If you are easily repulsed or offended by half naked muscular figures, do not – I repeat – DO NOT click here! (You readers who are supposed to be working right now, it’s safe to open).

Last night I sat reeeeeaaaaaaaallllllllllyyyyy close (I could have licked the third base umpire on the face if I felt so inclined) to the Visitor’s dugout in Yankee Stadium and watched Roger Clemens whoop the tar out of the Texas Rangers. Put a Texan in New York and just watch that Southern hospitality melt away faster than a jackrabbit running from a twister! The nerve! View the pics.

Miss Universe (not the one with the tiara, the one with real duties like dealing with my cosmic destiny) was kind enough to hold back the ominous impending thunderstorm and provide me with nine full innings complete with five homeruns and lots of foul balls that I totally could have caught if only I weren’t wearing a skirt. Otherwise, I definitely would have lunged over seats and knocked over any slow moving child or senior citizen that got in the way of my scoring one of those puppies. See what I mean about that lost Southern hospitality? I’d better take a trip back home and fast!

A big Texas-sized thanks to Keith for the free tickets and lovely company.

That’s me. I have no idea why. I started out the day just fine and then, I don’t know, maybe it was the chilly temperature in mid-May, or perhaps the constant drizzle that is not thwarted by an umbrella because it is everywhere the wind takes it. Or, it could have been the throngs of tourists gathered to see Ricky Martin perform (very poorly) outside of my office thereby blocking my way and forcing me into a puddle. Or, maybe it was having too much work and too little time to be bothered by Movable Type completely fritzing out on me. Golly gee fucking willakers, I just don’t know why I’m so annoyed. Let’s see how tomorrow is, when the drizzle stops, and I get to see a free movie* with Christian.

In other news, Kayla Solomon was chosen to be the featured playwright for the inaugural 4: Your Consideration Art Series. Why her? She submitted three nice pieces that will mesh well with our mission of integrating social interaction with art; and, welll, you didn’t submit anything, did you?*That’s supposed to link to Christian’s May 13, 2003, entry, in case you’re interested.

So tonight is a big shindig at Billy Bob’s in Ft. Worth, Texas and I can’t be there but my partners will be. This is a 180 degree turn of the universe since they went to New York annually during high school and I couldn’t go because (a) I had no money (b) I always had to work in order to make money to have lunch money and buy my own school clothes. They would come back with soundtracks and sweatshirts from hot new Broadway shows like “Starlight Express” and “Les Miserables”. I would soak in every minute of every story they shared trying to re-live it as though I had been included. I hope this makes you feel sorry for me, because that’s solely my intent.

I do hope they have as much fun as we did on the 18th and take lots of pictures and laugh so hard their faces hurt. I gave Scott specific instructions on what to say:

—–Original Message—–
From: Kambri Crews [mailto:kambri@texinthecity.com]
Sent: Sunday, December 22, 2002 10:00 AM
To: ‘scott@texinthecity.com’
Subject: RE: dec 18th

Thanks and have FUN at Billy Bob’s! It should be a blast. If anyone asks about me, which is highly unlikely, tell them I’m a filthy rich supermodel and have a PhD in Forensic Entomology and donate time and money to animal shelters and needy children in Africa and women in the Middle East…just don’t tell them I’m really selfish and don’t give any money to anything let alone gifts and time to children. But it is true, I AM a supermodel.

For Women: When a woman you know, instead of saying hello, looks you up and down and then acts as though you aren’t there, you know you’re looking good.

Beer Goggles
A Tex in the City reveler sidled up to me at Serena and said this to me in a slight slur and with a decidedly Jersey accent: “I mean, woah, look at you. Your thighs are beautiful. Your ass is beautiful. You breasts are beautiful. Your lips are beautiful. And your eyes, man! Your eyes are wonderful. But I’m not hitting on you.”

I have a sneaking suspicion he was lying because my thighs suck.

Plez Morgan was one of the best teachers I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. Taking his advanced algebra course in 7th grade, he taught me much more than theorems. One afternoon when my pre-pubescent-Weiner’s- jeans-wearing-twelve-year-old-self sat contemplating Pascal and Fermat, Mr. Morgan managed to scrawl the hidden meaning of “assume” on the chalkboard and then read it aloud.

“Assume: To assume makes an ‘ASS’ out of ‘U’ and ‘ME.’

What I was probably thinking:
(1) Holy shit he said “ass” in class.
(2) Oh, he’s serious. I’d better pay attention and pretend to be mature enough to handle this. This ain’t no remedial math; I be advanced.
(3) Hmmm…that makes sense. I wonder if Webster was thinking that when he made it up.
(4) My jeans suck.
(5) I wish Mork and Mindy never ended. I knew it was over when Jonathan Winters was their baby. Rule of sitcom: Anytime characters start popping out kids, the end is near. Just because the “kid” is some geriatric comedian doesn’t mean this rule doesn’t apply.

Years later, I know Mr. Morgan taught me a piece of logic more often used than any equation. I aslo know no matter how much an attorney bills per hour, sometimes logic fails them.

Celebrate Good Times, Come On!
In case I haven’t made it clear to anyone, you’re all invited to Serena tomorrow night for Tex in the City’s Holiday Celebration. The party starts at 6:00, ends at 9:00 and is *free* to get in. We’ll have lots of non-traditional music spun by DJ Sam Shaffer, our own carolers, special gifts and lots of food and drink specials. I hope to see you there!

On the way to the Tex in the City party last night, I was in a rush and anxious to get to Serena as it was drizzling and humid and I had plenty of pre-party business awaiting my arrival. Umbrella in one hand and cell phone in the other, I was the classic picture of a New York entrepreneur. Then, woosh! Down I went. “SHIT!” I screamed without even thinking. My right hand, still clutching my cell phone, landed in a potted plant filled with damp, fresh soil. It’s what saved me from real disaster. Instantly I hopped up, unfazed, dusted off my phone and resumed talking, “You there? Sorry, just fell. Anyway, I’m on my to Serena…”It wasn’t until I recounted the story later that I thought how ridiculous I must have looked to the dozen or so witnesses to my spill. They all looked quite concerned for my well-being, but I couldn’t be bothered or slowed down in the least. ‘Tis just a flesh wound!Just where was I going in such a hurry? To a party, of course!

Tequila was free flowing from 6:00-7:00, so the crowd came early. These three party guests (left) live in Austin and were here in NYC for a long weekend. They heard about our party and came to check it out. Excellent! Jason promised me some CDs compiled with all Texas music and even taught me how to two-step. For the record: I’m the world’s worst dancer. Oh, I can shake my groove thang alright, but when it comes to having a partner and moving in step with another human, well, that human had better be wearing some steel-toed boots.

Prior to my dance with Jason, I had only one two-stepping experience to reference.
Flashback to 1987 when I was a 15 year old sophomore dating football player and senior, Brad Booth. As my escort to the annual football banquet, Brad gave me the first and only corsage ever which I still possess. Dead, dried, petrified, pressed between two pages of a scrapbook, packed in a box, stuffed in various closets for 15 years, the once pink and pretty thing takes me back.

Richland High School alumn Gary Morris was the surprise guest banquet speaker. At the time, he was Country Music’s Artist of the Year, was set to star in the Broadway version of Les Miserables and had scores of my teenage classmates drooling at his feet that were decked with the gawdiest high top sneakers. Not that I was a trendy fashionista. Oh no. No, no, no.

So, to cap the evening off right, the announcer informed us that Gary was to select a *lucky* girl to dance with him to the sounds of his current #1 hit to which everyone present in that Texas banquet hall knew the lyrics except me. While all the older, beautiful, rich cheerleaders held their breath in anticipation of being picked, I was praying, “Please, please, please, not me, not me, not me.”By now, you know who Gary picked. Ah, yes, he chose me. Headbanging, big haired, Ozzy loving me. And I have never two-stepped since.

(Note the orange streaks in my hair that were painted on with a color stick and Gary’s high tops. Very avant garde. Very chic. Oh, and, umm…yeah that’s my mother’s dress. Lord knows I couldn’t have gotten a new one for my first real high school dance. There’s those wacky mutton sleeves making their zillionth comeback. P.S. This is a photo circa 1987 which is not to be used for press as noted in my August 18th entry. Thank you.)