Are we there yet?

Not so fast, Nuchie

2012-01-26T22:02:00.003-05:00

My brother was excited to report he biked 4000 miles in 2011. Until he talked to Dad, who informed him that the 700 miles on his stationary bike did not count.

"Stationary bike miles are easier than road miles so you can't include them. If you used a formula, like an indoor mile is worth .68 of an outdoor mile, then... Maybe. I wouldn't do it."

"Running miles, I round to the tenth of a mile and I round bike miles to the whole mile. I always round down. I have always done it that way. I can do it however I want."

"My friend Ed always rounds up."

"I would never ride my bike, for example, 20.95 miles and have to round down to 20 miles. I always look at my computer as I ride down the hill in front of the house. I would just ride down the alley and up Elm street to clock the extra .05 needed."

"At the end of our trip to Ireland, we were at the airport when I realized we had biked 998.8 miles. I took my bike out and rode up and down the service road."

"I like a round number. They're easier to add together."

January 14 Scandinavian Club minutes

2012-01-19T18:04:00.002-05:00

4:30 - Meeting called to order.

Freden i Knäred 2
After all my cash fell out of my pocket Friday on my way to the Lower East Side, I immediately keep the trend going by forgetting my credit card and metrocard on a back table. Luckily, the Danish Unit commandeers the table and keeps an eye on it for me. I keep an eye on the Danish Unit just in case they decide to hoist their large Danish flag, invade other tables and hold them for ransom.

Special Guests Arrive
We meet Awe's fästmö Annika at long last. At first, they only speak with other people whose names begin with the letter "A." Luckily, Leslie is very charming and insists they meet the rest of the alphabet.

Snakke snakke snakke
Topics under discussion include banks, 16th street, the punjab region, jazz and Leah's lovely blouse. At one point, the owner of the bar tries to convince me we should meet there two-five times a month and Alex mentions his new Galaxy tablet. We all agree Petrina's new shop-cook-eat logo rocks.

A Small Rant that Ends Well
Not that I have anything against the brooding, the aloof and posturing trés fancy in this fine town, but I really dislike those cliquey-cliquey events where all you see are peoples' backs. I am proud to be the organizer of an awesome group who is wise enough to know that facing forward is much more fun.

Other Things are Going On:
Jenny is now on the board of SVEA. Grattis! Eric's sambo Ashley is hosting a gallery opening on Thursday for a Japanese artist in Chelsea. You should go and have a glass of free wine. Malou's boyfriend Sebastian plays the banjo in an Irish band. We must consider extending diplomatic courtesy and gift the Irish with a rousing kräftskiva at one of his shows.

Tusen Tack
A thousand thanks to Art, Alex, Fredrick, Karin & Petrina for helping lock down the venue.

9:45 - Meeting Adjourned.

A rare and spectacular clusterfuck : Bring it on Minus the Bear

2012-01-02T15:27:00.001-05:00

Hottie Jake Snider
manhandles his guitar

"A rare and spectacular clusterfuck" is how Pitchfork, Ian Cohen specifically, described one of the Minus the Bear albums which I happen to melt into a puddle over. Further, Ian claimed Minus the Bear's vocalist Jake Snider sings like a "disinterested outsider." I need to explain some things to Ian.

First of all, Neat-As-A-Button is dogmatic and predictable and irons his white cotton underpants. Not that I have anything against Pitchfork darlings like Cults, that last School of Seven Bells record, Rome, or Neutral Milk Hotel*, but their music is unrelenting in its symmetrical perfection. It's like two trendy little chairs perfectly angled by a trendy little sofa.

And attractive as your modern euro-design 3-piece livingroom set may be, I'd prefer to be draped across a night-colored canapé surrounded by vintage taxidermy, a tray of really good tacos and five "over-produced" math rockers from Seattle. Any day of the week. Bring it on, clusterfuck!

Second of all, about this "disinterested outsider" tag-- get a girl on your review team for the love of the gods, Pitchfork! Bad boys don't heave their bosoms or weep, especially when describing driving around drinking vodka out of a lemonade carton. The lyrics are a simple, iniquitous play-by-play uncluttered by any sentimental posturing. It is exactly what it says it is: some debauched dude recounting the libidinous thing that happened last week backed by a gargantuan stack of noise. I'm not saying that a few of the songs aren't mouth-breathers, but the ones that go the whole way easily round all the bases.

*Just in case someone actually get it into their heads to fact check this diatribe, please note that it is subject to the flexible quality standards of the internet.

Umbrella Scandal declared Completely Outrageous by Melissa

2011-12-28T13:39:00.002-05:00

Dateline 12/27/11: While enjoying her evening in a deceptively snug restaurant in vermont, Melissa's umbrella was purloined from the communal umbrella jar by the door. Although in direct proximity, Vermont is not New Hampshire. In Vermont, there is no living free or dying all dry and comfortable beneath someone else's expensive wind-proof, auto-open umbrella. The criminal element, especially ones predisposed to fine dining, should keep an eye on state lines.

Possibly unbeknownst to the perpetrator, the heist resulted in serious repercussions beyond the obvious damp clothing problem. Umbrella theft is no victimless crime and such was the case yesterday. Inadvertently, Silla plucked a third-party umbrella from the communal stand causing a thievery chain reaction and thrusting her deeply into the thug life. The bandit slope is slippery. Next, she may feel the lure of the rain slicker!

Although crack reporters such as myself are paid a large percentage of all blog profits to maintain our objectivity and refrain from offering advice only relevant in hindsight, I was unable to curb my zeal for a new and surefire business concept: Umbrella PomPom Crime Deterrent Craft Kits.

The idea would be to attractively and distinctively decorate the exterior pelt of the umbrella with sequins, LOLcatz waterproof stickers and shiny non-edibles. Now that they are retired by the loving grace of Jesus, Silla and David may want to consider investing a top drawer idea like this.

In summary, despite my best efforts and how much they amuse me, I was unable to work the words "chicanery," "rectitude" or "virtue" in this recounting of actual events.

Tom's Charity #Fail

2011-12-18T20:27:00.001-05:00

Tom exits the grocery store and throws a ten dollar bill in Santa's basket. Santa hollers that he is simply there to hand out candy canes. Tom fishes his money out of the pile of candy canes and puts it back in his pocket.

This fricassee tastes like paper

2011-12-04T21:50:00.001-05:00

Since it is unlikely that I will ever find myself interviewed about my so-called artwork by a publication like the NY Times or the Randolph News Bee, I've decided to interview myself.

Me: What is the genre of your art?
Me: I call it Hedgewitch Modern. Or maybe Abstract Packrat. My genre is loosely based on Joan Miro and his large-scale dystopic paintings of potatos.

Me: What inspires you?
Me: I'm inspired by paisley, scuff marks, lantana, fingerprints, paint chips, metal dust, used Scotch tape, crumpled paper, shredded fabric, circular objects, moss, black chess pieces, bubbles, reptile scales, crystaline molecular structures, mutilated stripes, and things that have been burned in a fire.

Me: Where do you keep your art supplies.
Me: In the dishwasher, your rumor mongerer. I will also have you know I've removed my sweaters from the oven. Although admittedly a titanic example of storage genius, a fire hazard risk-reward evaluation caused me to reassess.

Me: What brochures are you most likely to cut into strips?
Me: I've grown partial to Rubin Museum member mailings, Starbucks handouts and AAF catalogs. I also enjoy slicing up New York Magazine.

Me: Have you ever boiled a Resoration Hardware Catalog?
Me: Only that one time.

Meeting Minutes: Scandinavian Club : November 12, 2011

2011-11-13T13:42:00.001-05:00

snakkesnakkesnakkesnakkesnakke

Scandinavian Club owes a sincere debt of gratitude to nwc.co, a hardwood-floored, brick-walled shared office space off of Canal Street where Scandinavians, pretend Scandinavians, beanbag chairs and the corduroy-clad feel right at home. If you are a freelancer or a startup in need of office space, you should go there to work because too much time in Starbucks causes systemic Tourettes.

Meeting called to order at 16:30 EST.

Tom was the first to arrive at the November S.C. gathering, invited despite a Swedish vocabulary limited to "kräftskiva," "tack," "skål," and "köttbullar." Besides being terribly handsome, he is also good at moving around furniture. Other early arrivals included Klaas Pieter, who speaks a Swedish dialect that sounds suspiciously like Dutch.

Since it is November, not December, no Partridges or Pear Trees attended the festivities last eve, but Haley gave us some tasty Chicken and Tangerine Fruit instead. Lucky for us, we were able to easily find her to extend our thanks for her time, effort and expense. This may have proven considerably more difficult had she worn her gorgeous new hardwood-floor patterned outfit, stayed low and crept about stealthily.

Also as would be expected, no Turtle Doves, Pipers, Drummers, Maids-a-Milking, Colly Birds or Geese-a-Laying put in an appearance but unseasonably, at least one Lady attempted the salsa which probably counts as Dancing and there were confirmed reports of Lauras-a-Leaping.

We were happy to see Hannah and her sisters, as well as Hanna and her Cupcakes. Unbeknownst to Alex, he may need to marry shortly on behalf of the greater good and to lock down our supply of homemade baked goods. Should nuptials come to pass, odds favor our groom in sporty orange tone-on-tone alter gear.

With latent respect for the recent passing of 11|11|11, the day that looks the most like corduroy, ever, we felt a measure of despair when a virile gentleman descended upon us clothed in an admittedly rather dapper purple velvet jacket. After it was mentioned that velvet is oft called "the poor man's corduroy," (hail the wale), the gentleman vehemently disagreed. He informed bystanders that his purple velvet accouterment had set him back an astonishing and clearly impressive $700. I am uncertain whether this sum included state and city taxes, shipping, handling, and/or any other requite fees or duties.

To be frank, I was far more impressed by Art's socks, which if you didn't notice, coordinated with his scarf. I applaud a carefree, sock-conscious ensemble.

Near the end of the evening, Zack contended that it is difficult to learn to brew absinthe if one is absinthe from absinthe class. It was very funny at the time. Earlier in the day, Zack and Eric had attended the Chocolate Fair but neither owns enough cats to have stayed at the fair very long or fully understand chocolate etiquette or chocolate culture.

Meeting adjourned 23:15 EST.

Thanks much to Fredrick for the venue of champions, everyone who came, everyone who did their part and donated a paltry $5, and everyone who brought something to share. See you next month!

Banned for Life by NYC Tarot Reading Practice Club : The Triumph of my Ejection

2011-10-30T11:01:00.000-04:00

To date, I haven't been kicked out too many times. One time I was kicked out of the Madison YMCA but it was really a passive-aggressive sort of ousting. It was like a dip in lake lackluster. I don't know about you, but if I'm going to get my ass forcibly removed, I'd prefer more of a chuck norris roundhouse kickin' what the fuck cowboy kind of thing then a moment mostly defined by pointed glares and fingers tapping on clipboards.

Another time, I got kicked out of the Bubble Lounge in TriBeCa. Unfortunately, I was not the manager's focal point, merely a somewhat less than innocent bystander unworthy of specific attention. This Bubble Lounge turmult was a take two of the first time I proved myself lousy at disorderly conduct. In the early '90s, Carrine cleaned the clock of a drunken, drink-tossing Asian shortie and Tom somehow got thrown out for getting in the middle.

I couldn't even manage to get kicked out of the Girl Scouts like Nikki for "inappropriate dress and foul language" despite the fact that I excel at both. I'm always the bridesmaid, never the one who gets shoved out the backdoor on her petard.

http://www.brightjourneytarot.com/

But yesterday, I had my day in the sun. I got kicked out of the NYC tarot reading practice club. Granted, it went down beneath the impersonal shroud of the internet, but nonetheless, I found the whole affair really rousing.

Here's the play-by-play:

The new club president, this long-haired velvet-wearing chick named Chea, starts charging $40 for meetings, promising arcane learnings well worth the cash outlay.
Nobody, for the most part, comes to her meetings.
Chea sends out a series of nasty emails berating club members for not coming to her meetings and begging someone to tell her why
I succumb to her plea and send her an email articulating, among several other things:

my indignation for clearly believing that I am so retarded as to not recognize that this "club" is now a for-profit business venture.
my resentment at being held accountable for her success as a business owner, as evidenced by the chastizing tone of her lengthy and frequent emails.

I receive an email stating that I have been "banned for life from NYC Tarot Club."
http://www.meetup.com/TarotNYC/

Ho ho! Look at me feeling the door banging my ass on the way out.

At Least I Can See The Crazed Woodsman Clearly

2011-10-23T18:55:00.000-04:00

It's been a weird couple months for me and medical professionals. After so recently chatting up my PCP in the dark, I am largely serene about yesterday's peculiar eye exam. My appointment started out normal enough. Dr. W asks me if I had done anything fun over the past couple months, and I reply that we had "gone hiking."

Immediately, the doctor slides back in his eye doctor stool in slackjawed disbelief. "Hiking?" He pauses, shaking his head. Unable to form the words to express the gravity of his message. Finally he manages to say, "And were you armed?"

I mumble incoherently because it's tough to talk with that giant steampunk double monocle optical contraption locked up under your chin.

The doctor is unconcerned about my lack of concrete response. "I want you to know that whenever I go hiking, I always carry a small Beretta which I conceal in my backpack. There are crazy people out there in forest," he says. "Read the last row please."

"Very good. Now the other eye. My brother-in-law is an E.R. physician in Tennessee. It's so horrific. Do you want me to tell you this? It's always tragic with the woodland events." Dr. W gravely taps his black plastic eye patch spoon on his leg.

"Ok, I'll give you just one example. This couple went camping. Two sex offenders wielding heavy logs attacked them. Luckily, the husband had a twenty-two and he shot the criminals dead. If he hadn't had the weapon... Look down and to the left, please."

"If you don't want to carry a pistol, I recommend a blowdart. Look to the right now and keep your head still. There are blowdarts you can pick up for about forty bucks at ColdSteel.com. Fairly accurate targeting. With practice, you could definitely hit an aggressor on the neck or head from a range of approximately ten to fifteen feet. Which can you see better, one? or two? One? or two?"

I notice Doc W has fresh outdoorsy breath when he gets in tight to dilate my pupils.

"Very good. Hey, when you go on coldsteel.com... Do you want me to write the URL down for you on my prescription pad here... I saw a blowdart model that appears to be an innocent walking stick. But the handle comes off and it's really a blowdart."

Really Awesome Marmot Victimized by Hoary Squirrel : Episode 1.1 : Real Rodents of the Savannah

2011-10-22T17:57:00.002-04:00

Terrible news swept the valley recently after a Marmot was forced from his burrow by a knife-wielding Hoary Squirrel. The marmot was incensed by the unprovoked and grievous encounter. No one was physically harmed, but the resulting mental anguish left the marmot no choice but to ditch his marmot children and seek refuge in the nest of his longstanding paramour.

"So many hardships afflict me," intoned the middle-aged marmot, often referred to as a martyr of biblical proportions. "If it's not rancid berries, it's some other booby trap. The other rodents have always been out to get me, that's why I need to own a lot of expensive sweatsuits and other things."

When asked what he will do with his future, the marmot shrugged, a picture of indulged tranquility. "Luckily," he sniggered, looking quickly over both shoulders, "I'm kind of a trustfund baby."

Responding to an inquiry into the veracity of this claim, the marmot replied simply that he "deserved someone to pay his way and fix his problems." Further probing revealed this belief justified by several incidents where the townspeople had, groundlessly, chased him around with torches.

"Let's put it this way... no one has ever told me I can't take what I want, even if sacrifices need to be made on my behalf. No one thinks it's a problem if some other marmot goes a little hungry to keep me in the lifestyle to which I've become accustomed. I'm me! These are the good times, just ask my two-thousand dollar sunglasses!"

Swedish Club Minutes 10-8-11

2011-10-09T20:46:00.000-04:00

Meeting called to order at 16:30

Thanks more than much to Fredrick for hosting our club meeting yesterday evening, and it's not just the brännvin talking when I say it was a five-star crowd at a five-star venue.

For the first time, we had a quorum of norsk talare who kept busy removing the Rs from words. The Danes really need to pick up their game, as once again, Allan was our sole red and white flag waver. Luckily that flag he has is pretty big and he's got excellent wrist strength.

Aside from the mountaineers attempting to summit the building next door, the risk of bodily harm was kept to a minimum throughout the evening. The same cannot be said of the little kid's birthday party on the other side of the courtyard wall which, judging from the shrieking, was a snakepit of Machiavellian antics.

I can't even remember how many cute little chocolate pies and hallon cupcakes I managed to put away. All I know is I collected a sizable pile of toothpick flags and I know I wasn't the only one. Thanks much for your baking prowess, Haley!

Thanks again to everyone who came and I look forward to seeing you next time, even if Leah will not be in attendance because she's ditching us for a friend's wedding. (we'll miss you!)

Meeting adorned 23:30

It's like the Scapel of Flashlights

2011-10-08T11:44:00.000-04:00

I figured something out which you may already know. I fixateerratically. This problem of mine predicates a cornucopia of odd shit.

For example, a couple days ago, I mentioned to Tomthat right after Hurricane Irene in August, I went to our family doctor toreview some routine bloodwork. The doctor’s power was out so we went into apitch-black exam room and huddled around a Coleman camping lantern to discussmy cholesterol levels. He was havingsome trouble reading my patient chart in the flickering darkness so I told him he should feel around forhis little ear lamp thingie and use it like a precision reading torch.

Anyway, Tom got this bushy eyebrow look about him and wasall incredulous that I didn’t see fit to mention this incident earlier. I’msure he was just retroactively worried since I could have easily tripped overthe exam table and crashed to the floor tangled in a roll of crinkly exam tablepaper and wedged up behind the EKG machine and no one might have found me forthree days despite extensive search-and-rescue spelunker activity.

But in my defense, the Blair Witch Doctor Affair did notstrike me as worth mentioning because at the time I was fixated on this organicVicks vapor rub stuff that says on the side of the bottle you’re supposed torub it under your nose with your pinkyfinger.

Why your pinky finger instead of your index finger which ismuch stronger and more dexterous as a rule? And why are they legislating whichfinger to use? Does it really impact the clinical effectiveness of the product?

I spent about five days actively sticking my fingers in my nose assessing thepros and cons of various options. Ultimately, I might advocate the knuckle ofthe index finger for reasons of sanitation, fingernail safety and generalappearances. I can send you the spreadsheet if you’re interested in seeing theresults of my seven-prong evaluation methodology.

Caught in a Web of Lies

2011-09-17T20:16:00.002-04:00

I probably should not have bragged to our nephew Mark that I have a viking broad sword. First he wanted to know if it was bloody and if he could whack it against a tree for practice.

I told him I always polish the blood off after pillaging and that it would just sever the tree right in half due to its finely honed double-sided blade. He said I should get it out and show it to him. Right now.

I said that I kept my broad sword in the basement of our apartment building.

He said we should go down and get it.

I said that it was locked up down there.

He said, somewhat disdainfully, to just remember to take the key down with us.

I said that after, ummm, 7:10pm on Friday the guards close down the basement for the whole weekend. No entry until Monday morning.

He said it was only 7:12 and maybe we could act all nice and the guard would let us in.

I said the guards were extremely punctual and definitely not. 7:10, done.

He said then we had no choice but to get some knock-out spray, sneak up on the guard, spray him, wait for him to faint, steal the keys from his pocket, avoid the security cameras, swipe my broad sword remembering to sheath it in a shoulder scabbard with golden scroll designs, and run away.

It took me a click to regain my bearings and ask him where you buy knock out spray.

He answered probably at the spy shop where Uncle Tom got the binoculars and the secret bed hidden inside our couch.

I asked if he was hungry for bar-b-que.

He said yes.

I asked him if he thought that the bar-b-que might be made out of dinosaur meat.

He told me probably not because there was only one live dinosaur left on earth and it was at the Museum of Natural History.

My Dad. Kardashian. NBA.

2011-08-25T18:10:00.006-04:00

"Who is this Kim Kardouche-ian?"

"She married a guy with an MBA? Did he go to Wharton?"

"Is that their picture? Wow, that guy looks just like a basketball player on the Nets."

Tripping the Light Fantastic in Zumba Class

2011-08-14T20:04:00.007-04:00

I like the Zumba. With brutal repetition, I can even manage all the steps. I can shake it in the grand style of a non-latin white girl, olay olay olay. My Zumba career mostly goes down at the YMCA in New Jersey. There's a class right after work.

In Zumba class, I like to stand way over to the side and keep to myself. A lot of scuffling for position goes on in the middle of the room and despite the impressive nature of my moves, I see no great need to grandstand front and center.

As it turns out, this peripheral position also afforded me a measure of safety when the fight broke out recently. The one lady got a little angry when the other lady spun wild with her salsa twirl. A spandex New Jersey catfight broke out, slap slap slap.

The instructor turned off the music and we all silently watched the two of them go at it. Some others were really worried the brawler ladies would hurt themselves, but mostly I just damned it all to hell that I didn't have my phone on me with the camera. Freaking YouTube massive viral opportunity FAIL.

Last week it was too hot to run on Saturday so I decided I'd take a Zumba class at Alvin Alley on 54th Street. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. The class consisted of 45 broadway dancers and, oh yes, me. I would suggest it was inspirational in a stretch goal sort of way.

For example, when the teacher said "kick it" most of the students flung up a leg and touched the ceiling with the pointed toe of their special dancing sneaker. On the other hand, I focused on not mistakenly nailing anybody in the back of the thigh.

I also noticed that it takes a broadway dancer like, one viewing, to memorize five hundred steps. In the end, I think I earned an A for effort. Nonetheless, I was careful to apologize to everybody in my immediate vicinity lest anybody want a piece of me. Luckily, I wasn't in New Jersey.

Is there a 3 foot tall doctor in the house with a solid right hook?

2011-08-07T10:49:00.009-04:00

Scene: Ella and Jackson’s 4th Birthday party at the community pool. Shallow end. Bright afternoon sunshine.

Three chubby-cheeked girls in flouncy pink bathing suits cluster over a soggy stuffed dog with mangy tan fur. The dog has been laid out on miniature boogie board near the edge of the water.

Little Girl 1: “The doggie wants to go swimming!”
Little Girl 2: (Hands on hips). “No he doesn’t. That dog is dead.”
Little Girl 3: “Quick! Maybe we can do CPR!”
(Plucks off Ariel Princess Ring from forefinger, starts pounding the drenched stuffed animal on and about the chest and head.)

Tan colored water sluices from patient, fur barely visible under earnest paramedic wallops.

Where can I buy Stiletto Pumps for my Drag Queen Ferret?

2011-07-24T18:46:00.007-04:00

Nothing exists in this world that compares to Swedish candy. They don’t call it gummy candy for nothing. Screw teeth, who needs ‘em. When you're toothless (and gum-my, get it), you can tear into floppy gelatinous sugar like a rabid herring. In fact, that’s probably the inspiration behind the Swedish fish.

Besides Swedish fish, there are also green frogs, race cars, worms, pop bottles, pacifiers and what I had previous thought were unquestionably mice. At Swedish Club on Saturday, Tom got his hands on one of these mice. It was a green little sucker. After some careful study, Laura piped up that Tom had eaten, not a mouse, as previously suspected, but a gummy ferret.

Personally, I was skeptical of Laura’s provocative remark.

First, the creature in question was green. Not a soft, pleasing green, but a really radioactive green. I felt that a ferret would be too self respecting to parade around like a charlatan frog.

Second, the gummy rodent exhibited what I considered very mouselike traits. There were the ears, the rotund abdomen area and the slender tail.

And third, it was simply too synchronistic. Mercedeh had just been talking about a ferret moments before. It is statistically dubious that right after a whole conversation about a ferret, one would find another ferret damply flopped on a plate.

Also notable is the following coincidence: the first ferret, also a cross-dresser. This first ferret more traditionally cross-dressed in girl ferret habiliments, unlike the ferret Tom ate, which took a more cold-blooded style. Nonetheless, in both cases, drag-action was afoot.

What Mercedeh had said was that when she was in D.C. waiting to see the Dali Lama give a rousing and inspirational speech which profoundly influenced her world view, a guy shambled by walking a ferret. The ferret happened to be wearing a little pleated ferret skirt.

Mercedeh said, “Ohh, how cute she is.”

And the guy told her that the ferret was a male, but the skirt get-up was the only ferret outfit he could find locally.

Why not, I guess. I love me a drag queen as much as anybody who lives 20 feet from the “runway” in Chelsea. If the guy wants to raise a transvestite ferret, that’s his own business. Anyway, it takes a long time for a lady of any gender to learn not to pluck at her crotch when her pantyhose start to droop-- best to start early-- especially if you have four legs.

Carpe Diem Freaky Morning People

2011-07-07T20:27:00.005-04:00

“Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.”
– Ben Franklin, famously

It sends chills down my spine, this axiom of Franklin's. I do not sing in the shower welcoming the new day as a gift from our Creator. I am not a pre-10 AM self-starter. I do not let my first hour set the theme of success and positive action that is certain to echo through my entire day.

Frankly I have no idea what happens before 9. I'm not coherent in that timeframe. But while I'm strewn out on my petard, come to find out the Morning People are gloriously prancing about checking priority to-do's off their ambitious daily plans. By the time I get to work, it's practically the next day for them. Each and every crack of noon, I hear about the miles run, the pages turned, the hostile takeovers accomplished.

So you can't blame me for concluding there's some sort of occult jubilee that goes on at dawn in which time is warped and one hour becomes like seven or eight. All the Morning People clasp hands and murmur and a productivity portal opens in the time-space continuum. Then there's a big party where the Morning People whoop it up with fiesta maracas and day-glo pants.

I had been feeling so bereft and forlorn due to my tragic inability to shake my money maker beneath the majesty of the rising sun. But then I learned three things which made me pretty happy even if I'm so D-List for the Morning People Party:

1) After Zumba on Tuesday, I said to Leslie that after about midnight, I didn't get much done except putzing around, and she said and I quote, "Well if I get up really early I just putz around until I have to get ready to leave." Aha! Not all Morning People receive yods of fruitfulness raining down upon them from heaven. Some of them might as well be slacker Night People.

2) When he read Ben's "early to bed, early to rise" advice, George Washington was quoted to respond: "I don't see it."

And 3) Facts add up to Ben Franklin smack talking. Not for nothing, in between his statesmanship and jotting down bons mots, he managed to find time, quite a lot of time, to take part in wildly blasphemous ceremonies that invariably culminated in drunken orgies involving randy ladies dressed as nuns.

Unless this is what he meant by "early to bed."

Heja Sverige! Swedish Midsummer in New York City

2011-06-25T19:47:00.009-04:00

People think midsommars eve is all about frolicking around a may pole like a bunch of dew fairies, all spirit fingers and butterfly wings.

Yeah, no. It’s an outdoor mixed martial arts smackdown set to polka music. It is frankly lawless underneath that pole: people teaming up, holding hands and skipping over the weak. I almost got mowed down by a really machiavellian old lady in a peasant costume.

As the Swedish Club’s default president slash queen, my original intention was to have everybody meet up by this landmark in Battery Park:

That didn’t work out so well, but I did accomplish my goal of sending a photo of majestic bronze boob balls to my legions of Swedish Club subjects, thus locking down my reputation as an erudite patron of the arts.

Again this year, Laura amazed the crowd by turning out some beautiful flower crowns for herself and Amy. She needs to open up a kiosk.

Last year, before I finally gave up and Laura saved me, my crown consisted of a smallish clumped ball of manhandled greenery. I didn’t even try this year, having surrendered the dream of getting my craft on without endangering bystanders. It’s all good fun until someone gets their eye poked out with florist wire.

Leah, Awe, Natsai, Amy, Brett, Merc, Thomas and I did take more than one foray into the snakepit ringing the maypole. We cavorted like frogs, flute players, fiddlers, and foxes scampering on the ice while multi-tasking a string of antics such as rolling with a rolling pin, weeping like a soap opera star and what I took as getting into a fight with a monkey. The Swedish government really needs to crack down on festive bloodsports.

Zack and I discussed swimming, OCD-related topics, scootering (to scoot, to have scot), William as a middle name, #96, Pricilla Queen of the Desert, my tushey dominance, the conniving letter K, Norwegian URL opportunities and some other things there in the middle.

Tack så mycket to everyone who came. I had a blast.

The Resplendent Bidet

2011-06-11T12:46:00.006-04:00

On the occasion of my surprise birthday party, the OC Girls, Kenny, Tom & Michael round-tabled the Subject Bidet over dinner at Cookshop:

“I have very limited experience with bidets. They scare me. I wouldn’t want to flood the house.”

“You can just splash around in there. Usually there’s an adjustable faucet head. The bidet comes with a soap dish and a special towel rack.”

“I would approach any towel in the proximity of the bidet with extreme caution.”

“I just tripled my knowledge of bidets. This is all news.”

“I turned a bidet on once and it gurgled. I thought bidets were supposed to shoot up like a fountain.”

“Can someone ask our waiter to weigh in on this?”

“I’m going to find a bidet manual on you tube.”

“Are we still talking about bidets?”
“Yes, there’s a lot to talk about.”

“Why is the man in the bidet instruction video shirtless? You don’t have to take your shirt off to use a bidet.”

“I would not want a toilet that transforms into a bidet. That is simply wrong.”

“I’m really excited about this cookie.”

“Sorbet, bidet... vive la france!”

Manhattan Mayhem vs Queens of Pain : Color Commentary and Hotpant Mongering

2011-06-05T15:30:00.003-04:00

I make it a point to know very little about an extremely wide range of topics; this is how I stay objective. I’m like the ombudsman of fact-free opinion rendering. Given the level of my notoriety in this specialty area, I was unsurprised when no one asked me to record my observations and/or insights relative to the Gotham Girls Roller Derby bout last night.

Things to remember to bring next time:

Bleacher Cushion
Pizza
Pinocle deck

Roller derby is transcendental when it comes to the passage of time. Fanhood requires rising above such trivialities as an hour here, an hour there. What is 90 minutes of clenching your hiney on a wooden bleacher waiting for the opening bell when in the proximity of so many fine athletes dressed up like dominatrixes?

On deck for the bout were Queens of Pain vs Manhattan Mayhem. The Queens of Pain had the practice track first. They spilled out of the locker room decked out in some incredibly stylish black spandex set-ups. A few sported reckless hotpants in a range of glitter tones and neon leopard print. Meanwhile, the Manhattan Mayhem went in for more of a fresh perky mini-dress vibe which may have looked practically normal on a tennis court if the dresses weren’t flaming orange, paired with thigh-high striped socks and accessorized by tattoos representing a wide range of non-sports related themes.

After the opening bell, the track became a whirling vortex of trajectory, ballast and random deathblows. The Queens of Pain dominated from almost minute one and I pumped a shaking fist at the Mayhem’s head coach, a corpulent gentleman in a spirited orange tie. He needs to get off his man cushion and sketch out some fiery plays for the Mayhem playbook. The team had zilch when it came to working together in pursuit of like-minded goals.

The star Mayhem jammer, Anne Frankenstein, had a Night of the Living Dead style I originally perceived as lumbering and kind of tepid. But then I realized that 90% of her game is half mental. While slowly heavy-footing around the track she is doing quantum predictive modeling in her head. At least I think this explains the brief but startling episodes of frisky point-scoring revivals into the world of the living.

The half-time show featuring swing dancers in a sort of musical theatre revival of a Mexican tele-novella definitely trumped the contortionist we’d seen at the Harlem bout. The jeer leader routine was also a right cheery little g-rated sexcapade. Toward the end of half-time, one of the assistant coaches caught my attention. Nothing says roller derby like hoofing a stack of 20 chairs across the gym in four inch princess heels and a striped kaftan hiked up with suspenders.

Post bout, Darcey, Kent, Tom and I sprinted out of the venue in single-minded pursuit of food. We ended up at Yama sushi in Union Square because tic tacs, Swedish fish and two packs of pretzels don’t count as dinner.

5 Things that Chap My Hide

2011-05-29T23:33:00.006-04:00

Foaming soap that does not foam, but splooges into your hand like half-rabid Smeagol spit.
Salmonheads who refuse to stand aside to let the people get off the subway before they push their way onto the subway. Way to create a completely unnecessary melee of full-frontal collisions! I paid to ride the E train, not participate in a fucking sumo wresting pick up game. Luckily, I’ve noticed the culprits are inevitably a squad of fat girls in bedazzled shooties so you can always stomp on their toes.
People who fancy themselves stoic and warrior-like yet suffer from frequent episodes of quiet whimpering and resolutely do nothing to attenuate their tragic contretemps, which may or may not involve the 1 train, movie selections and/or vegetarian tacos.
Citizens on a crowded escalator who stand to the left like solid walls of ass barricading those of us with places to go, people to see attempting to hurry past them.
Multi-packs of toilet paper sold on soap.com that look normal in the pictures but are actually sized about right for a barbie dream house or an aborigine powder room. Are you kidding me? I clutched a 12-pack of double ply in one shaking fist. Read the fine print, wary consumers because images may not be shown to scale on soap.com

http://www.soap.com/products/Charmin-Ultra-Strong-Regular-Roll-2-Ply-White-65827

Game on Gotham Girls Roller Derby Girls!

2011-05-15T20:57:00.012-04:00

As a rule, I do not enjoy watching women’s sports. I do not enjoy watching any sports, even those involving tight pants on hotties. Retract that. If there was a sport involving tight pants and hotties, I would probably watch it, but only if the competition somehow involved swordplay, vampires, a fire pit, and dramatic lighting. There would probably also need to be a backstory around avenging unbridled malice.

But yesterday, I went all mercurial, if you will. My heretofore repugnance for sitting in a gym shattered in a gritty sweat-drenched pile up of pleated mini-skirts. Plus one of the jeerleaders threw a mini-Snickers right at my head which has possibly impaired my judgement.

The evening began thriftily enough. Tom and I squeezed every red cent out of our Metro cards on a train ride to Harlem. I felt like we got a lot of distance for our $2.25. We were en route to spectate the Gotham Girls Roller Derby: Bronx Gridlock vs Brooklyn Bombshells.

I decided to cheer for the Bronx, given it’s my pop’s hometown and all. At first, I wondered if I would regret my decision to honor my family heritage. The Brooklyn girls had much cuter outfits and a buxom, tattooed jeerleader skating around with a large tugboat strapped about her midsection. I realized I could probably desert to Brooklyn without too big a ding to my integrity because my grandfather worked at the Brooklyn Navy Yard and he drove a tug boat during WWII. Ultimately, I decided to stand tall and stick with my original Bronx allegiance. This was lucky as it turned out, because the Bronx won 127ish to a score less than that.

This roller derby business is all about unsportsmanlike conduct. Chicks with robust tattoos skate really really fast around this short track wonderworking some enviable hip checks. If I knew anything at all about rugby, I might say it reminded me of rugby. There is a lot of emphasis on fanged mouthguards.

The object of the game is to get your girl in the back of the pack up to the front faster than the opposing team. I think there is a lot of strategy involved, for example, it would appear to be good mojo to stack the middle of the pack with a wall of six-footer linebacker girls who can pull your arms off your body. Other competitor must-haves included a cocksure attitude, quadriceps strength, an ability to shake off wee kidney injuries, and an intimidating name like Bitch Cassidy, Anne Phetamean, Megahurtz or Tough Muffin.

Next bout is on June 4 and I do believe we’ll be there!

http://www.gothamgirlsrollerderby.com/press/

The New York of the South

2011-04-12T20:53:00.007-04:00

It's not that I don't appreciate a good hard-boiled propositioning. You don't spend as much time as I do trying to talk people into things without developing a soft spot for a little florid salesmanship.

And I certainly had a great time in Florida. I enjoyed lolling around on the patio, taking in Butterfly World and the Wakadoheeko wildlife preserve, chatting up the octogenarians on the walking path and inspecting gold seashell bracelets in some shops on the main drag. However, I wondered at the final salvo of Tom's mischievous mom's pitch to visit her snowbird winter place. She had heralded Delray Beach as "The New York of the South."

Our friend Guy was fully on board with the description. He and Erin moved down to the Sunshine State last year and we were lucky enough to hook up with them the second night of our trip. Guy sat back in his chair as a wizened dude in a motorized wheelchair whizzed past beachside.

"The New York of the South. Yes." he said. "That's a fact. Delray is the sixth burro. We call it the "Granny Apple."

I laughed and laughed until I got distracted when the waiter brought over another mango mojito. Not so shabby, this alternate universe Manhattan.

When Raw Doesn't Hide

2011-03-27T18:58:00.003-04:00

We trotted over to Pure Food and Wine in the East Village on Saturday. Have Groupon will travel. Very cozy red velvet and brick, smelling like cardamom kind of place. After the adorably lanky waiter served our entrees, and following much talking amongst ourselves about the pros and cons of doing so, we called him back to our table.

"Umm, I mean, this food is really tasty, but it's kind of cold."

"Ah yes," our waiter explained in a helpful tone, "you're in a raw food restaurant, so that means we don't heat the food up past room temperature."

Oh right. Yes indeed. Good answer, Sir.

Foiled Again by the Golden Child

2011-03-21T21:00:00.004-04:00

Tom, the Golden Child, considered going pantless to my cousin's wedding. T minus twenty minutes until departure, he couldn't find his suit pants. Anywhere.

Besides the option of screaming "mazeltov" in his scanties, Tom also contemplated going to the wedding as "that guy" in jeans. After all, he rubbed his chin, "jeans are my go-to pant" and "at weddings in Pennsylvania, there's always one dude in jeans." In the end, he ran across eighth Avenue to Banana Republic and bought a new set of wedding-type trousers.

On the way to the nuptials, I declared that I might just steal the Golden Child crown right out of Tom's clutches. I proudly displayed my little gold clutch handbag-- the same one my Mom carried when she was crowned Prom Queen and had foisted off on me a decade ago. "I'm so in as soon as she sees this," I cackled.

Tom smirked, a picture of confidence. "And after she notices your purse, I'll simply ask her to dance... oh, so sorry."

The Golden Child would Never LOL

2011-03-15T20:22:00.011-04:00

Growing up, my brother and I wrestled (both figuratively and literally) for the honor of 'golden child.' Contemporaneously, it's a lost cause for both of us. Tom has the deal sewn up solid. He's charming and occasionally amusing, I'll grant you, but there's a clincher when it comes to my parents. He's a computer nerd with the patience of a 1-900 line charge-by-the-minute astrologist.

So when my dad calls and I greet him warmly, "Hello Father," he will normally grunt and ask if Tom is home. If I say no, Tom is not home, Dad will pause. Then he will ask with little enthusiasm something like, "Well, do you know how to do the GPS?"

Tom was not home on Saturday. Dad had to work with the B team.

"I think this woman is flirting with me on the email," he tells me, equal parts distressed and baffled; Dad's been fully and completely married for forty-five years.

"Why do you think she's flirting with you on the email?" I wonder aloud.

"Because after every sentence, she's writing LOL. LOL. LOL."

(There's a long stretch of silence while I think about this. I'm not first string for a reason.)

Finally, I ask, "Pop, what do you think LOL stands for?"

"Lots of love."

At this point, my father probably does not appreciate my huge chortle eruption (or LOL, if you will). Tom would have kept a lid on it. That's why he's the golden child.

I'm not a spacial relations genius, unlike some people

2011-03-08T09:23:00.002-05:00

First thing in the morning, Tom accused me of savaging his business. In other words, I unintentionally punched him in the crotch while crawling out of bed.

Granted, he was lying there motionless, aka sleeping; but I am fully innocent of the charge. The length of his upper body torso simply surprised me. I always thought his legs were longer given their rangey stride.

Crack iPhone Care Mystery

2011-02-20T22:47:00.006-05:00

So the time I was hopping into a cab, went to grab the doorhandle and mistakenly chucked my iPhone out the window and it skidded down Park Avenue while I shrieked at the driver to hang on a sec... Nothing happened. By that I mean my iPhone remained stoic and unfazed by its wild aerial adventure. Maybe a tiny scratch, but otherwise pristine.

So I was a little cocky when the iPhone flung itself out of my pocket on the Central Park Outer Loop and I jogged on it accidentally.

Sad face shaped big crack right down the middle of my poor little iPhone. Maybe stress impact is cumulative. Or maybe I run a lot faster than previously suspected. I like to be delusional, so it's still a conundrum.

Steadfast and Schwetty

2011-02-01T18:36:00.004-05:00

So it's a done deal. I am steadfast. I'm talking about jazz acts featuring a lead singer who sits motionless with her eyes closed for lengthy stretches of my night out.

I don't care how tight the backing musicians lock it up or if her lovely voice conjures rainbows. It always plays out with me flatlining into a brainspace occupied previously by long car rides-- the ordeals where I'm wedged in the backseat with my little brother, a pile of wrinkled maps and three hardshell suitcases, my entire torso covered by a thin layer of saltine cracker crumbs, my soaring soul crushed beneath the pungent smell of old pleather and motor oil.

It's not just the ennui of it all. The no rhythm, no peaks, no valleys. It's the part where she banters between songs in this tone of voice that makes me expect her next words to be "schwetty balls." If only. That would certainly be a highlight for me.

Into the Lair of Werewolf Boy

2011-01-29T23:22:00.000-05:00

When it comes to babysitting sleepovers, I go pumpkin at say 8pm. It takes me about six hours to get ready for bed and handle critical tasks like playing Angry Birds. So when I heard my five year-old nephew had a thing for ringing in the wee hours, I immediately crafted a plan. Although beautiful in its raw simplicity, admittedly the plan lacked a more detailed timeline and rigorous statement of purpose. Mostly I just figured we'd head out into the backyard and do tiring things.

I told Mark that we were going on an adventure in the forest. Where the terrain is savage and requires a lot of running to and fro. Specifically for the under 10 set. My nephew nodded in what I mistakenly assumed was mild-mannered acceptance. Then he declared, "While we're out there, we need to hunt down Werewolf Boy. My arch nemesis."

Oh. Indeed.

Game on. I am so in.

Given the change in overall mission, proper equipment was of course required. We shambled out to the garage and collected the bare essentials for a dangerous woodland sojourn through enemy territory:

1) Jumper cables
2) 1 broken umbrella
3) 2 bungee cords
4) Blue and yellow blacksmithing gloves

Stealthily, we crept up the hill. Low to the ground. OMG!!!!! We've been spotted by Werewolf Boy!!!!! Run over there and hide behind that tree! No, not that one! That one is rigged with plasticine Kpop fandango boy eaters! You must run way over to that tall branchy one up there!!!!

Finally we summited the trecherous slope above the patio. Our hopes plummeted when we caught sight of the deer fence protecting the perimeter of Werewolf Boy's lair. We donned our blacksmithing gloves to be safe, and that was lucky because the fence was electrified!!! Passing through without getting a skull-rattling shock would be a problem.

Mark and I debated our options in very quiet whispered tones with absolutely no whooping. Finally we settled on an ingenious plan. We took the jumper cables and attached one end to the fence. We clamped the other side to some sticks we dangled from a tree using the bungee cords. We waited thirty seconds for the power to drain from the fence before scuttling around it through a giant pile of leaves. OMG!!!! Werewolf Boy has detected a breach in his security system!!!! Run away!!!!

At the far edge of the neighbor's yard, we felt safe enough to halt our mad dash. We collapsed next to an abandoned ancient teepee fort slash fallen tree. Mark suggested setting up our Bonehead Spy Communication Station within the old ruins. We opened our umbrella collapsable satellite dish and wedged it into some high ground. From there, we monitored secret internal Werewolf Boy communications. I couldn't understand what they were saying because Werewolf Boy speaks in code. good thing Mark was with me! He was able translate and realize the weird old dish we found was actually an explosive device set to blow up in T minus five seconds. Run away!!!!!!!!!

I think Mark was in bed and out like a light by 7:45. I don't know for sure because I was already asleep by then.

Going to Hell on a Hand Scooter

2011-01-14T17:55:00.012-05:00

If the time I almost beheaded the midget in Whole Foods didn't tip me into the abyss, it's now a done deal. I am going to Hell. I did not actually run over the blind lady with my new scooter, but I did get tangled up in her cane.

Since it was only a near miss, I thought I might have dodged the damnation bullet, but then Mary informed me that, "To blind people, a cane is like another finger."

I'll be spending the weekend working on scooter speed and endurance in case the townspeople chase me around with torches.

Quivering with desire and the ecstasy of unbridled avarice

2010-12-30T18:37:00.015-05:00

Don't blame me. The sexy girlfriend who hopped on the uptown E within a squeaker hairsbreadth of the "stand clear of the closing doors" was everything I have dreamt about: vintage wool jacket with leather darts and big-ass skull-kickin' buckle, velvet cuffs, steampunk black boots. And ooo la la. A folded-up scooter on a strap flung over one shoulder. I began to covet the scooter immediately.

Imagine what a person could do with a scooter that folds up so you can toss it across your back like a two-wheeled samurai sword! I could make it crosstown to the East Village without waiting for the goddammed L train. I could scooter to East 42nd at rush hour without squishing tushies. OMG, I could roll over to the Union Square green market with a bungie cord and lash groceries to the scooter. It would surely happen if I only had a scooter.

I mentioned the scooter possibility to Tom. Once or twice. I said I wanted a scooter with handbrakes and also a back fender because I saw a kid with a scooter with a back fender and it looks rad because you can put your foot on it.

Despite my extreme subtlty and veiled, almost subliminal, hinting, I was overjoyed and completely taken aback when I opened up a big box on Christmas morning and espied with my wondering eyes A SCOOTER. Tom picked out one with a titanium frame and patented ball bearings. Immediately, I ran outside with my scooter. I scootered up the block, scootered down the block. Then it snowed twenty inches and I have not been able to scooter anyplace except back and forth in front of the sofa. I seethe with disgruntlement.

Tomorrow, I intend to kick off some outdoor scootering. I have practiced folding and unfolding the scooter using the ergonomic locking pin so I do not embarrass myself in front of Cafe Grumpy, a priority scooter destination. I have not practiced avoiding foot slaves on the sidewalk or hopping curbs. I will rely on my roller skating core wheelsmanship skillz. Hopefully I will live to see the sundown.

Bringing 'em up Right

2010-12-11T10:19:00.004-05:00

Baby Einstein has no taste in music, which is why I make Jackson and Ella mix-CDs. Right out of the womb, my niece and nephew could operate the stereo. So I was prouder than the proudest Aunt on record after the incident at the fancy mall in Princeton.

A guy and his colossal organ setup belted out Christmas tunes in the atrium when apparently Jackson and his three-year-old sensibilities had enough of Jingle Bells. His wispy blond hair flared out in a tangle of determination as he marched up to the organist and asked if he could please sing a song.

Despite his surprise and the possible pitfalls, the dumbfounded organist handed over a big-ass microphone into Jackson's tiny clutches."Um, what song do you want to sing, young man?" he asked.

"Tokyo Police Club," answered my nephew, the prodigy, in his chipmunky little kid voice.

"I don't know that one," replied the organist, "What else do you know?"

"Julian Cassablancas" said Jackson with an air of cool expertise.

Finally, they settled on London Bridges.

The Green Fairy on All Hallow's Eve

2010-11-03T20:36:00.009-04:00

Kick Ass and Red Myst kept running by our booth, but I never did see the Green Fairy. Honestly, the absinthe didn't look all that green even, but maybe it was because the White Star Lounge was bathed only in the dim light seeping from LED bulbs on Tron's spandex outfit.

Tom and Tracie were scared, but Andrew and I manned up to the bar and ordered the fancy hooch. The bartender shuttled this absinthe fountain in front of us and filled up the reservoir with ice water. He positioned two glasses under the little spigots, balanced a silver spoon on the tops of the glasses and popped on a sugar cube. Cold water dripped over the sugar and dissolved it into the glass. It was all very decadent. It would have been more decadent if Sexy Sailor Moon hadn't flounced past right there at the end. Hola panties.

Charles Baudelaire, Paul Verlaine, Arthur Rimbaud, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Amedeo Modigliani, Vincent van Gogh, Oscar Wilde, Aleister Crowley, and Alfred Jarry were all slaves to la fée verte. Also some trannies who may or may not have just finished building a leather swingset.We sipped our absinthe and discussed poetry and the pros and cons of a jelly fish costume. On the pro side, you could run around and pinch people. On the con side, somebody might pee on you.

Doing the Boonton Carnival

2010-09-04T22:30:00.016-04:00

Really the carnies have classed up some. Yesterday at the Boonton Fire Department Street Fair, I saw none of the soot-covered grizzle, flared nostrils and dangling cigarettes I recall so fondly from the olden days. I'd always assumed that kind of lifestyle - hard drinking, heavy smoking, strapping people into teacups - takes its toll on your body. But yesterday, the staff was all natty in turquoise golf shirts. It was uncanny. There was an alternate universe moment when I fully expected the cotton candy boy to break into his impersonation of Boston Symphony conductor Seiji Ozaw.

Fortunately, I spotted a battalion of jellybean homegirls in their summer stretch denim tottering off the Scrambler looking like very short hoochie mammas with acute inner ear infections. And then there was a screecher of a catfight by the 50/50 booth. After the guy vaulted over the cajun hotdog counter to break it up and rescue the one from under the other one's enormous pleather handbag, I felt totally serene. It's a comfort to know nothing much changes at the cosmos level.

Tom got a little sweaty taking in the swings with Sean and Lea:

When the ice cream and spinning around in circles had raised the spew red alert to dangerous thresholds, we shambled back to Jen and Eric's. The kids strung little alphabet beads into cute bracelets. Adison spelled out "Celebrate Labor Day," which wrapped three times around her little wrist. I was surprised she managed to find all the letters but I believe anything Jennifer says.

90 is the New 80

2010-08-09T22:12:00.010-04:00

Nothing says you love your Grammy like hoofing 400 pounds of potato knishes twelve blocks across midtown in a cute skirt and new shoes, sweating like a fry cook trapped in satan's armpit. Right after we'd come back from his doctor appointment in the Bronx, my brother handed me the cooler and darted in the other direction. He said if he didn't catch the 4:07 and be on time for their dinner reservation, Mary's fiery ovary would wear him like a scrunchie.

The gantze michpocha showed up at Ron and Bonnie's lovely home for the big shindig.

The Gramme Dame of the Affair insisted that she was not entirely in the know about the extent of the preparations and/or guest list. She also did not blatantly pump anyone, like Seth, for information in an attempt to nail down the exact specifications of her surprise 90th birthday party.

Show Me Some Fashion Shit

2010-07-26T21:40:00.005-04:00

I took it as a lucky sign when the freakishly tall flower stalk twanged out of nowhere and clocked me on the side of the head, spilling a river of dewy rainwater into my ear canal. You know the Jack Reduction Sauce is going to be brazenly fucking awesome when shrubbery defends the perimeter.

Tracie had a little hitch in her giddyup. Her bunyonless foot dangled limply, wrapped in the love child of a bed sheet, a snack bag, and the lead actress's costume from a little-known musical called Harriet Carter's Big Black Bondage Sandal. T-"less one"-bone rocked a confined area from a reclined position. She is lucky Chef Andrew is such a master of culinary talent and furniture moving. If I were in charge, we'd both be eating a lot of canned vegetarian chili off a floor mat.

In the seven-helpings slackjawed aftermath, the guests: Janet, Marc, Tom and I, were shown some onscreen fashion shit. Luckily, there were subtitles because I got a little lost at several points during the rich and textured dialogue.

Jim, get in there and rustle out those lions

2010-05-23T21:34:00.005-04:00

Tom says he loves running in Central park because it’s easy to sidewind around on the trails to customize the length and terrain of his morning constitutional.

And also because sometimes a guy rides by on his sit-down recumbent bike that is the Schwinn equivalent of a mutant with a second, albeit smallish, head. This bike is a triangularly double-decker affair. The guy puts his 8-year old shortie up top and the kid pedals away in full spandex. You know the duo is out doing their thing when half the people on the Outer Loop are running by with swiveled eyeballs.

I like running in Central Park because it is like going on Safari except I don’t have to wear a pith helmet (although some days safety gear might be a sensible choice). Regardless of whether I do, or do not, elect to rig myself out like Teddy Roosevelt, as soon as I step foot across 59th street and onto that weird sandy white gravel, I fade into the scenery and become part of the jungle.

I always run the same loop, but every week it’s a brand new box of chocolates. The pathway might be choked by packs of Asians in wide-brimmed head ornaments, family units pushing big-ass strollers, pedi-cabs, piles of horseshit, roller bladers, walkers with powerful hips, bandannas, guys on those cross-country skis with wheels and/or gaggles of helmeted people from Wisconsin and Prague on rented bikes wobbling up bigger hills than the bike rental guys let on.

Fierce battles of strength and speed are waged. Sometimes it's mutual. Sometimes only one party has any idea a war is afoot. Sometimes the contender is an obnoxious huffing walrus who kept sprinting to catch up with me in a wild sprawl of flailing arms and legs. As soon as my blue-suited velor nemesis got one foot in front of me, he flagellated to a standstill and started walking. Add enormous earphones and grunting along to Rock Me Like a Hurricane.

Repeat 7x.

Subtract three minutes from my time as I poured every ounce of stamina into kicking his ass down the rollers by the reservoir.

Boston. Instant Feedback.

2010-04-18T20:42:00.008-04:00

I take a shine to rock that rolls, spins, and shimmies across the floor mostly in a diagonal fashion. I covet a groove that comes at you fast and darts sideways at the last second. I like music circular as a sea anemone swinging on a pendulum.

So despite how much I enjoy the company, and restaurant recommendations, of certain astrophysicists living in Boston who are credited with installing MacBarf on my Star Apple clone circa 1987, I know I don't belong in this city. It vibrates at a frequency that strikes me as straight up vertical, staccato with locked knees and a ruler. (In striking contrast to Boston's roads, which are a hot scalding mess.)

Some towns I walk into and I feel my shadow blur and blend into the streets. New York.

In Beantown, it's like I got dropped in from a different altitude and teeter on the brink of the bends. Except in Boston, there would be no actual bends. They'd be ramrod straight up and down.

A Triptych of Incidents that Happened Outside The Blue Store

2010-04-04T19:13:00.014-04:00

In a move which hindsight would label really ill-advised, I decided to film a poster of "The Boys from Israel" hanging in the entrance to the Blue Store on 8th Avenue. At the time I thought it would really spice up my Lip Syncho de Mayo video because, although Jewish, these boys had some holy Jesus six-pack abs.

Unfortunately, the moment I hit "record" and started to roll film, two buff Chelsea boys blocked my shot when they stepped through the doorway. Their biceps bulged under all their tattoos. I was hit with twin full-on laser death stares. I popped on my lens cap and sprinted two blocks down the street. Luckily, they weren't following me, but if they had been, my plan was to vanish into the Payless Shoe Store, because no self-respecting Chelsea playa would ever be caught dead in there.

* * *

A couple weeks ago, at 8 o'clock in the morning, a stringy fellow in purple pants loitering out front The Blue Store asked Tom if he knew where he could find an all-night nightclub, and did Tom want to accompany him there.

Tom replied no, he was going to Murray's to get a bagel and a cup of coffee. Tom was especially polite, due to the blurb featured in the last issue of the Chelsea Now Police Blotter. The blurb told of a Blue Store customer who went into the restroom. Suddenly, a dude appeared in his stall and declared, "I'm a hustler." The customer said, "Fuck you get out of this stall." And then the hustler punched him in the face.

* * *

Across 8th Avenue from the Blue Store is another exotic shop called The Rainbow Junction. I also thought it was noteworthy, that one time we were walking uptown and suddenly, a guy comes sprinting like a bat out of hell from the Blue Store. He dashes straight into traffic-- taxis honking, squealing brakes-- crosses the street and disappears inside the Rainbow Junction.

The Hippest Thing We've Ever Done

2010-03-09T20:56:00.011-05:00

We hauled our sorry Friday-dragging asses over to Pier 66, otherwise known as The Frying Pan. The Frying Pan used to be a greasy spoon diner, completely average except that it was located on an old boat hooked to the side of Pier 66. One day, The Frying Pan sank to the bottom of the Hudson.

Eventually, they pulled The Frying Pan out of the grimy water along with its namesake-- an enormous iron frying pan with a circumference larger even than Jay Leno's ego. This twelve ton skillet was positioned cityside, right up front on Pier 66 and now both the pier and the boat are known collectively as The Frying Pan.

At least, I think this is how it went down but as usual have not bothered to check.

The scene was dark, lit by flickering gaslamps and the barge creaked on its chains and rotting wood and smelled like minnow-breath and old leather and kerosene. We walked across a plain of steel plates and pilings into a half tent/half ramshackle building that reminded me of one of those long houses the Indians lived in.

The Renegades of Armory Art Week

Except when we got inside, it was like an art bomb had exploded and covered every available surface with canvases and painted shovels and feathers and bejeweled firearms. It was the opening reception of FountainNY, so there was a full bar set up to serve imported beer and soup to the beautifully pierced and tattooed people in skinny jeans. Tom mused over the possibility he could fully pull off the skinny jean look himself, concluding that he could not.

Besides the other amenities, you could get your picture taken by The Onion if you signed a publicity release and wanted to be, for example, the "Area Man who hopes cell phone breaks so he can get a new one." I considered mugging for the camera, but the interns manning the operation were more interested in flirting with the girls than taking photos of bespectacled married people busily taking the opportunity to pocket AV Club Hater buttons and a set of Huffington Post coasters.

The Little People

The Pains of Being Pure at Heart were supposed to play, which was why I had originally taken note of the affair. We were standing in the back and there was a step stool right behind me. I was contemplating sitting down on the step stool when out of the corner of my eye I saw a midget run by. I was thinking the midget was going to stand on the step stool, which would make sense but he did not. I told Tom that I'd just spied a midget, but Tom snorted in a completely unimpressed fashion. He said he'd already seen three midgets.

I Travel the World And the Seven Seas, Everybody Lookin For Something

On the way out, I passed right by Annie Lennox so close I could smell her. She looked stunning, a whiter shade of pale in a white cashmere coat with a white collar and a sparkly skinny belt. She stood out like a spot of pristine clean amidst a cacophony of smeared color and sunken, sweaty desire with dirty fingers.

As we walked down the gangplank onto terra firma Manhattan concrete, Tom noted, "Wow, that's the hippest thing we've ever done."

Take the Last Train to Yorkville

2010-01-24T20:08:00.012-05:00

I must have that kind of face. The kind of face that declares I know not only know how to work the subway, but am also willing to help the wayward find Ground Zero, Barney’s CoOp or the Met. Yesterday I was giving some lost Russians directions to the Ellis Island Ferry when a group of three women lined up in back of them. This whole every-time-I-go-uptown-somebody-asks-me-how-to-get-someplace has been going on for a while, but yesterday was the first time I’d ever earned myself a queue.

Somewhat inexplicable when considering my allure to lost tourists, is that I never ride the subway without music and big white earphones. This necessitates the tourists to get right up in my business and scream to get my attention. Additionally, I appear to be most attractive on my way back from a run around Central Park. My sweaty aroma must be a powerful pheromone for befuddled mainlanders.

Mostly I’m a sure thing when it comes to on-demand transit advice to Fodor's Top 5 Sights, but sometimes I get hit with a stumper. I hate it when I come up short. One time an English guy asked me how to get to the Brooklyn Navy Yard and I have no idea how to get to the Brooklyn Navy Yard. When I responded with a blank stare, the dude gave me this look, like I knew how to get to the Brooklyn Navy Yard but was holding out on him.

I should have put him on the 2 uptown to the Bronx.

_

And the Funk Squirted Out at Authur's Tavern

2010-01-10T20:51:00.004-05:00

After Swedish Club, which went down like an episode of Real World: I-had/have-a-Crush-on-a-Nordic-Hottie, Tom and I ate turnip stew. In the warm odoriferous root-vegetable aftermath, we decided to amble down to the West Village. The ambling part didn’t work out because it was so cold pee froze on the sidewalk in slippery little yellow circles. We took the A train to West 4th.

I couldn’t see where the bargirl with little stars tattooed on her face was taking us because my glasses were all steamed up. But after acclimating to the indoors environment, I was surprised to discover I was sitting on stage holding a broken microphone together while the guitar player duct-taped it into working order. Lucky for him, I spent my childhood assisting relentless duct-tapers hard at work on their shoes, rowboats, pants, wall joists and internal combustion engines. I was also instrumental in a project affixing 1/2 liters of grape juice to the inside of a closet.

The guitar player was strictly an amateur as far as duct-taping was concerned but more than a pro when it came to actually playing his guitar. He lit up the entire dingy dive bar with his lightening fingers-- and I know this indisputably because we were sitting so close I almost got smacked in the head with the guitar neck at least twice. Our seats were at a make-shift bar that completely penned in the band. All four guys were squeezed in the middle with their instruments like a Walmart shopper packed inside her lycra. But in this case, the funk was all good when it squirted out and exploded.

Three Penny Day

2009-12-16T22:05:00.004-05:00

I should have known the day would unfold auspiciously because I found three pennies on the pavement in front of the ticket machine at the train station. Of course, I picked them up and stuck them into my pocket. One penny is lucky. Two pennies are really lucky. But three pennies? It was unprecedented.

Tom and I showed up at the holiday party only a little bit late. We hovered around the garlic shrimp and the cupcakes and I started talking with a guy named Larry. Larry had recently been elected to the board of a condo association. He and four other revolutionaries staged a coupe and overthrew the earlier board. I inquired if there had been any defenestration* involved in the coupe but was told no.

*Defenestration. noun. The time honored tradition of throwing somebody out a window, generally in the context of political uprising.

Larry introduced me to his friend Michael, who almost immediately revealed that his lucky number was 13. I, of course, rebutted that my lucky numbers are 11, 3 and 7 to which Michael replied that I had exceeded the permitted lucky number maximum by at least one number, maybe two. I could tell by the look in his eye that he was thinking I was one of those greedy OCD bitches.

At this point, our important conversation was interrupted by a real estate agent who had a friend with a phobia for pickles. If there were pickles nearby, this friend would scream and run away.

I told Michael that my most lucky number was probably 3. Or maybe 7, but 3 really is quite awesome and that I knew something good was going to happen because I had just found 3 pennies. I pulled the pennies out of my pocket and Michael was appropriately reverent, but then Larry chimed in that the day was winding down and the window for luck was narrowing. I snorted. Larry of little faith.

Michael showed me his latest project, a photography website, and then we discussed Robert Mapplethorpe’s Polaroid series, which both of us really liked. Then Michael mentioned that he had known Mapplethorpe. In fact he hired him once to take a picture of Tracy Chapman for her Fast Cars album.

Right.

Turns out Michael signed Tracy Chapman and produced her first album. He was an A&R guy for twenty five years. He also produced Nina Simone’s last album. I showed him the remixes I had of hers on my iPhone primarily due to the lovely K. Marcus and secondarily due to the illustrious M. Goodson.

That’s when Michael mentioned quite casually that he also discovered Metallica. “The guys” had sent him a demo tape, and Michael went out to the Stone Rose in Shakeytown to see them play. He loved them. Although he couldn’t describe their music when he told his boss the next day that Electra should sign them immediately.

I said that I had a friend named Andrew who would love to be me right now. I gave a short descriptive oration fraught with wild hand gesticulations about how much Andrew loves Metallica.

After that we discussed Patrick Wolf, growing roses on a north-facing balcony, and the pros and cons of living in a redneck town in Pennsylvania. Michael said he had to head out and went upstairs to get his coat. He came back a couple minutes later and asked me, “Is this friend of yours really a huge Metallica fan?”

I gave him a brutally wide eyed and utterly sincere look and he jammed a white envelope into my hand and said, “Well then he’ll appreciate this.”**

So in conclusion, it might not have been my personal lucky day, but I’m calling it even with Andrew and am no longer indebted in any way for the intensely delicious turkey named Carl or for my treacherously sweet new/old tshirt.

** Obviously I opened up the envelope and obviously I cannot reveal what was inside said envelope until I give it to Andrew.

Edward Cullen twizzling about Emerald City

2009-11-15T11:40:00.019-05:00

*scream.* I was cyberstalking Edward Cullen and obviously I'm very good at it. I scored an e-vite to the party he and Victoria were throwing for Glenda the Good Witch. I KNOW. We all thought Edward ripped Victoria into tiny little vampire chunks at the end of Book 3, but apparently it was all a publicity stunt. He and Victoria shack up in Florham Park.

I tottered up to the secret location with Captain Christopher Pike, and Edward greeted us at the door. He was rigged out in a very stylish grey pea jacket setup. OMG. After I came to, I noticed there were a lot of other vampires at the party, but they were the caped, incisored kind. There were also a bevvy of witches, warlocks and warrens. Actually there was only one Warren, but he would have dominated the category even if more had shown up.

Quite frankly I had a bone to chew with Captain Christopher Pike, first commanding officer of the Enterprise, NC-1701. Earlier in the week, he thought it would be a good idea to take apart my iPod speakers to scavenge the dials. He insisted he could reassemble the little pile of wires, screws and broken plastic after he was done, but I remained skeptical. Nonetheless, he did cut a fine boxy form in his space wheelchair. He also sported a tapeless voice recorder and a hair style from the future.

Heat it and Beat It

2009-10-12T21:49:00.009-04:00

When I said the Pig Iron Fest was a great place to watch drunken blacksmiths cackling about scrap rebar and flatter fullers, Tom's Aunt Michelle and Uncle Bob were all in. So we carpooled up there to the outskirts of known civilization for an afternoon with the smithies and the groupies. Like Tom. He has no opinion on bending forks.

We stayed for the auction where even a person of limited means could have picked up a hydroponic pot growing apparatus or somebody's old laptop case... as long as they didn't mind bidding against Bruce, the drunken auctioneer. Waving around his number with some vigor, Bruce periodically waded into the fray. "Two dollars from Fat Pete there in the back, who'll give me four? I'll give me four, who'll give me six? Fat Pete. I'll go to eight..."

You can tell you're in bumfuck when the truck in front of you on the highway home is plastered with large decals shaped like automatic weapons and messages like "I heart my Glock."

I said, "Dude likes the Insane Clown Posse," because there were also some stickers to this effect.

Bob pipes up fom the backseat, "Oh, he's a Juggalo."

I spun in my seat. Mystified.

Bob said, "The Insane Clown Posse has a dedicated following, often referred to as Juggalos and Juggalettes."

Hm. So now I know.

Don't Mess with the Bubby

2009-09-29T20:48:00.009-04:00

My Bubby has a nurse that visits and tells her things she already knows and insults her cooking. But really, what does the nurse know from kugel? She may very well be a goyishe kop because of course Bubby uses the oil. The recipes call for the oil. And everybody loves a Bialistock. Bubby loves a Bialistock. Nowadays the bialistock are not like the ones from Julie Brothers on 174th Street in the Bronx, but feh, they'll do.

This nurse, she is fat. She hauls around a tuches and a half. Who is she to tell Bubby to exercise? She needs to take her own advice, this nurse. But Bubby read an article about the fat people. They do not eat lunch with others, the fat people. They go out into their cars to eat lunch alone, because of the Cheetos in the backseat. The fat people hoard nosh in their cars so they can go crazy with the Cheetos at lunchtime.

So yesterday, the nurse comes over at one o'clock, right when Bubby was fixing herself a sandwich. She always fixes herself a sandwich at one o'clock. Bubby asks the nurse if the nurse wants a sandwich too because Bubby can certainly fix her a sandwich if she wants one.

But the nurse says she did not want a sandwich and Bubby nods her head slyly. "I didn't think you would want a sandwich," she says.

Turns out, the nurse only keeps carrots in the car.

Tom: Disrobing

2009-09-05T21:18:00.003-04:00

“Why is there a ‘#1’ written in black sharpie marker on the back of my running underpants?"

"Oh."

"These are your Dad’s underpants aren’t they? He’s the only person I know who numbers his underpants. We both bought the same kind and they must’ve gotten mixed up in the wash at the beach."

Barney's NY Warehouse Sale :: Whatever the Opposite of Love Is

2009-08-30T19:01:00.010-04:00

The entrance to Barney’s Warehouse Sale nestles next to D’Agastino’s, the overpriced yet still vaguely ghetto grocery store across 17th street. I went in because Tom said there were a lot of shoes. Unfortunately they were not my kind of shoes-- mostly slinky strappy numbers providing inadequate toe protection for my calamity-ridden lifestyle. I like to think of my footwear as a weapon. It should hurt if I kick you.

I was rolling toward the exit when a warehouse-themed cardboard box came out of nowhere. For a tense moment, I thought I was going to plunge headfirst into a tangled snakepit of price-slashed but still $400 belts. I skirted the box like a retarded ballerina balanced only on one toe.

Already shaken by the almost-catastrophe, I finished my pirouette nose-to-nose with an impeccably coiffed Chelsea boy trying on a silken peach-colored space suit. My eyebrows ratcheted into my hairline in a very non-NYC-acceptable manner.

This did not go unnoticed. “So is that a yes?” he said.

I smiled like an idiot and didn’t reply because from the gleam in his eye and the tone of his voice, that boy was poised to take me down. The only way out would have been to come back with the right answer. Sturdy footwear be damned, I did not, and still do not, know what the right answer was.

Movies IV: While Watching Chocolat

2009-08-23T11:27:00.002-04:00

Momster: “Your dad doesn’t like this movie. He thinks it’s a chick flick. What’s the male equivalent of a chick flick?”
Tom: “Hmmm. I don’t know.”
Momster: “Maybe a dick flick.
Tom: “I don't know, but I'd think that’s another genre entirely.”

Movies III: Favorite Fights!

2009-08-16T15:14:00.002-04:00

Family Favorites! Duels

Scaramouche
Princess Bride (“Aha, I find I am left handed”)
Roxanne with the tennis racket
That movie where Burt Lancaster is an acrobat and has this partner who is a dwarf

My Personal Favorite Naked Fight Scene

Eastern Promises wherein Viggo Mortenson rumbles all steamy, tattooed and buck naked in a Turksish Bath. Holy replay.

Movies II: Dad’s Top Three Favorite War Movies

2009-08-14T15:27:00.011-04:00

Dirty Dozen
Guns of Navarone
Stalag 17
Great Escape
Bridge over River Kwai
Also applauds MAD magazine version featuring Sesua HayaKawa as the bucket, and Alec Guiness as the General
The Desert Rats -
Plot Synopsis: Rommel chases a small group of Americans (just a regiment) and surrounds them at a mission. The Americans hold out and the Germans run out of water. Really the Americans are out of water too, but to demoralize the thirsty Germans, the Americans go on top of the mission pretending to take baths and fake sudsing themselves up.

Finally the Germans get fed up and lob a bomb into the mission. Ironically, the bomb blasts out a well inside the mission walls and the water started gushing up.

So then the Americans capture a Sherman tank and defeat the Germans. They march out 500 german prisoners with their arms crossed over their heads.
I never saw Kelly’s Heros so it can’t be one of my top three. I do know they go to steal some gold and it has something to do with Donald Sutherland.
The original m*a*s*h

Movies I : The Dangers of Eavesdropping : Mom, Dad and Tom on the Porch : A Transcript

2009-08-10T08:30:00.006-04:00

"Steve McQueen was in Papillon."

"La papillon means butterfly in Spanish."

"Isn’t la papillon French?"

"Oh yeah, it’s French. Look up French for butterfly on your iPhone."

"Steve McQueen was locked up. Maybe with Dustin Hoffman. They both were locked up."

"See if Peekaboo is in there. In that IBMd. It's a movie from 1951 about a guy who was always getting put in jail, but he could make himself invisible and escape."

"Papillon was on this island and its the guy who shot Lincoln."

"John Wilkes Booth?"

"No, the doctor, he was sent to that island."

"Why would they send Lincoln’s doctor to a french prison?"

"Do you know Steve McQueen’s real first name?"

"Gerard?"

"No, Terrance."

"See, Steve McQueen was in Papillon."

"And Dustin Hoffman played a creepy little guy, as usual."

"Dustin Hoffman played an Indian Chief."

"The Indian chief was a creepy little guy?"

"Oh, that was Little Big Man."

Gagging on Pungant Pine Needles

2009-08-01T08:17:00.011-04:00

I haven't drunk gin since that one unfortunate incident in eighth grade at somebody's parents' Halloween party. We, the minors, sat in a gazebo in the backyard and polished off a whole bottle of Tangeray which one us, a more proactive and early-blooming dipsomaniac, had swiped from the self-serve bar inside.

I haven't drunk Chabli, from a box or otherwise, since that series of encounters spanning a summer and autumn in a year before any of us figured out how to drive. I only know the timeframe because one of the few things I do recollect is traveling on foot. This series of encounters culminates in a three-part grand finale beginning in the quarry (that rocky hotbed of underage anarchy); pit-stopping under the big tree in the cemetery; and finishing up in the front yard of my house where my mother found us all passed out in the grass some hours later.

Getting your priorities straight when you are 96

2009-07-18T22:20:00.007-04:00

"What are the things you couldn't live without?" I asked my Grammy T. I waited, expecting to get an earful of beloved family members, cherished mementos and maybe a word on good health.

"What can't I live without?" Grammy echoed, double-checking my question. She wasn't wearing her hearing aid. "Well, I'd say I couldn't live without my washing machine. And also my photocopier. Although I think I might need a new ink tank."

And Where Were You When You Heard Michael Jackson Died?

2009-07-12T20:21:00.004-04:00

As for myself, I was at Dendrite getting the photo taken for my visitor badge. I happened to look up at the television behind the security desk just as MJ's stretcher was wheeled out into the ambulance and the tragic news scrolled across the bottom of the screen. I know for a fact I had a Mr. Bill-meets-McCauley-Culkin-Home-Alone expression plastered on my face. I know this because it was memorialized on my visitors badge.

Unfotunately, as far as Andrew is concerned, I was forced to return the badge at the termination of my visit.

Adventures in why I need a new car

2009-06-29T21:31:00.011-04:00

Driving home from the YMCA today, I called ahead to make a request. I requested that Tom find the clear duct tape which I had purchased for an exorbitant $7 at the ramshackle hardware store on 7th Avenue. At the time, I had harbored the mistaken notion that I would use the clear duct tape to repair a ginormous hole in the Flower House that someone, which might have been me, ripped in it during some aggressive weedwacking.

Tom inquired with more trepidation than curiosity as to what the clear duct tape was needed for. I informed him that upon my arrival at work this morning, I had pressed the button to roll up my car window. But instead of it going up, I heard a loud clunk. The noise sounded enough like Henry Rollins that I turned down my iPod and tried again with the rolling up button. The window abruptly crashed down inside my car door.

I cursed like a sailor and jammed my fingers down through the rubber flaps on the door, using all the strength in my sweaty thumb and forefinger to yank the glass back out of the door. I propped it up precariously and it actually stayed up until after work when I slammed closed my trunk and the window violently plummeted back down into the nether regions of my car door. I resigned myself to driving around like my Grandpa Frank with the window fully open and my arm dangling out.

Tom was less resigned to me driving around like my Grandpa Frank with the window fully open and my arm dangling out. He asked me where I had put the clear duct tape and I told him to look in all the places where I most likely would have put it. He has a knack for finding things I don't even remember having. Nonetheless, the clear duct tape never did turn up. So my window is taped shut with regular duct tape. My Grandpa Frank was also a great fan of your regular duct tape. Besides hemming his pants and fixing his shoes, he periodically duct taped large items to the roof of his car for transport.

So I guess I am driving around like my Grandpa Frank.

Because I'm Allergic to Sulfites Like That

2009-06-18T21:41:00.003-04:00

On Saturday, we have the fancy wine-tasting party in Sea Girt. I'll be the one in the corner drinking beer and eating candy.

Review: City of New York

2009-06-11T17:48:00.005-04:00

If she calls out to you, New York City enchants you like a succubus. Her powerful allure washes over you; it envelopes you; it bewitches, tantalizes and mesmerizes you. She bleeds you of your innocence. She demands mercilessly high stakes and cold flawlessness. She requires relentless effort, expunging the complacent. And you love her even more for it.

Yelp Review of "Just Shades" -- a Specialty Store in SoHo

2009-05-30T10:01:00.006-04:00

If you need a lavender 8" x 4" oval lampshade, there's some peace of mind knowing a store like Just Shades exists and they probably have such a thing in stock. So when I saw this review two-star trashing the store on Yelp....

...I realized the dangers of giving computer access to an utterly self-absorbed callow-head. Just in case I ever hack into her Yelp account, I've prepared some reviews to post on her behalf. She probably won't even notice:

Vegetarian Deli - I can't believe they didn't have pastrami. I always get pastrami for lunch. Three stars but only because the counter boy was cute.

Whole Foods - I had a hankering for dim sum and I walked around the entire store looking for table service and a stubby pencil to write down my order. No luck. Two stars for not even trying.

Starbucks - It sucked. I wanted to buy a windshield wiper blade replacement for my Audi A4 and the barista said they didn't sell windshield wipers. One star for that rat house.

Found! Data for Future Taxidermic Analysis

2009-05-30T09:08:00.005-04:00

Date: 5/10/09 20:17

Found: One 3/8" steel ring washer at corner of Wolvenstraat and Hartenstraat, Amsterdam Canal District

Current Status: On dresser originally belonging to Alma Dick, 4 Colonial Court

Date: 5/17/09 19:11

Found: Galvanized hub bolt and washer assembly from undercarriage of large vehicle, in puddle at corner of Madison and 58th Street

Current Status: Top drawer of sideboard, 4 Colonial Court

Date: 5/25/09 17:20

Found: One dime and four pennies, parking lot by jungle gym, Riverbend Condominium Complex, New Brunswick

Current Status: Dime in possession of Nuchie T., four pennies, whereabouts currently unknown.

Right-handed Smithie Glove Problem: A Study

2009-05-24T17:52:00.031-04:00

I'd give my right arm to be ambidextrous. This way I could kiss the Glove Problem goodbye.

The first underpinning of the Problem is that I like my right hand, my hammer hand, in supple leather that fits like a glove. If I can't get a solid grip, my five-pound Uri Hofi hammer whips itself from my fingers and sails across the garage like a cannonball.

Generally, this never ends well.

The second underpinning of the problem is that I like my left hand in a chubby flame-retardant gauntlet, given that it often finds itself in, on, or about some really hot ass fire.

So here you have it. The Problem, as depicted below. One pair of hammer-handers. Left hand - good as new. Right hand - seen better days. Two pairs of fire-handers. Left hand - seen better days. Right hand- good as new.

Same exact point depicted below, enmass:

I've been scoping around for a lefty smithie over at the swapmeet.

I really took a shine to these new-fangled Kevlar IronClad numbers M&D got me for Christmas. Good grip, good fit. Thumbs up. I think I'm due for a new pair.

A hole is a good sign that something happened that's gonna leave a mark. I plan to let my fingerprints grow back, just to be safe.

A person needs a goodly quantity of handwear because if you dangle your grubbies inside the forge too long, your gloves heat up like convection ovens and things get crispy inside. The discomfort level ramps up from mild to a real sizzler, which is when you have to wrench off the steaming glove and throw it out on the driveway to cool off. After that, you need a fresh, sweetly cool glove at the ready. I go through about a glove an hour.

Check out my rad pile of safety gear.

Guest Post by Pop: The History of "The Tub"

2009-05-16T22:16:00.004-04:00

Me in "The Tub."
Me and Nutchie and his wife-beater and sour pudge head in The Tub.

When I was maybe a few years older, I barely remember dragging The Tub out underneath a drainage spout in the concrete wall edging the alley. We filled it up with water during a thunderstorm and practically got struck by lightening. I recall the eerie blue light.

- - - - - - - - -

After 40 years and at least 10 with a valueless-rendering hole in the base, we have finally sucked it up and discarded "The Tub".

Last Monday night after hours of deliberation, Mom and I decided to put "The Tub" out for the trash truck to take. But, the gods intervened and the trash takers did not opt to remove "The Tub".

Perhaps they felt it was not truly trash or they felt it should not be removed from its home, but maybe Stanlissteel, the goddess of The Tubs, made it invisible so it would not be seen to be removed.

The bottomline: after a storied history, "The Tub" lives... for yet another trash day!

Snuff Film at Lip Syncho De Mayo

2009-05-10T16:27:00.010-04:00

First I wasn't sure if Marc was vomiting over there in the corner, but when I saw the buck knife, I realized it was just some mischievous harikari. His shaving theatrics and stunning mongoose-like beauty underpinned the entire video sequence. Meanwhile, Janet, wrapped in a glorious white feather boa, egged on the proceedings with some randy episodes of tushy shaking and un-lipsyncmanlike whooping.

Stage right could barely contain MJ Andrew's dance on the floor in a round of downtempo pantomime. First, he's all nooooo, with the head shaking. Then there's some sidebar comments and beer drinking and Kabuki theatre references. Next comes a mimed sequence where he possibly unlocks a door and rides away on a smallish Huffy BMX bike. The grand finale is a bout of one-legged triple PG dirty dancing.

The lead singing trio, Tracie, Heather and Heather's various hand puppets and finger-guns, enjoyed karate high-kicks, surfing, barbering, choking, Charlie's Angels fighter chic voguing, boxing, mini-shopping, the monkey and some kind of dangerous war dance.

All in all, the performance made me weep. I still can't believe the shocking coincidence -- all two video entrants selcted the same obscure song. Great minds think fiendishly alike, Mr. Goodson.

Bubby R, Mama & the Birds and the Birds

2009-04-24T20:43:00.006-04:00

"When I was a girl, maybe twelve years old, my Mama said to me, 'What is it with the red-haired boy? The one that acts like a girl?'

I say, 'Mama! He's a feygela!'

My Mama doesn't understand these things. She came from the old country. She says to me, 'What's this, a feygela?'

I explained to her how it is.

Mama says, 'Gey Avek! You are kidding. He is a boy.'

Then we walked along. 'Takka? Really?' she says.

A little while later, I hear, 'Roite. The red-haired boy. A feygela!' And she shakes her head like this.

Non-Morning Person Waiting Room Smackdown

2009-04-21T20:13:00.006-04:00

One of my customers mentioned his wife got this Martha Stewart monthly calendar for Christmas. When to hang out your Easter egg flag. When to invite the fambo over for tiny sandwiches. When to stow away your toe peeper sandals for winter. All the important dates lined up like crisp croissants on a baking sheet.

As for himself, my customer thought the major pro of the calendar was that on one day in the spring, Martha advised calling up all your doctors and making all your appointments for the year. Meh. Not a bad idea, Martha. I told my customer I was on board with it.

I don't know why I set up an appointment earlier than the earth starts rotating. But what was done was done, so this morning, I slithered into the doctor's office at the appointed ungodly hour. First, I had a fight with the countergirl.

My insurance changed and she wanted me to fill out a bulging clipboard full of forms. Again. These boring ass forms I already filled out. At least once.

I told the countergirl that my birthday had not changed. Nor had my address, my emergency contact nor my family health history. Everything was exactly the same as the last time I cramped my hand doing her bidding. Plus why should I wearifully longhand pretty cursive out all my insurance information when, during the time it took me to tick off all the sections of the many forms which had not changed, she had photocopied my insurance card.

The countergirl remained stolidly unmoved. She stared at me soulfully. She had probably been up for hours.

I said, well, you have a photocopier, photocopy the forms I filled out the last time I was here and I will initial and re-date them.

She said, "No. I will not photocopy your forms." Overly sternly, I thought.

So I huffed back to my uncomfortable seat and wrote over the top of every section on every form, "Information Unchanged. See File." I used a .7mm rollerball.

Tom says I'm going to get a note in my permanent record.

The Paradox: We Consider Worthless What Has Made us Rich

2009-04-19T08:36:00.015-04:00

Pablo Picasso sits at the bar minding his own business, staring into the bottom of his Pernod snifter and trying to remember which one or more of his wives and/or girlfriends he currently lives with. Some dude rolls up and says to Picasso, "I am a great admirer of your art. Could you draw something for me?"

Picasso has some work ethic, so he answers, "Sure." He whips a pencil out of his leather European man-purse, grabs a bar napkin and spends ten minutes sketching up something. He hands it to the admirer. "That will be ten thousand dollars."

The admirer blanches speechless. Finally, he says, "But it took you ten minutes to do this!"

Picasso replies, "Yes, but it took me fifty years to learn how to do this in ten minutes. And that is what you are paying for."

What a noodler of an anecdote! Eventually, after you think about it, you understand the point is that the perfection of the end game is what counts, not how long or hard you day-labored.

I listened to one of those TedTalks today. I like TedTalks because they last a maximum of 18 power-packed minutes, which is approximately five minutes longer than my current attention span but still within a workable range. My new favorite genius is Juan Enrique and he came up with a doozie to rival Picasso.

Before the computer revolution, all the billions of Chinese and Indians supplied 40% of the world GDP. In 2007, their global percentage had dwindled to like 4.8%. That's odd because we all know that I.C.'s underpin the success of Silicon Valley. Not the Integreted Circuitboard I.C.'s, but the Indians and the Chinese I.C.'s.

Conundrum solved by Juan Enrique: it takes 3000 Americans in the U.S. to file one patent. It takes 6 MILLION Indians in India. Holy hell. Extreme Paper Pushing is bigger than Cricket out there on the sub-continent. Middle managers can wear white and sit around for 8 to 10 hour tournaments called "Meetings" or "The Approval Process" or whatever other kinds of sporty play captivates a crowd and involves as many outfielders as possible.

Obviously, it's not hands but brains, and an environment that nurtures the use of brains, that is the commodity of real value nowadays. The wisdom to come up with a way to push less paper and reach a superior end game faster. The wisdom to devise a better computer chip or better robot or more beautiful song or more thrilling movie.

And that's why I'm so disturbed by the paradox. What we are willing to pay for versus what is of value.

Take the invention of the paper clip for example. One piece of folded up metal is worth ten cents. The ingeniousness to fold it up that way in the first place is the priceless part. Right? Seriously, am I right?

Say the woman who invented the paper clip showed it to some manufacturer, who paid her ten cents for the prototype paperclip and then slyly copied out millions of paper clips and made a fortune. The manufacturer paid the woman a fair price for a piece of folded metal, ten cents. Maybe the manufacturer paid her double its value: twenty cents.

Do you believe the woman was fairly compensated? If you do, then go ahead and help yourself to your vendors' business processes or next-gen thinking. Feel free to skulk around Pirate Bay. Enjoy the tangible culminations of other people's years and decades of bloody fingers, insurance-less ill-health and single-minded focus. After all, a .doc, an .mp3, a .mov, or of any other file has an inherent value of, well, nothing; so their work is worth nothing.

Pablo Picasso was wrong.

Off the Grid with a Purple Lampshade

2009-04-12T20:30:00.007-04:00

The little subway map I carry around in my pocket only covers Manhattan. Brooklyn is uncharted wilderness. And any time you skulk into the unknown, you really need to be hauling around a purple lampshade.

Yep, that's how I showed up at the Tarot Club meeting in Park Slope. Looking bewildered, drenched by seriously enormous rain drops, and accompanying this must-have purple lampshade. Back in Manhattan, the lampshade had seemed like a solid idea. I picked it up in the Just Shades store, which is so convenient right there on the way to the R Train stop on Prince Street. Just before the little R Train yellow route line ends suddenly at the edge of the known mapped universe.

"So who's your friend?" asked one of the tarot readers upon my tardy arrival because the R train apparently covers some distance over the river and through the wood.

I introduced my purple lampshade and took a seat. My first reading partner sported two large hoop earrings and a frilly scarf. Turns out, he does his 9 to 5 as an operations manager for the transit authority. I should have asked him for a more robust subway map but I was distracted by his wild fits of giggling.

Low Speed Mayhem in a Foot Cast:: On the Road with Pop

2009-04-09T20:37:00.015-04:00

Dad smashed up his ankle pulling an over-cocky down a double black diamond trail. He got what looks like a rack and pinion steering system installed in his new bionic foot. Too cool for crutches, Dad elected to rent a knee-scooter. He's getting his money's worth:

"I just got back from a 3.5 miler on the scooter. I went with my friend Owen from down the street.

"Owen is a party to my scootering."

"I clocked myself at 14:46 minutes per mile. I was moving. Yesterday, I'd thought I hit my plateau at 15:04 minutes a mile. And that was a full 45 seconds faster than my previous personal record, which was the 15:49s I did last week. Owen was surprised. He had to break into a run two times to keep up with me. According to the GPS, I topped out at 7.05 mph. Going down the hill by the high school."

"Grade and road surface are key when speed is your top priority."

"I took the scooter out into my shop and adjusted all the settings. I lowered the handlebars for comfort and aerodynamics. I tightened up all the wing nuts and I sprayed Teflon on the wheel axles and the handlebar joists."

"I would wear my bike gloves and maybe my helmet, but really, what would the StyleGuy snicker about that? Street fashion concerns me. I might get one of those orange flags so I can take the scooter down Royal Road. There's a lot of traffic."

"I've scootered 28.2 miles so far. I don't track my speed when I'm scootering on errands, but I do count it toward lifetime total distance. Like today I went to the bank, the post office and the library for a total of 2 round-trip miles. But I didn't check my mph at any point."

"I don't know if the scooter was really built for distance riding. It seems to be holding up fine. Except for the tires."

It's Not Easy Growing Up Green

2009-04-04T12:06:00.008-04:00

I really found it embarrassing to be standing out by the side of the highway, waiting for one of the other girl scouts to roar by in the backseat of her mother's station wagon. My own mother refused to drive me up to the meetings herself. "What a waste of non-renewable fossil fuel," she proclaimed. "We live right on the way."

And so Tuesday evenings I found myself on the shoulder of Route 934 in my green sash with a pack of magic markers and glitter glue for Craft Hour. Fortunately, Beth's mom's car had a broken muffler so I had solid advance warning that my time for arm-flailing approached. When I spied her car rounding the bend, I stepped out into traffic and waited for my wood-paneled ride to slow to a roll before I made a running leap into the backseat.

I recall Beth's mom, her curly 70's afro perm kinky in the wind sucking through her rolled-down window. Glancing back, she said loudly in her annoyed voice, "If this is a carpool, why doesn't YOUR mother drive some times?"

And I remember contemplating whose mother didn't understand what was going on.

A Weekend at Pukle's: The Woes of Irony

2009-03-28T18:00:00.014-04:00

Tom had the extra bone in his giant man foot removed last week. Now he's in the "toes-above-nose" phase of the recovery timeline. He spends his days either on the couch lobbing grenades onto his tiny menacing iShoot enemies, or careening around on his sweet little knee-scooter. I set up a playdate for him.

In a fantastic coincidence of both timing and anatomical involvement, two weeks ago my Dad smashed up his ankle pulling an over-cocky down a double black diamond trail. He got what looks like a rack and pinion steering system installed in his new bionic foot. He is also in the Lie-About and Infrequent Bathing portion of the recuperation regimen.

On Saturday, exactly according to plan, Tom and the D-mon hunkered down for a weekend movie marathon. Meanwhile, I was sort of counting on my wonderful mother of extremely tasty cooking to just double up the portions of her meals on wheels. I mean, the extra workload for one more patient is incremental at most. Plus I was hoping to, you know, leave.

It was an ingenious scheme all the way around.

That is, until my cute Momster came down with a catastrophic viral infestation and spent all night and all day puking into a wastepaper basket in the spare bedroom. Thus increasing my patient load from a mild-mannered one to a really demanding three. Now I know why the nurses wear those hideously comfortable shoes.

All day it was ice for nibbling upstairs and ice for sutures downstairs. Trips to the store for ginger-ale and saltines and Febreeze to spray on the two never-nudes' stank feet. I constructed a really efficient methodology for dumping vomit.

Everybody owes me one. That's the good news.

Further Analysis on Conversation: A Research Project

2009-03-24T20:05:00.004-04:00

Upon reflection, I realized that some people can tell absolutely hilarious work stories. Work stories!

What is the difference between the exceptional stories that make you choke on your tongue from laughing (or crying) so hard... and the interminable ones? I think I figured it out.

Maybe, you start out with a short version. Very short. Heavy on the plot. Then you wait for a question. You answer the question. Then you wait for another question. Which you answer. The story becomes a group effort. When there are no more questions, the story is over.

You are an Egg. Get a Timer: A Research Project

2009-03-22T19:14:00.011-04:00

Good conversation engages both mind and heart. I realize I'm generalizing here, but as is often the case when I generalize, I don’t care. An article in the Times mentioned that a vital ingredient of convivial talk is that nobody pops off for longer than three minutes at a clip. After three minutes, it’s not a conversation, it’s a lecture.

I have been surreptitiously timing certain parties engaged in a lengthy yada-yada. Including myself, although I solemnly vow that it won’t happen again, because I’m now championing a three-minute smackdown rule.

A good conversation purveys an exchange of ideas, camaraderie… a connection to other human beings. My hopes for the evening shatter when it becomes clear I’ve unwittingly conscripted myself into a live studio hostage situation for somebody’s All about Me amateur hour. So-called Conversation Vampires suck the life out of a pleasant evening. You can pick them out by the glazed look that comes over them when discussion wanders away from themselves.

Here’s something else that I’ve uncovered in my research, from the standpoint of an avid and frequent listener who occasionally even takes notes. A good story is about the story, not about the star(s) of the story. Unless you’re Brangelina. Of course.

I mean, it’s a conversation, not Masterpiece Theatre. In conversational talk, the plot is more important than the character development; I’ve come to understand. You’ll see what I mean when somebody starts narrating a dramatic encounter with people you have never met. The plot may be salacious enough or could have the potential to be funny. Or something. Except it is sandwiched inside twenty minutes of biographical information and in-depth character studies. Don’t forget the characters under discussion are normally people for whom crazy means breaking out a holiday-themed tie. How long can you take listening to a dictation of their resumé, favorite food groups and most famous quotable quotes? I’m writing a letter to the CIA because I have a good alternative to waterboarding.

I also think a good story needs to be about something other people, namely me, enjoy hearing about. For example, you need to be a really high-level advanced chatmaster to take on the challenge of a work story. I’m not your manager, so unless you’re going to pay me a consulting slash psychoanalysis fee or you are willing to subsequently endure MY equally impressive tales of woe, for the love of god keep a lid on your unruly customer and your slacker employee. I suspect that myself, like practically everybody else including even the most radically OCD Type A's, leave work everyday hoping to leave work.

"It's all right to hold a conversation, but you should let go of it now and then."

Richard Willard Armour (1906-89)

"It was impossible to get a conversation going, everybody was talking too much."

Yogi Berra

"A good quartet is like a good conversation among friends interacting to each other's ideas."

Stan Getz

"True over-worders are not looking for your feedback. Short of you falling on the floor and gagging or something, I doubt they'd even notice if you threw in a comment about a rubber hand."

Fred Richter

Andrew Gets his Watch: The Untold Story

2009-03-19T22:04:00.007-04:00

March 6 on the island of St. Lucia, two sources independently revealed that Tracie, Bride, told Michael, Best Man, that Lynn, Senior Stylist, had something important to tell him in twenty minutes. Not just then, but in twenty minutes. Michael harbored a trustingly low level of suspicion in regard to the suspenseful 20-minute stay-put directive. Especially given the tropical preposterousness of standard delay-makers such as traffic, long lines at the deli, or a spellbinding episode of House Hunters.

***Twenty Minutes Later***

Upon questioning, Lynn informed Michael that a blue bag had been stashed in his closet. Michael was to present the blue bag to Andrew, Groom, at a poignant moment prior to the vows ceremony. On a sidebar, Lynn also relayed that Tracie had asserted Andrew would recognize the blue bag and know what it contained.

Micheal hustled back to Plantation House and located the blue bag secreted in his closet, right next to his gumshoes. A cursory inspection revealed a smaller bag inside the larger blue bag. Michael placed the smaller bag in his room safe, assuming by the fancy packaging that the contents were of some value. He took the larger bag and placed inside his dirty laundry, which he subsequently toted back to Santa Clara, California.

At approximately 4pm, just prior to the Cocktail Demi-Hour, Kully, Wedding Planner, whispered to Michael that the poignant moment was Now, and to deliver the package. Apparently, Lynn, or perhaps Tracie herself, had congealed a foolproof Back Up Plan. Poignant moment package instructions were also dispatched to Kully.

Andrew did not recognize the packaging initially, but he did in fact recognize the gift, an oblong watch with two dials on it. He had admired it weeks earlier in Ivette's jewelry store. The watch also featured a black leather wrist band with an ornery, unrelenting clasp. Kully had to put the watch on the bedazzled and woozy groom.

Uncle Ronnie's Childhood Memories

2009-03-14T15:27:00.001-04:00

"Your father licked my eyeballs. That’s why I turned out this way. I was on track to be a surgeon. Destined for John Hopkins. Your father would hold me down and lick my eyeballs. He was chasing me one time and I tripped and knocked myself out. After I woke up I spoke only Spanish and thought my name was Victor Valentino."

Bubby R Recognizes Exellent Cross-Dressing

2009-03-12T21:05:00.001-04:00

"You went to a 60's party? One time I went to a party where all the women dressed up as men and all the men dressed up as women. One man was gorgeous. I mean, he was a good-looking man, but as a woman? Wow. What a stunner."

Synchronized Swimming in Marigot Bay, St. Lucia.

2009-03-09T23:08:00.000-04:00

The synchronized swim in Marigot Bay spontaneously generated. This lack of rehearsal proved dangerous when Andrew was kicked several times on and about the head.

Kully did not participate. He floated like a cadaver nearby.

Warren also did not participate. He was unaware of the goings on until it was all over. He waxed mildly enthusiastic about the possibility that the synchronized swim had been executed in secret, which is why he did not know about it.

Heather also did not engage in any synchronization of swim. She stayed in the boat because she was cold. Allegedly.

The Gift of the Flower

2009-03-09T00:35:00.001-04:00

Just before sunset, during Jeannie and Ray’s reading celebrating the vows of love, José sat quietly beside his wife Patti, his hands in his lap.

Suddenly, a glossy pink flower drifted out of the sky and settled in his fingers. He gave it to Patti under the shadow of the Pitons and the light of the setting sun.

A Terrible Idea

2009-03-07T18:45:00.000-05:00

The exit poll bar-chart resembled two Piton mountains. Disregarding statistical outliers and those too drunk to speak coherently, most guests attending the week-long celebration of Tracie and Andrew stated for the record that they most enjoyed either the Catamaran excursion on Monday or alternately, the 60’s Party on Tuesday. Both events were terrible ideas.

“I told Tracie the Catamaran reservation had been stolen by a one-armed man,” possibly confessed Kully, Senior Party Planner. Kully had spent a week last summer trying to talk the headstrong bride out of the terrible Catamaran idea. He locked in on three key downsides of marine pleasure crafts:

Being stuck on a boat all day baking in the sun with the same people,
It is impossible to dance at sea without looking like you have an inner ear infection, and
10% of people suffer from seasickness, and said seasickness lasts approximately 3 days after disembarking. This would knock out 3-4 people and severely disrupt the seating chart for the reception.

Plus, the whole concept of boat excursions is completely taboo amongst the SPF 40 set. Undeterred, the strength of Tracie’s conviction filled the air with the faint odor of two-stroke oil. The trip was a go. And this was a good thing.

“We all bonded in a I’m-drunk-and-retarded-and-so-are-you” fashion. When you’ve all had too much beer, this makes a lot of sense,” Jenny explained.

Kully himself reconsidered his terrible idea stance less than an hour off the coast of the island. “I very much enjoyed lying in the netting talking with Tracie. We need to do more of that.”

On the other hand, Kully's 60's Party was a terrible idea according to the bride, who probably immediately reversed her viewpoint at the first sight of grand-prize winner Warren in a diaper. Which is what he wore in the 60's.

Or maybe the turning point came as she lipsynched Proud Mary backed up by Heather and Michael and featuring some synchronized money maker shakin.’ Although it could have come later when somehow boots seemed like a logical choice for swimwear.

In any event, Sharon’s favorite moment, besides Michael’s Best Man speech, was jumping into the pool after the party including the “keep the wig/lose the wig” conversation with Lynn.

José and Patti were of course an oft-mentioned highlight, as were Kully’s pants.

Crafty Upstate New Yorker Selects Stalker to Pet Sit

2009-03-05T08:16:00.000-05:00

Warren, born in 1965 and currently residing in Albany, three hours from anything good, left his beloved dog in the care of his stalker. “She was sitting in her car near my driveway as I was preparing to leave for the airport. It was a very convenient option.”

Upon questioning, Warren revealed that Savoy, a St. Bernard, had been named prior to coming into his possession and that he usually refers to her affectionately as “Poo Head.” Originally, Warren had envisioned strapping a small barrel of spiced rum to Savoy’s collar for a safety-first take on the possibility of hypothermic emergency. Subsequent to looking into it, Warren discovered that dog-ready small barrels cost in the overpriced neighborhood of $85. It was time to get his craft on, revealed undisclosed sources on the same side of the dinner table at the Mango Tree restaurant on 3/4/09.

“I completely disregarded the most logical suggestion to epoxy the barrel to the dog’s neck hair, despite the obvious advantages of enabling the hypothermic victim to simply clip off the small barrel with any ordinary scissor,” recounted Warren. Instead, Warren firmly espoused gluing the barrel directly to clean-shaven dog skin, a plan fraught with an asymotic number of serious flaws. For example, the hypothermic victim would need to drink the rum with the dog lying on top of him.

“I do not see any problem in drinking rum with a St. Bernard lying on top of you while in the throes of hypothermia,” declared Warren.

A panel of experts subsequently talked amongst themself and ultimately agreed the best answer would probably be to just give the small barrel to the stalker.

Wearing my Spy Pants in Nooch

2009-02-28T22:07:00.000-05:00

The second I saw his black and white striped wrist-warmers, I knew I would spend the entire dinner hoping he wouldn't notice me spying. He was waiting for his dinner date to come back from the men's room when our waiter, sporting a white belt and striking black dangly earrings, seated us right next to him. For a second I considered telling him his wrist-warmers looked cozy, but then I didn't because it would have blown my cover.

Apparently, he and his dinner date slash boyfriend had just moved in together. His boyfriend reminded me of Sean Penn playing Harvey Milk, although with less height and charm. They debated the bedroom furniture arrangement (desk, TV, bed, or bed, desk, TV) right before the two of them started lovingly arm wrestling. Milk won.

I considered asking him where he'd found his maroon tone-on-tone eyeglasses. I'm in the market for spectacles. The pair I got from See on Greenwich Aveneue fling themselves off my face at the slightest Looking at Something Short situation. But I kept my queries to myself because their waiter had rolled up with their check. They both studied it intently.

Milk asked him if he had a dollar, but he did not have a dollar. He had seventy five cents. Milk did not take the seventy five cents. Milk shoved two twenties in the bill tray and waited for change.

As they got up to leave, a brooch dropped out of his amber-plaid messenger-style man purse. The brooch was a black rectangle shape overlaid by a red star and accentuated by frilly gold swirls that may have been a "W." Or maybe not, it was hard to tell. I didn't notice the brooch on the banquette seat until they were gone, so I handed the brooch to a waiter. Not the one with the dangly earings.

Walking down the sidewalk on 17th staring back into the restaurant through the glass, I noticed all the heteros were segregated together on the other side of the restaurant.

Saturday Night Flashback

2009-02-22T20:46:00.000-05:00

As soon as we stepped off the PATH I told Tom to make sure he didn't go balls up after too much draft beer in plastic cups because I would seriously consider leaving him in Hoboken. It'd been fifteen years since my last Hoboken-a-go-go topped off with a Belgian waffle at the diner alongside the church crowd, but I vaguely distinctly remember the pitfalls inherent in one square mile of bars. Where even the menfolk hold each other's hair while they vomit curbside.

Four bands that hadn't played together for a decade mostly remembered their old songs for a reunion show at Maxwells. The MellowTraumatics did it up right. Poppily songs, tight play, sultry singer. The crowd went wild.

An unbenownst-to-me star of Ugly Betty fronted the next band and several music critics in the press box had a field day. Me and Glenn agreed there are two forms of inaccessible: the math rockers and sludge-core maniacs who are actually decent musicians but hellbent on some sort of inexplicable musical tirade, as opposed to the simple, guitarded honkledoonkeys. Ugly Betty Crew fell squarely in this latter category. Ugly Betty boy isn't famous enough to be that self-indulgent.

We stayed through Band Three, which rocked. In a frisky early 00 kind of way.

On the train ride home I sat next to an Asian kid in black sneakers. He read rows and rows of Chinese characters on an iPhone with a brutally smashed screen. I spied on him.

60's Party Prep and a Lesson in Cardigan Appreciation

2009-02-14T16:48:00.000-05:00

Asking my father for fashion advice is always a risky proposition. Especially since he started wearing around a woodland-print cardigan he found in the basement and telling anyone who asks that it is a quality woolen.

"We're going to a party, what'd you wear in the 60's, Pop?"

"Fornication pants."

"What? What??"

"Fornication pants. High-waters. With shit kickers, a wide tie, and Woody Allen spectacles."

Praise Jesus the only thing he brought up from the basement was a woodland-print cardigan.

Local Instigator Makes Trouble at CMoM Children's Museum

2009-02-08T19:32:00.000-05:00

These two youngsters at left are playing a nice game of Plinko at the Children's Museum of Manhattan just prior to the area lapsing into a snake pit of anarchy and warmongering at 1:30pm on February 2. After hustling from the brouhaha under the watchful glare of nearby parents, Uncle Tom, 40, said, "After the whole room broke out in a free-for-all street fight, I just left."

According to Tom, he had been innocently playing with Nephew Jackson, 1, who had crawled behind the Plinko machine to the backside where a high ledge and exposed electrical outlets didn't appear to be entirely child-friendly. Tom would call out a color and Jackson allegedly found a Plinko ball in that hue and handed it over the top of the machine to his attentive uncle.

"It was good fun until this show-off kid started it all. Every time I named a color, he would find a ball and chuck it at me. Sometimes multiple balls. That kid really had a keen eye as well as a powerful arm. The other children found him very inspirational."

Despite conflicting recollections of the sequence of events, Tom maintains his version. "The next thing I knew, a whole rebel faction had piled on top of Jackson behind the Plinko machine blindly flinging balls with wild abandon. They were bouncing off the ceiling. I was helplessly caught in the cross fire. What else could I do but grab my nephew and evacuate?"

Summer of '76: Projectile Beetles vs. Pantyhose

2009-02-04T22:07:00.001-05:00

My biker gang rode up to the church on Sunday around ten a.m, right before services ended. We parked our banana seat rides behind the maintenance shed. Our ammo, hairy legged Japanese beetles, clicked around in glass jars with air holes punched in the lids. We were after the pantyhose.

With a lot of loud yet completely stealthy whispering, we crouched under the shrubbery, waiting for the congregation to stream out onto the sidewalk.

T minus two minutes, we broke out the drinking straws. Except we called them blowdarts.
We rammed a japanese beetle inside the muzzle of the straw, waited for a set of pantyhose to stride within firing range, and blew like a trumpet player into the straw. Thunk. Total panty-monium... some dowdy lady, high kicks and shrieking. An eight year-old's ultimate dream. Although.

Fraught with a dangerous underbelly that to this day makes me cringe and gag convulsively. One Sunday, it all went terribly wrong.

I was premature. I went for the straw before the deep inhale needed for sure and straight fire. The japanese beetle sucked in tonsilbound. I had to pick its sharp furry feet and sticky antennae off my tongue. It was gaggifyingly horrifying but I learned my lesson. I left the thug life behind.

Until we learned how to bottle up leeches from the creek down by the Route 934 bridge.

For All You Grocery Shoppers... Breaking Laces at the Rockwood Music Hall

2009-02-02T00:23:00.000-05:00

No time for fornication

but once I quit my paper route
she'll want my body

Did he really say that? Yeah, I think he did.

Going in, I had no expectations other than some chick named Jill told me she was friends with the drummer. But Breaking Laces totally put a little salsa on my tortilla chip. It was top-shelf spicy sauce magnified by the Rockwood, a tiny tiny brick-walled hole in the L.E.S. How tiny is it? If someone in the band did a high kick they'd probably take down the bartender.

The bass player looked like Dave Faulkner should he become a surfer. The singer had a Death Cab for Cutie moonfaced vibe going on. Although unlike the lead singer of Death Cab during the autumn of 2005, he did not feel the need to demonstrate he can play the drums by firing up a seven minute solo on a miniature drum kit, which I did not feel accentuated my overall concert experience at the time nor subsequently.

In addition to his mad pipes and feisty lyrics, the frontman of Breaking Laces also laid down some entertaining banter. Like the comment about a song named Megan which his girlfriend Sarah figured out wasn't about her because she's quick like that.

As far as their musical influences go, they have a different one on a song-by-song, sometimes stanza-by-stanza basis. It's like an audio patchwork quilt of musical inspirations. Besides Death Cab, I detected Guster, Chevelle, Nirvana, BRMC, Breaking Benjamin (So Cold), Audible, Lifehouse (?!), snippets of the Disturbed, OK Go's first album, Hawthorne Heights, maybe the Lemonheads, BNL or along those lines... The clumps of Other Bands makes for one hell of a killer awesome fiesta platter live show. Although it occured to me Breaking Laces might need a little more time in the oven for all the juices to mingle and come into their own.

Whatever. I loved the show. Their albums rock.

ADT Sticker Deters New Jersey Jungle Creatures

2009-01-25T21:31:00.000-05:00

Our next-door neighbor told me she wants to install a home security system. So the hyenas in the woods out back don't come crashing through her living room windows.

Found! Data for Future Taxidermic Analysis

2009-01-25T20:44:00.001-05:00

Date: 1/24/09 00:14

Found: One Dime in World Trade Center subway station at Chambers Street

Current Status: In right front pocket of blue jeans

Date: 1/24/09 13:40

Found: One zinc-plated 1/2" round washer on corner of 5th and 55th

Current Status: Flew out of pocket while dislodging cellular telephone 1/25 01:14, one bounce, and dropped down elevator shaft at 7th floor landing of 270 West 17th Street

Free Hot Dogs and Raw Sugah Any Day of the Week

2009-01-18T13:53:00.000-05:00

Nothing against straight party-planners, but when it comes to naming the affair, gays really shine. I have assembled a list of my favorite titular events, assiduously researched for almost 8 minutes flipping through various periodicals while Tom takes great pains not to become associated in any way with my highbrow endeavor:

Bingo Balls Bingo
Ass Circus
Bum Bum Night
Lesbo-a-Go-Go
Suck my Diskoteque
Cock Fight!
Sperm
Whip It Out!
Queer, Beer, Rear

Come one,come all!

References: NeXt Magazine, December 2008, p 32-34. Go! Magazine, January 2009, p 63-66. TONY Magazine, January 15-21, random pages.

Safe Driving Tip for Human Lovers

2009-01-13T21:05:00.000-05:00

If you are driving along and suddenly a horse and buggy pulls out right in front of you, lay down across the passenger seat and aim for the horse.

You would already know this if you took driver's ed in Amish country.

Pick up the Phone: It's the Truth Calling

2009-01-06T22:50:00.001-05:00

Tom repeatedly accuses me of being a bully in the rack. As it turns out, Tom's a big smack talker. I occupy a wee sliver of the overall available bedspace. May the force of justice prevail!

This is Tom in the sack. Tom's official designated side of said sack is on the LEFT. Please note the vast unoccupied wilderness in this leftist zone. And in case you insist math be an ingredient in your drink of truthjuice:

39 full-blooded inches, Tom's butt to bedside. Here's another view of this delicious wasteland. Camera shot taken over the top of the curiously inert husband in question:

In stark contrast to all this sprawl, please note the below. 15 puny inches. This is the distance from the leftmost edge of moi to bedside right:

In the future it's going to be a little more of a vigorous style of slumber. I'm going to arise at various intervals, decamp, and then get in bed on the other side. This would appear to be the savvy move.

New Years 2009

2009-01-01T20:23:00.000-05:00

Lynn and Michael completed their kitchen project before us, despite my considerable effort eyeballing millions, if not thousands, of tile backsplash samples. I consider myself squarely part of the problem. But sometimes home improvement is best achieved via evolution, as opposed to an intelligent design approach.

Slowly, as the doors fall off our kitchen cabinets one by one, a new open-air modern casual chic design is revealed. And someday, our humping antelope-themed formica scullery will metamorphosize naturally into Lynnie and Michael's kitchen. It will be beautiful and airy and sleek. Hopefully, much to Charles Darwin's continued and bitter disappointment, I will live to see the day.

Until then, let me state for the record there is no better way to ring in the new year than in the company of your favorite favorites polishing off Asian food in incredibly stylish glitter 2009 sunglasses and party hats.

Found! Data for Future Taxidermic Analysis

2008-12-28T10:55:00.000-05:00

Date: 12/27/08

Found: $8.75 in second car of 1:23pm off-peak Mid-Town Direct to Penn Station

Current Status: Colin McGrath's tip jar after performance at Rockwood Music Hall, Allen Street, LES, Manhattan.

Another Brick in the Wall

2008-12-25T15:18:00.000-05:00

James E. Campbell, the principal of my all-American white trash rodeo of a high school, had devised a fool-proof system to guarantee posters hung on campus were official: he would sign them all in the lower right-hand corner. Unfortunately for James, I had fifteen periods of Graphic Art Shop a week and a hellbent obsession to plaster Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd lyrics up and down the corridors of higher learning. I mean, how deep is it when Robert Plant sings? I had a responsibility to spread the genius.

(I saw a lion he was standing alone with a tadpole in a jar.)

Graphic art shop nestled across the hall from Wood Shop, Metal Shop and Ag Shop. I did a little stint in Wood Shop but sniffing glue in the backroom with the rest of the class really wasn't my thing. Metal shop doubled as a free labor internment auto mechanic camp for the bus depot. And the Aggies kept to themselves, identifiable in their gang 4H jackets. But graphic art shop, well, it featured some interesting advantages:

There was a dark room.
Mr. Kreider fancied himself not so much a teacher as a print shop operator. He rode the school printing press like the father in A Christmas Story rode the oil furnace in the basement. The fact that 20-odd teenagers happened to be in his immediate vicinity never really captured his interest or attention. It didn't much register if some or all of those teenagers disappeared for lengthy and random intervals.
We had an unlimited supply of typesetting equipment, paper of all sizes and rubber stamp fixins.

On the downside, our apathetic ink-smeared teacher would select one sacrificial lamb each class as his assistant to run the printing press. He'd make you keep an eye on the paper rollers. Cross your fingers nothing would go awry, because if you touched the press, there was a solid 50/50 you'd be lit up by an electric shock transforming you into paralyzed Andy Gibb until you fell on the floor and your hand lost contact with the steel.

I made it a point to be as inconspicuous as possible at the top of the hour. I had my aforementioned obsession to attend to.

(But but but around the town it was well known when they got home at night their fat and psychopathic wives would thrash them within inches of their lives...)

First, we collected a random sampling of official posters featuring the official James E. Campbell signature from a cross section of campus locations. As long as you had a lavatory pass, no one would bother you if you were out and about in between bells. Luckily we in Graphic Arts Shop were honing our craft and probably a reputation for irritable bowel syndrome. We manufactured a skid of first-rate lav pass forgeries. There were a lot of entrepreneurs at AC High School. Most of them sold speed, pot and meth. We Graphic Art Shoprats sold forged documents and rubber stamps of teachers' signatures. You could custom-order your dad's if you paid up front and brought in a clean original.

After an in-depth handwriting analysis spanning at least four hours and involving practically everyone in Graphic Art Shop, we fashioned a prototype of James E. Campbell's John Hancock. This prototype was taken into the dark room and burned onto film, then onto a press plate. From there, it was as simple as printing 1000 copies on poster-sized paper. Suddenly, the hallways were filled with much more colorful signage options and my dream of plastering the poetry of classic rock the entire way up and down C Hall was realized.

Through this experience, I picked up on the crucial nature of details, the value of teamwork, and that you can't rely on glue-sniffers for even relatively simple tasks. It was probably the most I'd learned all year.

(If there's a bustle in your hedgerow...)

The Blurry Trajectory of Irony

2008-12-19T22:51:00.000-05:00

Foregoing the bliss of ignorance, I stepped up to the newspaper machine.

Clink. I deposited quarters in the slot, pulled open the hinged door. The newspapers were piled up inside. I leaned over and grabbed one. My glasses fell off and landed inside the machine. The door slammed shut.

Channeling Great Grammy Frimmer: Smackdown in China Town

2008-12-11T20:21:00.000-05:00

Bubby R always said Great-Bubby Frimmer hoisted thrifty to a radically new level. Fabric shopping with her... oy vey. It always turned into a farshlepte krenk already. She'd haggle with the clerk at Woolworths, for the love of Got.

Suddenly, I recalled this ancient family kvetching in the middle of the whole affair on Canal Street. Actually I was on Broadway, just south of that enormous kinky reggae impenetrable sidewalk swarm that goes on down there 24-7. But I was not there to buy a Rastafarian bobblehead. I was there because I couldn't go back to the Lower East Side, where I had overwhelmed myself in the claustrophobic labyrinth textile warehouse firetraps. They made me all shvitsy. I suffered a panic attack in the woolens aisle and had to call Lynn to talk me down.

That's why I went on the Yelp! and pinpointed a fabric storefront of managable proportion. Despite the risks to my psychological well-being, I was hellbent for Velvet. I had this grand vision to create a decadent table strewn with velvet and set with a magnificent feast.

And thankfully it was a eureka moment there on the fringes of Chinatown. Out front the fabric store was an industrial laundry cart filled to the brim with scraps of faux fur, shimmery satin and velvet. So perfect for an opulent banquet fit for pirate.

I picked out half the cart before I realized nothing had a price on it. I hauled my take inside the store and found the alter kaker shop owner.

"How much?"

He picked up the piece on the top of my pile. "$5 for this one. And for this one.... $8."

And instantly, like magic, I turned into Bubby F. "What?! Gonif. $5? $8? I'm a shnook to you? See that stain? See that rip? I'll do you this favor and give you $2 tops for that one and $4 for this one."

We went through the ENTIRE MOUNTAIN of fabric in this fashion. Approximately an hour later we had dug down to the last scrap... a fragment of electric blue feather boa. This is when the moment turned contentious and the bickering dragged on for long enough that both of us forgot the total price we had previously agreed to. The shop owner threw up his hands and spat "$40 for the lot of it. That's it. Take it or leave it."

I decided to take it, tokhis oyfn tish, but when I got up to the cash register I only had $38 in crumpled bills. The cashier took it.

Zay Gezunt.

Please Claim: Foreign Objects Present in Our House Subsequent to Banquet of Sir Francis Drake

2008-12-07T10:28:00.000-05:00

One Wooden Sword (Painted)
Two Handbags (Black Coach and Decadent Fuchsia Number)
One Seasoned Fish Head on a Stake with Tinsel
One Small Treasure Chest Containing Spices (Cinnamon, Nutmeg) and eight Chuckie Cheese Golden Tokens
One Black Lace Shawl
Turret-less Brownie Castle that keeps getting smaller every time I go in the kitchen.

Ask and Ye Shall Recieve: CraigsList Delivers

2008-11-30T20:01:00.000-05:00

No one would ever accuse me of being slightly OCD because slightly is an adjective I rarely manage to achieve.

Right now I'm all over CraigsList again. But this time, I'm the buyer. I got the crazy flipper fingers scrolling through lists of used furniture and household oddities at least twice a day. Ha ha, you know I meant every twelve minutes.

When I hit refresh, bloop bloop bloop, day or night, new posts dance before my eyes like sugar plum fairies. Good clean fun only available within densely populated areas. All these things I never dreamed I could drag home for such small scheckle. So far, I've bought Christmas lights ($10), an electric disco ball ($10), a fuzzy rug ($90), an iron ($5), a fancy teapot ($20) and aromotherapy essentials ($5).

This is where the hangers come in.

The ad said the hangers were new, wooden, 80 for $30. I asked if I could get 40ish for $15. Seller agreed to the terms. Except she had a trick up her mild-mannered sleeve. I had to throw away my large to-go coffee container because the whole episode rapidly turned into a two-handed operation.

We shelled out our $15, and she gave us our 40 hangers. Except she threw in a ginormous box of about 200 more hangers as a parting gift.

Holy sweet merciful fuck. This box of hangers dwarfed regular-sized boxes of hangers and presented unique physically demanding challenges. People took great pains to avoid us teetering down the sidewalk. I really needed that whole cup of coffee and cursed more than was probably entirely necessary. But in the end, our reckless endangerment of others was worth it. All my pants now have homes of their own. So do my pajamas, towels and socks.

Perhaps vous is in need of a sturdy hanger to dangle your finery? 50 cents each, two free with purchase of a dozen.

I love the CraigsList.

Found! Data for Future Taxidermic Analysis

2008-11-25T13:23:00.000-05:00

Date: 11/25/08
Found: One Dime in Second Floor Ladies Room, 1719 Route 10 East, Parsippany NJ.
Current Status: In back right pants pocket of brown chinos, hanging in closet at residence.

Are we there yet?

Not so fast, Nuchie

January 14 Scandinavian Club minutes

A rare and spectacular clusterfuck : Bring it on Minus the Bear

Umbrella Scandal declared Completely Outrageous by Melissa

Tom's Charity #Fail

This fricassee tastes like paper

Meeting Minutes: Scandinavian Club : November 12, 2011

*snakke*snakke*snakke*snakke*snakke*

Banned for Life by NYC Tarot Reading Practice Club : The Triumph of my Ejection

At Least I Can See The Crazed Woodsman Clearly

Really Awesome Marmot Victimized by Hoary Squirrel : Episode 1.1 : Real Rodents of the Savannah

Swedish Club Minutes 10-8-11

It's like the Scapel of Flashlights

Caught in a Web of Lies

My Dad. Kardashian. NBA.

Tripping the Light Fantastic in Zumba Class

Is there a 3 foot tall doctor in the house with a solid right hook?

Where can I buy Stiletto Pumps for my Drag Queen Ferret?

Carpe Diem Freaky Morning People

Heja Sverige! Swedish Midsummer in New York City

The Resplendent Bidet

Manhattan Mayhem vs Queens of Pain : Color Commentary and Hotpant Mongering

5 Things that Chap My Hide

Game on Gotham Girls Roller Derby Girls!

The New York of the South

When Raw Doesn't Hide

Foiled Again by the Golden Child

The Golden Child would Never LOL

I'm not a spacial relations genius, unlike some people

Crack iPhone Care Mystery

Steadfast and Schwetty

Into the Lair of Werewolf Boy

Going to Hell on a Hand Scooter

Quivering with desire and the ecstasy of unbridled avarice

Bringing 'em up Right

The Green Fairy on All Hallow's Eve

Doing the Boonton Carnival

90 is the New 80

Show Me Some Fashion Shit

Jim, get in there and rustle out those lions

Boston. Instant Feedback.

A Triptych of Incidents that Happened Outside The Blue Store

The Hippest Thing We've Ever Done

Take the Last Train to Yorkville

And the Funk Squirted Out at Authur's Tavern

Three Penny Day

Edward Cullen twizzling about Emerald City

Heat it and Beat It

Don't Mess with the Bubby

Tom: Disrobing

Barney's NY Warehouse Sale :: Whatever the Opposite of Love Is

Movies IV: While Watching Chocolat

Movies III: Favorite Fights!

Movies II: Dad’s Top Three Favorite War Movies

Movies I : The Dangers of Eavesdropping : Mom, Dad and Tom on the Porch : A Transcript

Gagging on Pungant Pine Needles

Getting your priorities straight when you are 96

And Where Were You When You Heard Michael Jackson Died?

Adventures in why I need a new car

Because I'm Allergic to Sulfites Like That

Review: City of New York

Yelp Review of "Just Shades" -- a Specialty Store in SoHo

Found! Data for Future Taxidermic Analysis

Right-handed Smithie Glove Problem: A Study

Guest Post by Pop: The History of "The Tub"

Snuff Film at Lip Syncho De Mayo

Bubby R, Mama & the Birds and the Birds

Non-Morning Person Waiting Room Smackdown

The Paradox: We Consider Worthless What Has Made us Rich

Off the Grid with a Purple Lampshade

Low Speed Mayhem in a Foot Cast:: On the Road with Pop

It's Not Easy Growing Up Green

A Weekend at Pukle's: The Woes of Irony

Further Analysis on Conversation: A Research Project

You are an Egg. Get a Timer: A Research Project

Andrew Gets his Watch: The Untold Story

Uncle Ronnie's Childhood Memories

Bubby R Recognizes Exellent Cross-Dressing

Synchronized Swimming in Marigot Bay, St. Lucia.

snakkesnakkesnakkesnakkesnakke