2009 Year in Review: Shit that Sucked

I'm already sick of seeing, via Facebook status updates, how awesome everyone's 2009 was. It's much easier to bitch. So here are the shitty things that happened to me this year.

• I started the year off with a bang by having an allergic reaction to hummus on New Year's Eve. I spent the night curled up in a little ball in my friend's bed, wishing to die. Limped home in really shitty snow/sleet early on Jan 1 (kind of peed my pants a little) hoping the year would not be a reflection of it's shitty beginning.
• After roughing it apple picking in New Paltz, a spider crawled into my Steve Madden cowboy boots and my foot turned deep purple and swelled so large I couldn't wear footwear or put weight on it, OR GO TO HIP HOP CLASS : ( and was positive they would have to amputate. POSITIVE.
• This year saw a record number of vag issues, and I became way too palsy with my Lady Doctor.
• My landlord broke into my apartment while I was at work, peed, did not flush, left the seat up, turned on all the lights, and did not lock my door.
• Buddy died, which led to my lamest Facebook status update ever.
• Worst hangover/drinking injury ever: after taking the waiver-required "Punisher" tequila shot, my mouth was painfully swollen and I pulled a muscle in my side so hard (still unclear how this happened) that the next day I could only get one drink when I went out drinking again, which was also a poor decision.
• The Balloon Boy.
• After jumping out of a cab full of puke, I found myself stranded lost and alone somewhere in Harlem at midnight wearing a really slutty skirt. I was just trying to get to Mojave.
• I fell and scraped my knees while sprinting across the street wearing my Minnie Mouse shoes, which caused a line of people waiting to get into the Regis & Kelly Show to burst into laughter. When I stood up I got hit in the head by a pigeon.
• On Halloween I had to pull a walk of shame in a Tinkerbell costume. Across Central Park. On the morning of the New York City Marathon.
• I leaned how hard it is to break up with a psychiatrist.
Me: I don't want to talk to you anymore. You're boring.
Him: No, I know you better than you do. I'm good for you.
He also said bullshit like, "you have unresolved issues with your father" and "I'm boring because I have cancer". Both untrue.

In all seriousness, I had a wonderful year and I'm incredibly lucky and grateful for everything. Like some PR company sent me a massage chair for my work chair and I am sitting here right now, my buttcheeks warm and all massaged, and somehow, I feel that compensates for the spider bite, drinking injuries, and near-rape incidents in Harlem. God bless you and yours, kiddies, and smoochies from me!

-lp

Douchebag Calculator

The New York City Marathon finished on Sunday, and per usual, there are a bunch of nerds still walking around with their medals on their necks, to show off to everyone that they finished the race. (I saw two today. Today is Tuesday, FYI.) This always bothers me, and I make sure to avoid eye contact with these people. I don't want to encourage this kind of douchey behavior.

This made me realize that we need a Douchebag Calculator, so I calculated a simple formula that will help you determine how douchey you are. Follow these easy steps:

1) Run the New York City Marathon
2) Calculate your place number in the race
3) Calculate the number of days you wore your metal around your neck. (The day of the marathon is 1, the day after is 2, etc.)
4) Multiply those two numbers. You have your D-Bag Number.

Example: I ran the New York City Marathon two years ago. And guess what? The medal never even touched my neck. I don't even know what happened to it. I'm so goddam humble that I didn't even want to wear the foil cape they offer runners when they pass the finish line, to protect them from the cold, because I didn't want to stand out. So my D-bag level is:

3,364 (my place) x 0 (the days I wore my medal) = 0.

I am not a douche bag.

This system is totally fair, because even Meb Keflezighi, who came in first in 2009, isn't free from douchebagedness. Say he was to wear the medal for 43,235 days. His douchebag level would be 43,235, because he got first place. In the same vein, Ann Gaus, who placed 43,235th , would receive the same score if she wore her medal for one day.

Now consult the list below to see where you fall on the Tapestry of D-bags.

1-100 A little douchey
101-500 A sack of douche
501-1,000 Minor in Douchbaggery
1,001-10,000 Senor Douche, M.D.
10,001-100,000 Douche-O-Ramma
100,001-500,000 Douche Tsunami
500,001 + President of Planet Douche

So go ahead, calculate the levels of yourself, your friends, and your Grandma. If you haven't run the marathon yet, you're not a douchebag, you're just fucking lazy. Get a move on, and run the race, even if it's only to determine this very important calculation. I heard that companies are going to start asking for it on job applications.

City Passes New "Dunk Tank Smoking Stations"

With Mayor Bloomberg and his cohorts buzzing about expanding the New York smoking ban moving outside of restaurants and bars, all "hip" and "with it" New Yorkers will tell you that not a day goes by when they don't discuss options to get cigarettes off our streets and into our homes (?). Some make flow charts of how best to kick these alleged cancer-inducers from parks and beaches, while others simply pen poems and short stories to express their solutions.

With help from my dear friend and colleague in life, Lauren, I have composed a short list of my own solutions, which I have submitted to Mikey B. for consideration. Please note that not all of the below ideas actually ban smoking from the streets, some merely isolate it. Feel free to add your own.

1. Make smokers smoke into long mail tubes that channel their smoke into the sky
2. Replace all cigarettes with candy necklaces - still suppresses appetite without that harmful second hand smoke
3. Allow smoking in Starbucks only. Lets face it, the store could take a hit.
4. Enforce a you-can-smoke-only-if-you-wear-these-oversized-glasses law
5. Make cigarettes more eco-friendly. Maybe the smoke could simultaneously hurt your lungs and plant trees?
6. Just download the iPhone app - the smoking surrogate
7. If smoking outside is the problem, lets just put a giant roof over the city so that everywhere is inside.

So... to recap, channel their smoke, candy necklaces, Starbucks, oversized-glasses law, eco-friendly, iPhone app, and a giant roof. Got it Bloomberg?

But back to the point. Lauren and I (while formulating this list) came up with the BEST PLAN OF ALL TIME. A mandatory Dunk Tank Smoking Station, located at every corner of every block.
It's foolproof.
Foolproof AND fun.

Why I Give Money To Homeless People (And Why I Don't)

Disclaimer: This is a really insensitive post and you are probably going to think I'm a huge, snobby asshole after reading it. I'd like to remind you, please never take anything I say seriously. Except that last thing I said.

On my way to work, I always pass one of those tables with a red tablecloth and upturned water jug, and a person collecting change from the homeless. I don't usually give money to these people. (Do you guys? I'd really like to know.) I get wary when I don't know exactly where the money is going when giving to an organization, and although I don't really know exactly what the homeless people do with my money, I usually give my cash directly to them.

The man at the table that I pass each day has a low, scratchy voice, and is always harassing me to give money. At first, I would pass him and avoid eye contact. But then I started thinking, he's just a guy, and I say hi to people I see every day. So I started saying hello. Like, "Yes, you have a good day, you. But I'm not giving you any money." He started saying hi back. But eventually, he stopped asking for money all together. That's when I started thinking, "maybe I should give this guy some money." Was it a power thing? Did I want the attention? Was I just being a difficult, contrary asshole?

The thought that came to mind next, that I am a horrible person, was only reinforced when other incidents came to mind -- other times I gave to homeless people and the insincere reasons why. In my head I compiled a list of ways to get money from me if you're homeless. So print this list out and distribute it around the city, if you want me to go totally broke. I'm a sucker for all of these things:

You Kiss My Ass. One day, I was in an angry mood and I guess you could see it on my face, because when I passed a guy sitting on the sidewalk on Columbus Avenue, I heard him say in a kind, clear, Ernie-from-Sesame-Street-esque voice, "Hey miss. You dropped your smile." I stopped and gave him all the one dollar bills in my wallet.

You Kind of Sexually Harass Me, But In A Really Positive Way. Once I was walking by a guy and he said, "Damn, girl, you look good in those tights." And I gave him money. I mean, he was right, I had a really awesome outfit on that day.

You Have a Sexy Voice. Elijah, the man who always sits on my street, has a low, Barry-White sounding voice, and when he asks you for money it's like he's telling you a secret or something. Very intriguing.

You Have Really Creative Style. Props to the man in my neighborhood who wears an umbrella as a dress. He always gets some change from me.

You Display Innovative Box Architecture. I love it when a homeless person has really used their creative skills to fashion a functional, aesthetically pleasing box to sleep in. If I ever see one with a veranda or parlor, I'm going to give up, like, $100 at least. (Depending on how elaborate the design is.)

You Make It Fun. Once, outside of Food Emporium, there was a man who had a sign that said, "I just want some food." This seemed like some sort of fun scavenger hunt to me. I raced up the aisles thinking, "What would I want to eat if I was homeless?" I chose a protein packed egg salad sandwich, because I didn't want to purchase meat, a ginormous bag of unshelled pistachios (shelling pistachios is a fun way to pass time!) and a package of DOUBLE STUFFED Oreos. Mmmmm. Bon appetite!

I Offend You. Once, while in an awkward conversation with a homeless guy (LONG STORY), I didn't know what to say, and the first two things that came to mind were:

1) "It's so cold outside! I couldn't even turn the key to get up to my apartment this morning! My hands were frozen!"

Yes. My BEAUTIFUL, WARM apartment. Boo hoo for me. The man then went on to tell me that he was especially cold because someone had stolen his bag of hats and gloves. And get what I said:

2) "Maybe that person needed those gloves more than you."

Yeah, maybe someone MORE HOMELESS THAN YOU. Would you like me to kick you in the balls now?

In my defense, I was saying what I would say to my friend if they were to tell me they had something stolen. But most of my friends are not homeless and this was incredibly sensitive. This man got some money from me, but it didn't make me any less of an asshole.

You Write a Rap Song About Me And Sing It In The Subway.

You're Playing "A Whole New World" (Or Anything, Actually) On Your Accordion.

I'm Drunk.

You Have Two Little Chipmunks And You Have Trained Them To Sing And Dance Show Tunes. (Hasn't happened yet.)

You Look Like You Really Need It.

And here are the things that I won't give money for:

You Are Dressed Better Than I Am This has only happened in Italy. The Bums Wear Prada.

You Have Turrets And Tell Me To Suck Your Dick.

You Are Paying Dave Matthews On Your Acoustic.

I Just Paid My Rent. After I pay my rent, I not only feel extra poor, but I start thinking, "Hey, maybe these homeless people are on to something. Having a home is totally overrated..."

Why Disney World Kicks Ass #8: Booze

My mailbox is constantly flooded with questions about Walt Disney World. (LIE.) Knowing how much I like to drink, many people are curious about how I manage to enjoy myself without being sober the whole time. It's way easier than you'd think. Below, some questions you may have about boozing in the parks:

So people probably don't drink that much in Disney World, huh?
WRONG! Although there is no alcohol allowed in the Magic Kingdom, all of the other parks and hotels are packed with booze-filled opportunities. World Showcase in EPCOT alone offers drinking around the world, an event where you can taste margaritas, Tsing Tao, Jagermeister, grappa, Sam Adams , sake, wines, champagnes, Casa, French Nuvo, and Molsons, just to name a few. (This is all in the span of, like, a half a mile. Not far enough to walk it all off. You will be plastered.)

But what do you do if you want to drink in the Magic Kingdom?
The rumors are true: it is more fun to watch the parades a little tipsy. That's why you must B.Y.O.B. I recommend brining tiny bottles of vodka to the park.

Yeah but where do you buy them?
Your hotel. And when the clerk says, "I hope you're drinking this before you go to the Magic Kingdom," say yes.

Okay, but how do you get the bottles in there? Don't they have pretty tight security and like check your bags and stuff?
Yes, but just tuck the bottles in your underwear or something.

That doesn't make any sense. Every time I put vodka bottles in my underwear, it stretches the fabric down and doesn't hold.
Not if you're wearing your Tinkerbell costume, duh. It has a tight, fitted body suit, which will hold at least four vodka bottles. Next question, please. Christ.

So you drink it straight out of the bottles?
No. The beautiful thing about the Magic Kingdom is that since there is no alcohol served, they have lots and lots of fruity beverages, Pineapple Dole Whips, slushees and smoothies served in entertaining souvenir mugs with funky straws. It's basically like Chaser Central. My favorite is the pineapple juice at Aloha Isle, located in Adventure Land.
But how do you sneak the vodka into the drinks?
You really must be careful. Try to find a quiet, secluded spot. But don't get too comfortable. If an adult sees you sneaking vodka into your drink, they will quietly judge you and assume you're a horrible person, and that's fine. But kids are short and nosy, and they often pop out of nowhere. And if they see you, they will probably say loudly, "Mommy, why is Tinkerbell putting that clear liquid into her pineapple juice?!?" You want to avoid that.

If you must, go to the bathroom. But God knows I've been in a stall peeing and have a child stick her head underneath the stall, looking for her mom. Sigh. Sometimes I think Disney World would be way more fun if children were not allowed to go there.

Hopefully I've cleared up any booze-related confusion. Keep e-mailing me your Disney questions, you crazy mob of readers, you. For more reasons why Disney World Kicks Ass click here, here, here, here, here and here.

How Safe Do You Feel?

My family in Pennsylvania and Ohio still can't believe I live in New York City, and they worry about me constantly. "I hope you don't take the subway," my aunt said when she visited. But New York is pretty safe, and I realize I feel safer here than I did on my college campus in rural Pennsylvania. That's fucked up. So I decided to rate the safety of the places I've lived. 1 is not safe at all. 10 is super safe. Here you go:

Hudson, Ohio

The Scene: "We live on the most boring street in the whole United States of America, where nothing even remotely dangerous will ever happen. Period." -- Buzz McCallister, Home Alone, 1990

Word.

When my friend's boyfriend came to visit Hudson, he kept on referring to it as Pleasantville -- a fair description of the affluent community of about 25,000 people. With all the ice cream socials, gazebos, and Olde Tymey Shops, there isn't much space for violence or crime. My mom could set me loose on the hood when I was five, I have never felt threatened or unsafe, and the police blotter, which I often had to write when interning for The Hudson Hub, our local paper, was mostly just full of people complaining about barking dogs. Every so often, there are accounts of domestic violence, but it's always about the wife knocking the shit out of her husband. That's probably because the women get really buff playing all that tennis and the men are golf-playing-pansies with high-paying nerdy jobs. My dad, to this day, always calls me when one of these reports makes the paper, insisting that my mother is equally abusive. I always reply: "you probably deserve it."

My dad, who grew up in the projects in Farrell, Pennsylvania, once saw some Hudson kids "fighting" after school, and he got really mad. "Those kids don't even know how to fight!" He exclaimed. He also gets pissed because none of them are ever outside playing sports on our street. In Hudson, we're raising the future generation to be pampered, XBOX playing people who don't know how to kick someone's ass.

Precautions I Took: I always locked my car doors, but that's because I'm OCD about it, and technically locking your car doors doesn't make a difference anyway, when your own friends actually pick up your car and move it to the bushes.

Incident Report: None.

How Safe? 9
It would be a ten, but it's pretty dangerous to live near all the meth labs.

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

The Scene: At first glance, the Gettysburg College campus looks exactly like Hudson -- affluent, bursting with well trimmed lawns, BMWs, and people who looked like they've pranced off the pages of the J. Crew catalogue. But I never felt safe or happy there, and there were few people I trusted.

When I came back to campus after studying in Florence for a semester, people asked me about Italian boys and if I had to watch out for them. I see where Italians get a reputation for being overly flirtatious -- they actually do yell, "Ciao, Bella!", will smack your ass while walking by, and expose their penises. But oddly, I felt less threatened by them than the guys on the Gettysburg campus. The Italians might approach me on the street, but I didn't feel a whole lot safer around college boys. Many of the Fraternities encouraged brothers not to take rape seriously, use roofies to get what they want, and Frat houses were purposely confusing and maze-like so girls had a hard time being in control of their situations. Those boys were cordial to me on the street, but I wasn't stupid, and I knew what they were up to behind closed doors. I felt it was far scarier. At Gettysburg, I always felt like I was experiencing the quiet before the storm -- that something really fucked up was about to happen, or was happening.

Precautions I Took: Didn't make eye contact with anyone. (This was mostly because I had no friends.) Didn't take drinks from boys. (This is mostly because they weren't offering them to me.) Tried not to spend the night in fraternities. (This is mostly because I rarely frequented them.)

Incident Report: None, which is weird because 127 N. Washington St didn't even have door locks and we let a homeless guy sleep in our living room. But this is a testament to the town, not the campus. Gettysburg PA was a different universe than the school situated among it's battlefields.

How safe? 6

Florence, Italy

The Scene: Living in Florence was like living inside a dreamy snow globe. I instantly fell in love with the people, the streets, the food, the shops, and the language. I lived near my school and the Duomo, so transportation usually wasn't a problem. Italian boys vary region to region, and in Florence, many of them are pretty feminine. I wasn't really threatened by their complicated, spikey hair-dos, expensive sunglasses, and tight pink pants. They seemed more concerned about themselves than about me. But like most of Italy, sexuality hung heavily in the air. It didn't scare me, it was just there.

Incident Report: I saw a lot of publicly exposed penises. I don't know what these guys were trying to accomplish, but several times, I'd walk by a man on the street -- in broad daylight -- and see that his pants were down. And he'd just kind of look at me, like, "what do you think?" As if he really wanted to know. One time I was on the phone with my mom and a young guy ran up to me, slapped my ass, and when he turned around to look at me I saw he was jerking off. I didn't say anything because I didn't want my mom to worry, but I was sort of freaked out. But it really wasn't a scary situation. It was bizarre. I was glad I was on the phone, kept talking, and walked quickly away.

My roommate was walking around our neighbor hood and a gypsy took the banana she was eating out of her hand and said, "Thanks" (in English.) A bizarre -- not scary -- incident. And let's face it -- the gypsy was pretty cordial about the whole thing. I'm not saying terrible things don't happen in Florence, but they didn't happen to us. Lots of students studying abroad live in a bubble.

How safe? 8

Rome, Italy

The Scene: I loved living in Rome, but I almost never felt safe. I lived by myself in a poorer section of the city, Via Appia, one of the oldest streets in the world, right under the ancient city walls. My apartment was at the top of the escalator stairs of a dilapidated outdoor mall and when I walked home at night, I'd have to walk a stretch under the desolate wall, which made me really nervous. I always thought if I started screaming nobody would hear me.

The transportation system in Rome is horrible, which made me feel unsafe. The bus drivers act like they're just kind of driving around and doing you a huge favor by bring you somewhere -- and their route doesn't always follow the path printed on the maps. If bus drivers don't feel like working, they don't. They're always on strike.

The subway closes at midnight, and there are only two lines. Every time they try to dig a new one, they run into Julius Caesar's remains or some ancient relic from the Forum or some shit, and have to stop everything, so it's taking forever to expand underground. Most people rely on cars or scooters.

My neighbors, Rome's poorer people, weren't usually Italian, they were from Albania, India, Asian countries, or the Middle East, and they were the ones making me uncomfortable on my lonely walks home. I know that there are shady Italians in Rome, but I never feel incredibly threatened by the ones I met. I find them to be pretty goofy people who like to laugh, eat, and flirt. Many of them men are either mamas boys or metrosexuals.

Precautions I Took: The apartment I was living in was furnished when I moved in and there were no huge knives in the kitchen. But I wanted to protect myself somehow. I noticed a 12 inch, metal, two-pronged pitch-fork looking thing in the kitchen. As a vegetarian, I wasn't in need of a meat poker so I kept it in my purse and remembered it in times I felt unsafe. When I went out with Roman guys, I'd always show them the meat poker. "I'm just saying," I'd tell them, sort of for a good laugh, but sort of as a way of saying, "Don't fuck with me." They didn't.

I also changed out of my cute clothes and into my burglar-outfit when I walked around my neighborhood at night. (Jeans, black turtle neck, black winter hat -- the hat to disguise my hair. There were absolutely zero blondies in the hood. Keep in mind: I loathe turtle necks and I wore the heavy hat even in the warmest weather.)

Incident Report: None, but that's probably because I was weirdly cautious.

How Safe? 5

New York City

The Scene: I realize I am pretty sheltered and fortunate, and I live in a very nice neighborhood, which isn't necessarily an accurant representation of the entire city. But my experience has been very cozy. I feel really safe in New York City. I live near Lincoln Center, which means there's always a bunch of old people on their way to the Opera hobbling around. This is strangely comforting. I can walk around in my neighborhood at any time during the night.

I think why I feel so safe in NYC has a lot to do with the transportation system. I know that no matter where I am, there is a subway station nearby, which means there are people and a way to get home.

There are also so many people that you are never alone. Sometimes I wonder if I'm a little naïve, that maybe I should hug my purse a little tighter to my side, stop using those shady ATMs on the street, or stop talking to strangers on the Subway at three in the morning. But I trust New York City. I'm lucky to live and work in safe areas -- I know that a little farther north it's extremely dangerous.

I haven't seen Cloverfield, but apparently there is a scary scene in which the fear factor comes from the presence of a monster attacking the subway system. After seeing the film, my mom called me to warn me of the dangers of the B Train. It's natural to worry about your daughter living alone in New York City, but can we please cross worrying about monster subway attacks off the list? She also keeps telling me about this story about a young woman... who looked exactly like me and lived exactly where I live and had the exact same job that I have... who was THROWN onto the subway tracks before a moving train!!!!! I get it mom, you can stop worrying. When I'm waiting on the platform, I always cling to the columns with my entire body until the train has arrived. (Sanitary? No. Safe? Yes.)

Precautions I Take: I always triple check to be sure my door is locked, and just as obsessively unplug my flat iron so I don't burn my building down. I don't leave my purse unattended. If someone really creepy is hitting on me I tell them I have a boyfriend. I don't tell strangers where I live. I never put my drink down.

Incident Report: None

How Safe? 7

Conclusion: I've never had to knock on wood, but I know someone who has, which makes me wonder if I should.

Nobody ever really comments on this blog, but I'd love to know how safe other people have felt in places they've lived, or if they think I'm way off about my probably unfair assessments of Italy, New York, and Gettysburg.

Infinity Reasons The Subway Kicks Ass

Occasionally, I will experience a problem with the New York City Metro System. My buttcheeks will be nearly chopped off when I'm getting crammed into the 1 during rush hour, I'll find out after waiting for 50 minutes, that the B is actually not running late nights on the weekends, or an unbearable stench in the cars will have me holding my breath for unhealthy amounts of time. (Who knew I could not breathe for 5 minutes straight? When circumstances demand this superpower, it can be done.)

But every time I get a little bitchy about it, I think about how amazing the subway really is. I imagine myself in a world where there is no subway. Then I imagine someone coming up to me and asking, "what would you say if I told you I was going to invent an underground transportation system which will quickly move millions of people within blocks of where they need to be, very few people will jump in front of the train or die, the trains will all match up on the tracks and will rarely collide, the ceilings won't collapse, and it will be relatively inexpensive. People generally will not hold up the cars with guns. Then I imagine replying, "yeah right!" I mean, the whole thing is actually pretty amazing.

I am so obsessed with the subway, actually, that I don't ever want to own a car again. Why? Here's why:

The Subway Is Perfect for the Irresponsible Chica. I am not capable of taking care of children, animals, plants, or cars. I have, however, proven capable of keeping track of my subway card (most of the time), since I don't have to feed it or wash it, and it doesn't poop on the floor. My subway card fits in my purse, my back pocket, and my bra.

Being Drunk is A-OK! DUIs are not cool, and I never have to worry about that any more. When you're out at the bars, you don't have to think, "I'd better stop drinking now, because although I'm not wasted, I would surely fail a stringent breathalyzer test and there is no way in hell I can un-parallel park my car." You only need to be sober enough to walk to the subway station and semi-coherently tell a random person at the subway station your address and ask them to put you on the right subway to get there.

Parking Problems -- Solved. When I had a car, I could never remember where I parked it. I'm not good at keeping track of stuff. And like, if I was going to a restaurant, my internal dialogue would be something like, "ME HUNGRY NOW." Not, "Now I really should remember where my car is."

Once in Disney World, my mom and I were parked a 5 minute tram ride away from the entrance of the park, and we wisely decided to write down the name of our parking section because we had little faith in our memories. But looking at the paper on our return, we discovered we had written "24 Unicorns" -- a nonexistent section. I'm still trying to figure out how this happened, but the takeaway is that my mom and I aren't intelligent enough to go anywhere with each other.

Make New Friends and Keep The Old. I love talking to new people on the subway, and I often run into friends. I saw my friend David Posner, whom I hadn't seen in 4 years, while we were getting onto the D train. I made fun of a bunch of Italians once, because I wanted to tell them that I could understood them talking about me. (They were laughing at me because I was dancing to my iPod.)

Free Entertainment! After the initial shock of seeing children almost break their necks or crack their heads open on the subway floor, I started really enjoying it when they'd come on board with their boom boxes and start break dancing. I'm also a sucker for Mariachi singers (but ONLY if they are wearing glittery, stereotypically Mexican outfits.) I had a homeless man ask me my name and occupation, and then write a rap about me. The other night, the guy sitting next to me pulled out a 9-foot albino snake out of the suitcase he was traveling with. Whatever you experience, it's always more amusing than what I used to see when I used to have to drive across the goddam Pennsylvania Turnpike for 6 hour stretches.

Spice Up Your Social Life. Sometimes the subway reminds me of when I used to ride the bus in elementary school, with a few important differences:

• Nobody on the New York Subway system throws my backpack out of the Emergency Exit or steals my lunch box.
• It's fucking humiliating riding in a big, eyesore of a school bus.
• I don't generally get car sick and barf all over the place on the subway.
• Fat, disgruntled, senior citizen bus drivers who yell too much do not drive subway cars.
• Never been almost mowed down by a subway car before.
  

But the social elements are all still there: riding the subway is fun, and it's an opportunity to spend time with a wide variety of people who you ordinarily wouldn’t have any contact with.

Go Nuts, Multi-Taskers. I have a short attention span and I used to get super bored driving. Driving is effing boring. I always wanted to read while I was driving but I know that it's frowned upon. But I can do that on the subway. I'm grateful that I didn't start using text messaging until after I stopped driving, because I know I'd want to. I'd probably be dead right now. Did you see that PSA from England?

Jack Godshall Can No Longer Steal My Car. In high school I drove a 1988 Volkswagen Cabriolet:

It was so small that my friends could pick it up and move it. I would come to the parking lot after class, and my car would no longer be there. This isn't because I'm a dumbass who can't remember where she parked her car. While that's true, it's actually because my friends liked to hide the Cabrio in the bushes or on the lacrosse field, or the front yard of my English teacher, who would go on to hate me for this.

And Oh, Yeah. Cars are effing expensive and shitty for the environment. That should be at the top of the list.

The only things I miss about not having a car:

• Where to hide the dead bodies?
• Can't pop those sweet wheelies anymore, and my drag racing days are over.
• I love wearing seat belts (oh wait, NO I DON'T.)
  

12 Books That Have Actually Pissed Me Off (Whether I've Read Them Or Not)

I was recently dismayed to learn that Sloan Crosby was nominated for the Thurber Prize for American Humor for her eh book I Was Told There'd Be Cake. How something so sub-par could make such an splash pisses off anyone who has ever wanted to write a book. IWTTBC is totally predictable and only occasionally funny. Wow, she moves to New York. Get this!!!!! She has a really crappy first job!!!!! Oh, the shenanegans she finds herself in. She hates bridal showers?!? WHAT?!?!? Silly goose! Her family is just plain ZANY. (But the loveable kind.) And she pokes fun of herself in very safe ways, while ending up on top in each story. BORRRRINNNGGGGGGG.
This reminded me of other books that have actually pissed me off. Right off the bat, I thought of 11 more. Stop me now, before I rip to shreds every book that I have ever (and have ever not) read.

The Cay by Theodore Taylor

When I was in eighth grade I had to read this book and my teachers, who must have thought we were all retarded, built an island set in our classroom and dressed up as the goddam characters and read the book to us. We were 14. 14 year olds have sex and swear and they sure as hell are intelligent enough to read something more challenging than this pamphlet of a book and watch their teachers interpret it to them via crappy acting. My dad picked up the book one night when I was doing my "homework" (making a pop up book about the book) and he's like "what the hell is this bullshit?" I don't remember this part of the story, but he claims that I said, "Well, Dad. The boys in my class don't like to read very much. So we have to read fake books." And that is what The Cay is.

A Million Little Pieces by James Frey

Who doesn’t hate James Frey ("The Man Who Conned Oprah") just a little bit for blatantly lying in his memoir? If Oprah hates you, the entire goddam world hates you.

Sex in the City by Candace Bushnell

I never read the book, but I have watched every episode of the show. I watch it because two of my favorite things in the universe are fashion and New York City. Unfortunately, my third favorite thing is good writing. So I am pained to hear the background voice of Sarah Jessica Parker as she makes uninteresting observations about men in a really annoying, dumb voice. "I wooOOOnnnndered... Can MEN and WOMEN REALLLLLLLLLYYY!?!?!? be FRIENDS?"

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime by Mark Haddon

This was Mark Haddon's thought process when writing this book:

"I have a TOTALLY FUNKY, original title for a book: The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime. Oh wait, I have to come up with a story line and good writing, too? I don't think so. I worked hard enough to come up with that awesome name."

Eat This Not That by David Zinczenko

"Let's give them something to FREAK OUT about."

Life was more fun before people started obsessing about calorie counts. People don't enjoy food anymore. Food should taste good. Enjoy it. Love it. Don't freak out about it. None of the "Eat This Not That" comparisons are really that surprising, either. And we can all read nutrition labels, if need be. This is just like one big freak out book.

On The Road by JackKerouac

Any chick who says she likes this book is lying. She's saying that so guys think she's cool -- a guy's gal. This is a dude book. Period.

Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert

I have never read this book, but I hate it all the same. (I did, however, listen to a pod cast about it. And I was vomiting all over the place. My mother also read me some exceprts, which I listened to while I writhed in a ball on the floor.) Many of her observations in Rome are really far off and she says a lot of false things about Rome, Italians, and the language school she attended. (I know because I went to the same language school.) This makes her an unreliable (and unlikeable) narrator and I automatically hate everything she has to say. I think the premise of the book is dumb, too. I say this, fully understanding I am being unjustifiably harsh. Maybe I should actually read the book sometime. I've spent enough time bitching about it.

Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller

I was expecting a cool twist on Christianity, here. But Donald Miller's "twists" are unoriginal and un earth shattering. It's like he was at one time very conservative, and then got a little more liberal, and then wrote a really (painfully long) journal entry about it. It's not well written or organized, and it's just so annoying. He talks down to the reader, even though I would bet that most readers have spent more time thinking about the subject than Miller.

The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins

One of my favorite things to do is go to Barnes & Noble and look at the stands they have set up of different book collections. "Science," "African American Interest," "Non-Fiction Favorites," etc. I am a huge sucker so every time I see a stand of books I think "OOOoOOOooo! I want all of those books right now!" Not so when I saw the "Barnes & Noble Staff Recommends" stand. Every single book could fit into three categories: 1) A diet book 2) A book about how to get over a relationship (some of the books strangely fit into both of these categories) and 3) Atheist books. Really, guys? Could we fit in something else, here? I suppose I am more troubled by the fact that the only POV represented at the Barnes & Noble recommendation stand is Atheism, but I also don't understand why Atheists are so intent on proving people with faith wrong. Leave them alone. I have noticed that they don't actually lash out at Atheists if unprovoked. (They don't care about atheists.) And Richard Dawkins -- shit, I haven't read any of his books, either. But I've wasted too much time reading about them, and his books about God, I've come to understand, are really just unscientific montages of fiery rantings, dogmatism, and mind boggling misrepresentation of Christianity. I know that he thinks religious people are always pushing their faith on everyone. But nobody pushes faith (the Un-Faith) on people more than Richard Dawkins.

The Secret by Rhonda Byrne

The Secret is not a book. It is a marketing campaign. And marketing campaigns are SUPER ANNOYYYINNNGGGGGG.

Confessions of a Shopoholic by Sophie Kinsella

Once again, never read it. But When I saw the cover of it in the bookstore, I literally dropped my purse and said "OH NO." I think I cried that day. "Confessions of a ANYTHING" books are super stupid. They're trying to sound racy when they're totally not. And shopoholics do not deserve the attention of an entire book. OR an entire BOOK SERIES. OR a FUCKING MOVIE. OMG, someone missed the memo.

13 Signs I've Joined A Suicide Cult

The tragedy in Jonestown (remember... the Kool-Aid Suicide Gang?) in 1978 is a story about a lot of things, and though Tim Reiterman did a great job telling the story in his book Raven, I felt there were things he was leaving out. How did the government not catch on to Jones' brainwashing and illegal activity? The beatings? The stealing? Not paying taxes? How is it possible that the families of more than 900 people weren't objecting to the sudden, FUCKING BIZARRE behavior of their loved ones? Some of them did, but none of them who had members deeply entrenched in the Temple were able to pull them away. I'd like to think that if I was talking about suicide, miraculous (and obviously fake) healings, and claiming this random guy from Indiana was my Savior, my mother would fucking snap me out of it. If I thought she had joined a suicidal cult, I would drug her and bring her to Antarctica, lock her in my bathroom, or do whatever was necessary to keep her away. That's right, mamma. That's how much I love you. Lots of people dropped the ball, and Reiterman does not say who, exactly.

I picked Raven up in the first place because Helter Skelter is one of my favorite books of all time, and I figured this story would be equally thrilling. In some ways, it's creepier. Manson brainwashed some aimless teenagers to murder for him. Jim Jones convinced almost a thousand children and educated, settled adults that he was their savior and they needed to kill themselves in the name of socialism. (The two crazies had very similar childhoods, though. Both were pretty much abandoned losers who were looking for attention.)

So please. I beg of you. If I display the following behavior, please sit down with me and let's have a conversation. Smack me if you must. Let's be safe and expect the worst.

• I start studying Russian. Words on my vocab list: socialism, guerilla warfare, Hail Chairman Mao.
• I start shopping for warm-weather clothing and express interest in vacationing in South America.
• I start sleeping with an image of Jim Jones over my heart to protect myself from death.
• I adopt fourteen children and let them live in my studio apartment.
• I work for 21 hours a day and turn all my money over to a church. ("It's cool -- the end justifies the means.")
• I lose 40 pounds and my skin turns grey.
• I start referring to a human being as my savior.
• When you ask me what I did last Friday night, I say "Suicidal Ritual Drill".
• I've been deathly afraid of airplanes my entire life but I suddenly get my pilots license so I can start shipping cargo to South America for the guy I'm sleeping with.
• And oh yea, the guy I'm sleeping with is a "preacher" 40 years older than me, and he has a wife, ten mistresses, and fucks guys just to make them think they're gay.
• I move into a Co-op and will not receive your phone calls.
• Every time I see you, I am recording our conversation with an old tape recorder from the 70's.
• I burn a cross into my forehead. Oh, wait. That was the Manson Family. But look out for shit like this, as well.

I Moved to NYC to Touch Gabriel's Penis

This isn't Gabriel, but it's a picture I found of one of the Urge boys.

A few weekends ago, I found myself on a Friday night with my hand on a stranger's penis. Let me explain.

I was at a gay bar, Urge, with some friends. The DJ was playing It's Raining Men and there were ADONISes in ass-less chaps, thongs, and garments I was previously unfamiliar with, (which I believe are called leather penis cozies), walking around on top of the bar. I had assumed that because we are chicks, my friends Hannah, Mel and I would fade into the background and be totally ignored in the Urge atmosphere. But as luck would have it, the hunkiest nearly-nudes were straight and paid an awful lot of attention to us. I'm not going to get into specifics, but some of them immediately got very comfortable with us. (I usually make guys buy me dinner before this stuff goes down, but at this point I was drinking, which made it okay.)

While my hand was on Gabriel's penis (he put it there, not me), I kind of had an epiphany: I was really proud of the girl I have become.

Let me explain. In High school, I was a really fun, silly person, and I loved myself a lot. In college, I was pretty unhappy and kind of lost myself. I took school really seriously and ran our school newspaper sort of like a dictatorship. (Once I frightened a large tour group of perspective students when they came by the office and overheard me screaming into the phone, "Must I do everything around here? Am I going to have to start wiping everyone's asses, too?")

But that's not who I really am, and I moved to New York City hoping to get back to the real LP. I think a few years ago it would have made me really uncomfortable to be touching someone's penis in a bar. And at first I was uncomfortable. I was shocked. But I didn't know why. It was really no big deal. Why was my brain programmed to be kind of offended by this? Touching Gabriel's penis was so overtly sexual that it should not be taken seriously at all. It was hilarious.

It would be hard to live in New York City and be uptight about everything. I think that's why I moved here -- I wanted to shake off that stress and seriousness I had accumulated at Gettysburg College. I moved to New York so I could get lectured for 20 minutes on the B train about the Myan prophecies by a man wearing an umbrella as a dress. So that I could walk to work on a Thursday morning so hung-over that I'm too out of it to notice that my skirt is tucked into my thong and I'm throwing a buttcheek parade for 30 blocks down Broadway. Essentially, I moved to New York City so I could touch Gabriel's penis. All this stuff really humbles me and makes me chill the fuck out.

The most important thing I learned at college was that working your ass off will reap rewards, but if it's not making you happy it isn't worth it. Now I just want to be happy. I'm sort of going through an immature period in my life right now. People assume I am 18 and my mother has stopped hoping that someday I will get married or be responsible enough to own a plant. But I need this time right now -- I didn't have it in college and I have some catching up to do.

I am kind of hoping my parents are not reading my blog right now, but Mom -- if you're there -- aren't you proud of me? Although it may seem the opposite is true, I think I'm finally growing up.

How To Correctly Shake Your Ass

I get yelled at for a LOT of stuff in hip-hop class, but the number one issue that always comes up is my booty. Apparently, I really need to work on shaking it the right way. But how? Where do you learn how to do this? I'm trying, I swear.

Doing the Booty Dance in practice clearly wasn't working. I needed some secondary resources. So I did some research. Conducted some interviews. With Booty-Shaking EXPERTS. Well -- not really. I listened to a lot of rap music. And here is what it told me:

"Face the wall shawty, put your hands on it. Bounce that ass up and down make a nigga want it. Roll that ass round and round like a motherfuckin' wheel. Shake that shit, this ain't no motherfuckin' drill."*
-Ying Yang Twins (Salt Shaker)
*By the way: these lyrics are totally nasty so I didn't post the most graphic, informative Ying Yang Twin recommendations. See them here.

"If you wanna make the money shawty work that shit.
Put a hump in your back and lift your rump."
-Pitbull (Shake)

"Drop that ass shake that mother fucker up, now drop that ass shake that mother fucker up, lean back some mo',shake that mother fucker up, lean back some mo, shake that mother fucker up, shake that ass real hard, to the left make it right, shake that ass real hard, to the left and the right."
-Lil Jon & The Eastside Boyz (Aww Skeet Skeet)

"Papa think your ass lovely. Raise it like sugar, g-string hussy and hussy."
"So don’t be actin’ like you don’t be backin’ that stuff up. Girl in the club 'cause that’s what you got ass for. Wobble wobble, I’m infatuated."
"Now this ain’t for no small booties. No sir 'cause that won’t pass. (Show me what you’re workin’ with.) But if you feel you got the biggest one, then move, come shake ya ass."
-Mystikal (Shake Ya Ass)

"Better yet put ya back into it. Do ya thing like they ain't nothing to it. Shake shake that ass girl."
"She move so sure erotic. I watch her, im like bounce that ass girl."
-50 Cent (Disco Inferno)

"Bring that ass back yes sir like that. Shake your ass ma do your damn thang. Make that ass dip and do your damn thang(thang). Shake it real fast , but dont hurt nuttin. Lemme see you stop, drop straight twirk something."
"Do the duck walk and make your butt talk shhh less talk more duck walk."
"I aint tryna brag and i aint tryna boast but the way you shake that jelly I can put it on some toast so shake your ass quick like the holy ghost."
-Genesis (Duck Walk)

"Shuka-shu-shake; brake your hips and fall out of your Caravan right into a ditch, Bitch!"
-Lady Sovereign (Sad Ass Stripah)


"Shake that ass, ’cause fornication is the only way to make The Next Generation. When it comes to booty-shaking, girl’s got a gift. ‘Cause she raised that ass like a turbolift."
-Star Trek TNG

"Shake your tambourine go and get yourself a whistle."
"Get low get low, then pick up pick up. Get your hands in the air, it's a stick-up stick-up. Shake your ass quicker, quicker. Shake it down in town, get the picture, picture?"
-Eve (Tambourine)

THE TAKEAWAY (My notes):

• General rule: Drop, shake, lean, repeat.
• Arch your shoulders, KEEP BUTT LIFTED!!!!! (<-- this is key)
• Put your back into it, but act like it's no big deal and not hard at all.
• Small booties are no good. In fact, if you don't think it's huge, don't even try to shake it.
• Find out exactly how, and how fast, the holyghost shakes it, because apparently that is the way to do it.
  
• Figure out what it looks like to "fall out of your caravan right into a ditch."
• Speed is everything.
• Wobbling has a positive effect on observers.
  

I think I'm in trouble. Does anyone else have better advice?

Football: Gayer than Pro Wrestling

Pro wrestling and football are two of the most hypocritical spectacles of the modern age. They appeal to a largely male audience in a traditionally male way, through encouragement of physical superiority and violence and so on. In short, what they're going for is an image of dominant, unquestionable masculinity, and they consistently fail. Because what they both are, when all's said and done, is gay. Very, very gay. Now, we're going to need an operational definition of the word “gay.” For the purposes of this essay, gay has less to do with hot man-on-man action than it does with heavy handed irony.

Consider two muscular men in bicycle shorts dancing together in the NYC Pride Parade. Now consider that they're standing on the bow of a giant pink float called the Mississippi Queen while the DJ—wearing angel wings and a diaper—plays a medley of remixed Cher hits. Are these two men gay?

No, they are not. Not even if they sing along with the disco whistle. Those two men are openly embracing not just each other, but their homosexuality. They might be doing so in a crude and obvious way, but there is no subtext to it. But when football and wrestling try so hard to avoid and denigrate homosexual imagery that they come full circle and mimic it, that's gay. And what we're proving today is that football is unquestionably gayer than wrestling in this regard. We'll start with the obvious.

The tight end: In an all-male sport, calling anything a tight end is pretty much an invitation for sodomy. Wrestling does not have a tight end. It has wrestlers, it has managers, it has valets, it has bodyguards, and it's even had a genie who impregnated a woman by spitting green mist into her crotch. But it has never had anyone whose position, whether behind or in front of the curtain, was referred to as the tight end. Even the old-school practice of insiders referring to pretty boy tag teams as “blowjobs” implied that they'd be receiving them from the women in attendance. Compare this to what tight ends receive.

The center: At first glance, the center isn't really all that gay. He's the guy in the “center” of the offensive line who snaps the ball to the quarterback. Nothing fishy about that at all, right? ...well, except for the fact that he has to bend over directly in front of the quarterback. That's his job. Wearing tight pants and bending over in front of another man. That's his day. Wrestling doesn't have this. True, it isn't really a team sport, but even tag team wrestling doesn't have a guy who just bends over while his partner does all the work. Yes, that wording was intentional.

Subtlety: This category reaches back around to our operational definition. What's gayer; a guy who says something like “hi, I'm Julian and I love feeling penises in my butt,” or the married high school shop teacher getting dragged out of Club Manhole by the police? The answer involves Julian walking off stage with the silver medal. Wrestling is kind of like Julian. There's just no escaping the fact that WWE owner Vince McMahon has forced grown men to kiss his bare ass on national television. You can't ungay that. You can't even unsee it.

Football, by contrast, tries much harder to hide from the truth. They've managed to obscure their gayness behind mountains of cheerleaders and halftime shows and commercials and cutbacks to the broadcast table every ten fucking seconds. You would think that there was some monetary benefit to all this, measured by ratings and ad revenue. And you'd be wrong – the idea is to never show, under any circumstances, footage of the game itself. All those tight uniforms and bulges and motivational butt pats make for bad television. Or more accurately, like Mr. Shop Teacher and his gym bag full of assless leather pants, football hates itself for things utterly beyond its control.

John Madden: Now that he's retired, it's easy to pick on him, but Madden left behind a legacy of broadcasting that called almost entirely upon upon homosexual imagery. “He hits the hole right after Jesse opens it up” is one of many examples. And when you describe anything in football as “the last shot out of the Roman Candle,” you mean ejaculation. Same for any situation that prompts a comment like “he's going to fire into this guy right here.” Don't argue. You will lose.

Wrestling has had some pretty bad play-by-play men and color commentators over the years, especially the 80s, but nothing can match Madden's consistency. Not even Lord Alfred Hayes' fretting about manager Jimmy Hart “always on his back” and constantly “inventing new things to do to [him],” or Mean Gene Okerlund's questionable on-screen relationship with Hulk Hogan, can compare. They weren't regular announcers anyway – Jesse Ventura and Gorilla Monsoon were the commentators of the Reagan years, and unlike Madden, they could think faster than they spoke. Even Dusty Rhodes was quicker on the draw, and he used words like “clubberin'” on a regular basis. And as dumb and inarticulate as that is, it isn't gay. But the Roman Candle thing? Gay.

So there you have it. Ironclad, irrefutable proof that what happens on the gridiron is roughly ten or eleven times gayer than what happens in the squared circle. Actually, “squared circle” could be a euphemism for the anus...nope, football's still gayer. Tight end. Jesus.

Don't invite me to your wedding

Long ago, I was asked to write a short monologue/speech thing for my friend's bachelor party. I'm sure he regrets it now, because the following is what I wrote, which someone else read in my absence. The names of the groom-to-be, his guests, and his fiancee have been replaced, to protect their dignity and social standing, by names chosen at random from the Canadian Motorsport Hall of Fame.

Before I begin, I should soothe the anxieties of the environmentally conscious by noting that this speech was written on 30% recycled paper and consists of 60% recycled jokes. Never let it be said that I didn't chip in for the good of us all.

Now then, the speech. When Felix Ross first suggested that I contribute to the roast of our good friend Alex Bennett, I was rather surprised. And flattered. Felix and I, you see, have a unique friendship in which we both hate each other. I was concerned that, due to my as-yet-unstable housing situation, I wouldn't be able to write anything to mark the occasion. But I snapped out of that pretty quickly. This was important, by thunder, and I needed to pull my weight, for two reasons:

1) My friend Alex Bennett, who proposed to his fiancee Alice Fergusson during the opening night performance of Faustus—a play I was in—is embarking on a special and wondrous life journey with someone he obviously loves very much.
2) My friend Felix Ross—who is fruitier than Carmen Miranda's party hat—is attending a heterosexual marriage ceremony. It's a novelty too bizarre and unlikely to let pass without comment.

Oh, and the rest of you oughtn't worry; Felix and Alex are the only two standing in front of my slings and arrows this time. Everyone else gets off easy. Or so your girlfriends tell me.

Anyway, back to the groom-to-be. We met in college, you see, and thus mutual acquaintances often ask me what my first memories are of Alex, and...actually, they don't. My friends know me well enough to never ask me anything like that, because I have the worst short term memory in Christendom. Also, my sleep schedule in college was highly irregular, so I'd often distinctly recall things that never, to be technical, happened. Hell, my first memory of Alex involves us on the sawdust floor of some sketchy oyster cellar, pounding opium into the soles of our feet with wooden mallets as the two lithe, pulchritudinous daughters of a wealthy Arab sheik—himself half-crazed by strong drink and giggling somewhere off in the corner—danced around us before doing things to, with, and for us that we'd only read about in Hustler's Letters to the Editor. And what the hell kind of remembrance is that for a stag party? What kind of effect would it have on Alex as he crawled into bed with Alice? Christ, he'd get cold feet so hard his ankles would freeze together.

Besides, it isn't true. No Arabs attended our alma mater. My first plausible memory of Alex brings to mind an odd, lanky fellow fascinated by Gumby and prone to running about in the woods swaddled in foam. He also played a hand in that year's Dungeons & Dragons campaign as a plucky, young adventurer on an endless search for “tray-sure,” a term I recognize but can't identify.

Other things come to mind as well. His sleep schedule was similar to mine, in that he'd spend all day playing video games in the house I lived in, and he'd be there button-mashing away as I went off to bed for the evening. When I woke up, he'd either still be there playing, indicating that he hadn't slept, or he'd be asleep on the couch, game still on, controller loosely gripped in his slumbering hand. Had I the presence of mind to fetch a camera, the resulting picture would be a modern-day Goatse; familiar to all corners of the Internet and, in its own degraded way, an accurate symbol of the human condition.

...Jesus, why do I write things like this? I must be getting sick. That ungodly cleaning lady of mine is trying to poison me. Revenge for leaving that spanikopita box where their dog could get it, I suspect. But that doesn't have much to do with Alex. I'd better get back on track.

Alex also had, and still has, a remarkable grasp of philosophy. And it is his alone, because when he goes off on random theoretical tears, no one around him knows what the blue fuck he's talking about. Oh sure, the graphs and puppets help. But Tube Socrates can only explain so much before the brain of whoever he's talking to goes into autopilot to avoid implosion.

What else? There's got to be more. I've known the man for years now. Man. How long it's been since his freshman year. Since my freshman year. We're getting old, Alex. It's only a matter of time before we're reminiscing about dining hall food during alumni weekend because it'll be the only thing there that still connects us to the alma mater. Once it hits that point, we're led away from the watering hole at sundown by well-meaning undergraduates who promptly remove us from the breeding pool. Come on, they'll say. Come on, grandpa. Cooing at us like we're goddamned children. Come on and take your medicine.

Good lord, how did that tangent hijack this speech? Did I get a contact high from something? Ether under the carpet? Fresh paint? It doesn't matter. Gotta keep moving.

Alex's theatrical roles come to mind now, for some reason. He played such memorable, imagination-capturing characters as...um...fuck...oh! One of the murdered husbands from Big Love, and the creepy vagrant from The Cherry Orchard, and various Shakespearean parts where he was either good with a sword or gussied up like a Cambodian hooker; I honestly can't remember which, and it may have been both simultaneously.

But it was Faustus, his senior showcase, that I actually do remember, because the stupid bastard cast me in it. And dressed me as a pimp, no less. Working on that show was a lot of fun, and it was my first main stage production (and my only proper one, since I'm trying to expel that ghastly Brecht play from my head with all appropriate speed). Alex put together a professional-looking show with limited time and extremely limited budget, and no jokes are necessary to once again thank him for the experience. The Faustus movie was also pretty cool, although it did suffer a bit towards the end when one of the actors stopped showing up.

And that's pretty much it. Whatever further accomplishments, trials, failures, or successes Alex has experienced during his life are best left for someone else to detail. All I can say is best of luck my friend, may you and Alice have many years of happiness and joy, and please, if you have a kid, don't name it after me. It'll probably turn out to be a serial killer, and I don't want that on my conscience.

Thank you.