There's a highway with, say, two lanes going the same direction, and there are two cars in front of you going exactly the same speed, which would be fine, if you didn't consider that speed too slow. But you do, and you can't get around them. They don't seem to care (or, more likely?, they don't seem to notice) that you want to politely slide past them, without having to honk or flash your lights, because that would be obnoxious of you. Instead you edge closer and sigh and curse them under your breath as your wonder intensifies: how is it possible that they not notice?

Imagine that happening with people instead of cars. With people, there aren't any defined lanes to prevent you from passing, but there's a certain amount of space on the sidewalk, or, worse, on the subway platform. Of course you don't nudge the person in front of you or even sigh out loud, because that would be rude. Instead, you try to slip between the wall of walkers and the yellow warning stripe on the edge of the platform, and, for a second, you wonder why one of the other strangers around you doesn't just push you into the electric chasm. Maybe you're getting on someone's nerves, too, and what's to stop them from doing it? There are no doubt lots of crazy people nearby at any given moment.

By the time you finish that thought, you're past the dangerous part of the maneuver and you didn't get pushed, and, anyway, one time you watched a friend of yours casually jump into the subway path just to retrieve the paper from a Chinese fortune cookie he'd dropped down there, which oddly comforts you.

You notice, then, that you're stuck behind someone else.

On day one, I found myself on the second floor of an old warehouse with newly polished floors. The main room was 3,000 square feet, in the center of which was a cage where the indie-rock girl bands were playing. They wore short shorts, not unlike a pair I had in 1980, and delicate high heels. They thrashed their shaggy hair around while strumming and banging and putting their mouths too close to the microphones. On either end of the cage were two entrances that were actually revolving darkroom doors, which made the entire unit resemble a wrapped piece of candy.

The rest of us (minus the ones sitting along the wall, the ones inhaling and exhaling in the cloudy smoking room, and the ones standing in clusters by the lockers) had four wheels strapped to each foot and were circling the band. Almost everyone was shaky, not because it's difficult to skate in a circle, but because it's difficult to skate in a circle with a pack of people (some of whom are drunk) who don't know how to stop or slow down, who unpredictably weave left and right and go fast and slow, and who crumple in front of you in a pile of arms and legs. There was one guy among us who was completely graceful and solid; even when people grabbed onto his arm to save themselves from falling, he stood sturdy on his wheels like some sort of rolling mountain.

On day two, I found myself on the second floor and roof of an old warehouse that had been painstakingly decorated with a tongue-in-cheek country/western/Dukes of Hazard theme. It was called a "truck stop roof top" party, and it was being thrown by the same people who organized the bike rodeo. I was surprised at how endlessly big it was; there was a room with a tent and (I think) karaoke, a room with a band, a room with a bar, a room with an old-school miniature car race track (what's the proper name for those?), and the roof of the whole building, where there was a DJ, a movie being screened on a wall, another tent and bar, a grill full of sausages and veggie burgers, and views to all sides of the chilly, overcast lighted sky.

On day three, I found myself dancing next to a wall filled with computer-generated graphics that pulsed and swam to the music at the command of the DJ. Most of it was 80s music, or current bands mocking 80s music, which got me and my friend Sean talking about the current decade. What will it be known for, outside of an appreciation for retro? And what's it called, anyway? He told me he's already heard of someone throwing a 90s party. Which made us wonder what that was all about. Grunge, maybe? Techno?

On day four, I found myself creeping into a KFC, in my second fast-food dining experience in one-and-a-half years. I didn't want to go there, but I couldn't think of anywhere else to get mashed potatoes and a biscuit at that hour, which I had been inexplicably craving all day. When I walked in, I felt like the other people knew I had become something of a fast food virgin, and I thought I stood out a little—not necessarily in an unwelcome way—perhaps something like as if I'd walked in a black church as the only white person. I stood timidly at the counter, trying to recall the custom of ordering from the busy, bright, neck-bending screen, trying to look confident about it. The girl behind the counter was very friendly but confused that I wasn't getting any chicken. I think I pulled it off, though; I don't think she suspected I was a traitor.

But this weekend wasn't all skates, fake rednecks, and KFC. I got some work done, too.

Her name is Valerie, and she keeps calling me. "Hi Lisa, this is Valerie [mumble] from the Lighthouse." She always begins the same way, in her distinctly northern drawl, as if a wad of Bubblicious controls the movements of her jaw. I think she's in her 40s. She's really warm and friendly, and she leaves me long messages, telling me things like: They put a raise in the budget for hourly employees (like yourself)...[mumbles] which is a good thing. Could you give me a call back and let me know whether or not you plan to return? I know that you made a recommendation for one of your staff members. I'd like to get Pat a gift certificate, and I was wondering if you could chip in. Could you send Mike a fax to let him know about Saturday?

She makes me doubt my sanity for a moment during each call. Because I honestly don't know anyone named Valerie (or Pat, for that matter), I've never heard of a place called the Lighthouse, I don't earn an hourly wage, and I don't have any staff members. The order of my thoughts is predictable: 1. Is it possible I've done some work for some group and don't remember it? 2. I mean, she knows my name and phone number. 3. No, that's ridiculous. 4. That poor woman. She sounds so nice, and she's counting on me to chip in for Pat's gift certificate. 5. I bet if I really did work at the Lighthouse, she'd be a good person to work with. 6. How did she get my number?

Tonight she finally left her phone number at the end of her long, friendly, informative(?) message. I hope she's not disappointed tomorrow when I tell her I'm not who she thinks I am. I wonder if the real Lisa misses hearing from her.

...

A couple of updates: That issue with the stolen code and pictures had a happy ending. Also, I turned in my Day in the Life: Brooklyn photos today; here are the ones I ended up choosing: 1, 2, 3, 4. (Thank you to everyone who gave feedback.)

At a party, late Saturday night, standing at a closed bathroom door.
There was a couple next to me, talking, though I didn't notice them until he addressed me. I had never seen them before (in fact, I didn't know anyone there except for the people I came with), but suddenly he turned to me with a panicked look on his face and said, "She doesn't believe I'm sorry. What do I do?!" I paused for a second, absorbing the question, and responded, "Have you explained why you did what you did?" He turned back to her and pleaded some more, not really taking my advice, but saying "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do it," over and over again.

Then he swiveled back toward me, still upset. "That didn't work," he said. "What do I do now?" His eyes were big with worry and the pitch of his voice sounded high. "Maybe you could explain how you know what you did was wrong, and how you won't do it again." He turned back to her and parroted my words. She stood there, saying nothing, seeming to almost watch with amusement as he got advice from this stranger waiting for the bathroom. She absorbed our interaction, listening to what I was telling him, but the two of us never made eye contact.

"What now?" he begged. "Tell her how you would've done it differently," I replied with assurance, trying not to repeat myself.

The bathroom door opened, and I slipped inside. When I emerged, he was ready for more advice. I can't remember how many rounds we went, but it seemed to go on for several minutes. I also can't remember my last piece of advice: Be sincere? Ask her to forgive you? But whatever I said inspired him to kneel down and apologize some more. A few seconds later, he stood up, looked at me with the same scared face, and quietly said, "Thank you. I think we're okay." Later, after retreating to my group, I glanced over and noticed them kissing.

"Excuse me, miss. I'm blind; can you help me out?" I thought he meant: help him cross the street, not help him: please give him money. It occurred to me as strange that he called me "miss," since apparently he can't see. I decided to ignore my suspicion, just in case the sound of my clunky cowboy boots on the sidewalk somehow gave away my gender, or just in case he's only partially blind, or just because I was already standing there and I didn't want to be rude, or just because I didn't care if he was lying. He was wearing shorts, I think—I didn't want to stare, so I only caught glimpses—because I saw what appeared to be a very shiny artificial peach-colored leg. His left arm was short and crooked, not unlike the forearms of a T. Rex, and he wasn't wearing sunglasses. He was gripping an umbrella-shaped cane with his good hand. He let go of it briefly to accept some change.

This isn't my story, but Sarah's: On the subway this morning she half-noticed a black guy (who'd been reciting poetry) talking to a white guy, seeming to get along with him. When the train stopped, and the white guy stepped off and took the opportunity to tell the black guy, "You're crazy." The black guy retorted, "You're crazy, whitey!" and then paused before onimously adding, "You're gonna get killed!" Sarah tried to stifle her laughter so that he wouldn't prophetically announce that she, too, would get killed, because she said she wasn't sure how she would handle that omen.

I carried a big, awkward, heavy box home from work yesterday. People cleared out of the way for me when I walked down the sidewalk. People asked if they could help me. People walked around me while I rested the box on trash cans and fire hydrants. A woman helped me lift it over the turnstiles. I considered and reconsidered and reconsidered getting a cab, but then I didn't want to spend the money and I wasn't too far from the subway, and, hell, maybe it'll be good for my arms, I thought. As I was nearing my apartment, I could take only about five steps before having to prop the box on something and pant. When I finally set the box down in my apartment, my arms were shaking, as if they were wondering why I'd stopped, as if they'd forgotten how to fall limp at my sides and rest. For the next hour, my muscles continued to overexert themselves, and I was incapable of doing anything with them that was remotely graceful or gentle. Such as when I made eggs for dinner, and poked through them with an abrupt jab of my thumb, showering the goo in the bowl with egg shell confetti.

Friday afternoon cake for someone's birthday, and the conversation among my coworkers turned to being mugged, being jumped, hearing gun shots, having a gun pointed at you. (Almost) everyone had a story, and for some reason, we were all laughing. Which is what you do, I guess, when you reflect on irrational panicked decisions. I don't have a mugging story.

Sarah pointed out to me that The Rap Dictionary pointed out to her that I am not properly schooled in my rap vocabulary. Well, that's not how she said it, but she did inform me that besides
1. (n) Little person, "shorty" can mean
2. (n) Female, like baby or honey, as in: "I got myself a shorty, I got myself a forty" or
3. (n) A seven ounce bottle of beer.
Maybe you knew that already.

...

It is impossible not to have your opinion of someone shaped or reshaped by the inane, uninformed, all-capped forwards that he sends you. Does he really agree with those opinions? Does he find that joke funny? He thinks Microsoft is going to give him money for sending me this? The political ones make me feel compelled to respond, but I never do, and the sappy ones make me cringe or laugh, and promptly delete. It's disappointing; I want to think good things about him, but he makes it so hard, especially since this is our only contact.

...

Yesterday I discovered a website that looks alarmingly like mine, complete with graphics I created, as well as a picture I took. I haven't written the person yet; I should probably do that before my frustration somehow morphs into a defeated shrug. Maybe rather than telling him what a crappy thing that is to do, I'll just put those forwards to some use, and bombard him with animated gifs and simplistic words of wisdom, promising him bad luck if he doesn't immediately pass them on to everyone in his address book.

The streets are always noisy, crammed with talkers, sirens, car alarms, engines, screeching tires, music, honking horns, squealing subway brakes, and construction work (which has the potential to be the loudest of them all). A lot of the time I don't notice it, unless I'm suddenly yelling at the person I'm walking with, or if I'm on the phone with someone who points out the wailing throbbing hissing roar in the background.

The inside of my apartment is actually rather quiet (usually), unless I'm producing the noise myself. However, I generally don't notice the absence of noise, either, until it's not quiet, such as when that big-bellied kid runs back and forth down the long hallway that stretches the length of my apartment, or when the downstairs neighbors (albeit, rarely) vibrate my floor with music that I can't identify or like, when car alarms sing in loops and slides and high-pitched notes, or when I open the door to the street and am flooded with caffeinated sounds of car bass, screaming children, and yelling conversations.

On Saturday, however, I could easily hear two pentecostal preachers speak as if the microphones they were holding were really lodged in their throats. They set up a few giant speakers on the sidewalk (facing outward), paced up and down the pavement, passed out Spanish-English tracts, and sang and preached in Spanish. They had the volume turned up so loud that the sounds they produced never had a chance to sound good; the speakers were vibrating like bees. Today, it was music that was cranked up in buzzing pain. In addition to that, the ice cream truck played "If You're Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands" on rotation, and every 13 seconds I could hear a live rooster announce his presence to all of the female chickens in Brooklyn, which almost sounded as if it were part of the show.

...

Yesterday (after finally roller skating in Central Park), I discovered what digital cameras are really good for.

Cough. A nine-year-old girl played drums and sang while a slide show of horn-rimmed glasses and faded color clicked by behind her. She's in a band with her parents; her her dad plays the keyboard and the guitar and her mom advances the slides and adjusts the focus in real time. Apparently they search obituaries for estate sales, search estate sales for old slide collections, and then make up insane pop songs based on the slides they find.

Sniff. Janeane Garofalo made me laugh about the depressing state of the country, and made me wish that I could express myself like that, be funny like that. I can be funny sometimes, but the conditions have to be a certain way for it to happen, as if humor were a science, or weather. I don't know how to be funny on demand. Anyway, I'm glad I can laugh about things that normally disturb me. I'm glad someone can make me laugh about things that normally disturb me.

Sneeze. A girl wearing nothing but a triangular bra or a bikini top and a g-string and a hat traipsed passed the windows in the building across from my office today. I think she was being photographed. She was skinny and confident and immodest, from what I could tell.

Blow. On the way to work, underground, a man with a cane called me "shorty." When I turned to look, he was on the other side of the comb-like revolving doors, looking at me through the bars. "Give me your address so I can come over later," he said. I don't think he thought it would work, and I'm not even sure he wanted my address; I think he was bored. I probably don't need to say this, but I didn't give it to him.

Moments of my week are punctuated by this stupid state of half-sick. Or the other way around.

I have this habit—I haven't determined whether it's good or bad—of over-personifying. I just choose to regard an animal or an object as something with complex thoughts and feelings, and I suddenly care about that creature in a new way, and I feel bad when something harms that creature. It doesn't seem to matter if it's something as stupid as an ant or as unalive and unfeeling as a pillow (though it usually helps if objects appear to have human characteristics, such as a face). It's unscientific of me, I know, and it's probably drives me to have even more guilt than I already carry around.

Well clever IKEA has a new advertising campaign that capitalizes on this probably-not-uncommon phenomenon. The first time I saw the new ad, I was surprised and a little embarrassed to be so easily read. I don't remember the exact details of the ad, but there's a dining table with a sad-eyed black-and-white porcelain cow creamer sitting on top of it. There's music of some sort, and a passionate couple. They're kissing and suddenly they're taking over the dining room table, swiping away everything in their way, including the sad-eyed cow creamer. The camera follows the creamer in slow motion as it falls to its death, bouncing on the floor and shattering.

Suddenly a man with a Swedish accent, who's standing outside the house, says, "Aw, you feel sorry for the little creamer? That is because you crazy." And then he goes onto say that another—better—creamer can be purchased at IKEA. He was right; I felt really bad for that cow-shaped piece of porcelain. Which means I have feelings for a cow-shaped piece of porcelain.

...

One of the differences about writing online (as opposed to in a private journal) is the possibility of being misunderstood. I think somehow yesterday's entry may have been interpreted the wrong way, and I feel a little compelled to clarify (not that it really matters). I was writing about friends whom I no longer communicate with, for whatever reason, and noting that it was a little bit strange that all of the people on that list are female.

We met in her apartment. I had answered a roommate ad, my second. The first was a woman in her late thirties who chain-smoked toothpick cigarettes and decorated her bathroom with fishnet and starfish. The second was an art student, and I moved in about a week after meeting her. She talked with her hands a lot, moving them in wispy, flowing swoops, and she rambled along in a soft voice, unless she was angry. Her dog liked to whip the trash around in its mouth; his head would shake violently back and forth while spit and paper would fly out of the corners. We worked together at a screen printing company after we no longer lived together. The last time I saw her she was sitting in a pile of boxes and t-shirts, on my last day there.

We met in French class. I'm not sure how we actually started talking; I think it had something to do with an assignment, the way you often meet people in college. Pretty soon three of us (me, her, and a third, a guy from the Basque country) were hanging out in the library an hour before class, in a rush to finish our homework, an effort that would turn into talk and abandoned conjugations. She introduced me to a proper camera, a string of her friends, and a job waiting tables at a B-grade pizza place, and eventually we became roommates. Two years. The last time I saw her was the day she moved away.

We met in a journalism class. She and the boy beside her both worked at the newspaper and were by far the loudest and most obnoxious in the room, though somehow in a charming sort of way. I never trusted her completely, but we got along well enough, having similar interests and (I suppose) similar weaknesses. She had long blond hair that she babied, a mischievous smile, and a breathy laugh (she'd noisily suck in a backward sigh after delivering it). We kept running into each other in hostels in different parts of the UK; we'd hang out for about two weeks each time, and then we'd part ways. The last time I saw her was in a bar in London where I'd helped get her a job.

All girls and no boys. What does that mean?