dune

I went to Brighton Beach today with the lovely Jess and the charming Sean T. Conrad. Unfortunately, I now look like a pink-and-white dalmation because of my half-assed application of sunblock. Actually, no, I was responsible in lathering up but Mother Nature had other plans in store for us today. I coated myself in Coppertone before leaving this morning to give it time to sink in. Later in the day -- right about the time I needed to reapply -- an unrelenting sand storm kicked up and we were soon battered and breaded in sand. When all was said and done, I ingested about 1/2 cup of it and carried off half the beach with me in my bag, cleavage (butt and chest) and hair. As soon as I could wipe it off, it would blow right back on me. These are not ideal conditions for applying sunblock. So now I'm speckled and a wee bit sore... and still trying to force all that sand down the drain. My bathroom looks like it belongs in a shore house complete with the sandy skid mark on the floor of the shower. I've been trying to wash it out of the tub bit by bit since returning home but it's holding its own in the battle.

Brighton Beach is an interesting place. Unlike the Jersey Shore or Long Island, there is no indication that you are anywhere near the ocean as you approach the beach. There aren't signs for live bait or advertisements for reasonable dry-dock rates. Instead, typical city storefronts and large apartment buildings populate the streets leading up to the boardwalk. But that's part of the charm. What's not charming are the "fashions" on display at the beach. Everyone is entitled to sun themselves and frolic in the surf but if your legs are lumpy and riddled with varicose veins, kindly choose a swimsuit with a more flattering cut. How about giving a sarong or some lightweight pants a shot? It's the responsible thing to do.

Naturally, there were quite a few banana hammocks to be seen which is always unfortunate. I didn't think there was a worse bathing suit out there for men... until I saw the man wearing what looked like his wife's underwear. They were high-waisted granny panties quite possibly made of cotton. Apparently, Hanes Her Way is now trying to horn in on Speedo's share of the god-awful men's swimwear market. It's just wrong.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go extricate several more pounds of sand from my inner ear...

my first trip to a nudie bar

My head hurts today thanks to lack of sleep and one too many beers last night. Jess, Pete and I watched the kick-ass band The Witching at The Pussycat Lounge into the wee hours. We all agreed that it was a fabulous -- and fucking strange -- night out. Jess recounts our odd encounter with an ATM in the shady back room of a nearby deli. Had either Jess or I ventured in there alone, odds are we would have been sold into slavery and never seen or heard from again. Sketchiness abounds in that place.

So I've never really been to a girly bar before. I don't know that I'll ever go again. Yuck. It smelled like disinfectant, which I guess is better than NOT smelling like disinfectant but it bothered me somewhat that Pine-Sol needs to be so liberally applied during business hours. I don't think they're mopping up spilled beer, you see...

I don't understand that whole ogling of women business. I also would love to know what the dancers think about as they sit and wiggle on a mirrored surface. Prior to my entering the establishment, I entertained the notion of dating one of these women. My theory was that a stripper would take to me because I'm practical and grounded. Not a sugar mama, mind you, but rather a consistent force of stability... and you know, a guaranteed rockin' romp in the sack, if I do say so myself. But when I entered, I was immediately put off by that dead, vacant "I don't give a fuck" look in their eyes. I don't care how they make their money if they like the work but that sort of detachment scares me. I think I'll set my sights on burlesque dancers since they're self-aware and 'cause I think pasties would be fun to play with.

strange days, indeed

Did you ever have one of those days when weird things seem to be magnetically attracted to you? No matter which way you look, there's something strange to be seen -- odd occurrences to the left accompanied by crazy-assed shit to the right. My morning definitely started out that way. While I was waiting to cross Atlantic Avenue this morning on my way to the subway, I heard a car violently beep its horn. I turned my head to follow the ruckus and I saw a woman wandering in traffic. I think she stepped off the curb to see if the bus was coming but somewhere within those five feet, she lost her bearings and all sense, apparently. She turned her back on the speeding traffic and was nearly flattened. A car horn honked and she jumped about 10 feet in the air and then slapped her hand down on the hood to show her displeasure. I've given drivers the stink eye myself but this woman was totally at fault. However, I do applaud her effective projection of "mutha fucka" so early in the morning. So clear and resonant! I'll curse before noon but the effectiveness is usually compromised by my fatigue and gravelly morning voice.

On the same corner, a young man holding a cane started shadow boxing with equal amounts of piss and vinegar behind each punch. I think the cane was more like a weapon or fashion accessory instead of a walking aid because he did not wobble or falter once during his elaborate sequence of punches. I was glad to be on the opposite corner because I envisioned him practicing martial arts with it next. I fear he was touched.

Oddly enough, the subway trip was rather uneventful. Actually, there could have been a streaking madwoman onboard, a robbery and a massive brawl for all I knew. Give me a seat and a fresh Daily News, and I'm dead to the world. My observation skills dip dramatically.

When I got into Manhattan, I decided to swing by the deli outside of my building to get a big-ass cup o' coffee and a cinnamon raisin bagel. I placed my order and stood dutifully on my side of the deli case while it was prepared. I heard a "whap!" and then a sliding noise. I looked down at my feet and what did I see but a piece of well-done toast mere inches from my shoe. I don't know where it came from. The deli is designed in such a way that I have to stand on my tippy toes (I'm 5'8") when leaning over the counter to retrieve my bagel from the employee. I highly doubt it cleared the counter based on the height. I also didn't see anything fly through the air. It would seem like the toast slid underneath the deli case but it's flush with the floor, I think. There's no room underneath it. And no one employed there seemed alarmed or confused that the piece of toast about to be buttered went astray. Health concerns aside, I'm really impressed with the spring mechanism in that toaster. I always have to fish my toast out with a utensil. I need to make note of the brand tomorrow.

late night with stevie nicks

I've been working 12-hour days for the past 2-3 weeks and frankly, it's starting to affect my sanity. I look wild-eyed at times and am prone to mood swings far more severe than even the most melodramatic teenager. I've come this close to barking at coworkers. Oh, who am I kidding? I have barked at them. Well, no, growled would probably be more accurate. I'm tired. They should know this and then step aside.

I got home extra late last night because I decided to meet some friends after work. It mattered not that I had just spent the past 12 hours staring at a computer and hadn't eaten anything substantial since lunch. I went out anyway and had me a Murphy's Stout for dinner. It's almost as thick as a smoothie so I surmised that it must pack the same nutritional wallop. You gonna disagree with a self-proclaimed crazy bitch? (Ed note: The Jersey 'tude and accent come on full-force when I'm tired or drunk. You've been warned.)

Even though I was exhausted when I got home, I needed to wind down before going to bed. I checked my email and replied to a few time-sensitive ones, which I'm sure if I reread today would make me cringe because of the appalling amount of typos and really poor sentence structure. Please note the irony that the preceding sentence was poorly constructed.

While reading and writing in a sleepy haze, a couple of words leapt off the screen and rifled through my vast memory of song lyrics before settling on the closest match -- "Rooms on Fire" by Stevie Nicks. For reasons I cannot explain, I was reaching into the nether regions of my register and bleating along to Stevie at 1:00am. It wasn't a conscious decision at all -- it was as automatic a reflex as blinking. My mouth just opened and out came a really tired-sounding -- and bad -- impression of Stevie's coke-ravaged vibrato. The song wedged itself into my brain and I kept singing the chorus over and over again. It wouldn't stop. "Weeeeeell, maybe I'm just thinking that the rooms are all on fire. Everytime that you walk in the room..."

I find that the best way to extract a song from one's head is to listen to the original, so I found my copy of Timespace and had quite the sing-along. "Stand Back," "Edge of Seventeen" and "Sometimes It's a Bitch" were all accounted for. As I screeched along to "Talk to Me," I was convinced that I was on key note for note. I was so pleased that I starting adding more Stevie songs to the running list of tunes I will one day sing when I front a band. Or, you know, at karaoke or whatever. Speaking of which... Jess and Sheila, if we do rock the mic again, kindly remind me of my intense need to sing "Leather and Lace." You may join me in the duet. I'll even do the Don Henley part if you feel funny.

a love letter

Dear Christina Ricci,

Congratulations! You're my new crush. This is a high honor as I'm as picky as the day is long. What brought this on, you ask? Well, I watched you in Monster today and even though your character was an accessory to murder, I found myself getting that wee tingle any time you were on screen. As soon as the film ended, I performed the ultimate "I have a crush" ritual -- I looked you up on IMDB.com. Given the lesbian slant of this film and your Sapphic turn in The Laramie Project not to mention your outspoken abortion-rights activism, I thought you were a shoo-in for the Sisterhood.

I thought wrong. I hungrily read each of the bullet points in your various online biographies and my heart broke a tiny bit when I read, "Used to live with Matthew Frauman." But hey, I had several beards, er, I mean, boyfriends in my past so I thought there was still a chance. And then I read a quote attributed to you where you pretty much stated that you wanted to jump Josh Hartnett's bones. Again, I've made bold statements like that in the past to throw people off. However, hope started to wane but I sallied forth. Then I thumbed through an online picture gallery and there you were holding hands with your boyfriend on the red carpet at the Golden Globes. OUCH. Reality hit and it was a cruel bitch slap. Adam Goldberg, Christina?!?! Aw, come on!! Talented actor, yes, but he's second only to Christopher Walken in terms of creepiness. I find him unsettling.

I'm so disappointed. The good news is you're in impressive company -- Michelle Pfeiffer, Carrie Ann Moss, Maria Bello and scores of other frustratingly hetero actresses have issued the same devastating blow to me throughout the years. I survived those traumas and I'll trudge through this one. But seriously, when you wake up and realize that your boyfriend is scary, you just give me a jingle, k?

Love always... or until I develop a new dead-end crush,
Curly McDimple

let's talk smack, shall we?

It's ridiculous how belligerent I become while watching a Yankees/Red Sox game. What's even more ridiculous is how Boston's scruffy appearance bothers me as much as their powerhouse hitting. As we speak, Jose Contreras is in essence throwing batting practice to the Red Sox and Johnny Damon's gross hair is flopping up and down as he trots around the bases. So you can imagine my state of mind. Manny's hair and baggy pants may very well send me over the edge. Disgusting.

Kevin Millar seems like a nice fella and there's no denying his talent but I want to throttle him for starting that insipid "Cowboy Up!" business. Ack! I thought we rid ourselves of that after last year's NLCS but the dumb announcers on ESPN have nothing better to talk about so they resurrected that lame-ass and ultimately ineffective (HA! HA!) rallying cry. I hate the announcers on national broadcasts. I particularly hate that the World Series is on FOX. All I have to say is that Joe Buck best not meet me in a dark alley. That Yankee-hating fuckhead will have his work cut out for him dislodging my foot from his sorry ass.

I'm torn if I should keep the game on as my beloved Yanks are currently down 6-2. I'm not a fair weather fan but I am very superstitious when watching sports. If I turn on a game and suddenly my team starts losing, I will promptly change the channel for fear of further jinxing the team. During yesterday's marathon game, I was bringing them luck but I had to go out before it was over... and we know how that game ended. Sorry, boys! I started watching tonight's game from the get go and the Yanks were quickly up by two but now they're behind. Maybe I'll change the channel for a bit and come back to check in. What to do, what to do...

Go Yankees!!!!

george

I found myself engaged in a discussion about John Lennon the other day which spawned the inevitable "Who is your favorite Beatle?" question. I adore them all... well, except maybe Ringo. As a Beatle, he was fine. I just never cared for his solo work. And the man was a spokesman for wine coolers for fuck's sake!

My favorite by far is George Harrison. I dare say his lips never even touched a Bartles & James much less spoke of its merits. When I was younger, Paul was granted most-favored Beatle status. As I got older, George took and never surrendered the lead. Paul was the most accessible in my formative years. "Ebony and Ivory" was everywhere and then a few years later, "Say Say Say" was all the rage. Those songs were all fine and good but my love of McCartney mostly stemmed from my memories of singing "Mull of Kintyre" along with my Dad when he'd put the 45 on the record player. My father wasn't necessarily a big Wings fan but if anyone puts pen to paper about a place in Scotland, that Glasgow-born man is all over it.

I also dug Paul because the first cassette I ever owned was Tug of War, which was a hand-me-down from my oldest sister. It could have been 90 minutes of static for all I cared -- it was my first tape and I cherished it. I particularly loved the large red lettering in all caps trumpeting Paul's name with the album title in smaller print underneath. I kept it out on my dresser for all to see. And then I discovered Madonna and Wham! and I think Paul went the way of the garage sale, sadly. As far as the pop distraction goes, I do still own Make It Big but several of my Madonna tapes were chewed up by my mint green radio/cassette player (with canvas carrying strap) shortly after purchase. Make of that what you will.

And now on to George... my appreciation of his music really took hold in college. But much like his own personality, my fascination with him was quiet, respectful and subdued. It was content to take a backseat to each passing fancy and new obsession I developed. A few years ago I had the good fortune to attend a posthumous tribute performed by the American Ballet Theater and it touched off a renassiance of sorts. At first I thought it an odd concept -- Harrison's music accompanied by toe shoes and pliets?!? I was a bit skeptical but it was fascinating. I discovered new depths to his already stellar compositions. "Isn't It a Pity?" is quite possibly my favorite song of his. On its own, it's amazing. To see it choreographed with lithe dancers performing fluid yet simple movements just captured my imagination and my breath.

I don't know what it is about Harrison but when I hear him sing, there's something in his voice that just gets me right here. I'm not one who tears up easily but I often have to dab my eyes throughout and again after some of his songs. "Here Comes the Sun" does it to me too. I simply cannot listen to the man if I have PMS or else I'll be an inconsolable puddle.

What's amazing is that as much as he's tugged at my heartstrings and made me sob, he's also partly responsible for some of the biggest laughs I've ever experienced. Imagine my delight when I discovered that he executive-produced Life of Brian, Time Bandits and Nuns on the Run. It just makes me love him more knowing that beneath the quiet exterior lurked an irreverent sense of humor and an appreciation for the absurd. Which might explain why he also produced Shanghai Surprise...

trekkies need not apply

I've pretty much given up on the online dating thing. I think I liked it better a few years ago when people were still ashamed to admit they did it. When the nerdy/loser stigma loomed, it attracted a better breed of people methinks. I had a really good run of smart, gorgeous women for a time. Lately... bupkus. Ever the glutton for punishment, I'll go back now and then to do some shopping. The experience usually proves fruitless and it reminds me all over again why I swore off the thing in the first place.

I usually frequent two major online matchmaking sites. I've tried branching out but I always found myself returning to the same two.  Tonight I randomly remembered one that I signed up for a couple of months ago. I felt a glimmer of hope stir within me because I thought that maybe, just maybe, I'd be exploring new terrain. Yeah, not so much. I went through the whole "Forgot Password?" rigmarole and finally signed in to find several messages entitled "I Found You Interesting!" This is the same crap as the Nerve Collect Call/Wink. It means these asswipes are too cheap to sign up for the premium service but not too ashamed to publicize it. Penny-pinching is wise in some respects but in this forum, I suggest keeping it under wraps. If I had a dick (a real one at least), it would go limp at the mere thought of these tightwads.  I think this bothers me more than some of the women who prattle on about spirituality or list a bunch of shitty movies or crappy bands as favorites.

Today I discovered that there is something more troubling than being an internet cheapskate -- being an internet cheapskate who is REALLY into science fiction. I read the profile of one of the cheap broads who contacted me and, no lie, she mentioned UFOs and anti-gravity boots (and not in a kinky way either). I reread it looking for the wink-wink factor but it's completely devoid of anything resembling humor, sarcasm or wit. This frightens me. It's slightly discouraging and a tad ego-bruising when one of the only nibbles I've gotten lately is from some 37-year-old geek with a hard-on for space camp and an appreciation for ducks (oh yes, she's into fowl too!) Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to delete that profile -- and all others -- FOREVER.

oh how you disappoint me, daphne zuniga

I've been watching VH-1's I Love the '90s on and off for the past few days. Mo Rocca, Hal Sparks, Michael Ian Black and Rachael Harris all kill me. Their commentary in these decade recaps always has me in stitches. They are the primary reason I watch. So far, they have not disappointed in the few bits of I Love the '90s that I've seen. But not all the correspondents have won my favor. Admittedly, I haven't seen any of the new episodes all the way through yet but I've already come across a disturbing trend as far as one Ms. Daphne Zuniga is concerned. Loved her in Spaceballs ("He shot my hair!") and I think she held her own in Melrose Place, Gross Anatomy and The Sure Thing. I even had a wee crush on her during her Melrose stint (LOVE the voice). However, in the span of about 15 minutes, she admitted to liking Michael Bolton and Wilson Phillips. Everyone else managed to get in a dig about Carnie's girth but she unabashedly likes this band's music... without shame or irony. Okay, I won't press that issue but Michael Bolton?!?! I realize some people are captivated by his voice and songwriting (can't imagine why) but she admitted to liking his long, out-of-control hair. HIS HAIR. Even with my questionable fashion sense in 1990, I still recognized that his frizzy mop was atrocious.

Daphne, the latent crush is now gone. I think I'm going to have to mute your segments from now on before this disappointment spirals into venomous hatred.

the first in a long line of niece stories

I've got a 4-year-old niece. Even though she's the light of my life and the reason behind many a smile on my face, I will readily admit that the girl is a punk. She's quite cheeky and very spoiled. But she's also got almond-shaped green eyes, long eyelashes, strawberry blonde hair and an outrageous set of dimples. That little girl can infuriate me one moment and then completely melt me the next.

She sits on my lap facing me and tries to make sense of the curls sprouting from my scalp. She likes to pull on the corkscrew ones and say, "Boing!" when they spring back into shape. This cracks her up. Sometimes she messes around with my hair so much that she pulls the curl right out. This disappoints her and she asks me to make it curly again as if I can just wiggle my nose or snap my fingers to make it happen. She doesn't understand that I'd have to wash it, apply product, let it dry a bit, add more product, let it dry some more and then crunch some more product into it to get the spiraling effect. Passage of time and procedures make no sense to her.

The girl has quite a reputation for saying some howlingly funny things. We could tell from the smile that snuck across her infant face any time she peed in her diaper that she was going to be a character. Months later when she was of Zweiback-eating age, she was being videotaped by my oldest sister (the mother) as she munched on a cookie. Proud of her snack, she mashed it into a clenched fist and held it up to the camera. Thanks to slippery fingers and sheer physics, one finger popped out. Guess which one? There is actual footage of my niece flipping off my sister at a very early age. It's priceless.

The niece tends to pick up a phrase or a word and then, like most children, will run it into the ground. My younger sister (not the mother) often forgets about this and will inadvertently introduce slang or other inappropriate sayings into this child's vocabulary. I believe the younger sister playfully patted the niece's diapered bum a few years ago and said, "Look at this big booty."

It was on. The niece used it incessantly after that. She would even hunch over and wiggle her backside while singing, "Shake your booty! Shake your booty! Shake your booty!" It seemed harmless enough at first but she almost tripped a waitress in a restaurant when she sprang from her seat and began her floor show. Our fellow diners looked on with reactions ranging from amusement to concern to horror. Now that I think about it, that waitress got served. Ha ha ha.

On another occasion, the younger sister and my father were having a conversation in the dining room. The niece wanted attention so she began talking over them at full volume. The younger sister said to the niece, "We're going to get you a muzzle!" The niece then turned to my father and said, "Pop Pop, you need a muzzle!" There was laughter and prodding to go into the kitchen to tell Granny what Pop Pop needed. So the niece set forth to deliver this news to my mother. Everyone waited to hear the bit about the muzzle. The niece blurted out, "Pop Pop needs booty!" Oh dear. I don't even think my mother understood the context of it. She just thought my niece was being scatological once again. I laughed hysterically when I first heard the story and then I quickly sobered up and said, "Hey, how does Dad know what that means?" That was a bit disturbing. After some thought, we decided that he secretly watches MTV and other youth-oriented programming but quickly changes the channel when someone enters the room.

The niece is now hung up on poop -- as a noun, verb, adjective, you name it. Recently she went a bit retro and trotted out her old act. She was watching one of her videos and was perplexed at the mention of DNA. She asked her mother about its meaning. My sister punted the question to the younger sister who is in the medical field. The younger sister fielded it and began a kid-friendly explanation of DNA. She told the niece that it was the stuff inside of her that made her different from everyone else. It made her HER and all that jazz. The niece absorbed this information and said, "Oh, it's what makes your booty smell?"

Can I just say that it's really hard to discourage poopie talk when the lecture is delivered through stifled laughter, smirking and a shit-eating grin (pun intended)?!?! Fortunately I didn't have to handle that little episode. When it's my turn to be the disciplinarian, I try to do the right thing with my niece but it's hard. Is it wrong that I'm a little bit proud of her burgeoning inappropriate sense of humor?

beer... it's what's for dinner

I'm home this Friday night and I couldn't be happier about it. I just finished two loads of laundry and now I'm sucking on a Hoegaarden whilst listening to The Cure. It's just like heaven, if you'll pardon the obvious reference.

I had great plans to make myself a home-cooked dinner tonight since I haven't been home most of the week. Dinner this week consisted of Fritos from the vending machine at work (Monday and Tuesday), Gulf tuna at on Wednesday and um... I don't remember what I ate last night. Yesterday was a bit of a blur. But it's 10:40pm and I still haven't eaten a proper meal. Instead, a lovely Belgian beer and selections from the vast Cure discography are my sustenance. I heart the Cure. Their Giants Stadium stop on the Disintegration tour was the first concert I ever attended. I was truly lucky because Love & Rockets and The Pixies (all bow) opened up for them. What a bill!

My second concert was just as cool -- Depeche Mode's Violator tour with special guest Nitzer Ebb. To this day, "Join in the Chant" sends me back to my Doc Marten-wearing days at Aldo's in Lyndhurst, New Jersey. Don't poke fun 'cause it's a Jersey club -- this club will kick your ass up and down the street. Top NYC DJs frequent the place and that English dude who used to be on 120 Minutes used to spin there during that show's heyday. It's got cred and a playlist to die for. I spent many a night there cutting a rug in a fog of dry ice with a 50-cent draft in hand. The other hand was used to sweep my curly locks from my face as I swirled about the dark dance floor. Talk about choreography! Step back, Debbie Allen. Take a seat, Twyla Tharp.

Ah memories of Aldo's.  Despite my lesbionic ways, I'm not really one for ogling women. Except at Aldo's. I wasn't even out during the halcyon days at this establishment but there were glimmers that I was a big ol' dyke waiting to happen. Most obvious were the "funny feeling" and the butterflies that would erupt in my stomach when I'd see women wearing long black skirts, platform-steel-tipped boots and arm-band tattoos writhing to "Cuts You Up." Mmm... goth chicks. To clarify, I don't mean those ones with eye makeup like Alice Cooper and an unhealthy fascination with Anne Rice. You can keep those. I guess I'm more prone to goth lite. Yummy.

Does anyone know of a comparable club in NYC? I want -- nay, need -- to witness women getting down to Apoptygma Berzerk, Wolfsheim, The Jesus and Mary Chain, Peter Murphy/Bauhaus/Love & Rockets, Ministry, Front 242, et al. My mouth foams at the prospect.

bad moods and boogers

I'm a tad cranky this morning because I was at work until about 9:30 last night. I've got the bags under my eyes and the puss on my face to prove it. Two women on the subway this morning were WAY too chipper for my taste so they felt the business end of one of my patented dirty looks. They came THIS close to getting a snotty shushing by Yours Truly. I abstained and dug my nose further into my Daily News and managed to tune them out.

I got to work and went to the pantry to get some coffee. I reached into the fridge and the only container of half-and-half remaining was sitting on the shelf open. Open as in the person who used it before me didn't close it. Ewwwwwwww. I have serious issues with milk and all byproducts to begin with. I feel like milk is a magnet to pick up aromas and tastes of its fridge neighbors. Leaving the top open is just an invitation to make it taste like someone's leftover tuna fish sandwich. It makes me livid. I'm guessing this is the same type of person who drinks straight out of the carton at home. Don't even get me started on that. Sharing milk products is just gross. I feel very strongly about this. In fact, I've adopted my younger sister's "no dairy share" policy. Want to lick her ice cream cone? No way. Sip her milkshake? You're out of luck. I'm the same way. I'll buy you an ice cream cone or a milkshake of your own but you can't pollute mine. We both feel that milk leaves residue in one's mouth and it can easily be transferred back to whatever you're sipping or gnawing on. Ack! I have to stop talking about it before I hurl.

So my morning wasn't going so well... until I checked my site stats. No longer are people searching for Toni Senecal's rack. Today, someone arrived at my site by Googling "booger eating moron." This makes me so happy. Mucus, when used in a put down, is hilarious. When someone else's snot (or the beginnings of it at least) makes its way onto my chocolate-vanilla twist (in a waffle cone), however, it's grounds for an ass-kicking.

color me fabulous... and out of breath

I've decided to alter the colors on my blog slightly. I'm getting tired of all that blue. I kept some of it 'cause it is pretty. I think the new pinkish color resembles that of ham and since yellow is the color of crayon we all chose when coloring in cheese in our coloring books, I feel my new color scheme adequately represents my blog title. I mean, yes there's bleu cheese but I find the look and smell of it so completely revolting that I don't want any connection to it. These are the weird ass things I think about so I switched it up a bit. One of these days I'll get on the ball and actually design a logo complete with a drawing done by Yours Truly. Just don't hold your breath. Until then, hope you enjoy the new view. If you don't like it, eat shit.

Oh, I kid. I'm just a wee bit disgruntled because I ran out of gas on this morning's bike ride. That last hill in Brooklyn's Propsect Park is a bitch and she handily kicked my ass. I've conquered her before but I wasn't up to the challenge today. About 3/4 of the way up the hill, I got off my Kick-Ass K-mart Bike and walked it a bit until the exercise-induced asthma fit passed and then I finished the ride. It sucks getting older and having the lungs of an 80-year-old on top of it. Anyone want to trade?

ordinary people

One of the many things I love about New York is the ability to interact with so many people in the course of one day. Depending on my mood, it can also be one of the things I really hate too. But I mostly dig it.

I love the man at the Borough Hall subway station who smiles radiantly and says in a thick accent, "Hello, my friend" when I stop at his newspaper stand to pick up my copy of the Daily News each day. I try not to cringe when I see him sliding two dimes, a nickel and one quarter into his open palm to give me change. Quarters are a precious commodity because I rely on them for laundry and to complete my collection of state coins. My mother even bought me a special folder for them. Shut up.

Whether it's been working at the Drug Fair when I was 16 years old or my current job, I've always managed to befriend the people who clean the store or office after hours. At Drug Fair, an older man and his son came in on Sundays to buff the floors. He was the nicest, most jovial man. His laughter could be heard throughout the entire store. He called everyone "baby" and we just ate it up. His laugh was awesome. I craved hearing it. Later in college when I read Kerouac's On the Road, one passage in particular immediately brought to mind Floor Guy:

The strange thing was that next door to Remi lived a Negro called Mr. Snow whose laugh, I swear on the Bible, was positively and finally the one greatest laugh in all this world. This Mr. Snow began his laugh from the supper table when his old wife said something casual; he got up, apparently choking, leaned on the wall, looked up to heaven, and started; he staggered through the door, leaning on neighbors’ walls; he was drunk with it, he reeled throughout Mill City in the shadows, raising his whooping triumphant call to the demon god that must have prodded him to do it. I don’t know if he ever finished supper.

Floor Guy's laugh was so infectious. I didn't know what he was laughing about half the time but I naturally caught the giggles and laughed with him. I miss him.

Next up was Vadrana, or as the crass receptionist from the Bronx would say, Verdana. Who would have guessed she was inadvertently and prematurely using the name of a soon-to-be popular font? I cringed each time she said it but oddly enough, it's now my font of choice. I've grown tired of Trebuchet MS.

But I digress, Vadrana is a lovely Croatian woman who cleans the bathrooms in the office building where I had my first real job. By the time I resigned, I had been privy to so much of her life. I saw her daughter's wedding album and pictures of her grandchildren. I knew about her other daughter who was having a hard time finding a boyfriend. I knew all about her Easter menu and guest list each year. When my sister got married and later had a child, Vadrana was as excited as if the wedding and birth happened within her own family. I really adore that woman. She's refreshingly sincere and unwavering in her ability to smile. When I was fresh out of college and scared of my own shadow, she warmed up the workplace for me. She'd see me in the hallway and abandon her supply cart to give me the biggest hug ever. She'd cup my face in her hands and say the nicest things to me... but not in a weird way. I miss her and am long overdue for a visit.

I also managed to befriend the woman who cleaned the office when I was associate editor of an entertainment-related publication long ago. She was Polish and would greet me with a "Hello, kohana!" (sp?) It's a term of endearment that means "baby" as far as I know (anyone? anyone?). She was a lovely woman too. I remember exactly what she looked like: middle aged and very attractive with perfectly coiffed hair that stood in stark contrast to the aqua green uniform dress, black socks and nurse-style sensible shoes she wore each day.

The cleaning woman at my current job greets me with a "Hello, lady" or "Hello, missus" each day. She likes to change it up. I don't know her very well but she has potential to be my buddy. I stayed at work rather late tonight. Our offices are pretty modern complete with a plasma TV that is mounted on a wall in a little lounge area. CNN is on most of the day but because I work with computer geeks, Star Trek takes over during lunch time and off-peak hours. I always walk past the TV on my way out of the office. As I was leaving tonight, I could hear the sounds of the Yankees game which surprised me. I figured the Sci Fi channel was offline temporarily. As I approached the lounge, I didn't see anyone so I stood and watched the game for a bit. As I turned to leave, I saw the cleaning woman sitting in the corner. I was totally blocking her view without realizing it. I quickly apologized and in very broken English she assured me it was fine. She looked a bit sheepish and perhaps a little scared that I was going to tell on her for watching TV while she was on the clock. More power to her, I say! I asked her if she was a fan of the Yankees and she shyly nodded yes. When I informed her that I was too, her eyes lit up and she flashed the biggest smile revealing two gold caps on her front teeth. I smiled back and stood next to her while we watched Bernie Williams get a base hit. I thought for a second we were going to turn towards each other and hit our fists together in that celebratory pound gesture but we didn't. We just watched quietly together for a few more minutes and then I wished her a good night.

Maybe she'll become my new Vadrana. I hope so.

we want a pitcher, not a belly itcher

Dear Mike Mussina,

Kindly stop sucking.

Thank you,
Curly McDimple

at the movies

After a busy, sun-soaked weekend (complete with stupid-looking, random splotches of sunburn where I missed with the SPF), I decided to just hang today. I didn't have anything planned which at first was a nice change of pace. By 11:30 am, it was intolerable and I was bored to tears. So I got on the phone to my dear friend Christina and we hatched a plan to see a movie. Our theater of choice wasn't showing anything we wanted to see/already haven't seen. It's a great theater in that it's small and is usually pretty selective with the movies it shows. Imagine my surprise when White Chicks was on the marquee.

With much hesitation and chagrin, we decided to go the behemoth movie theater that I've managed to avoid in the two years I've lived in this neighborhood. At first glance, I could just tell that it was one of those theaters where it's required, as my friend Carolynn says, to come armed with a "a distinctive laugh and a catchphrase." In order to survive in this atmosphere, you have to be quick with an "Oh no she didn't!" or some other attitude-fueled directive or exclamation. You must punctuate this with a cackling or hissing laugh. I also avoided this theater because Good Neighbor warned me of its size. He said he expected a Sherpa to accompany him and carry his popcorn as he made his endless ascent.

He was not kidding. Our movie was on Level 11!!! I think Macy's has fewer escalators than this movie theater. I needed a few hits of oxygen at that elevation. Even worse, the last stop for popcorn apparently is on the 5th Level. Bastards. I need something akin to a salt lick with my movie viewing but there wasn't time go down the 6 floors. Where's that Sherpa when you need him?

So we saw Dodgeball. I am not ashamed. I enjoyed it. It was as ridiculous as I expected it to be but damn, it was funny. That Ben Stiller just cracks my shit up. And Vince Vaughn is just... just... wooo! is it getting hot in here? I've had a mad crush on that guy since Swingers.

There were parts that were dumb and rather obvious but it was good for a few giggles on a hot, summer afternoon. There will NEVER be a day when I don't think it's funny to see someone get hit in the face, ass or nuts by something. Sorry people but that's comedy. The sound effect of the rubbery ball bouncing violently off of flesh just added to my hysterics.

And yes, there were a few people in the theater who talked back to the screen. Ew and they clapped at certain parts. I hate that. I realize I'm cranky and cynical but that sort of shit just makes me uncomfortable. It's also the behavior that the movie makers predict. They are trying to push buttons and the audience obliges. Bunch of sheep. They no doubt are the same ones who hoot and holler when a character toting a sawed-off shotgun says something like, "Eat lead, mothafucka!" before offing one of the bad guys in [insert any predictable action movie of your choice.]

The previews before this movie were atrocious. Can someone please tell Will Smith to just stop making the same movie over and over again? Or maybe just stop altogether. That could work too. I mean, doesn't he say, "Aw, hell no!" in like all of them? I, Robot looks ridiculous. And that name! Ack!! I blush for all associated with this film.

Then there was a preview for a movie about a pyramid submerged under 2000 feet of ice in Antartica. There are creatures from outerspace living in it or whatever and I swear, they stole the props from the movie Alien. They look exactly the same -- bony and gruesome with lots of gelatinous goo dripping from big, fangy teeth. Ha ha ha. Big fangy teeth. I just visualized John Cleese's dire warning to the seekers of the Holy Grail to beware the bunny rabbit. "That is not an ordinary rabbit...'tis the most foul, cruel and bad-tempered thing you ever set eyes on." The gesture he makes with his fingers to denote sharp teeth just kills me each time.

Um, yeah... I'm one of those people -- I readily quote from Monty Python films. How can you not? It's just brilliant: "All right! I am the Messiah... now, fuck off!" Ha ha ha ha ha. Oh no he didn't! ::snap snap::

the accused

Today for lunch I bought a nice, steaming large cup of cream of broccoli soup from Hale & Hearty. I heart H&H. I keep them in business. But the aroma of today's selection was quite pungent. I was transporting the soup back to my office and the smell immediately filled the confined space of the elevator in the short trip from the lobby to the 4th floor.

In other words, the elevator was a moving Dutch oven, so to speak.

A woman on the elevator looked at me disapprovingly because, I'm guessing, she thought the smell was coming from my nether regions as opposed to the bag I was holding.

What do you say? "I realize it smells like a fart in here but that was so NOT me. It's the broccoli, ma'am, the broccoli."

Had I been feeling a bit mischievous, I may very well have gotten into the whole "Whoever smelt it dealt it" debate but then again, she could have countered with, "Whoever denied it supplied it" and then where would I be? "Oh yeah, well whoever... um... uh... JUST SHUT UP!"

False accusations of farting are following me today. I just went to the ladies room to do my afternoon tinkle and as I was crouching, my sandal-clad foot slid forward on the tile.

These tiles are those small, slightly raised cubes with really grungy grout in between them. The bathroom is ancient and its acoustics lend for some unfortunate echoing. Luckily for me, I can't poop at work. I physically cannot do it. I rarely do it outside of my home. It's a hang up I have but not a bad one, I might add.

Other people's digestive schedules dictate that they visit the can during work hours and I feel sorry for them. I can feel the tension in the air when they're already mid-poop and others enter the bathroom. I know they're hoping we'll just hurry up and get the hell out so they can finish in peace and solitude. I respect that and try to accommodate them.

But my point is, any noises and sound effects that blare from my stall are fake. Like today's experience -- as I was saying, my sandal scooted forward on the tile making a rather unfortunate, flatulent noise. I was mortified. I wanted to yell, "It was my shoe!"

I even tried making the noise deliberately several more times in the hopes that my coworkers would realize that the noise was not man-made. There was a pooper several stalls down so she was probably relieved that someone deflected the attention from her drop off. I feel like I did her a favor or something. My good deed for the day is done.