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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.”

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My upstairs neighbors are having very loud sex right now.

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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."