I don't know why I'm admitting this, just one short day after confessing that I've read "A Child Called It." But I spent last night entrenched in foreign teeny-bopper soap operas, namely the Canadian angst-fest "Degrassi: The Next Generation" (I hope that name was chosen at least somewhat ironically) and English boarding-school saga "24Seven." I grew up on Degrassi Junior High (can you no longer say "junior high" in Canada? The kids go to a "community school" these days) so I found all this wildly entertaining, especially since the new crop of Degrassi kids now buy condoms on the Internet. I am trying to resist borrowing DJH episodes from the Boston Public Library, which, disturbingly, seems to have quite an extensive collection. At least it's a few reading levels above Spongebob Squarepants.

I turned the TV off before "Daria." I am amused yet troubled by that show, mainly because when it first went on the air, people I went to high school with smirked widely and asked me if I was a fan. And people I didn't go to high school with asked if I was like that as a teenager. Crikey. No comment.

I talk a lot of smack about New Jersey, but it should be noted that almost every time I visit my folks, I positively froth with glee over the bagels, the pastrami, the pickles, and the Sunday New York Times. (I know, I can get the Sunday Times in Boston. But I don't.) This weekend's NYT magazine was particularly interesting (thanks, Dad!); I especially liked the bit about Dave "A Child Called It" Pelzer basically being full of crap.

I'm actually semi-qualified to rip on the Man Called Dave, because I read the first, most manipulative of the books in his trilogy of abuse and dysfunction. It reminded me of the time I tried to read fantasy author Raymond Feist -- it's always awkward when someone highly recommends a book, but once you read it, you think it sucks out loud. If you must read about child abuse, it's Bastard out of Carolina all the way.

Entertained some out of town guests yesterday, and they suggested visiting at least three major historical sites that I hadn't seen before. And I've lived in Boston twice. For more than three years. I guess it's true that you never do the tourist stuff in your own town, though maybe you should. Also, tourism is contagious, because I found myself taking pictures and gawking up at tall buildings.

In further weirdness, I'm going clubbing tonight. I hate clubs in Boston, because I'm always the oldest woman there, and the only one not dressed for picking up boys. This time, I get to have an illusion of hipness, because Rick and I are friends with one of tonight's DJs and he put us on the guest list. I'm not sure what this means, but I think I get to pay less and skip the queue. I am just not the type to be on the guest list of a pretentious nightclub full of 22-year-olds, so I could not be more amused.

I generally use file sharing for an honest, or at least well-meaning, purpose. I download tracks by artists I'd like to investigate further so I can buy their CDs, you know, the next time I have disposable income. I'm mostly digging into the vaults, because I'm psychologically elderly and think most new music is crap. It's all about Big Bill Broonzy, kids.

Okay, and Prince. When Prince first came out I thought boys had cooties, but he grew on me when I was living in Connecticut and learning to use "party" as a verb. I'm starting my current Prince investigation by re-listening to some singles. Which made me wonder what Prince thinks about the phrase "party like it's 1999" becoming first a catchphrase (my college house used it in 1997), then a cliche (as if we were the only college kids who thought of it), and now a metaphor for the dot-com 90s. I mean, c'mon. The song came out in 1983. It's not about nostalgia for overvalued stocks and company-sponsored happy hours. It's about the apocalypse, is it not? I could be wrong -- damn if I knew the elevator in "Let's Go Crazy" was supposed to be Satan until I saw Prince going on about it on VH1.

Sorry, folks, if you don't want to hear Tales of the Rent-Poor every day, you're gonna hear about pop culture.

In other, better news, I restarted a stalled writing project yesterday. A real one, a big one, one I used to think of in terms of a book on paper (any agents out there?) It still may never get to dead-tree form, but look for part of it here in 4-6 weeks.

Hello to Friends of Sooz. As you'll soon discover, I'm not really that clever, but you should subscribe to Media Unspun anyway so I don't have to move back in with my parents.

Speaking of work. I've been needing to do some shopping for a while, so I can stop compulsively laundering my two machine-washable yet work-appropriate pairs of pants and three m-w yet w-a short-sleeved shirts. Since I have become completely ghetto, I went to Dollar-A-Pound today. They should really change the name to something less catchy but more accurate, since it's actually $1.50-A-Pound, but -- and it's sad that I got excited about this -- it's $0.75-A-Pound on Fridays. Indeed, what I really need is Dollar-A-Life.

So if you follow the link above, you'll get a fairly accurate picture of the Dollar-A-Pound experience: people walking on and digging through a big pile of clothes on the floor. What that artful black-and-white .jpg doesn't convey is that it smells, it's dirty, you will see at least one sad-looking single mother grimly filling a very large plastic bag, half the clothes are circa 1982, and a disturbing number of items have mysterious stains and/or unsavory crotch-rips. But I got three wearable items of clothing for $1.80. Now I'm going to take a shower.

Remember the job-seeker's market? When you could pick your nose at an interview and still get the job? Get this: someone I know (not me) went to a job interview at a hospital this week and the interviewer dissected a mouse during the interview.

When are we going to be treated like human beings again? There's got to be some happy medium between "I can set my own salary" and "Oh, look, a flayed rodent."

Another reason to hate this job market, if not actually myself:
ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT-Office of Student Affairs. Draft and track letters of recommendation for scholarships, fellowships, transfers and positions with external organization. Draft, organize and update Dean's Letter of Evaluation files. Electronically organize and file clerkship evaluations and grades. Assist with exam proctoring, editing grant proposals and journal publications as well as any other tasks assigned. Sit on medical school committees as needed. Provide administrative support for office, such as, phones, greet guests, solving issues.A Bachelor's Degree with 3-5 years of experience as a assistant editor or writer. (emphasis mine)

Or, as Rick has said about job descriptions in general these days, "Must have 3-5 years experience sucking my d*ck."

More than 13 percent of young Americans between 14 and 17 years of age considered suicide in 2000. Er. That's it? The high school experience must be improving.

Seven hours of sleep Tuesday, 9 last night, and I'm almost feeling like a human being again. It's amazing how one bad night can ruin your whole week.

I've got a secret for those of you who've been unemployed for a long time: temp agencies. If your circle of unemployed geek friends is anything like mine, ask around and you'll find that you know people who will sheepishly admit that they've been temping themselves, and refer you to a good agency. Sure, most of the work is mindless and degrading. But you know? I'm not too good to work for a living.

If you're wondering why someone with my qualifications has to take dictation for grocery money, you obviously haven't been jobhunting lately. Or you're much better than I am at selling your freelance services. Or both. As an added bonus, I admit I'm still recovering from the move, which has impaired my ability to do soul-crushing things like network with strangers. It's been like the frickin' white collar Grapes of Wrath, getting forced out of your home and going west to a land with no jobs. Feh.

Fish In A Barrel Department: My parents' hometown newspaper reports, "Bad air in N.J. brings warning." Apparently more of the state is looking and smelling like the Turnpike these days, supposedly due to forest fires in Quebec. Funny, the crappy air from the north seems to have skipped over Boston on the way to the Garden State, unless, like one Jersey woman quoted in the article, I'm so used to pollution I didn't notice. "I thought it was the usual New Jersey air," said Beth Hacker of Hackensack. "I didn't smell anything unusual, which is kind of scary."

Another fish in the same barrel: the tap water sucks. Duh. Does it still come in regular and crunchy?

Gimme a break, I still haven't gotten any sleep today.

Oh my god. I'm going to kill the bastard that called and hung up at 2:40am. I couldn't get back to sleep, so I wrote Media Unspun instead and collapsed on the couch around 6. The alarm started going off in the bedroom at 6:30. Then I crawled in to bed, and at 7:40, Rick started racing around trying to find his wallet. I found it for him and got out of bed, thinking I'd try again in an hour or so. Of course now the road crews are out. DDDRRRRDDDTTTT!!! DDDRRRDDDTTT!!

Kill me.

While I sit here and die of sleep deprivation, I'm pondering this bookmark on my desk: "1975 - YOUR Special Year"
Average Income: $14,816.00 (hey, in 1975, I'd be flush)
New house: $39,000.00 (Double in Boston, I bet)
New car: $4,225.00
Loaf of bread $.36
Gallon of gas: $.44 (And people still bitched about it...)
Gallon of milk: $1.57 (Right, from now on we're putting gas on the cereal...)
President: Gerald Ford
Vice President: Nelson Rockefeller
Minimum wage: $2.10 (I'd be *really* flush...where's that Wayback Machine?)
Life expectancy: 72.6 years
Dow Jones average: 802. (Ouch.)

Here is my favorite Fourth of July article so far. After only 18 months in Europe, I found American cereal aisles just as overwhelming.

I'm getting out of the city today, heading to a coastal town about an hour north. It's as close I can manage to actual travel right now, and it'll be good to get away from the psychological rigors of urban life. I don't feel personally unsafe in my neighborhood, but it's a bit of a drain to keep hearing about stuff like the girl killed by a stray bullet in the park and our own personal Andrea Yates.

Still recovering from yesterday morning, when I got up at 6am and trudged to one of my local Irish pubs to watch the World Cup final. (No, not that kind of "still recovering" -- they can't serve booze that early in the morning in Massachusetts.) It was a festive enough crowd for that hour of the morning, though not half as insane as if Ireland had been in the finals, of course. When the game was over, the proprietor pulled the shades and the guy behind me remarked, "I feel like a vampire." It burns! It burns!

As for the game itself, well, you don't mess with South America. But it was nice to see Germany get so far. You kinda wanted to give their goalkeeper a hug; he looked about ready to commit ritual suicide at the end of the game, and the German press is going ballistic. Jeez, cut the guy a break: he was injured, he made some truly miraculous saves earlier in the game, and it's hard to beat the new Pele.