Perfecto!

My very dear friend Blake Edwards has just completed a film to include in You Tube and Sundance Film Festival's Project Direct. They had a month to complete this, it had to be under five minutes, include a red telephone and three other props of their choice from a list of twenty five.

I think this is only skimming the surface of what Blake has to offer to world with his sense of humour and amazing visual ideas. Not to mention it was filmed in my hometown!

Enjoy this piece entitled, "Perfecto!"

George Bush is a Ninja

My commentary is not focused on the reasons behind the shoe throwing.

My commentary is mostly....Who knew George Bush was a fucking ninja?

Honest to God, give him a black suit and motorcycle and call it a day. I can't believe he's hidden this magnificent light under a bushel for so long.

Even Sharks Know Italians Make the Best Food

Instead of complaining about my last hour of frustration over the US Postal Service at the holidays, and how this entry was going to be titled, "Holiday Gifting Should Not Include Ball Licking Threats" I will instead give you the best video of the day.

This is the preview for 'Shark in Venice.' I dare say the best film of 2008. Okay, so I haven't seen it yet. But neither have you and you can't argue this claim. Judge for yourself when it comes on Sci-Fi Sunday night.

All you need to know is that it takes place in Venice. There are gondolas being attacked by man eating sharks. And it stars....Stephen Baldwin. Buckle up.

My Wish List

Just this shirt.

Please do not include the scary woman.

"Smile! It Won't Mess Up Your Hair!"

New York...The city of endless entertainment. Every corner, every train and every deserted subway platform holds the most interesting characters by any stretch of the imagination. I've seen the most talented classical guitar player of my life, a ten piece trumpet group, a man strapped with three different middle eastern instruments and a Rastafarian who plucks a pre-recorded amplified guitar who grunts over the beat. Have you ever seen the old hunchback guy at the Times Square subway who plays the keyboard while dolls dance in front of him? Amazing.

Train entertainment is by far the best way to see a mix of what this metropolis has to offer. From soul groups harmonizing to three piece guitars singing Mexican folk songs and groups of eight year old hip hop dancers who swing themselves around poles. I'm consistently impressed and dumbfounded at what I will see next.

However, last night may have trumped any entertainment I'll ever see in New York City. I was riding home from work later than usual, well after the rush had died down. Somewhere after Grand Central a man got on the train shouting, "Good Evening, ladies and gentlemen! I'm going to sing you a little soul." He commenced banging his cane to the beat of, "Under the Boardwalk" and walked through the aisle singing every single harmony this song includes. It was downright terrible, but I couldn't look away. He was just so happy.

Afterwards he held his hat open for tips and shouted, "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. And enjoy your night in New York City, where all the girls are pretty and all have jobs!" A girl reached her hand out with change and he said, "Thank you. You can smile, it won't mess up your hair!"

Probably the happiest and wittiest homeless man who ever existed in New York City. And way better than the weird old guy who plays the lap steel.

The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

Check out this video: Mark Jensen



Just to get you in the mood for a little holiday cheer....Proof that Greg can find anything I ask him to on the internet.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer: Friend or Foe?

The other night, I took my place on the sofa to enjoy the timeless classic, "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" narrated by Burl Ives. This is not a tradition for me, although I do enjoy when my favorite aunt says, "Eat, eat. No one likes a skinny Santa." But the Christmas spirit is running strong with me this year and I felt the need to embrace any and all holiday cheer.

My friends, there is no cheer to be found in this Rudolph classic. None. I'll tell you why.

First of all, from the day Rudolph is born he is forced to deal with his "deformity" of his red, shiny nose. His father is ashamed by his appearance and immediately tries to cover it up with mud. Once the mud is in place, the father finally touches his son in a loving embrace, accepting him. Even Santa makes an appearance and lets Rudolph know he has to work hard if he's going to be on Santa's team one day.

Jump to adolescence. Rudolph is still working hard to keep his nose covered up. And fake noses certainly get in the way of Reindeer games. His nose is knocked off during a clever sports maneuver, revealing his deformity to his entire group of athletic peers. The coach deer rushes over to declare Rudolph officially estranged from the group for his weakness. "Too bad," he says, "He had a mean, (enter sports compliment here)."

Rudolph is sent home. On the way, he runs into his lovely doe, who clearly accepts him for who he is. Unfortunately, her father does not. Their hopes of a romance are dashed. Let me point out here, that so far it's only the females that have been accepting of Rudolph up to this point. The weaker sex or the more empathetic race? Hmmm.....

Meanwhile, there is a very sly little elf named Hermey that does not enjoy making toys. Instead, he feels his skills would be more useful in the dentistry world. This elf isn't like the others, he's more....dentist-like? With his swoopy blond hair and his bright red lips, this elf is cast from the workshop to pursue his dream of "dentistry." He runs into Rudolph and within seconds they are friends, united in their mutual deformities and rename themselves misfits. A shiny nosed reindeer and a....dentist.

At this point, I turned the channel. I know how this ends, because I've grown up singing the songs. Rudolph isn't accepted until he can provide his family and friends with a useful skill. They're distrusting and angry of his being different until they realize his deformity is the one thing that help guide Santa's sleigh. Hooray, let's cheer for him! We thought he was a freak, but he's actually quite helpful. Rudolph for mayor!

Rudolph is the protagonist and we are, of course, on his side. But here's my problem with Rudolph: All he wants is to be accepted. But why would he stick around in the North Pole kicking it with Reindeer who once hated him for being different? Rudolph was born like this. Hermey was born with his love of hygiene. What's wrong with this story, is what's wrong with people. We are completely turned off until it's vital for us not to be.

Rudolph may have been a pioneer for the animal kingdom, but did he really accomplish anything by staying in the North Pole? What if he couldn't fly and had to live his life with a shiny nose? What if Hermey didn't help defeat the Abominable Snowman and was merely helpful around the x-ray machine?

Before you celebrate Rudolph's triumph this Christmas, think about what you're singing about.

Who The Celebrities Call For Their Kids Parties

I'm pretty sure I've posted my fair share of videos this week, as my brain isn't working up to its normal brilliant capacity. But I found this amazing commercial while sitting up late the other night. I think this is the best, nay, only way to see brilliant television programming.

Uncle Magic Commercial


I'm dying to hire this guy for my next birthday party. This guy knows where the party's at. If you're feeling inspired, Uncle Majic also has a Myspace page. I didn't scroll through his pics or anything. I didn't find out he has an engagement ring waiting for one lucky lady....

Really, Uncle Majic? Is this a trick?

You've Got Time. I've Got Nothin' But Time! Move It.

I can't take credit for this amazing find. My friend crush Josh manages to find things that I will inevitably fall in love with on the internet. That's probably why he's my friend crush.

Please enjoy and please move your boogie body, baby.

Think Big

If you didn't already run screaming through the streets after Obama's big win, you can enjoy this video response of the hope, happiness and victory that people felt after November 4th.

Video by Paul Iannacchino, who is awesome.


Think Big from paWL made this on Vimeo.

Pick Me Up

If you were slightly disturbed by the image of not only Sarah Palin but the slaughter that took place behind her, please feel free to take part in a two and half hour live concert by the glorious Tom Waits.

You may do so here. (Thanks to Greg for making my day pick up.)

And if you feel inspired by this, you can also find out when he's touring again. At which point, tickets can be purchased in my name and sent in the mail. Thanks.

Pardon Me?

A Thanksgiving message from Sarah Palin. She's so thoughtful...

Ladies of the World, Contain Yourselves

Ladies, I'm sick of it. We give men such a bad rap for being the more unkempt of the sexes. Because they are men, we've pegged them as being sloppy, dirty, smelly and unhygienic.

Ladies, you are all liars. I happen to know for a fact that we are more if not equally as disgusting as males. How can I prove this? I use a women's public restroom and often. We are sick, sick puppies.

What's up with squatting? Be frank with me. Are you actually concerned that you're going to infest your rump with germs if you sit on a toilet that's shared with other female co-workers in a bathroom that is managed by professional cleaners? Let me know. I'm operating under the assumption that all the co-workers that inhabit this floor take regular showers, do not carry venereal diseases and have not been swimming in the rivers of third world countries recently. And while we're on the subject, the office bathroom gets cleaned more than my personal bathroom at home. So what's the hold up?

I'll go ahead and say it, I'm a sitter not a squatter. Call it weak leg muscles, call it laziness. But toilets were designed with seats for a reason. And when you spray your urine all over it, people with enough sense to sit down, sit in your pee. This is gross.

Flushers, what's the deal? Why do you flush before you even do your business? I hear you. You get into the stall, close the door, put your foot on the handle and flush before you even sit down. Are you detoxing the toilet water of germs? Because in honesty, I would think if anything you'd be stirring them up again. Is this a back flushing issue? Are you seeing things from your previous guest that you don't want to? A) I can't think of enough instances in any given bathroom containing eight toilets where this would happen. I mean, mathematically, it just doesn't work. B) Get over it. You are all wasting up to ten gallons of water with each superfluous flush. If you're that concerned with germs, don't add to it by pissing on the seat. You're sick.

Leaving toilet paper on the floor, paper towels all over the sink, various other things I won't go into.... You've got a one way ticket to a college frat house, sicko. Ladies, tidy that shit up. I would enjoy walking into the restroom the next go-round and not worry what I'm going to find.

Ladies, if you're insist on squatting...aim that shit. It's all I ask.

"Get Off My Letterhead!!"

As I've said, the office I'm working in is a shared space. Traders, real estate agents, money lenders, and us....

For the past few days I've been listening to this angry Jewish man with a thick New York accent shouting on the phone. Yesterday, I actually paused work to listen to a ten minute converation in which this gentleman took care of some bidness.

"I don't care! I QUIT! I don't have the money. You talk to Rudy! ....RUDY! YOU TALK TO HIM. I don't have your money. I don't want your money. I QUIT! I QUIT! I QUIT! TALK TO RUDY! I QUIT! I don't want your business. I don't want your money. I want you out! I'm done! I'm through! I'm finished! I quit! I QUIT! I want you off my letterhead. GET OFF MY LETTERHEAD! Yoooooooooooou don't OWN ME!! GET OFF MY LETTERHEAD!!"

He finished the conversation with a series of, "I QUIT! I QUIT!I QUIT! I QUIT! I QUIT!" Delivered in the exact tone and inflection each time. This man was on a roll. My only question is, what was happening on the other end of the phone? Was that person shouting back? Or was this man just plain crazy?

I QUIT! I QUIT! I QUIT! I QUIT!

Oh, Just Stop.

Oh, Thomas...When will you stop telling people you're a man?

The significance of a transgender who kept his female reproductive organs in order to have a child, who quit taking testosterone to get pregnant, become artificially inseminated and have a baby, does not rank high up on me, "No way!" list.

Is there any significance to Thomas having a child? Sure. He's a dude. Is there anything insane about it, really? No. Because he kept his female parts and therefore is kind of a chick. You did not defy science, brosef.

I'm all for recognizing that he's a man. Absolutely. I'm all for anyone taking part in sexual reassignment surgery, changing their name and changing their lives. I don't care if you want me to call you Sheeba and you decide to worship goats after a lifelong stint in a nunnery. Dude, go for it. You're okay in my book. But Thomas? Sir Thomas, you are a female.

What's weird to me is why he wanted to become a man in the first place. I know that becoming a man has way more to do with their personal feelings than it does the ability to have a baby or not and how that defines your gender. I get it. What I don't get, is why Thomas both kept his female parts and halted his use of testosterone that keeps him from remaining a man in order to have a baby. All anyone has talked about, is how amazing it is that he's a man. He's not. He's a man with female reproductive organs. This does not make you a man.

Thomas was quoted as saying, "It's a human desire. And I'm a person and I have the right to my own biological child." No one can deny you that, friend. And rock on for having one. Have ten more babies for all I care. But stop making public appearances and making documentaries where you marvel at your own reproductive system. There is no marveling.... you have a reproductive system because you were once a female. It's science, bitch.

Thomas did not pull the rug out from underneath science. So stop praising him, studying him or judging him for his new bundle of joy. He's part she. You can't fuck with science.

Dance Fail

This video combines my love of dancing and my love of watching people fall down.

Thank you, Gina. You always know...

I Can Haz Time

If you haven't been to the site "I Can Has Cheeseburger" then clearly you don't have enough time on your hands. Listed on the top are several other spin off sites dedicated to politics, celebrities, etc.

And you can make your own!

If you feel like voting for mine so I can have my 3o seconds of fame on the interweb, feel free to vote on the cheeseburger scale by using the following link.

Doggie Bag My Heart

You should probably stop what you're doing and watching this.

Jello Eyes

After the first month on the job, I quickly discovered that I needed to have cable installed. It's been eight years without cable and I can't say that I've been missing it. I've always enjoyed a handful of channels but never paid for cable for the simple reason that four good channels don't outweigh 150 channels of bad.

Last weekend I broke down and had it installed in my one room palace and I can't say that I've been enjoying it. I will say, that you learn to appreciate how much money this feet of technology is and you find yourself watching it more than you need to.

Case in point, last night I sat up watching Kill Bill II on TBS. I own this movie. At any point, I could've cut through the foreplay and just put the DVD in. But no, like an idiot I sat up watching this until 1am, commercials and all. Why? Because it was on. It's too expensive to not have it on. Is this really a great reason to watch television? No, but it's the cheap skate mindset that I've adopted.

But two things I realized last night:
1) Kill Bill II is better than Kill Bill I. Every time I watch this movie, I love Bill more and more and I'm sad when he dies at the end. If I've given anything away, you've been living under a rock.
2) Late night infomercials are hi-larious. I learned that I can cash in my gold jewelry that's been lying around. In this day and age, who knew you could just mail it in? To tell you the truth, I'd rather do my gold trading in person, but perhaps that's just me.

Do yourself a favor and don't purchase cable. You will waste hours of your life thinking that you're missing out on things by not watching it, when really you've forgotten to get up to eat dinner. Absolutely ridiculous. Go read a book.

*Note to reader: I now work in cable.

I Can Hear You Eating

Greg has provided me with the nickname "She-Wolf" because of my amazing abilities to pick up on the smallest noises and the faintest smells. This is a great ability to possess, say if you would like to experience homemade apple pie, go to the symphony, enjoy a quiet day in the woods or appreciate cilantro in spicy salsa.

But when you can hear the opening and closing of a desk neighbor enjoying the insides of fruit or you are listening someone across the subway fight dry mouth while telling a dumb story, I'd like to throw my heightened senses into the proverbial garbage can.

People, close your mouths. I do not need to experience your food with you. It's not that difficult. It's quite simple unless your jaw physically disables you to perform this simple task of human evolution. I give you props for being able to keep your food in your mouth without it spilling out. That's about the only positive thing I can say to you people. You're just gross.

Lock it up.

Via Hologram

Luke Skywalker stopped by next, congratulating the future President on his win.

Yes We Did

"Yes We Did" seemed to be resounding phrase last night. "Yes We Did" could be heard shouted on every street while walking home after watching the most historic Presidential election ever.

As soon as Ohio went blue, the first bottle of champagne was popped. At eleven o'clock when CNN came back from commercial and the picture of Obama was flashed up on the screen, screams were heard everywhere. I ran out onto my friend Matt's rooftop and shouted, "Obama's the fucking president!!!!" Cars were honking, people were cheering. "Yes We Did" seemed to be a universal proclaimation.

I am so fortunate, so proud, so honored to have even been alive when this change happened. I am filled with so much hope for not only my life, but for the lives of generations yet to come. My kids will grow up in a world where equality is not just a level to strive for, but a normal part of their lives.

Watching Obama's acceptance speech in a room full of friends, my heart swelled. The future, sir, is looking very bright. I'm honored to be a citizen of this country. I can't wait to be a part of the change that will come in due time.

High five, America. High fucking five.

You Want It Big?

I made the bold decision to go to McDonald's for lunch today. Sometimes you just crave it. I broke with conviction and made my way the whole block to the colorful establishment.

On the menu, the Quarter Pounder looks enourmous. It looks like there are two levels of meat. Shelves of delicious beef and cheese, slathered in pickles. I thought that perhaps I should order something smaller.

I get up to the counter to order and the girl asks, "You want it big?"
I said, "Do I want what big?"
"Your food."
"Yes?"
She looks at me.
"No."
"No, you don't want it big?"
"No. No, I do not want it big."

I walk out feeling that familiar guilty feeling whenever I'm holding a bag from McDonald's. It's like I'm walking back to work carrying a dead baby. I've just been to the fast food chain that may as well say, "You Can Buy Crack Here and Feel Awful About It" on the sign.

But alas, I'm enjoying my Quarter Pounder immensely. And no, it's not shelved with meat. I should've ordered it Big.

One Day More!

I know that this is supposed to be a funny video, but I still get chills from Les Mis. I'm a sucker for romances that never came to fruition.

Hopefully that won't be the case today when Obama will take America in his strong, capable hands and make sweet, sweet love to us.

Ahem. Back to work.

In a Fiery Flame....

Have I ever talked about my extreme hatred for Kelly Ripa? Honestly.



She's the worst. I mean, the absolute worst.

Who Knew?

Who knew if you left a pumpkin in a hot, improperly ventilated kitchen that it would explode?

I came home last night to find my newly carved pumpkin, carved a mere four days ago, laying on the table in a juicy pile. I went to go pick it up and not only did my hands sink into its skin, but the entire pumpkin juiced itself. All over the place.

Happy Halloween.

Why is Gina Gershon Being Terrorized By A Ghost and Why Am I Watching?

While helping Greg make a headband for his Middle Aged Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle costume last night, I came across haunted stories on the Bio Channel. I'm a sucker for these things that manage to suck hours from your life and never give it back.

They get you with the 'Up Next' segment. I think therein lies the problem. "Up Next... Sammy Haggar gets a surprise visit from his drunk dad....who's dead!" It's like with marathons you know you have no business or even interest watching but you can't stop. They don't show commercials between the credits and the next show. Five hours later you discover you haven't moved from your couch and you wonder how Ashlee Simpson has been your companion for an entire Sunday afternoon.

I digress.

Gina Gershon, (whoever the shit this is) was regaling me with tales from her haunted New York apartment. She kept waking up with scratch marks on her arms and was having terrible nightmares. She felt the presence of a man watching her while she was writing term papers for college...in the buff. "You know, I would write my term papers without a lot of clothes on....I don't know why, I'm Gina Gershon. You know me."

Turns out the house used to be a brothel at the turn on the century. Turns out that manly presence she felt was the mentally deranged son of the Madame. The same son who happened to kill, that's right, kill two prostitutes. He now haunts that room and other unsuspecting scantily clad women who rent that room.

Two things:
1) Don't get sucked in to shows like this. You waste hours of your evening and can't articulate what's the matter later when your boyfriend looks at you with that, "Are you thinking about dead ghost prostitutes?" face.
2) Happy Halloween.

Time to gladiate.

I Now Declare

In order to offset the seriousness of the previous blog, I will now issue you a statement from my recent lunch finding.

Kettle Brand Sea Salt and Vinegar Chips? You will enjoy this delicious chip if you acquire the arm strength to open the bag.

Seriously. These chips could survive a nuclear Holocaust.

Infomercial My Heart

Anyone see Obama's 30 minute informerical last night? I wasn't able to catch it, (as I was knee-deep in red shiny foam and glue guns...Halloween is tomorrow, yo). I did see it online this morning and yes, I did cry at work.

I don't know if it was the swelling music, the slow motion stills of hard-working Americans receiving heartfelt hugs from Obama or the arthritic wife sitting at home while her 74 year old husband pulls himself out of retirement to go work at Wal-Mart. But I found myself quietly crying at my desk.

I've already said it. Anyone reading this is probably already a friend of mine and I know all of my friends are voting. It's not just about voting that I'm writing about, it's not the need for Americans to pledge their support to a winning cause. It's that America needs change. This country has slipped and has continued to slip. I'm not blaming Bush. I'm not blaming Reagan or any other President who's made a mess of things. I'm not blaming our forefathers who founded this constitution. I'm blaming us, I'm blaming the present and I'm blaming everyone who can't stand up and admit that things are all wrong. Things are terribly wrong.

Seeing this infomercial, which was not enlightening and was not life changing, made me cry because of how real it was. Mothers sending their sons and daughters to a pointless war. Grandmother's unable to afford medication. Fathers unable to provide for their family. This is my family. These are my friends. This is the world we live in. We have to change this.

If you support change, if you support anything positive for this country, make your vote count.

(And if you don't want to have people seeing you cry, don't watch this at work.)

Vote.

I received my absentee ballot from North Carolina on Friday. Before I even took my coat off, I was already ripping open the envelope to fill in the oval next to Obama's name.

I stop and think of the times we're in. Scary or devestating, this is the most historical time period our world has ever seen. From the short time that I've been on this planet, I've seen the Berlin Wall come down, the Gulf War, the Twin Towers fall, George W. being elected....again, the war in Iraq, technology changing at a daily speed, catastrophic change in our planet's weather, cell phones shrinking in size, huge leaps in the cure for cancer, state's beginning to support same sex union...

We are living in the most important moment in our nation's history. Whatever your political beliefs may be, your opinions, your concerns, this is the most significant turning point that we are all a part of. We have a vote and we have to use it. What do you care about? What do you want to see change? What do you want to say to the ones who have the power to change them?

I don't care if you're a gun-toting Republican who worships Satan or a Democrat who eats trees and communicates with taps. As long as you have an opinion about the direction of our country and have reason to back it up, then you need to get involved. Go vote. Get your friends to vote. We can change the direction of our country, this war, our environment, our future, our children's future.

Don't be an asshole. Go vote.

Filly My Pain

Not that kind of filly...though this horse does resemble how I felt when leaving the dentist today.

3 week old filling was not sitting straight and I couldn't eat on that side. After x-rays they decided it was too close to the nerve and had to take it out and put it back. First step? Novocaine.

So what was my request? More Novocaine.

First shot: "Yeah...I can still feel it. Better make it a double."

Second shot: "Mmm, I think I can still feel it but I'm not sure. Better give me some more."

Third Shot: "We'll see how this goes."

It went fine. But taking three shots of Novocaine to the face means that you leave looking like a stroke victim. I brought back a smoothie to work and trying to drink it through the straw was the most difficult thing I've attempted in years. And the most hilarious.

I've said it once before... Kids, you must floss. You must floss, floss, floss.

Get flossy with it.

Bonin' Bush

I saw "W" last night. Hollywood took a bold step in making this historical piece while still in the midst of history, but boy did they do it well. There was nothing offensive about this movie. They didn't overstep their bounds in making Bush seem like a black-hearted jerkwad who is heartlessly waging war on unsuspecting oil rich countries. He's not a bad guy. He's just a dumb-dumb head who is easily led by members of his party.

More importantly.... Josh Brolin? I think he's the only person alive who can convince me that I'd consider boning a president. Hot.

They did an amazing job creating this story and not missing a beat on references. If anything, it gave me an insight to decisions made during a time when I was personally choosing to tune out reality. Fact: They were wrong. Their speculations weren't precise, they were made by gut feelings. But in terms of what George W. actually contributed? He's really just the face.

There are so many things we can say. There are so many speculations we can all make. In the end, this war sucks and it was the wrong choice to go over there. We all knew this and it's time to end it. We do not have a perfect system. And it gave me all the more reason to believe that Obama is the next thing that our country needs. Please, for the love of God, make your vote on Novemeber 4th count.

And lastly...Josh Brolin needs to get ugly.

Drama Break

I've decided I'm taking a break from the show 'Felicity.' I've tried so hard....I've given it my all.

The one season I watched as nineteen year old just don't hold up. I thought, "Oh, J.J. Abrams, there's no way he can let me down." But each time I receive a Netflix envelope in the mail, I know it's from Felicity. She's saying, "Delve into my sad, little world. Nose dive straight into morbid insanity. Take a jog with me down Depressingville. I'll show you how much you never thought you wanted to drive blunt spoons into your eye sockets."

And it's true. I do. I sit there episode after episode, unable to press the stop button and end this madness. Ben's whispering, (always whispering!) something stupid, Felicity's touching her hand to her furrowed brow, wondering how she can be anything but herself...Someone got pregnant. Someone drank too much and fell into a coma. Someone didn't get into Med School. Someone's dad is dying of alcoholism and their son can't forgive him. Someone was a crack addict and shot someone at a party by mistake.

It. Just. Won't. Stop.

I'm on the last season. I'm so very close to the end but I just can't do it. I gave it my all, Felicity. If you could throw in a trip to Coney Island every now and then... A cheerful dance party? Anything?

Where Have I Been?

I'm not quite sure what I've been doing since '94 that I've been too busy to discover the joy that is Method Man. I recently pillaged Greg's computer and smuggled several never before listened to, (by Katie) albums that caught my eye.

Method Man? Amazing. I'm pretty sure if it were appropriate, I'd be following statements with, "What the Blood Clot?"

I mean...

Everytime I pass by a basket of baby pumpkins on the street, I have an overwhelming urge to take them all.

It's kind of like seeing babies in strollers, bull dogs on leashes, any advertisement featuring Paul Rudd. You know...like that.

So with my stolen basket of babies, dogs and Paul Rudd, I will add a random fall assortment of pumpkins. Done and done.

Gladiators, Ready??

You know what's more exciting than going as a female Gladiator for Halloween? Getting your costume together to be a female Gladiator.

Four ladies hit the streets this past weekend to acquire any flashy accessory that would complete our muscly sensual look. The only logical place to start was American Apparel. Unless you own a pair of sparkly roller skates that you wear them on the regular and you live in the 1970's, you have no business purchasing electric red shiny spandex leggings. But that is just what I did.

We were having quite a fantastic time showing each other our spirited garbs in the dressing room, whooping it up and exclaiming, "Look at me! I look ridiculous!" It was around that time that the line for the dressing room started to build up and I began noticing that everyone was there shopping....but like, for real.

I got the feeling that I was slowly offending each shopper with every gold headband I donned and every stirrup legged pant that I shimmied out of the dressing room with. The dressing room attendant said, "People really buy this stuff." I'm still not sure if he was agreeing with our public mockery of the styles or he was defending the overpriced turf he stood on. We quickly finished up and left with a bundle of money in shiny fabric form.

Hours later, we sat around the kitchen table gluing on Red, White and Blue stars and outlining our Gladiator names in sparkly silver paint. We put our wrist bands around beer cans to appropriately decorate them.

Take a note from my dim camera phone pics... Patriotism is at an all time high when puff paint is involved. Watch out, New York Halloweeners, we also have a golden joust in our clutches with which to pummel your ass.

Excuse me, waiter. There are no clams in my clam chowder.

Soup. I love soup. I could eat soup every single day and not get tired of it. But you know what I do get tired of? Soup that's not made correctly.

As stated before, I had some ill dental work performed and it's completely botched. My mouth is in chaos and I'm down to eating soup and smoothies until I can get back into the dentist's chair next Thursday. Bread, vegetables, moistened syrupy waffles...it all hurts.

Yesterday I discovered a soup/sandwich place in my new office neighborhood. It was okay, except they did not provide a spoon. Who leaves out the spoon when you're demanding an absurd amount of money for soup? I do not know. I got clam chowder only to discover that not only was I without spoon, I was without clams.

Today the amazing Fall weather taunted me into trying another soup place. I found an amazing place two blocks from my office containing the inner workings of the best Spicy Chicken Chowder you've ever put your face into. I get back to work...there is no spoon. No spoon? I know that I should probably check, but they've put bread in there, napkins...who leaves out a spoon?

So maybe I should go the extra mile to fix my soup craving. But, people...it's soup. Get with it. This is probably the only necessary acoutrement needed to complete this feeding. Take a note.

Pimp My Plumber

I'm just going to be the first one to say it, after last night's debate "Joe the Plumber" is going to the hottest celeb since Spencer Pratt....but more loveable.

What's next for "Joe the Plumber?" A reality television show where he will be up for grab's from anyone currently in office or running for President. He will be popular and filthy rich. My only question is, if you get all the money you need would you still go into the plumbing business if you had a choice?

Like Hector from the amazing movie Quicksilver. Kevin Bacon earned mass amounts of money in the stock market so that Hector could open his dream hot dog stand. Why did he still open a hot dog stand? Why not a restaurant? I think the movie needs to shift its focus a bit.

I digress. Joe the Plumber stars in Pimp My Plumber. It's gold, Jerry! Gold!

"I Am Not President Bush."

That's true.

But you're still a robot.

Steel Friends? Nuff Said.

My mom was recently cleaning out a box in her house and found a letter I had written as a little kid. I must have been in the second grade as the ink was purple, the lines started at the top and staggered down, and there were broken hearts doodled all over the page.

Apparently I never delivered this letter but oh golly, I wish I had.

Dear Chris,

I guess you hate me. So I thawt that I would endup hating you. And I am happy that you read this. Because I have wanted to say that all year... And I mean hate, hate, hate you!

I hope that you hate me. Because I am braking up with you. Got it, HATE.

No hurt feeling! O.K.
Steel Friends? Nuff Said.

Katie

What a cruel, heartless Ice Queen I was! We could all take a few tips from young, rowdy Katie. Tell em to stick it.

The Perfect Storm

I've taken my name off of the New York Department of Labor's hitlist for one's to feel sorry for and walked into my first day of work today. It's awesome. I'm really into my job so far, my boss is fantastic, the work is great and I get to watch TV all day. Awesome? Yes. Quite.

My building, however, is quite hilarious. Seeing as this floor operates with around 100 other companies, it's a mish-mash of different occupational threads. The floor is set up like a maze and I was trapped in a Seinfeld episode today when I got lost looking for the exit. It seriously kept on going.

My new cube neighbor is either a Trader, a Stock Analyst or an extremely angry manic depressive. I held myself back from laughing out loud several times today while listening to him talk people down. As we all know, it's been a ridiculous time for the Market and a shitcan feeling if you've got a lot of money in it. (Side note: Why didn't I buy Intel at 6?!) So the following contains a few tasty tidbits I overheard today:

"You gotta step it up and buy when the market's strong...I know you're a big boy."
"I will kill myself."
"It's like this...if you get hurt and wind up in a hospital, I'll feel responsible."
"It's like the Perfect Storm with Mark Wahlberg and what the fuck's his face...."

And now enjoy the following video.

I Rest My Case.

While there are staggering comparisons to be found between the Republican presidential candidate John McCain and adventure-seeker Bear Grylls, I think I know who would have my vote.

In this media based society we call ours, how can we not take some tips from other bad asses? We are constantly comparing movie stars, music legends and most fashion-forward trend setters. How do we not have the same authority of discernment between our presidential candidates? I'm going to take some tips from other world figures and I suggest that you do the same.

John McCain was a prisoner of war?



Bear Grylls ate the head of a fucking snake.

The vote has been cast.

Boom-Da-Boom!

I sat up last night watching West Side Story and now I want to live in 1960's New York... apparently there was a lot of dancing.

If only present day New York warlords were fashionable and spry and used phrases like "Boom-Da-Boom!" or would occasionally kick their leg up and shout, "Wacko-Jack-o!" I'm fairly certain after viewing this film that more things would get done if we only worked out our frustrations with society through the power of dance.

I realize present day New York is filled with the corrupt Officer Crupke types who need to keep a clean beat. But at the same time, there are an equal amount of youths just trying to make their way through the world who seem to say, "We are here! We are colorful! We carry a lively step!"




I'm going to try this maneuver today. I'll let you know how it works out.

"You're Going to Need a Drink After This."

I just got back from the dentist. There was crying, there was blood and a smidgen of vomit. Want me to go on? Will do.

I went to see this fancy dentist on Central Park South a few months ago after a bad run in with a Fireball. I cracked my tooth into five pieces and had to get a Partial Crown. First he took pictures of the gaping hole in my mouth with a tiny camera from the future which I then emailed to everyone I knew. During his drilling, I watched the new Pink Panther on a flat screen television. He scanned my mouth with a laser to double check that I had no other cavities. I thought, "We are living in the future! I could go to the dentist every day!"

Boy was I a dummy.

I did have cavities. Four of them. I'm going to state for the record that no, it was not just years of candy and improper flossing. It's genetics. He told me so, so there! So the cleaning happened first today. You can always tell it's a bad sign when the Hygenist goes ahead a numbs you before she starts. After that it was like Halloween IV. I've never heard or felt so much scraping, pulling, yanking or scratching in all my non-violent peaceful life. I feel my jaw start to swell due to a terrible case of TMJ. She stops and says, "You're going to need a drink after this."

After that I'm sent into the next room to get my fillings. The first two. Only they're the last two teeth in my mouth. On the top row. My jaw was so swollen from the cleaning that I can barely open my mouth. So much that he literally tilted my chair back as far as it would go to see the back. This enabled all of the water, numb-numb juice, blood, etc to go directly into my throat.

There were at one point, up to eight different tubes leaving my mouth. I would open my eyes only when I was slapping the dumb assistant's tube out of my throat, and would see smoke rising from my mouth. Oh what's that? It's just my effing tooth being drilled away. The numbness is wearing off. My jaw is getting so sore that they put in a bite splint, only this makes the gagging worse. I start crying. Immediately he tries to change the subject by asking, "Is this song Hootie?" I start crying harder. There is no flat screen television. There are no lasers. Only heartache.

How can it get worse? Wait for it. The doctor goes into the next room to tend to another patient and leaves me alone with this demonic assistant. She starts shoving what feels like fire and death into my gums. I'm wincing in pain and she reaches for another few shots of whatever it is that makes your pain go away. The taste of this drug is going back down into my throat. I can bear it no longer. I gag all over her. All the liquid from the shot is everywhere. Spit, blood, everything. It's all over her, the chair. Everywhere. I'm sobbing over the rinsing drain, unable to open my mouth to properly cry and drooling out of the side that isn't swollen. She gets up and leaves the room.

That, in a nutshell is how I won my first set of fillings. I have to go back in two weeks to get the next two. I am never, ever allowing my teeth to reach the sad state they were in. Kids, you must floss. You must love your teeth. You should never underestimate the worth of your teeth.

You should take your teeth out on a date.

But She Doesn't Do Windows...

At least she makes the end of our planet as we know it look good.

Appropriate Subject Headers, My Fanny!

While I look forward to titling sarcastic subject headers of most emails, I'm finding it difficult to know how to do the same for prospective employers. Now that I'm out looking for work again and submitting resumes, there's a vast array of possibilities.

I mean, can we not just be forthright about this and state exactly what it's about?

"I'm Following Up On That Time We Spoke and You Said I Might Be Able to Work Here."
"I'm Applying For The Job You Posted Online. I Think I'd Be Great At It."
"I'm Not Quite Sure If I Can Fulfill All That You Need, But I Can Certainly Try."
"I'm Sure I'd Hate Working For You, But I'm Trying to Send Out As Many Resumes As I Can."
"I'd Be Happy If You Gave Me A Job, But I'd Be Indifferent If I Never Heard Back From You."

If we could just cut right through this malarkey, I think the work force would be a different place. Instead I'm sticking to subject headers like, "Great Meeting You" instead of, "I'd Be Doing You a Giant Favor and You're Probably Going to Underpay Me."

I'd Go See More Movies If I Didn't Hate People So Much

I just got back from seeing Burn After Reading. Instead of giving my review on what I thought of this movie, (which for the record, I was way into) I will instead continue with the following complaint about the human race.

I know everyone has to put up with other movie goers in every theater across the country. Yet it seems like New York draws in the most moronic film patrons from every back alley and under every mossy tree stump and allows them to enter for the price of a $12 ticket.

I sat through this movie trying to ignore the gentle but steady kicking in the back of my chair. I asked the persistent lad to stop and it didn't until the credits rolled. A girl on my row kept tapping her heels nervously and commenting loudly to her boyfriend who's shoving snacks in his mouth. Let's move on to popcorn. While I find this the tastiest movie viewing treat, I wish they would go ahead and invent silent popcorn. When people eat this, I can hear it from the opposite end of the theater. It's like National Geographic and they're Jaguars eating Zebras and I'm inside their mouths experiencing their gestation with them. I can't handle it.

There are cell phones opening and texting going on. There are people shifting. There's a homeless woman in the back row snoring. There are late teens who are kissing. And while I'm sure there's a way to ignore all of this and only pay attention to what's happening on screen, I just can't. I have acquired the name She-Wolf from Greg because of the ability to pick up on sounds and smells from far away. If only I could de-program my K-9 -like abilities for two hours to enjoy some cinema.

If people didn't ruin everything, then maybe I would.

Watching Fuerzabruta While Not Under the Influence of E

Last night Greg and I went to see Fuerzabruta. I had taken my brother to this show two months ago when he was up here and we both freaked out. If you haven't seen or heard anything about this show, you should look into it. It's by the same people from De La Guarda.

It's a mind explosion.

They bring you into this warehouse-type space where you stand for the duration of the show. You're moved around several times and asked to stand in different places, all while looking up at what's going on over your head. Dancers are strapped to lines and are running head first into walls, being blown around by jet powered fans with pieces of cardboard and paper flying around them. A man is running on an enormous treadmill with water, wind and a movable wall are being pounded against him. I'm not even doing this justice...No one can even describe what you see during this show. You have to see it in person.

There was a portion of this show that is performed on a ceiling- sized piece of plastic filled with water above your head. There are women playing in the water, sliding, diving, flipping...all over your head. They put their heads under water, opening their eyes and smile at you, make kissy faces. The ceiling lowers until it's over your head and you're encouraged to touch the piece of plastic. You can feel the water, you can feel them swimming above you. My mind wanted to explode. And explode it did.

Having seen this show before, I knew what to expect and it was fun to watch Greg's reaction. The best, (read sarcastically) part was listening to the yahoo's who drove in from Long Island to watch this show behind us. Clearly they had misread the description and thought there would be free beer or at least free sex all wrapped up in a water show. We listened to them for about five minutes before trying to disappear into another part of the crowd. When the ceiling of water was lowered over our heads, the bald yahoo who looked like Harry from Sex and the City, only not awesome, touched the plastic and yelled, "I'm grabbing your boobies!"

So you've been warned that there are some idiots who have rolled out the bed and ventured through the tunnels to see this masterpiece. But take note that you are able to move around the crowd. Wear sneakers and any other clothing that you don't mind getting wet. Oh yeah, there's water. And there's dancing. And there may even be magic. But I've said too much already.

Go see it. Leave your E at home, you won't need it.

Ocean of Fear

My first encounter with sharks happened early. I watched the movie Jaws for the first time when I was about ten years old. I remember how I felt the first time I watched Quint's telling of the sinking of the USS Indianapolis. I watched in horror and absolute fascination, just imagining what it must have been like for the men in the sea surrounded by sharks in the dark.

After the movie, I asked my dad more about the sinking and if he knew details about the men's survival. For years the stories he told me would stay with me. I started checking out books about shark attacks from the public library. The more pictures, the better. I wanted to hear survival tales, details about swimmers deflecting the deadly grasp of a shark by beating in the soft tissues of their eyes. I would tell the other kids at school these details, offering up pictures of surfers laying in shreds on the operation table. I was soon asked not to bring in these books to school.

For years I've had shark dreams. Whenever I'm stressed out or going through a rough period of time, night after night I dream I'm in the water with sharks. Either I'm treading water as sharks are coming at me from all sides, or I'm in a small boat with sharks bumping the bottom. Sometimes there are tsunamis approaching from the horizon and I'm standing in a beach house watching it come towards me, filled with sharks. Sometimes the sharks aren't coming for me, but instead they're coming for someone else that I care about and I'm standing on the beach watching it happen.

As fascinated as I am with this species and as ready as I am to hear more tales of the open ocean, I find that I don't go in the water past my torso. I just can't. Around that depth, I find that you can't see the bottom and that's enough for me. I'm happy on the beach, I'm happy in a boat, but I won't be caught (DEAD) in deep water. Though I don't agree with shark dives for environmental reasons, I find people who want to take part in this legally insane. Even scuba diving around coral reefs....hello, did you not see Open Water? The boat will leave you and you will be eaten by sharks.

Perhaps I need to deal my delicious fear of these creatures by facing them. Maybe then my dreams will stop and I can go on dreaming about normal things, like sex and ham sandwiches and flying. But until we leave sharks alone and understand that the ocean is their home and we are trespassing, you will find me happily sitting on the beach reading about them.

No-stal-gia... That Must Be Italian.

I got into some amazing home video action the other day. I found two video tapes from '98-'00 and it was chock-full of plays, choir concerts, marching band competitions, parades...

The best footage hands down, had to be the Choir Review. Holy God. We spanned the genres of music and emotion. There was a tribute to America for Pete's sake. We were swaying in the dark with light-up battery operated candles singing "God Bless America." We sang maritime songs, the National Anthem...we asked people to rise to their feet as the American Flag was lowered on stage.

The most amazing part of this Review was watching the close-up's of me, (this was of course filmed by my mother) and realizing how much of a ham I was. I was so into it. I didn't get a solo in the Porgy and Bess portion of the evening, but I did score a spot in the rocking chair next to my friend Erin who sang, "Summertime" while holding a plastic shiny baby. I rocked in slow motion, waving a lace fan while Liz, an equal ham, dramatically acted out the scrubbing of our poor southern foyer.

Did I mention there was a "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" number? There was. And I was fully absorbed into the swing/ska movement at the time. I was the only female onstage who twisted and turned and squinched my face up just emoting the energy and power of the 1940's.

God bless America! God bless high school!

Here Lies Richie. Pepperoni and Cheesy.

I've been hooked this week on Midlake's album 'The Trials of Van Occupanther.' Though Gina played this for me last year, it's made quite a comeback in my stereo this week.

The coolest part? It's a concept album based on the computer game Oregon Trail. I was in love with this game in the third grade. I was an amazing hunter and somehow always got my family's wagon safely across the river. Midlake's album is truly fantastic in that if you listen to it thinking of this game, you will totally be taken through the hillsides, rugged terrain and white rapids. You will trade flour for oxen!

It's amazing when you get hooked on an album and then realize something special about it and it completely changes things. Like that time I heard that Neutral Milk Hotel's album was based on the diary of Anne Frank. I had brain synapses explode upon that discovery.

Tragedy on Campus!

As I promised myself I would, I've been trudging forward with these episodes of Felicity. I'll be honest, it's a drag! She's so effing depressing.

In just three episodes, Sean has testicular cancer and turns Jewish, Felicity thought she was slipped a pill at a party and woke up in a frat guys' bed after a round of strip ping pong. Then she was kissed by Ben's dad! The same dad who came to New York to see if Ben was okay after he was trounced by the frat guys that Felicity had been with! Elena sleeps with her neighbor, cheating on her virgin Christian PERFECT boyfriend. Noel breaks into Tyra Banks', (that's right, she's a guest character) email to discover how to win her heart. Oh, and they think Julie, (who ran away after she told everyone in a video that her birth dad has died and she didn't help him) is now on Crystal Meth.

What tragedy! I sat up watching this smut last night and couldn't sleep because I was overwhelmed with sorrow! Only two discs to go and I hear that J.J. Abrams does a little time traveling magic in the end... I have to stay put. I just want to put a pillow over my face!

Commercials That Weird Me Out

I've been noticing this bizarre new trend in commercials that use animated bad guys to sell their products.

#1. Mucinex.

First of all, gross. Second of all, gross. Now whenever I have a sniffle, I actively imagine that there is a veritable family of little green monsters with gruff thick Bronx accents that all come to live inside my nasal cavity. It's disgusting. I don't want to buy Mucinex. I want to live in a world that doesn't have little green monsters that take over your head.

#2. Toe Fungus Commercials.

Absolutely horrifying. Now there are trolls that live in your nail bed. Little Trolls, people! What's worse is when they animate the actual toe nail lifting up so you can see all the other trolls having their troll party. I have to stop writing this, I'm going to be sick.

#3. Airwick.

These are perhaps that most depressing commercials I've ever seen.... There are a variety of wild animals that have since relocated from the rain forest, the ocean, the desert, the forest....all to live in a conventional house. The one that makes me the most upset, is the frog that has left her rain forest wetland habitat with all of her frog babies. So while cleaning her new home, she enjoys smelling the Airwick 'Rain forest' scent because it reminds her of home, when her wee little frog babies could happily jump on lily pads. Instead, they're jumping on their plush pink couch. I'm honestly the most upset about these frogs and their new upbringing and what this will mean for their future. Why did the mom want them to leave their home? Did it get to boggy?

And the Octopus mom that's cleaning a picture frame, vacuuming and dusting all with her eight tentacles. Even with her eight appendages, she's still tired and needs a rest. She plugs in her Airwick air freshener, and presto chango, she's totally relaxed. Although to tell you the truth, I don't know how an Octopus can relax in an arm chair with a crying Octopus infant with eight rattles nearby.

But the oddest one has to be the Elephant who married that Centipede. Honestly? I mean, Airwick is getting incredibly diverse in their advertising. Thank God we finally live in a world where Elephants can marry whom ever they choose. They even show a framed picture of another family friend...a Pig. But I'm sad that this Elephant seemingly has everything her heart desires...she's out of her homeland of distrusting Elephants and oppressive conditions and that's great. But she still has to clean up after her Centipede husband and all of his sneakers? Geez. Good thing she has Airwick air freshener.

I'm so depressed now for the state of theses animals all over the planet who want a piece of the capitalist society we call home. No wonder the endangered species list is growing.

I'd Slap You In Public If I Didn't Think You'd Get Rich

So clearly I won't waste my time on the diatribe that would be "The Hills: What the Hell Are We Doing With Our Lives?" But I beg this question.... Why do they keep insisting that it's a show based in reality?

Again, I pondered this question that caught our culture by a ridiculous storm while stumbling upon the daytime talk show The View. In walks Audrina Patridge, the most useless character on and otherwise useless show. She teeters on stilettos, hugging Barbara Walters as if they're old delightful friends. Could they not have chosen a more suitable spokesperson for this operation?

Barbara Walters: "So, this show is fake, right?"
Audrina Patridge: "Well, I mean, we like, get up every day and put on our own make up and do our things..."
Barbara Walters: "Yeah, but it's fake, right?"
Audrina Parks: "....yyyeah."

This was right after advertising Audrina's big screen debut. Too bad she couldn't even pretend that the show they're paying her thousands of dollars to be a part of is real. I rest my case.

Blast That Unrequited Fictional Love!

Although summer time really isn't the best season to watch the film "Little Women," I've found it's an excellent movie to craft to. What an amazing story guided soulfully by the lovely works of Winona Ryder, Claire Danes, (fresh from My So-Called Life no less), and the wonderful Susan Sarandon. And Christin Bale...his foxiest role yet.

But after as many times as I've seen this movie, I can't help but wish Amy March would fall off of a cliff. What a lousy character. She was a snooty little brat when Kirsten Dunst played her and she was a misplaced pseudo french impressionist when Samantha Mathis stepped in.

Every time I watch Laurie finally proposing marriage to Jo by the fence and they share their spit-infested kiss, I keep longing for Jo to say yes. Joe was the only one to accept Laurie in all of his misguided, musical induced life choices and encouraged him to be his bold self, just as he did for her. What a perfect match! If only Jo hadn't been so unsure of herself and wished she were the opposite from the vivacious out-spoken character we love her for.

But no...instead he ends up with Amy. Bane of my existence. Her whiny flouncing about hills toting her umbrella. Doesn't she know she came from the transcendentalist family from Concord? Get with it.

Okay, fine. Gabriel Bryne was better suited for the wild and intellectual Jo, but curses if he isn't the poor man's Laurie. I'm sure I'll watch this again come Christmas time and think the same thing. Curses, Amy March, you know nothing about love.

Slippery Feet

My first day of unemployment began yesterday. I woke up, realized I had nowhere in particular to be, and commenced drinking a pot of coffee. By 10am, I was already bored. I decided that I needed to go indulge myself. An hour later, I found myself in the city receiving a pedicure from a woman named "Stephanie."

I don't know what it is about getting treatments like this, as I almost never do them.
A) They're too expensive
B) I'm incredibly ticklish and it's not the least bit relaxing.

Both of these facts proved true yesterday when "Stephanie" talked me into getting something else other than they're generic pedicure. "Ohhhh...but your feet are so dry. You need, 'The Buff.'" Apparently during 'The Buff,' (you have to read this with cymbals crashing in the background), you get your feet placed in these hot bags of paraffin wax, tea cozies placed overtop of them, special "foot masques" and your feet massaged. My eyes lit up when I realized there was no going back. I started to tell myself, "You just lost your job. Either you get exfoliated, or you get drunk." So "Stephanie" won.

From that point on, it was kind of not cool. Apparently I was too tall for her tub and she had to push my chair back as far as it would go. Still, my legs cramped up from holding them funny. And why, when you get pedicures, do they just not get that you're so ticklish that it physically hurts? I kept squirming and jumping and my face was contorting just trying to get myself into a zen place. I almost kicked her in the face! But no, "Stephanie" just kept buffing away, laughing at the torment spread across my face.

It's like trying to take a yoga class in New York. How do people do it? All I can hear are cabs honking outside and feel the building shaking from trains underground. Plus you're in a room with dozens of sweaty strangers who can all contort themselves in ways that you are clearly not equipped. By the fifth time the teacher tries to fix me, I'm already snapping at her, "I can't do a downward facing dog! I've accepted that! Just take your mitts off me!"

I digress.

About an hour later, I realized this was not a normal pedicure. I had been talked into one of the more expensive packages, being the stupid sap that I am. When it was finally complete, my ass was asleep and my feet were so oily and lotioned that I was slipping out of my flip flops. When I had paid my ridiculous bill, and got outside into the 90 degree heat, the paraffin wax "Stephanie" had used was now dripping down my legs. I made it uptown to my friend Dave's apartment, (also recently unemployed) and I had managed to pick up every scrap of dirt the city was willing to get rid of. All of it went straight for the oil on my legs and stuck. When I got to Dave's and took my flip flops off, the bottoms of my feet were black....and still oily. His cat wouldn't even come near me.

Do not be lulled in to their Siren ways. Ignore the magical promises of what 'The Buff' can add to your life. All you really wanted was for someone to touch your gross feet and be done with it. There's no foreplay with 'The Buff.' They're just poking you with hot instruments and calling it love.

Stay strong and bring a pair of treaded flip flops.

Four Hundred Thousand Years of Solitude and How I Found Myself Unemployed

So it appears the rumors of the impending unemployment in my company were true. Somehow travel, poker, drinking and four-star dining shows in HD just don't have the appeal it used to. The news finally broke that our network was kaput. So yesterday turned out to be my last at the place I've called work for more than a year. At 9:30am I heard the news and at 3pm, we were at White Horse Tavern clinking glasses and wishing we had yearbooks to sign.

It was truly the oddest day. It ended much like any last day of high school would. I walked around the office watching people packing up their desks and putting away pictures. We tried to say our goodbyes to the ones that were staying as quickly as we could. I'm privileged to have worked with the best, most creative, most interesting people possible. Honestly, aside from losing my job, this will be the most difficult thing to get over. The loss of great and amazing friends to spend your entire day with.

It was weird, to say the least, to wake up this morning and not have anywhere to be. Or to watch the news past 8:30. (Note to self: News past 8:30 just isn't as pertinent) I think by Monday, I will have already lost my mind out of boredom. So in this period of reflection in the "What the Next Chapter of My Life" includes... perhaps I can hop on the following:

--Finally start and finish Moby Dick.
--Teach myself how to rewire a turntable.
--Get really into day drinking.
--Write that screenplay.
--Alphabetize my media.
--Befriend Netflix and talk about Netflix like it's a person.
--Practice making impractical things like Fondant.
--Start a neighborhood watch, Jimmy Stewart-style.
--Feng Shui my apartment.
--Start collecting antique dolls and porcelain cats.

Yeah...I'm pretty certain my mind will be lost come Monday morning.

Why My Head Will Most Certainly Not Explode

So there was a brief period of time where I thought that my head might explode. With my dizzy spells spinning me into an episode of possible Explosive Cancer and a doctor telling me I may have had a seizure, I high-tailed it to the neurologist's office. There, I met the nicest doctor in the greater metropolitan area who told me I had nothing to worry about.

The verdict? Extremely low blood pressure. The cure? Salt, and lots of it. Which is, I'm not going to dance around it, kind of my dream come true. He told me to take Salt Tablets with every meal to raise my blood pressure. I'm to drink as much water as possible and go about my daily life.

What I find the most hilarious about this dietary lesson, is just that. My diet already consists of the eating habits of a college boy. If I could stomach it, I would drink raw eggs every morning like Rocky. I like food that's had time to sit in a grease bucket and baked goods that contain at least two sticks of butter. I exaggerate only slightly. So realizing that my body can't hold on to any of these things, I now welcome the challenge of putting more of what I already enjoy back into it.

Afterall, it's only in the name of science. And I've always wanted to have my own Salt Lick in my stable.

Why Hamlet 2 Blew Ass

I'll admit that I'm a sucker for sarcastic movies, especially ones involving song and dance. So you can imagine my surprise when Hamlet 2 started airing previews, advertising humor, dot dot dot. I mean, c'mon..."Rock Me, Sexy Jesus?" It was bound to be hilarious, right?

Wrong. Cut to present and me saying, "What a steaming pile of ass poo." It was garbage. Greg and I almost walked out and I never walk out of movies. Well, there was that one "Trapped." But it was a free movie...later, we kept referring to it as "Trapped with Kevin Bacon."

Hamlet 2 was a mess. The first forty-five plus minutes were entirely composed of exposition. Dana the drama teacher living in Tuscon with a distant hard as nails wife who wants a baby. He's an out of work infomercial actor with such credits as "Herpacol" who's passionate about performing once popular films on the high school stage. The new school year brings an unruly set of high school misfits to his drama class and he must work out a way to get through to them.

Oo! I know, the majesty of song! Oo! Even better! The majesty of song sung through the offensive and lyrical verses of an anti-religious and sexually preverse script! But performed by sixteen year olds! YES! Solid Gold!

What started out as a funny gimic...a gimic that only works on the preview level was taken a step further. And it failed miserably. It wasn't what it set out to be, not by a long shot. I went in expecting some higher message, at least on an intellectual while being funny, level. They mentioned the use of Jesus in a Time Machine, Jesus as a Celebrity, Jesus on a cell phone. For a brief and shining moment, I thought they were on the right track. I thought they were going somewhere hilarious that I could follow.

But it delivered nothing but slapstick comedy. The kind of slapstick comedy that I'm assuming the common man would get tired of, especially after the fourth call back to clumsy roller skating jokes. Or perhaps the sixth call back to "That quiet girl in glass getting pounded in the head with yet another inanimate object." Solid gold.

What I found most shocking were the amount of laughs it got. I found myself glancing around the theater hoping to find a roomful of runaway mental patients, perhaps hopped up on painkillers and desiring the numbing effects of false commercial success. But no...just a theater full of normal every day goons. It made me sad.

I left plotting ways to come up with the next laugh-worthy screenplay. One that does not include jokes about balls, acid, molestation, teenage sexuality or the divine nature of our Lord and Sexy Savior.

Do yourself a favor and miss this movie.

Get Off My Back, Gaaaaad.

I started re-reading 'The Perks of Being a Wallflower' for the third time. Even reading it in present day, I'm still amazed at how well it hit the nail on the head about how weird it was to be a sixteen year old in high school.

I was never a somber child. In fact, I had a pretty fun time in high school. I was not popular, not in the slightest. Well, I was totally well-known in smaller circles.... like the Marching Band, Choir, Tech Theater and Theater.... Like, so totally popular.

My Jinko jeans were the jam. My super short pixie cut hair?...Desirable. I was voted "Most Likely to be on Comedy Central" by my Marching Band and was voted best Junior and best Senior...in the Marching Band. I thought I was extremely well-read because I read 'On the Road' once. I carried around a notebook in my back pocket for those moments of extreme clarity. I journaled, I made scarves, heck...I wrote terrible poetry about the moon, and often. And, let's just say it, I made the best mix tapes by far. I was a catch by any standard.

I never had a boyfriend in high school. Unless you count the countless male friends that I was obsessed with and would later, and still to this day, call my best friends. I knew how to joke with boys, but never actually knew how to talk to them like the females of my age group knew. Like any sixteen year old girl, I hated the way I looked, was scared of my body but was angry at others for not categorizing me as one of the pretty girls. I was thirty pounds heavier...a fault of Ben & Jerry, my employer. It would take me years for me to take pride in the way I looked. This would spawn trouble of course later when I went on a make-out rampage my Freshmen year of college.

My favorite thing to do was drive. I drove everywhere. I took the long way home so I could complete Side A of "Moody Sunday"...a mix. Growing up in the South, there were always quiet and dark places outside to go sit and be pretentious in. My favorite place was by a lake. My friends and I would find ourselves there, chain smoking and talking about how hard it was to be sixteen...while laying under the stars. It sounds all so Dawson's Creek. I'd actually love to go back to that lake now.

Looking back, I'm pretty convinced that that was the easiest period of my life thus far. Things seemed so hard and unchangeable. Parents just didn't understand you. No one was able to see how amazing you were. Feelings were easily hurt. College seemed so far away. Funny how we realize later how well we had it. While I would never choose to go back and do it all over again, and I don't regret any of the mistakes I've made, it would've been nice to turn up the fun a little more. Who knows, maybe I'll look back on 27 and think the same thing.

Anyway, this book is amazing and so well written. The language seems so simple and clear, but it really just lays it all out there. I recommend this book to anyone looking to get a little nostalgic.