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

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

*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 iPo

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

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

“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."

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

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.”

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.

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 Sutherla

"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 India

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.

"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."

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.

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 ya

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.

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.

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 the utterly self-absorbed. Just in case I ever hack 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 this one trick pony

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.

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

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...

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

"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.

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 tha

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-la

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

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 h

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 doe

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 hopin

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.

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 thems

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

"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."

"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."

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.

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.

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

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 th

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 Someth

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 mu

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.

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 childr

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 bef

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.