Today's fresh fish

I’ve been mulling over an odd question for the last two days: what is an appropriate amount of time to mourn the loss of a pet fish before buying a new one?

I guess if I was religious, I could turn to a belief for an answer -- it’s good for stuff like that. Hindu? 13 days. Jewish? 1 week. Muslim? 3 days. Daytime Dramish? 2 minutes (5 if your fish is in a coma or believed lost at sea).

It’s been 10 days since I returned from FL to find that Wally the Fighting-for-His-Life Fish died while I was gone (so I’m not even sure about the date I’d begin counting from as part of a mourning period). Faced with an empty bowl on my bedroom wall and nothing to dictate my mourning period, I followed my gut (and aesthetic values) and headed to PETCO today.

I spent a ridiculous amount of time examining the 20+ fighting fish on display. Before his agonizing death, Wally had lived nearly 3 years (so this new fish could be staring at me night after night for years to come). I stared at each fish, gauged how I felt if they stared back and then gave a thumbs up or down.

Out of respect, I was also very cognizant of a need for one that didn’t look like Wally (despite the sane half of my brain saying, "get another red one and call it a day before I imagine a bus and throw myself in front of it"). But so many colors to choose from! Purple, light purple, blue, dark blue, greenish teal and multicolored, even! It was too much for someone who deliberated six months over a paint color for a 5’ x 9’ dining room wall.

Luckily, I’d stopped and shopped in Stop n’ Shop across the street before hitting PETCO so there were frozen goodies in the car to consider. I finally settled on a vibrant blue one because he did so well in the "fin off." (Similar to a "walk off" in modeling where two models strut to see who will make the show, I’d held a "fin off" by positioning top candidates next to each other to see whose fins would flare best and who had the most moxie. At that point, the sane half of my brain was hit by an imaginary bus and died.)

I’ve since named him "Fresh" (get it? as in "fresh fish") and am very happy with him so far. He’s fiesty and flashes the same "hateful humans, shutting your eyes for hours at a time!" look that Wally used to give me every morning. I don’t feel bad about getting him 10 days after flushing Wally so I guess I’m doing alright by my own religion.


"Fresh" in his spacious new digs, staring at the dinky contraption he'd spent God-knows-how-long in before I saved him from an anonymous death in it at PETCO.

Go Greyhound (and leave the disinfecting to Lysol)

After returning from a week in FL on Wednesday, I was off again on Friday -- this time to RI for Easter weekend. So, it was so nice to wake up in my own bed this morning (okay, afternoon) feeling refreshed and thoroughly disinfected after a scorching hot shower of Lysol last night. That's what happens when you "go Greyhound," I guess.

Yes, even though the past month has included luxurious stays in 5-star hotels such as the St. Regis in New York, the Taj in Boston and the Fairmont Turnberry Isle in Miami, I decided to take the bus to Providence. David McCullough's "1776" is partly to blame (seriously, I can't put the book down) as is Amtrak, that crap excuse for transportation. Where they get off charging $190 to ride trains that sit on the tracks for hours waiting to make a left turn is beyond me.

So, for $50 R/T, I headed to the Port Authority on 42nd Street to catch my 6:15 PM bus. For what it's worth, I wasn't *really* slumming it -- there is one level below Greyhound in NYC: the Fung Wah bus out of Chinatown to Providence for $25 R/T. They only recently banned chickens as carry-on baggage and I've heard horror stories about passengers being routed to Hartford and made to dine at unkempt Chinese restaurants affiliated with the busline (i.e. Chinese mafia). In light of this, Greyhound seemed like a safe bet.

But the sights and smells of Port Authority quickly had me re-thinking my choice to leave the driving to them. I mean, it's not often that I give change to a homeless guy while waiting to board a plane or train.

Immersed in a thick fog of bus exhaust and Budweiser breath inside the terminal, I began to hallucinate that a posse of flying rats was trapped in the long, narrow terminals and kept dive-bombing the line I was standing in. No, those were real pigeons. Then, I hallucinated an argument between a 20-ish black guy and a shrunken old white guy who were standing in line for Atlantic City. No, that was real, too:

"What? Don't tell me where to stand! I'll stand where I want to! Who the hell are you? You can't make me move!"

(mumbled response from black guy)

"I don't pay taxes anymore 'cause I'm 84 years old! I go to church every day and the good Lord takes care of me. Yes he does. The good Lord takes care of me!"

(mumbled response from black guy and curious looks from other passengers)

"That's right! I'm 84 years old and I drink a quart of milk every day. A QUART of milk! Want to see me punch a hole in this wall? C'mon, dare me! I'll punch a hole right through this wall!"

(mumbled response from black guy and nervous looks from other passengers that they were about to see an 84-yr-old with a broken arm)

"What, are you guys chicken?! I tell ya, I drink a QUART of milk every day! Dare me to punch a hole in this wall. Here, watch me do it!"

(84-yr-old moves 2 steps over to where the brick wall has a plastic-framed advertisement and softly punches it)

Soon after the excitement of standing in line a la Port Authority, I was finally on board my Greyhound when a horrible thought occurred to me: I can't pee for the next 4 hours. I mean, I could pee, but it would be in a rocking port-a-potty (and if the terminal's bathrooms were any indication, I'd be better off suffering kidney failure on the way to Providence). Suddenly, the urge to pee was all I could think about despite relieving myself only 20 minutes earlier.

Other thoughts came to mind, too:

The Port Authority should not allow beer to be sold or consumed prior to boarding a bus. Period. Otherwise, nose plugs and breath mints should be handed out like candy.

Not everyone on Greyhound is a beer-guzzling ex-con. In fact, some are beer-guzzling college students. I sat next to a girl from NYU with a large Chanel bag and nose ring who used her $2,000 laptop to play video games the entire way.

How is it that bus drivers don't hit the same traffic I do EVERY GODDAMN TIME I ATTEMPT THE SAME DRIVE UP 95? It was 6 o'clock on a Friday night before a holiday weekend and that guy didn't hit the brakes once. WTF?

Conversation is a lost art that only Greyhound passengers still practice. Behind me was a Dominicana from the Bronx and a Liberian guy from Pawtucket. Despite being complete strangers, they managed to chat like old friends the entire 4 hours (mostly about his desire to learn Spanish and the merits of chicharone).

Is it weird to be offended when your seatmate gets up the SECOND an empty row becomes available? Did I smell, too? Had the pent-up urine saturated my skin by the time we got to New London?

I survived the trip, had a nice time with the fam in RI for Easter and managed to put a huge dent in "1776" along the way. In fact, finishing that book is the reason it's taken me nearly two days to blog about my little social experiment. No, seriously, you've GOT to read this book...it's well worth the kidney and can of Lysol it cost me.


(some cheap bitch happily disembarking from a Greyhound bus in Providence)

Speak now or forever kvetch about it

I just returned from a week in South FL. Now that I think about it, I'm in that cultural wasteland pretty often for one who claims to hate it so much. Oh, quick update: while I was gone, Wally the Fighting-For-His-Life Fish died. I can't help but feel like I wished death on him and guilty about the relief I now feel. He was flushed tonight at 11 PM and leaves behind one stinky bowl.

Anyway, I digress. If I learned one thing on this trip (besides that my skin is too white to ever live there again), it's that regret is a bitch. The good news: it only took me about 15 minutes to process this truth and act accordingly. Unfortantely, the bitches who gave me cause to regret were no longer available for smacking.

It all started when I boarded a 6 AM JetBlue flight to Ft. Lauderdale last Wednesday after working all day/night to meet a deadline. Partially delirious from sleep deprivation, I settled into my seat and eye shades with the hope of slipping into a 3-hour coma.

Suddenly, my New Jersey yenta radar went off as three middle-aged yakkers in track suits approached the row of seats directly behind me (after waiting tables in Boca Raton, my radar can spot a NJ yenta in Bloomies from a Loehman's two states over). I comforted myself, "no, they can't possibly gab the entire flight. People fly JetBlue to watch TV, right?"

Wrong. Not only are NJ yentas completely immune to 30 channels of Direct TV, they are also unaware that the seat housing said TV belongs to another person. After leaving the gate, the seat bumping began as the bitch-behind-me unloaded her goods into the flap. I fumed, "What tremendous load of crap could this woman possibly be putting into that little slit of a pocket?" In Touch? Oprah's latest book-of-the-month selection? Bladder control medication?

Whatever it was, she seemed to take each item out, remember that she was supposed to be rehashing the Hawaii vacation with her sister harpies and then put it back in. Couple this with the fact that she was about 100 pounds overweight with a knee that couldn't get enough of the tray table.

Somewhere over North Carolina, I lost my shit. I ripped off my eye shades, turned around and glared at her through the sliver of space between seats. I firmly demanded, "could you please stop banging the seat?!" A wide-eyed "who me" was the only response. "There," I thought, "that ought to do it." Sleep seemed assured now.

Instead, it became a source of hushed "did she just say something nasty to you?" and "these people" comments amongst the coven. I gave up on sleep somewhere off the coast of Georgia. I regreted not going completely apeshit but figured I was on vacation now and bound to get my zzzz's eventually.

Then something strange happened. As I was walking off the plane, I heard them whispering behind me like 3 teenage girls in a high school hallway. "She looks like one of those..." was all I managed to make out. What?! They're talking shit about ME?! I wheeled around and took my sunglasses off so they would know I'd heard. But for some reason, no sound came out of my mouth to match my evil glare.

What the hell was wrong with me? A fight with people clearly in the wrong and 110% deserving a verbal lashing?! I live for this shit! I felt impotent. Maybe the venom can only be unleashed after 8 hours of sleep, I wondered as I continued to walk. My humiliation grew as I sized up the trio: one gaunt blonde with a bad haircut; one completely forgettable brunette and then the bitch-behind-me (a matronly hippo wearing a fanny pack...a fugging FANNY PACK, for crying out loud!).

As we entered the bathroom, one whispered to the bitch-behind-me, "hee hee, keep your hands and feet to yourself in the bathroom stall." I turned around and glared at them again. But, again, no sound released from my mouth. I fumed in the bathroom, thinking of all the horrific things I would usually say (e.g. "you know, when I first turned around on the plane, I expected to see a 4-yr-old so you can imagine how surprised I was to see a ONE HUNDRED and 4-yr-old"). What the HELL was happening?

I continued fuming all the way to Hertz where my Mustang awaited (it's the only car I've rented since last June in New Mexico -- I even budget a speeding ticket into each trip). Pushing the bad thoughts from my mind for a minute, I explained to the woman behind the counter that I prefer Mustangs with leather interior and spoilers, if possible. She replied that my reserved Mustang was the only one available.

Oh well, I mused as I walked out to the car, still thinking about all the other deliciously vile things I should've said. Cursing myself for forgetting the "we don't regret the things we do, we regret the things we DON'T do" motto, I started to notice Mustangs in the Hertz lot.

By the time I reached my car, I'd seen at least 3 other Mustangs with spoilers and leather interiors. I was very disappointed to find that although mine was a brand new black one, it lacked both a spoiler and leather interior (and the Sirius satellite radio was installed outside of the dash! Ew!). In fact, it looked much like an '08 Honda Accord coupe (I drive an Accord coupe in NYC so why would I want to rent one?).

I started to put my luggage in the trunk but then thought, "why am I going to pay all this money for something I don't like? How angry will I be with myself if I drive out of here with this alleged Mustang?" The image of those yucky women loomed large in my mind. My morning of regret was over.

Despite no sleep and the annoyed looks I'd get back at the Hertz counter, I took the luggage out and marched back inside. I explained that there were other Mustangs available and insisted that I be put in one of them instead. 20 minutes later, I had the keys to a hot red and black Mustang with leather interior, a spoiler and "Mustang" written across the side (Sirius radio in the dash!).

Before peeling out into the scorching FL heat to find an A/C to sleep in, I managed to notice one small detail: the license plates on my Mustang were from New Jersey (but at least they didn't talk).


Me in da Mustang (no regrets, bitches!)


Even Gia (my man's dog) was down with the spoiler. See, she's checking it out in this photo.

My fighting (for his life) fish

So, I'm faced with a troubling situation about my fighting fish Wally (whose name is short for "Wallflower" 'cause he lives in a bowl nailed to the wall near my bed -- see photo). Here's the deal...

Before I left to spend Christmas with the fam, I wanted to be sure Wally was all set with fresh, clean water. I brought his bowl into the bathroom to do a quick water change per our usual. And that's where the crisis and my current predicament began.

Since I got Wally over 3 years ago, he's developed a knack for launching himself out of the net when I transfer him from the bowl to his holding tank (a small cup on the side of the sink). Trouble is, I don't have a parachute or a stunt double for him and he ends up landing on the bathroom floor.

It's happened like 3 times now out of the 40 times I've changed the water. Each time he does it, I shriek for 5 seconds while desperately trying to delicately pick him up and put him back in the holding tank (with him doing the quiver the entire time, of course). Within an hour, he shakes off the dust bunnies and shock as though nothing ever happened (he's got to keep his tough guy image as a fighting fish, ya know).

This last time before Christmas, however, was longer than 5 seconds. He'd wedged himself far in the dark corner behind the sink. It felt like 3 minutes (but was probably 15-20 seconds) before I finally got him back in the tank. I wished for Santa Claus to bring him new gills and left for the week, hoping I'd find him okay when I got back.

I thought it was good news to find him alive, if not still dazed, when I returned. I now realize that perhaps it was bad news. It's been over 3 months now and he hasn't sprung back; instead, his health has been on a slow decline ever since. I guess my wish should've been for Santa to flush him down the toilet?

And that's where the problem is: I can't flush a fish that's still alive down the toilet! I think Wally has a right to live and who am I to take that away? I like him, too. I looked forward to falling asleep while watching him swim angrily above my head, cursing me and my ability to close my eyes.

But, a big part of me also thinks the life Wally has now may not be worth living. His breathing is very labored and he hasn't eaten in over a month (I give him food pellets that dissolve in the bowl but I can't imagine it's been helpful). His latest thing is flipping completely over on his backside and laying on the bottom of the tank for hours...still breathing, still fighting.



Every night, I watch him intently for signs of improvement but then resign myself to the hard truth that he is dying. What. A. Slow. Death. Seriously, I don't think even I could hang on this long if I fell off a building and drowned for 20 seconds immediately after (the human equivalent of his accident).

So, I keep looking for a sign like Terri Schiavo's image in my toast. Nothing. I'm torn between the right to live and the right to die. What would Jesus do? What would YOU do?

On second thought, I shouldn't claim to be all that concerned about ethics. I mean, if I did, would I keep a fish imprisoned in a bowl nailed to the wall?

p.s. yes, I keep a kamikazi fish in the same bedroom that I keep the pet crickets (see previous "Jiminy Crickets!" blog). Speaking of which, here's the news from that side of the room...

The Cricket Update
I started with 10 (or was it 11? am I a bad pet owner?) and can now only verify that 3 are still in there. Not sure if the survivors ate the others or what. I give them food and refresh their "water pillow" once a week so maybe it was the low humidity? [shrug]

As for the 3 who have made it this far, two are female and one is male (he's either very happy about it or, if he is in fact a homosexual deaf mute, not too happy). The females, of course, are KICKIN' ASS! Their legs/antennae are approaching cockroach levels of grossness. In fact, my crickets are so big that I can almost see their wings! (As you may recall, a cricket's wings are the source of that wonderful noise I've been dying to hear all these years as I fall asleep.)

But, alas, to date: NOT A SINGLE CHIRP. Just the sound of my brain caught in an endless loop of "should I flush Wally?" "no, Wally is one of God's creatures!" like some goddamn right-to-life protest.

WTF in today's NYT

Not sure what to make of this story from today's NY Times: "A Man’s 6-Pack Can Serve as His Castle" (http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/07/us/07beer.html?th&emc=th).

Basically, this guy in Houston, TX (TX? shocking!) would wait on baited beer breath for the local grocery store to get its beer delivery. He would then stock up on 8-10 CASES of beer, drink them and then "decorate" his house with the cans...over 50,000 cans and tabs in all.

The house was just designated a folk art museum after a $400,000 restoration project that took 7 years (fumigation ain't easy, folks). I'm especially interested in the caption that appeared below the guy's photo:

"John Milkovisch, left, with his wife, Mary, spent 20 years at work on what is known as the Beer Can House."

Surely, the NY Times can do better! Here's one:
"John Milkovisch, left, with his wife, Mary, who spent 20 years huddled in a corner, hoping John would forget it was 'sex with deer' night."

So, whaddya think? Pioneer environmentalist? Unsolved Case #451 of Houston's shamed AA chapter? And what do you think the cause of death was? I'll bet it was lead poisoning (those old houses are death traps!).

Will work for long commute

While I don't miss having to get up at ungodly hours (i.e. before 11) and then pretending to "work" all day, there is one thing I miss about having a full-time gig in the city -- besides a regular pay-check -- and that's riding the train to/from work every day.

And what a train ride it used to be! See, I live out in the "sticks." My neighborhood is 1/4 mile from the ocean in SE Brooklyn (in an area much like South Florida if you compare the number of seafood restaurants and New Yorkers here). It's a good 45 minutes door-to-door to midtown Manhattan, which means I pay LESS rent and get MORE time to people watch on the train. It's a win-win situation, as far as I'm concerned.

Anyone who knows NYC knows that people watching is the number one sport here. Forget what you've heard about baseball or football. No, it's checking out the crack head in a wedding dress who's dancing around the fountain down in Washington Square. Or, cheering the half-naked Indian on as he prances around a hookah pipe at the footsteps of the 72nd Street Circle in Central Park.


(seemingly-normal and VERY fit guy I photographed using the B train as his personal gym. His workout lasted from midtown all the way out to Prospect Park where he exited sweaty and with one less thing to do when he got home. Let's hear it for multi-tasking and creative use of space!)

I used to be so entertained by these random encounters that I bought a Moleskine journal to keep in my purse and record the most memorable ones. Take the entry from 3/29/07 as an example:

"An old scraggly homeless man, toothless & bearded just announced to the 1 train @ 72nd: 'I'm going out to have a cigarette...somebody hold the doors. I'll be right back. Anybody want any coffee? How many sugars?' And then he exited the train. Some smiled, some laughed. I went back to sleep."

And that's the one thing that really depresses me about freelancing. Unless I start inviting meth addicts and homeless women covered in their own feces into my home, chances to observe these people are severely limited.

So, I guess my job search should include the following criteria:
1) boss must less than 103 years old (unlike my last one);
2) boss must not be in desperate need of psychotropic meds (again, last boss);
3) office must be in Manhattan and far enough away to afford sufficient time for people watching.

Oh, and salary in the mid-80's would be nice. Let me know if you hear of anything along these lines. Thaaaaanks!

How I didn't sleep with Madonna

For the first time in 34 years, I was completely unable to fall asleep. It was the most frustrating thing and I'm not sure what the problem was but if it ever happens again, I'm going to knock myself unconcious with a blunt object.

It all started last Thursday just before midnight. I had to be up at 5 Friday morning to collect Jeremy from midtown by 6 (we were heading up to Boston for yet another weekend of complimentary luxury...this time at the Taj, formerly the Ritz). At the last minute, we decided to leave @ 6 because snow was expected mid-morning.

By 1:30, I'd yet to fall asleep and the anxiety level was growing. I imagined my brain was a frozen Windows operating system: I kept hitting CTL+ALT+DEL but to no avail. The system would not shut down. By 3, I was pretending to sleep but fully aware I was living a lie.

I looked outside and saw that snow had already begun in earnest. I texted Jeremy: "no point in leaving @ 6 to beat the weather. it's already here. let's leave at 10." Worried that he wouldn't make it to Boston in time for happy hour, Jeremy replied, "if we leave at 6, we can sit in traffic that much longer."

I tried changing my environment and moved to the living room couch. By 4, sleep had not arrived but the realization that my fish are totally OCD did. Every one of my 4 tanks was alive with crazed fish pacing repeatedly in the same hurried pattern from one end of the tank to the other. I'd hoped their swimming would relax me but instead, I found myself wondering if they make Adderall for amphibians.

After 20 minutes, I decided sleep was not forthcoming and began getting ready to leave for Boston. It was the worst possible scenario: sleep deprived and driving on snowy, unplowed roads at high speed. But, a $2,000 a night luxury suite at the Taj overlooking Boston Common awaited. So, off I went.

After stopping at Dunkin Donuts for liquid crack, I warned Jeremy that I hadn't slept and was therefore liable to crash or strangle him at a moment's notice. As we drove through the slush out of NYC and into Connecticut, my brain began to disconnect from my body.

Sensing a head-on collision with delirium, I plugged the iPod in and set its playlist to Madonna (common ground for Jeremy and I). This led to forced consciousness and 50 miles of "top 5" Madonna video lists...

Top 5 worst Madonna videos (this was hard to keep at just 5)
1. "This Used to be My Playground"
2. "Love Don't Live Here Anymore"
3. "American Life"
4. "Love Profusion"
5. "True Blue"
(runners-up: "Me Against the Music," "Who's That Girl?" "You'll See")


(what's with the flag PowerPoint presentation?)

Top 5 best Madonna videos (this was equally as hard to keep at just 5):
1. "Express Yourself"
2. "Open Your Heart"
3. "Like a Virgin"
4. "Hung Up"
5. "Vogue"
(runners-up: "Rain," "Material Girl")


(no one does cone bras and nipple tassles like my girl M)

Top 5 WTF Madonna videos:
1. "Fever"
2. "Erotica"
3. "Deeper and Deeper"
4. "The Power of Goodbye"
5. "Bedtime Story"
(runners-up: "Jump," "American Pie," "Get Together," "Nothing Really Matters")

Top 5 most-unappreciated Madonna videos:
1. "What It Feels Like for a Girl"
2. "Hollywood"
3. "Frozen"
4. "Secret"
5. "Bad Girl"
(runners-up: "Don't Tell Me," "Music")

Top 5 most-depressing Madonna videos:
1. "Take a Bow"
2. "Oh Father"
3. "La Isla Bonita"
4. "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina"
5. "I Want You"

I found it especially hard to remember the videos as we listed each despite saying it just 2 seconds before. So, I recorded the lists on my phone's voice notes; unfortunately, I also forgot to save the note. Kids, this illustrates why you shouldn't stay up all night cramming for an exam: sleep deprivation robs you of the ability to remember stuff.

If my Madonna "top 5" story doesn't convince you, maybe a Harvard study will:
http://sleep.med.harvard.edu/news/24/Study+Finds+Sleep+Vital+for+Memory

Missing from Harvard's study is my "Top 5 Reasons Why Sleep is, like, Important:"
1. It helps generate HGH (Human Growth Hormone), without which Roger Clemens would look like Screech.
2. Dreams are a great way to live out fantasies involving crocodiles.
3. If rats are any indication, you'd die in 28 sleepless days (of course, you'd probably collapse into sleep before dying but the coffee table you'd hit on the way down might finish you off).
4. What fun is a yawn/fart/stretch in the morning if you're awake before doing it?

And finally, the 5th reason why sleep is important:
5. It helps you remember stuff like putting gas in your car before attempting to drive 230 miles. Yes, by exit 91 in CT, my car's idiot light came on indicating that it was about to run out of gas. When I left NYC, I had 1/4 tank and even sped by gas pumps on my way out of a rest area (although I did pause to think about checking the window washer fluid levels).

150 miles later, the needle was absolutely BURIED below "E" as we crossed into the no man's land between CT and Rhode Island (population: one seagull, Jeremy and me). Luckily, my car sputtered into the ONE gas station located off exit 92. It was the closest I've ever come to being disowned by my Dad (he said he would do so if I was ever stupid enough to run out of gas).

Anyway, I finally fell asleep Friday night sometime after 11 in a fluffy, feather-filled bed at the Taj, snow still falling softly outside in the hushed streets of Boston. I'd like to say it was the best sleep ever but I awoke at 2 AM thanks to my Mom's snoring (she'd joined me for the weekend) and I ended up sleeping on a couch in the suite's living room.

Thankfully, there were no OCD fish nearby.


(Boston from our 16th floor windows: during snow; after snow)


(the room where I finally fell asleep, complete with a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush)

What a Ducassehole!

Sunday marked the 13th anniversary of my sobriety. Yep, I haven't had a drink in 13 years. That's 676 weeks; 4,745 days; 113,880 hours and 23 minutes (but who's counting?).

I can't be sure because shit really was THAT fugged up back then but I'm pretty certain my last fall-down-the-stairs binge was Feb. 17, 1995. I only know this because it was the Saturday after Valentine's -- oops, just looked it up and seems I've been celebrating the wrong day all these years (we didn't have the Internet back then, OKAY?). Whatever, it was Sat. Feb. 18. Doesn't matter -- I still don't know what day I had my last sip of alcohol on because it wasn't important enough to remember at the time.

I always say, "ugh, if I'd known then that it would be my last drink, I would've filled a shopping cart at the liquor store and holed myself up in a Motel 6 for the weekend." And that pretty much sums up the problem. I'd been drinking since I was 11 and was starting to black out so it was time to nip it in bud. Even though I was only 21 (and hadn't even made it to the nut-flavored liquors yet!), I did my time in AA and it's been nothing but Sprite ever since.

I usually spend the anniversary by myself, reading through my grandfather's notes from his own stint in rehab (he'd been drinking all his life and spent the last 17 years of it sober) but this year would be different...

Jeremy had invited me to dinner at world-renowned chef Alain Ducasse's new restaurant, Adour, at the St. Regis as part of his review for West Palm's Simply the Best magazine. Turns out, they put him in one of their best rooms, the "Tiffany Suite," a massive suite overlooking 5th Ave. and Central Park. Free dinner at a 5-star hotel? Crashing in a $5,000 a night suite twice the size of my apartment? Duh! I threw on my best H&M dress and headed out.


(the view of 5th Ave. and Central Park from one of the "Tiffany Suite's" many windows)

The restaurant's decor is meant to look like you're at the bottom of a champagne bottle, which should've been my first hint. After a less-than-impressive meal (Jeremy's had better halibut from Lean Cuisine), we ordered dessert. While I waited for my tea to steep, I tried a leaf-shaped chocolate that one of 10 people serving us had brought.

My lips immediately pursed as the taste of alcohol filled my mouth. I looked around the room in a panic: how many strokes would I cause among Adour's elite clientèle if I were to spit the chocolate back out? My mind raced for an answer -- wasn't there a scene about this in Bridget Fonda's crappy American take on "La Femme Nakita?" My one remaining brain cell couldn't remember (kids: this is a lesson in binge drinking's long-term effects: do it only if you want to depend on friends and family to remind you of things like your name for the rest of your life).

I swallowed the chocolate and looked at Jeremy who, between sips of his Jameson and gingerale, had wondered what the hell was wrong with me. I explained that I'd been poisoned, ironically, on my 13th anniversary. "Well, as if we didn't need another reason to hate this place AND the French!" he replied.

When the maître d' approached to see how we were enjoying our desserts, I cross-examined him:

"Excuse me, what is in these chocolates?"

"Zees iz zhe passion fruit, zees iz zhe prailine and hazlenut, and zees iz zhe vanilla rum."

"I see. So the ONE chocolate I ate was filled with vanilla rum?"

"Oui."

"Figures. You should inform guests before if anything has alcohol in it. See, as of 5 minutes ago, it was 13 years since I've had any so if I go back up to my room and clean out the mini bar as a result of eating this chocolate, I'm comin' back down after to kick your ass."

(stunned silence) "Madam, we are very sorry..."

"At the very least, you're paying for the mini bar."

I'm sure it was the first time anyone physically threatened Jean Paul after he asked, "and how iz everyzing?" Jeremy nearly choked up a lung laughing.

No, I didn't drink anything as a result -- please, it's going to take A LOT more than a piece of chocolate to knock me off. Even so, I can't help but feel like my precious record has been ruined. Like, I was throwing a no-hitter up until Alain Ducasse squibbed a stupid piece of "chocolat" through the infield grass.

It's a matter of pride when it comes to the record I've touted all these years. How can I say, "I haven't had a drop," now? It's like the Patriots saying "yeah, we won 'em all...yep, all except for that one at the end." Well, at least I'm 4,745-1 (damn you, Ducasse!).


(WTF face outside "a dour" restaurant the next day)

Gammy was a "Rolling Stone" ('til she read it)

Even though I just wrote yesterday about my wonky eye and I try to limit my time here (MySpace is virtual quicksand), I just GOTTA share an email I got from my grandmother today -- she's hip like that. Well, maybe not THAT hip.

See, she ordered a magazine subscription to help my 9-yr-old cousin Mandy raise funds for her Girl Scout troop. What happened next is a funny, poignant example of generational differences:
1) My "Gammy" is a member of the Greatest Generation
2) My Dad is a Baby Boomer
3) and Britney Spears is, um, a member of Generation Y the Hell Not

My grandmother's email in its entirety:

Hi Jennifer,
I ordered a magazine through Mandy's Girl Scout group to benefit the them. Without thinking about it, I just checked off the least expensive magazine. Well. it was "Rolling Stone". Wow! Was I surprised when I started to read an article about Britney Spears! What a potty mouth! The actual bad words are in the story. Needless to say, I had no idea what I was buying!

I checked with Aunty Nancy to see if I could transfer it to Frankie or your dad. He (your dad) happened to call her while we were talking, and he was all for the idea. That's the type he enjoys.
I called the customer service line to request it be sent to your dad instead of me. They said no problem and it will be sent to him starting in March.

Imagine, a 77 year old broad, living in an elderly highrise getting "Rolling Stone"!!! That's funny!!! I got some strange looks when the mailman came!
Take care. See ya.

Love,
Gammy
xxx ooo


(she SO could've pulled off that bald look)

p.s. the email is also a good example of how far Rolling Stone's hipster stock has fallen.

p.p.s. I love that my grandmother refers to herself as a "broad." I'm going to start saying that, as in "that broad Britney really knows how to entertain!"

p.p.p.s. see what happens in the lull between football and baseball? First I write about Paris and now Britney. (sigh) Imagine how different this country would be if Pat O'Brien had been forced to play outside instead of clipping from his mom's People magazine between nose bleeds?

It takes a big girl to admit she has a bigger eye

Back when I had a full-time job, I used to block out my old (and I mean OLD) boss's nonsense by perusing gossip sites like egotastic.com and pinkisthenewblog.com. I remember laughing one day when they wrote, "Paris Hilton and her wonky eye made an appearance last night on the red carpet." Ha ha! Paris and her wonky eye!


Not so funny anymore. In the past week, I've seen two photos that clearly prove what I've long feared and never wanted to admit: I, too, have a wonky eye.


(received this one tonight from my friend and former co-worker -- a photo she'd taken of me and my Man last December: the evidence is now irrefutable)

How to correct this? Do I accept it as Paris has (that jewel of morality and respectable behavior)? Or do I simply apply more makeup to my right eye to balance things out? Should I say "arrrrrgh" when I smile for the camera so it appears intentional? Or do I put my a-mazing Photoshop skills to work on my own face?

Not sure what my course of action will be (if anything). In the meantime, I'm sorry, Paris, for laughing at your wonkiness. I laughed too hard, too soon.

ADDENDUM
Seems I'm a natural freak of, um, nature and Paris is, well, just a freak. According to The Evil Beet (http://evilbeetgossip.film.com/2007/01/19/wonky-eye-mystery-solved/), Paris' wonky eye is the result of an eye-lift gone wrong. So, I take comfort in learning yet another piece of info that widens the gulf between she and I.

Jiminy Crickets!

Here's something you don't read every day: I just bought 10 pet crickets.

Ever since I left the suburban sprawl of South Florida in 2000 for the concrete confines of NYC, I've desperately missed the sound of crickets. It's not that there aren't crickets here; it's just that my apartment is situated 4 stories up between 2 towering blocks of brick and concrete. The only crickets up here are those being eaten by birds.

Why not get one of those sound machines? I have one and the crickets on it sound like nails on chalkboard. And, as part of the "meadow pond" experience, there's a splooshing noise every 8 seconds that I presume was supposed to sound like a frog jumping into water (but sounds more like someone dropping a deuce).

So, for the last eight years, my travels have been partly inspired by the need to hear crickets again. I mentioned this to my man last November as we fell asleep to their soothing sound in FL. It wasn't the first time I'd told him how much I miss them. I mused, "maybe I'll buy some and keep them in my room as pets when I get back to Brooklyn." He shot up from the pillow, "but that was going to be my Christmas present to you!" Confused, I asked, "you were going to buy me crickets for Christmas?" Yes, it was to be one of my gifts (he's cute and thoughtful like that).

He got me something else for Chrimbo but the conversation cemented the idea; as much as I'd missed the sound of crickets, I'd never seriously considered buying them to keep as pets. So, this week, I headed to the store to get all the gear I'd need to have a happy cricket colony in my bedroom. At long last, I'd have sweet chirping to lull me to sleep every night!

As I searched the amphibian aisle, one of the employees (no doubt counting the minutes until the store closed and he could return home to his D&D game) offered to help. He showed me a horrible contraption with feeding tubes and said, "this is the best way to keep crickets."

"Why would I want to keep them in that?!"

"So you can easily feed them to your snake or gecko or whatever."

As I explained that I intended to keep them as pets, I realized it was like explaining that D&D is a recreational game for pre-teens.

After many odd looks and careful consideration about my crickets' new digs, I rushed home to soak the peat moss and prepare their 2.5 gallon tank (seriously, it's such a lovely smell to have damp earth in your bedroom -- highly recommended for those who like camping or getting lost in forests).

I went back out to the pet store to get my crickets. As I looked over the selection, I was faced with a terrible realization that somehow hadn't occurred to me yet: crickets are bugs. I was picking out bugs to keep in my room. Um, yuck? (Honestly, if one of these suckers escapes, my first instinct will be to squash it.)

So, I opted for 10 baby crickets ("nymphs" as I later learned) who don't resemble cockroaches as much as their adult peers do. Yes, I know eventually these 10 crickets will grow but by that time, I'm hoping I'll have a relationship with them that transcends looks.


(bit blurry but whaddya want for a camera phone?)

When I got home, I released them into their gorgeous forest floor of a tank, turned off the lights and waited. And waited. And waited. No sounds. No chirping. Nothing. Nothing but the same sirens and "are you tawking to me?!" in the distance. I called my man to inform him of the problem. "Leave it to you to buy the only deaf-mute, homosexual crickets in the store," he replied.

Perplexed, I went online to research why my crickets weren't chirping. Turns out, I bought field crickets in their early adolescent stage (here's an interesting fact: crickets live one year -- who knew?!). At this point, they're wingless and crickets chirp by rubbing their wings (contrary to the popular belief that they rub their legs). And they won't grow wings for THREE FUGGING MONTHS!

Three months? I gotta wait 3 months to hear something?! No way, I'm going BACK to the pet store tomorrow to buy the ugliest, cockroachiest adult male cricket I can find! Mind you, most people buy buttloads of crickets at a time to feed their hungry snakes and lizards. "Yes, I'd like to buy ONE cricket, please. Uh-huh. Yes, THAT cricket." My roommate suggests I go in a bizarre outfit and whacked out hair (more so than usual) and really play up the crazy cricket lady part.

What an effort this has been just to get a sound most hear every night without any effort at all! I hope you fall asleep tonight with the windows wide open and the most profound appreciation for that sweet lullaby (forgetting, of course, the image of the gross bug making it)!

p.s. clearly, I've yet to recover from the Super Bowl.

ADDENDUM
Lest you think I'm totally nuts (and why would writing a novella about buying crickets make me nuts?), I learned in my research that the Chinese and Japanese have long kept crickets as pets for the very same reason I now do. In ancient China, the chirping was so highly regarded that the ladies of the Imperial Palace kept crickets in small golden cages on their pillows, so that they might fall asleep to the song.

Other interesting cricket facts (from Wikipedia):

* Crickets chirp at different rates depending on their species and the temperature of their environment. Most species chirp at higher rates the higher the temperature is (approx. 60 chirps a minute at 13°C in one common species; each species has its own rate).

* The relationship between temperature and the rate of chirping is known as Dolbear's Law. In fact, according to this law, it is possible to calculate the temperature in Fahrenheit by adding 40 to the number of chirps produced in 15 seconds by the snowy tree cricket common in the United States.

* To hear the mating call of other crickets, a cricket has ears located on its knees, just below the joint of the front legs.

* "Jiminy Cricket!" was originally a polite expletive euphemism for Jesus Christ (as in, "Jiminy Crickets! This was a long ass blog about crickets!").

Shock and Awe(ful)

It's been two days now and I'm still not sure if I've got this right: we lost? The Patriots lost the Super Bowl? We were on the losing end of 17-14? We're 18-1?


(goddamn Tuck!)


(c'mon, seriously -- WTF?!)

Yes. We were out-coached, out-defended and just plain out-played. Brady spent most of the game on his back (and kept getting up for more 23 times) and our defense couldn't come up with the ONE play that would've sealed the deal.

I think Sunday was the closest I've ever come to crying over a game. If it weren't for the fact that I wasn't alone, I probably would've. But with my Dad, Uncle Albert, Aunty Jane and 3 younger cousins in the room, I had to man up and shake off the urge to curl into a fetal position under the coffee table.

Here's where it gets worse: I had flown to my Uncle's house in Orlando, FL, to watch the game (it's become a bit of a family tradition to watch it alongside my Dad and Uncle -- guess we've had a pretty good run of it as Pats fans). So, on Monday, I had to fly back to NY in the only warm piece of clothing I had: the Patriots hoodie I'd flown down in.

I heard it from every Giants fan on the plane, at the airport, on the train, and in the lobby of my building until I reached the safety of my apartment where I finally curled into a fetal position under my sheets. I slept for 14 hours, hoping to wake up and find it was all just a terrible dream.

It wasn't. Super Tuesday: Dan the Man's phone call woke me up. He wanted to give me the play-by-play of the ticker tape parade going by his office window in lower Manhattan (aka the "Canyon of Heroes"). As I thanked Dan for his call, I made my way to the kitchen to find a dull butter knife. I've been slowly slitting my wrists with it ever since.

Well, not really. I managed to clean myself up, vote and head into the city tonight for a friend's one-man show in the Village. I found the courage to phone up my two Giant fan friends, Bolo and J-Sok (who had attended the parade earlier), and see if they wanted to meet for dinner after. It was time for me to take my lashes.

When we met up later, I was surprised at how easy they went on me, especially after all the smack talking I'd done on the road to 18-1. What nice friends I have -- they only showed me one photo of Eli hoisting the trophy the entire dinner.

Maybe I'll remember their kindness next year...maybe.

p.s. shout out to Jimmy Johnson who reminded us after the Super Bowl of his '86 and '87 Hurricanes -- in '86, they had a perfect season that ended with a huge upset by Penn State; in '87, they had another perfect season and won the national championship. Yes, I know it's college football and probably apples to Orange Bowls, but it made me feel just a little bit better. Thanks, Jimmy (sniff).

Holy shit! I was on the NFL Network!!!

Okay, so last I blogged, I thought perhaps I might be on the NFL Network's coverage of the Patriots' AFC Championship pre-game press conference at Gillette Stadium on Friday, 1/18. Well, HOLY SHIT! I was!!!

Note: the delay for blogging about this is partly because I'm still walking around pinching myself and others just to be sure it wasn't a dream.

Thanks so much to my Aunty Diane and cousin Beth for their head's up DVR'ing! Imagine their surprise when they tuned in for the Pats' press conference and saw my smiling face in the crowd of reporters! Thanks, guys!!!! YOU ROCK!

Thanks also to my head's up choice of seats upon entering the press conference. After confirming that there wasn't a pecking order that would force me to grab a seat in the rafters, I chose the ideal spot for taking in the greatness that is Patriots football: dead center. It turned out I had also positioned myself in the direct gaze of the NFL Network's cameras. Yay!

It was great to check out the full press conference at my Uncle Mark and Aunty Diane's house (who are super fans 1 and 2). Without my knowledge, I'm on camera a couple times (snickering at stupid questions and Belichick's "is that a question?" retorts -- again, am I the ONLY person who thinks he's hilarious?).

So, without further ado, the video I taped off their TV of me asking Brady a question: (note how composed I am...well, up until I can't take it any more and melt)



Oh, and if that weren't enough, I went to the AFC Chamionship game that Sunday with my Dad and had the most amazing, memorable time ever (thanks SO MUCH, Jeremy! the seats were AWESOME!!).

I'll never, ever forget walking along Route 1 with my Dad up to the stadium, bundled from head to toe but still somehow cold, smelling the tailgater's fires, hearing the crowds up ahead and turning to my Dad to say "thanks so much for being here to enjoy this with me!"

It doesn't get any better than that...especially when your team wins and heads to the Super Bowl!!!

Tom Brady. ’Nuf said.

So, I thought that Sunday, Dec. 16 was the best day of my life (on the set of the NFL Today show all day, meeting Dan, Boomer & Coach, getting Dunkin' Donuts coffee delivered) but today far surpassed it. I'd like to write a novel about today but need to go to bed for an early day at Gillette tomorrow so...

As part of my freelance work for Watch! CBS Sports magazine, I was invited to attend the Patriot's press conference for Sunday's AFC Championship game. Of course, I accepted (duh).


(me @ the Patriots' AFC Championship pre-game press conference @ Gillette Stadium! this photo appeared on the front page of the Providence Journal's business section on Sat. 1/19 for a story about national media staying in the city's hotels for the game...um, okay, Providence -- work that angle!)

My game plan was to keep a low profile and not say anything...which lasted longer than most would expect. Out came Bill Belichick (am I the only person who finds this guy HILARIOUS?), then Mike Vrabel (MUCH bigger in person), then Tedy Bruschi (is he the nicest guy on the planet or what? I want a Tedy Bruschi bear just like him), then Kevin Faulk (a lot shorter than I expected).

Then, the grand finale: Tom Brady. At this point, I'd asked nothing (but taken lots of photos with my new BlackBerry Pearl -- everyone else was doing it!) but then a reporter asked Brady a question about keeping his adrenaline in check. He said, yeah, it's hard, gotta keep focused on the game at hand, etc. but he also said that it was a particularly hard thing for him to do. I was like, WTF? This guy is known for being cool in the pocket, nerves of steel and all that. Then, I remembered: isn't this the same guy who TOOK A NAP BEFORE HIS FIRST SUPER BOWL??

I couldn't resist the urge any more. I had to speak. I tapped the NFL Network guy on the shoulder and asked for the mic next. He agreed. As Brady was wrapping up an answer to another question, I took a deep breath, my own adrenaline going like mad, and said (transcription from www.patriots.com):

Q:Wondering way back to your first Super Bowl against the Rams, it was reported that you had taken a nap in the locker room prior and now you're talking about the adrenaline and keeping it in check; what's changed over the years?

TB: I think I was naive back in the day. My first couple years, I thought it was easy. I got to the Super Bowl, hey, this is no problem, you start a few games, you're in the Super Bowl and U2 is out there playing in the field. It was a great environment. I think we all look back on that Super Bowl, any time it's your first time in those experiences and everything felt like it was so out of control, you can look back and realize how much fun it was. Now you kind of know what to avoid so you lose a little bit of that naivete as Mr. Kraft would say and you just focus on whatever you need to focus on. The adrenaline, it comes and it goes. I think for me the more prepared, the more comfortable I feel with what we're doing, I think the more relaxed I'll be. I think adrenaline is a little bit different because you get very excited when you run out in front of 75,000 people, and especially in a game like this, and those emotions just play out.

Check the video at http://www.patriots.com/mediacenter/index.cfm?ac=videonewsdetail&pid=30402&pcid=82 (my question starts at 9 min. 7 sec. and his answer ends at 10 min. 28 sec.) -- Brady is all smiles the entire time (giggity giggity), esp. at the end when I jokingly reminded him about the TV audience that's also watching (but then realized I don't want to nerve him out and screw up my own team so I tell him to forget about the TV audience). Oh. My. God.

But then, the day is capped by national media picking up on my I-can-die-now moment (it was a press conference, after all)...

The Associated Press writer covering today's press conference used Brady's reply to my question in the article he filed. The article, "Chargers QB Rivers 'optimistic' he can play in AFC championship game," has since been picked up by news outlets that subscribe to the AP wire service (i.e. A LOT, including the Sporting News, ESPN, Yahoo, AOL, USA Today, etc.)

From the AP article:

Tom Brady, whose best games often come in the biggest settings, was typically more composed, joking about a future in Hollywood.

For all his experience in pressurized settings, the Patriots quarterback suggested he had more trouble nowadays when it came to keeping his adrenaline in check. Brady was reminded that six years ago, right before playing in his first Super Bowl, he took a nap on the locker-room floor. Brady wound up as the game's MVP in a win over the St. Louis Rams.

"I think I was naive back in the day," Brady said. "I thought it was easy."
http://www.usatoday.com/sports/football/nfl/chargers/2008-01-18-injuries_N.htm

Okay, I'm going to try to sleep now (operative word: try).

p.s. my Uncle Mark and cousin Manda say I was on the NFL Network's coverage today. Luckily, they're HUGE Pats fans and DVR'd it. Can't wait to see how it looks!!!! Again: Oh. My. God.

Every (winter storm) cloud has a silver lining

All day, I've been thinking about the weather. Now that I'm finally done working, I can ruminate about it here (like you care).

So, it started raining at 9 last night --- just a cold, hard rain...nothing dramatic. At 3 am, it was still raining as I was getting into bed but then there was a huge thunder clap outside. And then another. WTF?

The storm continued until morning (making my dreams were VERY interesting). In the mid-afternoon today, another round of "severe thunderstorms" rolled through. I kept thinking, "WTF? Am I in South FL in mid-July or New York City in mid-January?"

I've heard thunder in the winter up here before. Once, during a blizzard, I swear I heard several thunder claps (no one believes me). In fact, including last night's performance, I think I've heard more thunder in NYC than I ever did in South FL during the month of January.

My curiousity was piqued. I Googled "january thunderstorm nyc" and was comforted by an old NY Times article:
"The weather system that produced yesterday's rain, thunder, fog and warmth, in which much of this winter's deep snowfall vanished, might be considered a garden-variety thunderstorm in July. But it comes to New York in January about once a decade." (http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9C01E1DC1E39F933A15752C0A960958260
A Bit of July, Sort of, in January By WILLIAM K. STEVENS Published: January 20, 1996)

Okay, once in a decade -- that's cool. But ever since Al Gore invented global warming, it's hard to shrug these oddities off. I had to research today's storm further. Was it so ordinary? Maybe even a sign of global warming? An omen from God about my Patriots?

The part-time blogger and full-time weatherman at mattnoyes.net ("THE New England weather analysis page and blog") assured:
"This clash of airmasses and the strong upward motion of the air resulted in a remarkable phenomenon - January thunderstorms with a surface temperature in the 30s! A situation like this is known as 'elevated instability' - favorable conditions for thunderstorm development removed from the ground by a few thousand feet, located above a cold, dense dome of air."

Again, seems like run-of-the-mill meteorology -- not a sign of impending doom. Then I checked weather.com:


Special Weather Statement

KINGS (BROOKLYN)-NASSAU-QUEENS- RICHMOND (STATEN IS.)- 1:42 PM EST FRI JAN 11 2008

...STRONG THUNDERSTORMS WILL IMPACT KINGS...NASSAU...QUEENS AND SOUTHERN RICHMOND COUNTIES...

AT 1:36 PM EST...NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE DOPPLER RADAR WAS TRACKING STRONG THUNDERSTORMS ALONG A LINE EXTENDING FROM PERTH AMBOY TO 6 MILES NORTHEAST OF COUNTRY LAKE ESTATES TO 8 MILES NORTHEAST OF HAMMONTON... AND MOVING NORTHEAST AT 55 MPH.

THESE STORMS WILL BE... NEAR VERRAZANO-NARROWS BRIDGE BY 1:50 PM. NEAR CONEY ISLAND BY 1:55 PM. NEAR FLATBUSH BY 2:00 PM. NEAR ROCKAWAY BEACH BY 2:05 PM. NEAR KENNEDY AIRPORT BY 2:10 PM. NEAR MANHASSET BY 2:15 PM.

INTENSE CLOUD TO GROUND LIGHTNING... SMALL HAIL...AND DAMAGING WINDS UP TO 50 MPH ARE EXPECTED WITH THESE STORMS. IN ADDITION...VERY HEAVY RAIN...WITH RAINFALL RATES OF UP TO 2 INCHES AN HOUR...IS OCCURRING WITH THESE STORMS. THIS COULD CAUSE PONDING OF WATER ON ROADWAYS... AND MINOR FLOODING OF POOR DRAINAGE AREAS.

LIGHTNING IS ONE OF NATURES NUMBER ONE KILLERS. REMEMBER...IF YOU CAN HEAR THUNDER...YOU ARE CLOSE ENOUGH TO BE STRUCK BY LIGHTNING. MOVE TO SAFE SHELTER IMMEDIATELY.

Jesus, Joseph and Mary! I immediately began planning my escape route off Long Island. With the Belt Parkway permanently jammed thanks to somewhat interesting scenery, I had no choice: I'd have to swim across NY Harbor to Sandy Hook, NJ.

Even though the storm ended hours ago, I'm still thinking about it. I doubt it's part of global warming. Remember 2004 when there were icebergs floating up the Hudson and East Rivers? (http://cgvi.uscg.mil/media/main.php?g2_itemId=94312)

On the other hand, I don't doubt that the planet is warming. But unless you're trying to build a house on a glacier, climate change is just not something we can witness in our quick little lifetime (my great-great-grandkids are fucked, though).

The scale of planetary changes are so massive that it's like trying to feel the earth move through space -- we're spinning at 24,000 mph and traveling at 67,000 but does anyone feel motion sickness from it? It's happening but we can't register it (our egos like to think otherwise).

Anyway, if it's evidence of global warming, well, here's one good thing: it keeps us on our toes. I mean, did anyone expect to hear thunder last night in the middle of winter? That's kinda fun, right?

Shop 'til you drop a history lesson

It was one thing to live in Orlando for a year without once visiting Disney; it's quite another to live in NYC for 7 years and not once visit a single historic site. Even more sad than that is how I came to realize my ignorance of the area's incredibly rich history: I was shopping.

On Sat., Jeremy and I did our bi-annual "yes, we really are poor" reality check: a drive out to Mendham, NJ, for pub grub and then The Mall at Short Hills for "silly bourgeois upstart, are you looking for a price tag?" Along the way, I saw many gross things (mangled deer on the side of the road, Newark, etc) but one sign in particular got me thinking: "Washington's Headquarters." That's all it said on the side of route 24 -- typically cryptic NJ signage. I guess they mean, "exit here if you'd like to see one of George Washington's many headquarters from the American Revolution."

In light of how much time I'd just spent looking for a Coldstone ice cream shop at Short Hills (they don't have one! I'm starting a petition!), I suddenly felt very stupid for not making an effort to see a single brick laid in the tri-state area during this country's founding.

The realization sank in today when I met Shay for brunch at the Cheesecake Factory out in Huntington (Long Island). In addition to the typical LI strip mall/Starbucks/strip mall/gas station scenery, I noticed signs and stores named "Whitman." A pattern started to emerge and by the time I got to brunch, I realized I was in the heart of Walt Whitman's birthplace (the sign across from the "Walt Whitman Mall" said so).

How did I not know this? I've studied "Leaves of Grass"...surely my Norton American Lit Anthology mentioned that Whitman also bought chinos at the Gap. Seriously, I didn't know Whitman was from LI (or that he lived most of his life in Brooklyn!). My ability to live -- and, of course, shop -- in such close proximity to history while being so ignorant of it is frightening.

Yes, naming a mall after one of America's most anti-commercial literary giants may be a cruel disrespect, but it's okay for 2 reasons: 1) Whitman would've LOVED Abercrombie & Fitch; and 2) it alerts ignoramuses like me to sites of historical significance.



Maybe I'm being too hard on myself. I mean, isn't history everywhere? Even when I was living in Coral Springs, FL (ew, I just threw up a little), surely there was something of historical significance nearby? Hmmm. On second thought, pro'ly not. The place was a bug/gator-infested swamp just 20 years prior to my arrival. But it's hard to forgive myself, especially when I make such an effort to seek out history when I travel, read nothing but books about history and was so moved by my visit to DC that I cried on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

Actually, I was briefly inspired to check out local history in mid-'07 after reading "Founding Brothers: The Revolutionary Generation," a really great book by Joseph Ellis. One of the chapters is dedicated to the Hamilton-Burr duel that took place on the cliffs of the Hudson (about where Weehawken, NJ, is today). That got me thinking, "hmmm, maybe I should check out..." but then I got distracted by a shiny object.

So, that's a New Year's resolution for 2008: see at least 3 historic sites in NY/NJ/CT/RI/MA (any one of the states I'm in throughout the year -- shouldn't be hard to fit some field-trippy sight-seeing in, right?).

Addendum
Just remembered that Coral Springs has some historical significance beyond being partly to blame for the Everglade's destruction: woolly mammoth bones were uncovered while they were building the community I'd later live in (Parkside townhomes).
http://www.coralsprings.org/history/fullstory.cfm?articleid=10517

Lucky, cheap calendar girl

Yay, I made deadline and can now fuck around online again!!! Despite having only 4 hours sleep before heading into CBS today, I was SO excited at the prospect of not having to rush home to work that I decided to fuck around in the city first.

FIRST STOP: Sephora in Times Square.
This store is the only reason I ever step foot in that NYC version of Florida fakery (aka Times Sq). Yes, there are just as many Sephoras in NYC as there are Starbucks (okay, maybe 100 fewer) but the Times Sq Sephora has the biggest selection of makeup and it's open 'til midnight. Convinced that Macy's has it all wrong and Shiseido did NOT discontinue my S1 lipstick, I marched from CBS over to Sephora to replenish my golden lip goo.

On the way, I was amazed at how immaculate the streets were despite having hosted millions of drunk tourists just one day before (the mess Dick Clark left on his seat would've taken ME at least a week to clean); however, just before entering Sephora, a flurry of confetti drifted onto my head in the bitterly cold gust...must've been stuck behind Diddy's billboard or something. Oh, and I did see some glittery bits of New Year's evidence frozen in a dirty puddle, too. If it weren't for wind, ice and Diddy, I might never know the sight of confetti in Times Square!

NEXT STOP: Barnes and Noble in Union Square (stopping to get a hot apple cider from the farmer's market first, of course).

Here's something I've never admitted before: I'm one cheap bitch when it comes to buying calendars. Every year for the last decade or so, I've waited until AFTER Jan. 1 to get my calendar. Yes, it's inconvenient for the first few days but why should I pay $20 for a calendar that will be $10 just days later? The trick is getting to Barnes and Noble within the first week of January -- otherwise, the selection dwindles even further and you're left with "World War II" and "Literary Cats" to pick from.

Today, the selection was its usual range of bizarre and boring but still do-able. Ya know, I wouldn't even know what kinds of calendars are usually available but if the masses consume them, I probably wouldn't be interested, anyway (yeah, I'm that cool despite liking all the crap shows on MTV).

Honestly and truly: I have LOVED every calendar this freaky time of year begets me. One year was "Virgen de Guadalupe," 12 big months of various shrines to Our Lady. While this may sound like an awful calendar to look at for a year, those who know me well know that my bathroom's theme is all Guadalupe, all the time. Another year was "MikWright"...'nuf said (www.mikwright.com).

So, today's decision was tough (the "Extreme Ironing" calendar was tempting: images of extreme sports people ironing their clothes on the sides of mountains) but I finally settled on three (yes, I know this defeats the purpose of buying 50% off calendars but so what):
1) "2008 NY Yankees" (same style as my "2007 New England Patriots")
2) "Chicano Art" (in the same vein as "Virgen de Guadalupe" only not as campy)
3) and the BEST CALENDAR EVER: "Veggies Gone Wild! Produce Behaving Badly"




My initial thinking with the three was to be nice and offer my roommate a choice since we both eat and share the kitchen space but the more I laughed about the veggie calendar (and cried about my need to tone up), the more I realized: this calendar is EXACTLY what I need to look at every day in 2008. Not bad for $6.99. (For what it's worth, I ended up spending $103 in B&N today. [Schmuck.])

I'm SO looking forward to February (dates are posed like they're blind and waiting for someone--caption: "The blind dates waited for hours, not realizing the other had also turned up early"). And, June looks good, too (a shipwrecked orange eating himself--caption: "Fearing scurvy, the orange resorted to eating himself, segment by segment"). Love my lucky, cheap calendars!

p.s. you'd think I'd have nothing left in the writing tank after doing a magazine but nooooooo...

Best. Sunday. Ever.

Okay, so I'm still jacked up and it's been nearly 4 hours since I got home. Maybe it's the caffeine from an intern-retrieved Dunkin Donuts coffee (more on that later) but I'm on a SICK natural high right now. The reason? I spent the entire day in the CBS Broadcast Center on the set of "The NFL Today"!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yes, I got to meet James Brown, Dan Marino, Bill Cowher, Shannon Sharpe and Boomer Esiason. Yes, I got to shake their hands. Yes, I sat 15 feet away from them during the entire pre-game show. Yes, I sat next to JB in Dan Marino's chair during the entire 1st half as he did game updates. Yes, I joked with Dan as he returned to find me in his chair before the halftime report. Yes, I talked smack with Boomer (my favorite analyst and not because he guaranteed the Pats go 19-0...woot!!!). In short, it was heaven on earth for me today.

[photos with JB, Dan, "Coach," Shannon and Boomer and ME!]





One of the day's many highlights (or "web gems," if you will) include JB complimenting me on being "ready to call play-by-play" (and better looking than Phil Simms, too). Also, being able to watch 8 games simultaneously on monitors throughout the studio without a seeing a single commercial. Yep, all monitors were live feeds from the trucks so in addition to seeing the cameras set up for the next shot (wiping blizzard goo from the cameras in Buffalo, por ejemplo), I also got to hear actual crowd noise (sans scary football music) as well as Simms and Jim Nantz BS-ing off camera. I don't think there's a better way to watch football. Period.

Another random highlight? 3rd quarter: After going apeshit on the catered food (yum!!!), I was glazed over in the production room watching 10 different games (8 CBS plus 2 Fox) when an intern asked, "I'm doing the Dunkin Donuts run - do you want anything?" I was like, "are you serious? I get to sit here, watch every football game and have Dunkin' Donuts coffee delivered, too??" Free. Exactly as I asked (medium French Vanilla, light with skim milk, no sugar). Directly to my eager little hands. Holy shit. I could've died.

I can't die yet, though; there's still more work to be done. Oh, did I fail to mention? I'm freelancing as project manager for CBS' new sports mag...aw HELL yeah!!! (yes, I have a shrine of Jeremy Murphy in my closet.) On the horizon? A possible interface with Tom Brady. Yes, Tom Fucking Brady. During said encounter, I intend to make sure the photographer gets me on Tom's lap looking like a little girl on Santa's.

Oh yeah, and that brings me to the last highlight: my Patriots beat the Jets 20-10 and remain undefeated at 14-0. But a loss today wouldn't have bothered me at all. The only buzzkill would've been if CBS Sports staff realized what a crazy mo' fo' I am and escorted me off the set. (They may find out yet if I can score AFC Championship tix!!!!)

Best. Sunday. Ever.

Freakin' Facebook

Okay, so a few weeks back, I was invited by some friends to join Facebook. In order to view their profiles, I had to join. Within seconds of clicking on their names, I was a member and sucked into the bizarre world of Facebook. And it is truly bizarre.

I've since created a more elaborate profile but thus far, it's nothing like MySpace (tricked out with cheesy graphics and music). Instead, it's a blank white slate driven by a mountain of add-on applications such as aquariums, trivia, favorite books/artists, the details of your latest bowel movement, a vibrating hamster and God knows what else:


I feel like I'm constantly being invited to "poke" somebody. I'm sure this is completely normal on Facebook but isn't it considered rude everywhere else? I dunno. Maybe it's just 'cause I'm a newbie but I feel lost. I have managed to connect with one long lost friend from high school on Facebook but other than that, not sure what else to make of it?

Canadians are scary!

Just got this from my good friend Bethany in Portland, OR, and had to blog about it for future reference: Canada is one scary place. Check out this public service announcement from the CBC:


People over at Deadspin.com posted some damn funny comments about it, including an IM chat:

AJ Daulerio: Holy shiiit.
Will Leitch: I know!
Will Leitch: It's like the worst PSA of all time.
Will Leitch: I've watched it, like, six times.
AJ Daulerio: It really is. I mean, it was bad enough in the beginning and then it justakes this hard left turn.
AJ Daulerio: They should've had the oven fall on top of her too.
Will Leitch: And then a dog comes and starts gnawing on her face.
AJ Daulerio: And then the busboys start raping her.
Will Leitch: And then someone blows up the restaurant.

Other comments include:

What, not one knife or meat clever falls on her ? Lame.

Fuck. Me. That was awesome. I cannot wait to see the one about sexually-transmitted diseases.

...so that's why my order took so long.

Of course, there's the PSA I saw during the Grey Cup that featured a 6-y/o amputee who lost his leg in a chainsaw accident. And I'm sitting there thinking, "How the hell does a 6-y/o lose their leg in a chainsaw accident?"

Oh. My. God.

They used to show a similar PSA on Sesame Street about the dangers of carrying too many coconut custard pies.

With Swedish accent "Bork Bork Bork!"

wait...so does she die or does her fiance just not want to marry someone with horrible facial scars? so shallow...so shallow...

What's up with the flame up on the stove after she bashes her melon? What was in that pot? Was she simmering pure gasoline? Because that'd be irresponsible.

they shoulda had the busboys come over and start urinating on her to put the fire out, but then she gets freaked out, gets up and then falls down a flight of stairs. that would have really driven the point home. accidents...they dont just "happen."


Inspired, I visited a scary Canadian work safety PSA site (www.prevent-it.ca). Their intro cartoon is a recent amputee whose bloody bandage oozes as a warning to other young Canadian workers:


After you enter the site, the cartoon's amputated hand falls through clouds to Prevent-itville ("Beavis and Butthead" and "Heavy Metal" meet PSA organization). In each scenario, the cartoon character (bloody bandage, pool of blood and all) is shown dealing with limbless life: i.e. he gets his ass handed to him playing video games ("dude, you suck"), etc.

Hopefully, Michael Moore's next project will compare job injury stats between Canada and the US to see if this stuff actually works. My gut says kids think these ads are cool and want to be amputees and burnt up chefs, too.

Yep, Canadians take a pretty tough stance on workplace safety...let's hope they never feel the same way about acid rain.