Why Does Everything I Love Burn?

Actually, that's an inaccurate title. A better title would be - why does everything I love linger on past its date of expiration when it should die a fiery death, instead growing old, dry, and bitter? I just felt like quoting Homer Simpson.

Here's your lesson for the day: Controlled forest fires. They're used to renew forests by encouraging desirable trees to grow - sequoia seeds need to be broken out of their coating by fire - and reducing the chance of uncontrollable, more damaging forest fires because it culls the slash - the undesirable, dead parts of the forest that are basically just barrels of fuel - and encourages the growth of trees that are fire-resistant. Wildfires occur naturally for these reasons. It's the oldest rule in nature: survival of the fittest. Elimination of the weakest. While Social Darwinism sucks, evolutionary Darwinism can't really be denied.

Smokey says you can prevent this. By burning more trees.

What got me thinking about this is actually fandoms I have that have long since outlived their heydays and are, effectively, just humiliating themselves at this point by continuing. I'll name some common examples that have been oft-cited by other culture critics (i.e., people like The Comic Book Guy in The Simpsons who have nothing better to do with their time than sit on their ass and watch TV, then rant about it on the internet. Or better yet, watch TV on the internet): The Simpsons (this post sort of has a Simpsons theme, doesn't it?)... Friends... the West Wing... actually, pretty damn near every television show that follows any kind of plot line. Eventually those plot lines become stale, recycled, hackneyed, parodied, or just abandoned for... no plot at all, or a completely nonsensical one.

Even the President is powerless without ghostwriters.

TV shows, you see, have life cycles, just like everything else:
1) Infancy - unless they are Prodigies*, the TV show will probably suck at this age, no pun intended. The dialogue will be forced and/or overly quirky, the quality of the production will be subpar, the pacing uncomfortably slow, and there will be some scenes that devoted fans will later look back on and think - what the fuck were they thinking? (see the X-Files episode of season 1 where Scully's all paranoid that there's something on her back and she takes off her garments so Mulder can examine her. Uh...?) Unless the characters, concept, or humor/drama are enough to sustain a following that will petition the network to keep the show on the air, it will die. Sorry, it's a harsh world.

Worst. Infancy. Ever.

2) Childhood/Adolescence - the show "comes into its own". The devoted following starts telling everyone how great it is. It will appear on the cover of TV Guide, if it's on a mainstream network. It starts to develop its hooks to keep the devoted following happy and lure others into the cult of the devoted following. This would be the Ross and Rachel season of Friends, which is the only one to spawn the one-liner that everyone in the world can quote, "WE WERE ON A BREAK", and the sublime seasons 2 and 3 of the X-Files, featuring the great 3-part cliffhanger that started with "Anasazi", subliminal messages of the government in "Wetwired" leading to Mulder's ode to Scully: "You're the only one I trust", and the absolutely superb season finale, "Talitha Cumi".

The X-Files just isn't the X-Files without Mulder threatening to kill the Cigarette Smoking Man for something Cancer Man did to his parents/Scully/an innocent bystander/aliens/the world.

3) Primetime/Maturity - the show knows it's hot, and flaunts it. The devoted following is now no longer a weird cult, but an accepted community, just like the Girl Scouts - like moving up from Jehovah's Witnesses status to, you know, Lutherans. They have been on several covers of TV Guide as well as Entertainment Weekly, and its stars are featured in People magazine, giving interviews about how normal they are and how they really do eat 3000 calories a day, they swear (Ellen Pompeo of Grey's Anatomy, I'm lookin' at you). Entertainment Tonight trips over itself trying to sound like they know what's going on in the show. News anchors make fleeting references to it -- "Wow, sounds like something out of the X-Files" -- and contests may spring up offering the chance to visit the cast and crew, or win some makeover that will turn you, too, into a Desperate Housewife. In terms of the show's quality, it's now so full of its own ego that it can make fun of itself artfully, circle back on old jokes, and still come up with fresh ones, the whole time rewarding the devoted following and at the same time opening its arms to those fools who are only just now joining it. There are, rarely, Elitists** who do not open their arms to new followers. Basically, the show thinks it's quite clever, and not only that, but it ushers in a new cultural era for the United States. Stuff that would never fly in the Senility phase is cool right now - yes, Ross can yet again fail to move on from his relationship with Rachel by saying the wrong name... twice. Yes, Mulder and Scully can get trapped in a haunted house for no reason and start trying to kill each other on behest of the ghosts (this episode, "How The Ghosts Stole Christmas", is a fan favorite, despite having the worst X-Files plot I've ever seen). Appropriately, Maturity is also the best time for spin-offs (aww, look at all those cute li'l Law & Orders).

Do you see this? We laughed at this, America, we laughed at this.

4) Old Age/Senility - the show chooses to bow out gracefully or go out a kicking and screaming curmudgeon/cat-lady. An overwhelming majority, sadly, go out as curmudgeons and cat-ladies instead of ladies and gentlemen. Ideally, the TV show would reach its conclusion early on in Old Age - i.e., right after Prime Time ends - give a satisfying resolution wrapping up all plot lines (except if they insist on being cheeky and letting some hang), and exit, to the applause of all. I can't actually think of a show that has done this, sadly enough. More often, Senility develops. I'll get into that later. As a cultural icon, the TV show loses its hipness and becomes a "time marker". The X-Files is so '90s. The Friends Era is past. My mother watched E.R. And so on, so forth. References to it are now jokes. The devoted following loses membership for various reasons. Criticism of the show rises. The suits at the network start wondering if it's time to pull the plug.

Guys, George Clooney was on E.R. like 200 years ago, and he's still the only one anyone can think of when they hear "E.R."
Now that's Senility for you.

5) Death - well, pretty self-evident. It's off not only its home network, but all networks. It should be noted that some TV shows suffer "terminal illnesses" before senility and death, but recover, when they get booted by their original network and then get picked up to great popularity by a new network. Best Example: Family Guy (Fox to Cartoon Network to Torch-Bearer of American Animation). That's not death - death is final. Sometimes ghosts will linger in the form of reruns, but eventually even those subside. Now it's just the devoted following (and the most devoted of the devoted, too) who give a shit about the show at all. Hell, the actors probably care less than the most devoted of the devoted following.

Cancelled! Honestly, don't know how this show stayed on as long as it did.

*- Prodigies: shows that become hugely popular in their first year, basically going right into late Adolescence/early Primetime. Quite common for reality TV, like American Idol, and rare for dramas/comedies, although it still happens once in a while: Grey's Anatomy.
** - Elitists: shows that don't let their devoted following grow, because there's too many complications and inside jokes that new viewers "just wouldn't understand". Often these shows are advertised with the tagline "If you haven't been watching [TV Show]..." followed by some insult about your mother or a threat involving crocodiles. Examples: The Office, 24.

Jack Bauer says, "You can't handle the truth, so don't watch my show, rarr!"

The only television shows that are exempt from Curse of Senility, as far as I can tell, are British murder mysteries, and perhaps American crime dramas. Midsomer Murders and Poirot will always have new episodes and will always be watched, on both sides of the Atlantic, because they are so formulaic and have such brilliant writers that things like maximum commitment don't matter. These shows don't have any evolving plot with the characters. Even when the characters try to develop, their efforts are quashed and they're brought back into line (see Hastings' short-lived endeavour in South America and wedded bliss. Riiiight. Just go crawling back to Poirot, Hastings). These shows have one star without whom the show would die, and in fact, that is how these shows die - the star dies. I mean, no one else can be Poirot. When David Suchet kicks the bucket, so will Poirot. Until then, it will be comfort television for bookish homebodies everywhere. Although interestingly, the American version, exemplified by Law & Order and CSI, may have gotten around this death clause by changing casts so frequently that they're "real life shows" and don't need a stable cast to keep going, because they don't even rely on a star, they rely on a formula, and a formula alone. These shows' popularity often fluctuates, and will probably never be as great as the popularity of shows with normal life cycles (CSI being the notable exception, and thus making me doubt if CSI actually fits this category), but hey, they'll live forever, so pick your poison.

Just as Joe Paterno will die on the field, so will David Suchet die on the set of Poirot.

Senility: Case Studies
These are all TV shows I have, at some point or another (and perhaps still yet!) loved. Then they went senile, and I'm going to visiting hours at the nursing home.

1) Let's-Drag-This-Out-As-Loooong-As-Possible-Itis

Example: The X-Files

I'm a believer!

The show that would NEVER END. When Scully was abducted, that took what, three episodes. When Mulder was abducted? Two seasons. Mulder's parents were dead pretty early on. So then they had to kill off Scully's family, for no reason. Because us stupid fans wanted to know what the hell the aliens were going to do and when they were going to show up, we kept watching despite a huge drop in quality in the later seasons. When you're so out of material that you're having your actors come up with new episodes (bad idea, Chris Carter), it's time to just let your poor devoted following know everything they need to know and stop taunting us with tiny hints that don't actually amount to anything.
High Point: Seasons 2-3. When we actually were learning new things, the characters were compelling, and it seemed to be going somewhere, and most importantly, there were monsters like the dude that ate livers, the fluke man, and the horrific Peacock family.

No, wait, I'm an atheist again.

Oh No They Didn't Point: Tonight on the X-Files, follow Agents Doggett and Reyes as they... wait, hold up! Who?

2) Oops-We-Ran-Out-of-Plot-Itis
Example: Dragonball Z

Epic.

Here's the thing about arcs. If you don't stop when you reach the other end of the arc, you're basically just digging yourself into the ground, because you don't have anything new to say, and you can't go up, because you're not a fucking slinky. The great plot arc that began when we found out our beloved Goku was an alien was completed when he avenged the (nearly extinct) species by killing Freeza. It would have made a great ending point, right there. But nooo, greedy producers wanted more moola, so they told Akira Toriyama to keep on drawing panels featuring villains named after nursery rhymes. When the series' creator wants to stop, dudes, maybe you should let him.
High Point: Clearly the emotional final battle on Namek. Few stories have had as clear a climax as this.

Clearly not trying.

Oh No They Didn't Point: The Fusion Dance? What the fuck? No human would ever debase themselves by doing this dance, let alone a saiyan. And the entire Buu saga? Ouch.

3) Decided-to-Go-on-Crack-Itis
Example: Charmed

Gothic-chic.

Most people will say that they watched an episode (or season) or two of the charming, kitschy Charmed, but if you ask "what happened in the end?" the conversation will invariably turn into "Whatever happened to Baby Charmed?" That's because people stopped watching when the show's producers went on crack. Most will say this happened when Shannon Doherty's witch, Prue, "died". Then suddenly we weren't just being normal witches... no, no, we had genies, Greek goddesses (Phoebe turns into the Goddess of Love? WHAT? And sorry, producers, but "Goddess of Earth" is not something out of Greek mythology), leprechauns, way too much complexity for a TV show mixed in with gimmicky stupidity. But I guess that's what you get when the stars are dating the producers and you have three alpha females jockeying for screen time.
High Point: Prue telling Phoebe to shut the fuck up in Seasons 1-3.

Eek.

Oh No They Didn't Point: Phoebe turns into a mermaid? WHY?

4) I'm-Not-Funny-Anymore-Itis
Example: The Simpsons

Timeless.

The Simpsons used to be great, but let's face it - it's been on for eighteen years, almost as old as I am, and you just can't be funny for that long. Since the show's writers have used up all their funny potions, they are now turning to random weirdness that belongs more in an episode of Aqua Teen Hunger Force than in a satire about middle America, gratuitous and painful stabs at current events (if the knife ain't sharp, it's not cool, it's just nasty). I think The Simpsons was better when they tried to address unchanging conditions of humanity, not the headlines of USA Today. Remember the gay marriage episode? Do you remember the crickets?
High Point: Seasons 4-8, featuring "Homer the Heretic", "Who Shot Mr. Burns?", and "Homer's Enemy", some of my favorites. Especially "Homer the Heretic". Damn, I love their religious episodes.

Retarded.

Oh No They Didn't Point: Sorry, but "There's Something About Marrying" of season 16 made me want to shoot myself.

5) Now-That-I'm-Old-I-Shall-Be-Perfect-Itis
Example: Friends

Painfully funny.

Friends used to be soooo much more amusing than it ended up being, and I think it's because it just got too goddamn sappy at the end, with them all moving to the suburbs (or L.A., in Joey's case) and having babies. I mean, is that how life actually works out? No. I know Friends has never been known for realism, but it was much more amusing when Ross was receiving chopped roses from Emily, Rachel was being dumped by commitment-phobes, Phoebe had no money, and Joey had no job. They were too flawed to deserve "perfect" endings.
High Point: Seasons 2-4. Friends was great in the beginning because it was so damn insane and awful to its characters. Remember Chandler's roommate Eddie? Rachel singing "Her Name was Lola" at Barry's wedding? Those were the days.

Just painful.

Oh No They Didn't Point: The whole love triangle with Joey, Rachel, and Ross. What is this, Days of our Fucking Lives?

That's all, folks. Remember, when your favorite TV show has its best season yet, write to the network and ask them to please cancel it.

Giving Up is Hard to Do

Boy, I can be OCD. This tends to result in a stubborn, headstrong nature, even when such stubbornness means complete foolishness and lack of sensibility. Sensibility... yeah, that's something I don't have much of. You know how I can tell?

Today I discovered that my beautiful Anne Klein watch, black band and white face, had "water bubbles" inside it. I thought maybe it was rain or something at first, but no, it was definitely on the inside. Quite beautiful, these bubbles, as they weren't sloshing around or anything, but were completely smushed between two plates, so they looked like preserved crystals. Still, they were obscuring the face, so I knew I had to get it fixed.

It was 2:30, on a Thursday afternoon. I had class at 4:10. I started looking for watch repair stores in New York City. This was challenging in and of itself. Things like "watch repair stores" are much easier to seek out in a town like Lincoln, Nebraska, where everything is more or less in the same place, the phone book makes sense, and some entries in the phone book don't look completely skeezy and possibly criminal. I don't have a NY phonebook. I have... the internet. Of course, there's nothing remotely close to Barnard College. But on citidex.com, this pseudo-internet-phonebook site, one store said it was located at 47 W. 65th St., at Lincoln Center: Center Watch Repair. Great, I thought, it only takes 10-15 min. to get down to Lincoln Center. I could totally go, drop it off, and get back to Columbia in time for Chinese.

Love of colors, sounds and words, is it a blessing or a curse?

I write down the address, pack it in my bag along with my Chinese books and my Globalization and International Politics reading on "Principle and Pragmatism in Strategies of International Justice", my cellphone, my ID, and my wallet. I told Lucia, who was chirping about something or other, where I was going.

"Dude, it's 3:00, you're not gonna make it back in time!"

"It's 2:45."

"You're just gonna drop it off?"

"Probably."

"Okay, then, go!"

As I walked to the front door I passed by my room again, where Kim was still freaking out about a sweater that she couldn't find: "where is that damn sweater!" Yeah, we understand OCD. You see, I could have taken the watch to a repair store some other time, but I knew that until I got it fixed I would be unable to stop worrying about it. And yes, I do think I have a problem. But, meh, what are you gonna do, right? I'm already on Zoloft.

These are supposed to be OCD children, or something? Stupid internet.

So I headed to the subway. And here my problems began. I tried to refill my Metrocard. Unfortunately, the machine said "metrocard not eligible for refill" - whatever that meant. I didn't think Metrocards expired - what's the point of them expiring? I was quite proud of having had this particular card for almost a year - I'm saving the environment, right? Right? Okay, so I don't think old trash Metrocards choke baby dolphins. I didn't fight the machine, threw the card away, and got a new card, put $10 on it ($12 worth of rides) and headed downstairs.

The train came immediately. Being the naive person I am, I thought this meant I would have a string of good luck that afternoon. The way to Lincoln Center was fine. I managed to find a seat, took out my reading, and started highlighting away. I had already gotten the jist of the author's argument from what I'd already read, so the reading wasn't too difficult to do while on the train. Of course, I ended up feeling slightly ill from motion sickness, but it wasn't too bad. I read 10 pages on the train, with about 10 pages left for the return journey. I got off at 66th street, took the 65th exit, and saw myself in the bustling artsy-academic Upper West Side, next to the opera houses and music schools of Lincoln Center. It was 3:00 pm.

I had made note that 47 W. 65th Street would be East of Broadway, so I got to 65th Street and walked East, crossing Columbus. I found myself on one of those clean, deserted alleys that's mainly frequented by limousines and moving trucks. There was a restaurant. Then there was a yoga center. And... crap, the yoga center was definitely 37 W. 65th. And the restaurant had no number. But further down after the yoga center, the numbers got smaller. I was going the wrong way, apparently. A little confused because of the Google map I had seen that clearly showed 47 W. 65th Street on the East side of Broadway, I turned back and walked the other way - I had my doubts, since this area was dominated by construction of Lincoln Center performance spaces, and my doubts were confirmed when I saw the numbers jump up to 153, and grow.

The house flails against the corporation.

Great... I walked back to the security guard protecting the construction area, who immediately made eye contact and bent his head down to listen to me.

"Hi, do you know where 47 W. 65th Street is?"

"47 W. 65th Street?" He looked momentarily confused, then pointed down the alley I had just been at... the East side of Broadway. "Down that way."

"That way? But..." I pushed it aside. Maybe I had just been deluded or hallucinating before. I have been known to miss important street signs when I'm jittery (and God, I'm glad I hadn't had coffee this afternoon). "Okay, thanks!"
It was 3:10 pm. I crossed Broadway again and went back down past the restaurant, past the yoga center... and to some "center" where there were lots of nervous, angry old white people congregating along with a lot of laughing black security guards. It was 15 W. 65th Street. I didn't really want to stop there, but I had to ask again. One of the security guards once again saw me make eye contact and sobered up to listen to my question.

"Hi, do you know where 47 W. 65th Street is?"

"47 W. 65th Street?" The security guard sounded dumbfounded. "Well, down there's 37 W. 65th..."

"Yeah, but I'm looking for 47..."

"Uh..." he called over one of his colleagues. "Where's 47 W. 65th Street?"

"47?" The colleague, a happy guy in dreadlocks, was not the bearer of good news. "I don't think there is a 47 W. 65th Street."

"There's not?" I could feel my insides lurching. They shook their heads. "Okay, thanks anyway."

I knew the best thing to do was call the number of Central Watch Repair. Of course, I did not have this number. So I resolved to call one of my friends who'd be at home with their computer, and have them look it up online for me. I made the mistake, of course, of conducting this conversation on Broadway. I tried Kim first, but there was no reply, just the sad, "Hi, guys, this is Kim..." voicemail that always sounds like she's very disappointed to be herself. Then I tried Lucia, who picked up with a goofy, lilting "Hello-o?"

"Hey man, so I'm in Lincoln Center. Um, can you look up the address for Central Watch Repair online?"

"Yeah." She started muttering to herself, and I remembered then that Lucia's computer is bug-ridden and shouldn't really be trusted to handle anything - it's probably going to die any moment. "Okay, it says it's at 66 W. 47th Street." Oh my god. "Are you serious? 66 W. 47th Street?" That would mean another 20 blocks down. I quickly glanced at the street signs to make sure. Yup, I was on 65th Street now. I couldn't walk that many streets down.

Don't even ask.

Had I actually just written down the address wrong? But I had seen the Google map that citidex.com had linked me to! It clearly marked it at Lincoln Center!

"No, wait, I don't think that's it, cuz that's Center Watch Repair, I think it's different... um..." she tried searching for a while. "I can't find it! Damn it!"

"Just try 'watch repair New York City'."

"Okay... okay, here we go [I condense the conversation somewhat to save space]. It's not Central Watch Repair, it's Center Watch Repair." Oops. "It says it's at 47 W. 65th Street."

"Yeah..." I looked at the street signs again. "Do you have the number?"

"Yeah. Do you want it?"

"Yeah."

"Are you ready?"

"No." I eventually was, however, ready, and I took down the number. "Thanks so much, dude."

"Yeah, no problem, good luck man." I hung up and dialed the number she'd given me, hoping and praying that the place didn't close at 3 pm. Eventually a woman in some undiscernable accent answered the phone. "Hello?" Is that how must businesses answer the phone?

"Hi, is this Center Watch Repair?"

"Ye-es...?"

Poor schizophrenic Van Gogh... enraptured

"Um, hi, can you tell me where you are?"

"Where I'm located?"

"Yes?"

"We're at 66 W. 47th Street." FUUUUCCCKKK... "Who's calling?" Is that normal for a business to say on the phone?

"Um, I'm looking to get a watch repaired," I replied. "Can you tell me what cross street that's on, 66th and what?"

"Uh, say that again, I can't hear you." "What cross street are you on, what avenue?" "We're between 5th and 6th Avenue."

"Between 5th and 6th? Thanks so much." I hung up, looked at my watery watch, and looked at the 66th St. street sign. If I go home, I'll have spent $4 for no reason. If I keep going, I could possibly spend $6 to drop off my watch. However, if I go home I will for sure make it to Chinese class on time, and if I keep going, it's far less certain. I sigh. I can't do it. I just can't give up. I've come this far.

With extra resolve now I cross Broadway once again to go to the subway. I make a decisive turn away from the Uptown station and head for the Downtown entrance instead. It's 3:25. Luckily, the subway ride doesn't take too long, although there is an unpleasant amount of kids just getting out of school and being loud and obnoxious. There's no time to read my article now. Too busy biding my time to jump out of the subway at 50th Street.

When this finally occurs I make quick progress in the area between Rockefeller Center and Times Square - unfortunately, tourist central - simultaneously pissing off half of New York's cab drivers in the process as I stand in their way, run out in front of them, etc. I also snarl at tourists who stop in the middle of the crosswalk, curse the on-going construction, and laugh at the movie poster for the sequel to The Librarian: Quest for the Spear. Oh yes, can you believe they're making another one? Me neither. I walk past a homeless-people-collection-jug and finally start walking down 47th street, otherwise known as cheap jewelry road. Here family-owned businesses with sketchy names line the blocks from Broadway on down to 5th, their interiors grotesquely lit with neon white lights, bouncer-like Italians with greasy hair standing outside chuckling to each other, black cars lining the crowded streets.

Titled something like "Laughter despite the insanity of war"

I quickly walk past all of them until I reach 66. Of course, 66 does not say "Center Watch Repair". Never fear though - there are a multitude of little kiosks inside, and I see a sign on the upper floor that says "watch repair", so I head on in through two cramped doors. The salesmen and women at opposing kiosks are yelling at each other, spraying cleaning liquid on their shiny glass displays, casting me strange and hostile instead of eager and clerk-like looks when I glance at them. I look upstairs. It doesn't look gated off, so I go up, and look around at all the signs. Diamond repairs... custom watches... I don't see watch repair, per se... I walk past a security guard, who evidently feels that I'm suspicious and a possible shoplifter, because this time he brings up what I'm looking for.

"Center Watch Repair?" I suggest.

"Center Watch Repair?" At his ambivalence, I laugh nervously. No one seems to know what I'm talking about these days, do they? But he walks around the kiosks and points at a place that said on its main sign Center Watch, and on a taped sign below, "watch repair". I thank the security guard and go over.

The woman behind the counter turns out to be this peculiar old lady named Ming Santiago. She's wearing some garrish dragon-lady-style eyeshadow, and working with her is a toothlessly-grinning old man hunkered over some tiny mechanical cog-like pieces. Ming clearly speaks with a Chinese accent, but she snapped back at the old man in Spanish, so I make no assumptions.

I tell her who I am - "I just called!" "Oh!" - and show her the watch. "I don't know what happened, I just looked at it this morning and it was like this..."

"Ohh... water!" she says immediately with a tut-tut voice. "That's water damage?"

"Yes." As if to say, duh. "Did you wear it while taking a shower?"

"No... I think I was washing dishes, though." She takes the watch from me and immediately hands it the old man, who makes some nonsensical half-ecstatic sound when looking at it and starts taking it apart immediately. Ming continues, "You have to leave it here. For the drying, the cleaning, whole watch..."

"So you can't just... dry the front part..."

Ming was adamant about that. "No! The watch will stop!"

"But it's running now..."

"It's going to stop any minute." I'm not an expert. "Okay, so how long will that take?"

"What's today, Thursday?" She glanced back at the calendar. "Next Wednesday or Thursday. What day works for you?" She had started writing out a receipt at this point.

"Oh, either day works fine, I mean..." Ming started looking exasperated. "Just say what day is convenient for you!" See, this is called a New York City salesperson. They yell at you for not making a decision that they will, trust me, abide by. Being nice and accommodating back doesn't get you anywhere.

"Okay, um, Thursday!" I was thinking of my Globalization and International Politics lecture.

"Okay!" she started writing it down, and then shouted, "No! Thursday is Thanksgiving! We are closed on Thursday! Wednesday!"

I call it the Last Temptation of Eve, for no good reason.

"Okay!" It's okay, my class is cancelled on Wednesday anyway.

"It will be twenty-five dollars."

"That's fine." I think about it - I was actually having nightmares while rushing down the dank, steam-filled streets of paying $200 to fix this baby. "Actually, that's wonderful."

She cast me a look. "Yes, but you have to take care of it." Ming is really into chastising me for getting the watch wet. I suppose I have it ground into me. Whenever I think I'll wash dishes with it on, I'll hear her tsk-tsk-ing. "I know," I say, nodding.

"What's your name?"

"Nadia Bulkin... N-a-d-i-a... B-u..."

"No, no, that's fine..." she waves the rest of my name away with a decisive sweep of the hand. "Phone number?"

"402-..."

"212?"

"No."

"What area code?"

"It's Nebraska... but it's okay, I have a cellphone..."

"Well, then give me your cellphone number!"

"That is my cellphone number!"

"Oh, okay, okay..." Ming also gave me her card. "Because you don't know my address," she says, chiding me.

"Well, it said your address was 47 West 65th Street..." I try to defend myself.

Ming rolls her eyes and throws up her hands in desperation. "That was fifty years ago! I tell them over and over to change it, but... ah! You know, that building doesn't exist anymore! They tore five buildings down!"

I thanked her profusely and she brushed me away like all good Chinese mothers are wont to do, and I looked at my wrist as I left the building, then almost slapped myself for not remembering that I had just admitted my watch to a watch-hospital. It's a habit by now, turning my wrist to look at that friendly, sharp black dial. It's going to be a rough week without it. I checked my cellphone. It was 3:40. I had time, I had time.

Rain is a good thing. Rain is a doing verb.

I plugged myself into my iPod, Nova, and started power-walking back the way I had come, past the skeezy bouncers in front of the too-shiny jewelry stores, and then across the morass of tourists. I also accidentally walked past Broadway and toward 8th Avenue, which is a long block, by the way, because I forgot that 7th Avenue morphs into Broadway somewhere along the way. Ah, New York geography, fuck it, man! Especially the avenues.

I knew I was back on the right path because I saw the homeless-people-jug and then, the subway station crowded with yet more high school students that's the same one me and Kim came out of when we go to Kinokuniya (we usually ended up going down the wrong station entrance and ending up in the downtown platform instead of the uptown platform when we wanted to go home). The train takes a miserably slow time coming. I take out my article and start highlighting wildly right there in the subway station, holding the papers up against my hand for backing. It's 3:50. My class starts in twenty minutes.

What the fuck did you do this afternoon, Nadia? You just can't leave well enough alone. Well, I say, that's true. I can't. I have to resolve problems right as they spring up - nipping in the bud, I believe it's called. Still I can't shake the feeling that if I told most of my friends this - if not all - they would think I was crazy for leaving school an hour before class to go to Lincoln Center, and then failing that, lower down than Rockefeller Center. I could have just gone home... I would have actually done my makeup before class and then I'd be able to put my hair in pigtails like I wanted to. Now I'm going to be running to Chinese and getting there late anyway, during the unit that the teacher thought was so hard to understand she sent us the powerpoint ahead of time. Why do I do this to myself? As Basement Jaxx says in their great song "Where's Your Head At?", I "don't make it easy on [my]self". Since I'm listening to my Disney playlist while waiting for the train, this song struck a particular chord with me - "Belle" from Beauty and the Beast:

Disney surveillance.

Look there she goes, that girl is strange, no question
Dazed and distracted, can't you tell?
Never part of any crowd
 'Cause her head's up on some cloud
No denying she's a funny girl that Belle

Look there she goes that girl is so peculiar
I wonder if she's feeling well
 With a dreamy far-off look
And her nose stuck in a book
 What a puzzle to the rest of us is Belle

But behind that fair facade
I'm afraid she's rather odd
Very diff'rent from the rest of us
She's nothing like the rest of us
Yes, diff'rent from the rest of us is Belle

Look there she goes a girl who's strange but special
 A most peculiar mad'moiselle
It's a pity and a sin
She doesn't quite fit in
'Cause she really is a funny girl
 A beauty but a funny girl
She really is a funny girl
That Belle

I got to Chinese only five minutes late, and I wasn't even the last one to get to class. She was just finishing up asking the class what month and day it was, a new thing this chapter. My "pengyou-men" (friends) are looking either sharp (Ryan), asleep (Stephanie), or totally bored (Ridley). The cold, damp wind is blowing in behind me through the open window, messing up my hair, blowing the pages of my "Zhongwen shu" (Chinese book). I can't believe that ten minutes ago I was at 47th street. For some reason the sheer ability to have survived this afternoon made me proud of myself... even though I brought it on myself. I'm a weird one, I.

on Christopher Paolini, author of Eragon

I Write Sins, Not Tragedies.