tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32922533451312846972024-03-12T19:50:55.392-04:00Text Message in a BottleJosh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.comBlogger457125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-73798585858319171752014-11-30T16:38:00.000-05:002014-11-30T16:45:47.248-05:00happy thanksgiving<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">1) I walked into Starbucks this morning, and the woman at the front of the line was pacing back and forth. "You seriously don't have the chai tea bags?" she asked. The barista shook her head. "This is," the woman continued, over-enunciating, "the worst Starbucks in the world." The barista's expression remained blank. The woman reiterated, ". . . the world!," and then walked out.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">When I got up to the counter, the barista turned to her co-worker. "Did you hear that?" she asked him, monotone. "We're the worst Starbucks in the world."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">2) A few hours later, I entered the elevator in my building with a woman, wearing a dark coat and an involved scarf, who looked as though she had just returned from an Appalachian trek. I pressed the button for my floor, which was two floors below hers. "I love when someone's on a lower floor that me," she said (it took me a half-second to realize she was talking to me), "It's, like, maybe I hear you being loud! You know?" I smiled so broadly—like that watermelon-slice smile emoji—and nodded my head violently. We didn't speak for the rest of the ride.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">3) My iPhone, which I had had for at least two years, lost its life on the eve of Thanksgiving (another blog post for another time). I got a new iPhone, on the afternoon of Thanksgiving, but—since I had, I learned, never backed up my data properly—I lost all the photographs I had taken (more than 2,000) on that phone. When I told my family, as we gorged on shrimp before our Thanksgiving meal, that I had lost all of these photographs, my father looked at me incredulously. "You don't seem upset at all," he said. "This is so unlike you." He was right. I would have guessed that I'd feel like a man dropped out of a helicopter into the middle of the Pacific Ocean; instead, to my surprise, I felt like you do after you've just checked a large suitcase before a long flight: weightless and unencumbered. I ate so many shrimp that I wasn't hungry for the actual meal.</span></span>Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-45645675198919503252013-08-08T12:52:00.002-04:002013-08-08T13:00:32.401-04:00text me if you can<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">A few weeks ago, on a Monday night, I met two of my friends for dinner in the East Village. I arrived to find them waiting on the sidewalk outside the restaurant.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">"We're on the list," Jess informed me. "She's going to text us when she has a table."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">The three of us hovered by a lamppost as we waited, my lime green t-shirt gradually and patchily turning forest green in the awful evening humidity.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">After no more than five minutes, Jess received a text: "may be a bit longer for your table, but would you like to sit at the bar for a drink?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">Now, this restaurant is a small, intimate joint, the kind of place where you have to turn and slide by behind the bar to get to the bathroom. There could not have been more than 20 people in there at any given point. (All of this, of course, is probably part of its appeal.) It's not as though this hostess was so overrun that she couldn't have just peeked her head outside and conveyed this information to us with her voice. Additionally, the door of the restaurant was open, and we could actually<i><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></i><i>see her</i> through the opening; so, in all likelihood, she had made the choice to write a (long, sentence-y!) text to Jess (one which necessitated a response, at that!) while she was staring directly at her.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">Jess turned to us, somewhat perplexed. "So do I, like, text her back?" </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">David grunted. I tossed my hands in the air. Finally – in spite of our (I think I can speak for all three of us here) palpable fear of confrontation – we sighed, channeled our collective inner Vin Diesel and decided to just barrel our way inside.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">The </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: white;">hostess</span> greeted us with an almost malevolent, Aubrey Plaza grin.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;"><br />"Um, we got your text," I said.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;"><br />"Cool," she said. And then, after a pause, she repeated the twenty words of her text message, verbatim, verbally. As we followed her to the bar, I briefly contemplated making a clunky "Should we text our drink orders to the bartender?" joke, but I thankfully made no such attempt. My "outrage" at her texting maneuver was clearly borne out of some identification; in fact, in her shoes, I probably would have added an overzealous emoticon (":D" or even ":P") at the end, which would of course only have aggravated the situation.</span></span></div>
Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-36009511346288991792013-07-25T16:23:00.000-04:002013-07-25T16:33:41.035-04:00all in the timing<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">I always get sweaty and anxious (SO different from my normal resting state) when I'm writing a plans-making e-mail and have to propose when to meet up with someone in relation to a hard stop (e.g. a drinks date she has at 9pm, a reading we're both attending at 7:30pm). </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">In my experience, you usually end up sending one of three kinds of e-mails. Let's say, for example's sake here, that you're meeting up with your friend who has to be at the Big Apple Circus at 8pm (what better place to LIVE IT UP than the examples in one's blog posts, right?!):</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span><span style="color: #222222;">1) Proposing a somewhat late meet-up time at the risk of seeming like you're trying to limit the amount of time you'll be spending one-on-one. "Why don't we just meet at 7 by your thing and find somewhere to grab food?"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span><span style="color: #222222;">2) Overdoing it in the other direction (you'd be up for spending weeks and weeks together if you could!) — "Maybe 6?? Is that too early?! :P" — knowing full well your friend will suggest pushing it back ("Could we actually do 6:30? I'm going to be, like, coming from uptown.")</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span><span style="color: #222222;">3) Being comically indecisive in an attempt to completely force the decision on the other person. "Anything works for me! 6? 6:30? 7? Hahah! The possibilities! I can't believe you're going to the CIRCUS!"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span><span style="color: #222222;">No option leaves you feeling particularly great. You either worry you've offended the person (a fear that increases with each passing minute you don't get a response) (#1), lament that you'll now have to cut your early evening "mess around on the internet on the couch" time by an hour (#2), or sigh that you've simply delayed any decision and that there will now be at least seven more e-mails back-and-forth (#3).</span></span></span>Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-13830211520751111462013-06-13T15:01:00.000-04:002013-06-13T15:06:53.941-04:00alums<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The summer between my junior and senior year of college, I lived in Alumni Hall – one of the NYU dorms – with my college roommate, Andrew. It was a formative summer for me for a host of reasons, one of which was that it was my first time living in New York. Looking back on it, there was a funny sort of “play acting” going on: we were living in a fake apartment (dorm rooms) working at fake jobs (internships) for two months. But, at the time, it felt like we were on the cusp of adulthood in a thrilling and exhilarating way. Drinks dates and cab rides and grimy side streets, all cast in relief to the comparatively bucolic <wbr></wbr>collegiate setting we were used to... it felt the entire summer like we were living in the first five minutes of a movie.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Of course, in the years since, when I walk past Alumni Hall, I roll my eyes. I note the security guard sitting in the lobby and the chaos of St. Mark’s Place, and the whole scene seems wholly juvenile. Once when Andrew was in town, we walked past it and I had to remind him that that’s where we had lived that summer. We both looked wistfully in its direction the way you might when coming across a drawing you did when you were eight.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Last week, my little brother, who turned 21 in October, moved into Alumni Hall for the summer. I went to visit him last Tuesday. He had warned me that he’d have to come down to let me in, but the security guard just smiled and let me through when I said I was there to visit my brother. I met my brother’s roommate, and I asked them both all sorts of questions -- “What are your hours at work?” “What do you do for lunch?” – that made me feel like an aunt. The two of them talked about happy hours and majors and air conditioning; I did a lot of nodding. I’m six years older than my brother, but sitting at that kitchen table -- next to an unopened box containing a fan and an unplugged alarm clock -- the age gap between us felt like either minutes or decades, it was impossible to discern which.</span></span></div>
Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-66673752533400927352013-05-16T15:43:00.001-04:002013-05-16T15:43:43.074-04:00Refresh Refresh Refresh<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hi friends! <br /><br />Know it's been a minute since I've been able to post
anything here (nothing gets everyone more PSYCHED than an introductory
sentence about how it's been a while since someone's
written/vlogged/posted, I KNOW), but wanted to let y'all know that I'm
going to be reading a piece at Refresh Refresh Refresh on Sunday night!
It's at 8pm at Cake Shop! Very excited about this, and would be great to
see you there!<br /><br />XOJD</span></span><br />
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</span></span>Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-15686946976112539612013-04-18T12:38:00.001-04:002013-04-18T12:38:48.493-04:00growing up<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There are some pretty tangible barometers of maturity, I guess -- when you can
legally drink at 21, when you realize you actually like the taste of
coffee and aren't just forcing yourself to drink it to try and look
"intellectual," etc. But, for me, one of the clearest signs that I have
evolved into a semi-f<span style="font-size: small;">unctional</span> adult human occurred yesterday in the
realm of gmail.</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I've been trying to find a particular designer for a project I'm
working on<span style="font-size: small;">, and a friend of mine sent me a list</span> of five recommendations<span style="font-size: small;">. </span>I drafted my introductory e-mail (<span style="font-size: small;">O</span>h, another sign of
maturity! <span style="font-size: small;">I</span>n the past, I would have bitched about the new gmail
"compose" layout for weeks, probably would have written a whole blog
post about it.... but, in this bright new present, I just immediately switched it
back to "old compose" and am now pretending I'll be able to keep it this
way forever. VERY adult!). Anyway, I then copied my note into four new
e-mails, changing the first names<span style="font-size: small;">, an<span style="font-size: small;">d sent them out one by one</span></span>. Once I <span style="font-size: small;">was finished, </span>I insti<span style="font-size: small;">nctively </span>clicked on my
"Sent Mail" folder just to make sure all looked kosher<span style="font-size: small;">...</span> only to find I
had accidentally sent one of the e-mails without changing the first
name. I had written "Hi Allison!" to a Maggie.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Now, a previous version
of Josh would have completely lost it here. He would have started
sweating around the neck, drafted a<span style="font-size: small;">n over-the-t<span style="font-size: small;">op</span></span>, horrible follow-up e-mail
to Maggie ("Guess the cat's out of the bag - you've got some
competition. You better hurry to respond quicker than Allison! JK
hahaha" or "Sorry, a Maggie really did a number on me when I was a child
and the name switch is a defense technique I learned from my therapist
:D :P"). Then I would have sent it, clicked "Undo Send<span style="font-size: small;">" <span style="font-size: small;">two seconds </span>later,</span> and then
ultimately decided to hit "send" again, only to then spend the subse<span style="font-size: small;">quent</span>
half-hour stewing that I had made the situation so much worse. BUT
YESTERDAY, after I noted my error, I just kind of calmly smiled (I
didn't actually smile, I was sitting by myself in my apartment) and
clicked out of the e-mail. "Maybe she'll get a kick out of it," I
thought. And then I got up to procure some pistachios to munch on. (KIDDING ABOUT THAT LAST PART. WILL NEVER <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">BE SO ADULT THAT </span>I</span> CASUALLY MUNCH ON PISTACHIOS<span style="font-size: small;">.</span>)</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This morning I received a response from Maggie. "Hey Brian," the e-mail began. <br /><br /></span></span>
Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-75860866364858370322013-03-25T15:22:00.000-04:002013-03-25T15:23:20.294-04:00multiple locations<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'll log onto Facebook, scroll down <span style="font-size: small;">the page</span>, and come across a picture
my friend Phoebe posted of her and her boyfriend beaming in front of a
sunset on a Puerto Rico beach. "Aww," I'll think, and instinctively
"like" the picture. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">An hour later, while waiting in line at a deli, I'll scroll
through my Instagram feed and see the same picture there, too. I'll
hesitate for a moment. Do I "like" it here, too?? (I<span style="font-size: small;"> think I'm just</span> gonna drop these cum<span style="font-size: small;">bersome</span>
quotes around "like" from now on! Reckless as ever!) On the one hand,
I'll consider, it seems a little <i>excessive </i>to like the sam<span style="font-size: small;">e shot</span> again. I
liked it already on Facebook; she'll know I've seen it and offered my
virtual thumbs up (because </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Phoebe</span></span> is clearly spending all of her time
worrying about whether or not I'm liking her pictures). But then it will
strike me that I've spent a good 25 seconds deliberating whether or not
to like an Instagram picture and it seems so absurd to be "holding myself back" and <i>life is short
why not just like things that you like as many times as you like</i>. So I'll double-tap the picture and keep scrolling.</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">A few minutes later, I'll see she's posted a link to the very same
picture on her Twitter and, even though I have now d<span style="font-size: small;">welled</span> on it on two
different social networks, I'll click the link anyway to see it a third
time, as if I don't have a choice in the matter.</span></span>
Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-6451003466754456732013-03-08T15:15:00.000-05:002013-03-10T16:30:09.753-04:00a day at the museum<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I went to a museum last weekend, and it was really fun. (That's the
first sentence I wrote when I started writing this, and normally I'd
rewrite it since that<span style="font-size: small;"> i</span>s a sentence right out of a 4th grade language
textbook, but I've decided to... keep it! It really sums up everything you need to know right up top here<span style="font-size: small;">!) </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGY9s0e4Cgg_nJaaXRYEreX-t0QxUGLQ5IXQoEEeJiq8mBX_00bsQIBmSn4W0ByfdTYiWBB1yarCJpelNx_W6jD8DYH72i3SLoJzFZZwQEnAs7ItFSGgjUdfy_v1LKoHRl6W4pdMyffnSj/s1600/girls.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGY9s0e4Cgg_nJaaXRYEreX-t0QxUGLQ5IXQoEEeJiq8mBX_00bsQIBmSn4W0ByfdTYiWBB1yarCJpelNx_W6jD8DYH72i3SLoJzFZZwQEnAs7ItFSGgjUdfy_v1LKoHRl6W4pdMyffnSj/s320/girls.JPG" width="291" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The first exhibit we went to consisted of all of these giant,
hanging works done by this really cool drapery artist (that is
definitely the official name for what he is). I enjoyed all of the
pieces, but also found myself distracted the entire time by these two
high school girls who both were wearing striped shirts and who were
clutching each other as they roamed through the exhibit (one of their
mothers was a few yards ahead of them<span style="font-size: small;">; </span>they of course had to keep their
distance). I heard them whispering about a boy named Sebastian, and then
at one point they sat down on this bench and I took this picture of
them (all of this is ALMOST TOO NORMAL and not creepy at all, I know).
Anyway, after I took this picture, the girl in the red stripes lamented,
"He's just... weird, you know?" and blue stripes sighed, "Yeah,
totally," and then they jumped up and glided out of the room, arms
linked. (Also pretty pathetic/reprehensible on my part that I didn't
even notice the extremely adorable child on an iPad in this picture
until I uploaded it into this post just now.)</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV2gGxlJReiJQEDxMvU9rGHJx4lTZtdWxUBU7JFS21rH2k5du9YAIk2bWo0W_JemeyIZBzOtY1b0IiO12j27ntMrmScYzOu0dj5DmRD0RkgS9LgtmeEJ1HjLoKOYaSEV2OGUrcTHQ4-Qhd/s1600/photo(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV2gGxlJReiJQEDxMvU9rGHJx4lTZtdWxUBU7JFS21rH2k5du9YAIk2bWo0W_JemeyIZBzOtY1b0IiO12j27ntMrmScYzOu0dj5DmRD0RkgS9LgtmeEJ1HjLoKOYaSEV2OGUrcTHQ4-Qhd/s320/photo(1).JPG" width="252" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Later we visited an Ancient Egypt exhibit, which was filled with
mummies and ankhs, and it reminded me of 3rd grade and not in a good way
(as opposed to all the ways that remind you of 3rd grade which are
GREAT, of course). But one aspect of this exhibit did please me - I was
reading this plaque about Osiris and read that whoever this Osiris was
had a "jealous brother, Seth." Maybe everyone knows all about Seth and
this is just going to expose my ignorance about <span style="font-size: small;">Egyptian</span> myths or
whatever, but Seth sounds awesome. I admittedly didn't read the rest of the description
super carefully (<span style="font-size: small;">though I did catch that</span> Seth threw his brother in a
"special human-shaped box" (!!!)) and sorry this picture is horrendously
lit/framed, but I just can't get over this psychotic Seth dude and am
seriously unclear as to why he isn't the only Egyptian god anyone ever talks
about. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkcHaWCnG6d3y3LBA29ASKsR-Pj8Slpxq76qB9zfrnVmtl_v4J8KmBrQxIebonhlM5-njYDDeD1Nh3m4AZpJwCc1ZXxJZeAD09pMbcJKORWyn4mv-zkK7Q9XSdhnDfg9eDRdKt6sKrSU31/s1600/pixar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkcHaWCnG6d3y3LBA29ASKsR-Pj8Slpxq76qB9zfrnVmtl_v4J8KmBrQxIebonhlM5-njYDDeD1Nh3m4AZpJwCc1ZXxJZeAD09pMbcJKORWyn4mv-zkK7Q9XSdhnDfg9eDRdKt6sKrSU31/s320/pixar.JPG" width="233" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And on the way out we passed this sculpture/costume/</span></span><wbr></wbr><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">masterpiece
and I love it so much! What I love about it is I feel like you could
put Karlie Kloss in it and put the shot in <i>Harper's Bazaar</i> and I don't
think anyone would flinch (OK, that's maybe a stretch, but you know what
I mean). And at the same time, it ALSO looks like a hideous scary
Pixar monster come to life! Both at on<span style="font-size: small;">ce!</span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-72083732845671555662013-03-01T12:44:00.000-05:002013-03-01T12:44:39.032-05:00trips to the drawer<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">When he's at home, my dad always sits in the same seat at the
end of the couch in the living room. He uses the end table next to the
couch as a desk, his laptop on top of a <span style="font-size: small;">m</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">élange</span> of papers and folders and
pens. In the drawer of the end table, he keeps business cards, newspaper<span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-size: small;">clippings,</span></span>
binder clips (mixed in with the take out menus, ticket stubs, holiday
cards, and other ephemera that has accumulated over the years). About a
year ago, I opened the drawer looking for a menu and noticed a pack
of Dentyne Fire gum. I took it out and held it in front of my dad's face
(the only way you can get his attention when he's working). </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"What is this?" <br />"What does it look like?"<br />"Why do you have it?"<br />"It's the greatest.<span style="font-size: small;">"</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
tried a piece and was surprised to find that I was immediately obsessed. I returned to the drawer
five or six more times that day, trekking from the "work station" I had set up in
my childhood bedroom. Every time I'd open
the drawer, my dad would look up at me and smirk before returning his
gaze to his laptop. It made me feel like I was eight years old.</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I had no desire to start buying the Fire gum when I got back to NYC;
but, ever since, whenever I'm home I make a few trips a day to the
drawer. I've noticed that, lately, the drawer is always fully stocked
when I get home. When I was home<span style="font-size: small;"> a few week<span style="font-size: small;">s ago</span></span>, there were three full
packs. "Wow, what fortune!" I exclaimed when I opened the drawer and
found the bounty. "What's that?" my mom asked, looking up from her
magazine. "Nothing," I said. My dad didn't look up from his laptop. </span></span>
Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-78629319674553351862013-02-26T13:14:00.001-05:002013-02-26T13:17:36.965-05:00news & notes<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hi friends<span style="font-size: small;">!</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Some news & notes<span style="font-size: small;">!</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">1) Like 17 years later,
I've made a <a href="https://twitter.com/txtmsgbtl">twitter account</a> for this here blog. It has soooo many followers already, so hurry up and follow it before all the spots run out!!</span><span style="font-size: small;"> (My own personal twitter is <a href="https://twitter.com/jduboff">here</a>.)</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">2) I'm writing a web
series that I'm working on with a bunch of very talented people! It's called TWENTY FIVE, and <span style="font-size: small;">o</span>ur
website's up <a href="http://www.watchtwentyfive.com/">here</a> -- ch-check it out! (We've also got a<span style="font-size: small;"> <a href="https://www.facebook.com/TwentyFiveTV">Facebook</a>,</span> <a href="http://www.twitter.com/twentyfivetv">Twitter</a>, and <a href="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/870711665/twenty-five-a-new-comedy-web-series">Kickstarter</a> up. <span style="font-size: small;">A<span style="font-size: small;">n obs<span style="font-size: small;">cene</span> number<span style="font-size: small;"> of hyperlinks</span></span></span> <span style="font-size: small;">within this parenthetical<span style="font-size: small;">, I know.</span></span>) Episodes will be up later this
year!</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">3) This isn't "news" or a "note"<span style="font-size: small;"> (actually<span style="font-size: small;">, I guess maybe it is a note?),</span></span> but it just dawned on me when I
was re-reading what I've written so far and changed two periods to
exclamation points that it is ABSURD how we've gotten to a point
"culturally" where not ending a sentence with an exclamation point makes
it seem VERY solemn/severe, regardless of the sentence's content. I
recently re-read a long catch-up e-mail I wrote in like 2009 to a good
friend about my job and life and such... and the fact that there were
zero exclamation points in it honestly made it read like hate speech.</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Anyway, that's it! Love you all!</span></span>
Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-21897636168944805462013-02-21T13:47:00.000-05:002013-02-21T13:47:01.135-05:00best title i could come up with for this was "a list about words" :/<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">1. A few years ago I drunkenly told my friend that<span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-size: small;">I thought his boyfriend seemed<span style="font-size: small;"> "kind of icono<span style="font-size: small;">clastic<span style="font-size: small;">,<span style="font-size: small;">" which was <span style="font-size: small;">not at all what I meant <span style="font-size: small;">(I <span style="font-size: small;">think I <span style="font-size: small;">was going for <span style="font-size: small;">"<span style="font-size: small;">vain") and made absolutely no sense in context<span style="font-size: small;">, </span>but I think I just liked the idea of saying the word "iconoclastic" at a bar<span style="font-size: small;">. </span>My friend kind of<span style="font-size: small;"> shru<span style="font-size: small;">gged<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">,</span> and <span style="font-size: small;">something about th<span style="font-size: small;">at exchange has stayed with me forever since<span style="font-size: small;"> as a sort of minor private shame.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">2. It dawned on me during a phone call the other day that over the past six months I've adopted a completely gross habit of
caveating every other sentence I say with "... if that makes sense." Not
only does it make you sound totally willowy (idk), it's also<span style="font-size: small;">,</span> of
course<span style="font-size: small;">,</span> implicitly fishing for an affirmative response: so, double
the grossest.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">3. I've noticed that it doesn't matter who you're talking about or what
the situation is, if you refer to someone as "humorless" in
conversation, the person you're talking to will nod emphatically in
agreement.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">4. It's hard not to be suspicious of anyone who uses the word
"lovely" too much. Whenever I say it, I feel like I'm doing a bad Mariah
Carey impression<span style="font-size: small;">.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span>5. Recently I was walking into a bagel place
with a friend of mine. I was setting up a story and, every time I'd pause,
she'd nod and say "yeah..." After a few of these nods, I looked up at her
and asked, "Oh, you know where I'm going with this?" "No," she said.
"I've just been saying 'yeah.'" This made us both laugh weirdly<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> hard</span></span></span>,
and by the time we were finished laughing, we were in line to order and the
story had evaporated unfinished.</span></span>
Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-4806194636498261722013-01-24T15:27:00.001-05:002013-01-24T15:29:33.990-05:00Giuliani-i-fication<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I've seen so many old movies recently! (Apologies for starting off this
post with something right out of Zooey Deschanel's Twitter drafts folder.) I guess
it started when I was reading some piece about romantic comedies that
referenced "Broadcast News," which I hadn't seen before and felt like I
should; I ordered it on Netflix and watched it that weekend. That led to
my populating my Netflix queue with a whole slew of notable movies from
previous decades that I had never seen.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">There's probably some kind of psychological effect at work here, or
maybe it's just that I usually have no prior knowledge of the actors
when I watch these movies, but the leads in these films just seem so much more
like <i>movie stars</i>. They're alluring, sturdier (?)<i>...</i>
unknowable, mysterious, beautiful. I'm not simultaneously thinking about
what they look like wearing sweatpants coming out of the supermarket, or who they're married to in real life (since I don't even know!). It's hard to watch "An Officer and <span style="font-size: small;">a</span> Gentleman" and not
consider with a frown that if that movie were made today, it would
probably star Channing Tatum and Mila Kunis in the Richard Gere and
Debra Winger roles.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">By the time the movie's finished, I'm itching to Google the actors,
scan their Wikipedias, see what they look like now. Of course,
invariably, the findings are depressing. I find out that the
twentysomething hearththrob from the movie I just watched is now a
grandfather (as my friend Alice put it, regarding this phenomenon: "[your] crushes turn into Giuliani"), or that the leading lady
hasn't been in a movie since 1987. These revelations usually lead my mind to two different places: 1) I imagine a young guy watching, like, "Eternal
Sunshine" 30 years from now and then looking up this <i>intriguing</i> "Kate
Winslet" and clicking through her Google Images and realizing she's the
mother of that young actress he just saw in a small part in a new Jane
Austen adaptation on HBO, and then deciding to add "Revolutionary Road" or
whatever to his queue, and 2) I contemplate how weirdly jealous I am of
the children of famous actors who can watch their parents' films (the
equivalent for them of old home movies, I guess) and "hang out" with
this strapping younger version of their mother or father whenever they
feel like it.</span></span>
Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-57664189127734210712013-01-14T15:31:00.002-05:002013-01-14T15:44:19.279-05:00by a string<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was waiting for the elevator the other day next to a family of three:
mother, father, teenage daughter. Each was holding a few shopping bags.
They were silent for a few moments, shifting as we waited, and then the
mother reached to take one of the daughter's bags. "Stop, mom," the
daughter snapped, "I've got it." She looked down <span style="font-size: small;">and turned away</span> from both parents. "I was just trying..." the mother started,
before shifting into mumbles. Meanwhile, the dad looked like he was
daydreaming about a coffee mug. </span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The elevator opened, and the four of us entered. Just as the door<span style="font-size: small;">s were</span> about to close, a <i>Real Housewives</i>-y cartoon of a woman in a fur coat
slid her way into the elevator with us, along with her small dog. "Make
way for my little Frankie," she announced, even though none of us were
even remotely in her way. The elevator doors closed, and Fur Coat took in<span style="font-size: small;"> </span>the mother<span style="font-size: small;">-</span>daughter <span style="font-size: small;">pair</span>. "Oh my god, you guys are <i>adorable</i>.
Matching outfits! So cute." The mother and daughter looked down
sheepishly at their red coats and then they made reluctant eye contact, unable to conceal barely perceptible smiles. "Yeah," the mother
said, "I guess you're right." "So it wasn't planned?" asked Fur Coat,
as she picked Frankie up from the ground and began stroking his fur.
"Nope," the mother said. "I guess<span style="font-size: small;"> w</span>hen you've been living together for this long,
these things just happen..." As she said this, the
daughter rolled her eyes semi-dramatically for show but, simultaneously, she took a small step toward her mom, as if pulled by a string.</span></span>Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-15755004112005618942013-01-07T15:05:00.000-05:002013-01-07T15:06:41.475-05:00confidants<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">One of your good friends, Jennifer, is having people over, so you put on
a new sweater, pick up a bottle of wine, spend the entire subway ride
regretting wearing the new sweater instead of one of your "go to"
shirts, and walk to her apartment. Some faint music is playing from a
television (?) and there are seven bottles of red wine but no white and
all the women are wearing scarves (though each in a different manner).
You say hello to Jennifer, who is seemingly already wasted, and proceed
to meet a bunch of the periphery characters in your conception of her
life: her new boyfriend's roommate, her former coworker who she always
talks about, etc. Usually there's one of these bit players whom you end
up talking to for a weirdly long amount of time, typically someone who
isn't even all that close to Jennifer (it'll be, like, the boyfriend of
one of her on-the-outs college friends).</span><span style="font-size: small;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />A few days later, you meet up with Jennifer for dinner and, before
you've even opened your menus, you say something like "so Saturday night
was so fun...," and you're off! You work through each person at the
party systematically. You'll deliver a vague initial assessment of each
person you met, in turn: "I liked the roommate with the hat!" (you don't
want to take <i>too</i> strong a stance before you know what Jennifer's
take on the given individual is). Jennifer will proceed to break down this
person's entire existence in 30 seconds ("Well, <i>the story with him </i>is
that three years ago he..."). After this summary, you'll circle back
and either reaffirm or scale back your original claim ("You know, he <i>did</i> seem a little creepy...") And then you move on to the next person ("Wait, so who was the girl with the curly hair...?") </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />There's something strangely electric about the whole back-and-forth.
It's like a car-ride-home-from-a-movie conversation but intimate and
dishy and devoid of arguments related to Hugh Jackman's singing voice.
As you and Jennifer wait for a picture of her boyfriend's sister to load
on her phone's Facebook app, you feel like a <i>confidant</i>, like
this is somehow the adult version of the late night bunk bed
conversations and post-homework hour-long phone calls of your teenage
years. </span></span>Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-85472475863559773302012-12-19T11:35:00.001-05:002012-12-19T11:38:24.023-05:00two at a time<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The checks finally come. You both sign, and fumble, and stand, and
fumble, and put your jackets on. You exit the restaurant in silence.
When you're outside, you say, "It's getting so.... cold," putting a
weird accent on "cold" in an attempt to mask the blandness of the
remark. "I know," he says, "... so, which subway...?" "Oh, I think I'm
going to take the Q... Union Square...." You sway your head back and
forth slightly. Very chill! "Great, I'm... walking in that direction,
too," he says, in the vague manner one only uses in circumstances like
these. A long pause, and then you both start talking at the same time.
You smile (he doesn't) and you ask -- shouting, basically -- "So what're
you doing for New Year's?"
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />Thee blocks later, you're at Union Square. "This was... great," he
says. "Yeah, it was great!" A brief hug. If someone across the street
were to catch<span style="font-size: small;"> only</span> a few seconds, it could be mistaken for two strangers
brushing past one another in front of a Walgreens. The escalator down
to the subway's working properly, but you still descend two at a time.</span></span>Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-87291143489305982732012-11-30T13:16:00.000-05:002012-11-30T13:16:51.447-05:00inconclusive<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'm currently taking a six<span style="font-size: small;">-</span>week course, and I had to write an academic
paper (the first I've had to write since college) for this week's class.
It was astounding how all of the old, terrible habits came right back:<span style="font-size: small;"> waiting</span> until the last possible moment to write it, waiting until I was
finished writing to double<span style="font-size: small;">-</span>space (with that corresponding intake of
breath as you wait to see if you've in fact surpassed the page limit),
the reliance on my old crutches (the word "pervasive," a flagrant excess
of semicolons, etc.). Even hooking up my laptop to my printer, which
I've used only a dozen or so times since I moved to Ne<span style="font-size: small;">w Yo<span style="font-size: small;">rk</span></span>, brought
back bleak memories of print cartridge smudges and error messages. <br /><br />Of course, not everything's the same. I started to write a
"concluding paragraph," but then stopped and deleted it, and turned in
the paper without one. Some four years out of college, the idea of tying
an overly broad, adjective-laden bow on a paper -- even an innocuous
three<span style="font-size: small;">-</span>pager for a six-week class -- seemed completely ludicrous, so much
so that it made me wonder how I churned those silly little conclusions
out week after week for so many years without degenerating into some kind
of automaton and then into dust.</span></span>
Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-31801135572309348492012-10-17T12:19:00.000-04:002012-10-17T12:19:06.570-04:00filters<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">An odd moment: when your friend signs into gmail on your laptop, and
everything from the color of the labels to the ratio of read-to-unread
e-mails to the quantity of e-newsletters seems completely foreign.
You're reminded that the way you experience the internet is wholly
specific, that the tabs you keep open aren't the tabs everyone keeps
open; you knew this, of course, but somehow it's easy to forget and
assume universality. <br /><br />Related: when you scroll through your friend's News Feed (or the
roster of people he follows on Instagram or Twitter), and you consider
briefly that he views "the world" through a filter that is so vastly
different from your own.</span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-66625637696594066992012-10-01T16:33:00.001-04:002012-10-01T16:40:24.232-04:00strange behaviors<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">1)
When I'm waiting for someone outside of a restaurant and I notice them
approaching across the street (they haven't seen me yet), instead of shouting the friend's name or waving,
I'll instead instinctively look down at my phone or fixate on a tree
or something. When they tap me on the shoulder and say "Hey!," I'll
exclaim, "Oh, hi! Didn't see you coming! Weird!"<br /><br />2) I'll be working on my laptop in a cafe and I'll come across a mention
of Wyoming in something I'm reading and get really distracted by
the fact that "there is a state named Wyoming": I'll just stare at the
word "Wyoming" for like 90 seconds and wonder how it's possible that
ANYTHING -- let alone a STATE -- could be named that. It just seems so
implausible! I'll Google "Wyoming" just to confirm that it really is a place that exists. Then, finally, I'll type "Wyoming" in the Post-It Note I keep open
on my desktop, for no reason other than to give the appearance that this four
minute detour resulted in <i>something</i> tangible. <br /><br />3) This is a
brother-specific one, but I'll do this thing where I'll accidentally refer to a place by the wrong name in an e-mail or text to my brother (I'll
call the "Meatball Shop" the "Meatball Hut," for example), and he'll
make a point of correcting me. From then on, for the rest of time
(foreverrrrrr!!!), whenever the "Meatball Shop" comes up in our conversations (this example is getting weird, but hopefully you're following), I'll always
intentionally call it the "Meatball Hut" (to his great irritation).<br /><br />4) I'll be eating a sandwich at a deli and note that it tastes
especially bland. I can barely even distinguish between the different
elements of the sandwich! But instead of assessing that perhaps this
deli just makes awful sandwiches, I will instead worry that something
might be "wrong" with my taste buds. I will leap out of my chair, buy a
bag of Doritos, tear it open and immediately eat like ten, solely to
make sure I can still "taste properly."</span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-86197340220417243102012-09-13T15:00:00.001-04:002012-10-01T16:33:54.691-04:00ways to spice up your life<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">1) Make a seemingly mundane event (i.e. your doorbell ringing) exciting
by pretending that it's the cliffhanger season finale ending in a
reality show about your life. It will result in thousands of tweets
(likely to be divided pretty evenly between #TeamUPSGuy and #TeamSeamlessDelivery) and
countless blog posts (nay, entire blogs!) devoted to the "who's at the door???" mystery. There will be GIFs of your head quickly whipping around at the sound of the buzzer <i>all over</i> the internet.<br /><br />2) The superintendent in my building calls me "Jay" instead of
"Josh." I have no idea if he knows that my name is "Josh" and just calls
me "Jay" as, I dunno, a shortened version... or if he just
misheard me the first time I told him my name. Anyway, I pass him in the
lobby quite often, and he always says "Hey Jay," and it's this little
jolt of excitement (?) in my day to be called by this alternate moniker.
"Oh, right," I always think, "I'm
<i>Jay</i> to him." (So yeah, I guess
my "tip" here is: introduce yourself with a slightly modified name to a
periphery character in your life!)<br /><br />3) I used to play this "game" with my friend Andrew. Basically, I'd
scroll through the contacts list on my phone and then Andrew would yell
(yell!) "stop" after a few seconds. I would then have to text whomever I
had landed on, no matter if it was my friend's dad, my high school tennis coach, etc.
Of course, like 97% of the time we wouldn't actually go through with
sending the text (also, we only played this <i>rollicking</i> game like once)
but it's still fun to consider what you would text the person (would you come up with something viable to text them or you would
play it off as a "mistake"??). (Hmm, maybe the takeaway of this third item is that you probably don't want to rely on me to organize your next Game Night.)</span></span>
Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-16742737958379799912012-08-29T13:35:00.001-04:002012-08-29T13:41:28.494-04:00the jennifer westfeldt story<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I posted <a href="https://twitter.com/JDuboff/status/233704606608277505">this iPhone screenshot</a> on Twitter a few weeks ago, which I now realize was
basically analogous to entering an attention-seeking "feeling so excited about
my amazing news!!!" or whatever Facebook status. But I hope you'll
excuse me for that lapse in judgment when you understand the state I was
in when I tweeted it. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">So... the date was August 9. (I think that, primarily because this
story is now known as "The Jennifer Westfeldt Story" among my group of
friends, I always feel like I'm telling a ghost story or something when recounting it.) We had just finished a three-hour tech rehearsal for
<a href="http://textmessageinabottle.blogspot.com/2012/08/scarlett-fever.html">my play</a>, which had been preceded by a three-hour regular rehearsal. It
was raining hard, and I was traipsing around the East Village carrying a
giant box of postcards advertising the play (I know I can often
exaggerate, but this box really was giant... I was buckling under its
weight and, like, stumbling as I tried to wield it). I was meant to drop
off some postcards at various theaters on E. 4th Street: I'd
dramatically drop the box on the sidewalk in front of a theater, grab
some postcards from the box, hold them underneath my t-shirt (so they
wouldn't get wet)... and then run inside and ask the attendant if I
could leave them in the lobby. I resembled an overheated hitchhiker who
had just jumped in a pool with his clothes on, and I was regarded with
skepticism and pity by all theater employees I encountered.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">After about 30 minutes of executing these drop-offs -- exhausted and drenched in sweat and rain -- I decided to
head home. I hailed a cab
(no easy feat while carrying 20 pounds in postcards!) and waited while a
very striking, well-dressed blonde woman exited the taxi. We made eye
contact and she said, "Hi," as I slid ("slid" makes it sound a thousand times</span><span style="font-size: small;">
more graceful than it was) past her to get in the cab. "What a pleasant
woman," I thought to myself as I slammed the door, "And so pretty!" As
the cab lurched forward, I watched her enter a wine bar and,
immediately, it struck me that she was Jennifer Westfeldt (a.k.a Jon
Hamm's girlfriend). </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I've had <a href="http://textmessageinabottle.blogspot.com/2009/09/unexpected-wonderland.html">weird</a> "<a href="http://textmessageinabottle.blogspot.com/2011/10/on-pete-hornberger.html">run-ins</a>" with celebrities before, but this felt
strangely... fated? I had just seen "Friends With Kids" a few weeks
earlier and -- craving more Westfeldt -- watched "Kissing Jessica
Stein" the next night. And I was carrying a box full of postcards
advertising my first play, which is, in part, about the strangeness of
celebrity. "If only I had recognized her, I could have given her one and
invited her to the play!" I thought regretfully. And as I worked out in
my head what I might have said to her, I shouted -- foolish and impulsive and dripping sweat -- "STOP THE CAB." </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The cab driver pulled over and I handed him four dollars and I
started shuffling/skipping (my version of "fast") toward the
wine bar. I had no idea what I was going to say to her, but I felt oddly
serene and assured. I arrived at the wine bar and plopped the
box down on a bench. I peered in and, just as I had imagined it,
Jennifer (who was sitting by herself with a glass of wine) looked toward me, and we made eye contact. But, in this moment, a few things
struck me at once: </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">1) From her perspective, a sopping wet man with unruly hair and a
giant box whom she had JUST SEEN GET IN A CAB was now staring at her
like a serial killer from outside the wine bar she was in.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">2) I was suddenly only like 85 percent sure it was even her.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">3) There was no way I was going to be able to enter this wine bar and talk to her.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Her
eyes sort of widened and she frowned, as if seeing a ghost (TWIST: this
IS a ghost story, after all! <i>I'm</i> the ghost!). I just stood dumbly
outside the entrance as she gulped the last drops of her wine, collected
her things and marched out of the wine bar, right past me (avoiding eye
contact, obviously) and down the street. I watched as she practically
sprinted down 2nd Avenue while furiously typing on her iPhone ("Jon,
change in plans!! i'm finding a new bar!," no doubt). </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I texted my brother, and then picked up my box.</span>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</div>
Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-84729669168872762372012-08-06T11:10:00.000-04:002012-08-06T11:11:31.818-04:00Scarlett Fever!<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Hello TxtMsgBtl Readers!<br />
<br />
Some exciting news! About two years ago,
when I was <a href="http://www.theawl.com/2010/12/the-night-blogger-blogs-alone">blogging for NYMag.com at night</a> and had my days free, I
started writing a play. I finished it in December of 2010 and staged a
"reading" in my apartment: my friends Marissa and Liz and my brother Sam
read the six parts between the three of them, while I twitched
nervously and tore through a bag of Sour Patch Kids. After a revision, I
brought it to my director/producer friend Ashley, who came on board as
director. Two more readings (with real actors this time) and nearly a
year and a half later, the play is finally debuting! In the New York
Fringe Festival! I am so so soooo excited, and - if you're in/near the
NYC area - would be thrilled if you'd come see it!<br />
<br />
It's called <i>Scarlett Fever</i>. It's about a girl named Gracie who has
just graduated from college and moved to New York. She also happens to
be a Scarlett Johansson superfan. Meanwhile, her best friend Joey, who
works for a fashion magazine, is consumed with his crush on the barista
at their local coffee shop. Gracie meets a mysterious, charming guy at a
party, and events unfold from there. Still, two years later, I'm not
the greatest at describing it, but, yeah, it's a very fast-paced, pop
culture-y comedy, basically.<br />
<br />
There are five performances at the SoHo Playhouse on August 14, 17, 23, 24 and 25. You can buy tickets now at <a href="http://scarlettfevershow.com/" target="_blank">scarlettfevershow.com</a>. Also, I've been blogging about the show for a few weeks now on <a href="http://scarlettfevershow.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">scarlettfevershow.tumblr.com</a>.<br />
<br />
Would be grrrreat to see you there! If you do make it, be sure to
come up and say hi after! I'll be the guy wearing all black twitching
nervously and covertly popping Sour Patch Kids in the back.</div>Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-71137176781013458452012-07-30T10:50:00.001-04:002012-07-30T10:52:53.470-04:00goodnight from Phoenix<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I had been on the phone with Tim R. for over an hour and a half. I was
sitting on my couch, an empty wine glass on the table in front of me, my
laptop resting on my, uh, lap.<br /><br />"Now select everything on the left and drag it into the box on the right."<br /><br />"Onto the white space or anywhere in the box?"
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br />"Anywhere in the box is great."<br /><br />We
had been going back-and-forth like this, Tim R. walking me through a somewhat
complicated series of maneuvers to rectify a "domain-related problem" I
was having with one of my websites. <br /><br />I dragged the files into the box on the right and a notification
came up on my screen informing me that the transfer would take about ten
minutes.
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br />"It's... uh... going," I said. Though we had been on
the phone for some 90 minutes at this point, the "conversation" had been
comprised exclusively of troubleshooting and instructions and hold
music. I wondered what would happen now. Would he say something like
"so, uh, I'm just gonna put you on hold for 10 minutes while we
wait..."? Would we both just remain silent on the line? Would we confess
dark, deep secrets to one another in this odd, "no consequences"
long-distance circumstance?<br /><br />But Tim R. just started rambling. He asked me if I had heard about a
new project Google was working on to create a cell phone battery that
could survive for months without needing to be charged. He mentioned a
password-keeping app he uses to store all of his passwords (his Facebook
password has 64 digits, he told me). He told me about some super
high-speed internet connection they're testing in Kansas City (I didn't
really follow this last one, but strategically employed some "aah"s and
"coool"s).
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br />"You really have a lot of technology factoids," I said. "I guess it probably helps you keep up with, uh, your work."
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br />"Yeah," he said. "It also provides me with things to talk about when I'm on the phone with customers!"<br /><br />I surprised myself by laughing loudly, authentically, at this.
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br />When
we arrived at our next 10 minute wait a bit later, the nature of his soliloquies changed. He told me that he'd recently taught
himself how to make websites, and had created about 35. ("Wow, I'm impressed.") He asked me if I'd ever played Counter-Strike.
("Uhhhh, I don't think so," I said. And then I lied, "Maybe once.") <br /><br />"Pull up Google on your browser," he said, in the way you might nag your best friend in the office. "... Now Google the word 'tilt.'"
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br />"Wow, that's so great," I said, even though I had seen this "trick" a few months ago. "Are there more?" <br /><br />"Yeah. This one's kind of nerdy though. Google 'recursion.'"<br /><br />After two hours and 36 minutes, it was time for the call to come to an end.
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br />"What time is it there?" he said. "I can't believe I didn't ask where you were calling from this whole time."<br /><br />I realized I had offered very little about myself during our
marathon phone call. The most "revealing" I had been was probably my assessment
that I "love a good acronym," or maybe when I inexplicably offered
that the Google Doodles are "very neat."
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br />"It's 1:13 am," I said. "I'm in New York."
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br />"Well, goodnight from Phoenix," he said.<br /><br />The next day, I had to call the Help Line again. The issue Tim R. had been helping me with had not been resolved. <br /><br />"Hello, this is Kasey...," a cheery voice announced. "I have to let
you know that this call might be recorded for training purposes."</span>
</div>Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-82157031053793104992012-06-19T14:57:00.000-04:002012-06-19T15:28:52.534-04:00black jackets<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last Wednesday I found myself at a Chanel "pop-up" installation, essentially a large warehouse-y room on Wooster Street which had been converted into a gallery. The exhibit was comprised of a bunch of photos of famous people taken by Karl Lagerfeld; in each photo, the same Chanel "little black jacket" was worn by the subject</span></span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_7vHwEZBLft1pdF215mw1KG0qLyVEley8cxw_rFJrxZJxXHswWSJUCo3E6Bs83OM1b70gx1lfkYnV89dpS-AAYIRogKv6l45f6qNyvGgu29fzH_yVZkQwM3I-k6RWKKTtFO_13lLnuXJ/s1600/jackets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_7vHwEZBLft1pdF215mw1KG0qLyVEley8cxw_rFJrxZJxXHswWSJUCo3E6Bs83OM1b70gx1lfkYnV89dpS-AAYIRogKv6l45f6qNyvGgu29fzH_yVZkQwM3I-k6RWKKTtFO_13lLnuXJ/s320/jackets.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My mom was in town from Boston, and my brother had suggested we stop by the installation before dinner. When I arrived, the two of them were already inside, examining a large-scale photograph of the back of Anna Wintour's head. The lights were dim. A mix of tourists and SoHo-y types milled about. There were three employees dressed in all black handing out posters of the Elle Fanning, Sarah Jessica Parker and Vanessa Paradis prints.<br /><br />"Well, this is weird," I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />We walked around the exhibit and lingered in front of the portraits of the more famous celebrities (Kanye, Uma, Dunst). "Interesting." "Wow." "I like this one." Perhaps it was that the same jacket was featured in every photograph, but it didn't take long for all of them to start to blend together.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />About 15 minutes later, the three of us independently shifted toward the exit. My mom was only in town for two nights. I had met her at her hotel earlier that day for lunch. The previous night we had gone to an event for which I'd had to wear a suit. Now, we were off to dinner in Tribeca. In, a few nice meals, out.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />We walked out of the exhibit and my brother noted that it would be closing at the end of the week.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />"So it was just open for a few weeks? What was the point?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Sam said something about how it was just a fun, short-term attraction and that it was good for the Chanel brand, but I was busy imagining a line-up of my friends all wearing the same black jacket, wondering why I always feel more distant from loved ones when they're visiting me in New York than when we're in different states, and wishing we were heading to eat in our upstairs TV room in Boston rather than a New York restaurant with an unpronounceable name.</span>Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-9702317382721805282012-06-07T11:09:00.000-04:002012-06-07T11:12:05.012-04:00a bowl of macaroons<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I returned to my building on a Saturday night during Passover a few months ago to find a bowl of macaroons on a stand in the lobby. A man and woman, probably in their late twenties, were staggering toward the elevators in front of me. I watched as the man clumsily peeled off to the bowl of macaroons while the woman traipsed toward the elevator.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The man and I reached the elevator at about the same time. The woman was inside, holding the door open. He popped a macaroon in his mouth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"What are you eating?" she asked him as the door closed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"A macaroon."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"... And you didn't get me one?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"No. Sorry."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I felt like I was observing a real-life version of what I'd imagine an episode of "Whitney" is like.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"So you thought you'd get yourself some snacks while I've just been <i>standing here waiting in the elevator</i>? You didn't think to yourself, you know, 'Maybe she'd want one...'?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We were now at my floor. I got off the elevator... and, to my surprise, so did the man.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"What are you doing?" the woman asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I'm going to go back down to get you a macaroon."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the door closed she wailed, "I don't even want one now!" I gave the man a parting look, and he shrugged in my direction, as if I was implicitly on his side. I looked down and then turned and walked to my apartment.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A bowl of macaroons likely instigated a tense few minutes of silent co-existing, a fumbling apology, a somewhat stilted brunch the next morning. Of course, if the macaroons hadn't been there, it would have been something else: a vague text message read aloud, a misplaced mug, an inadvertent laugh.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yesterday I got on the elevator with the same woman; I hadn't seen her since the macaroons night. She was texting on her phone, but she looked up when I pressed the button for my floor. We locked eyes. She looked almost frightened, as though she recognized me from a recurring bad dream that she never wakes up from soon enough.</span>Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3292253345131284697.post-30499316714136356352012-05-23T15:00:00.001-04:002012-06-07T10:40:36.709-04:00cherish that antipasto<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm4kRjh70zUL3Wy1IOmY5gy75ps-HwWS65rpoZclfhK9BqdVwV8LFvrgpe_ZMcfWqCnLIS7H15Yy7Ga3EdK8Ofpu6ZObbn4mKm-UIXmxmo2Nkc54T8pAmStSVi8-2VgkJMhhHni9wcs2iK/s1600/antipasto.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm4kRjh70zUL3Wy1IOmY5gy75ps-HwWS65rpoZclfhK9BqdVwV8LFvrgpe_ZMcfWqCnLIS7H15Yy7Ga3EdK8Ofpu6ZObbn4mKm-UIXmxmo2Nkc54T8pAmStSVi8-2VgkJMhhHni9wcs2iK/s320/antipasto.png" width="286" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If I'm blithely sliding my fingers atop my iPhone screen in public, 70 percent of the time I'm just scrolling through old text message conversations. Either it's because I'm on the subway and forgot to bring a book with me or, more commonly, because I'm just trying to avoid making eye contact with humans.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Almost always, I end up scrolling to this text message I received from an unknown northern New Jersey phone number in November. It never ceases to fascinate me. <i>Cherish that antipasto</i>...</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have come up with a whole backstory here. It was sent a few days before Thanksgiving, so I'm thinking that this girl -- her name is Natalie, I feel -- hosts an annual pre-Thanksgiving dinner for her best friends from high school, who live in different parts of the country now (they all just graduated from college) but reunite in NJ for the holidays. She'd always had a thing for this guy Vince. They were never really great friends, but Vince comes to Natalie's yearly dinner because one of his friends dates Natalie's best friend. For the November 2010 dinner, Natalie labored over an elaborate antipasto platter, which everyone -- especially Vince -- made a point of complimenting.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />She'd been waiting a whole year to see Vince and make that antipasto all over again. Vince wrote on her Facebook wall on her birthday in March: "hbd lady! can't wait til november. been dreaming about that antipasto," and Natalie immediately both "liked" the post and commented "lol you will not be disappointed!!" (she immediately questioned if unveiled enthusiasm was the right move there).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />November 2011 finally rolls around. Natalie spends hours getting ready for the dinner. Her best friend has just gotten engaged to Vince's friend, which only makes her more anxious about seeing Vince ("we could, like, go on double dates," her best friend screeches, making Natalie's stomach turn). At the dinner, though, Vince is... distant. He sits on the opposite side of the table from Natalie. She thinks she overhears him mention a girl named Madison? When he leaves, he gives Natalie a pat on the shoulder instead of a hug. "Wait," she says. "Let me put the leftover antipasto in a Tupperware for you." She doesn't know what else to do.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />She spends the entire next day debating whether or not to text him. "just make it abt the antipasto, that's safe," her friend Vicki gchats her. "also, i think he got a new phone so u'll need to get the # from fb..." Natalie goes to his Facebook profile, instinctively clicking through the pictures she's clicked through so many times before. Finally, she decides to go for it and text him. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She has nothing to lose.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Of course, she entered his number incorrectly into her phone -- I got the text instead of "Vince." She spent a few days holding her breath every time she got a text message, hoping it might be him. <i>Maybe he'll suggest stopping by my place again while he's still home for Thanksgiving?</i> But she never heard back. I'm hoping Natalie decides not to have her pre-Thanksgiving dinner this fall; a hopeful antipasto platter and a hopeless one are so often one in the same.</span><br />
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<br /></div>Josh Duboffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13754973068904799590noreply@blogger.com5