Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

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At lunch with the bike club, Dad got some spinach lodged between his front teeth. He chiseled away at it with his fingernail. Finally, success! The spinach rocketed through the air and landed in Scott's coffee. Plunk. Scott didn't notice. Dad didn't mention it.

One mumble from Jennifer about maybe slightly possibly kind of thinking about taking up running after Gavin was born and Tom immediately bellied up as Coach. He snapped into action about a half hour after Jennifer's obstetrician gave the all clear on exercise. Coach Tom fired off a series of running route maps, conveniently located around Jennifer's neighborhood and complete with mileage and topography notations. Tom followed up with advice on proper sneaker fitting and how not to look like a roadnoob. A liberal sprinkling of phone consultations ensued, topped off with the proclamation that his protege would race in the spring. Jennifer was to pick a 5k out of the race forum and Tom would run with her. Wax off, Jennifer-san! Race day finally arrived last Saturday. The turnout was big. Eric showed up with Nabeela, Adison, Gavin and a Camera as big as Gavin. Donna and Bob were also in attendance. Although Jennifer's First Five Kilometers was, of course, the main event, the se

If you are interested in the real Cher's indian heritage, click here . What follows concerns a really fucking awesome party: There was electric in the air at the recent Lip Synco DeMayo competition. Against the backdrop of a construction worker, a grease monkey, a cowboy and a nurse, the Indian was as tall as a five foot five inch tree. Her headdress was mighty. So was the ensuing rendition of YMCA. It was a hightest fantasmo right through the last verse where the young man does it all by himself and puts his pride on a shelf. I thought the Indian looked sort of familiar, but I didn't connect the dots until she took the stage again four acts later, this time decked out in a reckless black body suit and platform space boots. Yes. It was Cher. She is really an Indian. This heritage has never come out, even during the Insider Star Club luncheon at the annual Cher Expo where such intimate topics as Cher's six tattoos have been reviewed in excruciating detail. Congratu

Most partygoers are familiar with the moderately lewd 1969 Rolling Stones song in which singer Mick Jagger boasts of getting forcibly laid by a divorcee in New York City who covers him in roses prior to blowing his nose and then his mind. Whenever asked, I recommend "Honky Tonk Women" for wedding reception set lists. On one hand, you are cheering about being heaved across a barroom queen's shoulder and taken upstairs for a ride. On the other hand you have just celebrated the sacred vows of marriage and: All the flower girls in their sweet taffeta dresses are shakin' booty The bride's boss, rigged out in pearls and sensible low heeled pumps, sashays through what could only be described as high energy square dance. The bestman is out there boogying with his sister. It is discovered that strappy sandals and ruffled gowns are not the best outfits for grinding. My other mofo favorite nuptial tunes include: "The Stroke'" by Billy Squire and "You Shoo

At first, I fancied really going back to basics for my birthday. Maybe spend the day fasting on nothing but dark green leafy vegetables and little scraps torn from the bible. It would be all like zen and I would rediscover my inner child. But then we decided to go to the Village and look at real estate and I glimpsed this in a window: I think it's some sort of B-movie martian in a decorative saddle. It changed my perspective on the day and I decided to live life to the fullest because you never know when a lead pipe will fall from a scaffold and clock you right in the bean. We enjoyed five hours noodling around in other people's closets and wrestling with the "why" in the question of The Legion Action Figures Posed in Mock Battle Inside Somebody's Kitchen Cabinets. Subsequently, it being my birthday and all, I decided I was keen on a delicious snack of my choosing. I had 2.5 cups of coffee, spoonfuls of brownie and a lovely lump of seaweed. Then we spent about hal

I don't regularly fling myself around the kitchen to the frantic and thunderous beat of my new favorite earcandy for no particular reason. I am building stamina for the brutal Lip Syncho De Mayo annual contest at Tracie and Andrew's. Unfortunately, such high-level competition requires more than stamina. People come to play. Yet the voting pool is a fickle fickle mistress. In a shocking turn of events, the Dirty Love number was passed over for a place on the podium. The routine, which defied all reason and social order, lasted approximately four and a half minutes. Marc presided over the Frank Zappa ruckus with Bacchanalian charm, a fuzzy black headsuit and a dragon air guitar. Claire, obviously corrupted by dangerous peer pressure, sported black tights, frisky gold sandals and a brazen poodle fetish. She worried that her children would find out she was out after midnight drinking beer, socializing and shakin' her money maker unsupervised. She commented, "My kids kee

"Thank you, I've had a pleasant time."

So feast your eyeballs on my eight-passenger spinch leaf. Spawn of the Flower House in the middle of the front yard. (For full appreciation of the scale, please remember Tom has a giant head.) So let's caucus people. Do we all finally agree that the Flower House is, and always was, a veritable hurricane of inspiration and foresight?