eric in a bottle

Real Housewives of Beverly Hills Recap! Episode 10: Payback's a Bitch

2011-10-23T14:22:00.007-04:00

Taylor's parties always end up being about everyone else. What is up with that?!

In this delicious episode of RHOBH, Taylor throws a roaring twenties party, because why not. And also because she wants to have a drunken prohibition era-themed party. OH IRONY! This woman is deep. We get the sneaking suspicion that she seeks opportunities to torture people via parties. This time she’s really driving the nail deep by making her already-tortured husband wear a stupid 20’s hat and watch her kiss other people’s husbands in a hot glittery dress. It’s especially harrowing to watch her freak about her 20’s hair-do. Such is the priority of a baller housewife of Beverly Hills when your life is spinning out of control.

These parties are the best!

Before the party, Camille and Adrienne go out to lunch, which is something that Adrienne likes to do probably about as much as sticking martini toothpicks into her eyeballs. Camille seems oblivious to this. What a great, fun chat that was! And as her eyes dart around and she orders her cappuccino, only because Adrienne orders one, our suspicion that she is an alien is confirmed. Adrienne ends the lunch abruptly by explaining she has to go pick up her son in like eight hours. She has a son?

These ladies really know how to bury the hatchet. Speaking of hatchets, where is one? Just asking.

We were really excited about this episode because it’s the first time Camille and Kyle are face to face since their blow up (the last one). Will they be able to move beyond their differences? Pins and needles! Like always in Housewife land, the answer (no, and yes) is complicated. Camille runs into the party like the hot-mess-in-a-pink-fringed-20’s-dress that she is, and fails miserably at acting all whatever about Kyle’s presence. “Oh, you’re here?! I love that about you! Let’s make up! Let’s not just make up! Let’s be best friends forever!” But something is fishy, here. Why can’t she just do what we know she really wants and go home to her mansion and plot her frenemy’s demise?

Kim stays home, but it’s not to plot anyone’s demise. Since her kids are “her thing” (air quotes!), she holds her daughter hostage in her home for mother-daughter time. Because her kids are her thing. “Mom, I don’t care if we hang out tonight.” But her kids are her thing. “Mom, I hate that sandwich you made me brought up to me while I was trying to get away from you and I won’t eat it.” Her kids are her thing.

Episode 11 awaits us...

Things Kelsey Grammer Says

2010-05-17T13:19:00.001-04:00

Just saw that Kelsey Grammer is going to be the face of RightNetwork, a cable channel catering exclusively to conservatives because apparently Fox News doesn't exist or something. Here's Kelsey now, disparaging "partisan politics," among other things, while openly shilling for right wing TV.

I guess the idea behind RightNetwork is to provide non-news/political pundit content for the conservative audience, and one of their pilots is Right2Laugh, a showcase of right-wing comedians. Here's the teaser for it. Uh, yeah.

Let me say, for the record, that I am open to the idea of conservative comedians. Nick DiPaolo was really funny before he went completely off the deep end, and Jeff Foxworthy manages to be funny, be a Republican, and work clean, which requires almost occult levels of wit and timing. Denis Leary has conservative tendencies, as relevant as political alignment is to that Boston Irish mindset of being insanely angry all the time.

However, the problem with a lot of conservative comics is that their routines are too much about proving their own conservatism and less about telling jokes or being funny or exploring the absurd, or really connecting with the audience in any meaningful way. In the teaser I linked, there's maybe one or two jokes that might work beyond an echo chamber in lockstep agreement with the comedian (and only one joke, the one about the Obama coin, that got more than a tepid response from the crowd). Otherwise, the content and delivery don't cover any ground beyond the sort of "X walks like this, but Y walks like this" bullshit pandering that is a staple of ineffective comedy.

That said, Kelsey Grammer has been funny before. And if one of his sex tapes ever goes public, we'll all definitely have something to laugh at.

Shit My Dad Says

2010-05-14T14:46:00.005-04:00

My dad is planning a trip to visit me in the city, and he recently sent me a list of must-do activities:

Fly kites
Write poems
Read and sing to old people at a retirement home
Go huntin' with Junior
Beg for spare change and loosie cigarettes in front of Penn Station
Offer bike taxi rides at Central Park, but just with regular bikes so people have to sit on the handlebars. It's NYC, someone will take us up on it.
Create our own performance art in Bryant Park that involves us punching each other in the stomach. You friends can take shifts. People must be punchees if they punch (one simple damn rule).
Sell chicklets and Padre Pio key chains in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral
Re-enact famous movie scenes in Greenwhich Village (because I think beatniks would like this).
Camp out overnight in Central Park along side a road, and heat up a can of beans on the fire 'cause: My daddy tole me, look here Mac the best friend you'll have is a railroad track. So when I's 13, I said I'm rollin my own, and I am leavin and never comin home. And I'm lost, I'm lost at the bottom of the world. Sittin by the fire with a busted nose. The moon's the color of a coffee stain, and I'm lost, I'm lost at the bottom of the world.

I am pretty sure he is serious. These are just the kind of activities my family and I do together. When I am home for Christmas, we basically just get drunk in front of the fire place, eat dinner every night at Dontinos, and occasionally we will have a Twisting Competition or throw my cats Fish Taco Fiestas and make them wear sombreros. (Following the Twisting Competitions are always hours of bickering over who won the Twisting Competition. Dad's twisting style, if you ask me, is a little too wild and doesn't even really resemble twisting. Mom's is a little to unenthusiastic. Mine is just right.) I also go on long runs in the woods with my dad, and I go shopping with my mom. We lounge on the couch and watch Lifetime movies.

And when people come to stay with me in New York, I am a pretty shitty host. Every time my friend Patty visits, we dream of doing these awesome things, but we often just sit in a coffee shop and make farting noises or pile into my apartment and play kazoos. When my mom comes, she specifically says, "I don't want to go to any goddam museums. No cultural activities." (She openly "hates art.") We drink, shop, make fun of people, and smoke hookah. And that is pretty much what people can expect to do when they come visit me.

So I guess what I'm saying is, if you want to visit me, you've been warned. (And you may want to brush up on your twisting style.) And I'm also on the hunt for anyone willing to participate in my dad's punching-eachother-in-the-stomach performance art. Let me know if you're interested.

Shit My Mom Says

2010-05-07T13:09:00.004-04:00

This just in from the Parenting experts: Moms cheat more on their man the day after Mother's Day than on any other day of the year.

Blogs are all abuzz about this news, but I'm really not that surprised.

As I've said before, I work for a parenting website and fully understand the gravity of this holiday. If you fuck it up by not honoring mom correctly, you're doing the kind of damage that requires months of therapy sessions.

When I was a little girl, I said to my mom, "Mom, there's a Mother's Day and a Father's Day. Why isn't there a Kid's day?"

She fucking whipped her head around and said in one of those harsh, devil-mom voices, "Every day is Kid's Day." She was totally right, and it was the first time I realized what a big deal this holiday is. Moms may pretend like it's no big deal (but have you ever noticed, the sort of don't act like it's no big deal?) but they take it very seriously. As they should. I haven't done a FRACTION of a FRACTION of the selfless things moms do every day for their kids. (But, I must admit, now that I’m not technically a "kid" anymore, and I’m not a mother or father, I'd like a day of my own.)

Anyway, to cover my ass this Mamma's Day, I have compiled a list of the greatest advice and how-to's my mother ever gave me. Thanks, mom!

Don't mix drinks Before I was old enough to drink, I remember her New Year's Resolution: Drink MORE vodka. This makes her sound nuts but it's actually really responsible advice. If you drink more vodka, you'll probably drink less beer and have less-excruciating hangovers. Probably.

The Eye Roll In my early school days, I was nerdy and almost friendless (I blame this on the suspenders/clip on tie/ kangol hat outfits I wore, which were my mother's fault in the first place -- I mean why did she let me out of the house like that?). But when girls were really mean to me -- really cruel as girls can sometimes be -- she told me not to say a word but to roll my eyes at them. That, she said, is way more powerful than anything you can say, and it won't get you riled up. I noticed it drove the LiLo's of my elementary school ca-razy.

Kissing ass isn't bullshit, it's practical Every year at Christmas time, my mom leaves a six-pack of beer and a card for our garbage collectors out with our trash cans. She then glues herself to the front window until they drive by to pick up the garbage, and then see (and joyfully accept) their gifts. My mom treats everyone well. It's smart to be nice to people in your life, like the garbage man. You never know when he's going to be able to help you. (Another nice thing would be for me to stop calling him the "Garbage Man", which is like one step above calling him "Poo Captain".) This is also related to more advice my mom gave me: always do the extra credit.

Don't date the townies It was the only parting advice she gave me when she dropped me off in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania for college.

If you're feeling shitty, buy something Extra points if it's glittery or bright pink.

You're never too old to love Disney World In fact, Disney World is better when you're an adult. When I take over the place, I'm banishing anyone under 5 years old. (And if you want a wheelchair, you're going to have to pass some sort of "DISABLED TEST". But that's another story.)

The positive effects of swearing, and, specifically having a trademark swear word. Hers: mother FUCKER!!! And calling un-courteous drivers "ass wipes"

Talking or trying to get anything done really doesn't make any sense until you've had 18 cups of coffee Thanks a lot, mom. I've been pretty much addicted since birth. Aren't you supposed to halt your caffeine addiction when you're pregnant?

Get dressed up for everything When my mom picks me up from the Cleveland Airport, everyone looks like shit. They're all wearing Crocs and have deep pantal wedgies (that they don't even seem to notice.) But then I see my mom, she's always wearing a cute patterned, pastel skirt and blouse, with a bright jacket, gloves, a tiny purse and pears. And I am so proud that she is picking up me and that I am her daughter.

And finally, the most important advice of all, one that she has pounded into my brain for as long as I can remember:

Don't murder anyone in Texas

She also taught me how to:

Make huevos rancheros
Drive backwards really fast
Determine the entire plotline of a Lifetime movie after watching the first 3 minutes
Say "Look at my butt" in Italian
Eat Taco Bell bean burritos while driving a stick shift car

Thanks mom! Your efforts toward rearing me into a bean burrito eating, dressed-up eye roller did not go unrecognized. Don't cheat on Dad or murder anyone or run away, okay?!

You people are beasts

2010-05-06T13:29:00.001-04:00

WELL.

I'd try explaining my lengthy absence from this blog, but I doubt anyone reading it remembers that I'm a contributor. Even I forgot until recently. Still, I suppose I owe you people something. This video is a good approximation of what my life has been like since the last time I posted here.

Anyway, as some of you may know, I am an ad critic. Which means, among other things, that I am no stranger to hate mail. This was a particularly fun item:

With regard to your comment... "How they thought this would reflect well on the brand is anyone's guess. Maybe they downsized the people in charge of thinking this stuff through."
That, or maybe they just went for it. And didn't over think it. That or, they didn't make a decision based on fear. Whatever the case, they tried.
Of course, you wouldn't know anything about that. Instead, you -like all the other Ellsworth Tooheys of the world- do your best to justify your existence by doing nothing more commenting on other's efforts. Attempting to gain some modicum of self worth with your smug and glib little quips. Sad.
I'll be expecting the requisite glib/smug/ironic comment back from you. So, take your time. And make it a good one.

Ellsworth Toohey, by the way, was an art critic in The Fountainhead whose secret plan was to destroy excellence by enshrining mediocrity. That this dude finished The Fountainhead is no small feat; rather, it proves that he likes the smell of Ayn Rand's farts as much as she did. He's a stronger man than me in that respect, because I didn't get very far into that book before Rand's utter dogshit writing got the best of me.

But if he's serious about tearing down mediocrity, he should be fighting back-to-back with me against a marketing culture where "growing the brand" has become a justification for poorly conceived or pointlessly random ideas that do nothing for the product they're selling. The whole POINT of advertising is to sell things, after all, and merely raising awareness of a product is fruitless if said awareness is negative, or even opaque. The ad he's defending leaves me, the viewer, connecting the Walmart brand to a clown screaming at a room full of terrified kids. Not an inaccurate image, God knows, but not one that reflects well on Walmart. And brands do this ALL THE TIME. It is a function of creative and artistic laziness that protects bad ideas at the expense of good ones (this Kodak spot is an example of what I think is a good one). If Captain Objectivism wasn't so busy getting his precious feelings hurt by strangers on the Internet, he would see that.

Also, I write for Adfreak to justify my existence at the expense of others? No, I work for money - Verizon doesn't accept justifications of my existence in lieu of payment, thanks. But I'd rather be Ellsworth Toohey, for all his faults, than yet another blowhard asshole who thinks he's John Galt.

I'm a Lady! Lauren's Finally Growing Up

2010-05-05T18:35:00.003-04:00

I was tired getting dressed this morning, so I absently mindedly reverted to OLD Lauren and slipped into one of my borderline inappropriate outfits. Lately I have been trying to dress more like a lady, banishing my "is-that-a-dress-or-a-long-shirt?" outfits to the back of my closet, along with my kinda-skirts. If I don't concentrate on dressing appropriately every day, though, I end up leaving my apartment wearing something like what I wore today: a skin-tight, pro-boob-spillage, shiny green shirt, a black lace skirt with a slit up the entire right side, a view of my lower buttcheeks, and strappy high-heel sandals that I can't even walk in. To offset this little number, I was wearing a carrot necklace. (That was not a typo. I mean carrot, not carat. A huge orange thing on a necklace strand.)

Anyway, I was uncomfortable all day at work so at lunch time I actually hauled my ass back to the Upper West Side and changed. And as I sat waiting for the subway, feeling all ridiculous, I realized I should be proud of myself. Wanting to respectfully dress for success is a sign that I'm finally growing up. I used to not worry about letting a buttcheek or two fly, but now that I'm at 26-year-old lady I realize I have to dress the part.

I'm growing up in other ways, too:

I have stopped eating cold pizza for breakfast.
I listen to NPR.
I often wake up hours before I need to go to work and read The New Yorker and eat oatmeal (not the changing-color kind) in the "breakfast nook" (the barstool crammed next to the refrigerator in my apartment.)
I went to Webster Hall to see Kid Sister and was fully aware that I was 8 years older than everyone there, and the kids 8 years younger than me realized it, too.
People have started asking me if I have kids. (Yeah -- I'm more mature than kids. Har Har.)
Instead of paying my bills online or mailing a check in, I walk my checks to the bank and pay for them in person. (This makes me more like an 80-year-old.)
I got into an argument over who likes purple more with a Starbucks employee (long story), and I actually said to him, "I was wearing purple before you were even born."
I joined a book club -- a real book club -- where we don't just get drunk. (I'm still in that book club.) But in this new one, we read things like An Education, and On Chesil Beach. (Erotica and Seventeen magazine were also group selections.)
I have to turn off all the lights when I sleep. (This means no more falling asleep to Parental Control reruns.)

I changed (into a black skirt, white collared shirt, and pink cowboy boots) and headed back downtown. On the 1 train, I ran into Larry, the janitor who works at my gym.

"Do you work up town?" he asked.

"No. This is embarrassing but I didn't like my outfit today so I went home and changed."

"I do that all the time!" He said. And the woman next to him chimed in. "Me too!" And the woman next to her touched my wrist and said, "Everybody does that sometimes."

I do not think that is true, but I am really glad I changed. I felt much more comfortable, and after chatting with Larry we started dancing together in the aisles when some guys with bongos started a drum circle at 42^nd street. I love New York.

Does this make any sense?

2010-04-29T17:04:00.000-04:00

12 Shitty PR Pitches

2010-04-28T14:01:00.019-04:00

Since I work in media, I get approximately 50 PR pitches every day from terrible companies that want me to feature their products on the site I work for. The e-mails I get are boring, poorly written, and grammatically incorrect. I don't know where -- or if -- these people went to school, or if they're just holed up inside their parents' basements pounding away letters about bizarre toys and books and totally unnecessary products for pregnant women. (Someone just sent me a whole box of Mother's Tranquil Tummy Crackers -- "soothing saltine crackers for morning sickness." As in... they are just regular saltine crackers. In a box with a pregnant woman on them. I refused to taste them but when I shook them in the box they sounded like rocks.)

Here are a few of the worst of the worsts. Click on the images to enlarge.

I could have used a little explanation for this one. I don't recall taking any time for Cameron Quinn, I have no idea what she's talking about, I'll never be "getting back to it," and I don't want any videos. BLESSINGS!

I prefer that my Suicide Parties be in Ho-Down form.

I'm trying to stay with you, here. So bad economy = unemployment = more people getting pregnant = they all need to go on spa vacations. But when people are unemployed doesn't that mean they have less money to spend on stupid shit like Mommy Spa Packages?

This came from my coworker, Jess. This guy didn't even send her an e-mail, he forwarded her an e-mail he sent to Parents magazine, our #1 competition in the mag world. Also, click here to see the video he is dying to share with us. Nothing could make an old guy singing about coughing into your elbow cool, but the fact that this GEEZER is TRYING TO RAP makes it even more painfully out of touch.

Dear Orphan star Isabelle Fuhrman,

Thanks for making me almost shit my pants while watching your scary-ass movie. I am still convinced you are the Anti-Christ, I would never wear anything you wore, and I can barely look at a picture of you without wanting to hide my head in my armpit.

Nice try,
Lauren

This is from Ann Noder, a PR prez who e-mails me pizzazz-less, uninspired pitches about pointless "mompreneur" mommy products and self-published books every day. I have replied dozens of times asking her to stop -- she never pitches anything good -- but she keeps on going strong. Obviously, I assumed this meant she was a robot, and her self portrait on her website either supports or undermines this:

Click to enlarge!

This person sent me 5 e-mails and left me God knows how many voice mails. Mentioning that you e-mailed me and called me before does not make me want to pay attention to your e-mail. It makes me think you are super way annoying.

Click to enlarge!

This is for the Girltrunks, "swim shorts and tops impeccably, yet conservatively, countoured to a woman's shape" [sic]:

You may think they were made for Mormon people, but I think they were just made for stupid people -- stupid people who don't know they just paid a buttload of cash for a pair of waterproof shorts. No good PR pitch can save a product like girltrunks.

The people at Juno Baby have decided to go paparazzi all over (some lesser-known actress named) Tia Carrere's little girl, whose parents were just divorced. Apparently little Bianca has been dragging the doll around in her moments of post-divorce despair, making the Juno Baby the ... come on everybody, say it together: BEST TOY EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is the pic they attached:

Yes you did send me your invention. I gave it to my friend's dog. You haven't heard back from me? Yes? What's your question? And I'm sure you would be interested to speak to me about the Clingy Cord, but I could tell it sucked and is the exact opposite of a must-have. Don't send me any more stuff.

When I get an e-mail pitching a crappy product like Oobees, my enthusiasm level is already at an all time low. You have to at least act like you are so excited about your product that you are about to shit your pants. Try to trick me into thinking you have a great product. When you start off ordering me to...

Slip into the comfort of Oobees. These all-terrain slippers are great to wear around the house, and with their durable soles you can wear them to school, shopping and around town. Email back to receive images for your new products sections. We can also provide Oobees for giveaways and fun contests.

...imagine that I am now ten times more bored than you are boring. And that's a lot.

My Lesbian Costume

2010-04-02T17:15:00.010-04:00

Due to a string of unprecedented events, I was reduced to wearing the following on my flight back from Miami: skinny jeans, running shoes, and my black work blazer. Running the risk of sounding politically incorrect (I love being politically incorrect), I felt like I looked like a lesbian. Which isn't fair, I know. Blame it on culture and stereotypes and me being an asshole and whatever, but the brief heel-and-skirt hiatus made me look and feel like a totally different person.

"I feel like a lesbian right now," I told my mom on the phone as I waited for my flight, in a much deeper, louder voice than normal, slouched in my chair with my legs kicked up on my suitcase. Also, I had not combed my hair all day. Ever since I had started wearing my new costume, my attitude had changed. I was more aggressive in line getting my lunch, I wasted less time primping and making sure my skirt wasn't tucked into my thong (this is a huge time-suck for me, under normal circumstances.) I spent less time bullshitting around and did what I wanted to do all day.

As I started explaining this to my mom, I realized I wasn't really acting like a lesbian at all (whatever that means,) I was acting like a total dick. Or maybe just like a guy. I quickly became ashamed that it even crossed my mind that blazer/uncombed hair/running shoes = lesbian. Just as quickly, I realized that none of the gay women I know would necessarily wear a blazer and running shoes with skinny jeans. It was then I had my Full House, "kids-we're-learning-something-about-each-other" moment, complete with sappy background music, and I thought about how all stereotypes seem offensively wrong when you actually know the people being pigeon-holed. So, per usual, my inner dialogue ended up concluding: we are all the same, praise Jesus, etc., etc.

But I also started thinking that there are (for better or worse) fewer stereotypes for gay women than gay men.

I've wasted hours of my life listening to people debating "is he gay? His voice is too high! But he has a horrible sense of fashion!" There are so many gay man stereotypes that practically any guy could be considered gay for a moment or two, and there it takes more than one or two qualities to seal the deal. I don't hear as many people debating whether people are lesbians or not. I think most people are more comfortable putting lesbians into neat categories: Is she butch? Sporty? Adrogynous? Pick one!

If we're going to have fun with stereotypes, though, and if I were to switch teams, I'm sure I'd be a lipstick lesbian, which Urban Dictionary defines as a "feminine lesbian who is attracted to other feminine lesbians." The article then goes on to report that "they generally enjoy fashion, flowers, perfume, sex and the city, lingerie, lipstick of course, and (gasp!) passionate sex with other women."

But you can't assume lipstick lesbians are only attracted to other lipstick lesbians. I'm pretty sure my type is like Ashley Merriman from Top Chef:

I like her because she is the total opposite of me -- very chill, badass, secretively smart, and understated. I have watched Ashley pan fry soft shell crabs and thought, "maybe I am a lesbian." I think a lot of girls think about this, but then when it actually comes to the thought of sex, straight girls realize, "wow, no. I am definitely into guys."

Ever since that trip back from Miami, I've daydreamed of wearing my lesbian costume again. I picture myself as a more confident, funny, relaxed person, in absolute comfort and making serious headway at work. But here I sit, wearing my high heels and a pretty uncomfortable dress. And that's just me, and who I am and I don't think that's going to change and that's okay. Because maybe, just maybe Ashley Merriman is into lipstick lesbians. And if she is, I'll be waiting. (In heels.)

Pack Your Bags, Kids. We're Going Morman.

2010-03-09T14:22:00.002-05:00

As a little girl, I never daydreamed of my wedding day and now my attitude toward marriage has wavered but always remained in the skeptical area on the spectrum. I constantly worry about what people give up to be in a marriage, and whether it's worth it in the long run. I realize that's because I'm not married, and people who stay married (and probably even if they don't,) think it was worth it. Right now I guess I just think marriage is a pretty fucking big ass deal, and you'd better be absolutely sure about it.

I mentioned this to my friend Dave, following up with my Anti Gay Marriage credo. Dave, who happens to be gay, thought I was kidding. "Because you hate gay people?" He asked.

"No," I said seriously. "Because I love gay people. Nobody should be allowed to get married."

"But you'll marry me, right?" He asked.

Obviously. We have one of those "if we don't get married in 60 years, we will marry each other" contracts. I have made that offer to several of my gay friends to cover my bases, and to assure my mother that I will not die alone and that she may even one day have grandchildren to cart around Disney World -- two things I know she looses sleep over.

But really -- if women married their best-gay-guy friends, how many of them do you think would get divorced? I suspect the number would be much lower. The straight woman/gay male relationships that I know are strong, the people involved are understanding and non-competitive toward each other. I am, of course, basing this primarily on the television show Will and Grace, and interactions with my friends, whose lives are eerily reminiscent of Will and Grace.

Whatever -- many straight women are already marrying gay men, anyway. There are support groups for this sort of thing. (They exist the other way around, but I don't think as prevalently. I also didn't look that hard.) And the reason these women need support isn't usually because they were unhappy in their marriage, but because they are so totally shocked to find out their husband wants to bone another guy.

But if that element of surprise was taken away? If I married Dave fully aware that he wanted to bone other guys? Maybe things would work out. If more people did this, the divorce rate would go down. If Dave and I had kids, (I'm thinking adoption -- I've always wanted to snag one of those cute kids from Columbia or something,) the kids wouldn't have to deal with divorce. They'd have a mom and a dad and a loving family to grow up in. (The dad might not be able to give him football tips or how-to-get-to-third-base-with-a-girl tips, but there are websites for that sort of thing, and I am convinced that dads are giving their sons pretty poor advice in these areas, anyway.)

Just as we were explaining our idea to our friend Hannah, she decided she agreed and wanted in, as well. Okay, sure. I can see this totally working out. And unlike the polygamist women in Big Love, I won't get jealous if Dave spends the night with Hannah more than he spends the night with me because... I just don't see that becoming an issue.

I guess this post is just a long-winded way of announcing that Hannah, Dave and I are going Mormon and will enter into matrimonial bliss. We really don't mind being the guinea pigs to what I think will be an innovative approach to marriage. Hannah and I have our gift registry at Babeland, by the way, and guests are encouraged to bring bottles of booze to the wedding in lieu of donating to a charity.

Ephiphany of the Century: I Love Pump Up The Jam

2010-01-07T17:52:00.005-05:00

In 1992, I was 8 years old and listening to mostly The Mary Poppins Sound Track and my parents' Todd Rundgren tapes. But the moment I heard Pump Up The Jam on a TV commercial for the Ultimate Jack Jams Mix CD orwhatever, I knew it was the most retarded song of all time. I was incredulous, actually, as to how such an idiotic song could have slipped through the cracks. "Are those really the words? Over and over?" I asked my mom.

I entertained my parents' house guests by jumping up and down, to and fro, wildly pumping my arms, singing, "Puhhhhhmp up the jeyyyyymmmm up the jeyyyyymmmn, puhhhmp it up."

"Pump Up The Jam" made its way into my tender, sarcastic third grade wordage. When my mother asked me to clean my room, I'd reply with a snooty, "Why don't you go Pump Up The Jam?" When I got a good grade passed back to me in school, I'd loudly announce, "Well Pump Up The Jam!" I used it to express everything, because to me, it meant nothing.

Then I was listening to one of Bev's mix CDs when I heard that familiar Pump Up The Jam beat. She had chosen it as song number three on her September 2009 Hip Hop Dance Mix. But after months of dancing and listening to meaningless, raunchy rap lyrics, I realized Pump Up The Jam, relatively speaking, was no that ridiculous. In fact, I realized I loved Pump Up The Jam. It made me happy. I couldn't sit still. And as the song continued, While your feet are stompin' and the jam is pumpin' look at where the crowd is jumpin' pump it up a little more, it dawned on me: hip hop has officially changed my life, and I am a much happier person than I was without it.

2009 Year in Review: Shit that Sucked

2009-12-31T12:45:00.002-05:00

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

2009-11-03T11:39:00.006-05:00

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"

2009-10-19T14:27:00.008-04:00

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.

Make smokers smoke into long mail tubes that channel their smoke into the sky
Replace all cigarettes with candy necklaces - still suppresses appetite without that harmful second hand smoke
Allow smoking in Starbucks only. Lets face it, the store could take a hit.
Enforce a you-can-smoke-only-if-you-wear-these-oversized-glasses law
Make cigarettes more eco-friendly. Maybe the smoke could simultaneously hurt your lungs and plant trees?
Just download the iPhone app - the smoking surrogate
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)

2009-10-06T16:35:00.002-04:00

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

2009-09-30T09:41:00.003-04:00

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?

2009-09-23T12:24:00.014-04:00

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

2009-09-01T12:10:00.008-04:00

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)

2009-08-24T12:34:00.021-04:00

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

2009-08-19T16:41:00.003-04:00

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

2009-08-04T10:31:00.004-04:00

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

2009-07-30T12:06:00.003-04:00

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

2009-07-19T00:55:00.004-04:00

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

2009-07-08T15:39:00.003-04:00

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.

This LOL Shit Is Out Of Control

2009-07-07T15:00:00.003-04:00

The amount of LOL I see out there concerns me. I recently read a funny status update from a friend and literally laughed out loud.

No fucking around. And I wanted to tell him, LOL, but we have overused LOL to the point that I don't think he would have believed me. We have cried wolf on LOL too many times. This is my imaginary conversation with Mike:

Me: LOL.

Mike: Nice.

Me: But I LOLed. Really, Mike.

Mike: I know. Big deal.

Me: But what you wrote was so funny, that I actually could not suppress my laughter.

Someone that I communicate with for work LOLs at everything I say, and I either do not believe her or am very concerned about her mental state. If she is LOLing as she claims, she must be qualified insane. The people around her must wonder if they need to provide her with a straight jacket. I don't even have to say something funny to get a LOL in reply. Just as I was confessing my LOL to Mike and my qualms with admitting I LOLed, she responded to an e-mail I sent her, in which I agreed to help her with something.

"LOL, I am actually laughing hysterically at my desk and people are looking at me like I am crazy. Ha, ha. Thanks for your help! :)"

It's as if she was reading my mind. "No really," she was saying. "This LOLing is the real shit." I was glad to hear the confirmation. (But borderline worried that she is crazy.)

"We need a "small, earnest chuckle" abbreviation," Mike said. "Or one that indicates, "yeah, you made me smirk, but it wasn't good enough to cause me to emit a sound."

Mike is right. But what? Does anyone have any ideas?

And all of this LOLing seems rather tame compared to its relative, Rolling On The Floor Laughing (ROTFL). Has anyone actually done this? This is getting scary.

"The ramp up now is too excessive," Mike said. "Either I'm laughing out loud or rolling on the floor laughing my ass off. That's not always true! There are nuances."

How true that is. What do we do, guys?

Sarcozy: Please Also Ban Harem Pants

2009-07-06T14:17:00.005-04:00

I was in Paris last week, just in time to see somewhat immediate aftermath of Nicholas Sarcozy's ban on the burqa. I have gone back and forth on the burqa thing, and while I cannot judge what it is like to grow up wearing one, I don't think it's good for women the world, and I don't think it has anything to do with Islam. While I'm glad I live in America, a place where anyone can wear anything and do anything they want, I'm also glad that this ban has happened somewhere-- I think something dramatic must happen, or nothing will ever change. Is that selfish? I don't want anything to be banned in my country, but I'm glad France has elected to be a guinea pig in testing this out?

When I was in Paris, I read in a newspaper an exchange between someone who was pro burqa, offended by the ban, and a Muslim woman grateful for the ban. She tells a story that she was wearing a headscarf and was accosted by a woman in a burqua, who said, "If you wanted a piece of candy, would you choose an unwrapped piece or one that came in a wrapper?" I don't care what these women are saying about how the burqa doesn't keep them hidden, or how it even liberates them -- I think this candy metaphor is behind everything, and anything else is an excuse to distract people from what the burqa really is.

I was speaking with a friend who has family in France, and he said that many Muslims move to France because they want to follow Islam, but not in a stifling Arab country. According to him, it has much to do with the fact that men want to be able to buy designer clothes and live Western lives. So they bring their families to Paris, where they can wear Armani suits and drink alcohol while their wives stay completely covered and don't leave the house. This is only his opinion (I have no primary sources to back up this statement) but I think it's a common one and says a lot. So if Muslims want to be covered, they are free to move to a country where it is allowed. If I was a Muslim Fundamentalist who wanted to stone homosexuals, I'd have to move to a country where that was allowed, like Iran. France doesn't let you do that, either.

And I cannot be convinced that all women truly want to be covered. (It is even just plain uncomfy, I'd imagine. When I was in Paris, it was 95 degrees.) If covering is simply symbolic, why can't they wear a headscarf? Sarcozy didn't ban those-- just the fucking body bags that do not allow a square millimeter of skin to be exposed. I had never seen one before my trip to France and was surprised to see that there is even a screen over the eyes.
I'm reading a book about searching for feminism in Islam, and in it are interviews with what we might consider to be Islamic "feminists" (although, they never use the western word "feminism"-- it is a dirty word for them). These are strong, intelligent women who say, "let me do my work. Why do you care if I'm wearing a burqa?" They insist that it is all that westerners focus on, and that it's no big deal, really. That women have a choice and that Islam is liberating for women and blahblahblah. But I don't think it's not a big deal, and I don't think Muslims will understand that it is a big deal until they give the no-burqa thing a chance. Also, these women are becoming a powerful force, meeting with world leaders and holding conferences with people from other cultures. Personally, if I am meeting with someone, discussing business, a partnership, even friendship, or exchanging ideas, I want to see their eyes, read their facial expressions and body language. It makes me more comfortable. If these women are going to be dealing with westerners and want to be taken seriously, ditching the burqa might be a wise move.

Also, when a lot of people start defending women's right to dress as they wish and the power of dressing modestly, they are often talking about hijab -- Sarkozy is talking about the burqa, a totally different thing. I cringe when I see the burqa; It literally makes my skin crawl. Luckily, I only saw one the entire time I was in France -- a stark contrast from less than a year ago, when my parents were there and said they couldn't open their eyes without seeing one. What I saw much more often, which was almost as disturbing, was harem pants. If Sarkozy wants to make me really happy, he'd ban those motherfucking ugly eyesores while he's at it.

Hello. My Name is: Sister Margherita Jr.

2009-06-29T12:23:00.006-04:00

I have always said that if nuns were permitted to have sex, I would join the sisterhood, and I stand by that comment. They're allowed to drink, and I've always thought living the life of a nun would be pretty dreamy. I'm picturing a tightly knit group of women who follow Jesus' example of peace and love, do good deeds and discuss Theology. One of my very smart friends who is always proving me wrong insists that I am over-romanticizing a nun's life. "They're probably just a bunch of lesbians who grew up in religious households and don't know what to do with themselves," she said. "I bet they don't even get along." She may have a point, but I think if nuns were allowed to have sex, this probably would be solved.

The reason I reached out to Sister Margherita was not that I wanted a guru to guide me in a path toward nun-dom. I just love talking about religion, and I'm constantly trying to figure out what I can salvage from Catholicism, a religion that I love and adhere to, albeit with many reservations. A friend from Ohio knows Sister Margherita and suggested I meet with her, so I sent her an e-mail.

That was a mistake. She asked for my phone number and started calling me every morning and e-mailing me several times a day. Her daily voice mail at 8:30 AM was always the same: (I wish I could call you right now and let you hear my Sister Margherita impression -- after hearing about thirty of her voicemails I really have her raspy, New Jersey accent nailed):

Lauren. It's Sister Margherita. I'm 87 ½. I'm getting old and I need someone to replace me. I think you are the one. I'm gonna die soon if you don't call me. God Bless You, Sister Margherita.

Woah, there cowboy, I tried to explain in nun-friendly language. I am not "the one." I don't want to be a nun. I just want to talk about Catholicism. Question number one: Recently, my friend who lives in a convent (LONG STORY) had a slumber party, and we stumbled upon this strange contraption in the living quarters:

What is this thing? Nuns are not supposed to masturbate, so I'm just not going to say what I think this is. I'm trying to get as many Heaven Points as possible. (Negative 10 Heaven Points for writing about this in the first place; Plus 12 Heaven Points for not mentioning aloud that this looks like a nun dildo.)

Anyway, as we all know, sometimes deeply religious people cannot be reasoned with. They can become convinced they are dealing with a higher power and earthly rules do not apply. So Sister M likely thought I was a gift to her from God, and saw me stepping in to become Sister Margherita Jr. just as she was about to retire. (She was 87 1/2, she kept on reminding me. BTW -- who, other than 4 1/2 year olds, counts their ages in halves?)

She has sent me about nine books (including one that she wrote) about entering the Sisterhood and she keeps on inviting me to these weekend long religious retreats. I eventually started lying and saying, "oh shucks, I already am going to another religious retreat that weekend. I'm booked up for the whole year!" (I'm fully aware that this is not the right thing to do.)

This led to the age old question, that I'm sure we've all grappled with: how do you break up with a nun? It's not you, Sister Margherita, it's me. I'm not ready for a serious relationship right now. I'm just not that into you.

My mom suggested that I just show Sister Margherita my true colors.

"Why don't you just go on one of your rants about how Mary was not a virgin or give her your Jesus/Charles Manson comparison," she suggested.

"Good idea," I said.

"Or tell her how much you drink."

"Okay, yeah I see where you're going with this."

"Or meet her, and wear one of your slutty outfits."

"Okay, mom, I get it."

"Just be yourself."

"OKAY."

The e-mails have slowed down, but I recently got a request from Sister Margherita from a social networking site that allows people to share their e-mail address books with each other. A few things about this:

1) When did Sister M get to tech savvy? Last time we talked, I think she thought that e-mail was like AIM, because she would send me a new e-mail every six minutes saying, "where are you?"

2) Why does she want access to my address book? I can only assume she's going to try to contact and brainwash all of my friends and family into believing that I am "the one" and to help me admit defeat and accept my fate as Sister Margherita Jr.

3) I do not want access to Sister Margherita's address book.

4) Why on earth would I agree to doing this?

Questions for you: how do I break up with a nun, and what is this thing? Also, if you get an e-mail from Sister M implying that I am nun material, ignore it. She is wrong. Also, raise your hand if you think all of this means I'm going to hell. If you did not raise your hand, what religion are you, and may I join that religion?

Poorly Made Professional Cakes Are Hilarious

2009-06-26T20:12:00.004-04:00

I'm literally dying at this cake. Ok, so I'm clearly not dying, which makes my use of 'literally' asinine. Regardless, this cake brings me so much joy it should be illegal. Best part? It's professionally made. And I suppose I need not mention that it reads: "What's up! Gotta Go! Out of Town." I would love to know what this cake decorator had in mind with colorful clusterfuck of teen-text-y phrases.

I found this gem on one of my favorite blogs - Cake Wrecks; when professional cakes go horribly, hilariously wrong. The blogger, Jen, is genius. And so are the heinous cakes featured on the blog. In case you don't shit-show cakes as much as I do, she also posts beautifully done cakes on Sundays. Here is a little sample:

Fraggle Rock cake. Amazing. I will give you $12 in cash if you can find a Fraggle Rock cake better than this ($12 is all I have, sorry).

Shower Belly and the Problem With Over-Sharing

2009-06-23T10:37:00.006-04:00

I am an over-sharer. A few months ago on a first date after about a fourth of a glass of wine I decided to tell my new acquaintance about Shower Belly. Shower Belly is a secret I had kept for more than 20 years -- it's my morning shower ritual of rubbing a layer of soap onto my belly and drawing pictures and patterns in the suds. I've done this every morning since I can remember and until that moment, nobody knew. I felt as if I had betrayed a little of myself, and also, I should add, this is not a good dating tactic. (The cat is out of the bag on Shower Belly, so I don't mind blogging about it.)

You'd probably assume that Facebook would be deadly weapons for an over-sharer. But I am wary to make status updates and don't allow myself access to the site when I'm drinking. (This is necessary restraint.) I am constantly aware of Facebook status updates that are annoying. You know, the ones that show off how many miles someone just ran, or the awesome sandwich they are eating, or how much they love their engagement ring. I specifically think it's annoying when people say things like, "Grandma, I miss you, Rest In Peace." I've actually seen shit like that and I don't want to be one of those people.

On Friday, I made a status update that said, "A moment of silence for Buddy, 1997 - 2009, the best boy in the world," to memorialize my cat who had died that morning. I didn't think it was a big deal but people immediately started commenting on it. ("Oh no!" "I'm so sorry!") and within a few hours the thread took up about three kilometers of wall space. This annoying post was now growing beyond my control. I hadn't intended to cause a fuss or fish for pity; I only wanted to give little Buddy Edward a moment of recognition.

I think this caused me to have an epiphany about annoying status updates: idle hands are the devil's playground. I had been incredibly bored that day. Due to a slight medical emergency, I was trying to work from home, in bed with my lap top, but I was getting distracted and since I wasn't in the office, I was much less busy. So I had alllllll day to think about the two big things that were happening to me that day: the fact that I was recovering from a medical procedure and the fact that my cat died. Instead of updating everyone about my lady parts, I updated about Buddy. (YOU'RE WELCOME.) Fortunately, the meds caused me to pass out face down on my computer, so I couldn't do any more damage. But the takeaway was that when you don’t have enough to think about, uninteresting things seem more significant, and worthy of an update than they actually are.

Also, posting a pet's death is slightly less annoying than a grandmother's. For some reason it almost seems insulting to open up a death to the Facebook status realm. But it's okay to do with a pet (who doesn’t get an obituary or a funeral) and adorable if the person posts a picture of that cat wearing a sombrero. (CHECK.) I will be more careful in the future, though, about updating my status.

I don't like Twitter and the only good thing about it is listening to old people talk about it. John Roberts, the elder-ish, renowned news anchor of CNN American Morning was talking about it with some social networking expert asking questions like, "Do you think The Twitter will catch on?" And you could just see in his eyes, that although he has a Twitter account, he doesn't understand its purpose. It's a Gen Y Thing.

It's unfortunate that Twitter is alienating Senior Citizens, though. I wish my Grandma had a Twitter account. Knowing her, her tweets would be much more amusing than Kal Penn's disappointing tweets about watching Lost or reading The Guardian. (I am waiting for him to post about when he's coming to the East Coast and his exact locations, or I try to gleam information about what kind of hair-do he prefers on girls so I can get that hair-do. Although I have started watching Lost and reading The Guardian.)

Tweeting with Grandma:
Joycey_P: They raised the price of JB& Water at the Legion! Rip! Off!
Joycey_P: Wish those goddam birds would stop chirping. Playing my numbers at the club now.
Joycey_P: Love Jim Jam! Check it out! http://sendables.jibjab.com/
Lauren_P: @Joycey_P you mean jib jab
Joycey_P: @Lauren_P Jimmity Jill?
Lauren_P: @Joycey_P no it's jib jab
Joycey_P: @Lauren_P Jin Jan
Lauren_P: @Joycey_P JIB JAB

The Mother/Daughter Facebook Contract

2009-06-18T10:03:00.017-04:00

My mother is now on Facebook, and we agreed right from the start not to be Facebook friends. I talk to my mom at least once a day on the phone and share with her literally every detail of my life. ("Hear that noise, mom? Yeah, I'm peeing. Wow, I must have had a lot of cranberry juice today!") But it seemed like Facebook could be the one place where the line was drawn: mother from daughter. It could be the one realm I have to my own, kind of like a "Dear Diary" Teen-Hangout, if that makes any sense.

But I started to wonder if it was really that big of a deal. My Facebook profile is actually pretty boring, and lots of stuff in the Personal Information section would make my mother proud:

You may think the photo section might be dicey, but I avoided cameras all throughout college and there is only one picture even close to inappropriate -- I'm flicking off the camera -- and she is in it.

As for the wall situation, I don't have any friends posting things like "HEY LAUREN THANKS FOR THE RIM JOB LAST NIGHT" or "HOW MUCH MONEY DO YOU WANT FOR THE COCAINE?" so I don't think I have to worry about some unknown dark side being exposed.

So what would be the big deal, really?

I'll tell you what's the big deal. If my mom is my Facebook friend, she will look at my profile for hours a day with painstaking scrutiny. She will check it more than I do, or anyone else does. She will learn things about me that I didn't even know. I can hear it now: "Lauren, you have had a lot of posts from guys on your wall. Are you turning into one of those guy's girl bitches who has to worry about getting gang banged?" She might not say it like that, but I'll start worrying about it, anyway. Or "Lauren, 82% of your photos you're glaring at the camera. I think you need to have a better attitude." I can't actually hear her saying that, either. My mama gave me my attitude. But you know what I mean. I don't want to start learning these things about myself. I don't want someone looking at my life closer than I do.

If I do agree to befriend my mom, we are going to have to lay out some ground rules. In fact, I believe a contract might be in order. I'm drafting one now:

This Partnership Agreement is made on June 18, 2009 between Cheri Passell and Lauren Passell.

1. WTF This is All About
The parties hereby form a partnership to uphold a respectful Facebook friendship.

2. Limited Access
It is understood that as soon as either party figures out how to adjust her privacy settings, she will do so, thereby allowing limited access to the other Facebook friend.

3. Term
The partnership shall begin on July 18, 2009, and shall continue until the rules are breached or one of the Facebook friends changes their minds.

4. Time Spent Looking at Profiles
The parties involved are entitled to look at their friend's profile once a day for 5 minutes.
o The five minutes can be at any time and can be split up if needed.
o This excludes Saturdays and Sundays.

5. Wall Etiquette
All wall posts must be submitted via private message to await approval. Topics of wall posts are limited to: "I just put your check in the mail," "I just bought you a new outfit," and "I'm taking you to Rome."
o Also allowed: funny stories about my father, and, yes, cute things my cats did that day.

6. Photo Tagging
Photos must be approved by the other party before being tagged.
o No photos from bathtime in 1987 or the awkward years of my youth spanning from 1992 - 1998.

7. Arbitration
In the instance of controversy or claim arising out of or relating to this Agreement, or the breach hereof, the friendship will be immediately revoked. The friendship will also be immediately revoked whenever Lauren feels like it. This should keep you on your toes, Mom.

Executed this ______________ day of _________________, 2009 in Hudson, Ohio.

________________________
Signature of Party 1
________________________
Signature of Party 2

Am I forgetting anything here? Anything to add to the contract? I'm serious. Is there some horrible thing I'm forgetting that could happen if I let my mom into my Facebook realm?

FINALLY: Princesses I Can Relate To

2009-06-17T12:32:00.006-04:00

When I tell people I want to be a Disney Princess, they never believe me. Perhaps they think I'm kidding or that it isn't possible. Perhaps they do not know that I actually passed a series of auditions in Orlando to become the next Tinkerbell. Perhaps they think that I have nothing in common with Disney Princesses. (I think it's irresponsible to assume that Disney Princesses are able to say no to tequila shots, don't like to talk about buttcheeks, and enjoy the company of children.) Well for those haters out there, here is the pic to convince you that I DO have it in me to be a Tink or a Belle. Check out Cindy, here. That's totally me. Now we're talkin'.

Check out the rest of this fucking incredible collection of photos here.

Awesome band names from my Gmail spam filter

2009-06-16T14:13:00.006-04:00

Like all important people, I get a lot of email. Some of it, the stuff that isn't dinner invitations from the President or desperate come-ons from attractive celebrities, is junk email that makes no sense. However, within those bites of incomprehensible word salad are croutons of Rainman-esque genius - the subject headings often make great band names. Here's a list of the ones I've found so far:

pork stalk

gaping teen butt

free TV

best manure

bear hunters

seer acuity

cashew lives!

catholic buttfuckers

supermacho elixir

snakeu penetration

turn off the bull

immunity boosters

early pumpkins

vomiting stars

open if you want

See? All of them are keepers. Now go out there and hijack a Xerox machine! I want to see Catholic Buttfuckers flyers up on telephone poles by 6pm sharp!

BFF, Gma

2009-06-16T11:16:00.006-04:00

mom, me, grandma on x-mas

My Grandma Joyce has been a single gal for about fifty years, and I have noticed that except for a few small details (I'm still getting my period and don't read paperbacks from Walgreens in bed for 6 hours every night; she doesn't get carded or flirt with under-age Starbucks employees), our lives are very similar. She goes out with guys she hates. I go out with guys I hate. She spends her Sunday nights making herself a nice dinner and drinking an entire bottle of wine. Me, same. We go to movies alone, sometimes on the same day, so we can pretend we saw them together. Also, when together, we often sound like a couple of drunk sailors, swearing up a storm. BFF, Gma.

And like any good granddaughter, I call her every Sunday. Here are a few highlights from our latest conversation:

"Remember Thingey? You know, Thingey, with the wife?"*
She referred to her house as a "little adobe hut"
Oh, and who is this "Suzy Q" person she keeps referring to me as? Is Grandma getting alzheimers?
She told a story about how she was getting shots after a funeral and realized she went to highschool with the bartender.**
"You know what I mean, Jelly Bean?"
"I'm sorry, I know this makes no sense to you, but I have never liked Indian people and I'm too old to start now."***
"I'm too old for this crazy shit."****
"Those goddam birds wake me up every freakin' morning, I swear I'm going to shoot them with my gun one of these days."*****

*She calls everything Thingey.
**The main point of the story was NOT that she went out for shots after a funeral, which I think is far more interesting.
***She knowwwwws how much this bothers me. Old people think they can get away with everything.
****Says this approximately once every four minutes.
*****Thankfully, she doesn't have a gun.

More correspondence from Gettysburg

2009-06-12T12:35:00.006-04:00

Dear Dave,

For the love of God and sunny Jesus, WHAT? Out with it. You're interrupting pornography.

Individuals and institutions, alike,

Too many commas; "alike" is not a separate clause, bubba.

faced extraordinary challenges over the last year, and Gettysburg College is hardly immune from the realities of today’s economy.

Why is it that every time I get a letter from the college, I hear change rattling in a tin cup?

Now, more than ever, the College relies on your support to ensure our students receive the same outstanding Gettysburg experience you enjoyed.

You mean the one no one ever mentions aloud because they're too busy reminiscing about "waffle ball" or building unnecessary exercise facilities? Come on now. If you're going to jerk me off, at least spit on your hand first.

With less than a week until the close of this Gettysburg College fund year on May 31, we ask you to consider your circumstances. If you can help the College, won’t you please make a gift to the Gettysburg Fund?

I'm as broke as I was the last time you asked me for money - you know, A MONTH AGO - so no.

If you choose to make a gift, please go online to our secure online giving website or mail your gift (to count in the 2009 fund year, it needs to be postmarked on or before May 31) to the address below.

If you have already mailed your gift, let me be the first to say “Thank you” for all you do for our College.

Not for nothing, but if I ever do give you people any money, I only accept gratitude in the form of memorial plaques. Wood frame too, nothing tacky. Precocious brilliance like mine requires old world craftsmanship, you goddamned artless Philistines.

I hope that as advocates for Gettysburg, we can help the College meet current challenges and move on to the future with great momentum.

Sincerely,

Oh, that's another thing. I also demand that any and all correspondence from the college concerning alumni donations includes the phrase, "more blood for the blood god."

[name withheld]

Asshole.

I Don't Even Know What This Post Is About

2009-06-11T13:17:00.002-04:00

I pretty much assume that it's obvious I'm not married. I look like I'm five and obviously never have my shit together. Married people read the New Yorker on the subway and have perfect hair-dos and wear lipstick all the time and go places accompanied by their perfect-looking husband. Right? Did I mention I live on the Upper West Side? This is what I'm dealing with, here.

On a what I thought would be unrelated note, sometimes I wear rings on my ring finger. I'm talking ridiculously large, junk-jewelry rings, that are clearly fake bling. But friends started saying to me, "woah, woah, woah, why do you wear that ring? People will think you're married!" Since I am clearly single-and-ready-to-mingle, they fear this will send mixed messages.

I am so immature that I didn't think actually people examined ring fingers to find possible hook-ups. But apparently they do, and apparently they might think I'm engaged, even if I'm wearing my rabbit ring (left). BTW, if someone is willing to ask me to marry them with this ring, I swear I'll automatically say yes.

To recap what I've learned: wearing my rabbit ring = bad, because it will scare off potential suitors. But wait a second... potential suitors are gross sometimes. I guess that's why Mistaken sells a fake engagement ring to ward off creepy d-bags. Their video, which I posted below, is pretty funny, even though I tend to think the saying "I puked in my mouth" is a tad over-used. I won't be buying the ring, though. My rabbit one seems to be working just fine.

A letter from Gettysburg College

2009-06-10T11:46:00.006-04:00

As a very important, monocle-and-top-hat-wearing college graduate, my alma mater keeps in frequent, mostly-unwanted contact with me about very important matters. And by "matters," I of course mean "donations to the college." Here is one such email, with my responses in italics:

Dear Dave,

Yes?

With a few days of spring-like temperatures here and there, we are itching for the warmer weather to stay. Personally, I am sick of the New England snow and wind!

Um...I'm sorry? I hope you don't live in Maine, because you'll be begging for a mid-June blizzard when all those black flies show up.

This time of year also reminds us of two things at Gettysburg.

No, it doesn't.

First, our memories of playing waffle ball

Our what now?

and passing the Frisbee around on Stine Lake, doing homework outside on the steps of the library, walking to classes and watching the lacrosse games among other activities.

Dude, the only things I did in college were masturbate and host a radio show, often simultaneously. You did intend this for Dave *Kiefaber*, right?

Predictably, that’s what the current students are doing on their warm days at Gettysburg.

You forgot sunbathing. See above note concerning masturbation. Now get to the point already.

Second, it reminds me, as your Class Agent and alum of Gettysburg, that the College’s fund year is almost over.

I KNEW IT.

The Gettysburg Fund is vital to providing the continued opportunities we all experienced while on campus. Please consider a gift of $25 towards the Gettysburg Fund to help current students and our class make an impact. Click Here to make your gift online. Your participation is important to me and the College.

Important to you how, exactly? Will you get a cookie if your half-hearted attempt at familiarity works and I donate to the college? Seriously, you could have tried a little harder to win my confidence. That we both know where Stine Lake is and hate the way Servo overcooks their pasta doesn't make us friends, so maybe go beyond generic bullshit the next time you try to extract more blood for the blood god.

Please let me know if you have any questions or if you have any updates you’d like to share.

Eat a dick.

Best,

[names withheld]

WTF Theatre presents: Eagle Man

2009-06-09T15:54:00.005-04:00

You know, Americans might very well be a nation of fat lazy blowhards with just enough money to buy guns and wish violent death upon anything that makes us uncomfortable, but you can't say we aren't marketing-savvy. Indeed, we're used to people trying to sell us stuff, and employing just about anything to do it; geckos, cavemen, C-list celebrities exploiting their "random pop culture reference" status, talking syrup bottles, cavemen again, and anthropomorphized money have all seen starring roles in commercials.

And that's just Geico. But if you thought their multiple simutaneous ad campaigns were as weird as it got, allow Eagle Man to shove you further down the rabbit hole.

"Down the rabbit hole" turns out to be appropriate phrasing, because whoever designed that thing took a page from Lewis Carroll's near-constant morphine delirium. Who on earth would accept car insurance from an egg that some colossal male bird squeezed out on their hood? Show me someone who would, and I will throw a net on them until they can be strapped into a coat that makes them hug themselves.

So of course they made a sequel, in which Eagle Woman lays eggs full of car insurance (in mid-flight, even) all over some guy who looks like Dante from Clerks.

The mind reels. It really does.

WTF Is This? I Dunno, But I Stole It.

2009-06-09T09:25:00.006-04:00

Last weekend, I stole this from my friends' Jack and Monty's apartment:

Jack claimed it is a bar tool to cut limes on, but I think it just looks like a hippopotamus. I am not worried about Jack and Monty discovering that I looted their place -- they don't read this blog, and I plan to return it to one of them as a birthday present someday. But really, I don't get the lime thing. So I'm trying to think of other uses in my own apartment:

I can remember reading My Book of Bible Stories, a Jehovah's Witness Bible given to me as a gift when I was five and it instantly became my favorite book. My favorite illustration was one of the Egyptian Pharoah sleeping as Joseph sat to the side and interpreted his dreams. The Pharoah slept on not a pillow, but an ornate, uncomfortable looking box-like structure, much like the wooden hippopotamus. So I was sort of hopeful that it would be some sort of dream interpreter or something. But no.

It's also not a head massager, in case you were wondering.

So far, the most likely possibility is that it is a stage for my Iced Animal Cookies Vs. JuJyfruit battles. (Although outnumbered, the Iced Animal Cookies always win.)

Ummm... can anyone think of anything else? If your suggestions do not involve nudity, I will act them out and post pictures of me doing them.

Who Is My Namesake?

2009-06-03T12:52:00.002-04:00

I was talking with my parents recently, when my mom casually mentioned that I was named after Lauren Bacall, the husky voiced sex-pot, film star and model who was married to Humphrey Bogart in the 1940's.

Bullshit, Dad said. Lauren's named after Larry.

Larry has been one of my dad's best friends since childhood, and he has become a permanent fixture in our family outings and Sunday dinners -- sort of like the fourth Passell.

On learning this, I was immediately thrown into an inner frenzy of self-reflection and soul searching. Who is my namesake -- Lauren Bacall or Larry? When I told my parents to cut the crap and tell me the truth, Larry butted in, saying, "I'm sure Lauren Bacall and I are exactly alike, so it really doesn't matter." That's very possible.

Lauren Bacall:

Born Betty Joan Perske in New York City.
Studied acting for 13 years and worked a a fashion model.
Best known for being a film noir leading lady in such films as The Big Sleep and Dark Passage.
Won a Golden Globe Award and was nominated for an Academy Award for her performance in The Mirror Has Two Faces.
In 1999 was ranked as one of the 25 greatest female stars of all time by the American Film Institute.
Married to Humphrey Bogart.
Only child.

Larry:

Born Lawrence Chintella in Farrel, Pennsylvania.
Has six tattoos (a skull where the bones are actually baseball bats, rolling dice with flame and skulls on them, the word "rudeboy", one that he will not disclose information on, one in Chinese that he will not reveal the meaning, and one in Japanese that he will also not reveal the meaning.)
Listens exclusively to Rockabilly music.
Claims his favorite movie is Tank Girl but has never seen it.
Will not eat orange foods.
Owns a butter churner.
Bachelor.
Told me when I was four that he bought me a pony but my parents wouldn't let me keep it so it was killed.
Also when I was four, tried to take me on death-defying rides at an illegitimate looking carnival and the CARNY called him an irresponsible guardian.
Also has "sexy" husky voice (from chain-smoking)
Dresses himself in Hot Topic gear, black converse sneakers, and a chain wallet.
Is a genius engineer, who works in a building I like to call the "Imagination Station", but that is not what it is called.

So guys, what do you think? Who do I share a stronger connection with?

Total Eclipse of the Heart... literally.

2009-06-03T10:17:00.002-04:00

Words can't even explain my joy with this video. Watch it, and watch it good. Watch all of it. Especially the part about the emo kid throwing the slow motion dove.

Confused? You should be. Delighted? Hell yes.

Good Bush, Bad Bush. You're Not Getting Either.

2009-06-01T13:00:00.013-04:00

I was walking in Columbus Circle the other day when I saw a young man wearing the following T:

(In case you can't read: Good Bush, Bad Bush.) I wonder: Why on earth would a guy wear this shirt? Who is he wearing it for? If he wants some bush, he had better get on over to the Gap and get some normal clothing, because girls are not into this shit. (I mean, unless... does someone know a girl who is into this shit?) Is he wearing this shirt for guys? If so, maybe guys should come up with a more subtle way to express their longing for bush, because the consequences for wearing this shirt are probably not worth the up-side, which is making other guys laugh. And can you imagine if you ran into your grandma or mom wearing this shirt?

Also:

WTF? Are they trying to get girls, or are they trying very hard to NOT get girls? After some witty t-shirt slogan browsing, I found the only acceptable t-shirt guys should ever wear:

I Can't Even Fucking Do That

2009-05-28T15:40:00.000-04:00

Jake's Dilemma = My Home

2009-05-27T12:22:00.002-04:00

While I live on the Upper West Side, I rarely party there. It's never crowded or loud enough, and the clientele is often just a bunch of white people who I think I remember going to college with. (Which means I think I can remember them ignoring me or not letting me into their frat houses.) But occasionally, when I'm going out with someone I don't like that much and basically just want the evening to be convenient (for me) and over faster, I will bring them to one of my UWS haunts: usually The Dead Poet. The Dead Poet has impressive mahogany-paneled walls peppered with quotations and poems "pertaining to the universal quandaries of life" and cocktails named after dead poets, such as Edgar Allan Poe. The Dead Poet is what I think I want people to think I like. When I take people to The Dead Poet, they say, "this is a nice bar."

Nobody would say, "This is a nice bar" about Jake's Dilemma, but somehow I end up there several times a month. I have memories of being delightfully wasted, sweaty, thirsty, and dancing in complete darkness, only to look up and see the neon letters that spell out "Jake's Dilemma". How am I at Jake's Dilemma again? I think. Is Jake's Dilemma following me? I have been with friends and when most bars are too crowded I eventually say, "I bet there's room at Jake's Dilemma." (There always is.) Sometimes I will walk by and see a sign for the insanely cheap happy hour specials and think, "why the hell not?"

If you couldn't tell from the somewhat aggressive yet confusing sounding name Jake's Dilemma or the less than pristine exterior, you will realize soon after entering that Jake's Dilemma is one big frat party. There are tables designated for Beer Pong and Foos Ball, a stretched out bar, ample chill space, comfy couches that people have probably had sex in, retardedly strong, cheap drinks, outdoor seating, and a dirty, sticky looking dance floor. While this is charming in its own way, I like to think of myself as a Dead-Poet-Sort-Of-Girl, not a Jake's-Dilemma-Sort -Of-Girl.

In the past, when my attempts to bring people to The Dead Poet would fail, I'd gently suggest maybe possibly trying Jake's Dilemma. "I really don't like this place, but I'm sure we can get in," I'd say. "But really, it's kind of a horrible bar." The fourteenth time this happened, I interrupted myself and exclaimed, "who am I kidding? I fucking love this place!"

And it has nothing to do with the fact that one of the lesbian bar tenders has a crush on me and treats me like a movie star. And it has nothing to do with the fact that sometimes they forget to put anything other than vodka in their martinis. And it has nothing to do with the fact that I can sit outside on a hot summer evening, after a long day at work, and drink two ass-kickingly strong gimlets for $5. Actually, it has everything to do with all of this.

One night, after getting drunk in Columbus Circle with Eric and Nikki, we found ourselves in Jake's Dilemma circled with about 8 complete strangers dancing The Running Man and The Scarecrow to Billie Jean and Push It. I think it was at the climax of Come on Eileen, where the music is its fastest and the corresponding dance moves are its wildest that I realized I had found a place where I belong. Realizing I'm not too good for Jake's Dilemma was like an anorexic person realizing it's okay to have meat on her bones or a young, first-generation Chinese boy embarrassed by his heritage but finally coming to terms with it.

Jake, I don't know what your dilemma is, but I'm happy to call you home. Thanks for having me.

This Is Embarrassing

2009-05-21T11:37:00.004-04:00

I don't watch The Today Show that much, but I was always under the impression that Ann Curry was the serious, newsy one of the kooky bunch. You know, sort of like how Matt is the lame one who gets attacked by deer (which I am still suspicious about), and Al is the goofy, enthusiastic Santa Clause one full of awesome zingers.

But what is this shit? Journalism? Ann giggles like a school girl, slings empty (awkwardly unwanted) compliments at Brad, and addresses his appearance and sex appeal instead of his work, which is clearly what he wanted to talk about. If this is the criteria for a good interview, why spend all that money paying for Ann Curry's salary? Couldn't they just get some 12-year-old to do it? A 12-year-old would pay to interview Brad Pitt, and the interview would be probably the same, possibly better. So The Today Show could make money and Ann Curry would be left to get a job selling Auntie Anne pretzels at the mall or babysitting the kids down the street, which maybe she'd be better at.

13 Things I've Learned in Hip-Hop Class

2009-05-19T13:38:00.003-04:00

Hip-hop is not happy ("look tired and hungry").
Mirrrr is "mirror"; flo is "floor".
Embarrassing/awkward situation will ensue when asked post-funeral by your family members, "show us what you've learned in hip hop class".
"Havin' two chicks is better than no chicks," according to Dirty Ray Lavander. (This kicks ass. Watch it.)
Some of your favorite moves (flying gun hands, twisting) are, according to Instructor Bev, "not cute."
Just because you have more lungs doesn't mean you are a better dancer. For example, Instructor Bev has: 1 and I have: 2.
I actually can touch my toes but it fucking hurts.
Dropping it like it's hot is actually harder than it looks.
It doesn't matter if you're actually doing the moves right, as long as you are doing them wildly, sharply, quickly, and with enthusiasm, you will look okay.
When Instructor Bev said that a command to "freestyle" meant to do anything, she did not mean it was okay to start doing the Charleston with Eric.
If you use your brain at all while you are dancing hip-hop you look autistic.
Nobody will ask for your number if you're dancing and don't bob your head while you dance or if you smile too much.
Eric will throw you under the bus (if, say, he gets called to the very front of the class for actually nailing the moves, and drags you with him because you are partners).

my mkouth tastes houw teh zoo smelllls

2009-05-19T10:08:00.005-04:00

Prologue to this blog post: Drunk texts are hilarious. Lets get real.

I don't really know why people get in a tizzy about drunk texting. Friends are always all "ugh, give me that phone of yours. you shouldn't text anyone," or "if you send one more drunk text to your ex about how you want to touch butts, we're through."

Luckily, I'm not the only one who can't get enough of this 'less-than-sober" form of late-night communication. [TFLN], or TXTS FRM LST NGHT (cleverly spelled sans vowels) documents witty, outrageous, and mispelled texts that make me laugh until i cry.

A lot of texts reference sexual encounters:
"yeah worst sex in my life. plus i think her little brother was in the room."

Others are fairly inexplainable:
"What did we do last night that was yellow?"

Most contain some clear signs of alcohol involvement:
"Well if yoir are still awake and secided to drink... You may aswell drink"
"That text needs to switch to water."

And finaly my personal favorite:
"my mkouth tastes houw teh zoo smelllls"

WTF Lyrics: Take Me By the WHAT?

2009-05-18T12:57:00.003-04:00

I was just thinking about how much I love Dance Hall Days, how sweetly, slickly '80's it is, when I realized I actually don't know the lyrics, and after reading the lyrics, realizing I don't get them at all:

Take your baby by the hand
And make her do a high hand stand
Take your baby by the heel
And do the next thing that you feel

We were so in phase
In our dance hall days
We were cool on craze
When i, you, and everyone we knew
Could believe, do, and share in what was true
Oh, I said

Take your baby by the hair
And pull her close and there there there
Take your baby by the ears
And play upon her darkest fears

Repeat chorus

So take your baby by the wrist
And in her mouth an amethyst
And in her eyes two sapphires blue
And you need her and she needs you
And you need her and she needs you

Is that why I think this song is so cool -- because I have no idea wtf is going on? Is that the appeal? Maybe I'm a sucker -- Wang Chung could start singing about monkey anuses and I could be convinced that it's totally cool and normal and worthy of a song.

Also: this video CAN BE considered bomb-ass.

Play Her Off, Keyboard Cat!

2009-05-07T09:11:00.003-04:00

When your kid has just been kicked in the face by a breakdancer, Play Her Off, Keyboard Cat!
<

When you faint while being interviewed on TV, Play Her Off, Keyboard Cat!

When you fall smashing grapes, Play Her Off, Keyboard Cat!

When you're a fuckin' idiot, Play Her Off, Keyboard Cat!

I think Keyboard Cat is trying to tell me that even in life's shittiest moments, everything all just comes down to a cat playing a keyboard. So next time something sucky happens to you, just think, awww Play Her Off, Keyboard Cat!

Reward: Free Food

2009-05-05T14:37:00.003-04:00

So my roomate "lost" (forgot) her iPod at the gym a little while ago and someone apparently stole it. Sucks, I know. At this point most schmucks would just shed a few tears, pop into the Apple store, and purchase a new (perhaps even sportier) iPod.

But not MY roommate. This proactive little housemate of mine whipped up some eye-catching signs to convince this NYSC-iPod-theif into returning the merchandise (she really hung these signs in the gym).

If it was YOU who stole the iPod, allow me to reitterate some reasons why you should return it immediately:
-This iPod is apparently "3rd gen"
-Melissa won't be mad
-The iPod illustration is urging you to

If you think this is funny... you should have seen the first draft.

*Note: I'm not a total a-hole. Roommate said I could post this.

Yeah, Eric!

2009-04-29T10:35:00.005-04:00

We're really lucky to know Eric. Just thought we'd remind you.

(This concept was stolen from fuckyeahryangosling.tumblr.com.)

Don't Touch Me There, Please

2009-04-29T10:00:00.003-04:00

Thanks to Pooh, Piglet, and friends, you too can know how to handle yourself the next time you're in the subway and someone brushes up against your butt. Or when you finally go to bed with that special someone and they try and get all up in your bathing suit area. Or even when you're at a fancy party with an open bar and someone tries to put their knee in your crotch. Especially if that person tries to hit you with 'tricks*' like "I'll murder you AND your family if you tell anyone I kneed you in the crotch**."

Thanks, Pooh Bear. I can now feel safe in the subway, at the bars, and in my own tiny twin bed.

*Please note 3:10
**Thanks to a certain pot-head for this video

Virtual Condom: Mother's Day is a Sham

2009-04-27T15:46:00.004-04:00

I can remember one time on Mother's Day I lamented to my mom that there was Mother's Day, Father's Day, but no Kid's Day. I remember her quick and slightly bitter/angry response: "EVERY DAY IS KID'S DAY."

My mom's not the only one with unappreciative offspring. On my community boards at work, we posted a question: What Was the Worst Mother's Day Gift You Have Ever Received? Check out these awesome answers, that really shine light on this sham of a holiday that is Mother's Day. ("Hey Mom, you snipped open your vagina for me. I made you some pancakes. Are we even now?")

FYI: the countdown to Mother's Day is 13 Days.

"My ex-dh told me on my 1st MD that I really did not need aanything and bought himself $300 spekers for his truck, and flowers, card and stuff for his mom. So it hurts a little. This year I will probably buy myself flowers and plants for the garden, if we have the $$$ too. So Mother's day is just a day where i sit and cry inside." daisymay

"Today, Mother's Day, was a very upsetting day for me - we all went to church without barely a peep from anyone. I would have simply enjoyed a kiss upon waking up and a "happy mother's day" - I got nothing until I started moping around. Then my dh walked in with a "we were supposed to give this to you earlier". I knew he had signed the kids names on the card in the kitchen only moments earlier. He got me a gift card to a store I shop at once a year (if that). I was devastated and don't know what I have done to deserve this today--- and at this point at 6:30pm, he still has yet to utter the words "Happy Mother's Day"." maschmayhem5

"how about hearing from your mom that your brother is her only child b/c he bought flowers? that sucked. mother's day is actually a terrible thing. it's worse than christmas, and christmas is pretty bad! even if you prepare yourself and don't expect anything, every thing will remind you that people are supposed to be showering you with love. then you have to continue telling yourself it's alright and maintain mental health, pretty much for the whole month of may. just another freaking problem to deal with. i'm sure i'm not the only one who wishes it didn't exist." okasachan

"I have to say, I only have had a few mothers days, but this last one yesterday was probably the worst. it started out really well, I woke up took my daughter to my sister house where my other sister and mom were, we made some jewerly (a side business that we do for fun) and chilled. The we wne to Horton Hears a Who, in the theatre. While my husband was home with our son cleaning. It was kind of nice, my daughter had a a hard time sitting in the movie but over all it wasn't too bad. When I got home my daughter fell asleep in the car and when I woke her up to put her in the bed. Thats when it started, way over tired, she was crabby and could get back to sleep. So she cried. My sons I teeth are coming through so he was pretty unhappy. and to top it off we had his family over for dinner. I pretty much cleaned up the mess of dinner, had two very crabbly kids to handle, I think they overstayed there welcome a bite, they stayed till till 9:00pm which didn't leave much of cuddleing time with my hubby and I. I was exausted so I went to bed at 9:30. I know is really isn't that bad. But I am just very frustrated that I didn't have more help from his family." kfiedler

"I've never had a good mother's day. My husband doesn't see the point in it so he doesn't celebrate it. But this one is probably been the worst. My grandma passed away Thursday night, and Saturday we were served with an eviction notice. Woo f'in hoo." twiceblessed

Another Virtual Condom: Screaming Children

Another Virtual Condom: Episiotomies

Christmas IS pretty sexy

2009-04-24T10:16:00.004-04:00

My co-worker Jesse gave our team a presentation on Online Trend Spotting and this graph charts Google traffic for the search terms SEX and CHRISTMAS. Obviously people have Christmas on the brain during the holiday season, but sex, too? I don't think I want to know this much about people.

You can follow Google Trends, too! It's sort of awesome.

Paul Rudd on Sesame Street

2009-04-22T17:56:00.006-04:00

I think I already proved the point that the more round you are the more lovable. But I didn't know I could love Paul Rudd more than I already did until I saw him perfectly round. As is, as spherical as the Earth. With the added bonus of singing happily. Happy Earth Day!

Umbrellas Are Antiquated

2009-04-21T17:52:00.002-04:00

Yesterday, it rained very hard for a very long time. And as Lauren put it, I was one of the .01 percent of New Yorkers without an umbrella. As I was sprinting home with a jacket over my head (hard to do), I wondered, "How, in this day and age when we have things that can tell what song is playing on the radio, are we still using upside down baskets to protect us from the rain?"

I really think we could come up with something better.

Confusion About Cleveland Rocking or Sucking

2009-04-21T10:04:00.003-04:00

Does it rock?

Or is it merely the "Perfect Place If You're A Douchebag?"

I dunno, but next time I go home, I hope I see "This Guy."

Why Disney World Kicks Ass #7: It's Effing Scary

2009-04-20T12:40:00.002-04:00

When I tell people I love Disney World but have never been to Universal Studios, which is merely miles away, they often say, "Why don't you go to Universal? The rides are way scarier." Duh. There isn't anything less scary than The Hall of the Presidents. But I'm not going for scary. I'm going for awesomeness and wonder and hot French waiters, and you know, if you've been reading these posts.

But every time I go on the Rock 'n Roller Coaster I think I am going to have a heart attack. It goes from zero to like 90 mph in quarter of a second -- but what's scarier is the speaker next to your ear blasting a wailing Steven Tyler -- "ARE YOU READY TO ROCK N ROLL?" (It's an Aerosmith-themed ride.) So after all the scary stuff, you listen to "Dude Looks Like A Lady" and go through some fast and fun, but pretty tame flips and dips.

Then you go see the photo they took while they were blasting your socks off and see how stupidly scared you were.

Why Is This So Funny?

2009-04-17T17:23:00.000-04:00

"You Got It, Baby Village People"

2009-04-16T15:19:00.006-04:00

In the midst of all of the tea-bagging, tea parties, and "Obama Bin-Lyin" bashing as of late, I think America has really lost sight of what is important about Tax Day: kids in ironic and borderline racist costumes. Thank goodness some parents have the sense not only to dress their kid up as a good ol' fashioned injin chief, but also to allow their children to make an informed decision about taxes.

Point being, the VH1 franchise "Best Week Ever" compiled a list of The 14 Catchiest Tax Day Protest Signs, just in case you couldn't make all the tea parties in your area. My personal favorites? #13. Stimulate Not Business Government and #6. Don't Tread on Me (is this even relevant?).

Things to take away from Tax Day 2009: stay out of this lil' injin's piggy bank. Seriously.

"America Doesn't Know What Is Beautiful Anymore"

2009-04-16T11:22:00.005-04:00

My mother sent me a link to the following video of "Britain's Got Talent", the UK version of American Idol. The subject of the e-mail was "America Doesn't Know What's Beautiful Anymore." Word, Mamma. Watch this moving video of Susan Boyle. Pay special attention to the look on Simon's face. He is so happy he's wearing his little angel-face, instead of that nasty glare we usually see him give.

Susan Boyle Stuns Crowd with Epic Singing - Watch more Funny Videos

Would Susan Boyle have a chance on American Idol with that beautiful voice of hers? Or do we only pick people that look like this...

P.S. I think Susan Boyle is way sexier than Taylor Hicks. Ew.

Why Haven't I Seen This Before: Seal & Yamaguchi Entertainment Duo

2009-04-15T17:48:00.002-04:00

When I heard Seal's "Kiss From A Rose" in the fourth grade I thought it was the most beautiful song I had ever heard. And competitive ice skating seems like it is just a real life version of Dallas, or more recently, Gossip Girl, i.e., full of over the top outfits and people sabotaging each other. And in this video Seal is wearing a white suit, singing live while Kristi Yamaguchi ice skates. He's even wearing a summer scarf and I think that makes his outfit more outrageous than Kristi's.

Why is this happening? I don't know.

How to Kick Some Afikoman Ass

2009-04-15T13:32:00.002-04:00

I get so excited about Passover I almost pee my pants every year. I am just awestruck by the beauty, significance and tradition of each and every aspect of the meal. Who knows how long we've been performing Seders -- thousands of years, at least. The Last Supper was a Seder, so each time that I dip the bitter herbs in vinegar or spread mortar on my matzo, I am recreating an act of Jesus and connecting myself to the cradle of humanity. I'm serious.

But I am not Jewish. My family is Catholic, and my mom was pretty surprised to open the Gettysburg College catalogue and see a picture of me lighting the Shebat candle (I attended each Friday, as the only Gentile in Hillel, the student's Jewish organization at Gettysburg), but I explained to her that I hadn't converted -- yet.

I had been to Passover Seders before, but only at school, where the beitzah was served on paper plates and the Matzo ball soup was sub par. I never really cared -- it was all about the action (and kicking everyone's ass in finding the afikoman*) but I was really excited that this year my friend Amsterdam invited me to a real one, at his house. Real silverware and everything!

BTW, the afikoman is a half-piece of matzo which is broken in the early stages of the Seder and set aside to be eaten as a dessert after the meal. In some families, the head of the household hides the afikoman for the children to find, and rewards the one who finds it with money or candy. In other families, the children "steal" the afikoman and ask for a reward for its return. Either way, the afikoman has become a device for keeping children awake and alert during the Seder proceedings, until the time it is needed for dessert.

I had a really excellent idea to really spice up the evening:

Bring my own matzo and hide it in my pants. (Hopefully this is not too sacrilegious.)
When we are instructed to go search for the afikoman, pretend to get all stressed out and in-a-flutter about finding it. Move around some items around in the living room or something... but act quickly, because nobody else can find the real afikoman before I...
Pull the fake afikoman out of my pants and declare "Found it, suckaaaahhhs! Christianity, 1! Judaism, ZIP!"
Commence in victory dance (which resembles a touch down dance).
Make an acceptance speech, being sure to thank Jesus for helping me find it.

What do you think? Would I have gotten invited back?

SWF: Lindsay Lohan

2009-04-14T18:20:00.000-04:00

Lindsay Lohan's eHarmony Profile from Lindsay Lohan

I love Lindsay Lohan. I love Mean Girls. And I even love "Confessions of a Broken Heart (Father to Daughter)" only semi-ironically. I'm really glad she went back to red hair and she obviously also celebrated the switch by making this video to show it off.

Virtual Condom: Episiotomies

2009-04-14T11:03:00.004-04:00

I had to use the word "episiotomy" in a piece I was writing on pregnancy awhile ago, and I thought: I do not want to look that up. I can just tell it's gonna be gross. But I had to. So I googled it. It was by far the most horrific google experience I have ever had, possibly for the same reason Little Children bothered men way more than women.

I am going to offer the link below, in case you are curious. Which I'm assuming you are now? But I'm warning you. If you click it and throw up or something, do not blame me. Not only is there a cringe-worthy description, there is an image so graphic that I am positive your gut reaction will be, whether you have a vagina or not, to X the box away as quickly as you can. That is what I did. I was thinking am I going to get in trouble for looking at this page at work?

But then I remembered where I work.

And I refreshed the page and read it.

No really, you need to know what your mom did for you. Here is the link.

I immediately called up my mother, a bit outraged. "Mom, did you have an episiotomy?"

"Yeah, most people do."

"Why did you not tell me about this? Why did you not complain?"

"Oh please, you just do it."

"You just let someone cut your vagina open with SCISSORS and then stitch it back up?"

"Yes."

And that is the thing. They just do it and don't whine. But this is a big deal to me. I am not okay with this. Thanks, mom! Can I get you a coffee or anything?

Guys, Mother's Day is in 26 days. I'm just saying.

Another Virtual Condom: Screaming Children

My Non-Interview with My Never-to-Be Husband

2009-04-13T10:44:00.006-04:00

Friday I non-interviewed the man I was supposed to marry, (along with his T-minus 4 days pregnant wife.) His name is John Bemelmans Marciano, and his Grandfather wrote and illustrated the Madeline series. I heard about John's newest book, Madeline and the Cats of Rome, and I immediately felt I had to meet this person. He had written a book about my three favorite things. Well, okay, I'll admit that a book about Jesus, buttcheeks and making out will never be written. Next best thing: Madeline, cats, and Rome. I wanted to write a story about him for the website I work for, wondering the whole time if anyone but me would find interest in this story, the continuation of Ludwig Bemelmans's masterpiece.

See, Madeline and I go way back. Every child has that book that they make their parents read to them 10 kabillion times until they memorize it and fool everyone into thinking they can read. Mine was Madeline. To this day, I can spew the rhythmic verses about the twelve little girls in two straight lines at a mile a minute. I become so intertwined with the characters that when I learned of God I was positive that God was Miss Clavel, and I imagined a huge Miss Clavel amongst the clouds, looking over me, all frightened about me, making me stand in lines, and brush my teeth. The reason that I was able to fall in love with the words and memorize them so easily is for the same reason people are drawn to the writing of Genesis or Gilgamesh. When you write simply and masterfully, it becomes a part of people that is so innate that memorizing it is easy -- it's as if the person is reciting the words as a personal memory, not a separate story on the pages of a book.

Sometimes when you mess with classics you really fuck things up. Like, they never should have made a live action Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie. But this book stays true to the most beautiful, distinctive aspects of the original, with added, unique charm.

The illustrations, which Marciano sketched while living in Rome, are eerily reminiscent of his Grandfather's Parisian sketches. And each scene brings to mind specific areas of Rome, down to an indoor market I used to go to every day on my way to school.

John never met his Grandfather, but his Grandmother showed him a trunk full of Bemelman's original sketches, which he adopted with his own writing for a few other children's books. Without having ever met his grandfather, John has completely revived his Grandfather's stand-out drawings and captivatingly entertaining poetry. John claims he's not even a poet, never studied poetry, but studied the rules of poetry that his grandfather adhered to in order to mimic the style. As for the illustrations, John made another seamless transition for his own book. When the original Madeline was written, colored illustrations were too expensive, so Grandpa Marciano drew most of them in black and white, over a yellow background. John could have afforded color but chose to stay there to the "deceptionally simple" outlines of his grandfather. He intertwined brightly colored pages when he wanted to slow down the story.

I sort of fell for him as he told me about this. He has a distinctive, long, strongly built and angled face and the exact mop of loosely curled, shaggy hair that I see on handsome-but-not-trying-to-be-Italians. He is somewhat lanky, comfortable in burnt orange cords and a sweatshirt. The room we sat in was under renovation and felt like a rustic cabin. Italian cookbooks were spread out across the counter and there was a bowl full of hearty slices of bread with heavy, almost burnt crusts that reminded me of the salt-less kind in Florence. There was a copy of the Iliad on the television set. His cat was curled up in a ball on his laptop. His wife was very lucky.

I wanted to take his picture for the interview, but got too nervous. I had trouble making eye contact with him at times -- he was so beautiful and talked in such a relaxing, hypnotic way. He asked me a lot of questions and one was, "so has working for a parenting magazine made you want to have kids or never?" I mean, hey! Who's interviewing who? I immediately looked down and sort of got red, pretty sure that meant, "do you want to start dating me and marry me and move back to Rome with me and have my children?" Awkward!!!!! So I just kept my face down, looking at the sketches he had plopped in my lap (which were beautiful and genius).

We did talk about fatherhood and whether he was nervous or not. (He's not.) I told him I felt like it was as torturous as Christmas for a 7-year-old at his house, except ten times suckier because you don't know when Santa is coming. He put his hands together and nodded with excitement. "I know!"

We talked about Italy, Rome. We liked the same places. Or grandfathers were from the same town in Italy and were probably in the same earthquake. We talked about our cats -- his make frequent appearances in his other children's illustrations. One of the cats in Madeline and the Cats of Rome is a spotted cat named Cacciopepe -- the best name ever. He told me I should adopt one in the alley behind his house and I've started looking for a spotted cat worthy of the name.

Somehow, pulled pork sandwiches came up. "I'm a vegetarian." "I am too, but I still love the smell of the barbeque sauce." Agreed. This continued -- he'd say something and I'd think, "I know, I know!" but would try to stoically write down what he was saying.

But we all know that I can never be stoic about anything, except maybe my taxes or my 401K. Truly John Bemelmans Marciano probably thought I was insane. Who is this girl, I'm sure he asked himself, who is so obsessed with Madeline she's practically crying, is laughing hysterically at the pictures I've drawn of cats, and is reminiscing about Rome like a Nam Vet? In my defense: 1) Madeline and I are soul sisters, as I've explained, 2) all cat-people laugh their asses off, against all logic, at the site of cats doing basically anything and 3) my time spent in Italy was the happiest of my life. So there.

And could he tell that I was practically in love with him, hanging on his every word, sold on practically everything he says and does? I hope not. He didn't seem to suspect my crush, and neither did his wife, who came in at one point, massaging her belly a bit nervously as she talked. "It's a girl," she told me. And when I asked if they had decided on a name, John said, "no, not anything we can put in print." I'm pretty sure that meant "I have decided to name her after you, but it would be too awkward to tell you in front of my wife." Wink, wink, John. It's okay, I'm honored, really.

I left, after talking about hardly anything I could actually write about, taking zero photographs, and forgetting to record the entire conversation to begin with. I was literally skipping down the street when I left, clutching the large yellow hard copy of "Madeline and the Cats of Rome" (which he signed, "For Lauren, such a pleasure to meet a fellow cat + Rome lover! Best, John Bemelmans Marciano") to my heart, like a dorky tween in Victorian days.

Consider this your Very Important Kal Penn Update.

2009-04-10T17:56:00.004-04:00

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

So I sort of spent a long time roaming the streets/ several different subways today seeing if I could find Kal Penn. He's on this crazy island, somewhere. I can feel it. This news is pretty exciting for me. With Kal in DC, we'll be in the same time zones = I smell true love. And although this might mean no Harold & Kumar III (possibly? those two jobs don't seem to be that harmonious) I am okay with that. This sounds like a totally awesome job.

Twitter is a bad addiction

2009-04-09T12:09:00.000-04:00

You know how you really like to sing in your car? Maybe the music is on full volume, maybe you are fist pumping, or head thrashing at stop lights, and dancing really unsexily. Maybe the cd is Mariah Carey! And you think to yourself, "Man, this is so fun, I love singing in my car."

Remember when that was the end of the story? You just danced your way into your driveway and called it a day. But now you might either Facebook Interest, Facebook Status Update, or Twitter, "singing in the car/singing in the car with the windows down." (You or someone you know has definitely done this exact thing.)

It totally depresses me that we don't get gratification from the activity anymore, but instead from it's publicity. Now here is this funny video from Slate that mocks Twitter with "Flutter" -- a nanoblog.

16 Things Sorority Sisters Have Ruined for Me

2009-04-08T17:18:00.006-04:00

(Don't worry: Puppies is not one of them.)

The other day I was telling my co-workers why I'm not a huge fan of Lent, and that the whole concept was pretty much ruined for me when my friend told me she heard a sorority girl say, "I have to give up peanut butter for Lent, because it is making me gain weight." That really made me want to run away from the whole idea of Lent. My co-worker Jess said, "sorority girls ruined Green Day for me," (this makes sense because I think she graduated when Green Day was self-destructing and being ruined by the radio and the masses, etc.) and I thought... there is a whole bunch of stuff -- potentially good things -- that I pretty much hate now because I identify them with lots of unpleasant Greek brother and sisters that I went to school with. And here they are. Add your own. (And like, don't get offended if you enjoy Tiffany jewelry or the continent of Australia. I'm admitting that these things are potentially awesome, but have been unjustly ruined for me. My loss.)

The pink/green combo
J Crew (entirely)
Nautical themes (particularly: anchors, whales)
The Greek Alphabet (oh, I don't know, say: Delta, Gamma, TKE whatever that stands for, etc.)
Hair ribbons
Being an asshole to cafeteria workers and maintenance people (oh wait, that was never awesome)
Giving blow jobs in bathrooms
Particular branches of rap music (the kind that only fosters an environment of people humping eachother)
Giving up stuff for Lent
Collared shirts
Large pearl earrings
Tiffany jewelry
Lily Pulitzer
The continent of Australia (the place where students who only want a partially exotic study abroad experience go to come back with their lame stories of being drunk on the beach and seeing lots of boobs)
Psychology. I have no respect for this field anymore, unless it is studied at a more prestigious level than liberal arts major.
Nelly's "It's Getting Hot in Herrrre" or "Bring Sexy Back"

The first rule of Cagematch

2009-04-06T17:51:00.003-04:00

is you do not talk about cagematch.*

*I worked with baby photos all day. I couldn't help myself.

Party Like It's Palm Sunday, With Pepito Sangria!

2009-04-06T10:11:00.004-04:00

Yesterday, Palm Sunday, kicked off one of the most exciting weeks of the year -- Holy Week. I. Love. Holy Week. I was too busy yesterday to post about it, weaving baskets for the poor out of the palms I collected from the many Palm Sunday services I attended (?), and also, I wasn't feeling very well for most of the day. I didn't initially know why, but I think it had something to do with the fact that stashed in my purse from the night before, I found an empty jug of Pepito Sangria, which I had purchased at a bodega the night before:

It tasted like ass but was fun to carry around, and it only cost $4.99. The cute bottle top made me feel very classy and old-timey and I plan to join a jug-band with it.
Anyway, in case you don't know, Palm Sunday commemorates the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem,when his fans welcomed him by laying out palm fronds before him. While Jesus was riding into the city on a donkey for Passover, on the other side the Roman emperor was entering in a procession, with all the pomp and power of the Roman Empire... banners, calvary, drums, etc. There are many things we can question about the Bible and its crazy ass stories, but I truly believe the story of Jesus' humble entrance into Jerusalem, and that the symbolic and stark contrast with the entrance of the Roman empire is not a fabrication, but very real.
If I had been in Jerusalem for this procession, I wouldn't have welcomed Jesus with lame-ass palms. I would have gotten one of those big foam fingers with Jesus written on it, and would have written "LIGHT OF WORLD" on my stomach. Maybe a couple of my friends and I could have choreographed a dance routine or something.

you butt <3 NY?

2009-04-05T21:03:00.006-04:00

Today was one of the few perfect spring days of the year and I got to looking at photos I took in the city when I first moved to New York. Here are some of them. Sorry this is so cheesy.

A shot of Coney Island last summer during the Siren Music Festival. We drank big beers and visited a booth giving away vaginal contraceptives that work like those mint strips that dissolve in your mouth. The Cyclone gave me neck pain for three days.

Inside the New York magazine lobby. I snuck this photo when I went in for a job interview.

My friend and I parked our bikes in Red Hook somewhere near the Ikea. He went to go pee in a bush while I looked at cloud shapes.

Manhattan Bridge, my favorite bridge in my favorite park in NY.

Taken on the roof of the Met in the fall. You see a lot of walking feet in this place.

Why Disney World Kicks Ass #6: Flowers That Are Not Boring and Sucky

2009-04-03T13:28:00.006-04:00

I didn't used to give a shit about flowers. They die. They're expensive. I don't like carrying them around. I generally don't enjoy spending hours looking at them. And I feel people often buy them for people without much thought. Ex: "My girlfriend is mad at me so I'd better buy her some goddam flowers."

But to see the flowers at the Disney World International Flower and Garden Festival in Epcot is to see Eden on Earth. They will make you give a shit about flowers if you don't already. The flower displays are so colorful they are almost cartoonish, and the topiaries Blow My Mind. The festival runs until May, my favorite month to go to Disney World because:

1) By this time of the year, I have endured months of shitty weather in the god-forsaken mess the North East becomes during the winter, it is a pleasant surprise to remember what the sun looks like and to see a bunch of bright, happy flowers.
2) There aren't a lot of children because hello: what kind of lame-ass parents take their kids out of school right before it ends? The last few weeks are when all the fun stuff happens -- plays, parties, etc. Cool parents yank their kids out of school in the middle of the school year, when it is shitty and hard.
3) It's not hot or humid enough yet that I have to take off my pants in the middle of "It's A Small World." Yet.

I love the Flower Festival so much that I'm going back at the end of April, but this time with my good pal Uncle Rico. (!!!) I have this image of us floating through my mind -- the two of us holding hands and galloping around the daisies and snap-dragons. And it will be so very beautiful! And awe-inspiring! And memorable! And we will be drunk.

"You Wanna Have Fun and Be a Race Car Driver? Then Just Sign up For the Military!"

2009-03-30T12:03:00.007-04:00

If you've been to the movies recently, you've surely been violated by the ridiculously loud, aggressive, and non-sensical Kid Rock ad that they play during the previews, a video entitled "Warrior," where Kid Rock assures you that everyone calls him Warrior (lie), tells you to join the military, and juxtaposes the Revolutionary war with Iraq and Afghanistan (awesome.) I haven't seen this sort of propaganda in the United States... ever? Maybe? Maybe I just haven't been paying attention. Or maybe it takes someone obnoxious like Kid Rock to make me realize I am being indoctrinated. Anyway, I watched the video sort of thinking "WTF," but this YouTube video includes some kind of funny commentary, totally clearing up Rock's message and this warrior-ed-ness. Yes, it sort of hurts my ears (there is plenty of screaming. Hello -- warriors scream a lot), but it's way awesomer than the original.

Virtual Condom: Screaming Children

2009-03-26T09:53:00.003-04:00

Every morning when I come to work, I take off my "inappropriate, irresponsible, single girl" hat and put on my "mommy world" hat. I hate when people use that expression about the hats, by the way. But you know, at work I am constantly reading and writing about motherhood and parenting, and getting feedback from moms. The process is NOT making me want to have kids. I often stumble upon something so horrific -- whether it's about some weird pregnancy thing or moms' sacrifices, whatever -- that I actually call my mom in the middle of the day and say, "Holy shit, mom! Did you have to do this, too? Did you have an episiotomy? Did you not have enough time to yourself to take a pee in private when I was a toddler? Did you have to give up your career dreams to become a mom?" Because that is what I'm hearing. And usually, she is like, "yes," and she doesn't seem too pissed about it. And that is the scariest thing of all -- she's not bothered. Why not? Why aren't mothers rioting against the injustice!? I think I'm going to start posting about motherhood, and what you see may shock you, unless you're a mom. If you're a mom, you'll be like, "no big deal." But it is a big deal. So while partially I am using these posts as a form of birth control, (disclaimer: This post is not ACTUALLY A CONDOM. It will just make you think twice before not using one.) I am also doing them to honor moms and the crazy shit they did so that we could grow up and run away from them and give them a terribly unthoughtful Mother's Day gift. (That is so not me, but I know it happens.)

Today's installment of "Virtual Condom" is this lovely video:

I'm Not a "Rules Girl", I'm An Asshole

2009-03-25T14:46:00.003-04:00

Is this how Minnie snagged Mickey?

I admit it: I just read The Rules: Time Tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right. I felt like reading something hilarious, and I assumed that I would have broken every single rule in the book repeatedly. Not so. Each rule fell into two camps: one that I did the exact opposite of (Don't talk too much) and stuff that I actually did (Don't call him and rarely return his calls). The stuff I got right though, wasn't because I'm a "Rules Girl" it's because I'm an asshole.

The thing is, this book has some truths. It's not ALL bad. The authors have sound advice for women that are like so desperate for a boyfriend that they have abandoned all other aspects of their lives and go to extreme desperate measures to stalk any man that looks at them twice. The message to them is, "Men are competitive and will do anything they can to get a woman they want. If he wants you, you shouldn't have to do a thing. Stop over-analyzing everything and freaking out. Just focus being a better you."

The authors assume that every woman is a psycho man hunter, and also that their relationship goals involve the following (I think that's what this list is, anyway. It was somewhat randomly included without much explanation why, under "Rule #33: Do The Rules and You'll Live Happily Ever After!" which just seems confusing to me, anyway:)

When you are seated at a booth in a restaurant, he slides over and sits next to you.
He sends you roses after sex.
He writes love notes or poetry for you and tapes them on the refrigerator door.
He gets angry when you don't pay attention to him. He wants your constant attention.
He is always ready to make up after a fight. What kind of pussy is "always ready to make up"?
He gets involved in every aspect of your life.
When you have a cold or become ill, he still wants to be with you.
He always wants the phone number of where you are so he can get in touch with you. (This is like what abusers do to their battered wives.)
He doesn't like it when you go to bachelorette parties. I'm sorry, there's a problem here.

The list is much longer, but you get the idea. (I underlined the most terrifying stuff.)

Of course, some of the rules are just plain bad. And those are the best (= worst):

Before he comes to your apartment, tuck this book away, hide in the closet anything you don't want him to see, such as a bottle of Prozac.

When writing a personal ad: "Don't try to be different. Remember, he has a lot of other letters to read. End the note by saying something like, "Well, I'm off to my aerobics class. Hope to hear form you soon." Keep it light!" (101)
In High School: Go to the beach, not in your room dwelling on your flaws or quoting Sylvia Plath. Don't chew gum and cackle. Seem self-contained even if you're lonely and bored to death. Notice what kinds of clothes, shoes, bags, jewelry, and hairstyles the most popular kids are wearing. Don't try to be too different or frugal in this area. To see what's hot and not, subscribe to Seventeen and Glamour. Don't you like boys who wear Polo shirts and cowboy boots when that's in fashion?
Remember, overweight is not The Rules.
Don't sit in your room alone on Friday and Saturday nights reading Jean-Paul Sartre.
Don't go away with a man for a week. Save it for your honeymoon! You might act too wifey -- telling him to watch his fat intake or giving him advice about a family or business problem.

To add to the book's charm, the authors have pretty much included the phrase "The Rules" in every other sentence, and about one third of the sentences end with a "!" Fortunately, the text is not pink and the i's are not dotted with hearts. That's about the only difference between this book and a 1950's teen's diary.

Neimann Marcus Commercial

2009-03-24T16:19:00.004-04:00

Those poor innocent clouds. Raided and turned inside out for the sake of fashion. I know it's supposed to be cute but it kind of makes me want to join PETA.

I Don't Want to Pay Someone to Be My Bitch

2009-03-24T13:30:00.002-04:00

Last night I had a nightmare about having a really big house that I had to clean and take care of, with a lawn and gardens and there were even goddam fountains! With fish that I had to feed! And lots of rooms with furniture and a piano that I didn’t play but needed to be tuned and in addition to the fish in the fountains there was a huge fish tank that needed to be cleaned (once a week.) I’m sure this was the aftermath of my post on having a really big house, but it was scary all the same. Even scarier than my nightmares about Legends of the Hidden Temple. (More on this later.)

But really, having a big house isn’t that scary, right? You just hire a maid. A gardener. A nanny? A fish feeder/tank cleaner? A dog walker? That’s what people with huge houses do, I think. And the idea of having a maid scares me even more than having a big house, even more than being a contestant on Legends of the Hidden Temple.

My parents live in a very small cape cod in Ohio, but they still have a maid. The whole thing just really creeps me out. I never know where to go when they are there or what we should talk about. I’m always in their way (the house is small!) and I end up practically serving them as if they were the Queens of England and I were a meager peasant hosting them for afternoon tea. (“Can I get you anything? Would you like me to put on a movie for you?...) I think I try to overcompensate for my guilt that they are doing work that I could be doing.

My mom is even worse than I am. She always ends up being BFFs with the maid, which I have learned is never a good idea. Our previous maid, Jessica, started asking for regular advances and bonuses, and because she had no one to babysit her daughter, she brought the little bundle with her to our house. And who ended up walking up and down the hallways burping the thing?! Rocking her for hours? Me! We actually had to fire Jessica, because we realized that this relationship just wasn’t working anymore. (Sound familiar, Jerry Seinfeld?)

I don’t like that kind of relationship, anyway -- the kind where someone is doing shitty labor work for me. The kind where someone is working for me and I pay them to get on their hands and knees to clean up the mess I’ve been making. I don’t want that kind of relationship in my life. (I’m sure that some people do need a maid. My mom has time to clean my house but got sick of my Dad bitching about what a pig sty the house is. That’s why my family has one.)

I felt even worse after reading Nickel and Dimed by Barbara Ehrenreich, a woman that for two years tried to survive on minimum wage jobs and had a really hard time doing it. One of her jobs was a house cleaner, and her description of the job was horrible. The maids are often mistreated, poorly paid, yet so desperate for the money that they are overworked, injured, and often weak from exhaustion and malnourishment. According to Ehrenreich, they are directed to get down on their hands and knees to clean, even if it is not the most effective method, because it seems subservient to the client. They are warned to use as little water as possible so they are basically just slopping messes around on the floor. Oh yea, and they are usually treated like shit by the customers. (Unless your client is my mom, who will make you brownies, CD mixes, and give you carefully chosen greeting chards with your payment.)

I’d like to hear what other people had to say about maid services. Is there a good, healthy way to maintain this relationship?

My Donut Creation

2009-03-20T18:34:00.005-04:00

I have in front of me a press release announcing Dunkin' Donuts' first. ever. "Create Dunkin's Next Donut" contest. I have long been waiting for the opportunity to put my "imagination and love of donuts into action!"This is a chance for Americans to "come together to celebrate donuts!" No, i will not hesitate to call or email so I can speak to "top Dunkin' Donuts leaders!"

I actually do spend a great deal of time thinking about donuts.

And now I can funnel those efforts into winning the $12,000 grand prize. This is my first idea:

Why Disney World Kicks Ass Reason #5: Dance Party!

2009-03-20T12:05:00.001-04:00

Why can't the real world be like this:

During Magic Kingdom after hours, when the park is open until sometimes 1 AM, "Dance Party!" sprouts up all over the park -- the closest thing to a kiddie night club, complete with spinning deejay, flashing lights, and dance floor. I am obsessed. The one in Fantasy Land, for example, has a Little Mermaid theme, so there are wild Under the Sea decorations and people dressed in cartoonish fish costumes busting moves on the dance floor. (In this way, it is sort of like a Flaming Lips concert.) The music, I have to admit, is pretty bad. (They obviously love Hannah Montana and techno versions of Disney classics, but I do enjoy the occasional oldies and mo-town). But when Mom and I have just knocked back a few drinks, I find myself getting really into it.

One problem: I don't know if you've ever noticed, but little kids are sucky dancers. They just kind of sway or jump up and down or the really annoying ones run as fast as they can in circles screaming. That is not dancing. So my more refined dance techniques really stick out (as long as the little kids stay out of my way, which they sometimes do not.) I hope those kids are taking notes.

If mom is drunk enough, she will twist, but most of the time I am on my own. Except for one time, pictured here, where I think a Magic Kingdom janitor felt bad that I was by myself and came up and started dancing with me. (Although, in Disney World, employees aren't called janitors, they are called "cast members" because they are kind of like actors in a big play that is Disney World). We had so much fun I thought I'd never stop laughing.

I think Dance Party! should be implemented all over the country and possibly the world. I want to be able to just stop what I'm doing for a few minutes and go all nuts. It would make me a better, happier person. I'm going to try to have it become company policy at work. Required Dance Party! I don't think it's too much to assume, either, that Dance Party! could bring world peace.

Ummm... I Still Think He Has Pretty Eyes?

2009-03-19T14:33:00.008-04:00

Just released today: a 74-year-old evil, balding, graying, swastika-ed prison photo of Charles Manson. In defense of my previous "Charles Manson is hot" claims, I'd like to point out that the man you see above is more attractive than several other geezers: Robert DuVall, MeatLoaf (who is a spry 61 year old), and Grandpa Simpson.

MIA's Paper Planes: I Was Absent That Day

2009-03-19T10:05:00.007-04:00

I actually really enjoy MIA's "Paper Planes", but the first time I heard it, I have to admit that I was really confused. Sometimes she wants to WHAT? Why are there guns going off? Cash registers? Am I supposed to know? I thought that I was listening to an edited version, that she was spewing profanities like a drunken sailor. "WHAT do you want to do, MIA, that's so profane it needs to be bleeped out with obtrusive gun shots?" But then, after hearing several versions, I realize that this was how the song was supposed to sound. Something I'm sure most people realized the first five seconds in hearing the song.

But the gunshots are no less disarming now that I know they're supposed to be there. (And I honestly had no idea what she was saying "murder" because it sounds like "meehhhhhdeeeehhhhhhh".) I don't enjoying hearing loud gun blasts and random ka-chings in my music. Couldn't she have used words there, instead? I think almost any words would sound better, like even if she just repeated the word "bunghole" a bunch of times.

And who are these singing children? Are they the ones who want to *@#$&(@#*$? Are they the ones shooting off these guns, ka-chinging all over the place?

I did a lot of research to find out what this song is really about. I googled the shit out of this song. Fans claim, "This song is so gangsta!" and "This song makes me want to smoke a lot of weed." So maybe I am just not gangsta enough or I do not smoke enough weed.

Either way, the thing that confuses me more than the gunshots, cash registers, and children singers, is the fact that everyone seems to totally get this song except for me. The fact that I even had to look up the meaning of the lyrics is lame-ass.

I actually found this quote from MIA about the song on a message board:

"I was going to get patties at my local and just thinking that really the worst thing that anyone can say [to someone these days] is some shit like: "What I wanna do is come and get your money." People don't really feel like immigrants or refugees contribute to culture in any way. That they're just leeches that suck from whatever. So in the song I say All I wanna do is [sound of gun shooting and reloading, cash register opening] and take your money. I did it in sound effects. It's up to you how you want to interpret. America is so obsessed with money, I'm sure they'll get it."

I still don't. And I definitely didn't get that right away. This song is about immigrants? Am I retarded? It appears everyone else on the message board does get it. I actually sort of feel like an academic trying to translate ebonics, destroying the beauty in the process. This isn't because I'm smart or anything, but just because I'm trying so hard to understand something that I just don't. Something that everyone else gets without even trying. And maybe part of the problem is that I don't wanna boom! boom! ka-ching! take your money, and I am too uncreative to try to relate to it.

I don't want to be too hard on MIA, though. I like the song, and I like it when artists try new things. So God bless MIA, with her guns, and immigrants, and cash registers, and screaming children.

This Is Why I Don't Eat Animals

2009-03-18T09:15:00.002-04:00

They showed this video on the Today Show to the tune of Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" and as I sat there watching it, with tears in my eyes, my heart swelling (for real), I thought, "Wow this song really sucks and is taking away from my enjoyment of this very amazing moment. I hope they don't play this crappy song in the YouTube version." Good news: they don't!!! But they chose an arguably crappier song. I'm not really sure, it's hard to compare. I must say though, this song is so bad that it makes this moment almost extra hilarious. Listen for yourself. I had tears in my eyes as I watched it again. Damn, I love animals.

The Bible Is Effing Hilarious: 4 Reasons Jonah Was a Dumbass

2009-03-16T16:10:00.003-04:00

Everyone knows the story of Jonah and the whale -- at least the beginning part. I know that the only part I could remember from Sunday school was the part about him being swallowed by a whale. I always thought it was about how powerful God is and if he wants to give you a message you can't escape it. I didn't really think about the context of the store or wtf was going on, and also, my careless/neglective Sunday School teachers forgot to mention the best part of the story.

First of all, what was Jonah doing when he was on the ship, before he was thrown into the sea by his sailing mates? He was running away from God because God wanted him to go to war in Nineveh (which ironically enough is located in modern day Iraq). Here is reason #1 that Jonah is a dumbass: he thinks by getting on a ship he can hide from GOD and he won't have to go to war. This isn't Vietnam, and you're not in Canada, Jonah. In the olden days, God doesn't get you get away with this shit (not in THIS life, anyway!)

It gets better. The sea starts getting all tumultuous and the sailors are all like, "wtf is going on!?" Reason #2: Jonah takes a fucking NAP. That's like exactly what toddlers do when their moms are all like "who pooped in the refrigerator?" (Totally hypothetical.)

But the sea captain wasn't born yesterday. He wakes Jonah up and realizes that he is the reason the Lord is shaking the hell out of his ship. So they throw Jonah off.

Here is the segment of the story we all know -- Jonah is swallowed by a whale. I think it's important to reexamine it though, because if you actually read the text, you will see that the fish (it doesn't say whale, actually) is sent to save Jonah. So God is really fucking with Jonah, here.

Jonah finally gets to Nineveh and warns everyone that God is about to smite them. The people actually believe him and repent, so (much to Jonahs' surprise) God forgives the whole city. Reason #3: Jonah gets pissed at God for saving Nineveh. This is hilarious, because he doesn’t care about the Ninevehites at all. He's only angry because he ends up looking like a huge dumbass. ("That's the last time we listen to your prophecies of doom!")

I'm NOT DONE YET! Next God sends Jonah to the desert and gives him a plant to protect him from the sun. Since God has been screwing with Jonah this whole time, we shouldn't be surprised that He kills the plant. Reason #4: Jonah FREAKS out and whines and threatens to commit suicide because he is so upset that his plant died. What a drama queen! God responds, saying, "You cared about the plant, which you did not work for and which you did not grow, which appeared overnight and perished overnight. And should not I care about Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than 120,000 persons?"

This is the part we realize what a moron Jonah is, but that there is a little of Jonah in each-and-every-one-of-us. We're all whiny little bitches -- draft-evading, selfish, idiotic dramatic whiny bitches.

And that is why I love this story.

Now tell me: did you guys all know about the awesomeness of this story before now?

Bring Your Legos To Heaven

2009-03-12T15:52:00.007-04:00

I love the Bible because it's such a human book, more of history of the first Christians, if you ask me, than an account of actual events. I love how every. single. word. is deliberate and rich with meaning, and has evolved along with the Christians who were writing it. As Bart D. Ehrman points out in Misquoting Jesus, it has been edited, falsely copied, reconstructed, deleted and re-written, mistranslated, lost, found, etcetera, which makes the entire Bible one huge mystery that tells us more about the authors than the subjects of the stories. We can't accept it as the literal Word of God.

That's why I got a huge kick out of the Brick Testament. Brendan Powell Smith has spent years creating Bible Stories with Legos. To me, this is just another step in the evolution of the Bible. For thousands of years, people have picked it up and and read it, spoken it, listened to it, acted it out, drew it, sculpted it, and interpreted it in many ways. I hope that process never, ever ends.

Ehrman's book was pretty good. Even if you agree that the Bible was written by humans (which is a surprisingly low percengate of people), you will be surprised to read about the actual history of how these words became published, and how it is impossible to argue that they are the inerrant words of God. Ehrman breaks down the history of the Gospels and letters of the New Testament so we see (and this is why I love the New Testament so much-->) that the New Testament is a primary source history of the first Christians. We're learning much more about them than Jesus Christ.

You'd like to think that putting the Bible together was a simple process -- that it came together quite neatly in a short amount of time. But it took hundreds of years of unorganized "editing," by often illiterate monks and scribes with agendas. I used to joke that when recording John's Gospel some stupid intern dropped the manuscript on the floor and picked it back up and shuffled it back together out of order because it seems so awkward and obviously non-sensical at times. But honestly, this might have actually happened. And a whole bunch of other weird stuff, too.

Every single word in the Bible is heavy and was selected for a very specific reason, to support a theory, to blame the Jews for killing God, or fulfill Old Testament prophecy. Oh, that last one. The book hardly touched upon this, and that is one of my favorite aspects of the New Testament stories. That's why I love Jesus' birth narratives so much -- they have Joseph carting his ass all over the Middle East at warped speed just so he can be in the right places at the right time, even though it makes no sense logistically. It's hilarious. I'm shocked Ehrman didn't talk about this very much -- almost all Jesus anecdotes reflect predictions about the Messiah in the Old Testament. But still, there was a lot that I did NOT know. (Like, the fact that four Gospels was chosen was not because there were only four legitimate Gospels -- shit... there were far more than that -- but because there were "four corners of the earth." Did you know that?

Also, this book is pretty basic, so even if you don't know shit about the Bible, you can get through this book and enjoy every page.

20 Reasons Why Yogurt Sucks

2009-03-11T10:12:00.005-04:00

Disclaimer: The following list does not necessarily reflect the point of view of Eric, with the exception of Number Nineteen. Everyone in the universe agrees With Number Nineteen.

1) That poor Trix Rabbit gets fucked over again, when all he wants is, innocently enough, is to enjoy the breakfast goods that exploit his image in advertising.

2) Yogurt: are you a liquid or a solid? Please make up your mind and then get back to me.

3) It's Unpleasantly Slimy.

4) Probiotic Bullshit. Companies like Dannon have already gotten sued for making fake probiotic claims.

5) I don't take orders from Jaime Lee Curtis. Also the Activia song makes me want to die.

6) Did someone actually get paid for coming up with Yoplait's slogan "It's just so good"? How did that slip through the cracks? (After hearing it, my immediate response is just a flat, "no it's not," and then I move on, my anti-yogurt stance unwavering.)

7) Inauthentic Girliness. Yoplait is trying to connect with me and my feminine needs (Yoplait is "not waiting in line for the restroom good"? OH MAN! WHERE DO THEY GET THIS STUFF!?!?) but it only makes me want to disown my uterus. Who serves yogurt at a wedding, anyway?

8) It's too sweet. I cringe.

9) Shitty flavors. It's always the same old artificial blueberry, strawberry, etc. that never taste like blueberry, strawberry, etc. Why don't they make some that taste like lasagna or a Dirty Martini?

10) Eating yogurt is just depressing, unless you don't have teeth. So, like, babies can eat it, fine. And old people. But if you are hip at all, grab life by the balls and put down the yogurt.

11) It's too complicated and instills fear in me. Those Activia commercials have me scared out of my mind, with all those flying arrows and exploding stomachs.

12) It's definitely labeled a "woman's food", which makes me want to hate it more.

13) The publishers I work for claim in a highly sensitive and top secret document that "kids have aversions to yogurt because they suspect it might be healthy." I disagree with this statement. You can get kids to eat anything and they almost never have a problem with yogurt. They're not like, "WAIT A SECOND, MOM. I CAN SMELL THE PROBIOTICS." Kids don't care. But reading it made me think about how much I hate yogurt in the first place.

14) Yogurt does not taste good on pizza or in alcohol. So really, what's the point?

15) If left unrefrigerated, yogurt sucks even more.

16) Your mom may or may not have packed it in your lunch box every goddam day for 8 years throughout grade school and now you're sick of it.

17) Your host family when you studied abroad in Florence (who didn't understand the eating habits of Americans) may or may not have found out that your roommate liked yogurt and may or may not have bought entire crates of it, forcing it on you as meal replacements for actual cooked meals. Also, Italian yogurt may or may not suck even worse than unrefrigerated American yogurt (this has something to do with the fact that Italians actually know what good food tastes like, so they don't EAT yogurt) and I question the amount of viable probiotics in European yogurt, anyway.

18) Yogurt requires no effort on the behalf of the consumer. You might as well just blast it down your throat in tubes, or inject it the next time you're shooing up heroin. A good food requires some chewing, it requires you to work for it's love.

19) GO-GURT is Ridiculous. As Ellen Deneneres so aptly put,

"GO-GURT is for people on the go. Let me ask you, was there a big mobility problem with yogurt before? How time-consuming was it, really? [pretending to be on the phone:] "Hello?...Oh, hi, Tom...oh, I've been dying to see that movie...Umm, no...I just opened up some yogurt...Yeah, I'm in for the night...No, not even later-it's the kind with fruit on the bottom. Well, have fun. Thanks anyway."

20) Fruit on the bottom. Need I say more?

What Kind Of Dweeb Doesn't Swear?

2009-03-10T17:59:00.006-04:00

When I heard that McKay Hatch started a National No Cussing Club, I thought 2 things: 1. This boy is confusing, he has two last names and 2. What kind of dweeb starts a No Cussing Club?

Now I was a huge dork when I was Mr. Hatch's age. Or Mr. McKay's age. Or whatever. But not in this lame-ass way. I wore kangol hats and suspenders to school every day. I watched Alice's Adventures in Wonderland when I was entirely too old to be doing so. I tripped over things a lot. I definitely thought swearing was cool -- it was the language of my grandparents, my parents, and me. One of the first times I stringed together a sentence, I was sitting in my high-chair while my mother was throwing a dinner party and I said, "What the hell is this, chicken?" I believe swearing is a beautiful use of the English language. How good does it feel to say MOTHER FUCKER!!!? Everyone has their profanity of choice. (My mom's is "ass-wipe.) And now we know that swearing at work is GOOD FOR EVERYONE.

But come on. What kind of nerd admits "A lot of kids at my school, and some of my friends, would cuss and use dirty language all the time. They did it so much, they didn't even realize they were doing it. It bothered me so much that one day I challenged them to stop!" This kid needs a good old fashioned Swirlie. Or Awful Waffle. And what kind of nerd does makes a no cussing rap video?

But then I started thinking this McKay kid might have a point. When little kids swear, it definitely sounds lame-ass. You have to fight for your right to swear. It's like a right you earn for putting up with a bunch of bullshit that you wanted to swear about your whole life but couldn't cause you were only a kid (like indoor recess and yogurt in your lunch box). The kid was talking on the news, and I was thinking, he sounds so mature, so adult. I felt like he probably had a lot to say about the Palestine/Israeli conflict or something. Very articulate kid.

So a message to Hatch: I'm sorry I poo-pooed you, you goddam son of a bitch. Easy on the swears for now, it will get you far. But once you get to be older, it doesn't really matter. (You might also get looser on other such items such as drinking, drugs, and sex, and life will be more fun.)

Oh, blissful youth!

Pixar Knows: Chubbyness For the Win!

2009-03-10T17:42:00.003-04:00

The full-length trailer for Pixar's new movie Up came out last weekend. So many Cute Factors in one movie! Puppy! Balloons! And my personal favorite, a Chubby Character. In Up, it's this little boy, but previous Pixar tubbies include Emile from Ratatouille (dutifully eating a piece of cheese here), and to his left, one of the fat humans from Wall-E. Even though the point of the obese humans in Wall-E was to point out our depravity, it really just ended up being cute. Proving, once again, that chubbyness wins.

Other, non Pixar chubby things that are cute -- babies!

To Aid In Your Rowdy Irish Drinking:

2009-03-09T14:53:00.004-04:00

It's almost St. Patrick's day, and although we all know there is nothing really Irish about it, we love it anyway, because it's the only chance we get to be all stereotypical about leprechauns and Guinness and whatnot. I love it because the Pogues have a huge concert in NYC every year. So whatever St. Patrick's Day represents or does not represent, it is a great chance to listen to the greatest band of all time. I wanted to make everyone an online mix tape, but muxtape went out of business so this will have to do. But if anyone has any interest in a Pogues CD, let me know. I will make you one so fast your head will spin and I will deliver it to you myself. I actually forgot to put one of my favorite songs on here, and that sucks ass. It's called "Are You There Margaret? It's Me, God" by the Lawrence Arms. If my friend Dave K. is reading, he should post some better suggestions I know he has some. Erin-go-Bragh, everyone. (Which I think in Celtic means go get so wasted you have to urinate in the sink -- something I saw more than once when I was visiting Ireland.)

The Media Does ANOTHER!!!! Bad Thing For Women

2009-03-06T15:57:00.003-05:00

Off the top of my head, I can remember hearing reports that R gave CB "brown herpes," was flirting with Jay-Z (who wouldn't flirt with Jay-Z?) and then there was this reporter from the Daily News who reported that Rihanna grabbed the keys out of Chris' Lamborghini and threw them down the street, knowing "it would really infuriate Chris, and it worked." The same article says an insider reported that, "Rihanna is tempermental, too. They're both too hot-headed for their own good."

Ummmm... did you SEE that picture of Rihanna? I am really irked that they used a cliché to describe the situation. "Too hot-headed for their own good." Like, you know, run-of- the-mill "too hot-headed for their own good." Run-of-the-mill beating the shit out of your girlfriend. Whateves.

So I'm getting used to hearing this shit and being like "Mother of God!" But this morning, CNN interviewed Jeff Gardere, a Clinical Psychologist and I think it just made me realize that I've had enough. Up to here. Etcetera. The first thing he said that made me go "huh" was "They really are in love," which confuses me and I think is up for debate. But this part shouldn't be up for debate:

Rihanna, as we know, through her attorney, asked a judge not to prohibit Brown from contacting her. And we hear they are back together. Yikes. Gardere says,

"Rihanna herself has a responsibility not just to herself and her relationship and Chris Brown, but to her public, whether she wants to be a role model or not, she actually is, so she's giving a very wrong message by saying, "I'm going back, but I'm going back with no preconditions." There have to be preconditions. And I, as Rihanna, I should perhaps get some therapy and find out why it is that I want to stay in this kind of relationship."

Yes. The cycle of violence, we all know. But I would think a Clinical Psychologist would know how hard it is to break the cycle of violence. How hard it is to just walk away. Every day, women all over the world claim they love their husbands who have tried to kill them. We can never judge a woman who can't just get up one morning and do it, even if she is a public figure. It's going to be very difficult for Rihanna to break out of the cycle.

She is a victim, let's give her a break.

The Media Does Another Bad Thing For Women

2009-03-06T11:38:00.002-05:00

To celebrate their 70th anniversary, Glamour recently did a piece honoring American women (and one Belgian). The connection there is tenuous, but nevertheless they chose to honor the women by having young celebutantes pose in their images: Alexis Bleidel as Rosie the Riveter, Camilla Belle as Mary Tyler Moore and yes, Emma stone as Carrie Bradshaw.

The effect is kind of creepy -- the actresses and models, mostly much younger than the women they're representing, have a plastic sheen and beatific smile. Like Barbie, the ever-present archetype. It's an insult to women like Amelia Earhart and Brandi Chastain and a corruption of what they stand for. Hayden Panatteire and Elisha Cuthbert seem like nice girls but what have they ever done for the world or for women?

Would anyone care about the story of Dolores Huerta if there wasn't a pretty starlet posing as her? Fighting for migrant workers rights isn't pretty or stylized. Why not show pictures of the actual women? Once again the media is telling women that, "Sure! Do whatever you want as long as you're pretty doing it. Also, if you were just pretty (like a model!) you could just pretend to do something great."

When women are told "You can do anything," as the subtitle to this slideshow does, should we be thinking of Carrie Bradshaw? Aside from the fact that she's a fictional character whose made up life could only exist in fantasy, she represents values -- materialism, vanity and a singular focus on romance -- that only hurt us.

Glamour's "American Icons" only serves to muddle the meaning of what it means to be a great woman.

Holiday Joy: Scheisters, Nasty Asses, Slutty Boots

2009-03-06T09:44:00.004-05:00

My Christmas Eve is a night of heavy drinking, an elegant dinner (that would be more elegant were we not heavily drinking) and opening presents (because since we are heavily drinking, we are too hung over Christmas morn to feel very jolly). This year, my dad's Aunt Bernie was saying so many colorful things that I started texting them to myself. (Unfortunately, I didn't get to document the whole evening. I will take this project more seriously next time I see her.) I recently found the texts, and they really brought back that warm, holiday feeling:

December 24, 9:45 PM: "He was a scheister and a nasty ass" (referring to a Priest)

December 24, 11: 19 PM: "Is she still alive, that witch?" (referring to her step-mother)

December 25, 12:24 AM: "That Brian, I'll shred him to the last thread." (Brian is my dad)

December 25, 1:05 AM: "I don't like those big tall slutty looking boots." (As my mother opens a pair of big tall black boots that my dad has purchased for her.)

Oh, joy!

Diddy Rates Fried Chicken

2009-03-05T22:48:00.003-05:00

A Popeyes v. KFC taste-off at the hands of Diddy should have been better. This is a man who could have made the future members of Danity Kane walk the chicken across the Brooklyn Bridge for him before performing a (chicken) dance while he feasted with other members of hip hop royalty. But he looks oddly sad for having so many buckets of food in front of him and he also weirdly brings up his weight gain. He's possibly depressed.