Since no one is around to read, I haven’t felt much like writing. But there are a couple of things I wanted to share: a party last night, a Christmas wrap up, pottery sighting follow up, subway fisticuffs and more.
Party Last Night
Christian & I attended a birthday party at Employees Only. David Cross, Robert Smigel, Paul F. Tompkins and others were milling about, but we were a bit too mellow to mingle. We hung back with Todd Barry as he consulted with Seth Morris about what kind of line to use to try and pick up the psychic who had set up shop in the foyer. After a few “I’d give you my number, but you already know it” type lines, Todd bravely forged toward his target. To my surprise, he returned almost instantly. “That was quick!” I said. He replied, “She told me we will be having beautiful sex tomorrow.” So I guess he felt no need to hang around after that encouraging forecast. Today actually should be his lucky day.
Christmas Wrap Up
Now that Christmas is over, I feel a lot better about not having heard from my dad and lamenting my lack of family. Holidays are tough, man. But I so do love giving and the warm feeling I get when someone genuinely enjoys receiving from me. A fun example is below. Of course, Christmas wasn’t all terrible considering I have Christian, who spoiled me silly. It must be hard to try to please someone on Christmas knowing that no matter how much you give them, they will always be a little bit sad and disappointed inside.
Pottery Sighting Follow Up
Some time ago, I came across this blog entry and decided to write the author, Rachel. I had an idea to surprise the young fan of Christian’s for Christmas. The author wrote back, we met for drinks, had a terrific time and I delivered an autographed headshot of Christian and a photo I had taken of him at Our Name is Mud the very day of their sighting. He signed the back of that photo with a personal message to her. She finally received it and was thrilled. This is why I love the internet.
Two grown men got into a shoving match on my subway car this morning. A middle-aged handsome businessman with a thick New York accent and a younger guy (mid-20s maybe) that boarded the train in Astoria with a Greek accent. It consisted of a lot of “Just sit there and shut up.” “No, you shut up.” “You shut up.” “Stop looking at me.” “You stop looking at me.” “No. You.” They decided to take it “outside” at the next stop. My stop. A very busy stop. People were practically falling over themselves trying to get out first.
No punches were thrown. Some shoving ensued, chest bumping, a bag was thrown down and the younger Greek guy ended up on the platform while the businessman stayed inside the car. The doors closed. I didn’t stick around to see the ending, but Greek on the platform was trying to pry open the doors. I wonder if his bag was still inside? I wouldn’t want anyone hurt or their things lost, but God would I have loved riding in the car with the businessman when the subway took off without the Greek.
I guess I lied. That’s all I’ve got.
I can’t help but feel a sense of doom for Baby New Year. News is replete with reports and images of tragedy and terror and war and disease and I don’t see how things will get better.
This did little to cheer me up, so of course I want to share the dread: Several reports of laser beams targeting commercial airlines.
Debra Messing had Patton Oswalt‘s baby!
As a gift, I sent them these pubic stencils. (No, I didn’t.)
Way to go, Patton!
Ho, Ho, Ho!
The Incredibles was a pleasure. It started off slowly, but held me captive in the end.
The Cup Diner is a welcome addition to Astoria. Not a chain and not unique, but the service was hyper-friendly, the food was good and the location desirable. What makes it special? It’s in Astoria, where crystal, gold leaf and garrish lighting go to die. Free internet access is an added bonus.
The Press page is updated, although I’m sure I’ve missed a bunch of blurbs. There’s too many and too little time! Again, intern wanted! Here’s a scan/page of the Time Out NY spot. Do you have any feedback on my format? If so, email me or comment below. I’d appreciate it!
Pottery with friends is good, picking up the finished product together is better, but decorating a Christmas tree afterwards is the best.
If this Salon.com article is true, then woah!
UPDATE: Here’s the video. Strange.
There’s Always One.
Today I am participating in Lee’s National Denim Day benefiting the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation.
Yesterday my friend and everyone in her office received an email telling them they could participate (i.e., wear jeans to work today) if they donated $5.00. Seconds later, someone replied all, “Or you could dress like an adult and simple [sic] donate.”
What a dick. There’s nothing that makes me what to participate more than someone balking at the notion of participating. More interesting to me, though, is that this guy must have so much anti-social hate in his heart that he would just flop his dickishness out there for all to measure.
And, let me tell you, it’s huge.
This video made me scream with laughter today. I’m not sure which is funnier, Bush’s ridiculous choice of words or the MSNBC anchor’s subsequent reaction.
I saw Russell Simmon’s Def Comedy Jam for the first time over the weekend. It grabbed my attention because this guy of indiscernable mixed race was beating his rap about the plight of women, how men are the root of all evil, he doesn’t call women “sluts, whores or bitches” because men are to blame for everything — apparently even a woman’s behavior. Upon finishing his “poetry”, the camera cuts to a close-up of two women in the audience cheering feverishly, then cut back to him with a sheepish grin. My first thought, “That dude is totally getting laid tonight.” His thought, “Score!”
NY Post Items
— The NY Post gave a detailed report of what Martha Stewart’s jail time might be like. Apparently evenings after 5:00 PM are hers to enjoy. “…[She] can…take an arts-and-crafts class…” Can you imagine? Not funny, just a “What?” kind of moment for me this morning. I wonder if she would take the class and, if so, would she learn anything.
— What’s the deal with all the DWI crashes in NYC lately? Why are people driving at all let alone driving drunk. Selfish morons deserve any injury they get. Unfortunately, they usually leave a wake of damage to many others. Take a cab or the subway, assholes!
— This tidbit is just bizarre:
An Iranian man who lost his keys 16 years ago finally found them — embedded in his leg.
The bizarre discovery came after the 50-year-old man felt a pain in his leg and X-rays revealed the keys inside. The man told doctors he’d shot himself accidentally 16 years ago, but had no idea how the keys fell into the wound. Bill Hoffmann, Wire Services
There ya go! I just saved you $0.25 in precious U.S. currency. Get yourself a piece of gum or something.
Bored at work.
How can you tell if moth balls smell fresh? Why, you just lift his little legs and sniff!
Just for that, I’m eating an extra bowl of New York Super Fudge Chunk with the strawberries I’ve been letting soak in sugar all night and extra Hershey’s chocolate syrup poured all over it. Mmmmmm…mmmmm…mmmmm…. mmmmm..mm.m.m…m…it’s going straight to my boobies and making them fat…egads, the horror! Take that, Slim Fast!
Sugar coma…nighty night.
Boy, at this time of year, the residents of New York are desperate for anything remotely sexy looking. I have been getting the most lucrative offers, outrageous comments, overt come-ons, and overly long leers since wearing my new shiny, red high heels. And that’s just from the women.
They are so very sexy!
Humans, in general, have to compensate for their shortcomings. If you are going to be mindblowlingly stupid, you simply shouldn’t be rude. No one will help you. People will avoid you. If you’re butt ugly or incredibly “quirky” looking, you probably have to be extra talented and funny to boot. If you’re smart as a whip and/or devastatingly handsome, chances are you can afford to be a jerk or a bit moronic. In other words, unless you’re an ugly mental retard or a gorgeous savant, we all pretty much strive to average out to the same score so people will sleep with us.
Some examples of how an extremely bad quality can be offset by above average scores for other qualities:
(10 is the best score; L=Looks; S=Smarts; A=Affability; H=Humor)
(a) L = 9, S = 9, A = 1, H = 9; Avg = 7
(b) L = 2, S = 8, A = 9, H = 9; Avg = 7
(c) L = 9, S = 9, A = 9, H = 1; Avg = 7
(d) L = 10, S = 1, A = 8, H = 9; Avg = 7
Based on the above, the following can be assumed:
(a) You’re a good looking, smart, funny A-hole = I’ll sleep with you;
(b) You’re ugly, but very smart, amiable and funny = I’ll sleep with you;
(c) You have zero sense of humor but you’re extremely smart, nice and good looking = I’ll sleep with you;
(d) You’re gorgeous, nice and funny but dumber than a box of rocks = I’ll sleep with you.
Apparently I’m tired…I’ll sleep with anything.
Jack to the staff of Shelly’s: “I hope you all get what you deserve for Valentine’s Day.”
Hostess: “Why thank you, we will.”
Jack: “Good, then I’ll see you at the clinic on Monday.”
I’m expecting a raise.
A fu*king fake doll in a fake life with a fake townhouse and fake career can’t make her fake love last. Yes, I’m talking about Barbie. News hit the AP wire that she and Ken split. What kind of BS PR move is that? Two days before Valentine’s Day? What jackasses. Why not ruin the facade for all of us. Ken blamed it on the National Enquirer, even though everyone knows it’s because he’s gay.
Barbie & Ken, In happier times.—Kambri
Why does Ken have on underwear? Yet another way women get the shaft.
Over lunch at Mr. K’s, Jack enlightened me on some acronyms I may not have been familiar with:
Jack: NFW = “No fu*king way!” AWFKM = “Are you fu*king kidding me?”
Me: That’s AYFKM.
Jack: Yeah, well, we’re in a Chinese restaurant.
MLYLT – SSFD
Jack: “Look what my wife insisted I wear tonight.”
Stuck on his crotch a sticker reads: “Useless if stolen.”
And it’s useful when?
(1) Don’t call it “fingerbang”; and
(2) Don’t ask a guy named “Jeeves”.
No, he didn’t. He saw a bunch of jackasses with expensive cameras whooping and hollering.
I predict Spring will arrive on March 20th.
Jack happened to walk up behind me just as I was holding my hands out trying to get a visual measurement of what is approximately two feet. Noticing my actions he quipped, “That’s me before Viagra.”
After Jack made a lewd comment about a slightly chubby woman wearing an awkwardly small skirt in a voice loud enough she could hear, I asked Jack, “Have you ever been punched?” His reply? “Yeah. Once. In a boxing match.”
He’s quick that Jack. Just ask his wife.
I’m no good at karaoke, but sometimes find myself wanting to participate. A friend got a certain evil glint in his eye when he suggested we go sometime — a look that suggested I would be the butt of private jokes for years to come. Well, sure I’ll go, but I’m singing in sign language. A friend suggested, “I Touch Myself.” Perfect! Who is the pathetic loser now?!?!
Hey, that was a rhetorical question!
I wish work were more like sports. There should be a referee watching all action and properly penalizing people when they foul a co-worker. Some examples:
* Not replacing staples – 5% docked pay;
* Not refilling the copier with paper – Mandatory overtime without pay;
* Leaving the copier jammed – Forced conversation with mentally challenged mail guy;
* Using speakerphones on full volume with office door open – No vacation . . . ever;
* Using the center stall in the bathroom unnecessarily – Death;
Just a suggestion.
This photo below was taken from my office window about two minutes before I left work, it’s practically a white out!
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!
My XX year high school reunion is approaching. This can’t be the case. I simply cannot be old enough to attend. After all, I am still extremely immature and make hhhhuuggee mistakes expecting to be forgiven due to my youth and inexperience. I just stirred my vanilla ice cream and syrup into chocolate soup fergodsake!
Wetting my bed tonight.
After watching a terrific comedy show “Sweet Paprika” at the Village Lantern Friday night (more on that some other time), I made my way home. It was nearing midnight, but I managed to catch the 1 Train as it pulled into the station. Sweet. I then transferred at Times Square to the N Train and was thrilled to see that it, too, was just pulling into the station. Even sweeter! (For you non-New Yorkers, late nights in the subway station can mean waiting 20+ minutes for a train if your timing is off. My late night transfer move was my bold statement to the Gods: I am very cheap these days. Take my buzz, see if I care!)
I raced down the stairs and eyed a pair of sliding doors to enter. I made my way swiftly in their direction and then eeek! Brake! Some chick and I nearly collided. No worries, she passed in front of me and I made my way through those sliding doors I eyed and settled in for my ride home. When I got off at the Broadway stop my phone rang.
“Hello?””It’s Bobbie. Where are you?”
Hey Bobbie, I’m walking home. Where are you?”
“Did you just get off the train?”
“Umm, yeeeeeaaaah, why? Where are you?” (I start looking all around to see a familiar face.)
“Did you almost run into someone at Times Square?”
“Yeah! I think I did!”
“That was me.”
After several, “No ways!” and “Get outs!” on my part, Bob passed the phone to Wendy and we all decided to meet for brunch.I know it’s a bit anti-climactic, but that’s it. No punch line or anything. It just never ceases to amaze me when in a city of over 8 million people, I bump into a neighbor and friend after coming home on a route I hardly ever take, let alone near midnight on a Friday after work. Wild.
So after brunch on Sunday, we all hung out chatting at my apartment. At one point, I fixated the conversation on Pilates. After several minutes of raving to Wendy & Bob about the benefits and simplicity of Pilates, I suddenly felt like I was pushing a hard Amway sale. “Have you actually tried Pilates? Have you seen anyone do it? Here check out this fabulous DVD set. Really, you should try it. They’re broken down into 20 minute workouts and who doesn’t have 20 minutes? The best part? If you get two people to start Pilates, and then they get two people and so on and so on, then I get a new car!”
Seriously, have you tried Amway?
Me: What should I do to make Christmas special. Something only he and I do together?
Gina: Oh, I know, you could go to the neighbors and knock on their doors . . .
Me:. . . and RUN! Yes!
Gina: Noooo, sing Christmas carols.
Me: Oh. Right. Of course. Christmas carols.
Grinchess in the Making
I haven’t been wrought with cheer lately. With Thanksgiving looming, I’ve begun thinking about the holidays and how I can possibly enjoy myself. So I, lover of children and dancing phenom**, have gone and gotten myself a gig playing “Belle” from “Beauty and the Beast” at the Times Square Toys-R-Us. This could mean my end.
**Lie. Complete and utter lie.
Child hater and sufferer of White Man Overbite Syndrome
Jack did it again. He made someone so enraged they called him a “Mad Dog with AIDS”. Nice, huh? Later, the finally calmed down man emailed Jack with an “olive branch” with a link to a daily motivator. Little does this person know that sending Jack something like this only gives him more ammunition and desire to cause hate and anger.
Assistant to Mad Dog
I get more spam that is about blocking spam than any other kind of spam.
Fried Spam with mustard is the best!
Last night, I defeated one Mr. F. Christian Finnegan in Trivial Pursuit. Think I’m awesome? Yeah? Well, it was Eighties Trivial Pursuit. Still not impressed? Then let me direct you to his resume. Mr. Featured Panelist on I Love the 80s was sent packing! Woo!
I have teensy weensy itty bitty vestigial cajones. That’s what it boils down to. What is one to do with such useless appendages? Hey, I know! Who wants some teensy weensy itty bitty rocky mountain oysters?
connoisseur de boules
I have very important and shocking news for you:
Spam is out of control! Apparently the mass majority of the human race is in dire need of Vicodin and penis enlargement. Why do so many men need this and why would they trust a spam email as their #1 source of information rather than, say, Google?
And just why are there NO emails for clit enlargement? Does no one want a bigger clit?
Maddening. Just like Daylight Savings Time’s TV Guide.
This digitally animated alternative music show was so cool. Just don’t go there drunk. Have you ever felt so drunk that you had to put one foot on the ground to make your room/bed stop spinning? Well, that’s how I felt through some portions. It’s so wild to think you can get motion sickness sitting completely still.
Then I came home and tried to stay up late enough to figure out how the TV Guide can still be accurate despite the observance Daylight Savings Time. Once again, for the 32nd year in a row, I fell asleep and it all still remains a mystery to me. Just baffling.
My mid-life crisis all started with a broken heel. As I’m limping along, trying to look as though I belong on 5th Avenue office on which I work, I tried to convince myself that I matter in someone’s life — someone who is not a direct link in the hierarchy of successors in the event of my intestate death.
A chain of events was spurred:
• I limped with the broken heel to the subway. — I cannot afford taxis to and fro on a daily basis.
• Sitting on the subway with my broken heel, I observed all the schlubby working class people headed to the same neighborhood. — I cannot afford to live in Manhattan given my spacial needs and am, therefore, a schlubby working class minion.
• I hobbled home from the subway to a dog and nothing else. No letters or emails, no projects or parties, no calls from the paparazzi. — I have no one to leave my fortune in the event of my testate death. In fact, I could rot for days and days before anyone was the wiser.***
So I bought a new pair of heels.
Okay, Mommy’s better now, so quit calling me “Mommy” and for God’s sake put down that grilled cheese sandwich!
***Okay, Christian might wonder why I didn’t return his calls, but would he bother looking for a corpse? I’m not sure. My mother never calls. It could be months before my maggot ridden body was recovered and by then my stocks could have plummeted, so let’s not count on her. Dad? He’s now confined to a year in solitary, does he need the money for a Johnny Cochran-like defense? Sure, but is he worth it? Only if he keeps sending me nude sketches. Yowzer.
After the longest week of work, I’ve sent Jack off to China. Stay tuned to CNN for any strange international incidents involving an obnoxious American. Trust me, in nine days Jack is bound to cause some newsworthy trouble. I filled numerous prescriptions to ensure he’ll enjoy himself during his meetings with the Ministers of Defense and Energy, et al. and his scheduled “Shanghai Nightlife” and “Forbidden City” trips. While I was at the drugstore, Jack’s pharmacist actually intimated that he was trying to “get rid” of Jack. You know you’ve made some enemies when a man who actually does semi-like you threatens to kill you on occasion.
Meanhwhile, Mommy’s having a mid-life crisis. Now be a big girl (boy) and go fix yourself a grilled cheese sandwich.
Many days I get lunch from Variety Cafe, a busy and overpriced deli with an enormous selection of anything and everything you could possibly want during lunchtime. Watch the Today Show on any given morning, and there it is. Today I overheard this chick request, “Yes, chicken noodle soup but only noodles, no chicken.”
Umm . . . No?
Never mind that it was a virtually impossible task for the soup guy, given the particular set up at Variety — it’s chicken noodle soup. Pick something else out of the thousand things to choose from in this gargantuan smorgasbord of tasty delights and get the fuck out of the way. It was a priceless moment to see those within earshot all stop in unison to look at her in disbelief and then resume moving and talking again. I didn’t stick around to see if she got what she wanted. I just took my chicken noodle soup (with extra chicken) and kept on moving.
I’ve always been a hard worker and good at mechanical things. I can read maps and directions like no other person with a vagina. I’ve helped build decks, reshingled roofs, painted homes inside and out, built foundations, gardens, sewage lines, wired lights, refinished hardwood floors, I’ve repaired mechanical and constructional failures and assembled many complicated items of furniture alone and with swift ease. So, imagine my shock and dismay at the conversation I had today:
Me: Scott, thank you so much for all that food! You cooked for me? Left a pizza? A bottle of wine?! Wow! And the tub! What on earth did you do to fix it? Did you call the Super?
Scott: No, I just flipped the little switch.
Yep, the little trip lever thing that turns a shower to a tub, he flipped it. That little thing got flipping flipped.
While in Florida, Scott and Brian stayed at my place to babysit my menagerie of Phish, Larry Bird and Paquita. Before leaving, I took great pains to hide my *ahem* Valuables. I wouldn’t risk passing them through an x-ray machine at airport security (“Ma’am, please empty the contents of your bag”) and Christian was not willing to be a Page Six snippet and wouldn’t carry them on my behalf. So, I stashed them as best I could.
I’ve known Scott since I was 15 years old; there is little, if anything, in my drawers life that could shock him. I still, however, found myself compelled to bury my Valuables out of sight. “As long as I survive four more days, my secret is safe,” I thought. There are a few things wrong with that scenario:
• I have never kept my Valuables a secret.
• I’ve talked about my Valuables with Scott at length.
• If I don’t survive the trip, the cat is out of the bag.
My logic is, as long as you can’t picture them, they don’t exist. Plus, I don’t want Scott using them.
I left Scott with a clogged tub and no food in the fridge. I returned to a sparkling, clog-free porcelain tub and more food than I’ve had since . . . umm . . . well . . . never. He even left a bottle of wine. Surely this was a mistake. Didn’t he mean to take it? I can’t believe I was so selfish. Next time, he can have my Valuables. I’ll just buy new ones.
Ladies, if you’re gonna walk around with erect nipples in a bra thin enough to display your wares (articles of commerce), please make sure your nipples are facing forward. I, like most people, prefer things in proper alignment. Thanks.
Strange Bodily Thingy
I have a zit inside my nostril. Is this even possible or do I have cancer?
“I Hate Men. I Cannont Stand Them Even Now and Then. Of all the Men I’ve Ever Met Within This Democracy, I Hate the Athlete Most With His Manner Bold and Brassy. He May Have Hair Upon His Chest, but Sister, So Has Lassie! I HATE MEN!” — Kiss Me Kate (Or, the Longest Title of a Blog Entry Since the Invention of Blog Entries Around the World.)
Misandrist is a woman who hates men. The antonym for misogynist, right? Well, then why isn’t that word in most dictionaries and not listed as an antonym for misogynist on www.thesaurus.com? It’s the antonym. The only true antonym. You know what I think? It’s misogyny. Male fucks sticking it to us again, even in thesauruses.
This month has been the strangest. Simultaneously full of disappointing let-downs and stagnant non-creativity, I’ve been productive and lazy and frustrated and motivated. I’ve repaired certain things in my apartment while letting my tub still be persistently clogged. I gave up on a September Tex in the City event while fostering others. I’ve lost interest in writing and yet continue to post on this thing and write in my personal journal. The boring list goes on and on. I am completely uninspired by anything right now. I can’t imagine how it is that I began Pilates a week ago yesterday and have done it every day since. I feel like I breathe easier. I take in more oxygen and it feels cleaner. Is this expected of those who partake in Pilates or is this September air? Strange thing this . . . how you say . . . exercise. Could this new amount of oxygen be depleting the angst that drives my creativity bus? Not that I need high drama, but peace and tranquility is dull. I require activities; projects and events.
Meanwhile, while trying to replace my Palm on Ebay, I’ve won fancy schmancy Scrabble and Monopoly games. I have yet to bid on a Palm. This Ebay is the devil. Stay tuned to see if I win a leather chair, stainless steel trash can, cashmere/silk v-neck sweater and an alarm clock that wipes my ass, nose, mouth and belly (it is very hi-tech).
So I came up with clever idea to do a live reading of a relatively new and up and coming comedy magazine including multi-media visuals and such. The idea was so great, they’re going to do it! Yeah! Without me. Boo! Yep, they took my idea and ran with it. Literally. Now, forseeably, we (Tex in the City) could still do this live reading idea I came up with, but are we second best? I hardly think so. Just ask Governor Ann Richards.
We don’t hop on the bandwagon, we give it wheels.™
Then someone stole Jack’s Palm Pilot in its leather case by Coach right out of my bag. Why was it in my bag? Because Jack was loaning it to me till I bought a replacement for my broken one. So, now, I need TWO Palm Vx’s and a leather Coach case. Anyone looking to sell theirs?
Jack: My pharmasict won’t give me anymore Viagra till next week. Not that I need it or anything; it’s more like a toy. I feel like I’m twelve years old again getting blow jobs at the Lincoln Tunnel. I can’t get a blow job from my wife to save my life. So I cut the pill in half and give her the bigger piece, of course. Then I get a blow job and I’m like, “Blech!” So I put a bid in on Harvey’s horse. Turns out Harvey’s luckier than I thought, this horse is gonna fetch him millions!
All the UN diplomats dining nearby were giving us sideways glances the entire time they were eavesdropping. I’m not sure if they were disgusted or taking notes.
Mike: He’s your typical smart, arrogant, smug guy.
Jack: I can’t stand people like that. I mean really, they think they know everything, they’re high maintenance; I’m glad I don’t know anyone like that.
Jack: Harvey is the luckiest man alive. His wife got kicked by a horse and died.
I enjoyed a free $50 lunch of herb encrusted skate, greens and water seated next to the former Duchess of York. To Jack, apparently, I am worth as much as ex-royalty. I actually complained during lunch that despite the prime locale of the Sea Grill, it is surprisingly lacking “movers” and “shakers”. Ms. Ferguson, quite lovely as she may be, is not a “mover” and a “shaker”. She kept stealing glances at me as though she might know me from somewhere. Jack insisted, “She just wants to see who I’m with.” Uh huh. Yeah.
More interestingly, try kissing without making a smacking sound at the end. It’s just not satisfying, is it?
Wow. There’s nothing like (a) seeing two acquaintances on stage accepting their second Emmy, (b) another two acquaintances giving birth to a new female human and (c) an old friend on a national television spot ALL IN ONE DAY to make me feel like (a) I have no goals, (b) no purpose and (c) no future. So, today I (a) made plans to drink and party for the entire weekend, (b) walked around in the cool air with a thin shirt and no jacket to validate my existence and (c) further guaranteed my job security by picking up Jack’s Viagra prescription and snagging two tickets to the Dave Matthews concert in Central Park for his kid. So much for goals, purpose and a future.
If You’re the Only One Laughing, You’re Probably Not Funny
Someone give Robin Williams a valium, please. Watching him chat with Joan Rivers had some very funny moments, but once you give him an inch of approval, he takes it a schtick too far. His most awkward quote was in reference to Gary Coleman. Robin screeched, “Honey, it’s the jockey at the door!” I’m sure he meant jockey as in diminutive horse rider and not the racist lawn decoration. Right? Right??! Eeeew. It was gross to watch. The crack had no point of reference. There it was wedged between a slam on Joan’s dress and a lame quip about the California Governor’s race. Ill-fitting and painful, just like his suit. He looks like a dazed priest.
Walking to the subway Tuesday night, I nearly lost it. I witnessed a young girl throw a full can of soda on the ground as though my world is her trash can. An empty can is bad enough, but she threw this completely full can down with force and caused a huge spray of liquid to splash out on the sidewalk, street and parked cars. I said, “What’s the matter with you, did you grow up in a shed?!?!”
But, wait! I did grow up in a shed and even I know not to litter. I wanted to have a show down with her. She walked forward and ignored my barrage of remarks and insults which include such barbs as “Oh, you’re so cool because you’re a trash thrower.” Obviously, she is better at hurling trash than I am at insults. But I did say she was trashy and made it clear I thought very poorly of her and her littering and was prepared to get into a physical confrontation if need be. I towered over her and had my thumb poised to spray her cheap, J.Lo imitating, lazy diva ass with pepper spray all in defense of a concrete jungle that I know and love as home, AKA Queens, New York.
You can say all you want about the “Don’t Mess With Texas” litter campaign…call it braggadocio or arrogance…but you absolutely cannot say that it is ineffective. Started in 1985, it found a 72% decrease in roadside litter in five years. That’s astounding. It coupled hefty fines (up to $500 for the first offense and $2,000 plus 180 days in jail for repeat offenses) and an amazing media blitz which included original songs performed by the likes of Steve Ray Vaughn, the Fabulous Thunderbirds, Willie Nelson and Lyle Lovett to name a few. You can check out all the video and radio clips over the past 18 years here, including my favorite from Willie Nelson, who sings:
“Keep your trash off the road,
cause she’s a fine yellow rose,
Treat Texas like someone you love!”***
(Click here for the brief video with the full song.)
How ingenious! How remarkable this idea is of instilling respect and love for your surroundings and the place you call “home”. That’s a marketing blitz I will gladly buy into and do so proudly. (You really must check out the entire website and not just the music clips to appreciate how effective and powerful marketing and the media is. Read the comments below for more marketing geekiness.)
New York has just started a campaign with ads that read, “When it rains, you don’t go to the beach. Your trash does.” I’m sorry, but that just doesn’t scream at you to “Stop! Or else!” I expect more out of New York. Meanwhile, I can only do my part and not litter and on occasion make someone aware that they “dropped” something and smile sweetly. (The above near brawl was a rare fluke. I don’t think I’ll be picking too many fights with the ruffians that dwell in my hood.)
I believe, in this instance at least, that one person really doesn’t make a difference. I would need to enlist an army, demand Mayor Bloomberg start fining offenders, and make sure there are no excuses for littering by having more trash cans available for use. The problem, though, is actually garbage day. The wind blows the leftover trash all over the place and then really what’s the use? People even only slightly prone to littering will definitely use this excuse. I guess my yellow rose of Queens will always be a little wilted and that’s just a pity.
***Never mind that many treat people they love like shit on a regular basis. Spoil sport!
Gene Rayburn: The electrician examined the 6 Million Dollar Man’s nether regions and said , “I’m sorry to report he’s ____.”
Richard Dawson: AC / DC — He goes both ways.
I love that it was the early 70s and stuff like this made it past the censors. (My answer, short circuited, garnered me two matches.)
Blue Collar Guy to a different yet similar Blue Collar Guy, “My woman don’t care about money. Sheeee-it, she give me money.”
News flash: “Your woman” cares about money. After all, it is what makes the world go ’round. She just also might happen to care about you and your broke, sorry speaking ass.
There is something strange in the air. I don’t know what it is, but a tension is resting under the surface like a tender, ripe zit. In the last week, I have witnessed three very intense arguments spill out to the sidewalks of New York; arguments so feral that I felt the need to get away — quickly. This morning took the cake. Right there on Broadway at 8:45 AM, I passed the butcher shop just in time to watch this exchange:
Queens-Accented Guy (“QAG”): I’ll get your ass deported back to Mexico, you fu*k!
Butcher Shop Guy (“BSG”): Silent.
QAG: You stoo-pid fu*k! You’re going back to Mexico!
BSG: Still silent.
This went on in this manner for a while. The QAG was making a lot of noise intermingled with quick, threatening moves while the BSG remained in the doorway of the butcher shop standing still, with a slight smug look on his face — antagonizing the QAG without ever uttering a peep.
Why, was the BSG so smug you ask? Because the BSG was holding a meat hook. A FREAKING MEAT HOOK! I’m not talking a small little hold in your hand and cleave some raw meat meat hook. I’m talking a long, steel pole taller than the BSG(uy) himself covered in fresh blood and hooked on one end and spear-like on the other end meat hook!
It’s still 8:45 in the morning mind you, and I’ve just gotten my fresh coffee and paper. I’m sing-songing my way in the cool Fall breeze with my pleated skirt and pearls –I had on pearls forgodssake — past this madness, this palpable fury.
So, since I’m so happy and white, I say, “Dude, he’s got a meat hook. He ain’t going nowhere.”
I think my pearls shrunk three sizes this day.
Let me state a phrase: “Sex and the City”. Okay, study those words. Do you see the words tenderness or touching or sensitive or sad mixed in that title? NO! So, why on Sunday night did I find myself moved (albeit temporarily) during Sex and the City?
I do, however, see the words “sex” and “city”, let’s just keep it at that, okay? Sex and the City.
During a telephone conversation with Christian, I mentioned this absurd change in the normal programming. Christian immediately accused me of having the disease called PMS and said, “I am SO going to rag on you for this.” (Or something like that.) So, he makes one joke about me and suddenly I’m open game. This could spell disaster.