stupor. But this time I’m serious. Why yesterday? Well, I was smoking my second-to-last cigarette in my pack on a break from work yesterday. About 4 drags in, I actually broke the filter. Now, this occurence is not completely uncommon when, say, you are very very drunk. But in the middle of the day, without any particular overwhelming emotion causing such a forceful *flick* of the cigarette, this is close to unheard of. 

The filter was hanging by a…thread?…and I spent the next 30 seconds or so trying to hold the filter up to the cigarette so that I could get some smoke to pull through. Alas, it was not to be. Then, I kind of had one of those out-of-body experiences. I saw myself from the outside, sucking on this broken cigarette, and I decided, “that’s it. This is ridiculous. This is my last pack of cigarettes.”

So on my way home, I smoked my very last cigarette and picked up a month’s(?) supply of Nicorette. And I have to say, I felt GREAT walking out of Rite Aid. I’m gonna do it!

My first hurdle was dinner. OBVIOUSLY, the day I decide to quit smoking, Brittany wants to go to the supremely gluttonous fondue place near my apartment. Obviously. So we stuff ourselves full of chocolate, and as I walk back to my apartment, I would do just about anything (short of giving a rim job in an alley) for a cigarette. But no, I restrained, and what awaited me at home was the fresh mint shell and the slight burning sensation of my new friend, Nicorette.

I think Nicorette and I will get along just fine. But probably not as well as me and Joe Camel did. Joe Camel was rad.

Hours since last cigarette: 22

Pieces of Nicorette since last cigarette: 4

Cravings since last cigarette: How many minutes have I been awake in those 22 hours?

Stay tuned for more commentary on my journey to becoming a NON-SMOKER. It will most likely become much more frustrated, anxious, and full of whatever other withdrawal symptoms decide to pop up. My misery is your entertainment.