Things Kelsey Grammer Says

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

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

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

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

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?

12 Shitty PR Pitches

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

-lp

Douchebag Calculator

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

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

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

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

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

I am not a douche bag.

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

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

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

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

City Passes New "Dunk Tank Smoking Stations"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm Drunk.

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

You Look Like You Really Need It.

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

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

You Have Turrets And Tell Me To Suck Your Dick.

You Are Paying Dave Matthews On Your Acoustic.

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

Why Disney World Kicks Ass #8: Booze

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How Safe Do You Feel?

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

Hudson, Ohio

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

Word.

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

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

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

Incident Report: None.

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

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

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

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

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

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

How safe? 6

Florence, Italy

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

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

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

How safe? 8

Rome, Italy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How Safe? 5

New York City

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

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

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

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

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

Incident Report: None

How Safe? 7

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

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

Infinity Reasons The Subway Kicks Ass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The only things I miss about not having a car:

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