No-Lube Tube

I find the time change utterly depressing. The sun sets at like 2:15 P.M. in New York and I can't tell you what a bummer it is to leave work and not get a little Vitamin D boost from the sun.

I was trudging to the subway this morning at 6 a.m. to go to the gym. The time-change depression was nearly unshakeable. I was even more crabby than usual because it was 6 a.m., I hadn't eaten, and all I had to look forward to was an hour of cardio and a pokey ride on the M14 bus.

The F train is screwed beyond all belief through the end of November, and there are signs all over our station alerting you that, in order to get to or from Manhattan between Friday and Sunday night, you will likely have to take some combination of every line in the friggin' city to do so. It's nearly driven me to madness already.

On one of the not-so-helpful MTA signs a rider had made a little drawing of a man's face saying "Not again!" Someone had written beside it: "Welcome to NYC transit, where we fuck you without Vaseline."

For some reason, it made me smile. We're all in this ass-fucking together, I guess.

Ten Things I Figured Out

It's time for Ten Things Tuesdays! Here are some things everyone else probably realized when they were 17 or so, when I was off nursing a six-pack in a cornfield somewhere. Oh well. It took me awhile, and I doubt I'm going to blow anyone's mind here, but they're still things I'm glad I learned before I turned into a bitter old cat lady.

Ten Things I Figured Out

1) Your life is pretty much just a sum of all the decisions, big and small, that you make. This may seem simple but I think it's something we don't think about often enough when we're running around doing thoughtless, potentially destructive, things. Do that for long enough and this will become clear to you when you look around and realize your life is a mess (and I'd know something about this).

2) Just becuase you want to fuck someone, doesn't mean they're a nice person who will treat you well. Ride the hormanal wave if you must, but don't think it says anything about someone' s heart.

3) I've never met a woman who didn't look better after putting on a pair of heels. Believe in the power of the heels.

4) If you're spending a thousand bucks on a handbag, you need to have an ever-so-slightly broader worldview. Give some thought to the fact that women in Africa are selling their children into slave labor for 20 bucks a year. Put down the credit card and go volunteer somewhere.

5) I don't believe much of the religious dogma I heard repeatedly as a child. After study and contemplation as an adult, I believe fewer things. But I believe in them more deeply because I was able to satisfy intellectual questions that I had.

6) Embrace where you're from. I grew up in between a haystack and a chicken coop, more or less, and that -- and the fact that I moved away from it -- are part of what makes me who I am. I didn't go to Harvard, I don't come from great wealth or poverty, and I don't have a great story. But I make of it what it is in the narrative of my life.

7) Eventually, you become responsible for the pains inflicted on you in childhood and adolescence, even if they weren't your fault. If you were mistreated or raped or ignored or whatever, that sucks, and it hurts, and it changes who you are. But eventually if you want to be happy, you have to forgive for your own happiness -- not because someone else necessarily deserves it.

8) Your parents probably didn't really know what they were doing. They were just muddling along like everyone else, so cut them a little slack. It's nice to learn this in retrospect, although I think it would have served me better when I was a teenager.

9) If you're in the dumps, quit drinking, go to the gym, put on your makeup and actual clothes (boxer shorts, bathrobes don't count), see a shrink, and then wait for awhile. If you still don't feel better, it's time to get a prescription written.

10) You don't have to get married or have babies to be happy. REALLY. I promise.

What's on your list?

(Please don't say: "That Had to Move was not a philosophy major.")

Rethinking My Identity

It's been weird and a little depressing re-thinking my professional identity since I quit being a journalist and started being a whatever-I-am-now: an itinerant writer/editor/researcher/fact-checker/media consultant/PR whore. I may as well describe myself as a "professional juggler," but then people might get the wrong idea (especially when I'm wearing my red clown nose). The PR whore thing is a new gig that might be coming down the line. Basically, someone said, "We'll pay you triple what you're making now!" and I said, "Sweet, that should bump me right above minimum wage, count me in!"

Trained to be inscrutable and completely objective during J-school, in my younger and more idealistic days I was convinced PR people were hacks at best, liars at worst, but above all useless. A few years out of school, having brushed shoulders and gotten pitched stories or sources by PR people who knew what they were doing, I realized that PR professionals did have a useful place in media. Sure, there are still stinkers. But there ARE good ones, and some of the best ones have a background in journalism. I don't think the PR that I am contemplating doing will really interfere in any harmful way with where my writing is going, so I think it's ok.

But anyway, the point is, in order to justify possibly taking a position doing a little bit of corporate PR on the side, I had to admit to myself that my days as a professional journalist -- which I was for eight years or so -- are effectively over. I'm running my own small business, and if someone offers to dump a wheelbarrow-full of money into my lap in exchange for a little work, it's in my best interest to take them up on it. After all, someday I aspire to owning more than a laptop and a violin, which are pretty much my only wordly posessions worth more than fifty bucks. Plus, I've found that I've been OK at most of the jobs that have come my way in the two years I've been freelancing, and it's been interesting to try out different facets in the wide world of media. I admire newspaper people more than I can say, but I just didn't have enough patience to stick around making crap wages and working horrible hours for peanuts for 10 years until I could move my way up the ladder to a job I really loved.

SO ANYWAY, this is I was thinking about it the other night when I went out to dinner with my friend whom from now on we shall call Roger.

Roger hates his job and has been batting around the idea of writing a book for pretty much forever. It's getting to the point where I'm ready to offer to write the first friggin' chapter FOR him just to get him started so I can quit hearing him moan about how he'd be such a great author but isn't quite sure what he wants his characters to DO. But actually, I'd never do that because as long as Roger has something to crab about, it means he'll take me out for nice dinners during which he'll bemoan the emptiness of his life.

Wednesday Roger took me to Otto* and I think we actually had something of a "book breakthrough" moment. I suggested a certain plot device on which he could hang his story, and it seemed to light a fire under his butt to actually get crackin'. Of course, we'll see if that happens -- if you hear me talking again in a month about how Roger took me out for oysters, that means he's probably still lollygagging.

"I better be at the top of the list in the acknowledgments page!" I said as he stared off into space, plotting out the next moves for his book's main character.

"Oh, dont' worry, I'll put you right at the top," he promised.

Which is when it occurred to me how I should mollify my ego now that I am no longer a "professional journalist." If you look me up on Amazon's A9 search, I already turn up in a few acknowledgment pages (and in several dry financial bibliographies, but let's not think about that right now).

And that is why, from now on, I am going to think of my identity as: "Muse."

*The olive-oil gelato with sea salt really IS life-changing. Seriously. I didn't believe it either. Neither did Roger. But despite his horrendous intolerance to lactose, he scarfed down nearly a whole bowl anyway. There were consequences to pay. But he doesn't regret it.

Todd, a Stand-Up Guy

My good friend Todd from college has been doing stand-up comedy in L.A. for a number of years now. In the beginning he'd send me little snippets on CDs so I could hear how his shows went down. He's gotten better and better through tons of practice (and no small amount of humiliation, to hear him tell it). You can catch part of one of his shows here. I think you'll like it.

Ten Things Tuesdays: War Paint

Life can be hell, but it's easier when you look pretty -- or at least as pretty as you can. Take today for instance.

I was in a cab heading to work from the gym, as I was late for an interview. My cabbie was a very nice Haitian fellow whose name was, unsurpringly, Jean. This is unsurprising because one time someone -- who seemed to have some authority on the matter -- told me that every male in Haiti is named Jean. I guess he was right.

Jean was in a big hurry to get me to work. In order to do so, he decided to take a wrong turn on to a one-way street. I screamed and waved my arms in the back seat, "No, no, no, this is a one-way street, TURN AROUND!" as we nearly had a head-on collision with another cab. Stressful, right?

But boy did I feel better that at least if I died, the EMTs who hauled me away would mourn that such a put-together lady died tragically young. I egotistically imagined the falsely fawning adjectives the tabloids would indubitably attach to my name. Had I left home looking my worst, I'd probably be no more than blotter ink in the back of the paper. And screw that! If I die in this city, my mug BETTER be splashed all over the front pages of the Daily News the next day.

So today I am going to expose to you my embarassing, soft, white underbelly. I am going to share with you the ten beauty products/habits/helpers without which I would not be myself. I am scared that now that you have this list, you will come to my house and steal these things, and I will melt and my feet will roll up under my couch or something.

I would like to pre-emptively defend myself by saying that although I may sound like some icky Long Island fake-nail makeup junkie, I am not. I spend less than five minutes in the morning "putting on my face," as my mother calls it. (See? SEE why I have issues? My face is already there!)

1) MASCARA. Thanks to my redhead status, I have very light strawberry blonde lashes, and my eyes virtually disappear unless my eyelashes are coated in a nice layer of black goo. I'm no Tammy Faye, but I will NOT leave home without mascara. I even put it on when I go camping -- secretly, in my tent. I'm neurotic about my mascara, but I also know that this particular mental tic can be traced directly to a specific adolescent trauma. When I was in eighth grade a member of my family -- who shall remain nameless -- took a hard look at me and said, "Isn't it about time you started wearing mascara?" Of course, he was right. I do look better with mascara. And you will have to pry the tube out of my gnarly, dead claw before I stop using it.

2) Eyebrow pencil. Thanks again to my bloodnut (which is what Australians call redheads), I also have strawberry blonde eyebrows. You can't see them unless I give them a little oomph with a pencil. Without it, I look as though someone shaved my brows off in a cruel sorority prank. Because I never want anyone to think I'm a sorority girl, I make sure to help out my eyebrows every day.

3) Eyelash curler. I'm no dog, but my sister won the brunt of the genetic lottery in our family. She punched her way out of the womb with perfectly formed muscles (my mom attests to this) and has never had to do a thing in her life to maintain them; this irks me to NO END, since I am the athletic one in the family and have to work my ass off at it. She dodged the family curse of child-bearing hips and cellulite. As a little extra frosting on her pretty pretty princess cake, she also got eyelashes so long, curly and thick they threaten to tangle up in her bangs. In order to stave off jealousy that might drive me to rip them off her face, I use an eyelash curler. It gives me the approximation of her eyelashes (only after, of course, I've gooped on a few coats of mascara).

4) Stairmaster/treadmill/eliptical machine/gym. OK, this isn't something that you spackle onto your face, but I consider a consistent workout schedule the most important thing you can do to make yourself less ugly. Without it, I'd likely be 20 pounds overweight, bloated, acne-ridden, and worst of all, totally depressed. That would lead me to hit the bottle, become even more depressed (and fat!) and the cycle would just continue. I shudder to think what my life would be like without the mood-elevating effects of exercise.

5) Sleeping pills. My favorite men to ensnare in my "web of obsession" are those who have an Ambien prescription -- one they like to share, that is. In fact, I think that will be one of things I'll require of my next boyfriend. I mean, I can't seem to find anyone who can sexually fulfill me, commit to me, or even AMUSE me for gosh sakes, so AT LEAST have the courtesy to PUT ME TO SLEEP. Ambien is too darn expensive under my insurance plan, and I fear that sooner or later my stopgap Tylenol PM is not gonna cut it. You see, I have periodic bouts of insomnia, and I will not tolerate them. I just won't. Because then what happens is I stay up drinking Scotch until 4 in the morning, I can't make the a.m. gym run, my skin looks like crap, and I'm crabby to boot. Mommy's gotta have her pills.

6) Origin's Clear Improvement Charcoal Mask. I used to have this boyfriend who did something really annoying. He had huge windows in his bedroom. I'd wake up on a lazy Saturday, the room flooded in light. He'd look at me lovingly as I lay facing him, and move his hand toward my face. "Ooooh, here, just let me get that...." he'd say before he'd turn his fingers into a vile set of pincers and squeeze a blackhead out of the top of my nose. This infuriated me to no end, and it hurt like hell. All I wanted was a little nookie and instead I got an unwanted, excrutiating facial. Something had to be done, and that something was Origin's Clear Improvement charcoal mask. I don't care if you have a gallon of West Texas crude stuck in your pores, this stuff will mop it up like a Bounty paper towel taking on blue stuff.

7) Shrimp cocktail. Eat it for dinner instead of a burrito or three take-out boxes of Indian food, which should be saved for hangover days. It's tasty and zingy, and it helps you stay thin.

8) Aveda Confixor hair gel and Aveda Brilliant pomade. This stuff smells AMAZING. As for how it works, here's my testimony: the other day, I went to the gym, did an hour of cardio, and sweated like a hog. A hog, I tell you. Afterward I decided not to wash my hair because I was just going to go home, get up in the morning, and go to the gym again. I took my ponytail out, shook out my hair, ran my fingers through it, and my hair still looked, dare I say it, pretty good. I can't ask much more than that of my products.

9) Neutrogena Healthy Skin Eye Cream. Start using it in your 20s. Start using it before you have to call in the heavy-duty $200 eye cream with crushed pearls and whale semen in it. Trust me.

10) Coty Airspun Powder. This stuff is six bucks for a tub that's big enough to last you, like, a year. And yet for some reason, they still put it BEHIND THE COUNTER at Duane Reade -- do they think people are going to snort it, or are they just doing it to add one more hassle to my day? Yeah, screw you, I buy all my make-up at a drugstore. And it works just fine. Look at my porcelain complexion!

That's how I try to stay acceptable looking. The end.

Fish and Broccoli Reminds Me of You

I just returned from a business trip to Charlotte. I didn't get to see much of Charlotte since it was a quick trip, and it was foggy the one time we drove anywhere. I can't tell you much about Charlotte except that it is the nation's second banking capitol, that it has a nice airport with rocking chairs, and that the U.S. Airways terminal smells like ketchup and cigarettes.

The company I was consulting for got me a car to drive me home from LaGuardia. It was so good to be home; I was exhausted from two long days of meetings and smiling and trying fake my way through talking about economic policy with a bunch of Congressmen and financial executives. I wonder if they could tell I'm probably poor enough to qualify for some of their low-income housing loans. I think I was the only person in the room without a business degree from Wharton or Harvard, but luckily there's always a few people around who are dying to talk anything but shop. I provide levity, or something. Jester-consultant.

ANYWAY, as the car drove me home, each block I passed in Brooklyn reminded me of someone who's touched my life. My friend Jason lives there, and Carl's across the street. My friend Keith lives over there; gosh, that was a really nice date he took me out on last year, he really knows how to do it right. Ah, there's where W. and I used to have drinks, and here's where me and my ex ran into that tiny little puppy one time and I watched him cuddle it in his big arms. And I felt really glad to be in Brooklyn.

I guess being gone for two stupid days really juiced up my nostalgia factor, and at lunch today I had a memory that went much farther back. For lunch I got some salmon and broccoli to try to help my body recover from the travel-related booze and food abuse I heaped on it in the last few days. It reminded me of something from my childhood.

My mom loves to tell a story about how my sister, when she was maybe 4 of 5, went to a birthday party. Somebody asked the kids what their favorite food was and everyone was shouting out, "Pizza! Hamburgers! Ice cream!" etc. etc. When the chorus stopped, everyone heard my sister meekly say, "Fish and broccoli...." and they all laughed at her. She misheard the question and thought they asked what everyone had for dinner the night before. I think she started crying, and later my dad accidentally washed the goldfish she got at the party down the garbage disposal. More crying. She was always a softie, and it always made me worry about her. Still does.

Today I wrote her an email, saying "Fish and broccoli reminds me of you."

I'm glad we're close enough that she'll know what I mean.

A Message From the GOP?

This morning after the gym I took a cab up 10th Avenue to work because I was running late. Somewhere in the 30s I saw a neon sign beaming forth from a large plate-glass window. The letters "T" and "R" were burned out. It said:

"SUPPORT OUR OOPS."

Support our troops, I will, but I cannot support your oops, Bush.

Ten Things Tuesdays: Live Music Experiences

It's that time again, for Ten Things Tuesdays.

This suggestion came from a friend who once intentionally smashed himself in the face with a boot (though that's his story to tell), so if you have a problem with the content, you can take it up with HIM. Just look for the guy with the crooked beak.

I was going to do Ten Concerts, but to be honest, when I started thinking about music that I have seen performed live, my mountaintop experiences (or at least, interesting ones) were not limited to what could strictly be called concerts. So I'm going to take a little blogetic license here. Some of this is going to be horrifically embarassing to admit, so please stifle your guffaws and wait for my explanation about how a man in a white cowboy hat and ball-hugging jeans managed to break my top ten. Also, I apologize for the length. I guess I rambled a bit.

And now I give you, in no particular order (though more embarassing entries MAY be found lower on the page):

Ten Live Music Experiences.

1) The Flaming Lips, Hammerstein Ballroom, September 24, 2006
I've written about this before, so you can click here if you want the full experience. Suffice it to say that the moment when the key shift in "Do You Realize" pushed its way through the crowd along with a flurry of confetti shot out of canons, balloons the size of hippos and a daybreak of floodlights into the audience, is one that I'll never forget.

2) Dolly Parton, Irving Plaza, July 10, 2002
My friend Kevin -- who once won the "Miss Hendrix" drag prize at his small private college in Arkansas -- insisted that I attend this show. He's been a Dolly fan forever; I was puzzled at the appeal and knew little beyond "Nine to 5" and the excellent album of fragile classic bluegrass "Little Sparrow." But because Kevin once helped me move all my earthly possessions into a second-floor storage unit in the bowels of Brooklyn using not an elevator but a LADDER, I agreed to go. And am I ever glad I did. Dolly is the consummate performer -- the depth of her musical treasure chest (pun! pun!) was beyond what I could have imagined, her storytelling is unparalleled, and she held what was most likely a bitter, wrung-out crowd of New Yorkers in the palm of her slim-wristed hand. There were hipsters and middle-aged suburban fans and the drag queens were out in full force. Her ability to pull them all into her world for two hours was unlike anything I've ever seen -- she talked about her daddy and Jesus and growin' up in dirty rags and everyone ate it up without nary a shred of irony. Verily, it felt like a religious experience.

3) Indigenous, Shine, May 24, 2000
Indigenous, for those not in the know, is a group of siblings from an Indian reservation in South Dakota that play (although that word seems a heinous underestimation) the blues. As my favorite journalism professor once described them, they are "Red people who play black music for white folks." And really, that's what they do, considering that they primarily perform in the Midwest, where diversity is more or less nil. During college, I'd frequently go see them at the Zoo Bar in Lincoln, where they threatened to blow the doors off the place. And when I heard they were coming to New York, I knew I HAD to see them. I begged my friends (not that I had many, having only lived here a few months) to go but no one wanted to go with me -- they wanted little to do with a band from South Dakota, my home state. So I went alone. When I got there I met a roving group of fans who follow them around the country. One of them was a skinny, long-haired, middle-aged hippie with a dangling fish earring. He shared his flask with me all night and I danced with abandon. Mato, the lead singer and guitarist, plays in a way that you can feel in your guts. It was an amazing taste of home and powerful music at a time I was feeling very, very low thanks to the fact that the love of my life had recently turned very, very gay.

4) Rigoletto, Metropolitan Opera House, New York, March 12, 2004
As I said, not all of my great live music experiernces have been concerts, per se. Rigoletto at the Met was the first opera I ever attended, and it was a hell of a way to start. It's kind of like starting to climb in Yosemite, or starting to snowboard in Vail (both of which I did, for the record). Anyway, back then I was still working at a newspaper. My boss had very recently, via a big promotion, become NOT my boss. He knew that I was interested in seeing an opera, and he had season tickets. He asked me to accompany him, forked over a 200-dollar orchestra seat ticket, and met me in his tux. I wore a floor-length, backless, black dress and fishnets, and we drank expensive champagne before the show. The Opera House is one of my favorite spaces in New York, and I drank in every inch of it and the people in it. I was blown away by the space, the sets, the precision of the orchestra, the power of the opera singers, and the entire experience. The opera, which I have seen quite a few times since, always reminds me of the main reason I love to live in New York -- it is full of amazing people doing amazing things at a level that's just not possible most anywhere else. Nothing ever happened between me and my ex-boss, and I was never quite sure why he took me to the opera. My best guess is that It is pretty amazing to take people to their first opera. Last year I took my parents to their first opera -- Carmen at the Met. And they were blown away, too. It was an incredible experience to share, to see the excitement other music lovers feel, especially if you have some idea of what classical music requires of the people who perform it (and being a 12-year veteran of violin lessons and orchestra, I do). If you've never been to the opera, make it one thing you do while you have a chance. Plus, you will TOTALLY get laid if you bring a date.

5) Yonder Mountain String Band, State Bridge Lodge, Colorado, July 15, 2001
During the summer of 2001, I was dating a man in Colorado. A JEWISH DOCTOR. God, I bet Jewish mothers all over America were incensed that I was keeping him from dating someone in the tribe (namely, their daughters). But anyway. That summer I was out there visiting. One day we went on a long hike, made love near a stream on a mountain, and afterward met a bunch of friends at the State Bridge Lodge on the Colorado. State Bridge, near Steamboat, is an outdoor music venue next to an old log-cabiny thing where you can get stout Colorado beers and burgers and the like. YMSB is kind of a crazy hippy speed-bluegrass band that can do nothing but make you smile. Partly because my brother plays the banjo (which I'll get to later), but also just because it's incredibly good-natured and intricate, I have a particular affection for bluegrass. It was the perfect day under the sun and sky and mountains, with someone I loved without question and was always happy to have next to me, drinking good beer and dancing with friends. It's a fantastic memory. Four days later I was in New York. It was my birthday. I went to see YMSB play at the Wetlands in New York. There were fewer hippies dancing around in stupid patchwork pants, but probably just as much weed. I remembered my time in Colorado, and smiled.

6) My brother (on banjo), Trail Ridge Retirement Community, South Dakota, May 2005
I come from a fairly musically inclined family. I started taking piano lessons at 5 and continued through age 17. I started taking violin lessons at 7 and continued taking lessons, or playing in community or college orchestras, through age 20. My sister still plays violin in a symphony in Colorado. My brother was in the marching band at the University of Nebraska (on trombone) and later in college took up the banjo. He got quite good and started his own bluegrass band. A few weeks after his baby was born, we were all home in South Dakota to visit my parents. We made a stop one day at my grandmother's retirement community. We had promised them a family concert. My brother told a few vignettes about each piece he played. He sang in a high-lonesome voice that I never knew he had. The residents of this place were all looked kind of beatific as he sang and played. The buttons of my grandmother's cardigan nearly popped with pride. It was a touching family moment, I guess.

7) Garth Brooks, the Iowa State Fair, 1991
Yup. Here's where it starts to get embarassing. Growing up, I listened to: 1) 70s classic rock 2) the Humpty Dance 3) power ballads and 4) country music. What do you WANT? I lived in the middle of a corn field in South Dakota. I had no options. There was none of this mysterious "Interweb" that we know about today to enlighten me to Morrisey or The Cure or what have you. There was no alternative radio. For fuck's sake, we didn't even have MTV, which was banned by our local cable provider. Faster Pussycat was as crazy as it got. Garth Brooks' "No Fences" was the first CD I ever bought for the first CD "boom box" I ever owned. And come on. It was catchy. Right? Anyway, we listened to this shit nonstop and in 1991, as high school sophomores/juniors, for some reason our parents let our 15-year-old selves drive a state away to go see him at the Iowa State Fair. Say what you will about him, but he was at the top of his game. No Fences had just come out. He was on fire. And he put on a great show. We got to see someone who at the time was kind of like our Beatles. We screamed and went hysterical and jumped up and down and pushed our sweaty, teased bangs off our foreheads as we wailed for more. It was fucking great.

8) 311, The Ranch Bowl, Omaha, winter break,1994
By college, I had alternative radio. I had heard of the Pixies. And 311, well, they were still a Nebraska band -- not an "L.A. band." "Music" had just started to take off and they were on the beginning of a groundswell, but they were still a band I used to see in the student union for three bucks, and Peanut's sister was still in my aerobics class. In short, they were not yet lame. During that Christmas break, my friend Marie and I went to see them at The Ranch Bowl, an Omaha venue that is a bowling alley upstairs and a music venue downstairs. It was bone-cracking cold outside. The kind of cold that makes your snot freeze, which is not something you understand unless you live in one of the Dakotas, or Maine. The Bowl was packed wall to wall. I am not a moshing kind of girl, hell, more than 10 years later I am still, occasionally, forced to shop at Ann Taylor Loft. But Marie and I found ourselves in an honest to goodness mosh pit, getting joyously and surprisingly smacked around and crowd surfing -- which is almost as amazing a feeling as attending an opera in black tie. Wait...moreso. Anyway, at some point Marie got dropped during a crowd surf and was getting trampled on the floor. I reached down, grabbed a handful of her hair, and yanked her to safety. I thought she might bust my lip, but instead, she hugged me and said "Holy shit, thank you!" We went outside and smoked a cigarette, and the steamy sweat was rising in a mist off people's bodies in the frozen parking lot, and turning into clouds.

9) Ryan Adams (and secret performance by Elton John) Irving Plaza, Oct. 3, 2001
Ryan Adams is kind of a dick to his audiences. So as much as I like his music, he's not really the reason I loved this concert so much. I've been an unashamed fan of Elton John for years. How can you beat "I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues"? OK, but back to the matter at hand -- I was planning to attend this concert. And then a (Canadian) coworker told me that Elton John might make a guest appearance. How did he know? His best friend from high schools' younger brother is Elton John's lover. And he tipped him off. Still, I couldn't expect anything. But halfway through the show, EJ walked on, played the piano, and sang his ass off for three pieces. People started jumping around and screaming, and it was a great moment. And I saw Elton John for fifteen bucks. At Irving Plaza. Holy shit.

10) Wilco, Radio City Music Hall, Oct. 6, 2004
In the fall of 2004, I saw a show by what is probably my favorite band of all time, Wilco. I loved them when they were twangy simple alt-country, when Jeff Tweedy was expected to go nowhere, when they went to experimental noise, when they sang lyrics that made me believe they foresaw everything that happened on 9/11. They've been with me for years. What made this show memorable was, well, I guess...weed. I attended the show with a friend a mutual friend who is a music critic. He is, or at least was, also a huge fan of weed. He had a steady supply of government weed from California, and we smoked some before the show. It resulted in all the great things weed does -- an opening of the mind, a happy fuzzy feeling -- but none of the bad things (unignorable munchies, paranoia, the need to have sex RIGHT NOW). I sat in the balcony in a chair, which would normally annoy me. But I just sat back, watched the weirdo psychadelic images behind the band on the screen, didn't worry about anything, and enjoyed my favorite band.

Bzzzt

Perhaps this story is illustrative about why New Yorkers should never leave their urban environs. Or maybe it's illustrative as to why we should. You tell me.

This weekend I went away on a little retreat from the city, upstate near New Paltz. It was time to gain a little perspective on the unnecessarily growing ball of fury that was crowding my chest space, in part thanks to spending ten consecutive weeks in NYC. I tend to get a little antsy and pissy if I don't get away every now and again, and I was overdue. So I tallied forth from the city on Friday night for a weekend of long runs on country roads, noshing on organic veg, campfires, nature, and talking about the Big Stuff with some friends.

This barn is one of the first things I saw on the first morning upstate. I wondered to myself: What is behind that barn? I explored, and this guy is what I found. I mean, look at that face! What are you going to do but run over and try to attach your palm to the forehead of this creature?

Unfortunately, in my haste to be at one with nature and beasts of burden and all that, I failed to see the sign tacked to the sign of the barn that screamed: "BEWARE: ELECTRIC FENCE!" I went over to throw my arms about this horse's neck, and instead of receiving a warm nuzzle and whinney, I received a really eye-opening electric shock that threw my arm off the fence and me reeling backwards. Kind of like trying to date in the city, or something.

Anyway, after I recovered I realized that if I studiously avoided the fence, the horses (there were three) and I could still make friends. Roaming around the farm, I found a group of quacking ducks, a rooster house, and hen house with weird exotic birds -- not the heavy-breasted Tyson robochickens we all think of when we think of white meat. I found a stream with a windmill, and this huge old cemetery next door, which was a lovely and quiet place to walk at sunrise and reflect.

The ball of fury disipated over the weekend and thankfully I'm feeling much more sane today than I was a couple weeks ago. Was it the organic veg, my new friend Mr. Horse, or a weekend in nature with good people? The answer became clear on the bus on the way home.

"So, how does getting shocked by an electric fence make you *feel*?" one of my friends asked.

And I answered truthfully: "Less bipolar."

A beat, and then we laughed. We looked out the window as the colorful trees gave way to overpasses and warehouses, and we steeled ourselves for the week to come.

Blowing Out of Town

Hi kids. Sorry for the scant posts as of late. I'm leaving town today to go upstate for the weekend. I'm going to crunch my feet in some leaves, stand near a fire and roast some marshmallows, go for a run on a country road, and enjoy being outdoors. I haven't been outside the city since early August so I'm dying for a little break. I'll holler at ya when I get back. Have a great weekend! Fall in NYC has never been lovlier than it is this year.

Feasting in Red Hook

My friend Mike wrote today about our recent trip to the Red Hook ballfields. As someone who will put nearly anything in my mouth (c'mon people, keep your dirty jokes to yourself), it was fun to go on a food adventure with a friend who's up for anything and truly appreciates finding food gems. If there's one guy in the city who knows ethnic food, it's him, given that he's on a one-man mission to trek to the most far-flung corners of the boroughs in search of the best foods you've never heard of. Anyway, go read his report -- you'll soon glean why he's a great food writer, and I just make cheap sex jokes.

Ten Things Tuesdays

I'm starting a new little feature here on Had to Move called "Ten Things Tuesdays." I'm not saying it will last longer than a week or two, because hey, I lack 1) original ideas and 2) motivation. I think memes are, for the most part, lame, and I don't expect this one to take off like a rocket or up my "circulation" -- in fact, my rambling musings may even DRIVE READERS AWAY.

If there's a "Ten Things" list you'd like to see me write -- 10 foods Had to Move finds DELICIOUS, 10 men Had to Move regrets kissing, 10 of Had to Move's most embarassing moments -- I direct you to the comments section or my email address in the profile above.

And without further ado, here is my inaugural "Ten Things Tuesday" list:

Ten Things That Should Be Banned, Primarily Due to Overexposure

1) James Blunt. Sir, you sound like a chipmunk. How is it possible that you have succeeded where men far better than you, men whose testicles have dropped, have failed? If you came to my house, set up your guitar beneath my window, and squeakily serenaded me with the repetitive song "You're Beautiful," I'd rummage around until I found my shotgun, point it at your stupid face, and be glad my Dad taught me good aim. This morning at the gym I was aurally assaulted by your new video, "Goodbye, My Lover," while flipping thorugh the channels. As if your ear-splitting warble, which causes canines to howl, isn't bad enough, your lyrics have somehow devolved even further -- "It may be over but it won't stop there! I am here for you if you'd only care! You touched my heart and you touched my soul. You changed my life and all my goals!" Holy shit, did you write that in JuCo Poetry 110?

2) The phrase "That's how I roll." Please. Anyone who says this probably isn't "rolling" anywhere. They might be "shuffling awkwardly in pleated Dockers," but I have no doubt they are not "rolling." It's the most overused phrase since:

3) "I think I threw up a little bit in my mouth." I remember like three years ago when some New York blogger, who shall go unnamed, first unleashed this phrase on the unsuspecting masses. OK, kind of original. The "tastemakers" must have been watching because it made it into common vernacular in the space of two weeks -- I even heard it used on a network sitcom. Now we have people throwing up in their noses, people throwing up in their throats, people choking back their vomit. I'm sick of it. It's overused. Quit saying it. Or I might throw up a little bit in my mouth.

4) The use of "discuss." Often used snarkily in magazines such as "Entertainment Weekly" or, naturally, on blogs, this phrase as a shorthand to "get people talking" is overused. Example: "James Blunt: Chipmunk, or human? Discuss." Furthermore, if you are writing an opinion article on a topic, YOU are supposed to be the one doing the discussing. So quit telling me to.

5) Leggings. The other day I was walking down 40th Street and I saw a model. How did I know she was a model? Five foot ten, 115 pounds soaking wet, resembling an alien giraffe and possessing no discernible pores. She was wearing a huge, dumpy sweater belted over a pair of ankle-length black leggings. Why should leggings be banned? Because when I had the good fortune to gaze upon this ethereal creature, instead of thinking, "I have had a vision of an angel!" I thought "That girl forgot to put on her pants." If leggings can ruin a model, there is no question that the general populace should give these travesties wide berth.

6) Skinny jeans. The last time I wore skinny jeans, I was 15. I even peg-rolled. I was five-foot seven and weighed about 115 pounds -- which, dear readers, is a good 20 lbs than I'm carrying now (all lean muscle and overflowing bra cups, naturally) -- and I STILL looked fat. It gives most women the vague shape of a canoe -- skinny at the very tips, but wide and solid in the middle. I have yet to see anyone who looks good in these, on whom these are FLATTERING. When the best you can say about a certain style is that someone is able to "pull it off," it is not something that should be mass marketed. Go away skinny jeans.

7) Bug sunglasses. If I see one more pair of these stupid oversized sunglasses, I am going to smash them deep into the face of the wearer. Consider yourself warned. Are you aware that fashion marketers are actually PLAYING A JOKE ON YOU? They're seeing how far they can push the stupidity. They want to know just how ugly something has to be before the lemmings will boycott it. I have a small head and spent my whole life avoiding sunglasses because I didn't want to walk around looking like a less-hairy version of The Fly. I guess I shouldn't have worried -- I would have been fashion-forward.

8) Profiteroles. The next pastry chef who puts profiteroles on the menu should be disbarred (or whatever they do to chefs -- discaked?). Hey, I like a cream puff as much as the next guy, but you have two problems: 1) these are ubiqutous in New York, and in danger of going the way of the much-reviled flourless chocolate cake and 2) are unable to be mass-marketed because no one outside New York knows how to pronounce "profiteroles."

9) Misleading birth control ads. If I see one more ad promising me a pill, a patch, or a ring that will magically prevent acne, bloating, cramps, weight gain, AND babies, I am going to SCREAM (but maybe that's just because I have PMS). I've tried them all. And I know for a fact that the SECOND a drop of artificial hormones hits my bloodstream, I automatically gain 20 pounds, have violent mood swings, and want to eat everything in sight (including the heads of people who piss me off). So enough with images of happycrappy flowers and giggling book clubs and thin ladies boasting of light periods. I can't take the lies anymore.

10) Lindsay Lohan. LiLo, I am SO SICK OF YOU. You are the most overexposed, least interesting actress to ever blow a rail. You're an ok looking gal, but I fail to understand the fuss. You're not even a redhead anymore, which has made me lose all respect for you (and, after "Mean Girls," I actually had some). You have nothing to say (of course, who does when they're 20?). You have nothing but contempt for your fans. I don't give a shit what loser you're dating. Can we please find someone new for the gossip pages?

They Like Me. They Really, Really Like Me!

I had a nice weekend. Saturday, I went for a long run and then to the Red Hook ballfields with my food blogger buddy Mike to graze on homemade Latin American delicacies such as pupusas, tamales, ceviche and sausages (I highly recommend a trip if you haven't been -- every Saturday May through October). Saturday night I hung out with my friend Kevin and his Basset hound, Doo. We drank Prosecco and watched an old Bette Davis movie, "Now, Voyager." This morning I went to church, where we sang nice songs and my pastor reminded me that God loves me even when I swear or am depressed or feel cheated or am, in general, a screwed up fucktard (which, typically, I am). I can pretend that I'm not, Big Guy, but both you and I know it, so there's no reason to lie. I'm trying though, I promise.

And yet, I still felt a little lonely. I've been feeling blue lately. I'm dealing with some family stuff that is grating on me. And there's some other stuff going on, too -- stuff that I probably won't want to bitch about for another six months or so, until it's really had time to marinate into a super-potent hate-o-rade. It's also the nature of things when you're ever-so-manic-depressive: I was bordering on super-happy for about a month. So it's not entirely surprising that my mood pendulum has swung back in the direction of "stay the fuck away from me/black hole."

Tonight, though, I felt a touch of my fellow man's kindness (or at least its unwarranted praise) when I opened my email and found this message from out of the blue (or, from Arkansas, as it were):

"Where did you go? I found your blog last year... I got a hit on one of your entries (the possible cancer post) and have been hooked ever since. I sent the address to all my friends; you now have fans spread from Arkansas to Rhode Island. One friend in Providence told me that when she couldn't find you, she wept. I myself just want to fly to NY so I can stand in the street and cry, "Where are you?" We are heartbroken."

Now, seriously. That is touching! I'm flattered.

So to my weeping, searching readers from from Arkansas to Rhode Island, here I am. You have me back. But I gotta tell you: let's not be so melodramatic. I do find the image of weeping, searching strangers publicly mourning my loss and crying my name out in the streets, amusing. Especially since the REAL people I know -- men I have recently dated, for instance -- are more likely to weep when they DO see me, shortly before high-tailing it in the opposite direction. They only WISH they couldn't find me on the streets of New York -- and that's why they hide behind poles on the F train.

But nevertheless, hey, I'm glad YOU missed me. And welcome back.

If anyone else feels like plumping my ego, email me at the little address you'll find on my profile. Haters, leave me alone -- I'm just not in the mood right now.

Somehow, I Don't Think We Just Coined a New Phrase

Conversation:

Me: I swear, I haven't had sex in so long I have blue balls. I'm like a 15-year-old boy at a cheerleading convention.
Friend: with a wicked gleam in his eye: You don't have blue balls, you have a BLUTERUS.
Me: Um, more appropriately, wouldn't I have a Blitoris?
Friend: No. A Blitoris sounds like some kind of dinosaur. You definitely have a bluterus.
Me: A bluterus it is, then. I'd hate to make my ladyflower sound like some sort of carnivorous, toothy monster.

Maybe you had to be there. We thought we were HILARIOUS.

A Secret Weapon in the Battle of the Panties

“Panties drop, from hood to hood, block to block…” Coolio, ‘1,2,3,4 Sumpin’ New’, 1995.

Sure, Coolio, it was easy for you to make those panties drop. What lady’s panties could withstand the downward gravitational pull of your heavy-lidded brown eyes, your now-spent millions, the crazy appeal of your upstanding dreads? But you know, Coolio, it’s not so simple for everyone else. What if the fine men of New York are having a hard time making panties drop? They have no rap-tastic stylings with which to woo the ladies. What is to become of them?

Had to Move is here to help. Men of New York, I have a new secret weapon for you. It will magnify your game. It will assure your advantage in the battle of the panties. It is called Milk & Honey.

Last night I was walking to my friend Eric’s house after a reading given by our friend Will. Eric had promised me a homemade grilled cheese; we were both sorely in need of something to soak up the beers sloshing around in our empty bellies. On Eldridge Street on the way home, we bumped into a chap named Sam wearing a vest and a hairdo that was some kind of hybrid between a mullet and a Mohawk. A mulhawk if you will. Eric and Sam exchanged greetings, and eventually I inquired as to how they knew each other. Eric said, oh, Sam is a waiter at this bar that I go to all the time. Which bar? Milk & Honey. And we were standing right outside.

Of course, I had heard about Milk & Honey. You have to have a reservation to go. The phone number is secret. The door doesn’t even open from the outside – you have to be buzzed in. I always thought it sounded pretentious and lame. But Sam seemed really cool so I suggested we pop in. Sam buzzed us in since we didn’t have a reservation. Apparently, Eric has passed more than a few nights there with ladyfriends, and I was soon about to see why.

The first thing that happens at M&H is they inquire as to your drink preferences and suggest an appropriate cocktail from the bar. Then someone drops by your table with a complimentary dish – ours was a plate with two gorgeous strawberries on a soft little mound of cheese, drizzled in honey. Sexy. The cocktails arrive shortly thereafter. Mine was a smoky, fantastic scotch with a thin, fresh orange peel curled in the middle and some other special additions I can’t quite recall. Eric’s drink was a fruity frothy something or other that came with a cold metal spoon and a single, six-inch square block of ice running through the middle. We sat in a closed off booth in a room resembling a dark saloon in a fancy hotel in the Old West in the 1800s. The music was jazz.

If my relationship with Eric didn’t resemble something like mildly flirtatious second cousins, fellas, I assure you, there would have been panties dropping all over the LES.

As it was, we headed home, sat on his couch and ate grilled cheese sandwiches. But I had a newfound understanding of part of the reason why, every time I see Eric, he is surrounded by a hair-flipping pack of giraffe-like model women. Not only does he know how to talk to and treat women, he ups the ante by frequenting places like Milk & Honey and dropping a pretty penny on a very worthwhile drink. I'm sure his investments have paid off.

Sam gave me the card for M&H with the secret number on the back. I can call anytime I want for a reservation. And if I decide to switch teams, I would most decidedly take someone there if I wanted her panties to drop.

Foie Gras and Cow Pie

Quote of the day:

"I may find Ann Coulter utterly loathsome and reprehensible on every level, and I would greatly enjoy throwing a shit pie into her face, but the idea of yanking any books off shelves scares the hell out of me." -- chef Anthony Bourdain, in a story (strangely enough) about foie gras on Salon.com

Slow Fade Hypocrisy

Logged Hours has a nice discussion today on the slow fade versus the premature breakup talk.

As for my preference? Well, being the hypocrite I am -- if I want to stop seeing someone, I like to give the slow fade. What do I owe someone I've been seeing for less than five minutes? But if I'm nuts about someone (i.e., deluded) and they want to cut me loose, I prefer they give me a straight but simple explanation so I can 1) be filled with righteous (if completely unwarranted) indignation over the end of the imaginary relationship I built up with them in my head, 2) have some closure and 3) stop waiting for my stupid effing phone to buzz.

PostSecret

Inappropriate thoughts that rocket through your brain when Your Ex sees you at your gym, which he just re-joined, and comes over to catch up as you're standing sweating over an eliptical machine:

"Even though I haven't seen you in two years, I still have vivid dreams about you."
"Wow, it's so surreal to see you with a wedding ring on."
"I'm always glad I don't run into you and your wife in the neighborhood, because up until recently, that would have made me lose my shit."
"I made the right decision not marrying you, but it was the hardest thing I ever did."
"I suffered from depression for more than a year after we broke up. I did stupid reckless things because of it. I'm trying to change."
"I'm glad you found someone else who seems better suited for you; I know you'll be a great husband."
"Thank you so much for loving me, even though I still think you never really understood me."
"It was partly my fault you didn't understand me; I hid from you, and I lied."
"I've never stopped feeling guilty over how I treated you at the end."
"I did heartless things, I was selfish, and what I was capable of still horrifies me."
"I haven't been in a serious relationship since we broke up. I just haven't had the strength. Or found someone I wanted to risk all that pain on, at least."
"Sometimes I think that what happened between us broke something inside of me that won't ever be the same again."
"Even though I don't want you back, I still somehow wish I hadn't looked so bedraggled when you saw me."
"I'm still so sorry."
"I'm so glad you're happy now."

What you actually say:
"So, how's that kitchen remodeling going?"

A Pointless Post on One Sunday in Brooklyn

(Reader's note: There is really not point to this post except to convey a mood and, more importantly, bump the "diarrhea post" off the top. It was kind of starting to gross me out.)

Yesterday I was in a bit of a funk, despite the fact that I was having an INCREDIBLE hair day. I didn’t wash my hair in the morning and it had taken on a grimy, second-day wave, leaving me looking like I just spent the day sunning myself in a cool sandy breeze, or in bed with someone who spent a lot of time pulling and running his hands through it. Beach hair, if you will. It really would have been a shame not to share my messy, bedheaded sexy locks with the rest of the world, so I peeled myself off the couch, convinced there had to be more going on than a 3 p.m. Cinemax showing of the atrocious “film,” “Must Love Dogs.” What is an actor like John Cusack thinking when he takes a role like that? It’s one of the world’s deeper mysteries.

I had already checked everything off my list that I had to do for the day – church, check, exercise, check, groceries, check, lunch, check -- so after putting in a few halfhearted calls to see if anyone wanted to go drink some Bloody Marys, there was really nothing more to do than amble around the neighborhood and see who I might run into. It was a beautiful afternoon of golden light and quiet in Brooklyn. And yet, my mood was resigned. Fearing that I was helplessly sliding down the emotional ladder of my manic-depression* from manic to depressed (I had simply been in a good mood for far too long), I knew I had to do something nice for myself. My first stop was to visit the wine shop Smith & Vine, which employs a seemingly endless rotation of Totally Gorgeous Men. I don’t even think they’re gay. I swear I’m becoming a wino just because I crave a semi-weekly hit of the Smith & Vine eye candy.

On the way back from Smith & Vine, bottle of Lambrusco in hand (because bubbles banish the blues), I ran into my old roommate Giuseppe. Giuseppe (or, “Joey,” as he’s known to people who have seen him naked) is one of the more interesting characters I’ve lived with in New York. This guy is Really Italian. When we lived together in a share, he worked for an Italian company that made subway cars. He wore gold chains and track suits. He spoke on the phone in Italian to business contacts in Italy. One of his hobbies was making homemade ricotta cheese. He had the most beautiful girlfriend I’ve ever seen. This girl was like Eva Mendez times two. I suspected possible “connections.” Also, Giuseppe is Hot, if diminutive. The track suit thing can’t be overlooked, but the fact remains. We hadn’t seen each other in awhile and we caught up on our lives, and he gave me his new phone number and said he’d look me up the next time he was in the neighborhood.

Then I walked home, satisfied at least that someone had appreciated my unintentional good hair day.

*I'm not ACTUALLY manic-depressive. Sheesh. Just a tad moody, at times.