lapses in logic

I'm moving- again!

2008-10-18T11:57:00.002-04:00

That is, my blog is moving. I totally have been unmotivated to blog. Maybe a new site will help. I haven't been totally thrilled with the way blogspot lets you manage your settings, etc., so I'm trying wordpress now. Visit me at my new home. Maybe a new venue will get my fingers typing again.

Come visit me soon! I'll have milk and Newman-Os waiting for you.

Live from Minneapolis-St. Paul, it's Saturday Night!

2008-09-04T00:16:00.003-04:00

I normally don't pay that much attention to national conventions, but I was curious to hear Sarah Palin speak, since nobody knows much about her except that she's essentially a hockey mom on steroids. So I watched the RNC last night much like the rest of the country, and as I was listening to her speech, trying to absorb her platform and measure her charisma, all I could think was, She totally looks like Tina Fey. Especially when Tina used to do Weekend Update. I almost expected Amy Poehler to sidle up next to her midway through and slap her a high five.

Dear Bride: Shove your spray tan where the sun don't shine

2008-07-27T22:32:00.004-04:00

After reading this NYT story, I consider myself lucky enough to 1) have never been a bridesmaid in a wedding with a bridezilla; and 2) not have any friends that would even THINK about asking me to get a boob job just so I can look like the fembot-in-tulle that she wants to flank her at her wedding.

I've been/will be a bridesmaid in five weddings, and the duties, to my understanding, are to 1) throw the shower/bachelorette; 2) act as the emotional support to the bride, especially on the day of, when she's nervous about her perfect day; 3) keep the party going at the reception; 4) and happily rock a dress you'll say you'll wear again but know you never will. I do concede you must do your best to look cute at the altar, but not at the cost of silicon implants or injections to my face. Seriously people, if what you want is a gaggle of barbies with same cup size and shade of spray-tan, get a row of blow-up dolls. Sheesh.

Starting a Bronx tale

2008-07-06T16:04:00.002-04:00

I’ve lived in my current apartment for three years, which in New York years, is really like 10. With my roommate getting hitched, and our lease up in the fall, it’s time to move on. I love my neighborhood, but I’m ready for a change. And since I don’t have the energy, patience, or courage to start a new life in another city, moving to another borough is sort of the next closest thing. And I’m moving to the Bronx at that, which really will seem like another world.

I lucked out this move because I’m moving in with someone I know who happens to have a great apartment at a dirt-cheap price. (It’s not Manhattan, but hey, I’ll get my own bathroom!) But I also lucked out because I’m avoiding the whole NYC apartment search ordeal, where you have to fight tooth-and-nail to get a cardboard box with no closet space and a shower in the kitchen. The ordeal also involves avoiding shady brokers, emptying your savings account to hand over first and last month’s rent (plus a security deposit), and running to all ends of the city to see apartments during open houses. I’ve also realized, just through a very preliminary search on craigslist, that people use the desperation of apartment seekers to their perverted advantage. I’ve seen apartment postings for free rent in exchange for a “friends with benefits” arrangement (but I would get to pick the day of the week — gee, thanks guy!) or reduced rent in exchange for household chores that include “cleaning, cooking, answering phones, massage, etc.” The sad thing is that the apartment hunt here is such a pain in the ass that I actually thought for a New York minute, “I wonder if he means therapeutic?”

Thankfully, I avoided all the shady craziness. I don’t think my virtue is worth an onsite washer-dryer or walk-in closet. I just dread the physical move now, but hopefully I’ll be able to hire some men with a van (probably hipsters from an emo band who use their equipment van to make money on the side) for relatively cheap. Watch out Yankees, here I come.

Your love is better than ice cream, but not quite as good as chocolate

2008-04-17T23:00:00.004-04:00

Can I just tell you how much I HATE articles like this — that is, articles that try to analyze and deconstruct love and relationships into its basest parts to figure out why successful couples work, and unsuccessful ones don't. I think the reason I hate them is that 1) they suck all the magic out of falling in love, and really only make you MORE depressed and jaded about relationships. Chocolate, love and drugs evoke the same brain chemistry -- so instead of going on that second date, I should get high and eat some double-fudge Oreos instead? And 2) it's a total waste of money. Scientists get all this funding to do all this research, only to come up with conclusions that are from the DUH files: In this instance, it's that men like hot women, so they'll try harder to keep them - which means becoming a whipped sucker--I mean, "supportive." I could have told you that in elementary school.

Can we just pretend for a minute that guys aren't that shallow and are willing to see beyond the physical, that they actually want a mate who is someone they emotionally connected with? Take today's episode of The Office, for instance. Jim and Pam are the "awww" couple of TV. They clearly had a solid friendship first, and, while Pam is cute, Jim gave up the much hotter Karen because of the connection he had to Pam. C'mon, he bought a ring for Pam a week after they started dating?! Let's say it all together: AWWWW!!!

Okay, so it's a television show, and not reality. But, I'd like to think that it still gives all us single schmucks out there a glimmer of hope. I'd like to think that you are feeling butterflies just because you like someone, not because your brain chemistry is telling you that what you really want is chocolate. Though I could really go for some bittersweet dark-chocolate chips right now.

Screw this. I think I'll go raid my kitchen cabinet.

My life as a grocery list

2008-04-10T23:58:00.003-04:00

In some ways, I think my refrigerator reflects my mood at any given time. When I'm feeling good, trying to get to the gym on a regular basis, not feeling stressed at work, and having fun socially, I tend to eat better. I'll buy more fresh fruits and vegetables and "grown up" foods like cous cous, three-cheese tortellini, fresh mozzarella and Carr's water crackers. When I'm stressed out, working late, and in a general bad mood I end up buying like I'm a bachelor: chocolate, potato chips, hot dogs, and soda.

Well, I must have been in a real shitty mood the other day, because, I did something I almost never do: Buy microwaveable dinners. After coming home from work around 9 and feeling a general malaise with the world, this was my shopping list:

4 Banquet Chicken Pot Pies (they were 4 for $3)
two Mama Celeste individual microwaveable pizzas
Vienna Sausages (which I actually enjoy on a regular basis, good or bad mood)
A six-pack of cottage cheese with the special bacteria that makes you poo (have yet to try it out and see if it works)
A six-pack of Mott's apple sauce in the little individual cups that your mom used to pack in your lunch box.

All that was missing was a six-pack of Bud. My saving grace was buying some organic spinach, which I haven't eaten yet, but plan to, along with the Ken's Caesar dressing I bought.

Happy Crossmass

2008-03-23T22:16:00.003-04:00

This article on Slate is an interesting take on Easter. The author's correct in noting that Easter hasn't been a commercial success on par with Christmas, but in terms of what the holiday is actually celebrated for, fewer folks, I think, even understand why Christians celebrate Easter. They just think it's about bunnies and Easter baskets and chocolate and welcoming Spring.

One thing the Slate article touches upon, which also was a central point to the Easter sermon I heard today, was that there's no half-assedness to Easter. Sure, you can celebrate the birth of Jesus regardless of whether you believe he was the Son of God or just a really great guy who said and did a lot of great, loving things, because it's a nice story. But you can't say, sure, I sorta believe that Jesus may or may not have been crucified and then was physically resurrected. If you say you believe it, then there are some serious implications for that on your life.

One thing, though, that I think a lot of people overlook when it comes to the Jesus story is the weight the resurrection should be given. Most people tend to focus on the crucifixion because it focuses on the pain He experienced when he died for all of mankind's sins. But, really, without the resurrection, the crucifixion could also just be a story. The crucifixion is the price that was paid by a man who claimed to be the Son of God; the resurrection is proof that the Man is who He said He was - and that his death did indeed mean Grace personified.

Happy Crossmass everyone.

Visiting hours are over

2008-03-01T22:30:00.006-05:00

Just got off the phone with my dad, and we had small talk; he told me that he'd eaten dinner and that he'd been taking some over-the-counter medication for his headache. This doesn't seem so significant, except that it's a major improvement over where he was about two weeks ago, lying in a hospital bed, eyes shut tight in a grimace, with a heart monitor strapped to his chest.

For the first time that I can recall, someone in my immediate family had a major health scare. Aside from my mom giving birth, nobody in my family has had a reason to stay in the hospital overnight, and as such, I'd been spared the roller coaster of emotion you feel when you have to spend days at a time in the hospital with a loved one: fear that whatever they have is life threatening, sadness at seeing them weak and in pain, frustration and fatigue from being cooped up in a hospital room for 12 hours, relief when it's time to leave, guilt when you see the expression on their face when they realize they'll be left alone for the night.

It started when he woke up with an excruciating headache; it turned into a trip to the ER when it didn't go away for five days. A CT scan showed that his brain was bleeding. After a few days of tests, the doctors concluded that he had a viral infection in his brain that caused it to swell and bleed. Luckily, no surgery would be required, and the swelling would subside with a three-week anti-viral treatment. While the rest of the family was feeling relief, my father was coming to terms with his mortality.

After the doctors assured him that he would recover and his headaches would subside, the rest of the us just tried to make my dad feel as comfortable as possible until he got to a point where his pain was no longer debilitating. In fact, my sister and I grew weary of my dad's woe-is-me attitude and the way he kept thinking he'd drop dead at any second. We'd roll our eyes at the drama with which he recounted his story to his visitors.

It wasn't until the last day I spent with him before I had to head back to New York did I realize, however, just how much this experience had shaken him. I had been in the hospital with my dad all morning, annoyed because for someone who was supposed to be experiencing debilitating head pain, he seemed to find the strength to talk my ear off in the way parents do when they suddenly feel they want to impart all this wisdom to you - you know, those conversations that really aren't conversations but more like lectures dressed up as meaningful dialogue. I was relieved when my sister showed up and he could spread the wisdom amongst the two of us.

We settled into our hospital chairs and watched the golf channel as my dad finally lay back and relaxed. Suddenly we heard him breathe harder, in almost wheezing gasps, and it sounded as if he were having some sort of seizure or asthma attack. Instead, we realized that he was sobbing - sobbing so hard he couldn't catch his breath, the way little kids do when they are inconsolable. I had never seen my dad cry like that so it was rather shocking. To keep from bawling myself I had to turn away, watching golf through blurred vision as a few tears managed to escape down my cheeks while I clutched his rough, dry hand. My sister (who had spent every day for the past week in the hospital with him and had become a hospital veteran of sorts because of her experience prior to the death of her father-in-law), was not as emotional; she simply adjusted his blankets, covered him up, and asked why now, after all this time, he was crying. He couldn't really answer and eventually calmed down, and we continued on with our afternoon of being glued to the golf channel, chatting about politics, and watching him get his vital signs taken.

My dad is now back at home, and is feeling better every day. He still has to take his medication, administered through a catheter snaked directly under his skin and into his vein, but his voice sounds stronger every time I talk to him. He'll probably still tell his dramatic story to anyone who will listen, but I think I'll humor him next time. I just thank God he's around to recount the tale.

The write-off

2008-02-18T15:24:00.004-05:00

The writers' strike is finally over, and I'm glad that they are getting what's due them. However, I honestly can't say that my life had a gaping hole in it because I wasn't getting new episodes of, say, The Office. Instead, all the writers' strike did was further my illicit love affair with reality TV, throwing me into the arms of shows like Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew, Randy Jackson Presents America's Best Dance Crew, American Idol and Project Runway.

First of all, I think Dr. Drew just might be the hottest man on TV right now. On top of rocking a full head of premature grey (well, white, really), he has that nurturing quality to him that women love (sort of the way you feel when you see a hot guy pushing a baby stroller) as he tries to right the wrongs of a whole motley crew of slobbering, vomiting, crying, yelling, withdrawal-stricken drug and alcohol-addicted B-list celebs. (In one episode a poor aide has to slather some type of Ben Gayish lotion on Jeff Conaway's ass.) Dr. Drew makes me swoon.

Then there's the talent shows. American Idol has too many favorites for me to name right now (the soulful Irish tattoo artist and the soulful Australian are my current faves), and I'm loving the Jabberwockys and Kaba Modern on the dance show. And competitions like Project Runway and Top Chef have been more compelling than regular TV for a long time.

Sure, I do get back episodes of Lost (though I could do without the Cliff's Notes episodes, where they explain the plot--isn't part of that show's appeal the fact that it's too confusing to follow?), but it might be too late for "regular" shows to woo me back, even with promises of Matthew Fox's pouty, longing looks at Kate, or Wentworth Miller's pouty, longing looks at life outside bars. These new writer-produced episodes better be worth the space they take up on my Tivo's memory.

New Year's not-so-resolved resolutions

2008-01-08T23:53:00.000-05:00

Ah, the holidays. It wouldn't be a real holiday season without some credit card debt, packing on extra pounds, and the tense moment at the family dinner table. My holiday season was filled with all three. (Let's just say I'm shocked at my ability to ignore screaming while eating soup simultaneously.)

So now that I'm back home having successfully dodged a week's worth of "You have to get married before I die!" requests, I have time to think about New Year's resolutions. But I have to do something that I can really stick to. I already exercise a decent amount, so that's out. I can say I won't work late or on the weekends, but I already know that's not possible. So here's what I'm thinking:

Declutter. Learn to throw things out more. Maybe this way my room will also cease to be one large dust ball.

Go to sleep earlier. I'm already breaking this one. But before 1 am is a good start. Maybe I won't be such a walking zombie in the mornings then.

Read more. By that, I mean books that I won't be ashamed to be seen reading on the subway.

Try more new restaurants. That's not hard to do in New York, but might be hard on the pocketbook.

Save more. Hey, at least I'm earning mad interest off the hundred bucks I have in there.

Travel. I haven't been on an international flight for a few years...it's time to risk deep vein thrombosis so I can have some foreign adventures.

More to come...happy new year to all.

Hot links

2007-12-23T01:35:00.000-05:00

One of the things I like about the week between Christmas and New Year's isn't just the break I'll be getting from work. It's the ability to be able to catch up on all the Web surfing (and blogging) I wish I could have done during the non-holiday season. Here's a sampling of the interesting videos I received as forwards/stumbled across/googled in the last few days:

Clay Aiken's love child via sperm donation. Or, if the smiling man at the end of the video is his dad, then it's like father, like son.

Just the way Jaws kept coming back to torture the Brody family on Amity Island, the cockroach will always find its way back to the Gay Weatherman.

This just in: NYT confirms that having daughters is better than having sons in Korea. I could have told you that about ten years ago.

This might be the only reality show I really haven't watched, but I still could predict that the Clark Brothers would win it all.

If you can't help but get sucked into the train wreck that is I Love New York, then you're going to love the online uncensored extras.

Dogsitting

2007-11-28T00:54:00.000-05:00

Don't get me wrong, I'm not a cat hater, but I love this picture! Got it as a forward. Don't you just wish you could sit on people's heads a lot of the time? I have this feeling most of the time at work.

(I'm sure no cats were harmed in the making of this photo.)

To be or not to be born again

2007-11-21T00:05:00.000-05:00

While watching Carson Daly a few days ago, I watched an interview for a very interesting guest, Brian "Head" Welch, the ex-guitarist for metal band Korn. Apparently, Welch had become a born-again Christian at a low point in his life (his conversion moment happened while he was in a hotel room high on crystal meth). Since then he's gone public about his experience and written a book about it that is a NYT bestseller.

I wanted to do a little more research on him so I googled him and this Web page of people's biographies popped up, a list of notable names who have claimed to be born-again Christians. The list included some famous religious names, but also included its fair share of serial killers, former porn stars, troubled athletes, and, quite amusingly, former Prince proteges.

It's easy to be cynical of those folks who find God when they have to curry favor with the public (see: Michael Vick and Paris Hilton) or emphasize that they have faith when their integrity is questioned (see any politician) or who claim to have had a born-again experience to convince others that they are no longer evil (see: pretty much any murderer up for parole). And really, why shouldn't we all question conversions of convenience?

Regardless of what people think, however, at the end of the day it's only God who truly knows whose spiritual changes are true and who is doing it to further his/her own causes; after all, Jesus reached out to tax collectors, thieves, prostitutes, and lepers, healed them, befriended them and called for transformed lives. And it's definitely true that people don't often turn to religion until something shakes up their world or until they find themselves at the bottom of a spiritual and emotional ditch, waiting for someone to pull them out. People who have everything going for them often don't think they need God.

Anyway, back to Welch. I saw a few of his interviews from CNN and other TV newscasts on YouTube, and after he became a Christian he quit drugs cold turkey and left the band after hearing his young daughter singing sexually suggestive Korn lyrics. For every religious conservative who is exposed for having a secret life that mirrors the lives of those they condemn, there is a story like Welch's that, in my opinion, really tells the Gospel story. I just wish there were more of them out there like that.

Crouching v@$#!, hidden p@#!$

2007-11-04T23:05:00.000-05:00

If I were not a proper (not so) young lady, I would have replaced the symbols with the words for the male and female naughty bits. That's the nickname I've given Ang Lee's movie "Lust, Caution," the NC-17 espionage love story about a young resistance fighter who seduces a government official in Japan-occupied China in order to help set up his assasination.

Maybe I've become jaded with art-house movies, but I actually didn't think it was so bad. I mean, the sex scenes probably did warrant the NC-17 rating. It's kind of like seeing a live demonstration of kama sutra stuff--I was impressed with the lead actress' flexibility. And Tony Leung does flash some brain and was probably painfully strapped down at some point if indeed those scenes are only simulated sex (a disclaimer at the end of the credits claims it was). But the reviews made it seem as if the actors are naked for half the movie. That's certainly not so. The entire first half of the movie is just buildup to the first sex scene.

Overall, the movie was good unless you can't sit still in a theater for more than two hours. That junk was loooong—almost 2 hrs and 40 minutes. For my personal taste, though, I don't know if it's something I would have chosen to pay a full ticket for (I got tix to a free screening). The thing that made this particular screening worth it was that Ang Lee was there doing a Q&A. I managed to snap this pic before heading out of the theater.

I would totally pimp out my trailer

2007-10-30T22:09:00.000-04:00

Okay, I admit it--I bought the new Britney single, Gimme More. (Hey, at least I didn't buy the whole album.)

Other trailer trash things I'll admit to doing recently:

1. Watching I Love New York on VH1.
2. Craving Spam.
3. Accidentally getting sucked into a Lifetime Movie Network film, "Haunting on Sorority Row," and then TIVOING IT when I had to leave before the end. (No, it wasn't worth the Tivoing space...)
4. Watching the magic/mentalist show "Phenomenon"
5. Eating hot dogs and Kraft macaroni & cheese like I was back in kindergarten.

Yeah, so what?? You got something to say about that??

Pedi-cab hotties

2007-10-29T22:27:00.001-04:00

Maybe it's just me, but I've always noticed that pedicab drivers are really cute--young, hot 20-somethings--and I always thought it strange. I guess I'd always assumed that, like taxi cab drivers, pedicab drivers would also be mostly recent immigrants looking for a way to make a living. I did a little Googling and read that many are, indeed, immigrants, but many are also students and actors. So, my new crushes--on top of firefighters (I always see at least one or two cute ones on every firetruck)--are pedicab drivers.

It's nice to have eye candy.

Lo fidelity

2007-10-24T22:21:00.000-04:00

Things I do when I'm bored at home, can't sleep, but don't want to do something mentally challenging like reading:

1. Cut my own hair (most recently, my bangs were the victim.)
2. Rearrange/delete/add songs to my iPod's "Faves" playlist.
3. Catch up on my Scrabulous game.
4. Piece together really gross snacks from what's in my fridge (pickles and cottage cheese; sardines with cheese and crackers; Leibniz biscuits and yogurt).
5. Cut out funny New Yorker cartoons (Get it, people will pay a $1 for anything--even a glimpse of the moon! HAHAHA!!)
6. Look at the same Crate & Barrel catalog over and over
7. Watch stuff on Tivo that I've already watched
8. Try on my "skinny" dresses to see if my fat still hangs out.
9. Google random people or do social networking searches for people I haven't seen or talked to in ages.
10. Conceive of trivial but overthought lists like I'm some sort of bad dick-lit character in a Nick Hornby novel.

I like no one

2007-10-17T00:43:00.001-04:00

I have a new favorite song (at least until I get sick of it, which could be next week).
It's the new Alicia Keys song, No One, which plays when you log onto her website. I think it's partially that it's just a good song, but I think it's also the way she sings it. It's supposed to be a happy song but she has this stressed out longing in her voice at the same time, like she's crying out for someone. I haven't really heard her sing a song quite like that before.

Beauty in poverty

2007-10-13T16:11:00.001-04:00

I have nothing intelligent to really say about this rather sad article in the NYT about a poor man in Japan who starved to death after he stopped receiving welfare. But I was captivated by this image of his shack because, while it's clear that this shanty was occupied by someone in extreme poverty, there's something hauntingly beautiful about it. I think it's a combination of the fact that it looks like a piece of modern art (somehow, it's color scheme doesn't look accidental, the blue of the leftover siding and the red in the rust create a beautiful combination) yet holds a story of poverty and tragedy inside.

Photo by Ko Sasaki for the New York Times.

What color is your parachute—of dating?

2007-10-06T15:05:00.000-04:00

When I read articles like this one in the NYT, or read an infamous craigslist posting like this one, or another NYT article like this one, it makes me think, it's no wonder relationships are dysfunctional.

For starters, I've never understood the whole friends with benefits thing. Maybe because I've never had a FWB. If someone is your best friend and you are physically attracted to them too, well, to me that just seems like a no-brainer. Maybe I'm oversimplifying things, and lord knows New Yorkers like to complicate things. But I would think that's what most people are looking for--a best friend whose bones you also want to jump. God forbid anyone should have one of those.

But then there are those who only have a transactional view of relationships, most prominently featured in the craiglist post. [Read: "What am I doing wrong?"] (According to her responder, she's a depreciating asset, and his financial assets aren't, so he'd rather lease than buy, and it's not really a fair transaction.) I swear, not all NYers are this shallow. (Only slightly more than half).

As far as the second NYT article goes--I guess because I've never had a lot of disposable income, I just always assumed that the guy would make more than me to begin with. However, recently, it has occurred to me that I could be the breadwinner in a relationship, esp. if one dates one in a creative field. I'm not gonna lie, it's nice to be able to afford nice dinners and such, and I don't think these girls are denying that. It seems the real issue though is that the guys weren't comfortable with the social implications of the women making more than them. I guess they would never stand a chance with Craigslist girl.

A friend once said to me when she was dating her husband-to-be that relationships would be so much easier if we could have just wear certain color t-shirts on dates that signal what we're really thinking, without having to say it, i.e., "If I wear a green shirt, that means I like you," etc. That would make life so much easier. Here's how I would color-code the t-shirts, one for each color of the rainbow (plus two extras):

Red: I think you're hot and could care less what you're actually saying, but am pretending to be interested so I can tap that ass later.
Orange: I think you're cute but am concerned that our differences in class/friends/social status/political views/race/religion will cause problems for us down the road.
Yellow: I'm trying hard to be attracted to you, but it's not happening, so please don't lean in for a kiss later. This is not a date. I repeat, this is not a date.
Green: I offer my beauty and trophy-wife skills in exchange for your money/power/status, and vice versa.
Blue: You remind of an ex, and I'm on the rebound.
Indigo: I think I like you, see nothing wrong with you at present, and actually want to see where this goes.
Violet: I'm not out of the closet yet and am giving heterosexuality one last college try.

And here's two more:

Black: I'm not at all interested, but I was too nice to say no to this date. (Many women have a lot of black in their wardrobe, so I think this could actually work.)
Jackson Pollock: You're damaged and crazy, but I'm unhealthily attracted by that. (T-shirt color will switch to camoflauge when one attempts to hide from crazy ex.)

Wedded un-bliss

2007-09-27T00:50:00.000-04:00

So this past weekend was my sister's wedding, and being the maid of honor, I had to give a toast. The basic theme of my toast was: The girl who always took care of other people found someone who could take care of her. One of the little ha-has I stuck in there was "If you ever want to see just how bossy a girl can be, make her plan a wedding."

It's a wonder that any bride can relax on her wedding day, especially if she was the one who planned it all. I can't believe how well my sister planned. But of course, there are always going to be details that are overlooked, and all these little details were enough to make her want to tear the 300 bobby pins out of her hair. For starters, the guy who was going to do her wedding updo quit, and the salon forgot to tell her. So a more junior stylist did her hair and did an ok job, but it wasn't exactly how she wanted it. Then the nail tips she didn't initially want to get, but was talked into getting by the manicurist the day before, started to peel off, resulting in the bride tearing off her own nails while getting an updo that took too long to do and wasn't what she initially wanted. Then there's the problem of the control-freak dad who tries to take matters into his own hands and behind the bride's back keeps moving things and people around without consulting the bride. Result: Bride and maid of honor do a lot of foot stomping and talking through gritted teeth. Meanwhile, groomsmen drink Coors Lights in bridal suite and stand around doing what most groomsmen do at a wedding: Nothing. If I ever get married I think I'm either going to have to elope, or if I get lucky, win the lottery/marry rich and hire a planner to do everything so all I have to do is show up in a pretty dress.

Anyway, at the end of the day, I forgot all the little overlooked details and stresses, and it was great to see my parents having a blast, despite the fact that we were yelling at my dad through gritted teeth all night. I think it also helped that the afterparty consisted of about 15 friends closing out the bar at Bennigan's. (Hey, it's the burbs, what are you gonna do?) I think my sister put in a good-faith effort to have a good time, but I think she was over it by the end of the night and just wanted to go to bed. But I can't wait to see the pictures. I think the $20K+ that people pay for a wedding might just be worth it if the photos turn out great. I expect to see alot of drunk relatives and family friends, the soul train dance line we started on the dance floor, the running around helping my sister change three times throughout the night. And I might even laugh if I see a photo of me yelling through gritted teeth.

Open for business 24/7

2007-09-14T00:38:00.000-04:00

So I've been at a new job for about three months now, and if I ever complained about working late at my old job, I shouldn't have. My schedule at my current job actually requires me to work longer hours, at least on a per-day average. (Not to mention that I have no time to procrastinate by constantly checking email or IM'ing--or blogging, for that matter!) I haven't been to my beloved step class in maybe a month, and I've had to cut out some extracurricular activities from my schedule, primarily because my new job is more client-driven, and as such my excuse for staying late is actually valid, versus my previous excuse of "I just took two hours to run to soho for a lunch shopping excursion so now I'm paying for it."

Anyway, one of the things that I've noticed about myself is that I have a keen survival instinct: my ability to fuel myself with really bad and random food. When I work late at night I tend to not eat real food when I get home because it's just too late for a full meal. The one good thing is that I have a cafeteria at work, which I go to everyday at lunch and make sure to pile up on healthy things like spinach (which strategically cover up fried mozzarella sticks and waffle fries). But then when I eat late night dinners, I'll piece together random snacks that have no business going together. To me it makes perfect sense, but I'm sure would only induce looks of disgust to anyone else.

Like tonight--around 8 pm while I was still at work I ate a bag of Chex mix from the vending machine. Then when I got home around 11, I ate a single-size cup of cottage cheese with sweet relish, followed by a handful of grapes. It's times like these when I wish I worked at a place like Google, which serves free breakfast, lunch and dinner to their employees. Some people think this is a ploy to keep employees at work all the time and trapped in the office. But the truth of the matter is, I eat lunch at my desk everyday anyway and stay late at least once a week, so I may as well get food while I'm at it. Harrumph.

You're as sexy as a stop sign

2007-08-06T23:44:00.001-04:00

I'd like to keep my blog as clean as possible, but I just found this piece of news so oddly disturbing. I just heard Jay Leno mention it in his monologue. A man in Sioux Falls was arrested for trying to have sex with traffic signs. This more detailed report by The Smoking Gun reveals utility poles were among the violated.

Indecent exposure is one of the things I'll never quite understand. Maybe I'm a prude, but I barely want people to see my exposed muffin top in public, much less my entire naked body. Now I know that this guy (nickname: Bubba. Why does that not surprise me?) clearly has something wrong with him and needs help, but it seems you don't have to be a really crazy person to want to get off on exposing yourself to people, judging from the types of people who moonlight as flashers. I've been the victim of indecent exposure before. In the one time in particular that stands out in my mind, I'm pretty sure the guy was mentally disturbed. But I have other friends who've been flashed several times in the subway by guys who seem to have normal day jobs. Most of us victims never really felt threatened in any way. It's been more a feeling of...eh. Is that all you're showing me? I think partially the reaction is blah because we know overreacting is what indecent exposur-ists get off on.

The other interesting thing about indecent exposure is that the perps are almost always men. What is it about men that makes them think women want to see their little willies all the time? Please. Don't flatter yourselves. When are you going to realize that it's women's bodies that are the works of art? This is validated by the fact that the Smoking Gun reports that Bubba liked to wear fishnets sometimes, a way of showing his reverence for the female form.

Also, now when someone says I'm shaped like a stop sign, I'll take it as compliment.

On an aside, Bubba is the perfect guest for Jerry Springer or bad reality tv.

Roasted buns

2007-07-25T23:40:00.000-04:00

Oh my. Has it really been that long since my last post? There's only one thing to blame for that: Work. I recently switched jobs. My tenure at my last job required crazy hours, mostly because we were so understaffed. My new job is busy in a different sort of way. The good thing is that technically, I shouldn't have to bring any work home. The bad thing is that I always find a way to bring work home with me.

I was talking to a coworker today about taking summer Fridays and how, because of the project we work on, it has been near impossible to do that. But because we are getting some freelance help this week, I think I'm actually going to be able to do that. We were also chatting about freelancing, and how I could never be a full time freelancer. The problem is that I have two sides to me: I can be a totally lazy ass and the ultimate procrastinator. Then I have this other extreme that becomes a workaholic and a control freak at work and never takes vacation because I'm afraid of not being in the loop when I come back--I hate the feeling of not knowing what's going on. I haven't taken a vacation in over a year (aside from a few small weekends home), mostly because I have no money to go anywhere, but I also won't just take those days off to chill. I guess I feel like if I'm not gonna be doing anything vacation-y, I may as well just be at work.

Last weekend, however, I finally got to take a mini getaway to the beach in Connecticut courtesy of S and L. It was great to just chill on the beach and go to bed before midnight (something I find near impossible to do in NYC). All of this was wonderful and relaxing--but of course, the one time I'm on "vacation," I go and burn my ass. Literally. I didn't put enough sunscreen on the back of my legs and the lower part of my butt cheeks that are exposed by a bikini bottom. So when you look at my bare ass it looks like i have white underwear on and red legs. It looks like someone took a hot pink paintbrush and ran it down my legs. It looks like I got spanked hard by a frat boy.

Ouch! I can't even vacation without causing myself some stress.

p.s: If this is a Filipino prison, lock me up! The best part: The "girlfriend's" hairline. Awesome.

What the poop?!

2007-05-21T01:11:00.000-04:00

A friend of mine forwarded this Wikipedia article to me about a South Korean woman who got caught on camera refusing to clean up her dog's crap after the little bugger shat on the subway. The woman published a public apology, but judging from her actions when the incident actually occurred, I think she was more sorry that she was caught than that she let her dog use the subway as its fire hydrant.

While I don't think the situation should have evolved to death-threat level, how I wish something like this would happen in New York! I soooo want all those dog owners out there who literally do believe their dogs' sh*$ doesn't stink to feel the wrath of us pedestrians who feel as if we are walking on a freaking mine field every day. In the age of camera cell phones, all you reckless dog owners better be careful--we're watching you, you and your constipated teacup poodle.

Stephen Colbert rains

2007-05-14T02:23:00.000-04:00

I'm effing tired. Work has been a bitch. Boys can be pains in the asses. But Stephen Colbert always makes me laugh.

Especially considering he speaks better Korean than I can!

Stephen Colbert Hits the Korean Pop Charts

Kids say the $#@%& things

2007-04-29T12:21:00.000-04:00

There's something inherently funny about kids cursing. I'm not advocating it, and perhaps it's borderline child abuse, but it just goes to show how much kids absorb (and how careful you should be with your words around them). Of course, in these videos, it's more about innocently picking up some phrases they've heard mommy and daddy throwing around (or, in Pearl's case, being told what to say phonetically. Adam McKay claims she never used those words again. You'll see what I mean if you click on the link below).

So I almost busted out laughing at work watching these two videos. Precocious kids can be creepy (read: Dakota Fanning, and those videos the news showed about a month or two ago of the toddlers who knew how to smoke pot) but in these they are just darn cute.

Cassie Kicks Ask

Pearl Demands the Rent, Bitch

I was an alien once

2007-04-24T00:20:00.000-04:00

Watching the news has been truly depressing of late. In New York, a Columbia journalism student was brutally raped and tortured by a madman; a 5-year-old girl was found hanging in a closet in her Bronx apartment in what police believe was an accidental strangling; and, of course, the VA Tech shootings continue to resonate throughout the news.

The fact that the VA Tech shooter was Korean American caught a lot of us in the K-A community by surprise, and lots of people, particularly of my parents’ generation were afraid of a backlash, but aside from a few isolated incidents I had not heard of anything too bad that was happening. The truth is, it’s likely that those who already harbor racist feelings toward Asians will use it as an excuse to fuel their hatred, but they’ll use any incident, major or minor, to do so.

I was reading this Salon article written by Asian American journalist Jeff Yang about the general feelings within the Asian journalism community, and I was surprised to read that many people expressed some form of inexplicable guilt, that maybe part of the reason for his breakdown had to do with pressures typically put on second-generation students to succeed. Personally, I feel no guilt. To me, plain and simple, Cho was mentally disturbed and couldn’t deal with the normal pressures of daily life, including the struggles that come with immigrating to a new country. According to video of his relatives in Korea, he had issues even as a young child before moving to the states.

Don’t get me wrong, I do feel some empathy with what he may have gone through. According to some articles I’ve read, he was made fun of for never talking, and when he did, the strange way he spoke would prompt taunts of “Go back to China.” All of us who are second-gen have experienced something like that throughout our youth. But by most accounts, a lot of his isolation was self-imposed, as he refused to interact with any peers. To me at least, it seems clear that these actions were done by a disturbed young man who was dealing with isolation, loneliness, and depression, and found a scapegoat for his malaise in rich white kids (though his victims were not, by any means, all rich white kids).

That said, I do take issue with the way he has been portrayed in the media, as Jeff Yang points out. When I read headlines that the shooter was from Korea, I initially thought that he was an international student who came straight from Korea. But when I read that he’d actually come over when he was 10, I realized he was a Korean-American—while not naturalized, he was pretty much second-gen, but the media’s initial reports all emphasized his “otherness” through their choice of description: a resident alien, vs. a permanent resident, the constant description of him as Korean, the way they put his last name first because he had a Korean name (i.e, if he had had an American name, he would have been Larry Cho, or whatever), and the way in which a race is never an issue when a killer is white.

I wasn’t a naturalized citizen until I went through the process on my own when I was 18. I had been going by an American name for a long time, even though it wasn’t legal. For a lot of my life, I could speak Spanish better than I could speak Korean. But if I had done some similar crime, I would have been branded as a killer from Korea. I suppose technically it’s true, but that description would have been highly misleading and wouldn’t provide the public with an accurate reflection of who I truly was.

Anyway, there is one thing I keep hearing thrown out there, and that is hopefully that this incident will urge Asian families in particular to get help for themselves or their loved ones if they sense any mental health issues—and to stop treating it like a stigma that must be ignored for fear of “losing face.” I don’t know if Cho could have been helped, but I wonder if treatment earlier in his life could have made some sort of difference.

Stars: They're just like us (Koreans)!

2007-04-15T23:44:00.000-04:00

While searching for photos of hanboks (traditional Korean clothing), my sister stumbled across two photos of celebrities wearing them. She was researching different kinds and colors because our aunts in Korea are going to buy one for her so she can wear it at her wedding (the girl who claimed to want a low-key wedding is now going to change three times over the course of the night: she has a traditional wedding dress for the ceremony, a hanbok to greet our parents guests, and a casual wedding dress for the latter half of the reception. LOL).

Anyway, she found these photos. Of course, Britney's has to be garishly hot pink. She looks cute but those colors are horrendous, in my opinion.

When I first saw this one of Nic Cage in one, I busted out laughing. I find this photo disturbing. The hanboks themselves are actually quite beautiful. I think it's the thought of him with his nearly-jailbait bride doing a traditional Korean wedding ceremony that cracks me up. Well, at least you can't accuse him of not trying to embrace his wife's culture. I guess a man will do anything to get some young hot ass.

David’s Bridal=taffeta and organza hell

2007-03-23T02:58:00.000-04:00

Every couple of years, I get into wedding season, and I think this summer-fall is going to be the next one. I have three weddings that I’m invited to, though not entirely sure whether I’ll be going to all three. One is a big one, my sister’s. Last weekend included a three-hour bus trip home that turned into six because of the snow, a trip to David’s Bridal (what I like to call the Wal-Mart of wedding shops), a meeting with a florist, a trip to two bakeries to inquire about wedding cakes, and a stakeout of the reception hall.

The trip to David’s Bridal was an interesting one. We had an “appointment” at noon but didn’t get an associate until 12:30. There were only two dresses my sister wanted to try on, so the associate got them for us, as well as a veil and some various accessories she needed, but was pretty much MIA after that because she was also helping two or three other brides/bridesmaids at the same time. She checked on us occasionally, but I was the one pulling the satin and tulle over my sister’s head, trying to gauge the size, and fixing the back of the dress (which I’m going to be doing about a million times on the wedding day). Much to our surprise, she actually found one she liked amid the sea of bedazzled ruffles and bows, a simple one that was the least David’s Bridal-y. Thank God my bridesmaid dress is from J Crew. I don’t think I can handle wearing any of the seafoam green/fushia/pale blue mess I saw in there. And don’t let them fool you into looking at their “separates” line, where you mix and match tops and bottoms. That just doubles the bridesmaid fugliness into two pieces instead of one.

Anyway, the price and the simplicity of the dress is really what sold us on it. Not too often can you get the dress and veil for less than $500-$600 bucks. So throughout the course of the wedding, my sister—who initially had said she wanted to just show up at the ceremony in a rent-a-dress just for the photos—is going to change three times: once in her wedding dress, once in traditional Korean dress, and probably once more into a more casual J Crew wedding dress she bought on sale for the dancing.

Speaking of traditional Korean dress, I caught a random ABC sitcom called “In Case of Emergency” that starts Jonathan Silverman and Kelly Hu, a Chinese actress playing a Korean woman. From what I can gather, it’s about a bunch of housemates, and Jonathan Silverman’s character is in love with Kelly. (In the tradition of movies/shows with Asian actors, the Asian character’s name is the actor’s real-life name, like how Jackie Chan is always Jackie in his movies.) Anyway, in the show she pretends to be married to please her strict Korean parents who are in town, and they demand she have a traditional Korean wedding. As part of this traditional Korean wedding, the groom is supposed to present the bride with a live goose. Now, from what I could tell, the Korean garb and overall setup of the Korean ceremony looked close to authentic, but I’ve never heard of this goose business. It sounds like a Hollywood setup to me. Or maybe the writers did a lot of deep research and this is so authentic I’ve never heard of it.

Anyway, my other strange Korean-wedding-related media encounter in the past two days was a NYT article my coworker sent me on the troubles that can occur in a Korean wedding when the in-laws aren’t pleased with the gifts to/from their son or daughter-in-law to be. According to this article, the gifts can make or break future relations with the in-laws. The dowry especially is deemed important. Hmm. The only dowry my future husband is getting is maybe my mom’s homemade kimchee for life. Otherwise, all he’s inheriting is my debt.

On an aside, this article follows another article about Korean men joining dating services to find Vietnamese brides, by the same writer, and is part of a trend I’ve noticed over the past few years of articles that like to study the various eccentricities—or at least what seems eccentric to mainstream Americans—of Korean culture like some sort of cultural anthropology. The New York Times seems especially interested in its observations of Korean culture. Or, as the subject line in my coworker’s email to me reads: “Mainstream media continues to report Korean dirty laundry.”

Go air your own dirty laundry, New York Times! I know you’ve probably got a few more Jayson Blairs embedded somewhere in there. Harrumph.

Heart attack on a bun, anyone?

2007-03-14T22:40:00.000-04:00

The Krispy Kreme burger is slowly making it’s way across the country. I think I’d read that some form of it had appeared in a minor league ballpark a few years back. It’s now made its way into Google’s New York cafeteria (which I’ve seen before, and it rocks). I’m equal parts disgusted and craving it right now as I write.

The Krispy Kreme burger just reminds me of how badly I eat when I’m stressed. Hell week is now officially over, but I’m left with the aftermath of my poor stressed-out eating. Here’s what made it into my diet over the past week or so:

• At least six slices of pizza
• Chex mix
• Hint of Lime Tostitos
• Several Entemann’s donuts
• Korean fried chicken
• Coke, non-diet
• Several pieces of fresh mozzarella
• Leftover pad thai
• Tons of Starbucks
• A few Samoas and a Tagalong (it’s Girl Scout Cookie season)

And so, so much more that I’m probably not remembering right now. Oh well, at least it wasn’t a whole row of Oreos. My coworker ate that. Seriously. Just thinking of the film the artificial vanilla filling leaves on your tongue is making me feel greasy right now.

So to recover from my stressed out eating (which left a grease-induced roadmap on my face) my dinner was but a mere bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats and a bite of fresh mozzarella. Though what I really want right now is a Big Mac (I used to be able to eat 2 when I was in elementary school). Grr. I think it’s time for a cold shower.

Are you a cubicle slave?

2007-03-11T22:03:00.000-04:00

Okay, I'm breaking one of the number-one rules of blogging, which is never blog from work. But I'm in the office at 10 pm on a Sunday evening, going crazy from writing on deadline about stuff I really could give two shits about right now, all while not getting paid what I'm worth, so I think I'll cut myself some slack. I need a quick concentration break. Here goes:

Signs you're becoming a cubicle slave (and yes, I've done all of these):

--You've put your head down in your cube for a quick (quick=hour-long) nap while working on a weekend.
--You've gone through an iTunes playlist at least three times while working on a weekend.
--You've run into several other cubicle slaves in the office and wonder what the hell these workaholic freaks could be so busy with that they're working on a weekend.
--You ate breakfast, lunch and dinner at your cube while working on a weekend.
--It was daylight outside and now it's pitch black while you're working on a weekend.
--By the time you get home, you realize you have to wake up in a few hours to go back to work, after working on a weekend.
--You are rueing all the time you wasted at work during the week checking e-mail and surfing the Web so you would not have to work on a weekend.
--You are working for some strange corporate entity whose name smacks of some secret evil enterprise, like Dr. Evil's in Austin Power, and on the weekend, no less.
--You are working on a weekend, period. And on the first spring-like weekend of the season.

This sucks ass big time! Grrr.

Bunnies and bulls$!#

2007-02-22T00:07:00.000-05:00

I’m not particularly superstitious or take horoscopes seriously, but I do find it curious that both my Eastern and Western signs reflect at least part of my personality (though I guess you could say that if you’re looking for it, you can find yourself in whatever new age mumbo jumbo you’re looking into).

Anyway, I’m a Taurus, and, according to one site, “Taureans are determined, productive, practical, reliable, resourceful and capable of generating great wealth. They will work slowly and steadily to achieve their ultimate goal. Ruled by Venus, Taurus loves material comforts, sensual pleasures and beauty. They take great pride in their possessions and assets. Taureans may be stubborn, but their steady demeanor makes them reliable and loyal.”

Ok. I can see myself in that, although I don’t know about the generating great wealth part. The only thing I seem capable of generating is great debt. But I am very slow-but-steady, practical, stubborn, reliable and loyal, so that’s good. But the rest of the description makes me sound like a shallow gold digger. My Chinese zodiac will make me sound better, I’m sure.

Not so sure about that, actually. I went on this site to check out what the “Rabbit Personality” is, and there was a very lengthy description. Here’s the good: merciful, elegant, amiable, love of the arts, strong sense of justice, diplomatic, and dislike of arguments.

But then there it was again: “A woman born in the year of the rabbit is beautiful and elegant, and she will prefer to be married to a kind, conservative millionaire than to a handsome, penniless man. Her husband must be a person who can provide her favorable material conditions, who can protect her and support her luxurious life style, and who can walk away whenever she is in low spirits.”

Again, the moon and stars and sun and tide and planets and whatever the hell else they use to come up with horoscopes are calling me a gold digger. It’s a good thing I don’t believe in those things, she sniffs. Harrumph.

At any rate, it’s the year of the Golden Pig, which apparently only comes around once every 600 years, so I decided to see what the Chinese zodiac says this year holds for me. I looked at a couple, and apparently I’m supposed to get loads of cash coming my way because of all the success I’ll have in business. This horoscope, however, seems to be a more realistic summary of what I should expect: It’s a good year for me to get married. (Or at least find romance.) I should expect a modest raise. And I’ll have 1 neutral and 11 good months. Yippee. I just have to watch out for some minor accidents. (I am pretty accident-prone.)

All that is in good fun, and I don’t take it seriously, but I did find a few statements pretty telling. I'll let those of you who know me decide if they are true or not:

“To those they love, they are gentle and kind, while to some other people they may be perfunctory and halfhearted, even cool and merciless.”

“They can hide their real features by their decent appearance when they face opponents, and then hurt them. By the time one discovers this, they will have tricked you.”

“Generally speaking, she will be someone you can get along well. She will be good company with whom to go shopping or to talk.”

BUT:

“She will always wear large and comfortable clothing, made of good material.”

IS MOST DEF NOT TRUE! I don’t wear oversized clothing, and I’m a bargain shopper, people.

Does the devil wear Bluetooth?

2007-02-19T00:07:00.000-05:00

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m either trying to do a million things at once, or I’m completely zoned out wondering things like how I should rearrange my room, as if I would actually get around to that.

Like today, I did some leisurely shopping, took a nap for about 2 hours when I got back, and woke up and ate a McDonald’s apple pie. But right now I’m simultaneously blogging, IMing, and watching The Devil Wears Prada on DVD. But I’m at my parents’ house, and I like to take laziness liberties here, so I’m giving myself a pass.

Speaking of the Devil, the movie reminds me of my first job post-college. I remember when I would have to “make things happen” for her, too, and get that disappointed tone of voice when I didn’t pull through. She always used to make people in my office cry occasionally with her yelling and was known to throw around the occasional four-letter word. And like the heroine in Devil, I lasted less than a year and sort of went through this period post quitting in which I hated Corporate America and how the underlings at such companies are treated.

Now, I realize that not everyone is like that, and I find it very true that people tend to leave bad managers, not bad jobs. Now that we have new management at work, I’m curious as to whether it will become more Dilbert like. So far, the symptoms are there: Consultants are called in. Your boss calls all day meetings that everyone is required to attend, though only about 25 percent of what’s on the agenda has anything to do with you. You were asked to “look over” a 20-page document and provide input. Your boss walks around with a wireless headpiece stuck to his ear. And he likes to look you in the eye and thank you for your input and says considers the fact that we can wear jeans on Friday as “having a little fun” around the office. Yikes.

Anyway, in all fairness, my boss did give me a Starbucks card that should fuel my morning caffeine jolt for probably the next six months. That was nice. I just hope that all these signs won’t mean I have to start assigning Dilbert nicknames to the people in my office once the consultant’s suggestions start kicking in.

In other news:
Rickie Lee Jones spreads the gospel, of sorts.

I’m going back to cally....I don’t think so

2007-02-01T01:31:00.000-05:00

So just as I was getting my body used to West Coast time, it was time to head back to New York and mess up my body clock again. I’m up to my eyeballs in work but I was glad for the trip. I got to see the Left Coast fam that I don’t get to see too often, including a grandmother who asks me about once an hour why I’m not married. I’ll give her a pass because she’s been having memory problems lately and may not recall that she just told me I had to get married before she died—although I’m probably really just giving her the benefit of the doubt.

Anyway, I had two interesting celebrity sightings, both on my JetBlue flight. I saw Vincent “Big Pussy” Pastore from the Sopranos going to California, and John Hensley, who plays Matt McNamara on one of my favorite shows, Nip/Tuck, coming back. They both look pretty much like how they do on TV. Vincent Pastore is huge. John Hensley is taller than I thought he’d be, though he was dressed sort of the way Matt dresses on the show—slightly alternative and moody, but pleasant enough to the woman in his row, who recognized him from the show and seemed to be having a bit of a conversation with him.

Speaking of celebrities, one of the things I did do was visit Hollywood, walking around the Kodak theater area, taking a pic with Zorro, and looking at the handprints in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater. This is the second time I’ve been to Hollywood, and I have to say I’ve not been too impressed with it. Granted, I’ve only really seen the touristy parts, but Hollywood is more gritty than glitzy, from what I’ve seen. It definitely has character though, with it’s vintage shops and old theaters (and there are a lot of characters who pose for pictures with tourists for tips, like my BF Zorro, as well as an emaciated Spider-Man, Princess Fiona from Shrek, and a couple other weirdos who don’t appear to have a day job).

Whenever I go to the West Coast I always wonder if I could make a go of it there, but the whole having-to-drive-everywhere thing is a big thumbs down. That, and the whole smog thing sort of freaks me out. I can’t imagine living in a place where you have days where you’re not supposed to go out because of pollution. Is it just me, or is there something wrong with living in a city where occasionally you aren’t supposed to breathe the air? Or where sometimes the ground beneath you may swallow you whole? Or where a simple flick of a cigarette can ignite a brush fire that goes on for days?

On the other hand, there are some great things about Cally: The number of Jamba Juices per square mile, for example, and IN-N-Out Burger. And the scenic drives provide mountain or seaside views. And if you can stand nippy toes you can wear flip-flops virtually all year round.

For now though, I don’t see myself going West anytime soon. I think New York City has treated me well thus far. I’ve never been a crime statistic, unless you count the highway robbery I pay for my apartment relative to other cities.

In other news:

My boy Ilan, my pick from the start, is the winner of Top Chef! I’m glad I got to see him cook at Casa Mono before he quit. I was thisclose to him while I was peering over the bar where the line chefs cook, trying to look at all the strange ingredients they use in their food there (a lot of it is offal). Now onto Top Design!

Speaking of bad Hollywood, doesn’t this REALLY make you want to watch The Wicker Man? At least you can say that Nick Cage throws himself into his work, no matter how inadvertently hilarious.

Speaking again of bad Hollywood (or London's West End), Harry Potter's all growed up, and I feel dirty for wondering how on earth he got that six pack and whether he's really nude in those publicity shots.

Red-eye rants

2007-01-25T05:59:00.000-05:00

So I’m sitting at the gate waiting for my JetBlue flight to Cally to leave, and all I can say is, thank God for the free wi-fi here. Another reason to love JetBlue. It’s 5 am and I’ve been here already for about a half hour even though my flight doesn’t leave until 6.45 because freakin’ SuperShuttle insists on picking you up three hours before your flight, even though there is absolutely no traffic on the road at 3.30 am, even in New York City.

I don’t really want to sleep in my chair, so I thought I’d blog, even though I’m bleary-eyed and totally delirious from sleep deprivation. While I was packing earlier tonight (last night?) I was watching episodes of American Idol and Top Chef, two of my favorite reality shows. On Top Chef the final two are Ilan and Marcel, which the producers probably planned because they pretty much hate each other on the show. Well, all the other chefs have pretty much hated Marcel throughout the show because he’s a cocky nerd who gets on everyone’s nerves, but the boy can cook and plate and makes foams out of pretty much any liquid.

My pick to win from pretty early on in the competition though was Ilan, though I must admit I lost the faith a little based upon the recent reaction from the judges to some of his more curious dishes (a desert made from chocolate and liver--what?). But definitely he, Cliff and Sam were my top choices, except that Cliff got kicked off for manhandling Marcel and Sexy Sam got kicked off during the Hawaii challenge for not actually cooking any of the Hawaiian dishes he presented (i.e, his dishes were mostly just prepared but not set to a flame of some sort, I think).

I actually saw Ilan at Casa Mono, Mario Batalli’s tapas restaurant where he works as a line cook, and where they serve a lot of things that go in Scrapple (I’ve since learned from the show that such things are called “offal” in haute cuisine.) The food overall was good, and our party had it’s share of interesting dishes, including cock’s comb, which really comes out red and jelly-like and in the spiky shape of a cock’s comb. It almost looks like red jello made from the mold of a cut-off star. Ilan looked pretty much like Ilan except he was wearing really big nerd glasses. Still a cutie-patootie though. Even if he’s a winner I guess he still has to do his day job until the winning episode airs. No one really seemed to be gawking at him, so I wonder if people in the restaurant even knew that he could very well be America’s Next Top Chef.

Ilan’s not the only reality TV star I’ve had a real-world encounter with. Ian Benardo was a really bad contestant on So You Think You Can Dance, and last night was a really bad contestant on the latest episode of Idol (he readily admits he has two therapists who tell him he can sing and dance). I actually saw him walking in the East Village this past summer, and he was unmistakable, with his sweat headband.

Sigh…more time to kill. What else should we talk about as I delete the 300+ messages in my junk Hotmail account? Here’s some interesting tidbits:

In other news:

Surimi, the designer imposter otherwise known as imitation crab meat (and what non-authentic sushi eaters put in their California rolls) can now legally be labeled as "Crab-flavored seafood, made with surimi, a fully cooked fish protein." Is that like bacon-flavored bits or grape “drink”? I grew up on “grape drink” (I don’t think it could be legally called soda) and I think the real description for it was supposed to be processed sugar water. What I don’t understand is why they don’t just label it “surimi?” That almost sounds like sashimi, and is fancier than either “imitation crab meat” or “crab flavored fish proteins.”

This story perfectly exemplifies the lengths men will go to to NOT have to ask for directions.

Okay, almost time to board--and to get out of this freakin' freezing NYC weather!

Five-second movie haiku reviews

2007-01-23T01:47:00.000-05:00

So while I’m waiting for my at-home dye job to complete its magic, thought I’d provide a few more haiku reviews. Now that American Idol is in full swing, I’ll have to do them here instead. Here’s a few more recent flicks I’ve caught:

The Departed
Faithful to Hong Kong
version, and Leo is great,
but Jack still steals show.

The Little Children
Sordid affair plot
That proves adults aren't mature
Subplots make the film.

Dreamgirls
Jennifer Hudson
is the real star. She should win
an award—and did!

Notes on a Scandal
Cate makes BIG mistakes
But Judi is the real wench.
Twisted, but great plot.

Blood Diamond
Lots of disturbing
images of kids with guns.
You should toss your rings.

Discipline update: Week One

2007-01-09T02:17:00.000-05:00

Okay, so it’s been about a week since I’ve made a resolution to be more disciplined, and I think tracking it will help keep me more accountable. I think by disciplined, I mostly mean that I want to be less lazy in all facets of my life and stop procrastinating so much. Of all the seven deadly sins, sloth is by far the one I have the hardest problem with. People used to joke that in college my default mode was sleep, and it’s true—I used to sleep in the front row of my sociology 101 class with my jacket over my head in full view of my prof. What was I thinking??!! I would have hated me if I were her.

So I’ve been pretty good about going to the gym when I have a free night, but I’ve also been good about not having the gym take over my life—for instance, last week I forewent my favorite hip-hop/step duo of gym classes to exercise my brain and attend a screening with a friend of this documentary of playwright Tony Kushner, and listen to a Q&A with him afterward at the 92nd St. Y. Boy, can Tony talk. And talk. And talk. And talk some more about what a raging liberal he is. There is definitely no middle-of-the-road for him, and the documentary focuses a lot on his political activism. Overall though, the Q&A and Tony himself are quite intriguing. I didn’t know he also wrote some musicals and books. But I felt the documentary was only okay—it was a little slow at times.

I’ve also been trying to be more disciplined at work by surfing the Net less, trying to answer e-mails right away, and space my work out so I’m not in a last-minute crunch (like now, but I count this as a result of activities that I did or did not do prior to setting my resolution. And technically while I’m writing this I could be doing real work, but it’s 2 am and my brain is fried). I stayed till after 10 pm today to write a story and did NOT IM all day. That’s asking a lot of me. Of course, I didn’t finish, so I’m planning to wake up really early tomorrow and get to work before everyone else (Ha.)

But here’s a sign that I still need a little help. While eating the half of my Saigon Grill Bun Xao lunch that I didn’t finish for dinner, I realized I was getting fish sauce on my fingers. Instead of walking the 50 feet to my work kitchen to get a paper towel, I took a blank sheet of paper off my desk and used it as a napkin. I even used it to wipe the fish sauce off my face when I accidentally pushed the cap down too hard on the little container, sending a spray on me.

Eventually though, I did haul my ass to the kitchen cuz I realized fish sauce don’t smell so good when you use only 8.5 X 11 20-lb paper stock to get it off. You actually do need a wet paper towel. There’s hope for me yet.

In other news: Does this mean I only view Clive Owen as a fling, while Orlando Bloom would be my husband? At the very least, it does explain why I think manly pretty boy Wentworth Miller is a perfect 10.

It’s already 2007??

2007-01-02T00:37:00.000-05:00

This holiday season has been lovely. I got good gifts, gave good gifts, saw the Nutcracker, and vegged out to several late nights of Dog Whisperer Week.

So I had big plans for ringing in 2007. Big. Me, one who loathes running and starts panting after a quarter mile, had this big plan to do the 4-mile Midnight Run in Central Park. Last year, I went to cheer on some friends who did it, and I thought this year I’d kickstart my new year’s resolution of being disciplined by forcing myself to run.

Problem is, whenever I looked at details of the race, I would google it, and Google’s results would take me to the 2005 race page, when the entry free was $35. It never occurred to me I was looking at the wrong page—the 2007 entry fee was $50. How’s that for inflation? That was supposed to be my drinking money. So that idea was pooh poohed. However, before going out for the night, I decided to run about 2 miles along Central Park, so I still feel I was a bit disciplined. (Including the fact that I was a gym a-hole this past week to “train” for my 4-mile run—I worked out T, W, Th, Sat, and Sun. A pace I am sure to NOT keep up.)

The rest of the night was lovely, spent partly at a party in some loft of some person I would never have met without a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend-connection because he was clearly out of the income range of people I would know, judging by his apartment; and partly at Schiller’s, which was surprisingly not that crowded, but unsurprisingly as beautiful-people pretentious as usual.

Anywho, here’s to resolutions (can I keep this “discipline” thing up?), new experiences, new decisions, new successes, and probably a few new failures as well. Hopefully it'll all be stuff that will make me a more well-rounded (not literally, one hopes).

Happy New Year!

Christmas for thought

2006-12-25T22:41:00.000-05:00

While I was at home for Christmas I read this review of books about Rene Descartes in an old borrowed New Yorker. Descartes was the philosopher best known for his "I think, therefore I am," saying. According to the article, the philosophical slogan was mistakenly believed to reflect an argument against the existence of God, and Descartes' belief in subjectivism. But this is what Descartes had to say:

"When I consider the fact that I have doubts, or that I am a thing that is incomplete and dependent, then there arises in me a clear and distinct idea of a being who is independent and complete, that is, an idea of God. And from the mere fact that there is such an idea within me, or that I who possess this idea exist, I clearly infer that God also exists, and that every single moment of my entire existence depends on him. ...And now, from this contemplation of the true God, in whom all the treasures of wisdom and the sciences lie hidden, I think I can see a way forward to the knowledge of other things."

Merry Christmas everyone.

The meat tonight is fresh. I mean, REALLY fresh

2006-12-24T23:33:00.000-05:00

This experience is sure to make the RCNY Hall of Fame for me.

So it seems strange things happen to me when I'm in and around Washington Square Park, especially when I am with Al & An. My prior strange Wash Sq Pk w/ Al & An experience was meeting Leatherface, who later was found dead hanging from a post in full S&M gear.

So this time, we were coming out of Blue Hill, a restaurant on Washington Place known for serving organic food from the Hudson Valley, our bellies full of Berkshire Pork and bread pudding and wine and chicken and other foods that you pat yourself on the back for eating because they are organic, even though you're not entirely sure what that entails. Al went back into the restaurant to get a gift certificate, while An and I waited out front. I noticed a minivan parked on the street that had nobody in it, but its side door was open halfway. I was a bit concerned that some poor guy's car had been broken into, though there were no visible signs of forced entry.

I peered into the van from a few feet away to see if I could tell whether it had in fact been broken into. I noticed a couple things; some dry cleaning hanging behind the back seat; a Bed, Bath & Beyond plastic bag on the floor, and something big strewn across a black plastic bag on the back seat, like maybe a big crumpled blanket or sweater. I peered in the darkness of the van a couple of times, while chatting with An as we waited for Al, who took a while to get his certificate. But on maybe my third peer-in, I noticed the light bouncing off something shiny and black on the blanket.

Now, I am not one who screams aloud unless I am with someone else who screams first, but if I were one who screamed aloud, I surely would have. I had that sudden feeling in the pit of your stomach that you get when something scares the bejeezus out of you. The glistening black thing was an eyeball on the "blanket" strewn across the back seat, which was not in fact a blanket at all, but appeared to be a dead baby deer. Initially I thought it was a dead dog, but the legs were too spindly and the snout was longer, like a horse's. I could see it's glassy eye staring up at me, and I felt like that guy in the Godfather who finds the bloody horse's head in his bed.

An and I freaked out and tried to think of where this deer could possibly have come from. An noticed that the car had a NYC parks department sticker. But where on earth would you find a dead deer in NYC? I highly doubt deer from Jersey or upstate would be able to accidentally cross highways and bridges and toll roads to wander into Central Park. And why was the door open? To keep the car fresh from the smell of a rotting animal corpse? Or was it a sign for car thieves to keep away (as in, you try to jack this car, you end up dead, like this deer)? I immediate concocted a crazy revenge scenario: Some parks dept. bureaucrat with a gambling problem who owed money to a loan shark was dining at Blue Hill, and the loan shark's thugs put the dead deer in his soccer-mom minivan as a warning.

At any rate, the other strange thing was just how nonchalantly the deer was strewn across the back seat, decidedly NOT placed INSIDE the plastic bag it was lying on. Maybe the parks employee decided it was OK to leave the car door open, because why on earth would a dead deer in a car freak people out? Al wondered what the driver's to-do list for the day looked like: 1) Pick up dry cleaning. 2) Get duvet cover at Bed, Bath & Beyond. 3) Pick up dead deer. 4) Make reservations for Blue Hill--must hurry to get good parking!

Anyway, the other curious thing was that on Blue Hill's tasting menu that night--which was being strongly recommended by our waitress--was VENISON. Coincidence???? I think not.

Which gym a-hole are you?

2006-12-18T01:05:00.000-05:00

Okay, maybe I’m feeling particularly pet-peevish lately, but this blog post made me think of all the different types of a-holes I see at the gym.

For starters, I have to point out that I have suffered from a case of gym a-holishness myself. I only really started working out in my mid-to-late 20s once I realized that my metabolism was no longer my friend. It started out with about 20 minutes on an elliptical at level 2, then after a few years, for a brief period, I became a gym a-hole and would take two classes in a row and go like four or five times a week. But now I think I’ve leveled off at about three times a week, taking my favorite classes, doing some treadmill or elliptical work here and there, and getting in some free-weight time.

Even though the gym is a regular part of my routine now, I’d like to think that I don’t fall into any of the below categories of Gym A-holes:

1. The “Smell? What Smell?” A-hole: This is the A-hole who farts on the treadmill next to you or in yoga or in some other class where people are in close quarters. Sad how we usually assume it’s the nastiest guy in the room, but the truth is the skinny bitch next to you whose insides are all shot due to her eating disorder is just as likely to be the culprit. Most people in class where gas was passed are mature enough to ignore the odor and wait for it to waft away. But as soon as I get a whiff I, of course, have to scan the room to see who has the guiltiest look on their face.

2. The “Two Percent Body Fat” A-hole: This is the A-hole who believes s/he is doing a public service by working out in just enough clothing to disqualify him/her from indecent exposure, so all of us flabbies can check out his/her six pack. This is the girl in micro bike shorts and jog bra doing the Chinese splits behind her three-riser step to “warm up” for step class. This is the guy who always wears a tight wife beater and lifts it up to wipe the sweat off his face while flexing his abs.

3. The “Twenty Percent Body Fat” A-hole: This is the A-hole who isn’t necessarily out of shape, but somehow manages to pick gym clothes that make them appear flabbier than they are. Unfortunately, this A-hole is usually female, and she’s the one who probably wears the same outfit as the “Two Percent Body Fat” A-hole, but instead of exposing a six-pack, she exposes rolls and a muffin top. I acknowledge that society has instilled an unnatural standard of female beauty in me, but that still doesn’t mean I want to see your pooch. (Props to S for pointing out this A-hole.)

4. The “You Done Wit’ Dat?” A-hole: This is the A-hole who hovers around you while you’re on the machine and asks how many more sets you’re doing during your first rep while swinging his arms to stretch in preparation for his turn. He also asks if he can get a “few reps in” while you’re taking your ten second break between sets.

5. The “Just Five More Miles—I Mean Minutes” A-hole: This is the A-hole treadmiller or ellipticaller who knows it’s high-traffic time and is only supposed to be on the machines for 30 minutes, but has clearly been on longer judging by the fact that his white shirt is translucent due to an hour’s worth of sweat. This A-hole tends to cover the time on the dashboard with his towel so none of the annoyed waiting patrons can see how long he’s actually been on.

6. The “Trainer’s Pet” A-hole: This is the A-hole that basically acts as a class instructor’s groupie, following the instructor from gym location to gym location like an obsessive fan, very obviously making personal conversation with celebrity instructor before and after class, putting his/her equipment away for him—everything short of sopping up the instructor’s sweat with her own tongue.

7. The “Monica Seles” A-hole: This is the A-Hole who grunts louder than tennis pro Monica while benchpressing some insane amount of weight while simultaneously checking himself out in the mirror. Nearby gym attendees are forced to turn up their iPods to avoid that discomfort you feel when the person next to you sounds like they are taking a dump or getting laid.

8. The “Cell Phone” A-hole: This is self-explanatory. This is the A-hole who gabs away on her cell phone, out of breath, while running or doing the elliptical, clearly ignoring the “cell phone use in designated areas only” sign. This A-hole typically talks louder than normal to be heard over the sound of the machines and the grunts coming from Monica Seles A-hole.

9. The “Meat Marketer” A-hole: This is the A-hole who is always looking around the room for the “Two Percent Body Fat” A-hole so he can chat her up.

10. The “Do As I Say, Not as I Look” Trainer A-hole: This A-hole is the trainer who teaches an abs class without a six pack, or who teaches an aerobics class by barking out instructions but not doing any moves, or teaches a dance class with no rhythm (and yes, I’ve experienced all three of these trainer A-holes). You have no clue how these people became instructors, or how the gym manager managed to overlook the potbelly when he hired him. They may as well be teaching class while sitting in La-Z-Boy eating a donut. For some mysterious reason, these Trainer A-holes also tend to wear 80s workout gear, like pantyhose underneath leotards or Le Coq Sportif track suits.

Evite etiquette, anxiety and acrimony

2006-12-13T00:37:00.000-05:00

So this NYT article really hit the nail on the head when it comes to the insanity that has become responding to an Evite. S and I are always commenting on how people get on our nerves when it comes to their Evite etiquette (or lack thereof).

In the early days of Evite, people simply responded a simple “yes,” “no,” or a “maybe” with a simple explanation of why they may or may not be able to make it. Now, as the article points out, RSVPing has evolved into an arduous effort to create clever one-sided repartee.

I think we need to return to simplicity because all this Evite nonsense is crazy. Here are my top Evite peeves:

LAME RESPONSES. One can tell when you’ve tried too hard to write your response—and people will call you out on it, or at least talk shit about you behind your back and tell everyone else at the party that so-and-so’s response was LAME—especially if the Evite host has crafted a particularly witty invite. I’ve had firsthand experience with this. (Not with generating a trying-too-hard response, but with people saying that they didn’t see why so-and-so respondent even attempted to match my Evite witticisms. Not to toot my own horn or anything.)

“TMI” RESPONSES. You don’t know 50 percent of the people on the Evite, so they don’t care if you have 12 other parties to go to that night. If anything, they’ll think that you are so insecure you need to announce to the world that you have a social life. A simple: “Have to run to another event that night. Will try to make it!” is good enough, you social climber.

PERPETUAL “MAYBE” MEN. These are the people who NEVER say they are coming to an event with 100 percent certainty. No wonder you sleep alone, you emotionally dead commitment phobe! I much prefer Yes Men or Naysayers.

HIDE-AND-PEEKERS. The host can tell when you’ve looked at the Evite, which means we can tell that you are choosing not to respond until you’re certain the people coming are worthy of your time. I’ve seen people check an evite every few days until the event, without giving any response. In the words of scorned women everywhere: “You can’t do better than me!”

SECOND-DEGREE RESPONDERS I know that sometimes in Evites hosts encourage you to invite friends, but eviting 20 friends, and having those friends evite their friends, instills this unnatural feeling of extreme annoyance in me. I mean, not just when people forward the evite info to their friends, but actually ADD them to the evite. And then those people respond as if they were first-degree guests! Admittedly, this is a nitpick pet peeve, but it still gets my grill. Stop crashing my party, fools!

Now that I’ve revealed my Evite pet peeves, I’m sure to undergo scrutiny whenever I craft a response or my next evite. Whatever, it had to be said.

In other news: But can they listen to your problems while looking hot?

Ay, Dios mio!

2006-12-05T23:53:00.000-05:00

There’s nothing quite like Spanish-language television. As I write this I am currently glued to the TV set watching a Univision show, Muevete, in which two female stars dressed in leopard print lingerie and sporting corn chip nail tips play a precarious game of Jenga, as an audience, the band, the hosts, cameramen, and a chorus of bikini-clad show extras look on. The 30-story high Jenga tower finally gets knocked over because during the turn of one of the stars (the older one with the bigger boob job), the table gets mysteriously bumped and shakes the tower down after said celebrity manages to expertly remove the Jenga piece. I think her D-cups created some sort of shockwave that traveled through the air as they swept pass the tower. That’s the only explanation I can think of because she didn’t seem to touch the table otherwise.

Anyway, I know a lot of people who went to Italy this year, which has been making me itchin’ to go to Europe sometime soon. But I’ve always wanted to visit Barcelona to see the architecture and eat a lot of paella. The signs are everywhere telling me to go: I keep seeing random travel articles on Barcelona, and America’s Next Top Model was filmed there. I ate at a Spanish-inspired restaurant called Barca 18 a few months back, and this weekend I ate shrimp, which is an ingredient in paella. I think God’s trying to tell me something.

Which brings me to the real point of this post: How I could fund such travel. The only problem with my Barcelona trip is that I have no money to get there. Or to Africa. Or to the Caribbean. Or to Miami. Or to Canada. (All places that I have enough reason to go to, but not enough funds.) Sigh. So lately I’ve been thinking about getting a part-time job, but at what age are you too old to get a part time job? I mean, like the kind where you’re folding khakis at the Gap or scooping ice cream at Baskin-Robbins? The lazy part of me is totally unmotivated to do work outside of my ten-to-six. The other part of me looks at my bills and panics.

So I’ve been brainstorming ways to come up with some extra cash. Waitress? Dog walker? Babysitter (which I do from time to time already)? Evite-writing consultant? Subway performer? Life coach (like with athletic coaches, life coaches just have to know how to dispense advice, but not take it, right)?

Someone give me suggestions. I’m willing to consider any and all reasonable ideas.

Everyone should own a pair of eatin’ pants

2006-11-25T23:18:00.000-05:00

So I’m at home for Thanksgiving and I realized that I’ve slowly become a man for the holidays. I’ve lounged around in “eatin’ pants” all day (i.e, track pants with an elastic waistband). I’ve been unable to curb my appetite, eating full meals and then nibbling on leftovers when I’m not eating full meals. I’ve taken naps after eating said meals. I’ve only thought about taking a shower. And I’ve watched football nonstop for the past two days. (Well, the past week really, if you count the Ohio vs. Michigan game I got caught up in last Sat.) I’ve already seen snippets of Florida vs. FSU, UGA vs. Ga Tech, and am currently enthralled by the USC vs. Notre Dame game, though I vow no allegiance to any of these teams.

Tomorrow though, I get to be a girl again by hitting up the outlet malls. I dared not venture to any shops on Black Friday because I am no longer used to the parking, traffic, and overall madness that is shopping in the ‘burbs during a sale. There’s nothing scarier than trying to take a parking space from a soccer mom with a minivan full of kids. She’ll choke you with her braided belt faster than you can say “World’s Best Mom.” I had hoped to stop by the Target for its two-day sale, but looking at the price slashing they did in the circular, I think that would have been the absolute worst place to go.

It was nice being home, not having to do anything, having my parents cook for me, taking cat naps throughout the day, and not feeling like I have to do anything. My Thanksgiving dinner, cooked mostly by my sister, consisted of turkey, pot roast, green bean casserole, yam casserole, stuffing with sausage, citrus cranberry sauce, crescent rolls, and some Korean food (various veggies and fish and shrimp tempura, courtesy of the ‘rents).

I love the feeling of being stuffed from Thanksgiving dinner. I did end up doing a little bit of work today because right when I get back to New York I have to report for jury duty, of all things, but for a few days my existence has been pleasingly stress-free. I have to work off the pounds in the gym when I go home, but for now my eatin’ pants are serving me well.

Happy Belated Turkey Day everyone.

Personal space invaders

2006-11-20T00:12:00.000-05:00

So there’s apparently a whole science of the things that make up much of my pet-peeve list. It’s called proxemics, or the study of people’s perception of their personal space. Most of the things that annoy me about other people have a lot to do with their invasion of my personal space.

In the lead of this New York Times story, the writer touched on a big one, one that myself and a lot of my girlfriends are often troubled by on the subway: When men spread their legs too wide and impinge on my leg-room space. Another big one the story touches on: When people go to the bathroom in the stall next to you, when there are tons of other stalls empty. I am often troubled by the inexplicable, apparent desire of some folks to do their business right next to me, separated only by an inch and a half wide stall door, eschewing the option to poo or pee at least several feet away.

In New York, personal space is at such a premium that the city makes the perfect social scientific Petri dish for proxemics. Where else can you be right next to someone on a packed subway, touching them in a way that might be labeled sexual assault in another situation, and never even make eye contact with them? We’ve learned to cope with the 24/7, sardines-in-a-can feeling by coming up with coping mechanisms, such as reading the same subway advertisements over and over, staring at yourself and others in the reflection of the subway window, spacing out to your iPod, or pretending to be literary and reading the New Yorker.

I love the way this article ends: “In general most people understand the rules of personal space and heed the cues. Then again, the world is littered with clods. As Dr. Archer put it, people generally view personal-space rules in one of two ways: ‘the wrong way and my way.’”

Here’s what clods on my personal-space shit list do:

* Talk so close that they spit in my face, and don’t acknowledge that they spit on me even though we both can feel the saliva drying on my cheek.
* Stand so close in line behind me that when I inch up, they also inch up, even though I’m inching forward to get the hell away from them, not because the line is actually moving.
* Try to get in front of me when I’m standing on the street corner to cross. The only thing they are beating me at is getting swide-swiped by a cabbie.
* Constantly say “excuse me” to get past me and off the subway, even though I’m also getting off the same subway stop.
* Try to look at what I’m listening to on my iPod. For some reason, this bothers me more than reading over my shoulder because there’s something about your playlist that is more personal. (Though I admit I’m also guilty of stealthy iPod sneak peeks).

Post: modern love

2006-11-12T15:14:00.000-05:00

There’s one thing I’ve taken to reading consistently lately in the New York Times, and that’s the Modern Love column.

I think it’s because sometimes Modern Love is really a misnomer, as the stories might be more about Modern Lust or Modern Infatuation or Modern Co-Dependency. The fun is trying to figure out which one the particular anecdote falls into. But every once in a while, I read one that resonates with me.

Last week’s Modern Love column was one of those. It was about a woman who lived in a separate apartment from her husband, only to finally move in with him when the circumstances of war in the Middle East forced her to. I think I found it bittersweet because I’ve always joked that the perfect relationship would be to be married but live in separate places, and I used to say that only half tongue-in-cheek. Her story gives me hope for myself! (And again, I say that only half tongue-in-cheek).

What most surprises me about these columns is the openness with which people are willing to talk about their failed or successful relationships, trysts or indiscretions—-especially the indiscretions, which do little to disprove my “Men are from Dog, Women are From Stupid” theory. But then a weepy, sentimental one like this week’s, about a woman whose boyfriend gives her his kidney, will surface and make me temporarily feel the fuzzies.

The other thing the column makes me do is sing the David Bowie song in my head over and over:

“Modern love - walks beside me
Modern love - walks on by
Modern love - gets me to the church on time”

How so very true, Mr. Bowie.

Halloween’s a drag

2006-11-03T22:37:00.000-05:00

In New York, at least, it is, because that’s when you can see the best of the best drag queens taking a stroll up Sixth Avenue in the West Village as part of the annual Halloween parade. The grand marshals were Kiss, whom I saw go by on a float for about five seconds (Paul Stanley’s gut was not to be missed). Borat was supposedly going to make an appearance, but instead I only saw a bunch of guys dressed up like him handing out promos for the movie.

Every year I say I’m too old to be dressing up for Halloween, and every year I somehow get suckered into it, either because I’m accompanying a friend to a party or because I’ve thought of some clever costume I can’t bear to pass up or because I’m just generally bored and get inspired by the crazy revelers.

This Halloween was no different. I made my friend’s red beret pull double duty as a pseudo Che Guevara communist chick for my friend’s pumpkin carving party (couldn’t quite put together a nuclear-happy North Korean costume without the Kim Jong Il hair), and then on Tuesday as a beatnik. I fully intended to come home by a decent hour on Halloween night, being a school night and all, only to end up watching the whole parade go by with its gay disco floats and giant characters on sticks, then maneuvering the crowds to find my friends the Vampire King and Queen, then going to some sponsored Halloween party/launch event where I was jostled by a bunch of overgrown bananas, then walking all over the Lower East Side looking for a place to eat, then finally settling to eat fried calamari at Schiller’s Liquor Bar at 1 am. The next day I was supposed to go to an 8.30 a.m. session at a conference, but it goes without saying that I didn’t exactly make it.

I’m getting too old for this!

P.S: Patty Pumpkin says hello. She is my 2006 pumpkin creation, preceded by Melvin the Sad Sack Pumpkin of Halloween 2005 whom I don’t have a photo of anymore.

Feeding kimchee to the night owls

2006-10-25T21:51:00.000-04:00

This article in the New York Times highlights New York’s unofficial reigning title as the Best City for Late Night Dining. The interesting part is that the article highlights several late-night dining venues that are Korean-inspired. It is true that in K-town, late night dining has always been a staple, but I think it’s funny that the mainstream culture has finally caught on that there’s nothing to feed a night out on the town like some good bibimbop or soft tofu soup.

Even non-Korean Sam Talbot, who runs a pushcart that sells Korean-type items like kalbee rolls and kimchee dogs (I munched on a kimchee dog from his cart once after proclaiming it was a bastardization of my country’s cuisine, and it was delish) says that he associates Korean food with “being up all night, with drinking and everything.” Haha.

I grew up eating kimchee with everything, including hot dogs, and with bulgogi in hoagie buns, and in regular bologna sandwiches, with pizza, etc., etc. Note to Sam Talbot (who I discovered is also on season 2 of Top Chef), kimchee also tastes good with fried chicken and white rice. I’d like to see that added to the cart.

Yam cream probably tastes great with waffles and a mimosa

2006-10-18T23:04:00.000-04:00

So someone brought to my attention recently a product announcement for a board game for women going through menopause. We were pretty speechless. Some folks I know were thoroughly offended; others thought it was unbelievably hysterical. But everyone pretty much took it as tasteless.

Anyway, I’m about 25-30 years outside the game’s target demographic, so I know it’s not geared toward me. But if I were going through menopause, I probably wouldn't take it as irreverent or funny. (Actually, I'd probably think it was hilarious one second and thoroughly depressing the next.) My real reason for bringing up this game, however, isn’t to rail against some ill-conceived product that missed the taste mark. It’s to ask: What the hell is yam cream?

I get pretty much why all the other game pieces fit in with the menopause theme. I guess I’m just naïve or uninformed, but yam cream didn’t ring a bell. Thinking harder, I might have an inkling, but it’s nasty so I won’t say what I think it is aloud.

If I ever did play this game though, I think I would choose to be the diaphragm every time. If some other menopausal bitch took my game piece, the Freedom Tampon would be a close second.

Cincinnati has that je nei sais quoi

2006-10-10T00:30:00.000-04:00

Got back recently from Cincinnati for work, a place that I was curious to visit because all I know of Cincy is the WKRP jingle, and that I always spell it wrong, with two “t”s instead of two “n”s. Alas, I didn’t get to try Cincinnati chili, but I did get to taste Graeter’s ice cream (which has Oprah’s stamp of approval) and ride a Tallstacks boat. I didn’t get to stray too much outside of the business district, so I don’t think I saw enough of the city to get a feel of the real Cincy, but overall it was pleasant enough and everyone was very nice. (Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever met an Ohioan who wasn’t nice and didn’t speak in broadcaster’s English.)

I was there to visit various local companies (including one particular consumer products company that runs the city, pretty much) and on this trip I met some French and German folks who were also quite nice and pleasant enough, but whom I was amused to find were very French and German, in the way that most Americans seem to think the French and the German will be.

The Germans were friendly but definitely had the more booming of voices. The French women were rail thin and smoked whenever they had a few spare moments, and were never quite satisfied with the strength and taste of American coffee. (“Is this coffee, or is this tea?” asked one French colleague when she poured some of the admittedly bad and weak coffee provided by one of the companies.) At one point we were visiting a place that wouldn’t allow smoking within 25 feet of the entrance, with a menacing sign proclaiming so. The French women stopped at the sign almost like it was invisible fencing, puffing quickly away on the cigarettes they had just lit ten feet earlier.

So I was surprised to read this NYT article when I got back into town that says France was working toward a smoking ban. I remember being culture-shocked when I went to visit Paris a few years ago to see people smoking in the airports and the subway. At that time, indoor smoking in NYC had been a thing of the past. Smoking seemed so entrenched in the Parisian culture to me that it seems near impossible to rid it of its tobacco habit. Then again, they said they’d never be able to ban smoking in New York or LA, either (or in Ireland, for that matter), and now I can’t imagine people lighting up in enclosed quarters anymore here, like back in college, when I would step in a bar or club for two seconds only to emerge reeking of cancer-stick residue.

The best thing about the French losing their right to smoke indoors, however, is their protesting.

My favorite quotes:

“I see this as a personal attack,” said André Santini, a center-right member of Parliament from a Paris suburb and compulsive cigar smoker, who posed for photographers this week in the tobacco kiosk in the National Assembly building. “What disturbs me is the ayatollahs you meet everywhere. They tell you how you have to make love, how you have to eat.”

And…

“I’ll end my life where I started it — in the men’s room,” said Jean-Pierre Balligand, a lawmaker from eastern France. “I started smoking like every other schoolboy, in the toilets of my junior high school. And that’s where I’ll end up, in the toilets of the National Assembly, while the school principal, Mr. Debré, screams at us for smoking.”

Gotta love the French and their poetic metaphoric rants. So, ah…how you say…so dramatique!

R.I.P. Leatherface

2006-10-02T23:50:00.001-04:00

So a person who fits the description of the leather-clad man I had an odd encounter with in the West Village a few weekends ago has a name: Richard Lewis. As suspected, he was recently released from a mental institution, and died in an apparent suicide by hanging himself by his spiked dog collar from a fence. It almost sounds too strange to be true (as evidenced by the fact that most passersby thought he was an early Halloween costume), but it reminded me of a few past encounters I’ve had with strangers whom I later found out had died.

Though my initial encounter elicited the typical shake-your-head-in-amazement-at-crazy-New-Yorkers reaction, news of his death actually struck me rather sadly. I’ve been lucky to not have lost too many loved ones, save a few aging grandparents for whom death was less about sadness, and more about letting go and being relieved that their suffering was finally over. For the most part, the people I’ve lost had lived a long and eventful life. But I’ve always been strangely affected by the death of people whom I barely knew, especially when the death has been by suicide. I often wondered what their life was like and what caused them so much sorrow that they had to take their own lives.

One summer I worked at the front desk of a Comfort Inn, and I remember a man who prepaid for his room in cash. I don’t remember his name, but I do recall that when he filled out the information card we had all walk-in guests fill out, he listed his occupation as “college professor.” And I remember that when he paid, he gave me a halfhearted smile that was the typical forced smile you give someone when you’re exhausted and just want to retreat to your own bed as soon as you can.

Except this wasn’t his own bed, and he curiously had little luggage, even for a simple overnight stay. Later that night, after my shift was over, I found out that a housekeeper had found him dead on his bed. I think he had taken some medication and placed a plastic bag over his head to suffocate himself. I remember wondering whether he really was a college professor, and, for some odd reason, whether jilted or unrequited love was the reason for him wanting to kill himself. It was an odd thought, but one that didn’t seem out of the realm of possibility. What was even more odd was the possibility that I may have been the last person he ever saw face-to-face.

I never found out his name. But the other close encounter I’ve had with suicide was a girl I knew in college, two years below me. I remember her as someone who always seemed chill, really nice, really interested in what you had to say and an all-around well-adjusted person. After I graduated she went abroad to study in France, I think, and the next time I saw her, she said she had really enjoyed it, almost too much—and I sensed something emotionally significant had happened there, because her face fell a little bit when she said that.

Then one day, at 2 am, in what would have been her senior year, I got a call at home from my friend who had heard word that she had killed herself. She had jumped out of her window, and apparently there was no mistaking that it was suicide, since the high-rise dorm in which she lived had windows that you had to take apart to open big enough to jump out of. I was shocked. I never thought that she, of all people, would do it. Aside from being seemingly well-adjusted, she was religious, and I can only imagine she was going through some kind of extreme emotional and spiritual turmoil, so much so that she lost the will to live.

I don’t think I cried that night; instead, I was shocked. Just shocked. I didn’t know what to think, really, except that I had thought about calling her a few months before just to say hello, to see how she was doing. I had lost touch with her after I graduated, but she was someone whom I definitely thought about from time to time with fondness. I did cry, however, when I finally put flowers on her grave a few months later on a dreary day in a Long Island cemetery.

I don’t think one can ever speculate how or why someone loses the will to live. I think those of us who have ever thought about it were lucky that something just stopped us short from that feeling of total despair, of total separation from the rest of the world, when you think your only option for finding peace is in death. I think of my undergrad friend from time to time, and I think she’s found that peace, though the means through which she found it was not the way she was meant to. I find solace though, in the fact that if I ever see her one day, we’ll both realize that the pain she was feeling was just a blip in the eternity she was meant to experience.

Microsoft makes a funny

2006-09-27T00:42:00.000-04:00

It’s good to know the evil geniuses over at Microsoft have a sense of humor. This YouTube video is a satire on the difference between Microsoft’s everything-but-the-kitchen-sink package design principles and Apple’s minimalist branding. The video started as an in-house joke but was leaked (or “leaked?”) to YouTube. Instead of getting huffy Microsoft ran with it, poking fun at itself. Wonder if a Microsoft version of iTunes would automatically include songs in your library from Paul Allen’s band?

So I know Microsoft isn’t all evil. But if only I could convince myself that the little Helpy Helperton MS Word Paper Clip guy wasn’t really one of Satan’s minions waiting for the opportune time to crash my desktop RIGHT before the auto save kicks in. I cursed the name of Bill Gates many a time back when, when I was a PC user.

Now I’m a Machead both at work and at home, and there’s little I can complain about, except that there are still many applications that refuse to loosen themselves from the Windows grip. Thus, I’m often left out of the loop of some streaming videos or cool Web sites because they aren’t compatible with Mac and its browsers (I LOATHE Internet Explorer!).

On the other hand, I do feel that Apple is starting to screw those of us in the ass who are slaves to design. For instance, why did I have to shell out $30 for a portable charger for my nano when that was free in the first-generation iPods? And after I save and save and spend on my iBook, I learn that the new Macs will be Intel-based, and therefore much faster. I shake my fist at you, Steve Jobs!

Oh well. I guess when it comes to electronics, you just can’t win. Everything is obsolete as soon as you buy it. On top of that, I get a third degree burn on my thighs every time I use my laptop on my lap, which is where I’m assuming it was intended to be placed considering the name. I guess I should take advantage of the lithium ion battery recall before I end up burning my pickup truck to a crisp.

If you just clicked on that NYT story, I think just as curious as the fact that a computer battery caused such apocalyptic destruction to poor Thomas’ truck is that Thomas actually owned a laptop. (Though what’s not as surprising is the fact that the conflagration was exasperated by ammunition in his glove compartment. And I love the fact that a cigarette is hanging from his mouth as he peers through the charred remains of steel and seat vinyl. Ain’t nothin’—neither a fiery truck explosion nor a New York times photog—gonna keep him from his smokes.)

Meet the real Leatherface

2006-09-24T23:21:00.000-04:00

I encountered a man on the street last weekend that really epitomizes why I devised the acronym RCNY (random crazy New Yorker). I was walking past Washington Square Park with two friends when we saw a figure in black saying something to the folks walking in front of us. They ignore him and continue on. As we get closer, we realize why: The figure in black is a slight man dressed head-to-toe in leather: leather jacket, leather pants, leather hood, and I think a leather collar too, with various studs and spikes all over. That’s not such an unusual sight, particularly in the West Village, but he also had on a leather facemask. Except it didn’t really look like a particularly well-manufactured leather facemask; it sort of resembled a leather strip that he happened to Saran-wrap across his face, cutting out holes for his eyes, nose, and mouth. Oh, and he also happened to be carrying a mace (not the spray, one of those medieval weapons with a round, spiky ball at the top).

Through the mouth hole, he proceeded to ask: “Do you know where a leather store is?” I had several immediate thoughts that ran through my head rapid-fire: He’s a psycho killer who is going to spike me in the eye at any second; he’s some sort of submissive or dominant on his way to the dungeon who forgot some S&M essential; Is it Halloween already?; and—Doesn’t he have quite enough leather on? Is there really any need to buy more?

All of this simultaneous shock, terror and curiosity manifested itself in me saying, “8th Street.” I don’t know for sure that there is a leather store there, but I thought that would be his safest bet. He proceeded to ask me where 8th St. He was only a block a way, but then my shocked speechlessness kicked in, albeit delayed, and I found I couldn’t really talk. I pointed in the general direction as me and my friends scurried away, but I don’t think he saw me. He kept asking where 8th St. was, but we had already absconded and he was onto the next group of people, asking the same question, getting the same reaction.

I don’t know if Mr. Leatherface ever found the leather store, and part of me felt bad because I’m sure anyone he asked would 1) not know where the leather store was, and 2) would be afraid to stop long enough to direct him because of his insane outfit. (Though I suppose if one knew where the particular kind of leather store he was looking for was, they would not have found his getup particularly shocking.)

I wonder what The Sartorialist would have thought of his ensemble. Damn, I wish I’d had my camera!

I Heart NY

2006-09-13T00:27:00.000-04:00

With all my huffing and puffing over Survivor and Men’s Health, I forgot to write about the fifth anniversary of 9/11. I wasn’t in New York at the time, but I still recall talking to my friends several days after it happened and hearing the complete exhaustion and despair in their voices. I was at home in the D.C. area, and I remember waking up late that day, around 10 am, to my dad entering the bedroom. I had finished grad school two weeks earlier and had been looking for a job in New York. My dad told me to turn on the TV, and then said, “I don’t want you to go to New York.”

From then on, I was glued to the television just like everyone else, watching the split screen of the gaping hole in the Pentagon and the planes crashing into the towers as soot-covered workers fled the streets. I had tried to call my friend, who worked near the World Trade Center, but of course the phones weren’t working. Thank God, that day she had gone to work a little bit late and hadn’t made it to her building when the planes hit.

Despite my dad’s plea, I think he knew and I knew that the events of that day wouldn’t stop me from job hunting in New York, and about a month later a friend of mine and I went up for a weekend to attend a job fair. I remember standing on the balcony of an NYU dorm room in the West Village and seeing the smoke rising from the ashes at Ground Zero, even all those weeks later.

I wasn’t close with anyone who died in the WTC, but my friend did lose her boyfriend (soon to be fiancé), whom we both went to school with, and a future former coworker of mine lost his wife, leaving behind her husband and their small son. To my knowledge, neither of their bodies was ever found. My friend had gone from triage to triage with a few other friends looking for her boyfriend soon after it happened, but never found him. The New York Times ran all these little write-ups on the people that died; I still recall reading his and remembering what he was like in college.

I remembered the most that he was a music lover. I visited his suite when I was a freshman and he was a sophomore, and I remember looking at his vast CD collection as he tinkled on an electronic keyboard. He told me that one of his favorites was In My Tribe by 10,000 Maniacs, which I borrowed and later bought. I had never really listened to them before. A few years later we sang together in an a cappella group, and though we had our differences I remember he had a nice voice, the kind that easily blended in with others and was pleasant to listen to.

In July I stopped by St. Paul’s Chapel, the church near Ground Zero that served as a refuge for volunteer workers during 9/11, and teared up when I looked at the makeshift beds that volunteer rescue workers slept on, tiny beds that could barely fit me, let alone a brawny firefighter, and topped with ragged stuffed animals. There were tons of letters pinned up everywhere, large crayon scrawl from elementary school kids, written to thank nameless rescue workers. Sometimes I can’t believe it’s been five years already; other times, it feels like it was ages ago. But it never deterred me from wanting to come back to New York, because as far as I was concerned there was nothing that could ever bring down New York’s status as the Greatest City in the World. The year after undergrad graduation, before I moved back home, I remembered being sick of the city—-sick of dodging people’s elbows as I left work in Times Square, sick of stuffing myself into the subway, sick of never being able to afford a room that wasn’t a closet. I left for home, closing a chapter of my life.

But I think I always knew that I’d be back. I think I needed that time away from the city to fully appreciate it. I still dodge the elbows. I still stuff myself onto the subway. I still live in a closet. At times this city is dirty, frustrating, grungy, scary, and downright rude. But it’s also the most vibrant, wonderful, and miraculous place I’ve ever lived. I see miracles everyday, see all the different kinds of people God created in His image, see all the different people who need Him and don’t know it, see those who work tirelessly for Him to make the city a slightly lovelier place to live. It’s true, in another town I’d probably be living in a bigger place, maybe own a home. Maybe I’d be a business owner. Maybe I’d be a wife. Maybe I’d be a mom. That’s a lot of maybes, though. The only thing I really know for certain right now is that there’s no other place I’d rather live.

Note to Jeff Probst: Mexicans and Canadians aren’t the same as Americans, either

2006-09-11T22:39:00.000-04:00

I couldn’t believe it when I read this article in the Washington Post’s TV column. Was the writer trying to make Survivor host Jeff Probst look like an effing idiot? Are the producers offering him up as a lamb to the media slaughter by constantly making him answer reporters’ questions as an “Aw shucks, I’m just a white guy from Wichita, and I don’ know no better” mouthpiece for the controversial season? Or did he put his own big, fat, calloused-by-the-jungle-elements foot in his mouth by himself?

Whatever the reason, I’m seriously hoping that a lot of what Jeff said is out of context, such as asking his dentist “Where in Asia are you from?” and then being shocked that there are different countries that actually make up Asia, and no, we don’t all get along (and Jeff, we all don’t speak the same language either, which you probably thought was Chinese).

I’m sorry, but saying you’re from Wichita is not an excuse. By my calculations, this is the 13th year of Survivor, which means he’s probably lived in LA for more than a decade, not even counting his years as the host of Rock ‘n’ Roll Jeopardy. If you live in Southern Cal, Jeff, you have exposure to Asians, or you can get it. Drive over to Ktown, or Chinatown, or Little Tokyo sometime.

So I don’t think I’ll be watching Survivor: Cook Islands simply because I haven’t watched Survivor since the first season, but also because I don’t want to give in to the stupidity. I hate when Hollywood gets on its high horse about promoting interesting social experiments that are supposed to make a statement on some deep-seated prejudice in America. Get your heads out of your asses, Hollywood. You usually get it wrong anyway. Take the movie Crash, which was supposed to be a statement on racial tension in LA. The “let’s pat ourselves on the back for initiating racial dialogue” writers chose to name the Korean wife “Kim Lee,” merely combining the name of two well-known Korean surnames instead of doing the proper two seconds of research it would have taken to ask a Korean person what a real Korean name would have sounded like. Come on, you all go to the dry cleaners don't you? Or a bodega? And I know some of you went to Ivy League schools.

I think what’s compounding my outrage was an outing last weekend to Tribeca with some friends. As we were getting into a cab to go home, some drunk girl proceeds to shout that us “chinks should go back to our country.” Her friend quickly stated she was “not herself” but clearly she was just voicing more of herself than the outside PC world would let her state sober. My blood was boiling as the cab pulled away and I so wished I would have been outside so I could grab a fistful of blonde hair. Bitch.

Anyway, maybe I’ll be proved wrong. Maybe Survivor will be an astounding success. Maybe it will help everyone celebrate racial differences. Mostly, I’m hoping it’ll backfire in their faces. (I’ve already heard that some advertisers have pulled out.) I think they should rename it Survivor: Shameless Publicity Stunt.

Who’s the man behind The Man?

2006-09-10T15:24:00.000-04:00

I’m not sure why I felt compelled to comment on this article in the NYT that ran about Dave Zinczenko, the editor in chief of Men’s Health, a magazine that admittedly I’ve never looked at, except to ponder that the covers sometimes remind me more of gay porn than of a health and service mag for straight, health-conscious, weightlifting everymen. I think what annoyed me about it is that more than once, Dave’s colleagues commented that “What he lacks in ability, he makes up for in charm.” Essentially, Dave seems to have made it to the top not based on his editing talent, but more on his charisma, charm, and maybe even his looks (described quite accurately as “handsome middle brother” by the writer).

Now, I’m no head-in-the-clouds idealist about climbing the corporate ladder or that talent is what gets you everywhere. But I guess it’s really only a third of what gets you where you are. I think the other two thirds are ambition and knowing the right people. Maybe I think that because lately I’ve been feeling like a bit of a workhorse at the office and feeling a bit jaded about the whole career thing. And I’ve never been the best networker; in fact, the word alone makes me want to gouge my eyeballs out sometimes. I just don’t feel that I should refer someone whom I’ve just met—and for whom I have yet to make a judgment call on about whether I want to pass along some good karma—for a job.

The other thing that irks me a bit about this article is that Dave pooh-poohs the whole idea of the “celebrity editor,” even though he dated Rose McGowan for two years and he’s appeared on the Today Show 17 times. It’s true the average joe probably doesn’t recognize him when he’s walking down the street, but as long as the important people know who you are, I think it’s safe to say you’ve become a celebrity, albeit a minor one.

I guess the one thing he is good at is being the face of Men’s Health to the cultural zeitgeist, and in the end I suppose that’s what the EIC of a consumer magazine should be. (I highly doubt Anna Wintour sits around pontificating headlines and captions for her photo spreads.) I guess that’s what the senior editors are for—doing the line editing and making sure a comprehensible product is produced for the everyman to read and understand and thank Dave for. I just hope that while they are sitting in Emmaues, Pa., while Dave sits in his Manhattan offices, that they are compensated and recognized for their work.

Au revoir, summer. Plus, cool folding tips!

2006-08-31T00:09:00.000-04:00

Wow, I haven’t blogged in a while. One new boss, one lost coworker, one new coworker, one trip to Tanglewood, two weddings, and one diversion as a wedding blogger (for a friend’s wedding, not mine!) later, I’m back. The month of August has been eventful, and this summer in general has been pretty fun, surprisingly, and now that it’s ending, I’m having a bit of the end-of-summer blues. And I’m lamenting the things I didn’t get to do. The weather in New York is cooling fast, and I haven’t had a chance to wear all the cute dresses I bought. I didn’t get to sit in Central Park one day, all day, and read, like I had planned. I didn’t go to the rooftop of the Met. I didn’t spend one day sneaking into movie after movie at one of the massive Loews theaters. I didn’t go out to Long Beach to swim in nasty Atlantic Ocean water. I didn’t see any of the Bryant Park movies. I didn’t go out to picnic on one of the piers that face the Hudson or East rivers. I didn’t eat any barbecue outside. Sigh.

On the other hand, I did go to Hawaii (that makes up for about 100 Long Beach trips). I did lose my annoying boss. I did go to a few park concerts, including a perfect night for Opera in the Park, in which I momentarily fell asleep under the (hidden) stars. I did party hardy as a bridesmaid at a dear friend’s wedding (possibly the most fun wedding I’ve ever been to), and I did see my childhood friend (whom I grew up with and who was always boy crazy and who passed notes to me about her crushes and who flirted like crazy, but who never quite found the right guy) finally get married to a boy who just might be able to handle her. So I guess I shouldn’t lament the coming of the Labor Day weekend too much and just hope that fall brings some equally momentous or less-momentous-but-equally-satisfying events. Plus I have all my fall TV stories startin'.

On a random aside, with all the traveling I did this summer, I should have watched this video before I filled my suitcase. Leave it up to the Japanese to come up with an inventive, efficient, origami-inspired way to fold a T-shirt. Who comes up with this stuff??

Miss Japan got robbed

2006-07-26T23:56:00.000-04:00

Even though, as my friend says, The Donald sets the women’s movement back 50 years with the Miss Universe pageant, I still watched it to see which skinny bitch I wanted to root for. At least with Miss Universe, there’s no pretense of a “scholarship competition”; The Donald said so himself on Letterman, when he said, “no, it’s just about beautiful women.” It’s also about all-American B-list celebrity judges (like Tom Greene) in this “international” competition.

So I shouldn’t have been so upset then when Miss Puerto Rico won. But I was still annoyed that the most obviously plastic of them all got that Mikimoto tiara. There were quite a few cute girls I thought should have made the top 20 (Misses Australia and New Zealand, for instance) but when I saw the final picks, I thought, well as long as Miss Puerto Rico doesn’t win, I’ll be okay. Harrumph.

As far as I can tell, her nose, lips, and boobs appear to be fake (and she’s only 18, at that!). I personally was rooting for Miss Japan, whose national costume, a robo-anime-superheroine-technoskank hot red number, was the most awesomely campy and avant-garde outfit I’ve ever seen in a Miss Universe pageant. (It also won best costume.) And she was waving a samurai sword around when she was wearing it, a practically picture-perfect poster for any panting comic fanboy. But it wasn’t just that; she was perky and spoke four languages and danced flamenco and never stumbled when she had to get her game on. And even though she was unnaturally skinny as any pageant contestant would be, she wasn’t as obviously anorexic as most of the gals.

Of course, I’m sure every one of those stiletto-and-bikini clad contestants had work done, but I just think it’s sad that the one with the worst plastic surgery job nabbed the crown. Oh well…at least there was a fitting ending to her win: Miss PR fainted during the press event, probably from not having eaten since a week ago. How’s she gonna travel the world as a mouthpiece for HIV/AIDS awareness if she can’t even stay conscious for press events? Somebody force-feed that girl a potato chip or some beef jerky.

The other highlight of the show for me was reading about the gals’ hobbies and interests onscreen, which included “making people happy,” and “being social.” Ooh, me too!

Aloha and mahalo

2006-07-06T01:59:00.000-04:00

It’s been about a week now since I’ve been back from Hawaii, and I still have visions of breaking waves and breeze-ruffled palm trees dancing in my head. Here are some highlights of my trip (see if you can sense a theme here):

--On my flight from NYC to LA, the young man in ginormous headphones sitting next to me pulled out a big, leather-bound book with gold-gilded pages. I thought he was reading the Bible. I thought that was so sweet…this guy who I totally took for a skate punk was actually a nice Christian boy. I tried to steal a furtive peek to see what book he was reading, when I noticed something weird. He was starting a chapter that was marked by an illustration of a pair of dice. Turns out he was reading a bible—for bagging the girl. The book was “The Game,” by Neil Strauss, a former dork-turned-master-pickup-artist who writes about a secret “seduction” society and the tips they use to pick up chicks. Harrumph.

--On my layover in LA to Honolulu, a 21-year-old attempted to “get to know me”—only to see his jaw drop when he found out I was a whole generation older than him. I guess you could say the tone of the conversation changed after that. But he still gave me his number in case I needed a local to show me around. (And no, I didn’t take him up on his offer.)

--One morning I took surfing lessons with a bunch of folks from the conference I didn’t know, and it was awesome. And our instructors were Hawaiian firefighters (some of them anyway) and all I have to say is Hawaiian + firefighter + surfer = hotness. There was some mild flirting going on but mostly I just enjoyed the eye candy.

--On my flight home from LA to NYC, I was sitting next to a British bloke who is a former journalist/current Web executive/part-time DJ and who was totally sauced (I could smell the alcohol) and who proceeded to tell me all about his uber-stylist girlfriend and how he does want to marry her but how their long-distance relationship and different lifestyles could be a hindrance to their future…yada yada yada. Interesting guy—even more interesting to learn how much people will reveal of their lives when they’re lit.

Okay, now that this post makes me sound totally boy crazy (I’m not, I swear!), the real takeaway from my trip was a chance to unwind and gain a little perspective. The atmosphere in Hawaii is a total 180 from New York City, where everything, even the mundane things, are about five times more stressful than they need to be. I was there by myself for the conference (I was good and did go to sessions, but my mind was out to sea most of the time), but most evenings I was sunning on the beach or strolling in Waikiki listening to my iPod, and trying hard not to think about work. I also accomplished all three goals for my trip: I surfed, bought a ukulele, and bought Spam in a restaurant.

When I got home, I was grateful I came back relaxed—because it turned out there’d been a lot of drama simmering underneath the surface at work, and the shit basically hit the fan literally the first day I came back. My boss (see my rants in past posts) had been fired, and another long-standing coworker was leaving. I was stressed out about it, but I tried to channel my inner Aloha.

Anyway, it appears as if things at work will be okay; at the very least, all the negativity that stemmed from my old boss is gone. But I really think that if I hadn’t have heard the ocean in the seashell in my head, I would be pulling my hair out right now. Mahalo, Hawaii.

I do like yellow eggs and spam

2006-06-23T13:06:00.000-04:00

I finally made it! I never thought this day would never come. I’m actually on vacation, and in a place I’ve always wanted to go: Hawaii. I’m here to attend a conference but since it’s on my dime and not my company’s, it’s technically vacation. It definitely feels like one to me, as I’m more relaxed now then I’ve been in a long time. I still have work at the back of my mind (especially as how my boss gave me SHIT for taking vacation right now, during a busy time of the month for us—and then proceeded to be out a couple days himself, but I’ll get into that some other time), but when you’re able to stare at the ocean right when you walk out of your hotel, you have no choice but to be relaxed.

In the two days that I’ve been here, I’ve already eaten lunch on the beach, taken a dip in the 70-plus degree Pacific Ocean, seen many beach bums who may or may not be homeless, gotten stung by a Hawaiian bee, gotten lei-d, and…what had been a personal goal of mine…actually bought SPAM in a restaurant—and at a McDonald’s, no less!

You see, in Hawaii, Spam is on par with beef, chicken, or steak in its ubiquity/popularity, and they actually sell a Spam breakfast at McDonald’s in those Styrofoam packages that you usually buy hotcakes and sausages in. It comes with two slices of Spam, McDonald’s signature fluorescent-yellow eggs, and a whole lotta fluffy white rice. I thought I’d have to go to a local diner to get Spam, but no—I just had to head to the McDonald’s just a few blocks away.

I didn’t do much research on what to do while I was here—but if all I do is hang out at the beach everyday, then I’ll have had a successful vacation. The only other goals I had during my time here was 1) take surfing lessons (which I’m doing the day before I leave) and try to buy a ukulele if it wasn’t too expensive. I haven’t found a ukulele place yet, but if I don’t find one then a few macadamia nuts will do.

Sigh. I think this is what God intended paradise to be like.

Weren’t we done throwing the Christians to the lions?

2006-06-11T01:46:00.000-04:00

Or, my other title for this post: People are stupid.

That was the first thing I thought when I read this story about a man who lowered himself into a lioness den at a Russian zoo. Okay, maybe I shouldn’t be making fun of folks who clearly have more than a few screws loose. And of course, it’s a tragedy that a man lost his life. But the guy declares before getting mauled, “If God exists, he will save me.” IF God exists?? Dude, you don’t test the existence of God by lowering yourself into a lion’s den. You work your way up to that! Maybe start with like, “if God exists, he’ll heal this ingrown toenail.” And anyway, if you march into a lion’s den doubting God’s existence, you have no business asking Him to save you. Notice how in the photo the lionesses look bored, like mauling crazy people is just all in a hard day’s work.

A remarkably similar instance occurred in Taipei zoo a few years back, when a man lowered himself into a lion’s den and ordered the lion to repent. To which the lion replied, “Shut your piehole, LUNCH!” (Though in this picture, the lion’s expression does sort of scream heathen, doesn’t it?) The best part about this news story is how it ends: “Newspapers said that the lions had been fed earlier in the day, otherwise the man might have been more seriously hurt...or worse.” Or worse is damn right. He would have been cat food.

These stories prove two main points: 1) In the battle of man vs. hungry lion, man will never win. 2) People who use God as an excuse for their stupidity are only asking to be eaten by hungry lions.

(On an aside, I realize I've focused a lot lately on morbid zoo incidents/strange animal attacks. I hope this is not some sort of prediction of a random tragic animal attack on me.)

Why I idolize American Idol

2006-05-25T14:44:00.000-04:00

Another season of American Idol has come to a close, and I was thoroughly satisfied with this season’s winner, Taylor Hicks. It came as no shock to regular viewers of the show that he would win (he’s the first Idol never to have been in the bottom three), but it was a little surprising that Kat was his finale partner, barely edging out the more talented (in my opinion) but less polished Elliott Yamin.

I’ve been a regular junkie since Season One, and unlike with other shows, where my interest may wane after the first season or two, I’ve been hooked from the start. I’ve always been a fan of talent shows—like Star Search, back in the day—but this is different. So I started to breakdown the reasons for why the show seems to appeal to so many people. In a very big nutshell, here’s my top five reasons for why American Idol rules:

1) Karaoke is getting more popular. And what is Idol but glorified karaoke, except with a your own makeover and more Burt Bacharach songs than you can shake a stick at?

2) It appeals to old fogies and young fogies. It’s one of the few remaining wholesome family shows that both a crotchety old Grandpa and his punk, snot-nosed grandkids can watch together, and they can engage in family debate over whom to root for. The contestants, for the most part, are on the young side, but they sing those classics that your parents like.

3) Whether you love or hate the show, you still watch it. Even people who claim to hate the show still know the contestants and watch it to see how craptastic it can get. I know it’s really their guilty pleasure. And even the biggest of the big stars admit to being fans, as judged by their appearances in the audience, while the snottiest of anti-sellout stars must kowtow to the marketing muscle of Idol. (Where else would you find David Hasselhoff and Prince in the same building, ever?)

4) The show doesn’t take itself seriously. This is especially apparent in the opening rounds, when they show those first-round, tone-deaf hopefuls who are only one nervous breakdown away from a mental hospital. And I know an evil genius is behind making the Idols sing and dance on stage to cheesy 80s songs with fake plastic smiles plastered on their faces. Those bad song-and-dance numbers, cheesy Ford commercials, and vomit-inducing Idol power ballads are all proof that the show never puts forward the pretense of trying to nurture “artists who just want to express themselves.” It’s as if the producers are saying:

“If you want that hippie, commie pinko crap go to the Coachella music festival or cavort in the mosh pit with the ‘I’m not a lesbian or a gypsy, I just look like one,’ Vagina-Monologued, Lillith fair fans. This is American Idol, with the emphasis on Idol. We aren’t afraid of mass commercialization and the commoditization of society. Just look at the freakin’ Ford logos and Coca-Cola signs branded on the hides of our poor singers’ souls.”

And finally, the fifth reason, and the main reason why I like AI:

5) America, in the end, likes a good underdog story. And really, Idol is the epitome of the American Dream, a land where the impossible seems possible. Even when a polished, refined, and trained-from-birth star gets into the finals, America usually roots for the underdog, who is still talented but just rough around the edges. They see the diamond in the rough. In season one, they turned a cocktail waitress with bad skin into the most successful Idol ever (Kelly Clarkson is my hero. She survived the atrocious “From Justin to Kelly,” after all). In season two, the final two were a soul singer on the verge of a heart attack and a closeted Mad magazine character look-alike. In season three, the winner was a near-illiterate teenage mother. In season four, the cute but never-left-the-farm country girl got her Nashville dream. And this year, America chose not the porcelain-skinned, voluptuous, vocally trained, stage-mothered Kat—but the whiskey-tenored, prematurely greying, slightly paunched, spastically dancing, criminally record-ed (for pot possession), Tourette’s-like “Soul Patrol” screaming, and aging (by Idol standards) Taylor. A single tear is falling from my eye.

On top of all that, where else can someone like William Hung get a record contract? Nowhere but on American Idol!

So, American Idol, the New York Times may call you a “monster-size celebration of mediocrity,” (as far as I could tell, the Idols were outsinging all the “real” stars on the show, i.e, the heaving Meatloaf, the breathy Toni Braxton, and the warbly Dionne Warwick—even Mary J. Blige seemed to think screaming could pass for singing), and the Washington Post may call your contestants “Captain Kangaroo,” but I, for one, pledge my allegiance to your hidden brilliance.

Bear-y scary

2006-05-22T18:35:00.000-04:00

What's up with bears these days? They are on a secret rampage or something. I feel like they are slowly plotting to take over the world — or at least New Jersey.

Well, not all bear news of late has been in Jersey. Take this disturbing story.

First of all, aren’t zoos supposed to protect animals? Isn’t that their point? And don’t the zookeepers feed the bears enough that they won’t go trolling for monkey meat?

I guess animals being animals, you could just say that this is part of the “ciirrccllleee of liiiiffeee…” but I can’t help but think of all those poor, traumatized children who thought they were going to see the cute teddy bears and monkeys play together in the safari park. Instead, they got a harsh reality check and a lesson in survival of the fittest. I’m just shocked a Fox camera crew wasn’t close by to film “When Animals Attack: Zoo Edition.”

The macaque in the photo looks like a defenseless stuffed animal being removed from a shelf by the bear. Aack. (How on earth did an AP photographer know to be at the zoo to take this photo? Maybe he has the Dutch zoo beat, and just waits for the day a story will break—and lo and behold, one finally did?)

Anyway, locally there have been several bear-human run ins, like this one in which a bear acts like a crazy crackhead and has to be taken down by the police. In this town, which I think is near Newark, a bear had to be gunned down because he assumed an aggressive stance even after getting tranquilized. And then in Seattle, a black bear roaming U of W's frat row was tranquilized and then tasered after he kept putting up a fight, leading to his death. (I actually wouldn't have minded if the bear had a few frat guys for lunch.)

Either we are on the road to Bear City or these poor bears are victims of social injustice (notice how all cases were black bears?? I'm sure there are brown, polar, and panda bears out there committing comparable crimes!!).

In any case, all you bears even thinking about attacking me, I'm no macaque. I'll run for my life, and if that doesn't work, I'll have my taser ready.

BEAR UPDATE: A 500-pound bear escapes from a breeding farm, barges its way into a woman's home, and nearly mauls her to death! WTF? It's a sign of the apocalypse people! Bears are rising up and won't take it anymore!

May 1902-December 1973 romance

2006-05-17T01:19:00.000-04:00

Move over, Demi and Ashton. You’ve got nothing on Muhamad Noor Che Musa and Wook Kundor.

Old Wookie’s still got it after all these centuries. She’s like Liz Taylor times three. (Literally. She’s been married 21 total times.) And he’s not after her dowry. And I quote: “I am not after her money, as she is poor.”

So what does the geriatric hottie have that attracted the young buck? Their initial connection, Muhamad says, was that she was “childless, old and alone.” Hey, I’ve got those things going for me. Maybe I, too, can snag a younger man (who hasn't been born yet)!

Muhamad and Wook, I salute you. Age ain’t nuthin’ but three numbers.

Caution: hazmat boss ahead

2006-05-12T01:34:00.000-04:00

As many of my friends know full well, my boss drives me CRAZY. He manages like his job is constantly on the line (it very well may be, for all I know), which results in bouts of micromanaging, last-minute decisions that make our deadlines tighter, and inducing feelings in me that waver between pity for him and wanting to scratch his eyeballs out. I think he may be the worst manager I’ve ever had, and that even includes my first boss, who used to curse people out with her office door open and make coworkers cry. (Okay, maybe they are tied. But because my current boss is passive-aggressive, he comes out slightly ahead. I’d prefer overtly aggressive over passive-aggressive. I think. Well, maybe not. I guess the grass is always greener.)

However, I didn’t feel so bad when I got my Monster e-mail and saw that they were having a “Who’s the Most Toxic Boss of All?” contest. The examples are almost too comedic/unbelievable to be true. They range from a boss who Lysol-ed a worker’s office to the point of saturation after she saw her cough into a tissue, to a boss who demanded a worker FedEx her mother’s dentures. Are these people for real?? They seem utterly and certifiably insane. I personally voted for the boss who stopped her employee from going on vacation because she said a lot of work was coming his way.

What the F??? That is so freaking messed up it’s not even funny. C’mon people, just for principle’s sake, wouldn’t you tell your boss to blow it up her ass if she pulled that shit? Do you even want to save a job like that? A friend of mine once told me that his boss asked him to come back early from a vacation because the boss couldn’t handle the workload by himself. That is total and utter bullshit, and the sad part is my friend (who is a very nice and agreeable guy) did it. GRRRRRR!!!!!!!

It really just seems like as people go higher up the corporate ladder, the more emotionally unintelligent they become. They become power-trippy assholes who forget how to interact with people below them, or simply don’t care to learn.

Am I going to start losing IQ points when I get to a level in my career where I’m managing people? I once heard that Eskimos, or some type of aboriginal people, used to send their old people off on an iceberg because they were no longer useful to society. It sounds ultra-cruel, but maybe there’s a way we can translate that to the corporate world. Once a manager is deemed incompetent, he or she should be sent off to exile to a cube at the other end of the floor where he is thrown “projects in the pipeline”—i.e, those projects that are basically the equivalent of pork barrel, which seem important but are really just meant to keep people looking busy without actually making any progress (like most of the projects the Pointy-Haired Boss assigns Dilbert).

Right now the only thing keeping me going is my trip to Hawaii. Six weeks and counting….

Who’s the most toxic boss you’ve ever had?

I'm gonna make you my bitch

2006-04-21T00:21:00.000-04:00

Literally, in this photo.

This picture of my friend's dogs cracks me up. They don't live in New York (they are from the wilds of the Great White North), but the photo reminded me of all the little dogs I see in the city who have the biggest Napoleon complex.

Ah, New York...where else in the world will you see Lhasa Apsos strut into Bloomie's with their owners, as if it were an everyday dog park? Where else will you actually find restaurants that gladly welcome Fido to the table? Where else will you find doggie spas that'll pamper your pooch for more than I've ever paid for my own massage?

New York is basically overrun by 1) rats and 2) rat-like dogs being carried in big designer purses. And in New York, the dog's life really ain't so bad. I see these pampered Napoleon-complexed yappers all the time. They don't even think they're big dogs; they think they're humans.

And the irony is they've made their humans their bitches. They've managed to turn billionaire bankers, models, lawyers, hipsters, and Upper East Side princesses alike into little more than highly paid pooper scoopers. Their owners will pass by a hundred homeless people without giving them a second look, but are willing to put little more than a flimsy plastic bag between their manicured hands and a steaming pile of dog shit. I've even seen a man with a Great Dane hold a butterfly net-looking thing under his dog's ass to catch the poop before it hit the ground. Even your mother wouldn't do that for you.

The bunny’s gone bad

2006-04-17T18:23:00.000-04:00

See, this is what happens when you bastardize the celebration of the Lord’s resurrection by making up some stupid shyte about bunnies that hide eggs. You create a monstrosity that evolves, becomes intelligent, and goes on a rampage.

What’s next, a sadistic Santa Claus that hides lumps of coal in the stockings of children who don’t conform to society’s prescribed norms on adolescent behavior?

Oh crap. That already exists. Now we’re all screwed.

Next up: The Tooth Fairy who exchanges money for teeth—that she pulls out with her own pliers. Muuuaaahhhhaaaaa!

Happy belated Easter.

Tiger's sar-spastic comment

2006-04-14T15:47:00.000-04:00

I’m confused by this article. Since when is the word “spaz” offensive?

Leonard Shapiro never says what it refers to, only that “[Tiger] clearly would be wise to clean up his language…Woods use of the word ‘spaz’ was obviously inappropriate, as well, but I can’t imagine it was meant to denigrate or humiliate anyone.”

Who is it obvious to? Epileptics? That’s all I could think of.

Shapiro goes on to say that the word probably wasn’t meant to be insensitive because of who it was coming from: “Not from a guy who told ‘60 Minutes’ he had a stuttering problem as a child. Not from a guy who has felt the sting of racial intolerance. Not from a guy who’s own father is now physically incapacitated as he battles cancer. Not from a guy who's foundation has raised millions -- many of them from himself -- to reach out and help disadvantaged youngsters worldwide.”

Somebody enlighten me…is calling someone a spaz on par with a racial slur or the offensive but more widely used “retarded?” No one likes to be referred to as a spaz, but I’ve never heard the word given so much gravity before.

Leonard implies that it is more offensive in Britain, but what’s the connotation? Is it like how Brits use the term “fags” to refer to cigarettes?

Somebody enlighten me on the hidden meaning. Otherwise, I must come to this conclusion:

If you were offended by Tiger, then you are a spaz.

Going bananas

2006-04-07T00:47:00.000-04:00

Because I am so immature I get much joy and pleasure out of Careerbuilder’s Monk-E-Mails, apparently some sort of marketing ploy that enables you to literally put the words into a monkey’s mouth. The technology uses text-to-speech recognition to make the monkey say your message, but the weird cadence and computerized voice puts this very weird and hilarious spin to it. Here’s my favorite one that I’ve made so far.

I’ve made some of these so many times that I’ve maxed out my daily number of messages I can create (in my defense, I was trying to find the exact phonetic spelling that would help the monkey with the proper enunciation of “biotch,” but alas I only got to “bee-yatch.”)

I especially think it’s funny to make them say dirty words. I'm so junior high right now.

Who else has seen a leprechaun, let me here you say yeah!

2006-03-27T21:39:00.000-05:00

First it was the news captions showing white Katrina victims as “looking for food,” while black Katrina victims were “looting”; then it was Wolf Blitzer’s slip of the tongue, describing Katrina victims as “so poor, and so black.”

Now, here’s further proof of a media conspiracy against minorities by The Man.

C’mon now, at least some of the people looking for the leprechaun had to be poor white trash too, right? At any rate, I agree with the woman in the car: I think the leprechaun is just some crazy crack head.

And what about that artist’s rendering on the lined notebook paper? CLASSIC.

This is hard news people. Real hard.

Sweet dreams are made of tease

2006-03-16T23:41:00.000-05:00

I have had several interesting dreams these past few days. One was particularly vivid that when I woke, I actually wondered whether I had to go to work. I’ll explain:

In my dream, I was sitting at my cube. I went over to my coworker’s cube, but she wasn’t there, so I start looking for something. Suddenly a freelancer in our office, A, comes over and tells me that my coworker, C, has told her that she is quitting her job in about a month. I am shocked, and A says, “Oh, I’m sure she was going to tell you.”

C comes over and is surprised that A said anything. But she says, yes, I was going to tell you. I’m planning to leave in a month, after I train a new hire on my job. But then suddenly, I don’t remember how we get the news, we find out that we are getting laid off, that our division is being let go. C and I look at each other and are just kind of ambivalent. We start packing our stuff into boxes.

My boss comes out of his office, and he has angry tears in his eyes. He says, “How can she do this to us?” Apparently, the “she” he is referring to is his boss (who is really all of our bosses); he seems to think she had something to do with this. He goes tromping off. C and I simply shrug it off, and continue packing our boxes. A skinny Chinese security guard (I have no clue why he is Chinese) comes over because he is supposed to escort us out. He even helps me start packing my boxes. As I pack, we see two security guys escorting out someone who is ranting and raving. It’s my boss! His hair is all of a sudden Albert Einstein-like crazy, his eyes are wild, and he’s saying how they can’t do this to him. I remember feeling shocked because I had actually thought he’d been secretly looking for another job. (At work, he’ll disappear for hours or shut his door for a time. Very curious…) I just simply shrug and keep packing. Then…beep! beep! beep!

I can’t believe that I dreamed about this, because it basically combined all the stress/annoyance/current events at work that I’ve experienced lately—especially this past hell week. I guess it was my mind’s way of letting me make my dreams come true, so to speak, in my head. But damn. What a tease! It was still all just a dream.

Rolling a fatty (not that kind of fatty, you bad person)

2006-03-11T22:19:00.000-05:00

Instead of doing work, and finishing a story that I’m supposed to turn in on Monday, I’m watching the highly underrated “What Lies Beneath” on ABC. It’s actually quite suspenseful. I am in transcribing hell right now. Sigh. I hate this story.

Anyway, other than stressing about my story, I did get to do one fun thing last night. That’s go to the Fatty Crab and pig out. It’s a great restaurant, but there is a bit of meatpacking attitude when it comes to getting seated. They won’t seat more than four people, because large groups stay for a long time and thus reduce the customer churn. So our group had to be split up into different tables—they wouldn’t even let us sit in empty tables next to each other. Our waiter was nice, but the host with the evil handlebar mustache argued with one of our friends when she tried to ask if she could get seated next to us (they had seated several other people who came later than both sets of our friends, who were waiting for tables). I think every time he thwarts a large group of friends he twists the ends of his mustache sinisterly and snorts, “The crabbiest of all wins again. No parties of more than four shall ever patronize the Fatty Crab. Ahhahahahahhaha!!!!!”

I could have done without the Meatpacking Attitude, but the food was really sumptuous. I hate when people lick their fingers and moan while eating, but I may have been guilty of committing my own pet peeve. If you go there prepare to get down and dirty with the grub. And make sure the waiter consistently fills your water glass because it is pretty spicy. And fatty. Fat is so good. It melts in your mouth and in your hand. Then you lick your hand to get the fat plus the excess sauce that is drying on your fingers. Mmmmrrphhhh. Yum. Oh and did I mention it’s not too bad cost-wise? Too bad I forgoed (forewent?) any savings by drinking $11-$12 mojitos and mai tais at Spice Market.

This is totally random but I’m also craving right now Shanghai Café on Mott or Fried Dumpling on Allen. (You literally just go there and get like 30 fried dumplings for 5 bucks.) The best Chinese restaurants are like the best hookers. Dirty and cheap. Okay, that was gross. I don’t frequent hookers but I’ve always wanted to make a trucker-type analogy like that. But seriously, the best places to get food in Chinatown are those holes in the wall where you can seriously fill up on the most un-nutritious but oh-so-greasy-and-good noodles, dumplings, and roasted meats. I also love the Hentai restaurant on St. Mark’s. I don’t actually know what it’s called, but they have a good fatty pork Japanese tapas thing and cheap Kirin. I call it the Hentai place cause the menu and signage used to showcase those old Japanese sex paintings. Kinda gross when you’re eating but the food and prices are worth it. My penchant for cheap food in large volumes is not doing much for the expanding waistline. Sigh.

Gettin' to the church on time

2006-03-06T23:44:00.000-05:00

Actually I didn’t. I was 15 minutes late, but I still was able to hear John Stott speak at a special service held by my church, Redeemer. (Most of my posts are frivolous and just me venting, but I’ll write a nice post today.) For those who don’t know who he is, Stott is a premier Christian author (I’ve never directly read his stuff that I remember, but I know he’s well-regarded, and is referred to in many other things I’ve read about faith). He’s still going strong (if not slow, shuffling toward the podium) at 85, and still has all his faculties. When he lost his place during the sermon momentarily, he pointed out that he’s 85, and will continue to talk aimlessly until he finds his place again. That made me crack up. Not just because it was charming, but because everything sounds funnier when it’s said in a British accent and coming from an little, old, white-haired man.

While basic, Stott’s sermon was inspiring, at the very least, because it served as a reminder that one can always talk to God if one wants to. He’s not some ethereal old man hovering on clouds that you can only reach through ceremonial rituals. Plus, it was inspiring to see people like Stott, who devote their lives to ministry, still going strong until the day they are called home (like Billy Graham). I just hope I can shuffle around like that when I’m 85.

Here’s more on John Stott.

Here’s a story about Redeemer Presbyterian Church from 2 weeks ago in the NYT.

Tryin' to make a dollar out of 15 cents

2006-03-01T00:02:00.000-05:00

After a blissful weekend at Hunter Mountain living commune style with some friends and worrying about nothing but cracking my head open on the ice while snowboarding, it’s back to reality. It’s always hard to come back to work after you’ve gone away, even if it’s just for a weekend.

This is especially true if you are secretly wishing your company would go under. But instead of harping on that I’ll just list a few job alternatives I’ve been thinking about lately:

--Professional Evite Writer. I’ve been contemplating writing a business proposal for the Evite folks in which I offer to write people’s Evites for a fee to make their events sound more snazzy and interesting. Amongst my friends I’ve always been the designated Evite writer, so I already have quite a few samples in my portfolio.
--Vitamin Water Label Writer: Actually my roommate’s suggestion. She said I could probably have written the copy for the “Formula 50” drink. I agree with her. I would have made it even better, adding the words “bitches” and “ho’s” to the description. Though “hydrate or die tryin’” is pure genius, I have to say.
--American Idol Judge: I already do it for fun, but could I get paid?
--TV Guide Blurb Writer: Seriously, who writes these things? If all you have to do is watch and write about the show in 50 words or less, I could totally do that. I could think of a better catch phrase than “hyjinx ensue.”

Any other suggestions?

American Idol is like crack

2006-02-24T01:10:00.000-05:00

I am addicted to American Idol. Is it because I like karaoke, and what is AI but glorified karaoke? Maybe. All I know is that when it's that time of the year I get glued to my television set and start voting for the contestants I like best.

I get that it's cheesy. That it's awesomely bad (or just bad?). That I enjoy it much more than a 30-year-old should. But 30 million viewers can't be wrong. Then again, the American public isn't always known for their high taste. Still, if following American idol is wrong, I don't wanna be right, as they say.

However, I know that blogging about every episode is likely to get on people's nerves. So to balance my compulsion to want to throw my two-cent commentary into every episode and not annoy the five people who read my blog, I've started a separate outlet for my AI addiction.

If you don't watch Idol, consider myself a hand-holder through the train wreck that is AI. Or if you follow it, consider it a sort of play-by-play of the show. There are about a bazillion blogs on American Idol--most of whom are actually on the official idol site, but I don't think I want to be part of the official madness. I'll toil away in anonymity instead. But what I really hope to do is convert you nonbelievers into viewers. Because there's two kinds of people in this world I don't trust: People who say they hate sushi, and people who refuse to watch AI.

Paging my boss' balls—boss' balls, are you there?

2006-02-16T23:52:00.000-05:00

Not too long ago I got a raise and a promotion. So I should be thrilled, right? Well, I do appreciate the extra 10 percent padding to my paycheck. And the title is good for a bargaining chip for future jobs, I guess (though it’s really a bullshit title and doesn’t mean much to me). But right now I am not a happy camper.

Basically, without going into too much detail, I just don’t feel my boss has any balls. He is kowtowing to the Corner Office guys who seem to be making decisions about our product that, in the past, have been none of their beeswax. The last two years or so, the President of our division (or whatever powers that be that have Supreme Budget Control) cut our budgets so much that our product looked like shit basically. (Those who are reading this blog who know me know what our product is; I’ll just say that it has a design element to it.) Then in division meetings Mr. Pres will trash our product without acknowledging that we never had MONEY to make it look better.

About six months ago, they decide all of a sudden that they are going to give us money to make the product look better; more money for photo shoots (though no raise or promotion yet). It looks great, yes—but only because we had the resources to make it so.
Except along with the money, we also get more bureaucracy; seems our product has been so bad Mr. Pres decides he wants to have more of a hand in our decisionmaking, and one of his minions takes over the art part of it. So even though we make suggestions, the ultimate thumbs up has to come from Corner Office folks.

ARRGGGHHHH…is all I can think to say. Amidst all this, my old boss, whom I liked, leaves for another job, and our staff is basically three people. The New Guy is…eh. Initially, I just thought maybe it was because of the age gap. I had been used to female bosses not even a decade older than me for a while, so having a middle-aged male boss, I knew, would take some getting used to. But then New Guy’s balls start shriveling into his sac. I know that all new bosses want to make a good impression, they want to make their mark, and they feel pressure to ramp up quickly, especially when a product is at sort of a cross-roads like ours. I know that. I understand all that. I know he has pressure. But New Guy immediately starts instituting all these changes, of which we are feeling the affects right now. (I am in a deadline-oriented business, and with changes comes extra time to deal with those changes.) Why not phase in changes? No, that would be too practical, too common sensical. (Yes, I know that is not a word.) But NO…someone is so quick to change everything, without even thinking how it would affect us underlings, and before he truly understands the market and how our product serves our market.

I was particularly unhappy with one assignment in which Mr. Pres makes a decision that directly affects my job, even though no one runs it by me to check whether it’s possible—not too mention that Mr. Pres’ decisionmaking is based on totally stupid, and possibly sexist, rationale. I express unhappiness to New Boss; new boss and another higher up say it’s too late, they’ve made a promise to Mr. Pres that his wish shall be done, and we can’t go back and tell him no now because Mr. Pres holds grudges. Harrumph!!!!!!!! Forget that I have been at the job for nearly four years and New Guy has been there for two weeks. I don’t win this battle, but I at least get it off my chest—and am happy to have been straightforward with my unhappiness rather than use the passive aggressive shit my new boss seems to use. (Other things that annoy me about him: He OVEREXPLAINS everything—leaves me five minute messages to ask me to do something that only takes one.)

The sad part is, some of the changes that are being made, which may degrade the quality of the product, will likely produce more revenue. And added revenue will result in happier corner office guys, which will result in them patting themselves on the back for making our formerly shitty product better.

Why is there always such a disconnect between what managers see and what employees see? Why is it that when people go higher up the corporate ladder, they get stupider, can’t do anything on their own, and their balls start shriveling up? And when I actually want to start going on interviews, why I can’t find any jobs I like? (It doesn’t help that I’m at this weird middle level point in my career—not entry, not exactly management—that makes it so hard to find jobs, particularly in my field.)

I have one dash of hope: My company has been in the news of late as a candidate for a takeover, and if that happens, then I’m hoping they will dissolve our division, lay us all off, and give us severance. Of course, I would only be happy about this if the severance was enough to last me for at least two months—enough to do some serious job hunting. But a girl can hope, right? Unfortunately, have not seen much on my company on fuckedcompany.com so maybe the takeover is not as imminent as some of the media reports are making it seem. Oh well.

Hines’ special sauce

2006-02-07T00:22:00.000-05:00

I wasn’t really rooting for anyone in particular in the Super Bowl yesterday, but when I realized that Hines Ward was playing I pledged my allegiance to the Steelers because I have to support the Korean guy (there aren’t too many of us in pro sports, after all). Go Hines! Go Hines! It’s your birthday! It’s your birthday!

I was curious to see how much about Hines’ “Korean-ness” was covered in the media, if at all, so I did a quick search and found this article in the WaPo. It’s cool that he acknowledges that the Korean community will be following his career, and that he has to represent for Korean Americans. And hearing his very typical second-generation story (language/cultural barriers, parent/s who works long hours, being teased by other kids, initial embarrassment of being Korean, and therefore different—not to mention the difficulties he must have faced being biracial) was inspiring. (His mom apparently still works in a high school cafeteria.)

But I also wanted to see how he was being covered in Korean media, if at all. Turns out he's mentioned a lot, and it didn’t surprise me that there were some parts of his story that were “creatively amplified.” For instance, if you read this Q&A with Hines in SI, he recounts his childhood and the influence of his mom. And this LA Times story gives a little more detail, talking about how Hines didn’t really know his mom when she regained custody of him, and resented the fact that he was placed with an unfamiliar woman, community, and culture, but grew to appreciate his mom’s sacrifices for him.

Okay, nice story. In the Korean papers though, they say that Hines “ran away” from his childhood home to be reunited with his mom, such as in this story that ran in the Korea Times online. This story in the Digital Chosunilbo even says that “Hines could not forget his mother and ran away to live with her when he was in second grade.”

If the SI interview is accurate (I’m more inclined to believe it is, since it was a Q&A), this wasn’t the case—his mom got custody and he went, and experienced hardship because he was placed in unfamiliar surroundings. In direct quotes from Hines that appear to be accurate (or at least have not been questioned) he said as much. And I don’t think a seven-year-old would be successful at running away, anyway. I’m not necessarily accusing the Korean papers of making stuff up—maybe they do have a credible source? Maybe this viewpoint was reported in a secondhand source first? Maybe one paper published it and the others ran with it? But probably more likely, the Korean publications are choosing to ignore Hines own admission that he had to learn to be proud of and accept his mom and that part of his heritage.

Who knows—I just thought it was hilarious that I found this whole dramatized “Hines ran away to be with his mom” angle in the Korean papers and not in the U.S. news sources. Or maybe the Korean papers just wanted to turn it all into a melodrama, like so many addictive Korean soap operas. I mean, some of the flowery language in the Chosunilbo article sounds like a soap-opera synopsis: “[Young-hee Ward] never remarried and held multiple jobs to support the two of them, working all the hours that God sent.”

I know part of the cheesiness is because the metaphor gets lost in the translation, but I can so hear a Korean parent saying this: “See, Hines’ mom loved him so much she worked all the hours God sent...that’s why you always have to respect your parents!!! Now go marry a doctor.)

I don’t point out this discrepancy out of some kind of journalistic outrage. I don’t really believe truly objective journalism exists anyway; each news outlet paints the picture it wants, consciously or subconsciously, based on its goals, leanings, and /or cultural perspective and world view. All I’m saying is that reporting that Hines had to grow to love and respect his mom makes his story no less poignant—if anything, it’s even more special. So, Korean newspapers, if you don’t have a credible source for the “Hines ran away” theory, paint the truth, not fiction. No one will think less of you, his mom, or of Hines.

Harpies and harmonies

2006-01-25T01:32:00.000-05:00

Just finished watching the third episode of American Idol, and I think I have an early favorite: Tanya Juliette Schwartz (I think that was her name). She had a really nice smoky voice, even though Simon says he didn’t think she was a star. (But he also said the same of Kelly and Clay, so whatever.)

Watching the show reminded me of the Rockapella concert I went to this weekend with W. I saw them years ago in New York and Va. but half the group is new so I thought I’d check it out and drag someone to go with me. They sound as awesome as ever (maybe even better with the new people), but only one thing threw a wrench into the night of wholesome family entertainment: the Screaming Suburban Housewife biotch behind me who was ruining my experience.

First of all, I have nothing against suburban housewives. I may even be one someday. But this lady was one of those really annoying suburban housewives. Not the nice kind who bake cookies for the PTA or carpool to soccer practice with a smile on. She was the kind who knocks on your door to complain that your grass is too long, or starts fights on the Little League sidelines by yelling at the umps, or who swears that Scotty is a perfect angel and would NEVER pull his pants down in front of the other kids. I grew up with these kinds of parents having taken my brother for many years to baseball, soccer, and taek kwon do practices. They are self righteous and bitchy and think they are entitled to everything because they serve on the f#*%ing community board or something.

Anyway, I was quite surprised at how rowdy and fanatical many of Rockapella’s fans are. Because they are an a cappella group (most famous for singing the Carmen Sandiego theme song) and have something of a family-friendly background, the audience is mostly adults, some with their kids, and some youngish fans who are probably mostly nerdy music majors (think the kind who join college a cappella groups—I can say this because I was one, sort of). The group has a loyal following, most who seem like good people. I never expected to want to bitch slap one of their concertgoers.

First of all, the show was scheduled for 7 pm. W and I were seated at 7.05, and Screaming Suburban Housewife was complaining that the show hadn’t started yet, and the guys were running late, those bastards, and of course she had to ask the attendants when the show was starting. IT’S 7:05. Calm down! Just because you had to drive through a bridge or a tunnel or whatever to get here, probably got here half an hour early to find parking, and then paid $25 bucks for a garage because you couldn’t find parking or couldn’t parallel park, doesn’t mean you take it out on everybody else.

I knew right then she was trouble. Then she proceeded to yell at her kids a few rows back to move into the empty seats next to her as soon as the house lights went down. When they did go down, she did that annoying whisper-yell that fakes being quiet but is even more annoying than had she just yelled using that harpy voice of hers, to tell her kids to move down. (If you’re the mom you give your kids the better seats, selfish bitch!)

But the worst was when SSH would sing along, LOUDLY, to any song she knew (UNDER THE BOARDWAAALLLKKK!!!!!nngarrgagrrrr), would scream constantly as if drunk, say very loudly OH HE SOUNDS JUST LIKE BARRY WHITE!!! and would keep knocking my chair whenever she got hot and bothered. Midway through the show I did a full turn in my chair and gave her the annoyed evil eye. This might have stopped her for about two seconds and then when the next song she recognized came on she started harpy-singing again.

W and I were very close to asking her to shut the fuck up, but I felt kinda weird doing it. This isn’t the Anger Management tour, after all—I would have felt weird getting into a fight with a women while some very nice gentlemen are singing “My Girl” on the stage. Not quite the same as fighting while Eminem is rapping about killing his wife. Other folks were annoyed too but they weren’t saying anything and trying to be civil about it. So we took the high road. Plus, I could tell she wasn’t the kind who would just shut up and apologize—she’d go on forever and be like “who are you to tell me in front of my kids to be quiet SQUAWK SQUAWK SQUAWK!!!!” so I left it at the annoyed evil eye and just tried to drown her out. But you don’t go to a freaking a cappella concert to hear other people sing!!!!! Especially if you sound like a screaming harpy. I did get satisfaction out of seeing her husband sitting at the end of her row. When his eyes weren’t rolling they were closed—the defeated expression of a man who must come to grips with the reality that he has to wake up next to this woman every day. He looked like he had a huge headache for the entire show.

Other than that though, I had a very lovely time—I even got used to seeing the guys dance on stage, which they hadn’t done in shows I’d seen, but apparently they’ve come up now with choreography for every song. One girl bumrushed the stage to dance with them during the encore and it was almost a train wreck; I had to watch through my fingers. It was precarious there for a while. But they played along and were quite nice about it. They seem like pleasant fellows and are very nice to their fans. Interestingly, though I went to their concert to appreciate their vocal abilities, probably the most intriguing part of the show is when Jeff the percussion section does his “drum” solo (he is the human beatbox guy who never gets to sing). He’s got to be the best white-boy beatboxer ever. So even if I have to fight off screaming suburban harpies I’ll probably try to go see them the next time its convenient.

Viva la Tivolution!

2006-01-19T00:22:00.000-05:00

Yes, dear friends—the ultimate coach potato has gotten a Tivo. Supposedly, this invention was made for me, but until now I haven’t joined the Tivolution. I’ve been recording my stories the ghetto way, timer-recording them on my VCR that I bought in 1997. How passé!

My roomie bought me a Tivo after receiving my permission. (I would have to pay for the service, after all.) So she got me the “gift that keeps on taking,” as her friend called it. After slapping down 300 bucks of my for-the-lifetime-of-the-product service, I can get a season pass and record all my favorite shows provided they don’t conflict with one another.

Here’s what I’m currently Tivoing…

American Idol
Anyone who knows me knows that this is number one on my spot. That means that even if I want to record something else that comes in conflict with it, that show is toast—AI has made the show its bitch and prevents it from taking up any of the digital memory in my Tivo. There have only been two episodes so far, and already there have been some so-bad-you-have-to-turn-away moments. I still can’t believe how deluded people can be about their own talent. In the first and last seasons, I predicted that Kelly and Carrie would make it based on their first auditions. And 90 percent of the time, you can tell just by looking at people, before they open their mouths, that they are going to suck. Let’s see if I can do that this year…

24
Yes, it’s the same story over and over…Jack must prevent national disaster from happening, goes against protocol and risks his own life and career to save innocent lives, finds out he’s being thwarted by a mole…yada yada yada. Yet, it’s still one of the few shows that keeps me on my toes and makes me go, “oh shit!” whenever I watch it. Jack actually shoots people and they die; there’s no prolonged pause where they can have a chance to run away or knock the gun out of his hand or he has a change of heart or whatever.

Lost
In truth, the show is making me feel a bit weary. I’m kinda tired of seeing them run through the jungle, catching spooky glimpses of Walt, and trying to figure out what that damn button does. But I’m willing to give it this season to redeem itself. Plus, Jack is hot. I want to rub his shaved head.

Project Runway
It’s a shame that reality shows are better than scripted dramas these days. There was already crying, tension, and cat fighting by the second episode. I already have my favorites and Heidi Klum is as perkily weird as ever.

What Not to Wear
I never catch this show anymore because it’s on Friday nights, but I still love it. And I can skip ahead through the sometimes boring shopping parts straight to the makeover.

Saturday Night Live
It hasn’t been really funny in a long time, but I still get a kick out of seeing if certain hosts can pull it off. Plus, it’s the only thing on during that time, and a good thing to watch on lazy Sundays.

Now, there are some shows that I haven’t committed to the coveted SeasonPass, but I am intrigued by and may Tivo from time to time. For instance, I haven’t really committed to The Bachelor in a while, but I was intrigued by the first episode. Mostly because of this one scary bachelorette who kept telling the Bachelor that she was ready to “reproduce.” I don’t know if that’s because she was a doctor and therefore says everything in a very clinical way (which doctors are prone to do, I’ve noticed) or some crazy Fembot with no weird syntax and human grasp of English. Whatever the case, she clearly was creeping the shit out of The Bachelor with all her robotspeak. There was no “I am ready to have kids,” or “I’d like to have a baby right away.” It was all “I’m ready to reproduce, do you want to reproduce? Bleepbleepblorpbloop...” You crazy spinster! You’re giving single thirtysomething women a bad name! No we are all not desperate and just looking to put your semen in a turkey baster! Go back to the Stepford town you came from! When she wasn’t given a rose, she proceeded to demand why she was not chosen. Um, because you’re a crazy bitch??? Even if you want just a few of his best swimmers, you DO NOT say that to a man you are actually trying to get. I must say it was a bit of a car crash that I couldn’t tear away from, however. I only am not SeasonPassing it because on paper it goes against my feminist sensibilities (a bunch of desperate almost-model types ready to cat fight over one man and/or your 15 minutes? Actually quite demeaning) but I’m known to be a sucker for trashy TV.

On that note, here’s another interesting thing about Tivo; if you want it to, you can have it record suggested shows, and I haven’t quite figured out why it’s picking the shows it does. I thought it was based on my SeasonPass, but that didn't quite explain its picks for me. Maybe it tracks which shows you spend the most time viewing? Maybe, but I'm still stumped. Currently on its suggested list for me, it has Judge Joe Brown, Cops, Who’s the Boss?, Full House, Gunsmoke, and the movie the Italian Job. And in the past it’s recorded Oprah and Dukes of Hazzard. Should I be worried that my Tivo thinks I’m white trash? No hint of Charlie Rose or Nightline—not that I watch either of those shows regularly, but I do watch them from time to time, and I’d like my Tivo to at least think more highly of me. Kinda like those people who get the New Yorker but don't really read it. And my roomie came home one night and caught it recording Spanish-language comedy El Chavo—when clearly I am an El Gordo y La Flaca person! Harrumph. I guess I’ll have to “train” it with the thumbs up or down buttons, but I’m also kinda interested in what else it’ll record for me…

********

RCNY Sighting: A bunch of women wearing skimpy Mardi Gras, Vegas showgirl type outfits, IN THE FRICKIN' FREEZING WEATHER, on St.Mark's on MLK day. They were handing out something; not sure what they were hawking. A new off-Broadway show? Pasties?

Babies, pregnancies and engagements, oh my

2006-01-01T22:17:00.000-05:00

So between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, I’ve met three of my friends’ new babies for the first time, had two good friends get engaged, felt another friend’s pregnant belly, been told by my family that my already married sister, who got hitched at a court house, is expected to have a ceremony, and heard news of another friend’s pregnancy. In 2006, instead of Four Weddings and a Funeral, I can look forward to Three Weddings and Two Births.

Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised, as I’m at the age when such things are to be expected, but I was quite surprised at the onslaught of babies/pregnancies/wedding news in the span of basically a month. I guess when it rains it pours. I’ve also been asked to be a bridesmaid in one of the weddings, which I accepted with honor, but was informed I would have to be singing a song during the reception, a la Adam Sandler in the Wedding Singer. The wedding isn’t until August but I’ve already been brainstorming a good selection that will compliment what little vocal ability I have so I don’t come off as a bad Vegas lounge act. Or Bill Murray’s SNL wedding/barmitzvah singer character. Or drunk karaoke singer. Or bad dinner theater performer. Or cringeworthy American Idol contestant. The last time I had to sing at a wedding, I slept maybe a total of three hours the night before. Gotta keep going through the songbook in my head.

Spent New Year’s at the midnight run in Central Park, where you dance with runners before they start the race at midnight amidst fireworks. Instead of running, I was on purse patrol for my three friends running the race. It was quite fun, mostly because one was forced to dance to keep the blood pumping through your toes to keep from succumbing to frostbite. It was fun seeing everyone run in costume (saw two puppies, a robot, a few super heroes, a bunch of bananas, and the cast of the Wizard of Oz cross the finish line). But I also felt slightly old because I was actually into it. I was waving my hands in the air like I just don’t care to the likes of “Everybody Dance Now” and “It Takes Two” by Rob Base—when will DJs actually stop playing those songs? It brought back memories of going to a cheesy club like Webster Hall when I was 18 and still rocking the mall hair.

Random comment, but I saw a woman the other day eating a Peppermint Patty on the subway, not the mini ones, but the big ones that look like moon pies. I haven’t seen anyone eat a big Peppermint Patty in a long time; I didn’t even know they still made them.

*****************************

RCNY sighting: All the would be hypothermia victims running at the Central Park midnight run in tiny costumes. This includes you, guy in the pharaoh costume, guy in the Caesar costume, and anyone else with vast amounts of skin exposed in the sub-freezing temps.

Dangerous conference liaisons

2005-12-11T23:47:00.000-05:00

Went to Miami recently for a conference for folks who are in a travel-related industry (I am not, but for my job have reason to go to such events from time to time), and I had a pleasant-enough experience, but it did nothing to dispel the notion that people who work in the travel & hospitality industry go to conferences largely to get busy. Apparently, all sorts of licentiousness occurs (as I found at a conference I went to last year). Was at a table waiting for lunch and overheard a woman talking about a man whom another man she was chatting with knew. She told the guy that they had actually dated, and that it caused some sort of controversy at the time because both were married. She said it with a sort of nonchalance, and I could tell the guy worked to keep his surprise to a minimum so as not to display any strong emotions that may hint that he felt her actions to be morally questionable. This reminded me of another time when I was talking to someone who used to work in the cruise industry, and she told me that she slept with a guy who was married at a conference she went to, but said it as if it were on par with drunk-making-out with a stranger at a frat party. Basically, she said that she was young, and at these conferences people always hooked up, and that his wife probably had something going on the side too. Somehow I find that hard to believe.

I think what surprised me more than hearing these tales of infidelity was that these folks were so open about speaking about them to people whom they barely knew. I guess it shows that they either don’t care what people think of them, or assume that no one will be shocked by it. Not sure if that frankness is admirable or inappropriate.

Anyway, here’s a sign I’m getting old…have traveled to fun cities like Vegas and Miami for work in the past two months or so, but was in bed by midnight after doing work in my hotel rooms most of the day (with the exception of seeing an old friend in Miami). Had no desire to do the cities. In Vegas I gambled a total of $3 playing slots. (One of those dollars was in the airport to kill time). Then all I could think was that I could have used those three dollars to buy water and pizza Combos for the flight. Maybe I’ll do Vegas right if I ever go back, but I think I’m aging so quickly at this point that if I do go back all I’ll do is sit at the slots with buckets of quarters like so many senior citizens who gamble away their social security money, monopolizing several machines at a time and glaring at anyone who dares pull my lever. Then I’ll hit the buffet wearing my lobster bib before I go to the Celine Dion show. Sigh.

*****************

RCNY Sighting: Man on subway platform with about 3-foot-tall Hulk Hogan action figure. Can’t tell if it’s a gift or if he is the Hulkamaniac.

Go see: Brokeback Mountain; Heath Ledger is heartbreaking. And in case you’re wondering, Jake's the catcher—but was there really any doubt?

Club 30

2005-11-10T01:05:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine who is turning 30 soon doesn’t want to have a birthday bash to celebrate, even though most of our circle of friends did something of some magnitude for their 30th. She doesn’t really seem to be looking forward to it.

On the other hand, another friend who just recently turned 30 loves it; she doesn’t even mind that when she told her 40ish coworker about Forth & Towne, Gap’s new store for women 35 and older, the coworker responded, “Oh, it’s for women like us?”

According to Bravo’s Best Things About Being…30 show, there are many good things about being 30. Here are a few things that they believe to be good about being 30, in no particular order, and my take on them:

They say: You can date younger men.
I say: Because those are the only ones who are left, unless you expand your repertoire to divorcees, single dads, Star Trek nerds, or all of the above.

They say: You can buy stuff.
I say: And I’m in deeper debt because of it.

They say: You know who you are.
I say: I am resigned to be who I am. It’s too late to be considered an ingénue of any type.

Despite how it sounds, I do like being 30. I feel like I can call myself a woman instead of a girl now, even though nothing about myself has changed, either physically, professionally, or financially. When I was 29, that would have made me sad. Now that I’m 30, I say, oh well.

It sounds rather depressing, but I suppose how you feel about your life in its current state is all relative. No, I’m not raking in the dough; on the other hand, I’m not getting someone’s coffee or making copies. Plus, if you feel older and more sophisticated, you can trick others into thinking of yourself that way. Perception is greater than reality, after all.

Whether or not I’ll feel that way at 31, however, is a different story. I guess I’ll report back in about six months…

Street fair fanaticism

2005-09-12T22:49:00.000-04:00

Dammit. Instead of spending a contemplative day thinking of the ones lost on 9/11, or sipping coffee at a leisurely post-church brunch, or reading Harry Potter in the park, I got sucked into spending money at a NYC street fair. I’m usually pretty fiscally conservative (though my credit card bills may say otherwise) but there is something about the street fair that draws me in and sucks the money out of my pocket. I’m the unwitting child, and the smells of Italian sausages, chicken gyros, and $1 Thai food is the Pied Piper.

I don’t know why I get all excited when I see a street fair. It’s always the same stuff: booths with bulk socks, bangles and beads, and belly-expanding mozzarepas. But I feel the way you feel when you’re little and your mom takes you to McDonald’s—-you know, the good one with the playground. And then by time I’ve walked to the end of the ten blocks, my wallet is suddenly a lot lighter.

Here’s what I spent on this particular street fair excursion (which expanded from about 64th to 74th-ish street on the Upper East Side. I blame the total on my recent obsession with accessorizing:

$6: on a ring and two necklaces at $2 each (a bargain!)
$20: on three necklaces that were $9 each if bought separately
$2: pack of metallic Asian dishwashing sponges
$1: ice cold LEMONAAAAADE!!!!!
$2: Mentadent toothbrush that was #1 in Consumer Reports
$1: Kenneth Cole eyeglass case
$4: two bracelets at this woman’s jewelry booth
$20: on a topaz necklace at same woman’s booth after going to the ATM to get money because I really wanted the necklace, which supposedly was a bargain at $20, she says, because it would be at least twice that at said woman’s Soho boutique. When I went back with the intention of getting the necklace, I asked her the price again. She said, “$25, but for you $20.” Which means I ‘m not really special, but that’s okay.

Cost of items purchased while strolling the street fair: $56. Egad.
Cost of guilt over spending money on items which are likely to gather dust (with exception of Mentadent toothbrush), or will only be in style for one season, and could have been donated to the hurricane victims: Priceless. And not in a good way.

(Things I almost bought: a tall plant for the patio. Another necklace. A CD of New York City Subway artists, though I opted instead to hold off on the CD in lieu of checking out the Web site of the band I saw performing, Spokinn Movement, in case I wanted just their CD. They were really good). I also applied for the new Amex IN NYC card, which doesn’t bode well for my debt-riddled future. Street fairs are my crack.)

*****************************************

RCNY Sighting: This was actually a sighting from earlier in the summer, but I was in a CVS late at night grabbing some feminine products and a CVS employee (male) was also in that aisle, picked up a box of tampons and a box of pads, and appeared to be sniffing them. Also appeared to be talking to himself. I thought he was on a cell phone at first, but didn’t notice one during my quick side glances at him.

Chinatown bus drama

2005-08-22T23:57:00.000-04:00

Rode my favorite form of transportation the other day, the Chinatown Bus. I took it to D.C. and back, and was happy to see that D.C. lines are now more frequent than they were in the early oughts, when the C-town buses first started becoming legit (and I use the term “legit” loosely).

Of course, no C-town bus ride can be complete without its fair share of random events or drama. There is usually always someone demanding to be let on a full bus because they somehow feel they are owed a seat, just because they bought a ticket. This trip some woman was yelling at the driver, telling him to move out of the way, because by the beard of Zeus she was getting on the bus. A friend of mine even told me that once a lady stood in front of the bus until they agreed to take her, or until she stood down. Not sure if she ever made it on the bus, but the moral of the story, people, is that YOU ARE ONLY PAYING 20 BUCKS FOR A FREAKING TICKET. A TICKET THAT YOU CAN REUSE LATER. These bus lines barely operate legally—you think they care less if you report them to the Better Business Bureau? I don’t think so. In fact the bad service, the fight for customers by hawk-eyed saleswomen who can eye a “too-cheap-ass-to-even-ride-on-Greyhound” denizen from a block away, and the whole “will I get a seat?” uncertainty, is part of the adventure of riding the C-town buses. If you want something with a little less “character,” then go pay six times more for a ticket on Amtrak. Yeah, I didn’t think so, ya cheap bastard.

I ask, on Greyhound would you get up to ask the driver how much longer, or demand he pull over to a bathroom, or ask to be let off at some random exit? Yes, all these things have happened while I’ve ridden the bus. I usually want to tell these complainants to save their breath, but in most cases the drivers (who usually can barely speak English) have to give in. All the complainants do, however, is delay the trip for those of us who are just happy to have gotten a seat that isn’t by the stankerific bathroom. In some cases it seems to me the non-Asian riders feel they can bully the drivers because they can’t speak the best English.

In fact, I have mixed feelings about the “gentrification” of the C-town buses. I mostly think it’s been a good thing. On the one hand, to attract the non-immigrant clientele (mostly starving college students and the few brave white-collar workers willing to trade comfort for price), it seems bus lines have instituted a lot of “upgrades”: more frequent service, online ticketing, movies shown in English. On the other hand, I have to suffer a lot more annoying, uppity complaining—plus I was subjected to the Phil Collins blasting from the headphones of the man sitting next to me.

Anyway, I love regaling people with my and my friends’ C-town bus stories. Mine aren’t even as interesting as my friends'; the worst that happened to me was that one of the buses I took back from Boston was having “brake issues.” Luckily it was before we took off, and we were transferred to a different bus. And once, after the rest stop most buses take halfway through, the driver got a call when we arrived in D.C. that he had left a woman behind. But here’s what some of my friends have gone through:

A friend of mine saw a man, she thinks an angry passenger, pull a knife on another man by the C-town bus. She also once rode an airport-shuttle-like van to Boston, and it had very bad shocks.

Another friend riding it to D.C. sat near a man who was eating a whole bag full of crabs. He had to suffer the stench and the loud crab-eating noises.

I’ve heard several stories of C-town buses breaking down on the side of the road.

Some have called the C-town buses “the chicken bus” because they are barely better than the stereotypical rural buses you think of in third-world countries on which people are carrying livestock. I always thought this was rude and somewhat smacked of racism. Except that my coworkers’ friend actually claimed to have sat next to a chicken in a cage on the bus. I don’t know if this is just urban legend, but it really happened, to a friend of a friend….

******
RCNY Sighting: Maybe I just thought of this guy because I was thinking about Chinatown buses, but twice this summer while walking back home from the subway I’ve seen a tall black man wearing those big Asian straw hats, the ones that you think of when you envision the stereotypical image of an Asian person working in a rice paddy. I’m not sure whether to be offended or flattered. Is he trying to honor another culture by wearing traditional garb? Or is a he a waiter or host at some Asian fusion restaurant that tries to instill some kind of authenticity by making their staff wear “traditional” garb (you know, like how the Penang waiters wear sarongs)? Or is he just crazy? I guess I’ll never know…

There’s no business like the news business

2005-08-15T22:43:00.000-04:00

Can I just say how ridiculous consumer reporting has gotten? I used to love hidden-camera exposes that news stations do, in which they try to catch The Man pulling the wool over the poor consumers’ eyes. It always ends the same way, with the ambush of some no-good retail-giant executive or business owner who has stiffed some poor schmuck who didn’t know he was buying contaminated meat or hiring an unlicensed contractor. The news report would always end with The Man angrily swatting at the camera or running off to hide from the persistent journalist.

I suppose that model hasn’t changed much, but the ridiculousness factor has increased tenfold. A few weeks back I watched Penny Crone on Fox 5 report about some new three-hour diet, and the professionalism was akin to Joan Rivers on the red carpet. She’s double-fisting fast food as she spews forth the deets on a new fad diet (essentially, eat whatever you want in small portions every three hours to keep your body from burning lean muscle instead of fat) while wearing something that decidedly was not your standard broadcast attire (floral shirt, I think) and sporting deep-purple fingernail polish. Her sign off was a brisk powerwalk off camera as she proclaims, “I’m Penny Crone, and I’m running to get a burger,” as the cameraman trails behind. (You only see the back of her head). Wtf? I mean, I know it’s Fox and everything, but I still thought it was pretty ridick.

There was a report I was watching once by another Fox consumer reporter, Mary Garofalo, who was doing the typical chasing-after-the-consumer-swindler-who-is-shielding-her-face-and-running-off-in-shame bit. But instead of saying, “Ms. Swindler, don’t you want to tell your part of the story? Are you going to offer a refund?” Mary starts screaming at the woman, “Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?” Since when did it become okay for journalists to curse on television, even if it is just the B-word? Wasn’t there a local reporter who got fired for cursing on camera when he thought he was off-air? And a while back I remember seeing another “consumer” report once (wait a minute, I see a pattern here—I think it was also on Fox), to “expose” a fortune teller who would do the egg cracking bit, where you break an egg into a bowl and the yolk comes out all black, which means that someone wants you dead or has put a curse on you or something. In real life, the fortune teller has palmed some bloody animal part into the egg bowl. Ace Reporter was “exposing” this woman for some lady who kept getting swindled out of money to have anti-curse spells performed. Anyone who thinks that fortune-teller clients are helpless, innocent consumers who need help from getting swindled must have run out of real consumer complaints to address. Isn’t there someone getting screwed over by a Times Square electronics dealer somewhere? C’mon, even Arnold Diaz, of CBS 2’s “Shame, Shame, ShAAAAmmmeeee……SHAME ON YOU!” finger-wagging fame wouldn’t stoop that low.

Even non-consumer reporters are getting in on the act. I can’t stand how whenever John Montone reports on a story about someone getting murdered, he always concludes with, “the slimebag got away,” or “the sicko is still on the loose.” No one is saying these men aren’t slimebags or sickos, but c’mon 1010 WINS, you only have 20 minutes to give us the world, so let’s keep the little extra commentary to yourself.

Now with the death of Peter Jennings (Rest In Peace, Mr. Jennings), I’m afraid that even more real newsmen and women are becoming a thing of the past. Boohoo. I really hope up-and-coming journalists model themselves after those guys and not the sensationalists of today. I really don’t think the world needs any more reporters who seem more fitting for A Current Affair than World News Tonight.

**********

Random Crazy New Yorker (RCNY) sighting: Well, I don’t know if this counts as a New York sighting as I was actually on Long Island when I saw this RCNY, but I went to Long Beach, and there was a rather large woman sunning topless on a decidedly non-topless beach. There were little kids running around everywhere, but she seemed happy to free her willies. When I first saw her, I thought she must be just a very large man with very large man-boobs, since we weren’t on a topless beach. But later when she sat up, I saw that she was definitely a woman. My friend informed me that the indecent exposure laws were changed after that whole controversy over the double standard that lets men go topless, but not women. But after that whole Central Park protest of breast-baring women supporting the woman who was arrested in New York for sunbathing topless, I now realize that Ms. Nude-on-a-Non-Nude-Beach was in fact breaking the law. Even if you were allowed to do it, however, doesn’t mean you should. I just got the shivers. Please God erase the image burned in my mind.

Don't sneak into Batman Begins

2005-07-09T03:56:00.000-04:00

Just saw Batman Begins. It rocked. Everyone should see it—even if you are not a Batman film fan. (Considering that the last 10 or whatever Batmen they’ve made suck, non-fans probably aren’t hard to find.) Bale’s Batman blows away those other Bat bitches. He’s seriously a total rock star, Michael Caine finally shows us that Alfred is a real person and not some mere unusually-devoted manservant, and Katie Holmes, well—she didn’t annoy me and make me think, “Hey, Joey Potter is playing an assistant DA,” which is saying a lot.

My only complaints were that the movie is a bit long (I think it runs about 2 hrs and 20 minutes), and Morgan Freeman could have had a bigger role. But watching the back story is worth the extra time, and Freeman is good in whatever he does, so whatevs. In this Batman you finally understand exactly who Bruce Wayne is and why he’s so physically impressive (I never quite believed that Michael Keaton would be able to take out beefy bad guys by his own abilities). By the way, did I mention Christian Bale is a total stud? He’s all ripped—pretty surprising considering his role right before was as a manorexic in The Machinist, which I’ve yet to see, but am almost afraid to because of his hollowed-out appearance.

I’m not one of those who pants after watching comic-book-cum-films, but Batman Begins is compelling on its own, even without the legacy behind it. (I can’t say the same for many other comic films I’ve seen; I wasn’t that impressed with the first Spiderman or either X-Men film). I think Christopher Nolan (see Memento, if you haven’t) might be my favorite filmmaker of the moment. (SPOILER ALERT: The ending implies a sequel, of course, but also that the sequel might include a Joker appearance—would be interesting to see if anyone replaces Jack Nicholson.) By the way, did I say yet that Christian Bale is exceedingly hot in this movie?

Anyway, my friend and I tried to do the juvenile thing and sneak into the War of the Worlds but after some reconnaissance work, we decided the bad-vest-clad theater attendees were safeguarding the theater entrances too securely. One guy was actually looking at the ticket stubs instead of doing the blasé-minimum-wage-worker glance over. It would have been great to execute a personal FU to the whole TomKat craze by not paying for at least one of their movies, but we decided not to chance it because of how embarrassed we would be to get caught and admonished as cheap, immature bastards—who are 30 years old, at that—who won’t shell out another $10.75 for a movie. Because the most criminal thing I’ve ever done is shoplift Mentos in junior high, sneaking into a movie is a thrill for me that’s probably on par with the rush a bank robber gets from a big heist. And it’s not really about the money, it’s about the thrill of beating the system. Alas, tonight my criminal intentions would not be fulfilled. But just you wait, Loews, I will get you yet. Buuuwaaahahahahhhh.

Awesomely bad reality tv

2005-07-02T15:37:00.000-04:00

Admittedly, I watch too much reality television. But these days, it’s okay to admit that you are hooked on American Idol (and even voted), enjoyed the first two seasons of The Apprentice for it’s educational content, or support a cult-fave-but-not-commercially-successful show like Project Greenlight. However, there is a slew of reality television out there that you watch because it’s so bad it’s good (doesn’t all of reality TV really fall into this category?), but that you don’t necessarily want to admit that you watch. Not that you care, but these are the ones I’m hoping stay on air:

Showdog Moms and Dads on Bravo
This show reaffirmed my belief that extreme animal lovers (I don’t just mean the people who love their family pets, but the ones who will, for instance, lick an ice cream cone after their dog has licked it) are certifiably insane. These dog-show people are the real-life versions of the folks from Best in Show. In some instances, the dogs replace children that the couples don’t have. In other instances, the dogs are basically live stuffed animals that the owners dress up for show. In all instances you will wonder what the hell are wrong with these people. My favorite couple to watch was Brandon and Ryan, the gay couple who were attempting to make their rat dog into a showdog, even though they didn’t have a clue how to go about it. (At one point, they were told by a trainer that they had to massage Liberace’s balls to make them drop, because a judge would have counted that against the poor thing, who gets thoroughly felt-up in competition.) I love dogs, but I just can’t wrap my head around what makes these folks tick—other than that it makes for great bad reality television.

Love is in the Heir on E!
The show and its “characters” were so ridiculous that I can barely recommend it as a reality show because I actually think it was all fake. And not even fake in the way producers can contrive drama; fake in the way that I actually think all these folks were actors. But as the show has not been unveiled as a fraud yet (it’s over so I don’t think anyone will do any serious investigation to defraud it—and I highly doubt anyone thought it warranted an investigation even when it was on) I will have to continue to label it reality television. The premise is that a Persian princess with no job and no skills is given something like six months or a year to achieve her goal of becoming a country singer, of all things. If she doesn’t achieve the goal—and marry a respectable guy, preferably also of royal blood—then mummy and daddy will cut her off. Why I think this show is fake:

Sign #1: The Princess comes off as dumb as rocks. She is Ridiculous with a capital R. In the early commercials she tells a story that is supposed to epitomize the amount of pampering she got while growing up royalty: Because everything was done for her, it took her the longest time to figure out even the simplest things—like to prevent a glass of water from spilling over, you had to stop tipping the pitcher. WTF?? Even chimps can figure this out! I mean, shouldn’t she have been educated in the finest schools? Also, although the fam was all based out of London, and she had supposedly only come to LA a short while before to make like Martina McBride, she has NO English accent, save calling mom “mummy.”

Sign #2: Her assistant comes off as dumb as rocks. He shoves a plate that is full of food—I think it had a whole chocolate cake or something—into the dishwasher. His role is supposed to be the funny gay sidekick but he rivals the princess in the game of how-low-can-your-IQ-go. He was, though, for me, probably the best part of the show. He at least kind of seems as if he’s in on the joke.

Sign #3: The princess’ love interest comes off as dumb as rocks. He starts out as her personal trainer (fyi, he is not ripped the way you might think a trainer—especially an LA trainer—would be) and is totally painted as the clueless and hapless dumb boyfriend who means well but still ends up screwing everything up (like following the princess to a fancy soiree where she is supposed to meet some other royal guy who has husband potential). Besides, I could have sworn I’ve seen him in a commercial.

Sign #4: The show is totally shot and edited like it is a sitcom. There are reaction shots and multiple camera shots and all those things that, while I’m no expert, look to me like scenes had been reshot. Despite all this, it was still fun to watch. The only thing that made me think it could be real: She never makes it as a country singer (very plausible, considering she couldn’t sing) and is thus cut off, and so she has to return home.

Project Runway on Bravo
PR actually falls into the category of reality show you shouldn’t be afraid to admit that you watch. The designers are all drama queens in their own ways, but it’s fun to watch their catwalk creations. I was totally rooting for winner Jay all the way, though I thought Kara Saun was actually the most talented. I loved watching the designers’ take on everything from Oscar gowns to postal-service uniforms. These people (well most of them anyway) actually had talent.

Supernanny on ABC
I prefer this version over Nanny 911 because I like Jo, the British Supernanny, over the multiple British nannies on the other show who look like they would eat bad kids. Anybody who wants to have children had better watch this show first. It pretty much proves that kids these days are spoiled brats. They can be pretty horrific—they smack their parents in the face and curse at them but then cry and refuse to sleep at night unless their mom stays in bed with them. The formula for making these kids better is pretty much the same every show—sticking kids in a time-out corner, sticking to a schedule that keeps them busy, putting kids back in their room without acknowledging them when they refuse to stay in bed—but I’m still amazed whenever, at the end of a week, the kids turn into these sparkling angels. Of course, this could be creative editing on the producers’ part, but it’s still nice to know that spoiled brats can be redeemed. As for me, I still don’t think the whole time-out thing works. I think I’m more of the psychological intimidation/guilt trip type. Telling kids they’re the reason for Mommy’s mental breakdown never hurt anybody.

Hit Me Baby One More Time on NBC
I was deciding whether to give my Seal of Approval for this one or the Dancing With the Stars show, and I decided I liked this one better because you get to hear music that makes you nostalgic. And I’ve always wondered what happened to bands like Animotion and Flock of Seagulls. I’m always most surprised to learn that some people actually get normal jobs after their fifteen minutes are up. The guy who wrote 867-5309, for instance, is a software engineer, and an Animotion singer is a graphic designer. Admittedly, some of it is hard to watch, especially when the singers do their own renditions of modern songs—like watching Haddaway (of What is Love? fame) crawl on the floor while singing Britney Spears’ Toxic—but sometimes the renditions are really good, like the one that Arrested Development did of Heaven by Los Lonely Boys. Then the audience votes on their favorite comeback performance, and the winner’s money goes to charity. I think this is a copout; when I first saw commercials of this show, I actually thought the artists would be competing for a new record contract—which is so awful but would have made the show much more compelling, no?

What Not to Wear on TLC
I love any show that has to do with makeovers, but Clinton and Stacy are my faves. If I ever dress like some of the people on this show I hope someone shoots me.

Now that there’s pretty much a new reality show every month, I’m sure there are tons more that I could put on here (I’m curious to see how that Bobby Brown show goes—I’ve seen the first episode and can’t tell if it’s going to be awful or intriguing) but these are the ones that I’ve grown especially fond of. Honorable Mentions: America's Next Top Model (I always watch the marathons on VH1); Blow Out on Bravo; PoweRgirls on MTV.

Visible signs of aging, and I don't mean wrinkles

2005-05-27T16:59:00.000-04:00

In honor of turning 30, here are some signs that you (and this does mean you!) are growing old, in no particular order. I’m in some stage or another of all of these, and I’ll probably add to it as I discover more signs that I’m turning into a cantankerous, crotchety, ornery old person:

1. You start to hate teenagers. When you see them coming down the street, you cross to the other side. You don’t understand their taste in clothes, dress, or music. And they’re so damn loud in the movie theaters. You want to shake your fist at them.

2. You start to say things like, “I remember when we had to set the timer on the VCR to record TV shows. We didn’t have things like TiVo, and we got along just fine.”

3. The musicians that you used to rock out to are now staples of the easy listening station. Or they’re referred to as "classic rock." (See my "Everything old is new again" entry.)

4. You would rather burn yourself with a cigarette than tolerate the whiny bitches on the Real World. You’d rather relive your childhood watching “I Love the 80s” on VH1.

5. Staying up late means midnight. When you stay out “partying” till 3 am, you pay for it the next day.

6. You need more clothing items with the words “control” or “slimming” or “flattening” in their names.

7. You are irritated by the interns at your work (who were born in the mid 80s) and their sense of entitlement. (Hey, we all sorted mail and made copies during our internships—those punks should get over it.)

8. The plastic 70s dishware, Fisher Price toys, and mass-produced, stackable Eames chairs that you used when you were little are now sold in antique stores for way too much.

9. Instead of t-shirts and posters with ironic sayings you find yourself strangely drawn to pictures of kittens and puppies proclaiming, “Hang in there!”

10. Your parents start to go from nitpicking about your future spouse to pushing for any member of the opposite sex with no visible signs of mutation.

Mr. T's ode to moms

2005-05-09T14:30:00.000-04:00

Mr. T pities the fool who don't treat his mother right!

Forwarded to me by a friend. This is hilarious. Back in the day, this was considered an appropriate educational video. I especially love the snaps in the beginning; I'll have to use those some time...

Happy Belated Mother's Day!

Choose your own morality tale

2005-05-01T15:18:00.000-04:00

Stumbled across a link to this on someone else’s blog. It’s a list of mock Choose Your Own Adventure books; kinda crass but funny as hell. Wonder how long it’ll take for a cease-and-desist order to take effect.

I was obsessed with CYOAs as a child. I still collect them; I’ll pick one up if I see one in a used bookstore. I especially love the old-school ones that Edward Packard wrote and Paul Granger illustrated. I think my favorite was No. 5, The Mystery of Chimney Rock. I read it so much it got all torn and wrinkled and I think I had to throw it away. I would dog-ear the pages with choices so that when I died (which you do in a lot of them, and quickly) I could backtrack and try the other option.

On the one hand, I loved those books because if you died you didn’t get all sad that it was the be-all and end-all of your personal story. There was never a feeling of finality or fatalism. I think I loved it most because I so wished life could have been that way. Sure, you may have accidentally opened the wrong door and died a slow and horrible death, but you can also just go back, start over, and find some treasure and live happily ever after.

On the other hand though, the books were pretty morbid. So much freakin’ death. And it’s actually “you” dying, not some fictitious character. The worst was when you would peek ahead to the page you chose and saw the words “The End.” The cheaters would go back and insist that that was not the choice they would have made anyway, so it didn’t count. But I would get so pissed at myself for making the stupid decision that got me killed in the first place, even though I was dead and couldn’t possibly continue self-flagellating. I think these books were written as morality tales for kids: If you make the wrong choices and die, you only have yourself to blame. Thanks, Bantam Books, for instilling self-loathing in me at such an early age.

But I still love those old books for keeping it real. After all, in life, you really only are successful with maybe five out of every 25 choices you make. And everyone dies eventually, even if you are a high-ranking space captain or some awesome superspy. What happy childhood memories. Sniffle sniffle.

Everything old is new again

2005-04-22T17:32:00.000-04:00

Went last night to see the always-fabulous Erasure in concert at Irving Plaza, and it basically ended up being a three-hour blast from the past. I felt like I was somewhere between the ages of 12 and 18 again, but was simultaneously reminded that I am no spring chicken.

I last saw Erasure during the Wild! Tour. I think I was in eighth grade or early ninth grade at the time. Hearing Erasure classics like Oh L’Amour, A Little Respect, and Sometimes reminded me of the days when I would play cassette tapes in my dual-deck tape recorder, trying to read the lyrics in the mini-script printed on the little fold-out tape covers. I can’t believe that I listened to songs before CDs existed. I remember hearing Erasure’s Innocents album for the first time in junior high, when someone lent the tape to my sister, and remember thinking, “What is this devil music?” That’s mostly because up until that point I really only listened to hip-hop/rap, as that was what was popular in my pseudo-ghetto school. I also listened to some top 40 stuff that used to come on Q107 (any D.C. old-schoolers out there?), but mostly listened to R&B stuff that came out on DJ100 (home of local D.C. go-go) and WPGC.

I thought all that new-wave, Brit synth-pop stuff was weird because their videos had lots of goth-looking people (the Cure videos, especially would creep me out—the one with the spider? Ugh) who sounded like they were worshipping the devil in their is-this-really-considered-singing wails. I think my sister was growing out of her R&B phase at that time (asymmetrical haircuts a la Klymaxx, anyone?) and underwent the inevitable draw to synth-pop that seems to lure Asians like the Pied Piper lured children. (Seriously, it’s like moths to a flame. I think Asians have some sort of synth-pop-affinity gene. And a Spam-affinity gene.) Go to any Pet Shop Boys/New Order/Erasure/Depeche Mode concert, and I can guarantee almost half the audience will be Asian-American 30-somethings reliving high school. Anyway, needless to say, I, too, soon became a loyal follower of the New Order/Erasure/Pet Shop Boys trifecta (didn’t really get into Depeche Mode until high school) and vis-à-vis my sister, came to love their old stuff as well.

So now here’s where I start feeling old.

First sign: My coworker, who is my age, tells me that Erasure and similar synth-pop bands are gaining popularity amongst the hipsters, as the youngsters start to discover “the classics.” There are also new bands that are paying tribute to their synth-pop forefathers, such as Scissor Sisters and Elkland, the band that opened up for Erasure. Elkland has replicated that 80s sound perfectly (in fact, with every song they played, my equally ancient friends were thinking, ‘Isn’t this a remake?’ Or, ‘Don’t I know this song?’). But the kids in the band looked like they are all of 15 years old and were probably half-formed fetuses in the womb when the first Erasure album came out.

Second sign: No one in the audience looked like they were younger than 25 or so, and in fact, skewed older. People with grey hair were mouthing all the lyrics. I mean, these people probably had to find babysitters to come to this concert for goodness sake. Anybody who looked young was probably one of Elkland’s street team, or one of those kids who insist that the “old music” is better—the way that people of my generation get into the Ramones or Bob Dylan, and lambast music of our generation as prepackaged drivel. Even Andy Bell said to some of the folks in the audience that they “probably weren’t old enough to remember this next song.” The only other times I felt this ancient were when my 21-year-old brother asked me whether Madonna’s “Dress You Up” in the Gap commercial was a “real song.” Or when I was watching John Mellencamp on TV with my roommate’s boyfriend, who exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, he’s still around? Wild Night was such an old song!” I retorted, “Wild Night!? What about Jack and Diane?” only to be met with a blank stare. Sigh.

Third sign: After the concert, there were no attempts to wait until the crowd clears to procure an autograph, or take advantage of the post-concert high where you don’t go home just yet, but drive around and blast the music of the band you just saw and stay up all night hanging their posters up on your wall and fall asleep in the $15 concert t-shirt you just bought. Instead, I made some halfhearted attempts to look for a t-shirt stand, didn’t find one, so immediately shifted my efforts to getting on the subway, going home, watching the late night news, seeing who’s on Carson—I mean Leno—and rubbing my aching feet (which probably would have given out if there’d been another encore), and massaging my sore neck, which hurt from craning up to look at Andy Bell in his sparkly red speedo.

Fourth sign: Speaking of sparkly red speedo, Andy Bell was in great shape. But he did look old. Or at least older. He’s in his early 40s now, although my friend thought he looked much older. But how often do you see a singer who’s had both hips replaced prancing around the stage in bedazzled underwear? More power to him. Vince Clarke always did look older, but now he REALLY looks older, though still demure and diminutive in his gold lame tux. (I always like to think to think of Vince as good-naturedly going along with whatever Andy wants to wear—as in, “Oh, alright, Andy, I guess if you’re going to wear the sparkly Elvis-in-Vegas outfit, I’ll wear the gold lame tux. But just for this tour.”)

Anyway, I felt a little like one of those folks who go see those hair bands from the 80s, like Motley Crue and Poison, or who still worship the Grateful Dead or Jimmy Buffett. Am I going to go to a New Kids on the Block reunion in 2015, screeching like a schoolgirl at age 40? Will I take my kids to lawn concerts and dress them in fluorescent Erasure baby concert tees? Or when they’re teens, in a rebellious hipster stage, will I scorn at them wanting to pay $40 in an urban vintage store for a distressed Vanilla Ice concert tee—that I probably still have at the back of my closet?

What made me feel better was that at least I could say that Erasure has a new album out, and therefore has reason to be touring, AND all ten or so shows they played at Irving Plaza sold out, so I am at least comforted in knowing that I am not alone. Plus, Erasure still rules.

That night, as I returned home, I relished the mini-escape the concert afforded me for three hours, letting me believe that I wasn’t a working stiff who had to get to the office the next day and pay the bills—I was a bopping prepubescent teen whose biggest drama was not making the pom squad. At home, though, it was back to reality. I took my shower, rested my weary feet, took my vitamin, flossed, and watched my stories before going to bed. I will definitely look into getting the new Erasure CD. And Elkland’s as well. I guess that’s what the kids are listening to these days.

Topless bars and crazy buffets

2005-04-01T15:13:00.000-05:00

Got back from Florida about a week ago where I was visiting my sister, who lives in the Tampa/St. Pete/Clearwater area. I’m a child of the suburbs and have visited my sister before, so the trip shouldn’t have been any sort of eye-opening experience. But for some reason being there this time made me truly realize how much of a bubble we New Yorkers live in.

First of all, I couldn’t get over how many overweight/borderline morbidly obese people I saw. I guess it doesn’t help that many New Yorkers, especially when one ventures down into Soho, are unabashedly anorexic, but the weight differences were pretty stark. I guess I should be lucky that I’m forced to live in a city where I have to walk everywhere, as opposed to having to drag my ass around in a car. If I lived in the burbs I’d probably have to go to the gym twice as much just to avoid gaining any weight, much less lose weight.

I also couldn’t get over the inordinate amount of strip clubs there are, in the most random areas. We’d drive down a main street and there’d be a strip mall, gas station, office building…oh, and there’s the local XXX topless bar, right next to that there dentist office, not to be confused with the OTHER topless bar that’s over by the Winn-Dixie. Nobody seems to make any big stink about the placement of such “entertainment venues.” So weird. There didn’t appear to be a seedy part of town; the red-light district was woven into the suburban landscape as naturally as a Starbucks or Dunkin’ Donuts. And they are always relatively well-attended, even on a weekday in the middle of the day. There also seem to be more Hooters per square mile there than in any other place I’ve been. If not Hooters, its Muggs N’ Juggs, which I imagine to be like a Hooters, or Molly Goodhead, a raw oyster bar I saw advertised on a billboard. I guess that’s why my coworker calls Tampa Trampa. (On an aside, I once heard Conan O’Brien refer to Florida as “American’s Flaccid Penis” in a sketch about what state taglines should be on the new quarters. From what I saw, it doesn’t seem like flaccid is the right word. Maybe, "America's Erectile-Disfunctional Penis in Search of a Remedy"?) Now that Times Square has been converted from peepshow central to a breeding ground for corporate megalomania, you don’t see too many topless-type places anymore. Or at least I don’t. Maybe I just don’t hang out in the right neighborhoods.

I also realized how lucky I am to be able to find within 20 blocks of my apartment all types of ethnic restaurants, museums, dive bars, upscale bars, cafes, movie theaters, boutiques, chain stores…etc…etc. I mean, I grew up in the suburbs, but Tampa is different from even the D.C. suburbs, which, as far as suburbs go, is pretty darn great. I found Tampa to be kind of desolate and depressing. There are pretty neighborhoods in St. Pete and beautiful beaches, but I think I would have hated to grow up there as a teenager. I probably would have ended up boy crazy with fake boobs and auditioning for the Real World.

On the other hand, we did do some great suburban things that I miss out on in New York City. I love, love, love being in grocery stores where I can do cartwheels down the aisles if I wanted to. And it’s so much cheaper there. Unlike New York, where I roam cramped aisles full of overstuffed shelves, pay nosebleed prices for things that I can get for half price in the burbs, and take a health risk every time I opt to buy “fresh” meat or vegetables. And I also got to eat at TWO great buffets: Sweet Tomatoes and Crazy Buffet, which, despite the name, is a slightly fancier Asian buffet. My family loves us some buffet. We go to town at those places.

I also hung out at a pool hall (where it was smoky—not used to that since they outlawed indoor smoking in NYC) and bowled a 150. I have never in my life bowled such a high score. I’d forgotten how fun bowling can be. Not to say I can’t bowl in New York, but it’s a different vibe. As with everything else, New Yorkers are capable of turning even an event that requires ugly shoes into a costly-for-what-it-is, slightly pretentious experience. (Ever try to go to crowded Bowlmer Lanes on a Sat. night?)

Anyway, the trip was relaxing and I’m glad I got out of town for a week. And I always have to go through this slight adjustment period whenever I come back from vacation, in which I wonder whether I’d be willing to exchange living in a cultural and commercial mecca for somewhere that’s less cost-prohibitive. But then I snap out of it. At least right now, I think I’m where I’m supposed to be.

Subway pet peeves

2005-02-13T23:05:00.000-05:00

In December The New York Times ran an editorial about subway etiquette that was in response to some new city regulations that prohibit people from putting their feet on seats. The author wrote about some of the other subway transgressions that might be worth regulating, including taking up seats with shopping bags and high-poundage persons trying to squeeze into small seats. Here's some of my biggest subway pet peeves in no particular order:

—People talking really loudly or making a lot of noise in an otherwise quiet car. For some reason if there’s a lot of chatter or background noise, I don’t mind it so much. But every once in a while the subway ride can be peacefully quiet, and when those silences become disrupted with loud talking or cackling it really grates on my nerves. The other day on a crowded 4 train a woman and her girlfriend (or very effeminate boyfriend? Hard to tell without looking straight at them) were talking and giggling really loudly, and their kisses were loud smacks. Groan. It’s especially annoying if they are talking loudly in a different language, because then you don’t even get the option of eavesdropping if you wanted to.

—People who stand by the door on a crowded train and don't step off to let others off, or at least don't turn sideways to let the foot traffic out. Get out of the frickin’ way!!!!!!

—People who eat on the subway. This is just plain gross. Ew. Usually the perp is eating McDonald's or some form of fast food. One doesn't grab a hamburger with the same hand that one uses to grab the subway pole.

—Panhandlers who sing like two lines of a song and then expect a donation. SNL did a funny skit about this; they showed various types of panhandlers getting on the subway, but one of the riders constantly refuses to give money, giving a poor critique to the performers. I don't like uninspired panhandling performances. Give me something to work with, people!! On a side note, I think that panhandlers should be employed as telemarketers. They are good at memorizing canned speeches, sound convincing when retelling the same stories over and over again (like the woman with her baby who claims to be trying to collect bus fare to her home in North Carolina; it seems this woman has been stuck for at least a year or two), and handle rejection quite well.

—People who lean against the subway pole, creating no space for others to grab the poles.

—Guys who open their legs wide and encroach upon your personal space when you’re sitting next to them. I’ve found this to be almost exclusively a guy thing.

—People who constantly say "excuse me" to get around you even though you’re also getting off at the next stop.

—Call me sexist, but guys, especially younger guys, who don’t get up to give their seat to an elderly person, pregnant woman, or young children. Women should do this as well, of course, but for some reason I find it so unchivalrous when guys don’t do it.

—People who leave trash on the subway. Take your food wrappers, glass bottles, and coffee cups with you, you $&!!# litterbugs!

—And finally, people who lean too much into the poles that are on the side of the subway seats that are closest to the doors. This often results in standers sticking their backpacks or jackets or arms into the faces of the sitters. I know sometimes this is unavoidable in a really crowded car, but I got clocked in the eye once by a girl who wrapped her arm around the pole. When she was pulling her arm out, she elbowed me in the eye. She was apologetic and I was nice about it, but I was still annoyed that I got hit.

Star gazing at Sundance

2005-02-08T11:18:00.000-05:00

Just got back (because I’m such a lazy blogger, "just got back" means three weeks ago) from the Sundance film festival. I feel so in-the-know and all cultural-like, actually traveling outside of New York to go see movies. Park City was beautiful. You can’t beat 40-degree weather, snow that didn’t turn black within 10 minutes of falling, and lounging around in a lodge all day. Plus there was the fun occasional celebrity sighting.

I’ve read some reports in Variety that the festival this year wasn’t as eagerly anticipated as in the past. And there was criticism, even from Mr. Sundance himself, Robert Redford, that the festival is getting too big for its britches—literally, in the sense that the festival is outgrowing the town of Park City, and figuratively, in that it’s becoming too commercial (there was a party sponsored by a dog-food company. Wha?).

Well, being a first-timer, I didn’t have anything to compare it to, so I thought it was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Don’t know much about the commercial aspect of it, and I didn’t attend any crowded beautiful-people blowouts (all the regular bars close at 1 a.m); I was just happy to have avoided the New York snow storm and relax a bit. The hardest thing I had to do was decide which movie to try to get tickets for. I got the opportunity to go because a friend of my roommate’s was debuting his short film there, Swim Test. Quite an impressive achievement, saying you made a movie AND it got into Sundance. Anyway, his family rented a condo lodge for the weekend (made out of real logs) and he housed a bunch of his friends, and for a brief weekend I lived in a commune-like enviroment, as if I belonged to one of those radical Mormon sects where the menfolk have like twenty wives. It also reminded me a little of those youth-group retreats I used to go on in high school, the major difference being the lack of ramen bowls at each meal and the whole Jesus aspect.

I think the feature that I enjoyed the most was The Matador, a movie starring Pierce Brosnan and Greg Kinnear, in which dashing Pierce lets his gut go playing a smarmy assassin who’s losing his cool; he’s burned out and starting to grow a conscience. Greg Kinnear plays the down-on-his-luck businessman who has a chance meeting with Brosnan at the hotel bar and ends up being an accomplice to his final gig as a "facilitator of fatalities." It was funny and quirky and had some clever dialogue.

Another feature I saw was a Korean movie, Green Chair, which is basically a soft porno. I’m still not used to seeing Asian actors make out; it’s kind of like watching your relatives do it or something. Plus I was sitting next to my friend’s dad—hello, THAT wasn’t uncomfortable. I mean, there are blow job scenes and everything. Anyway, the movie was about a 32-year-old woman and a 19-year-old boy who try to continue their relationship even though she’s been sentenced to community service for statutory rape (in Korea, you’re still a minor under 20). It definitely had it’s sweet and funny moments, and it’s interesting to see Korean movies becoming just as graphic, whether it’s in violence or sexuality, as American movies are. I am still not sure whether the last few scenes, in which the lovers throw the minor a 20th birthday party, inviting essentially every other character in the movie (including her ex-husband and his parents) was a dream sequence or real. Overall the movie was enjoyable and tries to break some of the gender roles that may still hold in Korean society, but I couldn’t help thinking that the female lead comes off as a bitchy, moody, and slightly crazy Korean girl. I mean, I’m bitchy and moody and slightly crazy, but I don’t want the rest of the world to know that.

The final feature I saw was The Jacket, a suspense movie starring Adrien Brody and Keira Knightly. Brody plays a Gulf War vet who gets shot in the head but recovers. Later, when he’s well enough to hitchhike, he helps a drugged out mom and daughter (supposed to be Keira’s character as a little girl) on the side of the road, starting their stalled car—though he lets the clearly brain-fried mom back behind the wheel. Later Brody catches a ride with Brad Renfro; it turns out the guy is a fugitive who shoots a cop who pulls him over. Brody blacks out after getting caught in crossfire, gets framed for the crime, and is sentenced to a mental institution. He is clearly not crazy, yet is forced to undergo these insane treatments where he’s drugged and put in a mortuary drawer in a strait jacket. During the few hours that he is in the drawer he somehow hallucinates himself into the future where he meets and falls in love with Keira Knightly as a young woman, who proceeds to tell him that he’s going to die…they go on a Scooby-Doo like mystery hunt to find out how he dies…etc. etc. This is where the story gets kind of convoluted. One plot twist is that (SPOILER ALERT!) it turns out that Brody doesn’t actually die in the hands of some evil psychiatrist as you may be led to believe, but because of an accident that could have been easily prevented with some rubber-soled shoes.

The movie was alright; I enjoyed moreso seeing the celebs who came to the screening. The cast was there (Brody’s girlfriend was wearing a glittery tank top in 20-degree weather). Tobey Maguire was there some 50 pounds heavier and clearly didn’t care that he looked a schlumpy joe who sits at the Ruby Tuesdays on a Friday night downing Bud Lights at the bar. You know what though, I say good for him—it’s okay to let yourself go once in a while. And I’m sure he’ll be back in shape once he realizes that he might lose his Spiderman role to his trimmer doppelganger Jake Gyllenhall.

Speaking of Jake Gyllenhall, sister Maggie was on our flight coming back from Salt Lake; she was looking bored and tired along with the rest of us who were waiting for the plane folks to unfreeze the cargo doors so our baggage could come out. She was with her mom, I think, and a friend, and seemed like an overall pleasant person. Also on our flight was celeb chef Tyler Florence, who’s on the Food Network in a show called Food 911. One of his entourage, a woman was complaining into a phone that yes, she was with Tyler Florence, and that she was being tortured having to wait for her luggage. Tyler himself seemed to take it in stride. At one point he tried to put a dollar into the vending machine, which only took quarters. My roommate and I were tempted to go up to him and say, "Having a food emergency?" and whip out quarters like guardian angels.

Other random celeb sightings: Bishop Don Juan (some real-life pimp that gets play on MTV) in a Louis Vuitton overcoat and mariachi hat (the clothes were made out of that LV canvas used on the bags, not clothes material); Jay Mohr walking down Main St. and talking loudly; Tilda Swinton, I think, looking kinda ghost-like at The Jacket premier; Simon Rex, who I think was part of Adrien’s entourage, at The Jacket; Steven Soderbergh and Jules Asner also checking out The Jacket; Peter Cincotti crooning on Main St.

Some noteworthy shorts: Swim Test, of course…Are You the Favorite Person of Anybody? Staring at the Sun, Victoria Para Chino, Spelling Bee, and West Bank Story (the last two I enjoyed but thought they were a little too long).

Anyway, it was really hard to come back to New York. I would never want to move to Park City or anything, but it’s always hard for me to get back to the same mental state I was in before I left the city. I was basically a walking zombie for a few days but I’m back in reality now. Sigh.

Cringe-worthy company Christmas parties

2005-01-12T16:07:00.000-05:00

I know the holiday season is over, but I have to talk a little bit about company Christmas parties. I usually find them pretty cringeworthy. There was a survey in the Metro NYC newspaper recently in which 3 percent of poll respondents said they hate going to their corporate Christmas parties. Hate is a strong word for me; I don’t hate them as much as get the creeps from them. It makes me feel weird to see people in coat and tie, who are older and likely much more senior than me, dancing to "It’s Getting Hot in Herrre (So Take off All Your Clothes)." It’s that same feeling you used to get as a kid when you ran into your teacher in her "casual" clothes getting groceries late at night.

I like the free food, drink, and chatting with my immediate coworkers, but when they start to clear the dance floor after the CEO’s welcome, I feel myself shrinking a little in my chair—yet unable to tear my eyes from the scenes occuring in and around the dance floor. It really is like watching a train wreck. In addition to some nameless, faceless executive who starts doing The Elaine on the dance floor because, for him, this is THE event of the year, there’s that guy skulking around the outer perimeter boosted by liquid courage looking for someone to sexually harass. (There’s always that guy whom you suspect is a pervert, but who doesn’t actually act on those impulses until the holiday party).

I guess, though, if the enthusiastically-enjoying-this-holiday-party contingent weren’t there, there would really be little else to entertain me through the night (and by night, I mean 7 p.m., because that’s when the flyer says the party is over, which the company makes sure of.) Pointing out special dance moves helps fill lulls in the conversation. And the world would be a much gloomier place if everyone had the same holiday-spiritless attitude that I have. So perhaps in the end, I actually enjoy going to the company Christmas party. As my coworker pointed out to me, I love to hate it.

Getting the skeevy-jeevies

2004-12-20T10:42:00.000-05:00

I’m proud to announce that sexual harassment is alive and well. On a business trip to a conference a few months ago, I experienced an attack of the skeevy-jeevies (this is what I call getting grossed out by shady pervs). Earlier in the day, the Perp was perfectly professional when he had met during a conference luncheon. That night, though, there was a party a-goin’ on to close the conference, and all of a sudden, just cuz there’s salsa dancing and drinking involved, it suddenly becomes okay to try and touch my hair. Being a polite person, I gave him the psychological stiff-arm (i.e—dirty looks and maneuvering out of his grasp) instead of doing what I really wanted to do—break every finger on his hand and laugh menacingly as I relished in his pain, much like the hired leg-breaking mafia thugs you see in the movies.

I know my Pantene-commercial-worthy locks are irresistible, but that doesn’t make it okay for the Perp to try and run his skeevy hands through them. And by no means did I give off any signals; in fact, I’m quite known for my invisible force-field superpowers that keep men at bay. I had an early flight the next morning, but decided to stay awake and pack instead of going to bed right away to burn off a lot of the feminist rage I had that night. I was especially mad at myself for letting him off easy. (He did try to convince my colleages to grab a beer with him when we got back to the hotel, but left us alone when they refused. In the hotel elevator, my friends asked me jokingly if I wanted to grab a beer with him. I told them only if I could shove the beer up his ass. Too bad I didn’t actually get to do it.)

Even though it’s the twenty-first century, and even though there’s more finger-wagging toward sexual harassment than in the past (I’m convinced it’s still hardly more than finger-wagging) one thing hasn’t changed—women are still hesitant to do say what we really want to when it does happen, especially in a business situation. This episode made me think of other instances of sexual harassment I’ve heard, which were so shocking to me that I could barely believe that they happened. For instance, my friend who works at a law firm said that at some company social event, she was standing in line for the women’s room, sucking on a lollipop, when one of the older lawyers took the lollipop out of her mouth, sucked on it, then proceed to stick it back in her mouth. And one time my boss told me that at some dinner at another conference (where there was a lot of alcohol involved, as usually happens in these instances) someone proceeded to tell her while piss drunk that he wanted to "push her down in the grass and take advantage of her," or some such nonsense. In both instances, the women told me they were in such states of shock they didn’t quite know what to make of the situations, and ended up not saying anything.

I don’t consider myself one who necessarily needs to shout about social justice and women’s lib, but I find it hard to swallow that none of us could say what we really wanted to: "Get your paws off me, you dirty, stinkin’ animal."

A few things did sort of interest me about this whole incident, however. 1) Apparently, at this conference, there are a lot of hook-ups, in which otherwise married folks pretend they aren’t married once a year in order to liaise with their conference lovers, so I think this guy was looking for a recurring hook-up; 2) most of the attendees weren’t American, and I think the definition of sexual harassment is more liberal in other parts of the world than in America—or maybe they just really don’t care. Maybe they see it as more of a personal choice: If you’re interested, don’t let work stop you from getting lucky; if you aren’t, you have all the right in the world to say: "Get your paws off me, you dirty, stinkin’ animal," and 3) some guys are really clueless; they probably think that your efforts to dodge their affections with the deft of an all-star running back means that you really want to be chased harder. Or maybe they just don’t care.

Too bad we can’t do what we used to do on the playground—kick boys in the nuts when they got on our nerves.

Does blogging make me a narcissistic egomaniac?

2004-12-17T23:23:00.000-05:00

Upon the urging of a friend who felt I needed a creative outlet for writing (and ranting), I decided to start a blog.

This is not that blog.

I had actually tried starting one once before, for which I had great hopes, since I wrote the first entry with such creative fervor. It was so great that I kept reading it, tweaking it here, editing it there, and felt very pleased with myself, even though I started it because I was really procrastinating doing real work. But even so, I felt good about this because, gosh darn it, I had contributed my two cents to the Web for all to read, and I was now a card-carrying member of the Digerati.

I wrote a total of one entry. And other than myself, a total of one other person read it—the friend who suggested I write it in the first place. Not exactly my delirious visions of grandeur of taking the Internet publishing world by storm. I poured so much creative energy into that first post that I never wrote another one. I attribute this to not having a personal computer at home. But it’s really because I’m lazy, and my life isn’t interesting enough to warrant even Internet publishing.

But I’m deciding to give it another go-around. I scrapped the original blog, deciding to start from scratch with a new one, which I’m feeling really good about right now. This time will be different, I said to myself, I just know it.

Either that, or I’ll have to bury this blog like its predecessor into the depths of a digital graveyard because another six months will have gone by without me posting anything. Well, I guess we’ll see.

Anyway, I call this blog Lapses in Logic because I find that I like to bitch and moan, rant and rave, complain and kvetch, and every other cliché coupling of verbs, about a lot of stuff that gets on my nerves—my pet peeves, annoying people, stuff in this world that I find really irritating because it goes against my own natural logic—which, naturally, is the logic I believe should run the world.

Which brings me to my first question, which was the first question I posed in my previous first post, so I’ll just cut and paste from there: Does blogging make me a narcissistic egomaniac? Even the way I pose that question—using two words that essentially describe the same state of self-involvement, just because one isn’t vivid enough to get MY point across—made me hesitant about starting a blog.

I admit that even before my friend suggested it, I had thought about starting one, but thought it a bit weird to write down my thoughts and then force them onto others in cyberspace. I admit that at times I thought bloggers started blogs because they were self-important and just liked to write about themselves. But then I realized, hey, I’m self-important and I like to write about myself, so maybe blogging is a perfect fit for me. Thanks guys! You’re such good listeners.

Anyway, I still think I won’t be doing much marketing of this blog, at least not initially. I can’t seem to say just yet: “Hey everyone! I’ve just started a blog! Please read it often. Then post comments that provide some affirmation of my brilliance in bringing you irrelevant yet enjoyable topics. You’ll marvel at my ability to inject creativity, craft, and chutzpah into 500 words or less. Anyway, considering how verbose I can be, I highly doubt I’ll keep it to 500 words.

So here’s to second chances. I hope this run goes better. And I promise not to use this blog just to complain. But I’m not always one for keeping my promises.

(R.I.P. Pursuit of Trivia Blog: 7/4/04-7/4/04).