Tuesday, February 28, 2006

A Night with the Taleses

Tomorrow night, I'm having dinner with Gay Talese and Nan Talese, along with my friend Paul and another couple.

If *that* doesn't make for an interesting New York evening, then I sure don't know what does. If any of the conversation can be repeated on the record, and in some level of detail that won't leave the very erudite people there sounding like a bunch of clods, I'll try to report back. Luckily, last time I had dinner and drinks with the Taleses (at their lovely Park Ave. townhouse), I discovered that Gay loves to talk as much as he loves to write. This was a good thing, since I didn't really know then (and still don't know now) what exactly I have to bring to this table besides an eager ear. I mean, what in the hell would I say? "Hi, I have a blog! I write for money, when I can! I know this great drinking game, it's called Take a Shot, Dummy! Don't you HATE what's happened to the lower east side on the weekends?"

To be honest, the Taleses are very, very nice people and didn't seem to mind at all my random presence (Gay knows my friend Paul, who is from South Dakota, from when he was covering the John Bobbit trial and Paul was Bobbit's attorney). In fact, Gay was nice enough to lie and say he could never make it as a freelance writer today, since according to him they're still paying the same per-word fees they were in the 1960s. Coming from the man who wrote what Esquire dubbed "The Greatest Story Ever Told," that made me feel somewhat less embarassed of my existence. Probably just because he's utterly a gentleman, Gay also asked to see a particular story I had written about the resurgence of buffalo on the Great Plains, so I mailed it to him along with my business card. A very prompt week later, I received a typed postcard from my hero Gay complimenting on the story (which was windy, repetitive, kind of pompous and yet still not entirely terrible for the college student I was at the time when I wrote it), with his signature at the bottom. I still have it in my room, hanging above my typewriter.

I'm going to try to think of a few semi-intelligent things ahead of the dinner this time so maybe I can pipe in with a sentence here or there and not sound like a borderline retard.

If anyone has a suggestion, other than "Hey Nan, did you think Oprah was a total BITCH or WHAT?" be my guest.

Law & Order Is Following Me

So a few years back, when I was working at the WSJ’s Soho office because terrorists blew up our other building, frequently my lunch outings were interrupted by the shooting of Law & Order, which seems to love Soho for a locale. I live in New York primarily because it’s Where Things Are Happening, but when those things are standing between me and the only decent tray of take-out sushi in a 20-block radius, I tend to get a little touchy. Not only do they clog the sidewalks that I pay for with my measly taxpayer dollars, they also yell at you if you cross some invisible line. Some peon PA or grip or best boy or whatever the hell they are called verbally assaults you, “Ma’am. MA’AM, we are SHOOTING, you are going to have to GO AROUND!” If you had called me, “Miss,” sir, you would have had better luck.

Anyway, once I quit the Journal I figured I was safe from these sidewalk hogs. But a few months ago, I looked outside my window in Brooklyn and noticed that my entire block (and thus, where I normally park my car) had suddenly been overtaken by big, white movie trailers. What the…? There were about 37 nuns in costume milling around near the park across from my house, and once downstairs, I confirmed it – Law & Order strikes again. I had to find somewhere else to park.

So imagine my annoyance today when I arrived at the gym only to find – you guessed it – Law & Order was shooting inside. Maybe it was a new, ripped-from-the-headlines tale about a rock climber who made a noose out of a 60-meter rope behind the rock wall and strung up an Ass Double who did her wrong? (Speaking of Ass Double, this self-absorbed, clueless prick never ceases to amaze me. Every two weeks or so – including last night – he’ll pop up in my text messages. Most recently, to “apologize” for not being able to climb with me recently. Did I ask you to climb with me? No. Do I feel bad that I haven’t been able to enjoy your fascinating company and hear more tales about how your ass is going to be used in this new ad campaign, it’s soooo exciting, oooh, look how my perfect genes made me perfect! No. I really shouldn’t spend any energy loathing this guy, but it’s hard).

ANYWAY, it’s bad enough dealing with Law & Order when you are fully clothed, have your make-up on and in general are ready to face the day. But the LAST place I want to be accidentally recorded on film is while on the treadmill trying to recapture my glory days as a high-school athlete who could consistently run 6-minute miles. And believe me, a glimpse of me, sans mascara, singing along under my breath with Tag Team on my iPod (Slam dunk it, stick it, flip it and ride that B double-O, T Y, oh my!) is not something that is going to improve your ratings.

My initial annoyance faded when I realized L&O was sticking to the back of the gym, and that there was an extra copy of US Weekly stuck in the magazine racks near the Stairmasters. That’s because the gym is the place where I catch up on all my trashy, pointless pop culture BS. It helps get one’s mind off all those babies dying in Darfur and stuff, you know?

Besides delving into US Weekly, I’ll often watch the VH1 video countdown. I never watch videos at home, but occasionally they’re good enough to keep my mind off the pain of an hour of cardio at the gym. So today I caught Pink’s “Stupid Girls” video. I unplugged from the iPod for a moment because the video looked hilarious – it was basically a fuck-you, poke-in-the-eye parody of all the “sexy girl” videos, with Pink sloshing herself all over on top of a sudsy car and licking soap bubbles off her fingers, or laying on a table getting breast implants. It’s really funny, although I didn’t really like the song.

Up next was Jamie Foxx’s video, “Unpredictable.” Could ever a greater misnomer exist for an R&B video? There was nothing unpredictable about it as far as R&B videos go – there are Jamie’s two, huge diamond earrings, his fur coat, the busty honeys rubbing themselves all over him. I started laughing uncontrollably on the treadmill, when I realized this video was NOT a parody. Can anyone take Jamie Foxx SERIOUSLY as some kind of smoove sexy R&B crooner after knowing him first as Sha Nay Nay in “In Living Color”? I certainly can’t. Thanks, Jamie, for the unintended hilarity.

Sorry if this post was a little scattered…I’ve been juggling a lot of work lately. For the 2.7 readers out there who follow what I’m doing professionally at all, this week I got a big assignment for the WSJ that’s due in two weeks, and I also was offered a six-month position doing media relations work for the Aspen Institute (www.aspeninstitute.org), an international, nonprofit policy think-tank, which is something I’m pretty excited about. On top of that, I’ll still be doing some work for Time Inc. So basically, policy work in the morning, research work in the afternoon, and writing at night.

I guess the amount of time I have to spend dodging Law & Order, reading US Weekly, and cracking up over unintentionally funny videos is about to dwindle significantly.

Monday, February 27, 2006

A Weird Thought

So I have this postcard from the Wizard of Oz in my bedroom. Many years ago my best from from college sent me a quote from the book, "The Wondeful Wizard of Oz," by Frank Baum. It was about the seeking that was going on in the book. The loving tin man was looking for a heart, the brave lion was looking for courage, and the wise scarecrow wished that he only had a brain. They all went to the wizard seeking such things. The curtain was pulled back, and he was revealed as a farce. And each realized that he already had it in him.

I think the message is totally about secular humanism.

And it only took me thirty freaking years.

Friday, February 24, 2006

Magazines Are Stupid

After leaving the Journal, I briefly considered trying to shift to a career in magazines. I do enjoy writing for magazines, and seeing my work appear in magazines. I enjoy reading magazines, good ones like the New Yorker and Harper's and bad ones like Shape or Fitness when I'm at the gym (anorexia magazines). Some magazines, like Climbing, are important to me because they cover a niche well that isn't covered online. Some magazines, like Entertainment Weekly, are good for reading in the bathroom or when you're on line somewhere.

But the longer that I work in this office, which we share with the women's cheapo monthly All You! (shudder, the name gives me goose bumps), the more glad I am that I don't actually have to work at a magazine, especially a women's magazine. I mean, I'd give away both of my own ovaries for a chance to work at the New Yorker, so please realize I'm talking about the mediocre newsstand schlock when I say the following. First, almost all magazines are irrelevant. Anything I see in a magazines I've already seen 20 times before in mediums that have a quicker turnaround (blogs, newspapers, TV). I guess if you live in Nome, Alaska, maybe you'll find something new in a magazine, but otherwise, nope.

Second, I just wouldn't want to have to do the stupid shit you apparently have to do to put out a magazine.

Case in point. I just walked into the kitchen in my office, and two girls from All You! were standing in there with two cases of delicious, bubbly Boylan orange soda. And what were they doing with it? Dumping it all down the drain.

The girls looked a little sad as they did this (probably because, as employees of a women's magazine, they are caned if their pants size breaches a 2, and likely neither had held lip to soda bottle in years), and I stood by trying to figure out what was going on.

Finally, I said, "Um, are those all bad or something?"

And they said, "No, we just need the caps for a photo shoot, but we couldn't get just the caps."

And I said, "Oh. Um. Can I have one of the bottles then?"

They handed over the nice cold sweet orange treat and I skipped back to my office, glad that I don't have to dump out perfectly good soda that I can't drink anyway in order to make a living at some stupid women's magazine.

Thursday, February 23, 2006

South Dakota Legislature Bans Abortion

The legislature of my home state of South Dakota has voted to ban abortion, unless the life of the mother is at risk.

OK, I know I normally post about insignificant crap like broccoli casseroles and the stupid antics of various losers I've dated.

But, this peeves me to no end and I'm somewhat embarassed to call that place home. We as a society and a country have decided that abortions should be legal, and I don't know why these vociferous people spend so much time and energy trying to change that. WE CAN'T EVEN TAKE CARE OF THE PEOPLE WE ALREADY HAVE ON THE PLANET -- why not try devoting some resources to that? Why not take some of the millions of dollars you throw at the abortion "problem" and feed some kids who don't have enough food, or provide some drinking water for children in Africa whose parents died of AIDS? Why are these fetuses more important than the children we already have with us, and more importantly, who are you to decide that?

Back when I converted to Presbyterianism, I decided I better see where my church stood on this issue. Here are a few key takeaways from the Presbyterian Church USA's stance on abortion:

"...There are no biblical texts that speak expressly to the topic of abortion, but that taken in their totality the Holy Scriptures are filled with messages that advocate respect for the woman and child before and after birth. Therefore the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) encourages an atmosphere of open debate and mutual respect for a variety of opinions concerning the issues related to problem pregnancies and abortion."

Areas of Substantial Agreement on the Issue of Abortion:

"Problem pregnancies are the result of, and influenced by, so many complicated and insolvable circumstances that ***we have neither the wisdom nor the authority to address or decide each situation.***" (emphasis mine)

"We affirm the ability and responsibility of women, guided by the Scriptures and the Holy Spirit, in the context of their communities of faith, to make good moral choices in regard to problem pregnancies."

"We call upon Presbyterians to work for a decrease in the number of problem pregnancies, thereby decreasing the number of abortions."

"The considered decision of a woman to terminate a pregnancy can be a morally acceptable, though certainly not the only or required, decision. Possible justifying circumstances would include medical indications of severe physical or mental deformity, conception as a result of rape or incest, or conditions under which the physical or mental health of either woman or child would be gravely threatened."

"We are disturbed by abortions that seem to be elected only as a convenience or ease embarrassment. We affirm that abortion should not be used as a method of birth control."

"We reject the use of violence and/or abusive language either in protest of or in support of abortion."

"The strong Christian presumption is that since all life is precious to God, we are to preserve and protect it. Abortion ought to be an option of last resort."

"The Christian community must be concerned about and address the circumstances that bring a woman to consider abortion as the best available option. Poverty, unjust societal realities, sexism, racism, and inadequate supportive relationships may render a woman virtually powerless to choose freely."

Note that last one: We should be working more on finding solutions to the broader societal problems we already have that may influence women to have abortions in the first place.

All right, I promise my next post will about something totally funny and inconsequential.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

It's Not Yale, but It's Something

The other day I was in an interview for what would be a high-profile, lucrative gig, and it was going swimmingly. My interviewer was commenting on how well-traveled I was and then got down to the line on my resume about my education, and all she could think of to say was, "And for some reason, you went to the University of Nebraska...." and sort of trailed off.

I know, I know, I've heard it all before. How did a little corn-gobbling cowpoke from the wilds of the Great Plains end up here in this big ol' sophisticated city, hobnobbing about with all the Yalies and Harvard grads? How did I manage to dislodge the corn-cob pipe from my piehole long enough to charm my way from Cornhusker U to the hallowed and moneyed halls of The Wall Street Journal? And for God's sake how could I possibly hold my own at cocktail parties given my limited knowledge of Geoffrey Chaucer? What, was he a halfback or something?

I really don't have an inferiority complex about it -- I figured I made it here just as well, if not better, than my lovely Ivy League pals, and certainly not because of my pedigree. Being hot shit in South Dakota, obviously, doesn't translate too well to the East Coast, and to be entirely honest, I wasn't even hot shit there. I do think I missed out on some of the finer points of the liberal arts at the University of Nebraska, but state school is what you make of it, and I think it turned out all right. I was so isolated in South Dakota the thought never even crossed my *mind* to apply to a "good" school, and for the record, I was the only person in my graduating class of 69 people to leave the state for undergrad.

ANYWAY, despite my lowly state-school education, I really, really loved going to college in Nebraska. And today, on my friend Todd's site, you can get a sense of why I loved it there so much. Thanks for the time travel back to 1997, Todd. I nearly cried -- I could literally feel myself stumbling down O Street, sucking down a fishbowl, and landing in the soft grass near the Union.

The Snow Sucks, but the Waffles Rock

So the weekend before last I was up in Vermont, with friends snowboarding. See, there I am! Fueling up before a long day out on the slopes. Fresh off a trip to Colorado, where the snow is the best it's been in 20 years, my expectations were low for snow on the East Coast. This was a good thing, since the snow did, indeed, suck. I took a big fall at one point and smashed my elbow into the glacier, er, mountain, and to this day it still hurts. That just don't happen in the powder. I'm hoping my elbow heals up soon 'cause climbing has been a bitch and I'm headed out to Utah in a couple weeks for more freshies.

However, the trip was plenty of fun anyway and I discovered -- one week before the New York Times, apparently -- a new taste sensation via the Waffle Haus. See how happy I look in that picture up above? I looked about ten times happier after I discovered slopeside waffles.

The paper of record has a nice little story today about these insanely delicious treats. However, the article is more about the history of the Waffle Haus than a celebration of the waffles themselves. They're about the size of a paperback book, and thick but not too thick. The carmelized sugar coating keeps them hot and gives them a lovely, sweet-shell crunch. I also got mine coated in melted chocolate. Walking around, with sugar goo all over my face and thick chocolate sauce threatening to breach the cuffs of my jacket, the very sight of my sugar-high smile and sound of my contented sighs elicited squeels from other boarders/skiiers. "Ooooh! Waffles!" they screamed as they stampeded past me to get their own frozen mitts on some.

What I think is amusing is that my friend A., who rode back to New York with me in the Red Baron, took the photo of the Waffle Haus you see above. Obviously, he was psyched about it. However, at the end of the day, he chose a few more freezing, icy runs over a pit stop in the Waffle Haus.

Bad move, sucka. He's still kicking himself.

You can find the rest of the photos here if you care to see or, if you are among my West Coast readers, in case you want to point and giggle at what East Coast residents think constitutes a "mountain."

Utah, here I come...

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

IM Conversation of the Day (Speaking of Beer Bellies...)

(Regarding the earlier post on the South Dakota cookbook):

Erin: So what are you having for dinner tonight? I was thinking of making some of that scrumptous sounding Diabetic Cucumber Salad.
A: As tempting as that is, I really was leaning toward that home made paint thinner. taste-eeee
Erin: Mmmm, maybe that'd melt down my beer belly, haha.
Erin: I heard burning your esophogous out cuts down the appetite, at any rate.
A: Yeah, and dying does wonders for one's weight
A: You just get skinnier and skinnier
Erin: You should go scream that out at the Conde Nast building, the women would trample you for such good news!
Erin: The next diet guru!
Erin: "Just die, you too can be a size zero!"
A: I find it rather sad that it would probably be a marketing success.
A: First Atkins, now Death.

The Verdict

Trading in beer for Pellegrino for an ENTIRE, puritanically sober week does NOT deflate one's beer belly, even when supplemented by untold hours at the gym.

(At least, that is, when one has simultaneously -- and inexplicably -- developed a sudden and intense craving for Twix bars and HoHos.)

Still a size 8,
me

Monday, February 20, 2006

Have a Nice Glass of Paint Remover

First of all, let me apologize in advance for what I"m sure will turn out to be a very unprofessional layout of this particular posting. I just haven't figured out the whole photos thing yet, but I felt this story needed some visual aids. So cut me a little slack.

So my friend Kevin moved back to NYC from the great state of Arkansas a few months ago. And he came bearing a gift for me. This:
In case you can't read what it says above, it says "South Dakota Centennial Cookbook, 1889-1989," which is a compendium of a bunch of recipes from state legislators to help commemorate the centennial. For some reason, he had found this among a pile of his dead grandmother's books and decided I would get more use out of it than she would. Kevin knows I have quite an attachment to my cold, barren, snowy home state of South Dakota, if only because I get so much pleasure out of poking fun at it.

Gleefully we paged through the book to discover such culinary delicacies (and really, truly, I am NOT MAKING THIS UP): "Diabetic Cucumber Salad," from Sen. Henry Poppen of DeSmet, "The Senator's Walleye Wonderful," from George Shanard of Mitchell, "Pink Ham Loaf" from Peg Lamont of Aberdeen and "Broccolli Feast" from none other than Leonard Andera of Chamberlain. If "Diabetic Cucumber Salad" ever becomes my favorite recipe, the one I would choose above all others to submit to a cookbook, someone please shoot me. Inexplicably, the cookbook also includes a recipe for Paint Remover, under the "Candy, Miscellaneous and Preserving," section.

"Broccoli Feast" sounded like such an oxymoron that I just had to see what it was all about. And, as you can tell from this picture, Sen. Andera looks like a satisfied customer!

In case you can't read the recipe, basically what "Broccoli Feast" consists of is packages of Stove Stop stuffing, broccoli, a mysterious, goopy concoction called "white sauce," and cheddar cheese.

While my roommates certainly weren't enthusiastic about their guinea pig status regarding Broccoli Feast, the dish was at least good for a few laughs, if not gustatory ecstacy. Here's my roommate Laura, about to deliver the verdict.

"Hmmm," Laura said. "It doesn't really taste like a Broccoli Feast per se, it tastes more like...broccoli, with stuffing, with some cheese and white goop on it."

"It's REALLY salty," Erin said. "I replaced the bullion cubes with too much salt, I guess."

"Fuck, I guess I"ll try it," said Lacy. "That looks disgusting."

He had a point.


Needless to say, the Great Broccolli Experiment hasn't exactly sent me running back to the South Dakota Centennial Cookbook whenever I'm in need of a hearty dinner, although I"m a good little pioneer so someday I'll plunge back in and keep trying and hopefully share the results with you here, assuming the creations don't clog my arteries on contact and cause immediate myocardial infarction.

At any rate, the cookbook was one of the better gifts I've received lately since I 1) love to cook and 2) love to poke fun at South Dakota, which only I can do because I grew up there.

So, big smoochies to Kevin for making my day.

Cast A Vote for Pain

Today -- FINALLY -- you can head on over to Guy's site and play some online Elimidate.

I was a judge in this contest, and while I know it seems impossible that these three were the pick of the litter, I assure you it's true. To be honest, my votes for finalists were cast more with an eye toward comedic outcome than Guy actually finding someone to love and cuddle and make miserable with his mastubation addiction.

Personally, I'm kind of pulling for entry #3, who I like to call "The Dominatrix," just 'cause I think a ball gag would go a long way in enhancing Guy's looks. Plus, it would shut him up for five minutes, giving us all a respite from his ululations about the wonders of the Outback Steakhouse.

So go on, cast your vote.

McGriddles

Some time ago, I was explaining to my friend Chuck how the sausage McGriddle from McDonald's was simultaneously revolting and delicious, and that never in the history of fast food had a better hangover cure existed. The idea of the McGriddle freaked him out, if I remember correctly, what with the little maple bombs floating around in bread and all.

This conversation had to have happened months ago since he's been away on book tours and has been busy generally being famous and I don't see him as much as I used to. Frankly, I had forgotten all about the McGriddles conversation, but then again, I never remember anything and he's the type of person who remembers what cartoon characters were on his pajamas in second grade and can relay with frightening accuracy entire drunken conversations that occurred years earlier.

Anyway, I was surprised to receive this text message from him this morning at 7:29:
"This morning, I finally had a sausage McGriddle. They are more subtle than I anticipated. The flavor is relaxed and the texture is formidable."

I love waking up to a review of a fast-food delicacy on my cellphone. Awesome.

Sunday, February 19, 2006

The Nook

So I spent all morning today with great friends at church, loads of them, and then I met one of my best friends out for brunch. After that, we went to the movies. And then I came home. It was a day filled with friends.

Normally, at least one of my roommates is at home. But tonight, L is with her boyfriend and LG is somewhere, maybe with this chap he's been seeing lately. So I'm sitting here alone with my bottle of Pellegrino. I just called my parents, whom my brother, his wife and my niece are visiting, and they were just sitting down to eat so they asked me to call back. The whole thing left me feeling a little lonely, maybe missing my family I suppose.

Sunday nights sometimes seem sorta empty and lonely. I'm perfectly happy being alone, but tonight feels lonely. Sunday nights often feel lonely even when I have friends or family around, I'm not sure what it is...

This time, I think it was this episode of Sex and the City that I watched the other night on HBO on demand. Carrie and Aiden are in a fight and suddently Aiden doesn't want Carrie to sleep in his "nook" anymore -- that nice warm spot that's created when you sleep next to someone, they're on their back and they put your arm around you, and you curl up in their armpit. Carrie keeps trying to figure out how to get "back in the nook."

And I guess I thought, it's now officially been years since I've had a nook to call my own. You can borrow a nook for a night here and there but it's nothing like the familiarity of a regular nook. It's not like I sit around pining for a boyfriend by any means, because along with boyfriends comes a whole host of problems that sometimes just aren't enough to offset the benefit of the nook. But in a moment of self pity, it briefly crossed my mind that I might never have a nook again. Which is ridiculous, but nonetheless made me feel horribly alone.

I guess I"ll go cue up my friend TiVo for a little company now. Buenos noches, amigos.

Saturday, February 18, 2006

A Suggestion

Go download M. Ward. Transfiguration of Vincent. Right now.

Things You Would Never Hear a Man Say in South Dakota, Part I

Typically, men in my home state of South Dakota are kinda like the food there -- hearty, warm, ample, if not too sophisticated. Hot dish casserole personified, if you will, but not without the dual charms of simplicity and predictability. Of course, I never like things simple, I like them complicated and torturous, and that's probably part of what drew me to New York, where one has a deep, deep dating pool of men far more tortured than I'll ever be. I appreciate their sophistication and their sensitivity, but sometimes I am left wishing they would just relocate their testicles already.

So I had to laugh last night, when I brought a good friend of mine, T, a writer, out for happy hour. Here is an excerpt of the conversation we had:

T: What's up with that girl in the blue shirt?
Me: I thought you were still dating S?
T: Yeah, yeah, I officially am, but we're teetering on the edge.
Me: Why don't you just break up with her then?
T: I can't, her cat just died.

A deferred breakup due to feline expiry is a courtesy one would not enjoy in the Midwest, ladies. Just so you know.

Friday, February 17, 2006

Pellegrino Clears the Mind -- Of All Thought

Last summer, I came up with an absurd plan to do four hours of cardio a week, on top of my normal weights and climbing routine, in order to lose the lovable little beer roll that I have dilligently spent the last 15 years or so accumulating around my midsection. I was inspired by my Greek god of an ex boyfriend who at one point put off medical school to climb professionally and who now, despite working three million hours a week as an ER resident, somehow still finds time to maintain the workout schedule of an Olympic athlete. One look at those abs would be enough for you to tether yourself to a treadmill, too.

Six or so months later, my squishy little belly roll is still with me, although I did mostly permanently lose four pounds of flab from elsewhere. Meanwhile, my cardio fitness is such that I could hike 27 fourteeners in a row in the thin air of Colorado and not have to carry along a lunch sack in which to hyperventilate. I'm ready for Everest, no-oxygen style.

So I decided, with regards to my lovable roll, it must be the beer that's the problem. Figuring that my consumption of, oh, six beers or so a night, most nights of the week, was offsetting all that annoying treadmill time, I decided to try an experiment and switch to Pellegrino.

After one week on the 'Grino, I don't know that I feel any less bloaty, although I have found myself feeling slightly happier, less tired and somewhat more verbally articulate. Sometimes I even speak in whole sentences instead of grunting and pointing, which came in handy today during a job interview.

However, it has left me devoid of all thoughts of the bitchy variety which are normally vented here.

Luckily for all of my 7 regular readers, I have a happy hour tonight followed by a champagne celebration for a friend's new job, so I should be on an express train back to Bitchyville by tomorrow.

And, since reading about other people's diet and exercise habits is boring, unless you are a subscriber to Self magazine, I thought I'd point you here to a story about one man's worst sex ever. I went to the Worst.Sex.Ever show last year, and had a marvelous time.

This year it was sold out, so I was happy to get a little taste of that bad, bad lovin' via the Interweb. Enjoy.

Thursday, February 16, 2006

The Dumping Season

My good friend Todd Munson has a nice piece in the L.A. Times today about why you're about to get dumped, and how a well-timed puppy can help you counter the move. Consider yourself warned. Bravo, Todd.

A Guide on Contacting Someone Through Friendster/MySpace

What to say to a woman (even an "OLDER" woman -- shit, it's not like I'm Jane Fonda here) to ensure she never writes you back:

"hi i saw your profile and i loved your pic...your beautiful! im 25 from brooklyn.im 5'9 blond blue eyes and attractive.(i tried uploading my pic but it didnt work for some reason) id love to chat with u sometime, im looking for a mature older woman,(ive been with older before, so its not like im just looking to "experiment" with an older woman, its a prefrence ;) )do u have aol or yahoo messenger? id love to chat with u on there and i can send u my pic thru there, im sure u wouldnt be disappointed.write back with any questions u might have...hope to hear from u!"

What to say to a woman to ensure she writes you back, even if she suspects from your picture that she'd find you too fat/Long Island goomba-y in person: "The fact that you listed bacon as a general interest makes me want to marry you; I hope that isn't too forward."

Proper grammar and attention to specific detail can go a long way, fellas.

*Update: IM from my friend Jason regarding Bachelor #1:
"You should have accepted a date with that guy and killed him."
Response: I would have been doing the world a favor.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

"Compassionate" Conservatism, My Ass

I was dismayed to see this article in the New York times today about how the federal government is going to forgo more than $7 billion in royalty payments from oil companies in the next five years for $65 billion in oil and gas pumped from federal (that's taxpayer-owned) territory in the next five years.

In the State of the Union, Bush said Americans were "addicted" to oil and needed to explore alternative fuels, but obviously, this is only lip service. Exxon Mobil had record profits last year of $36 billion thanks to high energy prices, and the government doesn't expect oil prices to drop below $50 a barrel over the next five years, either -- meaning the fat cats are going to stay well fed for years to come. Obviously, they don't need more money.

The irony (and, this time it really is irony) is that the Republicans try to paint themselves as "compassionate conservatives" and their voting base is largely made up of people who identify themselves as "Christian fundamentalists" or "evangelicals." Forgoing money that could go to prop up failing safety-net programs like Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid and letting Exxon Mobile shove it in its bulging wallet doesn't sound very compassionate to me. And "Christian" fundamentalists -- all those so-called "values voters" -- should be ashamed at how the man they voted for wants to spend their money.

Aren't there better things to do with billions of dollars than give it to oil companies whose bank accounts are already threatening to explode like the Exxon Valdez in the Prince William Sound? Let's see if we can find a better place for the money. For all of my Christian fundamentalist readers, let's see what Jesus has to say. What would Jesus do? Huh? You're always asking that.

"If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him? Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth." 1 John 3:17-18

[Jesus said]: "For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me." They will answer, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?' He will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.' Then they will go away to eternal punishment." Matthew 25:42-46

I wish Christians would worry less about things like gay marriage, abortion and fornication and think more about taking care of people.

So I'm going to go all liberal-media-bias on your ass for a moment. Please indulge me. I have an idea of what we could do with that money instead of giving it to Exxon Mobil et al.

According to bread.org, "the UN Development Program estimates that the basic health and nutrition needs of the world's poorest people could be met for an additional $13 billion a year [to what is being spent now]." Incidentally, that's about the same amount that pet owners in the U.S. and Europe spend on dog and cat food every year. We can feed Fluffy and Muffin and Tweety, but poor little Udugu in the Congo can't even get a scoop of porridge. Six million children in developing countries die every year, mostly due to hunger. Even in the U.S., 10% of households skip meals or eat less than they want because they don't have enough money.

Maybe we could take that money and feed some people who are actually hungry, instead of buying more caviar for Exxon execs and the company's shareholders.

I am now stepping off the soapbox. Back to your normally scheduled insipid programming.

Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone, Only Darkness Every Day

Today, as you may know, is Valentine's Day. Tonight, in some kind of anticelebration, I am going out in Brooklyn with a bunch of friends for a bar crawl. My friend Kevin says it is his goal to pass out cold in the middle of Smith Street by the end of night. I say, it's always good to have a goal.

Since we have 27 inches of snow, I'm going to be wearing hiking boots, and one never meets boys when wearing hiking boots, unless one is hiking. So I don't have any loftier hopes for the night than to catch a buzz at the Zombie Hut or Abilene. But no matter what, it certainly won't be the worst Valentine's Day in recent memory.

That particular trophy goes to Valentine's Day 2000. If you think you're having a shitty Valentine's Day, just listen to this. You'll feel soooooo much better.

I had moved to the New York the previous fall from Arkansas, where I had been working at the newspaper in Little Rock. Just before I moved, I reconnected with someone I knew through a mutual friend in college, someone who went to college about 200 miles from where I did. Let's call him T. When T and I met in college, we immediately clicked but he was pretty seriously involved with some other girl at the time, so that was that. Two or three years later, I was in Little Rock, he was in Memphis, the spark was still there and despite my impending move, we fell into it fast and furious.

He was supposed to be moving to California for a PhD program, but decided to scrap it all and follow me out to New York and instead apply for a graduate program at Cornell (which he got into). Life was good. We were "in love." We spent hours a day on the phone devouring each other's every word, sent enough email to crash a few hundred servers, giddily explored our new city together. The chemistry was still there with a capital C (or so I thought) and after only about four months we were talking about getting married. Parents were met, words of devotion exchanged. The big flashing warning signs I should have seen looked to the fool in love (me) like big neon hearts flashing "He's your soul mate!" and "You finally found 'The One'!" Never had I felt so understood or loved.

Anyway, about five months into our relationship Valentine's Day rolls around. He had friends in town and asked if I wouldn't mind involving them in that evening's plans. Being the cool and gracious person that I am (ahem), I said why not. I could still bask in the glow of his "love" with other people around.

So we traipsed off to some cheeseball revolving restaurant in Times Square and ate lobsters with the Brits. Snowfall descended on New York and at the time it all seemed very romantic.

After dinner, we proceeded back to his apartment near Christopher Street. All of a sudden, he was sullen, sulky, withdrawn. He wanted to "be alone," he said. On Valentine's Day? Apparently. I wheedled and snuggled and begged him to tell me what was wrong, but to no avail; he just sat with his head hung and secrets clanging around inside of his chest.

And so, teary and terrified that I was losing my one true love, I descended the rickety staircase in my flimsy red silk skirt and trudged through the snow back to the subway to go home to Brooklyn. I got to the subway and some guy -- who was appointed by the sadistic jokers of the universe to play "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone" as I walked down the ramp at West Fourth St. -- made me burst into full-fledged sobbing with his crappy acoustic rendition.

A few weeks later, thanks to a discovery in a West Village coffee house that forced the issue (which is a whole different story), my boyfriend came out of the closet and broke up with me. He was gay, gay, gay. Now the apartment near Christopher Street made all kinds of sense.

I stayed in bed and cried, not eating and hardly drinking a thing, for four days. Finally, my friend Kevin -- the one who tonight will be passed out on Smith Street -- came over with a bucket of Kennedy Fried Chicken and two bottles of cheap champagne. He was determined to get my blood sugar back up and restore some skin to my bones, which were straining to break through the skin of my cheeks; it's certainly the closest I'll ever come to looking like Kate Moss. I felt like shit, but I looked amazing!

Let's review. Your Vday is not *really* shitty unless: 1) you have to eat at a cheesy revolving restaurant with a bunch of tourists in Times Square 2) your date -- with whom you've discussed lifelong commitment -- turns out to want to play for the other team 3) you have to walk home alone, without having had sex, in the snow, in nylons 4) some homeless dude in the subway sings a dirge that makes you burst into hysterical tears. There. I knew you'd feel better.

You can also read about my gay boyfriend here. The great thing about emotional trauma is that it gives you reams of material to mine, remine and mine again for personal essays when you can't afford therapy.

I've gotten less vitriolic about the "gay boyfriend" situation as the years have passed. He wrote me sometime a couple years ago to say that he really did love me all that time but basically just knew he wouldn't be able to keep from screwing around with men if we got married. It's kind of cold consolation, but I'm in some way comforted by the fact that I wasn't a total fool. I was just 98% a fool. I'm also relieved to have dodged my own personal "Brokeback Mountain" scenario. (I loved that movie, by the way, though I was scared I wouldn't simply because of my own background.)

Anyway, now it just makes me kind of sad that that's the way it turned out. From time to time, I still feel that I was cheated out of the love of my life by some genetic quirk -- or things he told me he suffered as a child that he couldn't control -- and maybe one or both of those things are true.

But, I'm thankful that I have good friends to make merry with tonight, and that if I ever need an emergency bottle of champagne again, Kevin will be there for me. As long as he isn't passed out on Smith Street.

Smile Why Dontcha?!

When I was living at home with my parents, having dinner together was required. Fostering family togetherness and all that. My dad would invariably come home from work in a shit mood – he worked long, stressful hours in a successful attempt to amass more money than Croesus (all for the good of the family, of course) – and proceed to yell at my brother for his sloppy table manners or me for my bad attitude. “Wipe that LOOK off your face!” he’d yell at me while banging his fist against the table. What was I supposed to do, stick my face in a bowl of mashed potatoes every second I wasn’t smiling? Paste on an ear-to-ear grin as he berated my brother for not holding his fork correctly?

While I was something of a moody teenager, my pissiness exacerbated by my parents’ unfounded lack of trust, I never thought I was sitting there with a sour puss. What my dad – who in all honesty is a good, if stressed-out, guy - didn’t realize was that that was *just my normal face.*

I have what I call “bitchy face.” I smile a lot; all of the time really. But apparently when I’m not smiling, I look bitchy, upset, or worried or something.

This invites all kinds of annoying comments from strangers. Old Italian men saddle up to me in bodegas and tell me I’m “too pretty to look so down. Smile, why dontcha!” Dudes in the street exhort me to “Smile, pretty lady!” while I’m still fuming from having overheard them loudly admiring my “badonkadonk.” But the WORST is when normal-seeming men of my demographic, who certainly should know better, come up to me out of the blue and tell me to “Smile!” as, apparently, a form of flirtation.

Listen, I don’t issue you commands on altering your facial expressions, so if you can’t think of a better pick-up line than “Come on, give me a smile!” please go back to your booth, drink another beer and think of one. I am not your smiling trick hyena. Your pick-up line just puts me back at the dinner table with dear old dad trying to tell me what to do, and is PISSES ME OFF TO NO END. Or you know what? Maybe I’m just in a bad mood. Maybe I’m upset. And do you really want to hear about it? I didn’t think so. If I want you to come over and talk to me, I’ll probably smile at you in the first place.

The next time someone in a bar tells me to smile, I’m going to tell him my mother just died of cancer. That should shut him up.

Monday, February 13, 2006

What's That? Chanel No. 5? Or Progestin?

I got a press release today. I'm boggled.

MELBOURNE and NEW YORK (13 February 2006) - Acrux (ASX: ACR), the Australian company with technology for delivering drugs across the skin, today announced an agreement with the New York-based Population Council. The agreement enables Acrux to progress toward commercialization of a unique contraceptive spray containing the new-generation contraceptive drug Nestorone®.

Results of a Phase 1 clinical trial ... showed that a once-daily application of Nestorone MDTS provides the level of Nestorone in the blood known to be effective for contraception. "The target features are: a convenient daily spray onto the arm that is more discreet and less irritating to the skin than a patch, and, we believe, will prove to have a better safety profile than other hormonal contraceptives. Market research has shown that many women will prefer the ease and convenience of this method to swallowing pills, taking injections, or wearing patches."

Etc. Etc. Just think: before running out the door on your date, dab a bit of perfume behind one ear and a dab of birth control behind the other, and you're good to go.

Alternately, they could set up "perfume girls" -- of the variety they have at Saks -- at Wal-Marts around the country and the nation's trailer parks would be significantly less overcrowded.

Imagine the possibilities.

Ten Thousand Spoons

Our generation, because many of us are stupid, derive their definition of irony from Alanis Morissette's song, "Isn't It Ironic?" To them, irony is having ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife, or finding a black fly in your Chardonnay. Of course, none of that is ironic, since irony means "a form of speech in which the real meaning is concealed or contradicted by the words used," or, saying the opposite of what you mean.

However, in the spirit of humoring my Canadian sister, were I to define ironic like Alanis does, I'm going to have to say that it's "ironic" that while I was away snowboarding in dry-as-a-bone Vermont this weekend -- where not even an INCH of snow fell -- New York City received a record snowfall of 27 inches. I don't even think Killington has a 27-inch base, let alone 27 inches (or 27 milimeters) of powder.

That said, we had beautiful sun, a fireplace, good food and friends and miraculously no traffic on the way home. More importantly, we had enough beer to inebriate an entire fleet of pirate ships. So I'm not complaining. And, the boarding wasn't even that bad, all told. Though I smacked my noggin good when someone sideswiped me and now I feel like I have whiplash. But, that just makes me a badass. Or a bad boarder. Or something.

I am bummed I missed seeing Shaun White grab the Olympic gold in the half pipe in Turin. I wonder if they're going to rerun the whole segment at any time. Anyone know?

Friday, February 10, 2006

Breathalyzer

I think I'm going to find some do-it-yourselfer, Make-magazine fan to jimmy one of those breathalyzers they give repeat drunk drivers to attach to the ignition of their cars. My handyman will rejigger it to somehow control a wireless modem, and any evening after 6 p.m. ('cause happy hour starts early and even one martini on an empty stomach can trigger the idiocy) I will have to breathe into it before I can shoot off unbelievably stupid and ill-advised email. Email in which I fish for compliments, or accuse people of having tacky taste. Or pedophiliac tendencies. Or at least dirty-old-man tendencies.

Come to think of it, I coiuld also use a Breathalyzer on my fridge, my phone, and for sure on my chastity belt. Although, that would be a little weird. Do I sound high?

ANYWAY, if you were the "lucky" recipient of one of the said missives, I do apologize. Except to the dirty old man. Start chasing tail that's somewhere near your vintage, pal. You look ridiculous.

Luckily this weekend I will be away from the Keyboard of Regret up in Vermont, sliding around on a glacier and watching snot freeze to my fleece turtle. And by that I mean snowboarding. It's hard to get excited about Killington (which is said to be icy and freezing) after Vail but perhaps it will be a pleasant surprise. I'm not hopeful about the quality of the snow considering the best thing anyone can say about it is, "Well, it's been really cold so they've been making snow all week." Not good enough, friends.

I'm sure it'll be fun, though. It's always nice to get out of the city and capture a little perspective on the world out there.

Thursday, February 09, 2006

The expansive boughs of the mighty orchid


So sometimes my job is important, like, right now, I'm researching a story on antiangiogenic drugs, and it's kind of interesting. But usually, my day job (which, mercifully, is only part-time) is dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb. I'm here for quality control to make sure that stupid-ass mistakes don't make it into print.

Today my boss asks me to help clean up someone else's little mess. They had misspelled the name of some kind of nature preserve in Mexico and he wanted me to track down the right spelling. Here is the sentence in question: "In the nearby Sierra de La Giganta mountain range, Primer Agua, an old Jesuit ranch, temps [sic] guests to jump into its crystalline spring for a swim, or barbecue in the cool shade of an orchid."

So the editor emails me asking, "Is it spelled 'Agua' or 'Aqua'?"

But my question is, "How do you barbecue in the shade of an orchid?"

I can see the hungry gaucho now, crouched with his can of beans under the tiny trembling orchid leaves....

Sheesh. Who writes this stuff?

Idiotic ADD Ramblings, Or: Why I Have Yet to Write a Book

People are always asking me, “When are you going to write a book? All your friends are writing books!” These inquisitive folk have obviously never come close to the inside of my brain. Because if they had ever visited there, it would be obvious why the only place you’ll find my name on an Amazon A9 Book Search is in the acknowledgments pages of tomes by my far more talented friends, and in a few scattered financial how-to index references for crap I wrote at the WSJ.

The mundane effluvia that floods my brain so much of the day is one reason that I’m convinced I’ll never write a book. There’s just so much flotsam hogging up space there’s no room for real creativity.

Exhibit A: Random thoughts I had over the course of three minutes on the subway this morning on the way to the gym.

“Why is it so cold out here? Brrr. I’m cold. Sunny, though, that’s nice. Why is this damn train so crowded? Who gets up this early? Is that guy cute, I hope not, I don’t have any makeup on. I want to eat this muffin but this train is too crowded, I hate eating on trains, it’s so uncouth. But I’m not as bad as those FUCKERS who eat Chinese food on the train or spit sunflower seed shells on the floor. Oh, but where’s your liberal guilt NOW Miss Democrat, those people are probably the ones with three-hour commutes to the bumfuck Bronx who have to come into the city to do your dry cleaning and wax your eyebrows and wash your towels at the gym, so why don’t you cut them some slack, they’re starving. Oh, the gym, I better eat these muffins before I get there or I’ll pass out. OK, people got off at Jay Street now I can eat in relative peace. These muffins are dryer than usual.

“I can’t believe I’m looking at an ad for curing toenail fungus while trying to choke down breakfast, that ad is disgusting, someone take it down. Why am I so sleepy? It’s those stupid frigging Tylenol PM, what, are they just starting to work now? From now on, I’m going to take Tylenol PM when I WAKE UP IN THE MORNING so by the time I go to bed 16 hours later they’ve finally kicked in. Why is no one sitting on that chair, why does the man next to it keep gesturing at it? Oh, there’s coffee spilled on it. Chair hog. I bet he spilled the coffee there himself so no one would sit down, the jackass. Wow, some guy is actually wiping off the seat to cram into it. Well, OK. Wait, that chair-wiper guy is STARING at me, every time I look up. What? WHAT? Do you think I’m going to come over there and give you my phone number and ask in what way I can do your sexual bidding? Because I won’t. So quit staring. And leering.

“Why are you thinking these stupid thoughts, you idiot? Why don’t you think of something useful or interesting so you can write a book about it? Think about how much time you spend during the day thinking, ‘I’m cold,’ or ‘What am I going to have for lunch?’ Just one stupid book. Will wrote three books. Chuck wrote three books. Tom wrote three books. You wrote no books. You suck. Fine, at least read the newspaper if an original thought isn’t going to flit through your head. Because NOBODY wants to read about crap like this.”

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Date a Degenerate

Everyone knows there's a man shortage in New York. There are simply more men than women, and my standards for date-ability thus sink lower and lower each year. Realistically, soon I will be dating bald, paraplegic, compulsive liar crackheads who call the Bowery Mission home.

And yet, my flame of hope that I won't have to date crackheads somehow keeps flickering and so, I date. I date doctors and dentists and lawyers and trumpet players and climbers and writers and Luke Wilson's ass doubles. OK, there was only one ass double, but thank God for that. Please note that I do not date investment bankers; I have not yet sunk that low.

Time and time again they disappoint. They're not up front about their own tendencies to lie, cheat, be lazy, and in general lack a code on how to live a fulfilling and upstanding life. (Oh, fine, they weren't all that bad. But still.)

Which is why it's nice that there a guys like Guy. Guy is forthcoming about the fact that he's a chronic masturbator, that he has a hairy back, that he blows in the sack, that he's depressed and curmudgeonly. And that is a blessing. Because there will be no disappointments down the road.

So, ladies, today is your lucky day. Guy's looking for a date via his web site.. And he's asked me to help judge entries. Tell Guy why you want to make him and his grab bag of behavioral problems your own, and you'll be treated to a night at Benningan's and a big plate of Flaherty's Fish. That's good eatin'.

Climbing

If you're a climber, make sure to pick up this month's issue of Climbing magazine. That's my pal Merrick on the cover.; also, he wrote the cover story on climbing in Morocco.

Go buy it!

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Today's Best Moments, Text Messaging Edition

Excerpt of text-message conversation that just transpired, regarding the time I spent in Vail locked in a supply closet:

Christos: A supply closet! You harlot!
Me: The only thing I banged in the supply closet was the locked door.

(Seriously, mops don't do it for me...)

Read About How I Hate the Local News

Back when I worked as a reporter in Little Rock, I learned to hate the local news. It all started when I spent months on a story that was important to me -- and turned out to be **award-winning,** if I DO SAY SO MYSELF -- about underfunding of AIDS drug assistance programs in the state (Arkansas had the lowest state contribution per patient to help AIDS patients buy drugs). So anyway, I spent months writing this big story and spending all this time with these sick or not so sick people, hearing their stories, and then finally one Sunday, we published it on the front page. Sure enough, that night at six, the "reporters" from the local news ripped off my story, did one-off crappy interviews with my sources, asking them the same questions I did, and ran their piece on it. Thanks, guys. Also, I dated one of the on-air reporters for KATV Channel 7 (hey, Justin!) who turned out to be a smarmy, self-absorbed cock (imagine! a local tv news reporter!) so that further soured me on them. Of course, I learned my lesson about dating shallow types who make money off their genetic good fortune and high cheekbones, which is why after 6 years in New York I thought it would be a good idea to date a model and Luke Wilson's ass double. And we all know how THAT turned out!

AHEM. Back to the matter at hand. I have a piece today running on my friend Carl Bialik's website, Gelf. It's a sendup on the local news and its alarmist tendencies. You can read it here. You can also read the interview they did with my friend Chuck, which is a good interview because Chuck mostly answers their questions by saying things like, "I don't know," and "I have no idea," and "Hm, let me think about that," and yet the writer still manages to squeeze a good story out of it. I asked Chuck about it and he said, "You know those people? It was weird, I thought they said they were calling from 'Elf Magazine'." And he was still nice enough to do the interview, even for Elves.

In other news, I'm having drinks tonight with a friend I met like four years ago while spending a couple weeks rock climbing in El Potrero Chico, Mexico. When i showed up I was the only girl at camp except for these two Norweigan ladies who hardly spoke any English, or Spanish. The ratio of men was about 5:1, and it seemed like they hadn't seen a girl in about six months. So, I had a lot of climbing partners to pick from, which was nice, since I went alone. The other day, this friend, Merrick, sent out an email saying he was now living and working in NYC. The last time I saw him, we were on top of an eight-pitch climb called Black Cat Bone in the middle of the Mexican desert, staring across 2,000-foot sheer limestone faces, and tonight we're going to be drinking PBRs at Welcome to the Johnson's, or something. What a crazy world.

Friday, February 03, 2006

Long Time, No Krasinski

So apparently this used to be a go-to site for fans of John Krasinski looking for any scrap of information on the delicious actor. I'm still as big of a fan of "The Office" as I ever was but I haven't posted on him in awhile.

Anyway, if you're looking for some Krasinski news, head over to Give Me My Remote, which has an exclusive interview with the Most Lovable Man on Television. Plus Jenna Fischer (Pam) too! You're welcome.

Maybe John Krasinski and nice-guy Jim will help me mature and get over my hard-wired fixation with smarmy assholes (which, as I discussed earlier, I somewhat truly believe stems from my early-adolescent crush on Bruce Willis's David Addison).

Hi! You're Going to Die in a Nuclear Attack!

My dad doesn't come out to visit much, claims he doesn't like the city. I think he's grown used to the homogenous nature of South Dakota, and that all the diversity and noise and unfamiliarity of New York freak him the hell out. He hates being out of control, and he can't be in control in New York -- the first time he visited me here I don't think we had an actual conversation, since he was too busy asking, "Now, which way are we going? Are we going west? Dammit! North? How can we be going north! I'm all turned around! I can't figure this place out!" and me saying, "Don't worry about it, I'm not going to leave you alone ANYWHERE."

He's not a big fan of me living here, even though I've never been mugged, raped, burgled or pushed in front of a moving subway. OK, sure, so a bunch of terrorists blew up my office building. But besides THAT....His highest dream for me, I guess, is to move back to South Dakota and marry some kind of cowpoke. When I ask him what the hell I would do to keep my brain from dying in South Dakota, he says, "Well, you could run a Kinko's. That's printing. It's kind of like writing!" Um, yeah.

Occasionally he sends me email, which is kind of a new thing to him. Judging by his last missive, I don't think he really has the "tone" thing down yet:

"I love you very much and am finally getting used to NYC and feel safer now to be there. I do wish that you wern't there
because I feel it is a very big target and I think that a personal nuclear bomb is going to happen there. These people know what they are doing. It will happen at wall street and cripple our economy, which is thier objective. Just a thought. Call Sunday PM."

You know, it's nice that Dad cares about me, but it's not so nice to hear that he believes a few months down the road some terrorist is going to nuke me and melt my skin off.

Yeah, I will call Sunday PM, and I'll let you know that since you live in South Dakota, I think you're probably going to die soon in a hunting accident, mistaken for a 20-point buck and left to bleed out in the middle of a soybean field.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Speaking of Chains

I was awfully disappointed the last time I was coerced into eating Indian food at Balucchi's, the local Indian chain. Servings were skimpy and overpriced, and frankly, just not that good.

If you're looking for tasty and reasonably priced Indian on Smith Street in Carroll Gardens, make sure you give Bombay Dream a try. It's like two doors down from Balucchi's and never crowded (which is a shame). Look past the pink tableclothes, order an oversized Taj Mahal and get the vegetarian combo platter. You won't be disappointed, and you won't be paying $12 for half a cup of saag paneer. My friends had to haul me out of there in a wheelbarrow, and it was worth every bite.

I seriously need to get back to the gym.

The Last Memorable Doughnut

I posted awhile back on the horror I felt to discover they’re replacing one of my local pizza places with a friggin’ Dunkin’ Donuts.

I’ve always had an aversion to chain restaurants, what with their tacky décor, middling-to-awful mountainous piles of cheap food, and cheesy drinks. Even in college when I didn’t know any better (and had yet to discover the wonders of foie gras and oysters), I groaned every time my roommates suggested a trip to T.G.I. Friday’s, where the lettuce always tasted suspiciously of bleach. Dunkin’ Donuts is an especially ugly, fast-multiplying chain with, as I recall, especially lousy baked goods.

However, I was out the other night with some PR types who swore that Dunkin’ had attained some kind of cult status on the West Coast, where they don’t have access to any, much like East Coast dwellers have a fascination with In n Out Burger (for much better reason, judging by my last trip to Vegas and our drunken drive-through to In n Out). Dunkin’ is making inroads onto the West Coast (beware!) via its affiliation with JetBlue. Maybe they’re onto something, I thought; maybe Dunkin’ wasn't so bad after all.

So this morning, hungry on my way into work, I decided to give ol’ Pink Stripes a chance. Dreaming of the raspberry filled, simple glazed and blueberry cakes at my old Krispy Kreme near my job at the Journal, I stepped on line like a good lemming. I ordered a Boston Cream and asked for a raspberry filled, which they didn’t have and, since the service SUCKS, didn’t alert me to the choice of a jelly-filled. So I walked out with the Boston Cream and a plain glazed.

Four hours later, I still feel sick and vaguely ashamed of myself for consuming that many calories for something so uninspiring. I’ll never go back.

My first taste of good doughnuts happened in high school. Our local bakery made raised doughnuts fresh every morning and before band practice (that’s right! Band practice! In small towns you gotta do everything or you don’t have a band, a football team, or a cheerleading squad. So I dutifully picked up my pom-poms and French horn. Deal.) my friends and I would swing by the bakery to pick up twists with the glaze still setting; they were delicious. We’d snarf them down in the car and I suppose we got our instruments all sticky this way.

After moving away for college, I never had a good doughnut again until I discovered Krispey Kreme. My particular branch was located in the ground floor of the World Trade Center, where I’d stop on my way to work across the street at World Financial One.

My favorite memory of this Krispy Kreme was from, oh, probably mid-2001. My boyfriend at the time was in medical school in Philly and he, his roommate and his roommate’s girlfriend came up to visit. They wanted to go to the top of the trade center and drink martinis at Windows on the World. After a day of touring around, they stopped by World Fi to pick me up and head over to the WTC and up the 110-plus floors to the top.

I hadn’t had lunch, and we sat and drank martinis at Windows on the World until late afternoon, ruing the fact that it was foggy and our view of Jersey was thus obscured. At some point I realized I wouldn’t be able to negotiate the subway (or the elevator, or standing, or breathing) unless I quickly obtained something to eat. Krispy Kreme called.

We got a dozen between the four of us and attacked them like a bunch of refugees. It is a decadent memory. Martinis and doughnuts for a late lunch. Interesting choice.

A few months later, my Krispey Kreme (along with everything else in a five-block radius) was obliterated.

I haven’t had Krispy Kreme since. Of course, there were far worse losses that day, but I bet no one has yet penned their ode to the lost KK. Consider it done.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

Bowls, and Bowls of Tequila

I'm back in the gray, drippy city of New York after my long weekend in Colorado, where the sun fries the corneas at least 300 days a year, magically stimulating endorphins and causing the sides of my mouth to twitch perpetually upward in something the locals out there call a "smile." I couldn't quite get used to it. So, what a relief to be back in a city that -- while so exciting and full of possibilities that it's nearly impossible to leave -- still manages to require the constant ingestion out of serotonin reuptake inhibitors. New York is like some bad drug that I really, really love, but I know I have to kick someday. Heroin, perhaps. (Not that I'm actually taking heroin; you gotta draw a line somewhere.) Guess that's why I've been trolling the Denver job boards ever since my return. Denver has a lot of openings for backhoe operators and exotic dancers, neither of which I have enough real skill to be. So, I'll keep looking.

But on to my trip report. Colorado apparently has the best snow it's had in 20 years, and after a few seasons of boarding I (and my lovely sister M.) were finally skilled enough to hit the back bowls of Vail. I've been to Vail before but always stuck to the front of the resort, and now I can't say enough about the back bowls (we went to Blue Sky Basin and China Bowl, and did a bunch of runs on the front of the mountain as well). Anyway, the back bowls basically aren't even runs; you're just kind of standing on top of an enormous mountain range that spreads out steep and wide in front of you as far as the eye can see, and you can go wherever the hell you want. And it's ALL POWDER! It's like wilderness boarding or something. I've never seen anything like it, especially on the glacially icy bumps that pass as east coast resorts (not that I'm not glad they're here, I am, I am, it's just -- it'll be hard to go back after boarding the best that Colorado has to offer).

After our first day at Vail, Mikki and I met up with a bunch of her (rich, single and apparently horny) coworkers who proceeded to pour free, high-quality tequila into my empty stomach for a few hours, licked salt off my neck and then *forced* me to stay up all night substance bingeing. This made for an interesting night that at one point left me and two of the said coworkers locked together in a supply closet at Vail (luckily, a staff member walked by and heard us pounding at the door); this is a long story. Anyway, I was sad to have missed the Black Table party but at least I got my fill of freeze booze etc. for the night.

Saturday I saw my friend K. at his awesome new loft in LoDo where he *forced* me to drain his wine rack all night (here I thought I was going to be all healthy in Colo). Sunday, I finally got to take it easy; K. and M. and I had lunch with K.'s dad -- appropriately for the Midwest, each entree was big enough to feed a pack of wolverines that just took hits off a gravity bong -- and then M. and I saw "Walk the Line." Monday was up to Copper, which I don't recommend unless you enjoy moguls, which, on a snowboard, I really don't.

Disheveled and still slightly drunk, I took the redeye back on Monday night and even managed to get asked out by another passenger, and not an unattractive one at that (although, really not my type). He and his friend even gave me and my board a lift in his town car from the airport. Now, that's a new one. But hey, I'm not gonna pass up a free ride in favor of the A train. Nosir.

Last night I even got a nice fat assignment to top off the trip. So, I better go write it. Adios.