Sweet Summer Sweat

Dear Manager:

I am very unsatisfied with your hotel. First of all, there is a weird smell in the air every night, I think it’s dope. Secondly, mirrors on the ceiling might be fine for you hippies out here in the desert, but where I come from the only one I want watching over me at night is the Lord. As for the complimentary pink champagne and mini-bar, Satan himself would be ashamed of such decadence. Why don’t you ask him when you join him in Hell?

I don’t know what kind of operation you’re running here, but I know the woman next us has boys in and out of her room all night. A lot of boys. She tells us they are friends, but I know they are fornicating. I see them dancing in the courtyard and I know.

On top of it, the food is terrible. We ordered a well-done steak from room service, and when we got it, it was so rare I had to stab it with my knife a few times to make sure it was dead. My wife has an irritable bowel, and you can bet you’ll be hearing from our lawyers if she so much as burps funny in the next few days.

Finally, we have tried to get away from this viper pit several times now, but the man at the desk (I think he is a Jew, by the way) keeps telling us that although we can check out any time we want, we can never leave. This is unacceptable. I insist you rectify this situation immediately or I will call corporate headquarters and have you fired.

We are very disappointed. All the folks back home said the Hotel California was such a lovely place. Well, rest assured we will NOT be back.

Sincerely,
Mr. and Mrs. Edward T. Slocum
Peppertown, Indiana

Listful Thinking

I’m so down with the lists lately.

HOLIDAY SONG:

On the 12th Day of Christmas, Johnny Damon* gave to me:

12 leopard handbags
11 piles of cat puke
10 people chewing
9 Mets third basemen
8 tardy C trains
7 hours of TV
6 baffling bank fees
5 Amstel lights
4 subs from Lenny’s
3 dead mice
2 white trash babies…
and a disaster on NGC

*Unless he signs with the Yankees, in which case he will cease to be my true love.

***
Tonight on ABC at 8pm: I Want A Dog For Christmas, Charlie Brown

OTHER CHARLIE BROWN TV SPECIALS:

I’m Allergic to Shellfish, Charlie Brown
I Wish Mommy Would Stop Drinking, Charlie Brown
I Need a Kidney Transplant, Charlie Brown
Daddy Lost All Our Money at the Track, Charlie Brown
You Will Waste Away in Hell Unless You Accept Jesus Christ as Your Personal Savior, Charlie Brown
Don’t Call Me Shirley, Charlie Brown
I Think Tony Soprano is Kind of Hot, Charlie Brown
I’m Mitt Romney And I Approve Of This Message, Charlie Brown

***
PLACES THE DEVIL WENT AFTER GEORGIA:

Macy’s One-Day Sale
Waffle House
His brother-in-law Bob’s
Disneyland
Jersey

Fan Mail

Letters To Artists on my 70s Music Cable Channel

Dear Tony Orlando (and Dawn):
While I appreciate your suggestion I knock three times on the ceiling, I prefer guys who have the balls to ring my doorbell.

Sincerely,
The Girl Downstairs

***
Dear Heart:
He is not a magic man. I guarantee he’ll knock you up, beat the shit out of you and pimp your ass for crack. But hey, it’s your life, I’ll TRY to understand. I only spent 72 hours in labor. What do I know?

Sincerely,
Your Mother

***
Dear Bread:
Baby I’m-a want you? WTF does that mean? Freak.

And Don’t Call Me Baby

***
Dear Dan Hill:
Yes, I agree. Sometimes when we touch, the honesty IS too much. Especially with those big oozing zits all over your back. You think YOU want to close your eyes and hide? As for holding me till we both break down and cry, believe me, buddy, that ship has sailed.

Sincerely,
Your (Ex) Girlfriend

***
Dear Rod Stewart:
Yeah, like I want your body. And the 32 STDs that come with it. Gross!
And like, hello! 78-year-old men should NOT wear spandex.

Sincerely,
The 14-Year-Old You’re Hitting On

Fear Factor

How the National Geographic Channel Has Ruined My Life:

-Can’t plan trip to Australia because of tiny Irukandji jellyfish that, if even a millimeter of skin touches one, you will suffer excruciating pain throughout your entire body and die.

-Can’t go to Bronx Zoo without worrying about a) catching Ebola virus from monkeys or b) being stomped to death by angry, rampaging elephant.

-Afraid to stay in NYC because it’s only a matter of time before Island of La Palma slides into Atlantic Ocean, spawning 100-foot mega-tsunami that will devastate entire eastern seaboard.

-Can’t flee to midwest because of possible F-7 mega-tornadoes caused by global warming. Would move to west coast except for inevitable magnitude-10 earthquake and Pacific Ocean tsunamis. Might have to move to Canada.

-Can’t move to Canada because of recent SARS outbreak.

-Afraid to leave apartment during head cold for fear of being “Patient Zero” in worldwide flu pandemic.

-Afraid to go to Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade because Nazis may have sabotaged the Garfield balloon, causing it to immolate in 34 seconds like the Hindenburg.

Gotta Cut Loose

Signs you live in a town that doesn’t allow dancing:

-People make fun of you for wearing a skinny leather tie to your first day at the new high school
-Hilarity ensues when you explain to your new friends the musical group Men at Work aren’t actually men working
-You are bullied into having a chicken fight with tractors
-You wear slutty red cowboy boots that symbolize how much you want to leave this crappy town
-Your daddy is John Lithgow
-You tell your daddy, John Lithgow, that you’re not even a virgin while yelling at him in church
-Your career tanked after the Fame TV show
-You convince John Lithgow to let you hold your senior dance just over the county line
-You finally realize that heaven helps the man who fights his fear and love's the only thing that keeps you here

Running On Empty

As if I didn’t hate runners enough, there were 9 billion of them swarming up Sixth Ave this morning in some kind of pre-marathon orgy and I couldn’t cross the street to get coffee. Why would anyone get up at 7 am on a Saturday to go running when one could be home sleeping off a hangover like a normal person? The only reason *I* was up at 7 am on a Saturday is because I haven’t figured out how to fake my own death and had to come into work. Now all the runners are out front walking around in their shiny satin shorts drinking Gatorade and acting all “Dude, I’m so PUMPED.” Grrr. Go eat pasta with the rest of your freak friends.

Have I mentioned I hate marathons?

***
Q. When is speakerphone use okay, assuming you’re not the President or Donald Trump?

A. The correct answer is: never!

Ennui

Okay, I’m completely cured of wanting to wear fall clothes. Bring back the heat and humidity. I look like Donald Frump today with my floor length Amish-style skirt and oversize black sweater with holes in it. I would go on the Tyra Banks show for a makeover, but I don’t have any desire to look like an Appalachian hooker. She seriously does the worst makeovers. The people looked somewhat normal in the “before” pix, but when she’s done with them they look like they should be in an HBO documentary about incest.

I am bored to the brink of unconsciousness. I’m just waiting for my dead grandma to show up and tell me to walk toward the light. AS USUAL nobody is emailing me and I’ve already read every web site on the entire Internet. The only thing left to do is actual work, and I’m not feeling that so much today. Perhaps I should write another letter to Red Lobster.

Post Season

Well, that was depressing.

Not kick-you-in-the-gut-October-2003 depressing, but definitely Monday-morning-after-vacation depressing. When I woke up Thursday morning I had a bad feeling and I knew it meant the Red Sox were not just done, but on the table, sliced, and covered with gravy. In spite of that, I still watched every pitch of the game tonight (except for the bottom of the third when ESPN inexplicably disappeared) and I watched it like I watched every other game this season: in my apartment, with my cat, drinking wine. You come into the world alone and you go out of it alone.

At least I won’t have to check myself into Four Winds after the ALCS this year. Or stay up late for west coast games, or listen to Tim McCarver. That’s something. (Right?)

Oh well. Go Angels.

We're Gonna Need A Bigger Boat

Besides working (somewhat), I spent my day sending inflammatory anti-Yankee emails to my dad and defacing the picture of A-Rod on the front page of the Post . Then I took the train to Albany, and now I think I have scabies.

Meanwhile, there was some ferry disaster in Lake George, and the local news, where the biggest story is usually about traffic on the Northway, is freaking HILARIOUS. Actual quote from "News Channel 13" (in scary news announcer's voice):

"Life jackets were seen floating in the water. Unfortunately, there were no people in them."

Circle of Life

Went to see the Lion King last night (which would have been better with real lions) and it made me all excited to come home and see my cat, until I got there and found she had pooped all over the floor. Then the little bastard jumped on my bed at 3 am with a LIVE GODDAMN MOUSE in her mouth.

There’s been increased chatter at work among the annoying Yankee fans, but I don’t even care anymore because I’m so disgusted with the Red Sox I’ve become a soccer fan. Go Manchester United!

My new leopard shoes, while super-cute, are also giving me Derek Lowe blisters. I will give them another chance, though, because love means never having to say you’re sorry.

Upstate

I just returned from Syracuse, NY, which is too sad a place to even make fun of, BUT I did go to Waterloo Outlets in… somewhere 45 minutes west of Syracuse. I’m pretty sure they are running a meth lab out of the food court, but the J. Crew was awesome. Is it me, or does everyone in central New York look like they should be on Intervention?

The other thing is, if things don’t work out with David Wright, I want to marry Jet Blue Airlines. They have little TVs on the back of every seat. And the seats have tons of room, and they give you a choice of snacks. (And they have TVs!)

Crap. I just realized I have to watch the Red Sox games on the Yes Network this weekend. At least it’s not Fox.

UGH! I just checked, and tomorrow’s game IS on Fox. Crap.

Elephant Rage

I recently watched the awesome “Elephant Rage” on NGC, which was about how more and more elephants are going into villages and kicking the crap out of people because they are PISSED humans are taking over the land and cutting down trees and all that Greenpeace shit.

Well I have one word for you elephants. Why don’t you evolve some more, and then maybe you could be in charge. Sure, you’re big and strong, but can you mix a martini? Can you send an email? I don’t think so.

Shut up, elephants.

Here are my favorite quotes from the show:

“Something terrible is driving them to rampage.”
“I debated getting out of elephants altogether.”
“Are they finally reaching the breaking point?”
“What will we do? Will we give elephants more land... more dignity... more hope?”

*Shut up, elephants, except Babar. You know that dude can mix a martini.

Sick and Tired

Things I hate, part 98,983

Revolving doors
Anyone on a bike in NYC
Hurricane coverage
Aruba
The second-to-last hour of work
Bank of America
Not being able to find my black sweater this morning
Starbucks
Cat puke


Things I don’t hate

Dogs

Nasty

If evil were a candy bar, it would be a Chunky. Why on earth would you pollute perfectly good chocolate with peanuts and raisins? Peanuts I could condone under the right circumstances, but raisins are nothing but chewy little pellets of hate. Who is the perpetrator of this abomination, and why hasn’t he been punished?

Big Crapple

For all you aspiring New Yorkers out there, I'd like to impart two lessons I learned tonight:

Lesson 1: Always double-check to make sure the train you're getting on is the train you want to be getting on, in case, for example, the F train is inexplicably on the D train track and you don't realize it for two stops because in the YEAR you've been taking the D train you've never SEEN an F train on the D train track and it would never OCCUR to you that an F train would randomly, without warning, BE on the D train track.

Lesson 2: When you are yelling at a cab driver for going downtown instead of uptown, make sure you are, in fact, going downtown. And don't be snotty when he asks if you've been drinking. (I wasn't, by the way.)

Damn you, Mercury retrograde!

Who's The Boss

Dear PBS,

Hi, either be free or charge money like HBO, but stop freaking whining about it. When you interrupt Bruce Springsteen at Madison Square Garden to beg for donations it only pisses me off, ensuring I will never send you money.

And Bruce? Love your music, but don’t need to hear your opinions on religion or world affairs. While you’re at it, tell Bono to shut up, too.

Sincerely,
Kate

Death in the Afternoon

Getting old sucks. I used to be able to go out until 4:00 am, get an hour or two of sleep and still make it to the Bagel Baron for my 7:00 am shift, which would be spent cheerfully scooping out the insides of bagels for delightful and appreciative SUNY Albany students.

But now if I have more than two (or twenty) beers I have to spend the entire next day lying in bed, which is how I find myself right now, flat on my back, computer on my stomach, two-liter bottle of water by my side, praying for death.

The only thing that will save me is a chicken salad sandwich from Lenny's, but Lenny's might as well be in Westchester right now. They deliver, but I don't know where the phone is, or the menu, and it's really hot in here... and ugh.

No more sangria for me.

***
My horoscope in the Post says I will be cranky tonight. Who says there's nothing to astrology!

Say A Little Prayer For Me

For a couple of minutes, I thought we were having a brown out because the lights were flickering, but then I realized my light bulb was not screwed in right, which could also be the title of my autobiography. (Ha! Ha! That sauvignon blanc, how it does run on.)

Anyway, I had THE most fabulous night tonight. I have a new shelf in my bathroom, which I installed with minimal carnage, although I drilled a few extraneous holes in the wall before getting it right. But it really balances the bathroom, which I think, from a feng shui perspective, can only be a good thing.

Also, the RS won, the Janks lost, and I INSIST the Red Sox sign pitcher Jimmy Gobble immediately because I’ve been so depressed since Pokey Reese left. Jimmy Gobble is the best name I’ve heard in my entire life. In fact, I’m officially changing my name to Katie Gobble and I will not answer to anything else.

My apartment is clean, I’m listening to crappy 70s music, and I could not be happier.

Abandon All Hope, Y'all

I’m still reading (and by "reading" I mean "carrying around in my bag") The Inferno and I can’t help but notice how similar Hell is the subway. In fact, I made a chart:

Hell vs. NYC Subways

Hell	NY Subway
Multi-level	Multi-level
“Steaming from that pit, a vapor rose/over the banks, crusting them with a slime/ that sickened my eyes and hammered at my nose”	River of radioactive sludge on tracks at 59th St.
“And here the stink/ thrown up by the abyss so overpowered us/ that we drew back, cowering behind the wall”	Unrelenting stench of urine, abscessed flesh, rotting tumor and human feces
“The wood leaped with black bitches, swift as greyhounds escaping from their leash”	Rats as big as greyhounds
“Behold the beast that makes the whole world stink”	The guy who's been riding the A train for three days
Sinners there for eternity	People waiting for a C train on a Saturday morning there for eternity
Hot	Really hot
Free	$2.00

Speaking of subways, one thing I've learned after (almost) a year in NYC: If all the subway cars are full, and one is empty, it’s empty for a reason. Like a dead body or no A/C. I think last night they were blowing poison gas into the car as well because although the heat didn’t bother me, by the time I got to 86th St. I was drowsy and hallucinating.

*** Things annoying me tonight:

Having to see an Amstel Light commercial while I’m at work and can’t have one.
The Red Sox lost to the freaking Devil Rays AGAIN.
Everyone on The Restaurant, from Rocco the toolbox to his scumbag bridge and tunnel customers. (I do love the catty staff, though.)
My supreme dorkiness.

If Fishes Were Horses

I know I always complain about baseball announcers, but the Chicago White Sox announcers are the WORST. They sound like they are on Quaaludes and they have absolutely nothing insightful to say WHATsoever. At least, unlike the Texas announcers, they weren't being all stalky about Johnny Damon last night.

What is this new thing where jeans cost hundreds of dollars? That’s the biggest scam since the $1-per-item pick-your-own-toppings salads that have taken over New York. I just saw an ad for $92 Wranglers. Wranglers! Don’t they sell those on QVC?

(Actually I’d have to ask my mom to answer that one, she is the queen of QVC.)

The latest commercial that annoys me is the Coors Light one in which the people are playing volleyball on the beach and are all hot and sweaty, and then a train comes along carrying Coors Light and makes everything snowy and cold. If I were on the beach, enjoying the sun and a nice hot day, and a train came along and ruined it, I would take someone out with my beach chair. Especially if the train were carrying Coors Light. First the train gives me hypothermia, then it brings me cases of carbonated horse urine. Not cool.

I actually had the opportunity to go out tonight but I am opting to stay in and watch the History channel because I am a winner. I am, however, watching a fascinating episode of Modern Marvels about the history of commercial fishing which begs the question, if dolphins and whales are mammals, why do they try to pass themselves off as fish? What are they trying to prove? If you're a mammal you should be furry and live on land. Not scaly and living in water. Either be a mammal or be a fish. You can't have it both ways.

Even The Nights Are Better

Thanks to some commercial or TV show I saw recently, I have that Air Supply “All Out Of Love” song in my head. When I looked up the lyrics to find out the rest of the chorus (because I kept singing the “I’m all out of love, I’m so lost withOUT you…” part without knowing the rest, and it was driving me crazy), I inadvertently found the lyrics to “Making Love Out Of Nothing At All,” which means I now have TWO Air Supply songs playing over and over in my head and I want to kill myself. One Air Supply song is okay, two Air Supply songs is a human rights violation.

All-Star Break

I know I’ve been slacking lately. I had to go to Albany last weekend and since then I’ve been a little distracted. The good news is the rat carcass on the tracks at Rock Center is now nothing but a flattened rotting skeleton. It’s been quite a privilege to watch it decompose over the past few weeks.

Yesterday, I went to Gristede’s twice (even though I hate it), and both times I heard the song “Both Sides Now,” and what’s weird is it was two different versions. One was the Joni Mitchell version and the other sounded like Judy Collins. I wonder if that means something. Because when you get down to it, I really DON’T know clouds at all.

End of Days

I watched this awesome show last night on National Geographic Channel called “End Day” which dramatizes three doomsday scenarios, including a 500-meter wave hitting New York. If a 500-meter wave were on its way to NY, my first question, of course, would be “what's with the metrics?” If a huge wave is coming, they’d better let us know its dimensions in American and not try to obfuscate with any of that crazy metric voodoo.

The most important thing I learned though, and if you watch the National Disaster Channel as much as I do, you know this too... it's not IF the mega-tsunami/meteorite/flu pandemic will hit, it's WHEN.

I just wish we KNEW WHEN because then I would take up smoking.

***

Some funny, but non-shark-related news stories:

Would you like fries with your poodle burger?

Is Al Qaeda after Roy?

That’s why it’s called Scrapplebee's.

WARNING: Do not patronize the Au Bon Pain at 1211 6th Ave, because they will cheat you out of your half-price cookie.

These Are The Good Times

Isn’t it ironic (don’tcha think) that despite my deep and abiding love for animal prints, the actual animal I own is just a plain old black cat?

I was listening to the song “Good Times” by Chic, which has this awesome line:

“Clams on the half-shell and roller skates, roller skates”

That has to be some kind of drug or sex reference, right? There’s no way that “clams on the half-shell” means clams on the half-shell. And roller skates? It's gotta mean something dirty. Right? Am I the only one who doesn’t know what it means?

Here are the rest of the lyrics.

Top Five Best Orange Foods:

5. Combos (the orange is inside!)
4. Crunchy Cheetos
3. Jax
2. Doritos
1. CHEEZ-ITS

Let's Get Physical

In a fit of brilliance, I decided that instead of going to the gym the other day I would run up and down the stairs in my building for exercise, which lasted about three minutes until I was dizzy and nauseated and my left arm was numb.

On top of that, I woke up yesterday with a torn ACL in my calf and I now I can’t go up or down stairs at all. Okay, it may not be a torn ACL, because A) I don’t really know what an ACL is, and B) I don’t think they are in your calf, but it sounds cooler than saying I pulled a calf muscle. Especially since I pulled it going up and down stairs. Instead I’m going to say I hurt it hiking up Tuckerman’s Notch (or whatever it is). I probably need Dr. Morgan to staple the muscle to my tibia so I can make it in to work tomorrow, because it’s Game 6 and the Yankees are up 3 games to 2… wait that isn’t me. But the crawl is always hungry.

***
I get chest pains just thinking about hiking. First of all, “hiking” is a misnomer. “Hiking” sounds like, “we’re just walking along, enjoying nature and the birds and the squirrels.” When, in fact, “hiking” is “climbing a big fucking mountain.” Secondly, if I wanted to be Jon Krakauer I would start by leaving my apartment once in while, or maybe I would order Vietnamese food for dinner instead of Thai. I don’t need to be tricked into climbing Mt. Everest to prove my manhood.

Speaking of proving one’s manhood, two days in a row I went for a walk along the river, and two days in a row there were men in speedos hanging out in Riverside Park. In case there was any confusion, Riverside Park is not South Beach!! Keep ‘em covered up. Thank you.

Muggers, Buggers and Thieves

WARNING: This is neither funny nor interesting, which explains why I haven’t written lately. Read it at your peril.

***
I’m listening to the Red Sox game, and apparently the temp at Fenway is 54 degrees. That's just wrong.

It’s like 237 degrees here, thank god.

Anyway, American Justice today was about the Louise Woodward trial, aka the Killer Nanny, which I remember fondly from my Boston glory days of the late ‘90s when Hanson and the Spice Girls ruled the airwaves. Besides my youth and the Last Drop, I also miss all the awesome Boston true crime stories. If I had any technical aptitude I would start a Boston Crime web site. The fact there isn’t one already is baffling.

My List of Cool Boston Crime Stories:

The other nanny (Zanzibar, torso, dumpster)
Chuck Stuart (the gold standard)
The Cat Lady (cat carcasses, freezer)
Dr. Sharpe (cross-dressing dermatologist)
Dr. Dirk Greineder (Wellesley wife-killer)
The shooting at the Charlestown 99
The Gardner Museum heist

New York needs to get on the ball if I’m going to stay here. Sure, it had the Preppie Killer, Amy Fisher and Son of Sam, but the most recent of those was in 1992. Let’s step it up, people.

***
I’m reading the Inferno, in honor of the balmy weather and stench of grease trap permeating the city, and it’s hard to say in which level of Hell I will be residing when the time comes. It could be Circle III: Gluttons, Circle IV: Hoarders and Wasters, or Circle V for the Wrathful and Sullen. I’ll probably just have to make my rounds in a little cart.

Complaint of the day:

Can someone please tell me why iced coffee costs more than regular coffee? You’re getting LESS COFFEE, so why does it cost more? Don’t even try to tell me it’s because of the ice. How much does ice cost? Last time I checked, ice was frozen water and not frozen emeralds. Don’t tell me it’s because the energy needed to keep the ice frozen costs money, because what about the energy to keep hot coffee HOT?! Huh?? There is no rational explanation other than it’s a plot by The Man to keep me down.

A Midsummer Night's Bug Story

Run for your life!


Oh my God, it ate Derek Jeter!


It's on 85th St!


Hey! It drank all my wine!


Who will win?!!


My Hero!

(What, like you have something better to do on a Sunday night?)

Hope Seeks Michael (NOT)

Papa, please preach 

I wrote this pwem* a year ago, when I realized my youth was as lost as Britney Spears’ virginity. The point was driven home this weekend when I saw some friends I hadn’t seen in a while. I’m clearly stuck in some kind of prolonged adolescence because I still just want to have fun and I’d rather swallow rat poison than have babies and move to the suburbs.

It’s hard to wake up and go to work every day knowing I’m supposed to be living in 1920s Paris.

Anyway, for good or ill, here's my pwem.

Drinking Margaritas on a Tuesday Afternoon

I miss drinking margaritas on a Tuesday afternoon,
And our July vacations that started in June.
I miss Opening Days that lasted all night,
And walking and talking until the first light.

I miss the sun at the Cape, and climbing the hill;
The buzzing of bugs, the smell of the grill.
I miss sitting outside, beside the canal,
While the colors of Amsterdam sang a chorale.

I miss waiters in Paris, and brats on the train,
That house in London, the freezing cold rain.
I miss dinners, the Drop, and ants in our room.
I miss trips to New York while thunderstorms loomed.

I miss nights at the Cask and Pedro games;
Meeting cute boys, and giving fake names.
If only I’d known it was ending so soon,
Drinking margaritas on a Tuesday afternoon.

***
I know the New Yorker will not be knocking on my door anytime soon, but I still like to rhyme stuff.

*Pwem = my friend Tiffany from college who was from New Orleans always said “pwem” instead of “poem.”

***
My upstairs neighbors are having very loud sex right now.

***
Okay, it's been like an hour, can I complain? Jesus.

Top Five Other Places I'd Like To Time Travel To

5. Allison's graduation party, June 25, 1988
4. The Shamrock House, East Durham, NY, May 27, 1990
3. The Cape, August 15-22, 1998
2. Studio 54, NYC, 1977
1. The Grasshopper, Amsterdam, August 1, 1999

Loud Sex Update: Well, ironically, as "After The Lovin'" by Englebert Humperdinck plays on my 70's music channel, I can hear Mr. Loud Sex leaving. So in his honor, I think that instead of "After the lovin', I'm still in love with you," the lyric should officially be changed to "After the lovin', I'm gonna catch the C train."

Not Babylon

Blech. It’s damp, it’s cold, the Red Sox just got swept by the freakin Blue Jays and my phone hasn’t rung in 48 hours. I have no choice but to drink wine straight from the bottle and listen to David Gray.

I love New York, I love my apartment, but my fondue set is sitting in the top cupboard, lonely and sad, while the bottle opener makes fun of it, like, “Dude, why don’t you come out once in a while?” The fondue set is all, “Don’t worry about ME, I’m FINE here by myself. I don’t need anyone.” I admire the fondue set's bravado, but the fact remains you can’t have fondue by yourself and the Snoop can’t hold a fork.
***
I am boycotting Starbucks because on the two occasions I went into the one near my house, there was nowhere to sit. On top of it, their coffee sucks. That steaming, fetid puddle on the 59th St. subway tracks? Better than Starsucks. I don’t know if you can boycott a place you rarely go to in the first place, but I am.
***
I got sucked in to the Melrose Place True Hollywood Story today, and I found out that Brian Heidik, who played the pool boy (I guess), owes his success on Survivor Thailand to his role on the MP, because of all the maneuvering and conniving that went on (not by his character, per se, but uh, by the other ones). It warms my heart to know that so much good could come from one little TV show.
***
If I hear ONE MORE WORD about Jeets' catch, that he should've let the other guy get in the first place, I will strap myself with explosives and get on the A train.*

*DISCLAIMER: Dear Mr. Chertoff, I’m not really going to strap myself with explosives and get on the A train. For one thing, I don’t even know where to get explosives.

Top Five CDs To Listen To If You're Feeling Sorry For Yourself Because You're Alone In NYC

5. The Carpenters
4. America
3. Jim Croce
2. David Gray
1. Dan Fogelburg

Joe Lies

I just watched St Elmo's Fire for the 8,098th time (on WE, thank you very much), and the "brat packers" (who were 37 in 1985) are supposed to be 21-22 in that movie, but they act like they're older than I am now.

Like in the scene where Ally Sheedy takes the day off from work to go get her albums from Judd Nelson's (Judd Nelson, right?) apartment after she sleeps with Andrew McCarthy (another stellar performance by Mr. McCarthy, by the way), she's wearing a floor-length skirt and the ever-present I'm-so-preppy-I-wear my-pearls-even-while-fucking-Andrew-McCarthy necklace. To pick up her albums. In a skirt and pearls. And one of the albums she takes? Mahler. Because 22-year-olds are so fond of Mahler. If they were real people I'd have to kill them. You're 22. Go audition for the Real World.

Top Five Best High School Movies:
(Old School)

5. Fast Times At Ridgemont High
Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure (Tie)
Valley Girl (Tie)
4. Sixteen Candles
3. Heathers
2. Say Anything
1. Can't Buy Me Love

Tell Me A Story

Now that Pat Croce isn’t on in the afternoons anymore I’ve been watching a lot of TLC while I get ready for work. There is nothing that makes me more ready to face the news of the day like a two-hour “Wedding Story” marathon.

Top Five Least Popular TLC Shows:

5. A Paternity Suit Story
4. A Tooth Extraction Story
3. A Five-Week Heroin-Induced Coma Story
2. A One-Night Stand Story
1. A DWI Story

It's Not Unusual

Top Five Things That Annoy Me More Than Anything
(so… many… things…)

5. Reality show contestants
4. When people don’t return emails (you know who you are)
3. Yogurt with fruit on the bottom
2. People who block the subway door
1. Having to wait

Excuse Me

Top Five Excuses For Not Writing Lately:

5. Was at a Cheers convention in Vegas
4. Had to fly to CA to testify in Michael Jackson trial
3. Was writing a protest rap to free Mumia
2. Too busy working on Jorge Posada voodoo doll
1. Went to D.C. to give Condi some pointers on North Korea

(Wait a second... I've never been to D.C.)

By the way, tonight on ESPN Classic it's the Top Five Reasons You Can't Blame... Art Modell (whoever he is) for moving the Browns to Baltimore. I guess that's a football team?

I am such a loser that I'm watching a show on PBS about 70's songwriters. I wish I had some pot.

This and That

Living la vida leopard

*Some sadist at work insists on watching “American Idol” every Tuesday night and I think he should be prosecuted for human rights violations.

*I was feeling very art deco tonight, so I came home and made myself a martini. Unfortunately it was disgusting and I had to throw it out after two sips. I have to face facts that I’m just a wussy beer drinker.

*Every night on ESPN Classic there is a show called “Five Reasons You Can’t Blame… Steve Bartman.” The ellipses suggest there are other episodes, but it’s been Steve Bartman every night this week. What about Bill Buckner? What about… okay, I’m no Sports Guy, I can’t think of anyone else. But why did they make a show about Steve Bartman that's on every night?

*The Mouse Alert has been elevated to Yellow (High) because Snoop has been stalking something behind the microwave all day. Hopefully it's just another harmless mastodon-sized bug.

Again, keeping the list to just five will be difficult…

Top Five Leopard Print Things I Own

5. Faux fur jacket from H&M
4. Furry pillow
3. Mouse Ears from Disney
2. Slippers
1. (TIE) CUTE pink and leopard purse
(TIE) Flask, which I’ve never used, but will once I graduate to straight vokka

Happy Hell-idays

Happy Mother’s Day to my friends (none of whom have computers) who chose to pollute the planet with their DNA!

Top Five Worst Holidays to Wait Tables (with commentary):

5. BC Graduation (Especially at Pizzeria Uno’s where it’s an orgy of virgin pina coladas and free coke refills. Not to mention you’re dealing with families who think Uno’s is an appropriate place to celebrate the culmination of four years and 60Gs.)

4. St. Patrick’s Day at the Stockyard (four million sweaty, slobbering Brighton townies who have been drinking since 9 am and are too wasted to see, speak, or get out of my way, but not too wasted to dance to that traditional Irish favorite “Brown-Eyed Girl.”)

3. Thanksgiving (The year I worked at the Stockyard on Thanksgiving, it was all cross-eyed, twitchy mutants and their moms, clearly too socially retarded to interact with other human beings, which is why they were at the Stockyard on Thanksgiving in the first place. I wish I were exaggerating.)

2. Valentine’s Day (Table after table of greasy-haired guys with thick chests and thicker Mass. accents accompanied by acrylic-nailed, fake-tanned, Tiffany-heart-bracelet-wearing hairdressers asking to sample the White Zin.)

1. Mother’s Day (Restaurant full of people who hate their mothers and mothers who hate their children, trying, sometimes successfully, not to make a scene.)

1a. While not technically a holiday, I once worked a Christmas party for 60 DMV employees, but I still can’t talk about it.

On the other hand, to be fair and balanced, rehearsal dinners and New Year’s Eve are fun to work because everyone is happy, drunk, and most importantly, generous.

Stockyard? More like the Rockyard!

Lazy

Top Five Things I Would Never Say

5. “More soy, please.”
4. “I got up at 6 am to go running.”
3. “Another drink? I can’t, I have to go home.”
2. “When does hockey start?”
1. “I can’t wait to move back to Albany."

Dog Days

Albany rocks!

Top Five Fun Facts About Albany

5. Herman Melville attended Albany Academy
4. The Erastus Corning Tower is the tallest building in NY State outside of NYC
3. Chester Arthur, 21st U.S. president, is buried in Albany Rural Cemetery
2. Albany was the second settlement in the 13 original American colonies, after Jamestown, Virginia
1. Albany is home to the world's largest RCA "Nipper" still in existence

More Nipper: 1, 2

Sources: Wikipedia, College of St. Rose

All America City

I had Sunday and Monday off for a change and felt like torturing myself, so I took a small jaunt to the Capital City on the Hudson.

Top 5 Reasons To Go To Albany*

5. The Egg
4. Stewart's (pronounced "Stort's") mint chocolate chip ice cream
3. Ragonese's
2. Lombardo's
1. The Fountain

*4 out of 5 are food-related

Earff Day

I'm inaugurating a daily Top Five list. Today, in honor of Earth Day I give you:

Top Five Most Annoying Things About the Earth

5. Gravity
4. Wind
3. Precipitation
2. Winter
1. Bugs

New York State of Mind

View from the ESB

I’m sooo depressed tonight… it’s a beautiful, 80 degree spring night and I should be drinking a margarita outside somewhere with my friends... but I don’t have any. So, so much for that. Also my entire apartment building smells like cabbage.

(Who even cooks cabbage anymore? It’s not like it’s 1930s Romania and there’s nothing else to eat. Order Chinese for chrissakes.)

Thank God I have MLB Extra Innings and a 12-pack of Amstel or I would be curled up on the floor in the fetal position.

Speaking of fetal, today was Baby Ella’s first trip to NYC and she was not very impressed with it. She’s not a subway girl, which I can appreciate. I think by screaming from 86th St to Chambers she was making a statement that the trains are dirty and there are too many homeless people on them. Perhaps she should meet with Mayor Bloomberg.

***

To further illustrate how pathetic I am, for dinner I'm having French bread pizza instead of steak and I’m watching “Naked Science: The Bermuda Triangle” on the National Geographic Channel. I am a walking “Sex and the City” episode.

***

Addendum:

Just watched "Pretty in Pink" on TBS. A few points:

- I know I am old now that I identify more with Annie Potts more than Molly Ringwald

- James Spader as Steff is hot in a Preppie Killer sort of way

- Andrew McCarthy was 46 when he made this movie

- Having to choose between Molly Ringwald and Andrew McCarthy as to who is the worse actor is akin to having to choose which limb you'd like hacked off first

- Jon Cryer is annoying

- I miss the '80s

Of Mike and (Monkey) Men

I am working a fabulous day shift today, which means that although I had get up at 5:30 (that’s AM), I will be at Happy Hour by 4:01. Or I would be if I had anyone to hang out with. More likely I will rush home to catch the 5:00 re-broadcast of Dr. Phil, which is still better than listening to co-workers debate whether the New Yorker is more pretentious than the Economist. (As if anything could be more pretentious than that conversation.)

The following is the best news story I’ve come across since the legendary Monkey Man attacks of 2001.

From AP:

Mike the Headless Chicken survived a beheading in 1945 in Fruita, Colo. Afterward, Mike could go through the motions of pecking for food, and when he tried to crow, a gurgle came out. His owner put feed and water directly into Mike's gullet with an eyedropper.
Scientists examined the chicken and theorized Mike had enough of a brain stem left to live headless. He was a popular attraction until he choked to death on a corn kernel.

Poor Mike.

The Mike web site is doubly awesome.

Lethal Sloth

I'm still recovering from an exhausting Meatster/Opening Day doubleheader in Boston, so I dug deep into the annals of stuff I made up while trying not to kill myself at my last job. (And someday I will figure out that whole HTML-table thing.)

Write Your Own Lifetime Movie Kit

Choose Title:

Pick an adjective:	Add a deadly sin:
Fatal	Lust
Deadly	Greed
Lethal	Pride
Desperate	Sloth
Dangerous	Anger
Precious	Murder
Carnal	Adultery

Cast:

Pick any three:
Kate Jackson	Tracey Gold	Brian Dennehy
Sharon Lawrence	Kelli Martin	Ken Olin
Meredith Baxter Birney	Kim Delaney	RickSchroeder
Tori Spelling	Corky	Mark-Paul Gosselaar

Plot:

Fill in the blanks:

This movie is about a woman who must ________
a) kill her husband
b) kill her lover
c) kill her husband’s lover
d) kill her boss

and survive _______
a) prison
b) rape
c) prison rape
d) incest
e) breast cancer

in order to save her ________
a) job
b) marriage
c) family
d) breast

Stats

T-Wo makes the last out 

My Day at Yankee Stadium

B trains that broke down on the way there: 1
People who looked like extras on The Sopranos: 44,967
Obnoxious white trash girls sitting next to me drinking Coors Light: 2
Guys in a wifebeater and gold chains continuously yelling “Trot, you suck!:” 1
Fights in which people were ejected: 3
Red Sox fans around me: 0
People cheering for A-Rod before his HR: 0
People cheering for A-Rod after his HR: 17
"Hip hip Jorge" chants: .5 (mercifully)
Babies Tino Martinez saved from a burning building before the game: 4
Years I aged during "God Bless America:" 11
Fingernails Jeter broke when he got hit: 3
Runs Mariano gave up in the 9th: 4
Obnoxious white trash girls sitting next to me drinking Coors Light who finally shut up in the 9th inning: 2

People Will Come, Ray

 

After a long, cold winter, made warmer by the knowledge that whenever my annoying Yankee fan uncle started in on his cogent “Jeter has four rings” argument, I could patiently shake my head and work the word “choke” into the conversation, the hour is upon us…it’s April 3 and the lights are on at Yankee Stadium.

I’m so happy baseball’s back I don’t even care the Red Sox are losing and David Wells sucked. For the next six months, life will unfold with “Meet me at Foxwoods” playing in the background and that’s good enough for me.

Of course that doesn’t mean I have nothing to complain about.

For one thing, I don’t like the idea of the Red Sox opening against the Yankees, other than the fact I can watch the game at work. They should ease us into the season and open against a stupid team like Baltimore or Toronto. Having to go from no baseball to Red Sox-Yankees is taxing. I haven’t had time to build up my tolerance to the Yankee fans at work who say things like, “after Sunday, their magic number will be 161.”

On the other hand, I am grateful tonight’s game is just a game game and not a playoff game. If I had to survive another week like last year's ALCS I would definitely have to check myself into rehab.

Other things annoying me:

Ronan Tynan and his 45-minute rendition of “God Bless America.”

The YES announcers crediting Tino Martinez with curing AIDS, paying off the national debt and rescuing puppies from the tsunami.

The YES announcers, period. In fact, the whole YES network. Is it really necessary to keep showing clips of Babe Ruth? WE GET IT. It’s about as original as a Lifetime movie.

Jorge Posada, Jorge Posada, Jorge Posada.

See, I am happy. Only a short list of complaints. Life is good in the 212 tonight.

Play ball!

A Little Ditty

He's my American Fool

Bonjour lapins!

My new favorite subway ad is trolling for Vioxx victims and says “Heart attacks, strokes, blood clots and death. 1-800-LAWYERS.” I love it. It’s a musical that writes itself:

Heart attacks, strokes, blood clots and death,
We’ve got your back until your last breath.
If you are sick from taking a pill,
We’ll sue their ass and send you the bill.

I TOTALLY have a future on Broadway, no?

* * *

I just got some address labels from St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital. Those kids can’t be that sick if they’re making address labels.

Who is Brittany Murphy and why is she on Dave Letterman? (Seriously, who is she?) More importantly, why is Chasing Farrah on instead of Cheers? Am I going to have to write another angry letter to TV Land?

My love for the 70s channel is well-documented, and the best “Artist Fact” ever is: “Bob Welch spent five weeks in heroin-induced coma”

Speaking of Bob Welch, and I have no idea who he is, I always though the line in JC’s Jack and Diane (best song in the history of music) “Let the bible belt come and save your soul” was “Let the Bobby Welch come and save your soul.” I swear to God. The fact that all these years later I find out there actually is a Bob Welch who was in a five-week-heroin-induced coma is fantastic.

Oh my gosh! I just did a Google search to see who the heck Bob Welch is (Fleetwood Mac, apparently), and there IS a Bobby Welch who is some kind of Southern Baptist pastor… it’s all makes sense! I’m telling you, the Lord works in mysterious ways. (And yes, I’ve had three beers tonight, but I don’t think that’s relevant.)

March Crabness

Reasons I’m in a bad mood tonight:

I’m not tan
It’s March
Haven’t seen the sun in 462 days
Spring training is just a tease
I won’t be reliving my triumphant 2002 second-place NCAA pool finish
Babies, and the friends who would rather have them than hang out with me
It’s Sunday and I’m at work
My cat is not at work with me
Terri freakin’ Schiavo
“Intervention” has too many compulsive gamblers and not enough meth addicts
It’s freezing and raining out? No way!

Strolling on the River

Is it a stroller or a golf cart? 

There are 8 million people in the naked city and every single one of them is in my way. Between the Christmas tourists lollygagging along Sixth Avenue like it was ribbon night at the State Fair and the packs of Bosnian refugees hijacking my subway in their frenzy to see the “The Gates,” I’m surprised I haven’t found myself a bell tower and a rifle yet. The good news is, Christmas is gone for another nine months, and the Christos have gone back to violating European cities with their saffron bedsheets of Satan.

However. I live on the Upper West Side and that means one thing: strollers. Everywhere. On the sidewalks. At Filene’s Basement. In the grocery store. Have you been to a grocery store in New York? It’s hard enough to carry a can of soup down the aisle without having to turn sideways; trying to get by when there’s a stroller THE SIZE OF A HUMMER in the way, with the mom standing there yapping on her cell phone, oblivious to the fact I need to get by so I can go home and eat my soup so my low blood sugar doesn’t cause me to BEAT TO HER TO DEATH, is virtually impossible.

And the strollers are not only gigantic, they are more pimped-out than anything you'd see on Monster Garage. I’m schlepping my stuff around in a tote bag like a jerk, while the stroller jockeys are strapping lumber from Home Depot onto their roof racks.

I haven’t even gotten to the part where stroller = high probability of screaming baby, although with all the groceries, dry cleaning, furniture from Pottery Barn, there’s no room for a baby. I saw a woman carrying her baby in a kangaroo pouch while pushing a plasma TV in a stroller the other day.

When did this happen? I don’t even remember having a stroller when I was a kid. My parents stuck me in a cardboard box and dragged me along behind them with a length of clothesline. I think I turned out fine.

I Heart TV

Channel 624 rocks my world 

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

This may be the happiest day of my life. I just found out I have A&E, HGTV and Food Network… ON DEMAND. Throw in TLC and the History Channel and I would never leave my apartment. This started out on a sad note. Usually at this time of night (from 12 am to 1 am) I’m watching Cheers on TVLand, but tonight there is some dumb awards show on, and I was going to complain about it. Instead, I found out I can watch Design on a Dime ANY TIME I WANT. This should be a lesson to myself to stop being negative all the time, and try to look on the bright side, etc, but I don’t think I could do that. It would render me impotent, like A-Rod without his purple lipstick.

Speaking of Cheers, I’d like to nominate it as the best TV show ever. A few years back the Sports Guy* did a comparison between Cheers and Seinfeld, and Seinfeld just barely edged out Cheers and I can respect that. Seinfeld is a good show. But Seinfeld is on TBS every five minutes and I’m sick of it, whereas I could watch Cheers 24 hours a day. How could I not like a show that incorporates all the most important elements of my life? Here are just some of the ways in which my life is exactly like Cheers:

It takes place in Boston; I lived there for 8 years
It takes place in a bar; Most of my life also takes place in a bar
Diane Chambers went to BU; I went to BU
Carla is a short, mean waitress; I was a short, mean waitress
Norm hangs out at the Hungry Heifer; I worked at the Stockyard
Sam is a recovering alcoholic; I am a … nevermind
Sam played for the Red Sox; My boyfriend Johnny Damon plays for the Red Sox
Rebecca went to UConn; My friend Jen went to UConn
Lilith carried a dead rat in her purse; I had a dead mouse in my apartment
Cliff was on Jeopardy; I kick ass in Jeopardy

I mean, I could go on forever…

Long live Cheers!

PS: For those of you (Allison and Brigid) who never believed me when I said there were two Garys (of Gary’s Olde Towne Tavern), well, I was right. Robert Desiderio and Joel Polis. Ha.

While I’m in this happy cable TV moment, I would like to take a second, and I’m sure this won’t be the last time I mention this, to thank channel 624, the 70s channel, for being awesome. Thank you Dan Fogelberg, Bay City Rollers, Jim Croce and Bread. I love you!

*You can read the Sports Guy column for a mere 40 bucks if you join ESPN Insider!

The Snoop

Here's my Snoopinator looking very mysterious.

Scary Snoop 

Mouse Grouse

I got through college by handing in the same Dorothy Parker paper six or seven times. I thought I would keep that tradition alive by posting the Disney diary I wrote last year. Also, I thought it was appropriate in light of the Michael Eisner resignation announcement. I'm nothing if not topical.

Diary of a Misanthrope at Disney

Tuesday:

After speaking with the front desk to find out if my room is ready, I am told to have a “magical day.”

I decide to start a running fanny-pack count.

Call off fanny-pack count because I can’t count that high.

We are at the new “Wishes” fireworks show. The name “Wishes” reminds me of the dumbest senior quote to ever grace the pages of my high school yearbook: “if wishes were horses, dreamers would ride.” If wishes were tequila, I’d have a much better disposition.

Wednesday:

Summer Media Preview at MGM:

While wandering around the park, I find a street modeled after New York City. I propose a Boston-themed street with potholes, triple-parked cars and the occasional shooting of a teenager at the T-station.

If it were really the “happiest place on earth” there’d be fewer kids and more dogs.

I dig the show tunes.

Sneak Preview at Saratoga Springs Resort (opening later this month):

The newest resort is called Saratoga Springs Resort and Spa, based on Saratoga Springs, N.Y. The resort’s motto is “Health, History and Horses.”

Let’s see. “Health.” Okay, there is a spa. That could be construed as healthy. “History.” If you consider a fake reproduction of upstate New York circa 1870 in the middle of 2004 central Florida historical, then yes, there is history. “Horses.” Hmmm. No horses. No horse races. No betting. They should at least throw in an OTB.

Saratoga Springs Performance Center:

We are gathered for a “surprise announcement” via a live feed from Disneyland in California.

To celebrate Disneyland’s 50th anniversary (for some reason called “The Happiest Homecoming on Earth”), Disney World will import attractions from other Disney parks.

From Tokyo, they will introduce a show called “Cinderellabration,” a story featuring Cinderella and the other Disney princesses. Euro-Disney will contribute its “Lights, Motors, Action! Extreme Stunt Show,” which consists of a bunch of cars going really fast and crashing. I suggest they combine the two and call it the “The Last Days of Princess Di.”

Art Linkletter, who is 93, appears on stage in California to tell a rambling story about Walt Disney and his God complex…I mean his “vision.” If they wheel out Christopher Reeve, I’m leaving.

Reminiscent of the Daniel Pearl hostage video, Captain Tom (of Disney Cruise Lines), surrounded by “crew members” in gold mouse ears, announces the inauguration of west coast cruises.

Back at my hotel:

My faith in (in)humanity is restored. Today on Oprah: that guy in Syracuse who locked women in his basement dungeon.

The local T.V. station shows a hilarious commercial for something called “Granny Nannies.”

Item in the news: For the second day in a row, a local high school is under lockdown because someone brought in a weapon.

By the pool, there’s a man in a Speedo eating a banana. I don’t know why I think that’s funny.

Epcot:

At an International Media event, we get a VIP viewing of the Siege of Fallujah, I mean, the “Illuminations” fireworks show.

At Epcot, you can safely say, “I see London, I see France…” and not have to finish the sentence with “underpants.”

Thursday:

Magic Kingdom:

I’ve seen two couples (so far) wearing Mickey/Minnie wedding attire, which consists of white mouse ears with an attached veil (for her), and a top hat (for him). This makes me very sad.

Made-up, but possibly true, statistic: Per square foot, there are more strollers here than anywhere else in the world.

T-shirt slogan: “Life is good, Eternal Life is better.”

Animal Kingdom:

Random observations:

Behind the scenes, Animal Kingdom employees ride around the park on blue Schwinns.

I saw a huge container with the sign: “Manure Only.”

The animals are housed in giant buildings with signs that say “Elephant/Building 15” and “White Rhino/Building 16.” I wonder if they have to pass drug tests.

One of the employees working at Tusker House Restaurant looks just like the “O-Face Guy” from Office Space.

The Tree of Life is fake.

Saturday:

Blizzard Beach:

There are entirely too many people here.

Chef Mickey’s at The Contemporary Resort:

As I am surrounded by approximately one million children all hopped up on candy and Mickey Mouse, I wonder idly about the alcoholism rate among Disney employees.

Speaking of Mickey, I don’t like his attitude. The scene at Chef Mickey’s was just like the show “The Restaurant,” where everyone is all, “Where’s Rocco, where’s Rocco?” Like Rocco, Mickey sashays in when he feels like it and expects everyone to make a big deal over him. Whatever.

Overheard: “Connor! Don’t grab his tail!”

Grand Gatherings Fireworks Cruise:

We are in a boat, in the middle of the Seven Seas Lagoon, where we are watching the “Electrical Water Pageant.” Imagine your neighbor’s light-sculpture Christmas decorations, but instead of reindeer, it’s dolphins and fish and alligators. Then it turns patriotic with stars and stripes and flags, which totally reminds me of “Red, White and Blaine!” from the movie “Waiting for Guffman.”

Christopher Guest needs to make a movie about theme parks.

The “Wishes” fireworks display. Again. By this point I’m wishing, fervently, that the boat would capsize.

Sunday:

On the airplane:

To the parents of the child who screamed at the top of his lungs from North Carolina to Logan Airport: please don’t fly ever again.

Train Pain

Spent the weekend in Boston. Boston is so small and watered down now that I’m a big cool New Yorker. If Boston were a condiment it would be spicy brown mustard. It’s not completely devoid of character or culture, but it has no edge. It’s pleasant, non-threatening, and perfect with a hot dog.

New York, on the other hand, is wasabi. It’s spicy, it’s weird, it goes with sushi (which I hate), but it’s awesome.

On the way home I took the Acela and sat in the quiet car, which is the next best thing to the Kate Only car I’ve been dreaming about all these years. I only wish the quiet car could be extended to other areas of my life. I would like to walk around in my own personal bubble of quiet where there are no cell phones, no radios, no loud conversations, and certainly no one chewing ice cubes in the cubicle behind mine. (I know, it was a year ago. I’m still scarred.)

Somewhere in the evil state of Connecticut I saw this billboard: “Babies Were Born to Be Breastfed.” I don’t know why it infuriated me so much. I have half a mind to go out and have a baby so I can feed it nothing but scotch. Seriously, what the fuck? Who are these people? Why are they demanding I breastfeed, and why are they demanding I do it in my quiet car? Is there a marauding band of women savagely bottle-feeding their babies on the trains from Boston to New York? What the fuck?

I also saw a law firm billboard outside of Bridgeport. The number was 1-800-NOT-DRUNK. Somehow I can see myself needing that number some day. I will keep it under my pillow next to the number of the law firm whose subway-ad slogan is “When spending the night in jail isn’t an option.”

Finally, I call a moratorium on making up names from initials. It’s getting out of hand. It’s already too late in some cases, SoHo and TriBeCa are entrenched, and even I’ve been guilty of calling South Beach “SoBe.” But I saw a sign calling South Norwalk, CT “SoNo,” and that means the trend has gone too far. I can only assume it stands for So Not a place that doesn’t suck. No amount of cute names will ever make Connecticut cool. Ever.

Curse the Verse

Crappy poems to pass the time:

Haiku

Cloudy, cold and gray…
Six weeks till Opening Day.
Winter, go away.

Blah

Dunes and waves and salt and sand -
Hot dogs, beer, the peanut man.
Baseball games and Cape Cod trips,
Tanning oil and double dips.
Instead I’m stuck in winter’s throes
With SAD and a runny nose.

Short and Sweet

Blech. It's Friday for everyone else in the world but it's Monday for me. Cue the Boomtown Rats.

Isn't it time someone took the pope to a farm so he can chase rabbits and play with all the other popes?

Werthers: the official candy of NAMBLA. (Am I the only one who thinks those commercials are creepy?)

Hardly Working

This week on Jeopardy is Ultimate Tournament of Champions Week. I think it should be Ultimate Fighting Tournament of Champions Week, I’d like to see Ken Jennings kick some ass in that.

I propose an Apprentice drinking game in which you have to drink every time someone says “outside the box."

What I did at work tonight: watched The Apprentice, read through 4 week's worth of wedding announcements on Timesunion.com (did not know anyone), watched Sex and the City, tried to stem the American Idol-induced bleeding in my ears, ate a Twix bar, contemplated suicide-by-stapler, thought about Amstel Light, checked my email 9,387 times (number of emails received: 3), read the Sports Guy.

To think I left Boston and my cushy 11-7, weekends-off gig for all this!

Crap! I just realized I missed the One Day at a Time Reunion!!! Wop on your feet, y’all.

Mouse Alert: Green = Guarded

Odd Couple

To paraphrase the immortal Norm Peterson: "Roommates. You can't live with them... pass the beer nuts." Last year, in a fit of insanity, I agreed to move in with a roommate to "save money" for "law school."

I hope the following will serve as a warning to others.

Six More Weeks of Winter

I generally try to spend as little time as possible in the house on weekends, because the alternative is watching my roommate hump her boyfriend on the couch to whatever crappy movie is On Demand. Seriously. That’s all they do. Sometimes they go out to Target, or Hollywood Video, but usually it’s the couch, blinds drawn, her hand on his dick and the TV volume turned up to 4 billion. I know this is New England, and it’s winter, and the weather sucks, but for the love of God—go to a movie or something.

So far this week, I’ve been lucky. She’s inexplicibly spent every night since Monday at his house. Let me clarify that. She’s spent every night since Monday at his parents' house, where he still lives.

In any case, I have a feeling my luck is on a bus out of town.

Friday, 7:32 p.m.

I am lying low this weekend. Time to reclaim the couch. I arrive home with a bottle of wine and the first season of the Sopranos on DVD. (I am a winner!) Her car is not in the driveway, but out front. That could be good or bad.

7:33 p.m.

Opening the front door…slooooowly…ahhhh…she is alone. Yay.

9:30 p.m.

Episode One of the Sopranos. The phone rings. It’s my mom, so I don’t answer it. Cokehead*, who’d been asleep on the other couch, leaps up and asks who it was. Calm down, crazy, I’m sure he’ll call at 4 a.m. when he’s fucked up. She staggers off to bed.


Saturday, 1:30 a.m.

5 Sopranos episodes down, 8 to go. Bed. No Freddie. Thank God.

12:26 p.m.

I am checking email when I hear his voice. When the hell did he get here? He wasn’t here when I went to bed last night. She was watching TV alone on the couch when I got up this morning. Maybe when I went out for coffee? Maybe she really did go get him in the middle of the night? What the fuck?!!

12:42 p.m.

Fortunately, they are leaving.

3:19 p.m.

Putting away groceries. An overwhelming sense of dread and nausea tells me they will be back any minute. At least I got to the TV first and a Red Sox spring training game is on.

Hello, Johnny Damon.

3:33 p.m.

ARGH.

They are back. Hi Freddie, it’s great to see you too. You’re looking well. How’s that thing where you live at my house, use my computer during the day while I’m at work—that’s W-O-R-K, in case you’re writing it down—and yet don’t speak to me? How’s that going??

Great!

4:39 p.m.

I am on the phone with the cable company. “Yes, the wire is connected to the TV. Yes, the freakin’ thing is plugged in. Yes, I’m pretty sure there was cable in this room before. I will double check with my roommate.”

4:40 p.m.

Knock, knock on her door. I know she’s in there because HER TV IS VERY LOUD.

“Just a minute!” [Rustle, rustle, grunt]

[RUSTLE]

Jesus Christ, it’s 4 o’clock in the fucking afternoon.

Never mind!

6:27 p.m.

Returning from my walk, I see that her car is gone. I’ve got ¾ of a bottle of wine, City Confidential, and 8 more episodes of the Sopranos. Life is good!

11:07 p.m.

Oh Christ. They’re home. But I’ve got a nice little wine buzz so what the hey. She’s trashed and chatty. Oh my God! I think I just saw a mouse! Kill it!! Oh wait, it was just Freddie scurrying into her room before my cat could get him.

She’s got a 12-pack of Bud Light cans and a bottle of Malibu for Freddie. The store must have been out of wine coolers.

11:47 p.m.

I am still watching the Sopranos. She comes out of her room to get another beer and smoke a cigarette. She stands by the window in the kitchen and we chat about the show. By the way, she says, Freddie doesn’t like The Sopranos because of how they portray Italian-Americans.

What?

That is dumb on so many levels. Not least of which is that this is a kid who is inordinately proud of the fact he is a “guinea from The Lake,” and who continually quotes the Godfather.

(Which portrayed Italians as…what was that again? As mobsters?) Shut up, Freddie.

Which brings us to the highlight of my weekend:

Sunday, 12:02 a.m.

Cokehead and I are still talking. I am lying on the couch, she’s smoking by the kitchen window. He comes halfway out of her bedroom, waves his empty glass at her, puts it down on the stereo speaker, then scuttles back into her room and shuts the door.

For a minute I thought the Shiraz was making me hallucinate, but he did in fact leave his glass on the speaker so she could come get it and make him another Malibu drink. Malibu, for Christ’s sake. If you’re gonna be a cocksucker, at least drink Wild Turkey.

The saddest thing is, she made it.

(And that, my friends, will be the last time we see Freddie this weekend. Although by my saying that, you would assume that means he went home. Alas, he was here the whole time. I heard him. I saw her bring him drinks and food, but I did not see the elusive Moronis Lakis the rest of the weekend.)

12:16 a.m.

Did I mention I heard him? Yeah they’re going at it again. That whole “bring me more Malibu, Bitch,” must be a turn-on.

1:45 a.m.

Fucking rabbits.

7:47 p.m.

Still no sightings. I heard that if Freddie sees his shadow there will be six more weeks of winter.

Monday, 7:06 p.m.

I just never know what I’m coming home to. Surely if he spent the whole weekend, he won’t be there tonight? Right? Right???

7:17 p.m.

Awww!

Freddie the Rat, sporting a two-day growth of beard and a wild, hollow look, as though he’d just spent the last 48 hours in his girlfriend’s bedroom…oh wait…is sitting at the dining room table struggling with the alphabet. She is staring at him dreamily, stroking his arm. They are discussing the little known fact that bus drivers often change their routes depending on what time of day it is, which I guess is conceivable. I mean sometimes the bus doesn’t show up for, like, 45 minutes, and I wonder where it is. Next time I’ll know it’s on an alternative route. Or maybe there is a parallel universe. Every so often they whisper, which is understandable, because if I were saying things that dumb, I wouldn’t want anyone else to hear me either. I’m trying to heat up dinner, but I feel really uncomfortable. I’m waiting for them to start fucking on the dining room table. They’ve gone the entire ten minutes I’ve been home NOT fucking, so I assume it’s only a matter of time.

7:30 p.m.

I am watching the Simpsons. I’m actually waiting for the Freddie to mention he doesn’t like the Simpsons because of the way they portray Cartoon-Americans, but he’s too busy trying to write in cursive and doesn’t notice. I wonder if, when he’s watching TV, he looks in the back to see where the tiny little people are.

7:35 p.m.

Again with the whispering. WHY?? Is she pregnant? Does he have genital warts? Oh, my mistake, she asked him if there are any movies out on video he wants to see. That IS top secret.

7:37 p.m.

I guess my glaring worked because they go into her room. I give her door the finger. I keep hoping I’ll get caught doing that, but so far no luck.


Saturday, noon

I run into Cokehead as I’m leaving for Albany. She is upset because Freddie got a job. In Miami! He is leaving Thursday! I sing all the way to the New York border.

Sunday, 2:43 p.m.

Well, it’s been three whole weeks since Freddie the Rat left for Miami with $300 from my dresser and my dead grandma’s diamond earrings. It’s worth it though. He’s gone, and I can be entertained by Cokehead’s alternative explanations for the missing stuff: the cable guy took it; the guy upstairs sneaked down one night and went through my dresser—oh yeah, and she’s missing some black pants and two porno movies (what??), so obviously Someone is Fucking With Us. Because there’s NO WAY the guy with NO JOB who used to hang out at our house alone ALL DAY, and who was LEAVING TOWN took it.

So anyway, it’s also been three weeks since I’ve had the pleasure of listening to them fuck…until now. Here’s some advice…if you’re coming home in the middle of a 24-hour coke binge, and you’re planning to have ear-splitting phone sex, do your roommate a favor by DOUBLE CHECKING TO MAKE SURE SHE’S NOT HOME. Thank you.


Monday, three weeks later, 8:30 p.m.

The phone keeps ringing one ring, then nothing, then ringing again. The caller ID shows a 305 area code each time. This has been going on for a while. I have a feeling that Freddie’s been trying to call, but has been getting confused about what to do with the phone after the dialing part.

Tuesday, 9:23 p.m.

Hmmm. There’s a strange pickup truck (of course it’s a truck) in front of the house. Cokehead’s car is in the driveway. Inside, I find no one, but there are empty beer bottles on the counter. Fishy. The back porch! I peek out and she is out there…with a guy. A new guy. The torch is passed.

*Names have been changed, but not too much.

Yahoo This

Well, it's been a bad day for Sandra Dee, Hunter S. Thompson, Bonnie Raitt's dad and the guy in Alaska who got his dick cut off. Although my day ran the gamut from boring to excruciating, I'm happy to report that I did not get my dick cut off. It's true, I don't have a dick, but if I did, I would call it a "cock."

Here are some topics I hope to address in the near future, barring any genital mutilations or blowing out of my brains:

The Red Sox need to shut up about A-Rod.

Who will be my next baseball boyfriend now that Johnny Damon and
Mikey *cough* not gay *cough* P. are married? (Not to each other!)

My insatiable lust for all things leopard print.

Why the Fountain Restaurant is the best place in the entire world.

And whatever other tripe I can come up with while under the influence of various intoxicants.

Mouse Alert: Yellow = Elevated