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

Back in the Paleozoic era about fifteen years ago, I was popular with the Ladies who Lunch. The ones who live in Peapack, eat tiny sandwiches and complain about the help. They would hire me to design their party invitations, personal stationary, and campaign materials for an occasional kid's student council run. Newsflash, and you might want to jot this down: if you want to kick some major high school ass, get your mommy to hire a professional advertising agency to lock down your run for class president. I am proud to say our candidates never lost an election. My assistant Dmitri drove down to Mary's place. Possibly, he needed to drop off press proofs for our crushingly successful "Vote chRis" campaign. The first time I had gone down there myself, I met Mary's houseboy who twittered on endlessly about the terrible ordeal of finding ribbon to match Mary's satin pumps. It was a fine spring day. Dmitri drove through the service gates and somehow took a wr...

Before yesterday's epoch-shattering visit to MoMA, I used to think there was nothing more to picking up assorted rusted roadbooty in the parking lot then rampant OCD. But now I know better. I'm doing it for Art. Because I am obviously on track to become an Artist. And possibly not an Artist starving for a reason. We saw a Mark Dion exhibit in the CurioKammer area on the second floor of the museum. Dion (b. 1961) "bases his installations on the methods of categorization found in natural history museums. He filled this cabinet with curiousities found in the museum's sculpture garden." Eureka! I will become renowned within art circles for my provocative juxtaposition of lost pennies and clevis pins. I am going to empty my pockets and start taking this seriously.

From: Stacey Sent: Wednesday, August 06, 2008 10:54 AM To: Erin Subject: Complex plan of action Hey there, Thanks so much for offering to feed our cat while we are at the beach. Ok, so we have a very complex multi-layered approach to the Raccoon Situation. Here’s the Plan: We have fortified the Raccoon Fence with additional sheet metal, duct tape, bolts, WD-40 and ammonia. We are little concerned about the ammonia as it may repel the cat as well as the raccoons. I was a little heavy handed. If you come in and the food is not eaten at all, please put food in the Auxiliary Locations as specified below. Inside the basement, there are two food bowls. One at the bottom of the steps and one at the top. We are keeping this approach because if the raccoons find one food bowl they tend to not go looking for another one. The food bag is right on the top of the basement steps inside the door. Please keep the door closed as if the cat gets up stairs he will spitefully ri...

Mary's mom heads over to the neighbor's house for the yard sale. All the goods are spread out over the yard. She browses. Until somebody comes out and tells her they're just cleaning out the shed.

"Look at this hair in the cat bowl. It's black and white with a sprinkling of tan. Do you think it is Alex's hair? I hope it's not a raccoon hair." "I'm going to pluck a hair from Alex for comparison purposes. Probably the most exemplary hairs are in his hindquarter." "I didn't actually hold the two hairs next to each other. But I think the hair in the cat bowl came from Alex. I really hope it came from Alex." "The other option is we could put piles and piles of food outside so the raccoon doesn't have to come inside. But that would only be only if we were really desperate."

It all started when Andrew got the ball rolling last night and afterwards I couldn't get it off my mind. I spent most of this morning fantasizing about calling up my Intellectual Property attorney and telling him that I want to get a business process patent for "Math." Not old arithmetic, mind you, but New Math. First thing my IP lawyer will ask if we created "Math" less then a year ago because you have to file within a year. Absolutely, yes. It's fresh. It's shiny as a polished multiplication table. As far as you're concerned anyway. Then the lawyer will ask if every time we've used our "Math" we've noted that it is our proprietary methodology. Oh certainly. Math.™ ©2008. For sure, every time any kind of numeral sniffs around any other numeral for any purpose whatsoever. Ok, the lawyer will say, can you describe the functionality that your Math offers. Snort. Of course. Anyone can see it's so obviously revolutionary. Then I wi...

The real problem is the general public’s inability to deal with the hazards of flea market culture. That’s why most go retail. But for me, there’s nothing like the thrill of wondering if must-have rubberized binoculars are covered in some kind of dramatic and dangerous fungus. My fleamanship circumference extends from West 17th north to 25th. Sometimes I take the free shuttle to the Hell’s Kitchen market but Deborah the ex-glass blower has a booth on the corner up there and man can she talk a blue streak. Plus she tries to sell me repurposed safari gear that’s like the household goods equivalent of a comb-over. Personally, I think the famous Antique Garage on West 25th is overpriced. But it’s a good shortcut to the Goodwill flagship store if you go in on the south side. Then you can stroll over to the open-air market down the street. You can wheel your Smarte Carte right over everybody’s feet on 6th Avenue. It doesn’t bother the tourists because they all wear adequately padded leather ...

I had this enormous tattoo. A full back plate depicting some swarthy military hero in a pith helmet and a colonial jacket. A banner fluttered out under him that read "Viva la Columbia." Shit. I never saw the "Viva la Columbia" in the tattoo book when I picked it out because there was a smear on the page. I don't have any family from Columbia. I never lived in Columbia. It would be weird to get a tattoo in commemoration of a country because they export a decent coffee bean. I could not wrap my head around how to justify this tattoo. Thank God it was only a dream.

We concluded The Sofa Tour yesterday. The journey had stretched on endlessly, but we persevered. We knew the meaning of privations and of hardships. We looked at every sleeper sofa in this entire city. The very last one we saw. Was the One. Participating in the victory celebration was Kirstie Alley. No, she really didn’t participate in the victory celebration. She just happened to be in the store at the exact same time that the Farewell-to-the-Sofa-Tour credit card transaction went down. Truthfully, she couldn’t have seemed less interested in our triumph. Nonetheless, we did view the appearance of Rebecca Howe mid-Sofa purchase as an auspicious sighting. The next leg of our journey, The Sofa In Situ, bodes well. View Larger Map

21 days. 10 guys on a team. summer. Wow. That's a lot of laundry. They probably have a washing machine on the team bus.

When someone has wrapped their entire body around a pole in a crowded subway train and someone else coughs to indicate their annoyance. How loathsome. If a person is sufficiently clueless to body block all the other strap hangers, then hacking up a lung nearby will only communicate you have a tenuous grasp on the purpose of language. When you share a moment with someone who exists five seconds in the future, she will always finish your sentences for you. When she realizes she’s skittered too far ahead and can’t see you behind her, she frantically gropes backwards through the darkness of time to find you. She jitters wildly between her moment and yours. It is exhausting to be around her. When you share a moment with someone who lives inside her own mind, for her, the moment is like a dream. When you dream, no matter what anyone does, it is done for you or against you. When you dream, your perception becomes a reality in which you are the only driving force. When you dream, your reaction...

In a surprise move, local housecat, Alexander T. Nash, forewent the opportunity to spend the long weekend in the city. He cited a need to curb the recent surge of lawless chipmunk activity on and about the left perimeter sidewalk area. Nash, 5, said, "Someone's got to do it [sweep the property of rodents.] These striped lawn monkeys are no petty foe to toy with." He further noted, "Besides, why would I want to be seen with a person who actually forgot to pack ANY clothing and walked around Chelsea for three days in a sweaty green Gygax-era dungeons and dragons T-shirt? So 'Lost' reject. I don't understand how it is possible not to realize you are hauling a TravelPro with nothing in it but a couple magazines and a pair of brown socks." Asked if his three days guerilla solo had produced results, Nash commented that he had tirelessly prowled around for a minimum of 2-2.5 hours daily. He did take a short break to watch the Macy's Independence Day fir...

1) Our waiter had on a rainbow colored T-Shirt with "I had a bowl of bitchy this morning" printed really big on the front. 2) He was also wearing a matching skirt. 3) He greeted Tom and me as follows: "Hello, ladies." Pad Thai in Chelsea, 8th Ave at 16th St.

We bought a property on Friday. During the closing, the seller's real estate agent kept offering to give us ("the enemy") stuff. The seller's real estate attorney looked ready to squeeze his head and crack it like a nut. Tom and I huddled under the conference room table to escape from stray fisticuffs and evil death stares. Meanwhile, our very own real estate agent's assistant fiddled with her extremely low neckline and wondered aloud why her Blackberry kept sending email messages all by itself. I was about ready to poke needles in my eyeballs. Here's just a taste of the backstory. There's more where this came from, but I will spare you. The Cast in Order of Appearance Robert H: The Seller's Real Estate Agent Jane: The Seller Alan Esq: The Seller's Real Estate Attorney Stacey and Tom: The Buyers - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - In a message dated 6/25/2008 4:38:48 A.M. Eastern Daylight Time, Robert H (t...

I have devised an ingenious scheme for increasing my personal elevation above sea level. This skill is essential for general admission shows wherein Only the Tall Can See the Stage. The secret lies in footwear. Besides the towering platform base needed to jack you up an extra 2 - 4", a light shoe tare weight is also required. Afterall, you can't actually WALK in these shoes so you have to carry them in your backpack to the venue. Along these lines, I have noticed an interesting statistical anomolie. No matter what doorstep you select to sit on to change out of your commuting shoes and into your stilts, and despite the fact that it takes sub-two minutes to execute the transaction, a resident of the dwelling whose entrance you are blocking will inevitably return home at the exact moment when you have each foot in a different shoe and a sock hanging off his railing.

Richard Cheese held my hand. He looked deeply into my eyes and sang about some chick in a green shirt named Vanessa's hoo-ha. It was such a highlight. At Webster Hall, there is always this big Big big Black dude security guard named Lowes. Lowes sits stone-cold and bulging biceps cross-armed in front of the stage. For entire shows, he steely eyes the crowd and keeps us in line via the silent promise of Unilaterally Assured Destruction. Not even once, have I seen Lowes succumb to the merest facial twitch. But when Richard Cheese broke into a little swanky Vegas-style Shake Ya Ass by Mystikal, I spied full-on, teeth-baring, LOLing. There is something inherently fabulous about a very white man in a tiger-skin tuxedo sahaying around crooning X-rated gangsta rap. In light of his musical genre, Richard "Dick" Cheese's stage show was not unexpected. Nonetheless, I wouldn't have predicted the hijinx. The man is hotly smarmy, brazenly greasy, semi-sober, yet broadly capti...

What do you call it when you get stuck in the airport for hours? In-Terminal-able. Well, Melissa thought it was funny at the Sushi Lounge yesterday.

My pop is an artist. His medium is cereal. Cold cereal. He layers together high terrariums of flakes and nuggets and mini-biscuits. Masterpieces in glass bowls. My father's most productive time is in morning. He starts by flinging open the doors of two cabinets entirely packed with cereal boxes. He squintily eyeballs his vast palette of shapes, colors, textures and sizes of pressed grain and dried fruit. He carefully selects the most inspiring for his chunky canvas. Sometimes he pre-blends a concoction of granola and raw oatmeal and flaxseed into a large plastic container. He uses this like primer. For foundation purposes. Flattening it out in the bottom of the bowl. Clean kitchen counters are not a priority for pop. He loses himself in the process of creation. He takes into account density, mass and buoyancy. He works for varied texture, coordinated color and structural integrity. When the milk and/or applesauce is layered in, the design must stand up to the rapid liquidation. Pop...

Jen's mad delight on and about Sex in the City: the Movie + Her shepherd-meister herding skills = Almost all the OC Girls in the Morristown Clearview Theatre Friday night for the 7:30 showing. Despite the veritable fiesta platter of Labels and Love, Melissa could not be deterred from going down the shore. "Labels and Love." That's the Carrie-proclaimed theme of the movie. A sensitive exploration into the inner lives of brutal shopaholics. As the movie trundled on, I myself decided to slip into something more comfortable. Like a coma. For the sake of accurate reporting, which I have never purported any aspiration to achieve, my review of the movie would contain the following three points: All the loose ends from the TV show have been tied up nicely enough for Saks 5th Avenue. A tiny meaty nut of plot is embedded inside an enormous foo foo fruit of cashmere, silk and blue peacock feathers You would think that such smart and independently successful women would be a li...

Man rushes into new loose tea store on 9th avenue between 41st and 42nd street. He stops short just inside the tranquil Zen doorway. Wide-eyed and frantic, he twirls around in panic circles, finally bursting out: “Cupcakes? Cupcakes! Where are the cupcakes?” Tiny hippie shopkeeper peers over her red-rimmed glasses: “Cupcake bakery moved around the corner, Mister.”