Happy Halloween...Sort Of

Before getting down to business, I'd like to instruct anyone reading to check out "Song for You" by Alexi Murdoch. This is the guy who did "Orange Sky" on The OC soundtrack for those of you who are missing The Office, one of the better comedies on TV these days. Anyway, download the song, it's pretty fantastic. It won't change your life, but it might help on a mellow day.

*******

I had made a promise to a friend that I would post a few pictures of a bunch of us from Halloween. Better late then never I suppose. Plus, she discussed NYDenizen by name in her law school paper, so it's the least I could do. Hi Jess.

I was Dr. Harry Fingerman, Proctologist, for those interested.

One of the highlights of the night was meeting this dude at a West Village bar at 3am, also dressed as a doctor. There was an awkward "two-girls-at-a-party-wearing-the-same-dress" moment, until I caught a glance at his labcoat: Urologist. Between the two of us, we had the front and back covered! We instantly became friends.

Now I'm tired, so without further ado, I shall fulfill my promise:

I discovered a lab coat was a terrific hands-free alternative when drinking a Heineken. Yes, Heineken: It's all about the beer. And what a quality beer. Beer perfect for any occasion. Oh I don't know, perhaps an occasion where a guy expounds the beverage's merits in exchange for free cases of said beer? Perhaps that sort of occasion? Hmm? I don't know, just throwing that out there.


The actual rock star was the one in the tie... go figure.

Letterman: King of the Understatement

I'd have said 85-90%

"I have the feeling about 60 percent of what you say is crap."

-- David Letterman to Bill O'Reilly

Link

Thanksgiving Day Parade Balloons

Okay, these are posted a bit late, but post-processing took a whole lot longer than expected...

For those who don't know, the city of New York inflates the Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons the night before the parade. So in 30 degree weather, I trekked up to 81st & Columbus to check out the grand event that precedes the grand event.

Link to full gallery

Link to another guy's gallery whose pictures are so similar to mine it's scary...

Time to Make the Donuts

Recently Dunkin' Dounts has begun to re-run their old commercials from the 1980's with Michael Vale, the "Time to make the donuts" guy. Vale died December 24th, 2005 of diabetes.

Now while his death is sad, I can't help but wax nostalgic every time these old 80's commercials pop up on TV now. It's like my own personal 15-second version of "I Love the 80's", just without Michael Ian Black trying to be funny.

Commercials were just so much better back then...

Something To Keep You Up At Night

Thanks to the wonders of modern nuclear physicists and Google Maps, HYDESim provides us with the opportunity to simulate the destruction zone of a nuclear bomb explosion.

As if New Yorkers didn't have enough to be paranoid about.

Before I dashed underneath my sheets and began whimpering like a maimed puppy dog, I had enough energy to simulate the destruction radius of a 50 kiloton bomb detonating in Times Square. For those keeping track, our ancient Hiroshima nuke was 22 kilotons. By default, the website loads a 100 KT bomb, with a central blast located somewhere in mid-SoHo. I thought 50 KT was a reasonable modern-day, modern-made bomb.

Call me curious. Call me stupid. Call me masochistic.

The bad news is that most of the New York City we know and love (namely Manhattan) would suffer immediate and complete destruction. Even if many of the large buildings absorbed fractions of the blast, all of Midtown and almost all of Downtown and Uptown would suffer moderate to severe damage. Even Hoboken would feel the effects. The good news is that I would probably die so quickly that my brain couldn't process what was happening.

And thanks to a 2002 New York Times Magazine article by now-executive editor Bill Keller (p.22), I know that even if the pressure of the blast didn't kill me and destroy my home, anyone exposed to the quarter-mile fireball "would die a gruesome death from radiation sickness within a day -- anyone, that is, who survived the third-degree burns." So I've got that going for me, which is nice. But get this: Keller's hypothetical explosion only discusses a one-kiloton explosion! The wimp!

Granted, the likelihood of any of scenarios coming to fruition is quite slim. But I still can't help but feel a knot in the pit of my stomach when I hear the deep rumble of a subway passing under the street at night, and I wonder if that's just the noise of successive buildings collapsing, getting nearer, and nearer, and nearer...

****************************************

My prediction is that I will continue to grow up within a peer group who remain perpetually in an elevated state of alert. Historians will begin to refer to us as the Code Orange Generation. We were a generation of kids who didn't have the historic significance of our parents. We didn't have moon landings or Woodstocks. We didn't have Kennedy assassinations or Vietnams or Koreas. Until September 11th, 2001, we were a complacent, sheltered generation who watched a televised war the way we watched a Spielberg or Coppola movie, only with less emotional connection. We didn't have a massively significant event to call our historical milestone. We lacked definition.

19 men with 4 airplanes changed that in a matter of minutes.

Now sociologists will have something to write about. We are the first group of modern voters whose first presidential vote could have hinged solely on the need to feel safe at home. This is a veritable party of Linuses who just need their security blanket. These are children who allow this search for safety to trump all other beliefs, even if that means voting for the other party's candidate. But just looking at 2004 or 2008 is too myopic to be conclusive. Only time will tell.

Ultimately, the source of our fear can be summed up quite well by the cover of that NYT Magazine from 2002: The worst reason why we won't suffer a nuclear attack in a major U.S. city is because it hasn't happened yet.

Scared yet? Shouldn't we be?

A Brave New World of Recreation

I am officially scared.

We have just spiralled head-first into the future. I'm talking Back to the Future Part II (2015) [1.21 gigawatts!!], Blade Runner (2019), Total Recall (2084), and even 12 Monkeys. Well, not 12 Monkeys because that takes place in a much less tech-savvy future that looks too much like the present day. So let's go with...Minority Report. Yep, that works better, and that takes place in 2054 which should be a good year.

So where was I?

Oh right: I am completely freaked out.

Interactive Productline has invented a game where people are on opposite ends of a court, and each end of the court has a goal. The purpose of the game is to roll the ball into the opponent's goal, think foosball without the spinning poles. Only here's the kicker:

You roll the ball using your mind.

There is no way you have misinterpretted what I have just written. There's no trick and no catch:

Mindball® is an experience product, a game where two players control a ball with their brain waves. The player being most relaxed wins the game. The brain waves are detected by sensors attached to the headbands...

It is beyond me why this game hasn't received more press. But this is a clear sign that 2006 will inevitably bring with it flying cars, meals in a pill, and a harvesting field full of unconscious embryos linked to a collective virtual reality controlled by machines.

Right?

Dude, Is That Your Genetic Substance On The Wall?

dna 11 has come up with one of the great additions to modern home decoration. Their art is to genetic aesthetics what the Chia Pet was to grass-covered ceramics-- it defines a new, untapped, and unknown market to the masses.

Now all I need is $490 and a Q-tip to swab my cheek...

By the way, this image is NOT what dna 11's product looks like...

Slipping My Camera Some Roofies

I took my new camera up to the roof, and stole its virginity.

You're The Apple Store Of My Eye

Did I really shower, dress, and do my hair just to go shopping at the Apple Store in SoHo?

As turns out, there wasn't anyone even remotely appealing there tonight, just a bunch of normal people inevitably picking up last minute presents.

I suppose I just came on a bad night:

SoHo Apple Store As Single's Scene

Babes In Toyland

Sarcasm, Nightly News-Style

Brian Williams: #1 in news, #1 in sarcastic political banter --

Williams: And how is [your father, Bush 41]?
President Bush: Still married to mom.
Williams: That's good. Glad to hear it, because we were worried that it wouldn't work out.

Link

Highlights:

1. When asked if Bush thought he was incorrect to assume that U.S. troops would be welcomed as liberators in Iraq, Bush's reply began, "I think we are welcomed. But it was not a peaceful welcome." WHAT?! Does he hear himself speak?? Do you think he even buys what he's selling? President Bush, philosopher king you are not.
2. Count the number of times Bush begins a sentence with "I think..." and catches himself, quickly re-phrasing to "I know...". Has he been coached to display unwavering confidence in EVERY spoken word?

More Gangsta Than You Think

Actually, less. Significantly less gangsta than you think. Exponentially less gangsta. I can't even say the word "gangsta" with any credibility, or "cred" as it were.

So in spite of that, the Gangsta Name Generator delivers fun for all ages and gangster levels, from just a little shorty up to what Ja Rule thinks he is but isn't.

I gotta say, I'm pretty proud of my result:

How'd they know my childhood nickname?

Arite, time to peace.

Sincerely yours,
SDTJ

The End of the Affair

Dear Dell,

After over a decade-long, faithful relationship, how dare you betray me like this?

In the summer of 2004 I spent way too much money to buy a new computer. A computer that would be blazing fast; a computer whose obscolescence should be measured in light years; a computer that could blow someone's clothes off from 30 feet away.

And I succeeded. That computer became my powerhouse. I managed my life through that machine. I kept all of my finances, archived letters, Photoshopped like crazy, made a few short movies, maintained my 60GB MP3 collection, and constructed a family tree more than 300 people deep.

Then, upon returning from a January weekend in Vegas, tragedy struck: my hard drive crashed. All 320GB of it. Dell told me that, while this is an anomaly, the best they can do is replace the drives. That's it. That's. It. No thanks for being a loyal and lucrative customer for over a decade. No appreciation that we've spoon-fed them referrals more times than they deserve. Nothing.

Needless to say, Dell was on the receiving end of a catharsis that encompassed a whole lot more frustration and fury than this single incident could have caused. Those people were suffering as a result of anyone who had ever upset me. They were paying for more than a hard drive crash. They were paying for all of it. J the bully in middle school, the rock that L kicked at my head in camp, D getting me in trouble with his parents, for W. ruining my country.

All of it.

I think I made one service associate cry, and I came close to verbally raping a rep in Bangalore through the phone. Lucky for him:

1. I'm too cheap to pay for a flight to India.
2. I'm not huge on that whole "rape" thing.
3. I might have still been on the phone with an automated message.

"For sales, press 1. For service, press 2. To make empty threats towards an innocent party, press 3, or stay on the line and someone will instigate you until you snap."

After about 6 weeks, I had recovered enough of my past through random backups, email attachments, hacking my iPod, and a timely synchronization with my PDA, that I had a semblance of what I lost. By summer, it was a non-issue. What I lost was gone, and a great majority was back as it was. I didn't give it another thought.

Okay, I did fortunately give it ONE thought. And that thought manifested itself as a 300GB external backup drive to make sure I was never dealt this kind of loss again. Plus, Dell guaranteed that this almost never happens to anyone, ever, so lighting couldn't possibly strike twice.

************

307 days.

307 days is the answer to the question, "How long does it take for lighting to strike twice?"

Dell, you miserable, wretched beast.

For the second time in 10 months-- 10 MONTHS!!!-- my whole computer has crashed. Heads are gonna roll. Yes, I realize I'm still able to post-- I still have a work laptop, thank goodness. I swear I either have the worst luck ever, or the gnomes in my closet have punk'd me again. And if it's the gnomes, I'm throwing them out on their asses. They shant punk me thrice.

As for you, Dell -- drop dead. Or send me tons of free crap to keep me quiet. Otherwise, I hate you forever.

Thanks for your time!

Sincerely,
Me

Hey Andy, did you hear about this one?

Tell me, are you locked in the punch?

Wanna have some fun? Visit the new site, Google Moon. I know-- this is where we're at, folks.

So where's the really fun part? Once you've got it up, try to zoom in all the way, and see what you get. Guaranteed fun for seconds.

Perspective from 30,000 Feet

5:30 pm – I think.
We were somewhere over the Atlantic, hours past the UK, but I was still measuring time by Italian standards. I wouldn’t change my watch until we land in New York. Until then, I was operating on Italian time, though we’re landing at 3pm and my watch was already 2½ hours past that marker. I like to think that we were at a chronological sweet spot where time moves forward slow enough as you head west, in reverse through the time zones, that time stood still.

It’s probably 12:30 pm here, and it will be for the next 15 minutes.

I know that it’s 5:30 by Italian time because I had just checked my watch. I checked it not because I wanted to—I was deep into “The Rules of Attraction” by Bret Easton Ellis—but I checked my watch when the Old Lady asked the stewardess (sorry, flight attendant) for the time and the flight attendant didn’t have a watch either so both women looked at me until I stopped reading, forced a smile, and gave them each the time individually at different volumes.

Looking up, I noticed my section of the cabin was cloaked in red. Rose, actually. The sun was shining directly through the rose-tined glasses of the woman sitting behind me, and was consequently casting a rose-tinted glow on everything during a flight that was certainly not rose-tinted at all.

6:00 pm
A man 3 rows ahead of me was reading an Italian newspaper. The only word I could make out in the headline was “Osama”. That is definitely not an Italian word. This was perhaps the last thing I want on my mind during an international flight on an American carrier to New York City. Why couldn’t this guy have just read a magazine?

6:15 pm
I did not order Ginger Ale.

The beverage cart came by and what I actually ordered is inconsequential. The point is that I didn’t order Ginger Ale.

I’m seated next to the Old Lady, a woman with short, dye-dark hair and cataract sunglasses who takes 5 minutes to sit down, refuses to put her large carry-on up in the compartment so obviously it takes up all of the legroom for the both of us, and made me reach over her to show her how to plug in headphones. It was too intimate, and it was unpleasant. She’s the only person I’ve ever seen actually buy duty-free merchandise from the in-flight cart. She had hoarded 4 pillows, 2 blankets, and insisted on keeping her large pocketbook on her lap at all times. But right now, none of that mattered, because the Old Lady just ordered a Ginger Ale.

I had planned on asking for a Ginger Ale too, but I was so hopelessly annoyed that I had to sit next to her—she interrupted me 3 times during "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" to ask questions!!—that I refused to have anything in common with her, and that includes in-flight refreshments. I am unjustifiably spiteful right now.

6:20 pm
Man, that Ginger Ale would have been good. Damn.

6:30 pm
The Newlyweds just stopped by to chat. They interrupted my reading as well, but I’m less irritated partly because they’re young & I like them, and partly because they’re not the Old Lady sitting directly to my left. I met the Newlyweds on my vaporetto to the Venice Airport. It was their non sequitur about New York City rats that caught my attention. 3 hours, 4 croissants, and a melted Twix bar later, we had become friendly enough to eat lunch together in the airport while discussing their wedding, The Aristocrats, and developing infections in foreign countries. By the time they stopped by my seat mid-flight, the Old Lady thought we were all good friends. She also thought I was sixteen years old (wrong), in the military (very wrong), and perhaps an author or literary critic (because I was reading a book), so hey.

6:50 pm
I don’t know what the purpose is of these new flight displays showing our plane’s location on the TVs. It’s a map that comes on when the movies aren’t playing, and besides just showing the location of the plane during the flight, it includes statistics like wind, temperature, and the speed of the plane. How does this help passengers, other than a solution to the annoying few who keep asking the crew, “Are we there yet??”

“Good evening, this is your pilot speaking. Right now, we’re somewhere over the Labrador Sea and heading towards Goose Bay, two places I doubt any of you could find on a map. The temperature outside the plane right now 18 degrees Farenheit. This information is crucial if you plan to hang out 30,000 feet above Goose Bay in October.”

7:20 pm
Old Lady: I need to go to the restroom.
Me: Okay
Old Lady: You know, during some flights, I often spend an hour or more in there.
Me: Um…seriously?
Old Lady: Sure. Sometimes they land the plane and don’t even know I’m in there!
Me: Jeez…that’s…not good.
Old Lady: Did you know take-off and landing were the two most dangerous parts of a flight? Those are the most likely times that something can go wrong
Me: I’m not really sure we should be talking about this while we’re fly—
Old Lady: Did you know those are the most dangerous times?? The times you could crash?
Me: Please don’t say “cras—
Old Lady: Did you know that?
Me: (sigh) Yes.
Old Lady: How did you know?
Me: Huh?
Old Lady: How did you know that about planes crashing?
Me: I’d rather you didn’t say “cras—
Old Lady: Did you read it somewhere?
Me: Read it? No, I don’t think so.
Old Lady: So you were told by someone?
Me: What? No, I think I just knew it.
Old Lady: Why?
Me: I don’t know why, but it would certainly make sense, don’t you think?
Old Lady: (pause) Well, I guess that’s just how men and women think differently.
Me: I’m not sure this has anything do to with gender.
Old Lady: I need to go to the restroom. Do you think they’re landing soon?
Me: Good grief.

7:50 pm
The Old Lady wasn’t kidding. She’s still in the rest room.

8:10 pm
50 minutes later, Old Lady still hasn’t come back. I wonder if she fell asleep in there.

8:12 pm
It just dawned on me: I’m going to be really upset if my brother returns from studying abroad with a British accent.

8:15 pm
Old Lady’s back. I don’t even bother to find out what took her so long. I don’t want to know.

8:25 pm
I don’t care for Kip Pardue. He was in the movie version of The Rules of Attraction. I just…don’t like him.

The drink cart comes around one last time before landing.

“Anything for you, ma’am?”

I look toward the Old Lady. She’s staring out the window. She didn’t hear anything. I had to “accidentally” poke her arm to regain her attention. She smiled politely and said no. While she didn’t tell the flight attendant, the truth was that if we were landing soon, she wanted to be in restroom when it happened. Frankly, I think she just liked to tempt fate by sitting in the lavatory when the flight’s danger-level is at its highest.

“How about you, sir? Can I interest you in a beverage?”

I looked up at the flight attendant, who was prettier than I realized earlier. She didn’t have the worn appearance of a woman who’d been falsely friendly with people for years. For her, the job was still fun, and she was probably excited about this position in the way most women were excited about being a stewardess in the 1960’s. It was glamorous.

She smiled earnestly.

I looked at the Old Lady, who was already starting to pack up her pocketbook for her trip to the back of the plane. I checked my watch and was pleasantly surprised by how soon we’d be home.

“Sir?”

I thought for a moment and, lifting my head back up to face the flight attendant, I smiled.

“Sure. I think I’ll have a Ginger Ale.”

Open Your Eyes

Here's a rule for life I just discovered from a friend:

Sleepwalkers are not allowed to go to bed naked.

...And Gives You Hairy Palms Too

Around the globe, young adolescent boys are petrified because of this.

You Have Died of Dysentery

Firing 20 times, you shot 1256 pounds of game and were able to carry 188 pounds of it back to your wagon. If you continue to hunt in this area, game will become scarce.

Caulk the wagon and float across or ford the river?
(FORD THE RIVER.)

Timmy has typhoid fever.

Timmy has died.

I wish I was 9 again...however I am now old enough to really travel to Walla Walla Washington...

Italian: A Beginner's Guide

As I finish up packing for Italy, I asked Arielle to throw together a few important phrases that she thinks I'll need for my trip. Here's what she came up with, and here's why she's one of my favorite people:

ITALIAN: A BEGINNER'S GUIDE

“If you’re gonna spew, spew in this.” Se pensi di sboccare, sbocca qua.”

“No, I think you look fantastic in Spandex. Really.” No, penso che i pantaloni di lycra ti stanno molto bene. Juro.

“Excuse me, but I think you just dropped this condom.” Mi scusi, ma penso che lei ha perso questo preservativo.

“Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” Ti ha fatto male quando sei cascata dal paradiso?

"If it weren't for my horse, I never would have made it through that last year of college": Se non fosse stato per il mio cavallo, non avrei mai finito l'ultimo anno di università.

“You make me feel like a natural woman.” Mi rendi una donna naturale.

“Excuse me, but where do all the high school girls hang out?” Mi scusi, ma dove posso incontrare raggazze del liceo?

“Are there any U2 tickets left? I’d be willing to sell my mother.” Avresti altri biglietti per il concerto dei U2? Sarei disposto a vendere mia mamma.

“Where can I get a shot of tequila for 1 Euro?” Esiste un bar dove posso comprare un tequila per solo un euro?”

“Do you sell midgets?” Vendete nani?

“You are in the situation room.” Sei nella stanza di situazione.

“The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire.” Il tetto, il tetto, il tetto è sotto fuoco.

“Could you please put him/her through to my voicemail.” Potresti trasferire la chiamata alla mia segreteria telefonica?

“Personally, I am of the belief that there have been enough bad movie versions of Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.” Personalmente, ritengo che ci sono stati abbastanza difettose versioni film di “Orgoglio e Prejudizio” di Jane Austen.

“Good luck with those rape allegations.” Buona fortuna con quelle allegazioni di violenza.

“I’ve had better.” Ho avuto di migliore.

“My dog has severe flatulence. Might you prescribe him some medication?” Il mio cane scoreggia sempre. Potresti darlo delle medicine?

Stone's Throw from Porn

PORNOGRAPHY!!!

Do I have your attention?

According to the October 6-12 issue of Time Out New York, I'm within about 300 feet of two of their eight top-rated neighborhood sex stores in all of New York City. I can only imagine how thrilled my family is about my apartment choice.

Here are a few select excerpts from my local sex shops:
Most succinct title: Big Piss, Volume 1 ($29.99)
Come here if: You're looking for that '70's wood-paneling vibe and you don't mind an odd hint of vinegar in the air.
Most potentially painful item: The Fist Dildo ($24.99)

Mind you, I subscribe to TONY for the restaurant reviews and bar recommendations. Instead I'm told the most disturbing video at Pleasure Video is called "Animal Porn: Eels", and the item with the most versimilitude is the Uncut Foreskin Realistic Cock dildo ($38.99)?? Great, now they just need some vaseline and a dictionary!

And isn't $38.99 a rip off? Personally, I'd wait for that baby to hit the discount rack, and then I imagine those things just sell themselves!

p.s. I feel dirty just writing about this

A Korean Delicacy

Two weeks ago I went with some people from the office to lunch at Kang Suh Korean BBQ in Koreatown. Certainly one of the highlights of the meal was our discovering a particular item on the menu: Gaejang & Doenjang Jigae.

I’m told it’s quite a dish, and for only $15.95, it’s definitely nothing to poo-poo at:

There's a flavor here I just can't put my finger on. Is it...is it nutmeg??

Unfortunately, nobody ordered it, so I don't know what actually ends up on your plate.

My Hands Go Well with Pancakes & Waffles

Why does my left hand smell like maple syrup right now? I haven't had syrup in months. I didn't even eat breakfast this morning.

You think it's funny, but seriously, it smells like i just slapped Aunt Jemima in the face.

Who Wants to Touch Me?

Let me tell you how famous I am.

I recently found out that Jen Garrett, loyal Red Sox fan and Barq's Red Crème Soda drinker, was beginning a quest: to read and discuss a new blog everyday for a month. Now my first reaction was, "I've been right all along, Red Sox fans are crazy."

But then again, Barq's is really good, and decided to read a few posts and see what she had to say. I was impressed with her diverse picks, so on a whim, I dropped her a note telling her about NYDenizen, with the caveat that I'm new at this, and really have no idea how to blog or what to say when I do. Frankly, I don't even speak English-- these posts are directly lifted from my English-Namibian, Namibian-English dictionary and accompanying common phrases.

Needless to say, I was both extremely surprised and quite honored that she chose NYDenizen as her pick for September 10th! Woo-hoo!! Validation!! Or perhaps just evidence that she couldn't find anything about the Red Sox that day. The title of the post was "The One Where She Finally Loses Her Mind", so I can't dismiss my theory that Red Sox fans are, in fact, nuts.

I do however appreciate that she was willing to overlook the divisiveness of our baseball allegiances (have I mentioned I'm a big Yankees fan?), for the sake of...something. I mean, the last blog she discussed before mine was about a guy who came out to his wife at 48! You're telling me I've got to follow that?? This guy is going through gut-wrenching and constant emotional turmoil; I, on the other hand, make fun of Bush and tell stories about my farts. Well done, Jen Garrett, well done.

Karma does work in strange ways though. The day after Jen wrote about NYDenizen and how her Sox beat my Yankees, the Yanks struck back for a big win today, getting us that much closer to the AL East title. This was a nice treat to help get some New Yorkers' minds off the stigma of today's date, though just a small condolence.

In the end, this shout-out definitely made my day. Jen, however, is convinced that she could easily turn me into a Red Sox fan-- in 20 minutes, no less. Jen, I really appreciate your bringing my blog into the limelight and everything, but you'd have a better chance of making that 48-year-old guy dig chicks. You have been enormously helpful though: I finally have proof that Red Sox fans are, in fact, totally fucking wrong.

Home is Where Wings Take Dream

My friend Matt, a staunch Republican, sent me this video today. I think it solidifies the suspicions we have about our President, and his "use" of the English language.

Only 1229 days, 23 hours, and 42 minutes until we are rid of this "intellectual".
(Thank you to The Bush Countdown Clock for this handy bit of info)

Got a Little (hic) Captain In Ya?

Have you seen these commercials for Captain Morgan's Original Spiced Rum? It's the 30-second spot where they show a bunch of average people in average situations, posing just like the Captain Morgan cartoon on the bottle's label: Hand on the waist, chest puffed out, left leg is hoisted up.

It's a weird commercial. But it gets weirder when the slogan appears: "Got a little Captain in ya?"

Is it me, or are they asking if you literally have Captain Morgan's rum in you, like, now? Next time you watch it, keep that in mind. If it helps, say the words "...and I've just been guzzling rum!" every time the commercial presents a new person in a new situation.

• I'm going through an airport security checkpoint...and I've just been guzzling rum!
• I'm cooking in kitchen in the middle of the day...and I've just been guzzling rum!
• I'm getting a check-up at the doctor...and I've just been guzzling rum!

And it keeps on going. One guy is shown fixing the IT in a corporate server room. Another is working in the stacks of a library. Yet another is shown about to start examining some guy's mouth at a dentist's office.

I've gotta ask-- is this a commercial for recreational drinking, or just a promotion for alcoholism? Are any of these situations ones where you think to yourself, "Sure, this is fine, but man I should be DRUNK!"

These are people at their jobs, mainly in the service industry. How does this sell more liquor?

What this commercial teaches me is that, according to Captain Morgan, life would be better if I was tanked by noon. Well thanks, Captain, but I don't need a commercial to learn that. I could have just asked the bum outside my building for his strategy to success.

I think that if C.M. is gonna advocate my bum's lifestyle, then the new C.M. labels should show the Captain lying in the crevice between two buildings, curled up under a bunch of newspapers, in a puddle of his own urine, with a bottle of rum in his hand.

Don't worry-- we'll make sure the bottle is Captain Morgan's brand, just so everyone knows HE has a little Captain in him.

Insects and New York Real Estate

My building is fairly bug-free, but that's because cockroaches aren't allowed to enter without a broker.

I.D. and the Unintelligent Debate (Update)

As a follow up to my post on Intelligent Design & Creationism., here's an even better article on the evolution "debate", which was published in The New York Times earlier this week. It makes a really fantastic argument of shooting down ID&C.

Link

You Picked This Over a New Lexus?

Here's one way to spend $45,000 really quick.

I Didn't Know "Jewish Idiot" was Spelled with a Silent "Y" Either

An except from last night's conversation between my friend, Michelle, and the random dude who was hitting on her:

Michelle: Oh, you're Jewish? Do you keep kosher?
Guy: Well, outside of the house I don't. I'd say I'm "SK".
Michelle: "SK"?
Guy: Yeah, you know, "pseudo-kosher".

--Pop Burger, 14th St. & 9th Ave.

Then he asked for her number.

He Really Does Grammar Good

From today's BOLDFACE, by Campbell Robertson (New York Times):

...We also asked why [Michael Ian Black] was wearing women's clothing in his few scenes in "The Baxter." Mr. Black replied that he often wore his wife's clothing, like her dungarees, though he added that the jeans were very tight and that he had to use certain special effects in certain areas to convey a virile image.

"I have a reputation to create," he said.

You have to keep in mind, we said, this is The New York Times.

"Oh, right. I have a reputation whom to create. Is that right?"

...And That's Why My Ass is Sore

Note to self: The speed cycling class at your gym is the devil.

25 young women made me look really out of shape tonight.

I think...yeah, I'm gonna cry.

Soundtrack for Walking

Do you ever find yourself walking down the street listening to music, and a song comes on that's perfect for your walking situation? I mean, the beat matches your strides, you keep pace with the rhythm, it's upbeat. If this was a scene from a movie, the song that's playing would be exactly the track you'd use when you scored the film. It's a "life soundtrack" moment.

Think about when The Who's "Baba O'Reilly (Teenage Wasteland)" started playing while Kevin Spacey was jogging in American Beauty.

(By the way, if you have made it this far in, and have no idea what I'm talking about, you should probably stop reading now. Clearly you'll never get it, and you probably have no imagination whatsoever. I'm sorry for you. Moving along...)

A common topic among technology journalists over the last couple of years has been the intelligence programmed into an iPod's auto-shuffle mode. Apple refuses to discuss the algorithm, but for those of you who own iPods, a question has probably crossed your mind. How does the iPod pick the songs it plays?? Some iPod listeners have gone so far to suggest a psychic element to the devices, or at least that it has a primitive brain. Well, that's ridiculous. But sometimes you gotta wonder; sometimes the music is just too perfect.

Today was one of those "life soundtrack" moments. As I walked home from work down 6th Avenue, steady pace, smoothly slaloming between pedestrians (busy taking touristy snapshots of the ESB or who are just standing idly because they're homeless and crazy), my iPod finally frightened me with its talent.

First came the funk. That recognizable intro. "Play that Funky Music (White Boy)" came on, and it was good. Yes, I have "Play that Funky Music" in my music collection. Needless to say, I was incredibly pleased with this serendipitous choice of music. Let me put it this way: If you've ever experienced PtFM while strolling down the street, it's like watching Travolta strut down the sidewalk in Saturday Night Fever. There's soul. There's a hop in your step.

This was good walking music. You couldn't find a song any better than this, right? I mean, right?

****

The iPod has a brain. It has a brain. There is no way a simple electronic device could pull this off. I have 4,000+ songs on my iPod, and yet it looked into its soul (yes, I'm flipping sides, this thing definitely has a soul...and complete self-awareness too, for that matter) and tried to figure out if it could somehow out-do itself.

It did.

5 seconds before PFM ended, it began to cross-fade to the next track. Suddenly, in came that familiar drum intro and a distinctive high-hat. Then, boom, in comes the bass with a funky 70's twang.

Ve-ry su-per-stitiouuuuussss....
Writing's on the waaaallllllllll,
Ve-ry su-per-stitiouuuuussss....
Ladder's 'bout to fall
Thirteen month old ba-by, broke the lookin’ glass
Seven years of bad luck, the good things in your past.

Stevie Wonder. Superstition. One of the finest songs of any generation. iPod, you have made my day. And I am a true believer.

When you believe in things that you don’t understand,
Then you suffer,
Superstition ain’t the waaaaayyyyy...

I.D. and the Unintelligent Debate

Verlyn Klinkenborg had an excellent editorial in the New York Times today that is one of the best syntheses I've read in recent time about the "evolution discussion." Rather than try to synopsize her thoughts, just have a read from the source.

My hope is that this issue will die quickly so that people can move on to discussions that help us move forward as a culture. For now, people have chosen to reawaken a medieval debate about a campaign that doesn't deserve to be called "a theory."

A scientific hypothesis that survives experimental testing becomes a scientific theory.

Intelligent Design and Creationism are not scientific, nor are they theories. ID&C (which are one and the same in essence) are as much a science as alchemy is. An insubstantial attack on a well-tested theory does not implicitly deem the attack scientific. It does not even make it credible.

I hestitate to quote a comedian, but I think Bill Maher hit the nail right on the head Friday night when he said:

The reason there is no real debate is that Intelligent Design isn't real science. It's the equivalent of saying that the Thermos keeps hot things hot and cold things cold because it's a god... Stupidity isn't a form of knowing things..."Babies comes from storks" is not a competing school of thought in medical school. We shouldn't teach both; the media shouldn't equate both.

This should not become a war of beliefs, nor should this be a battle of religions. Whether you believe in science should not preclude you from finding comfort and peace in religion. However, the fact that 45% of this country chooses to ignore tested and established theories of Earth's age (4.5 billion years old) in favor of the Bible (which says Earth is less than 10,000 years old) frightens me dearly. We are rejecting testable knowledge in favor of a claim that has no proof. There is no proof.

With each generation, cultures amend their collective knowledge with a revised--and hopefully improved--set of facts and conclusions. Even the apparently immutable Catholic Church has changed its mind on positions. As scary and disturbing as it might be for some, science has helped generate new information that can lead to these position changes.

Over time, people have allowed the strongest explanations of our existence on this planet to drive our understanding of the universe. Now an emboldened few are trying to convince the vulnerable masses otherwise. And they are not supplying us with the second strongest theory, or the third strongest.

Instead, the so-called "alternative" they provide is untestable, unreliable, and truly unscientific. That so many are giving this movement its chance to destroy our education and our science is simply unbelievable.

Promoting My Friends

Here's a little shout out for two friends that have managed to make their way into the public eye in the last few weeks:

First, Ms. Mallory Stuchin. Mallory has proven her mettle writting about what the French refer to as "doin' it". Sorry, my mistake; the French actually call it "Le Doin' It."

Yes, it's about making sweet, sweet love. I'm not even talking Barry Manilow sex. I'm talkin' Barry White sex. In the laundry room. In a college dorm. Freshman year. Hopefully using a rubber. Cuz it's nasty in the laundry room.

No I mean it. It's really nasty down there, what with lint and detergent puddles everywhere. At least I think that's detergent...

I'm also a fan of the article because Mal's picture is from my birthday party. So like, if this article leads to book deals, fame, and fortune, well then I'm just saying I wouldn't be averse to being taken out for a nice dinner or given a Maserati or something.

Mallory, you're a real-life Carrie Bradshaw (with a better nose) and have shown true potential here. Keep up the good work. Friends tell me that they're more than willing to help in your research for future articles. On that note, allow me to deeply apologize to Blake, a dear friend and Mallory's older brother, who likely will want to kill me for putting his sister and sex in the same thought.

By the way, Mallory's 8-years-old.

(Sidebar: Mallory's not really 8-years-old. I was just trying to upset the prudes who frown upon sex with minors.)

The next person I'd like to call up to light a candle is my Poppy Murray-- no wait, he cut the challah. So, I guess instead, let's talk a bit about Ms. Risa Needleman.

Risa opened her first art gallery last Friday night, and it was stupendous. Presented by The Risa Needleman Gallery, it focuses on diverse works of contemporary Latin American art. There's really some interesting, beautiful work, so I recommend swinging by her show at 186 Orchard Street (at Shimna) before it ends on September 3rd. Risa will be the one napping on the couch when you walk in. Only disturb her if you plan on buying something.

Speaking Of Thrusting

When journalists queried Egoyan about the movie's possible ratings difficulties at a media luncheon at the Cannes Film Festival, the director said:

"I guess I'm naive. I really had no idea it would be a problem. I just heard the deciding factor could be thrusting. Apparently, anything over three thrusts and you're in trouble. Well, nobody told me. I didn't even do covering shots, so there's nothing I can cut away to. This is what you get."

Link

Everything Ends

Did anyone else watch the finale to Six Feet Under? That was a lot harder than I thought it would be...

Karl Rove is a Shitty Tipper

Oh man, have they got one nasty STD...

Until today, we could only assume the likes of Howard Stern, Karl Rove, and yes, lounge lizard Tom Jones were terrible with gratuities. We could also assume that they have small penises, but that's besides the point.

My friends, a new day is upon us. A day when we raise our arms in the air, put them back down, go on the Internet, and read BitterWaitress.com's "Shitty Tipper Database".

Search for family members!
Search for friends!
And before you make fun of those two groups, search for yourself and make sure you haven't been blacklisted.

According to these sultans of the service industry, even a 12% tip justifies some degree of vitriol! Though it's for the 4% and under crowd that they reserve the right to sprinkle a little jizz in your New England Clam Chowder.

Coming Soon: Ads on Your Forehead

Apparently New York "advertecture" is on the rise.

Many of us locals are pretty disappointed about the horrific crime recently commited against the Flatiron Building.

Well, it looks like this trend is spreading.

Sleeping on the Toilet

I'm waiting for a colleague to call me back. I've been waiting for the last 3 hrs. Every 45 minutes or so, he'll call, we'll talk for about a minute, and he'll need to jump off again. I get about a sentence in. Sentence and a half if I speak fast.

If it wasn't for this guy, I could have justifiably gone home at lunchtime. Today is the really light day between finishing one major 3-month-long project, and starting the next one tomorrow.

I want these hours of my life back. I could have been just as productive at home in my apartment... sleeping.

And yes, I realize I could have just gone to the men's room, sat down with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands and snoozed for a bit, but I didn't think of it in time. Ingenius idea? You're damn right it is. This is the greatest way ever to power nap for 10 minutes. If anyone asks why you were gone so long, blame a gastrointestinal infection. How can they question that? What can they say, "Prove it"?!

Uncomfortable with faking a GI condition? Blame the exotic cuisine that gave you food poisoning from dinner and kept you up all last night. Kills two birds: explains your short sabbatical from your desk AND justifies your tired, bloodshot eyes! Jackpot!

Not that I've ever done this or anything. It just seems like it would be a clever...(ahem)... nevermind.

All I know is that 3 hours and 27 minutes have passed, and I've been reduced to doodling pictures of the glass pyramid at The Louvre on a notepad I stole from the Toronto Hilton 3 months ago, and reading an article about why Americans love Ranch dressing. And I'm fascinated.

This, after one of life's great mysteries was finally answered for me: "When white doves are released during a special event, where do they go?" Pleasantly, I learned that if they're real doves, they likely are hit by a car or starve to death. If they're not real doves, they usually survive because companies will use white homing pigeons who return to their trainer after release.

So, the doves either die... or turn out to just be city rats with wings? Wow, that's not the most diappointing fact I've ever learned about anything. Ever.

Now if you'll excuse me, I think my GI problem is acting up again. I'll be back in 20...

The Pillowman

Until tonight, I didn't know you could make a comedy about killing children.

Okay, that's not entirely true, but now I have your attention. In a way, you can't make a comedy about child killers. However, The Pillowman, a Broadway play whose run ends this month, managed to do something pretty close. All the while, it managed to keep you laughing, yet it maintained this awful sense of dread of the inevitable. In fact, I really wouldn't go so far as to call it a comedy at all. Rather, it was more like a sharply bothersome drama wrapped in laugh-out loud hilarity. Did I mention how disturbing it was? Cuz it's that too.

The show starred Billy Crudup and Jeff Goldblum, among others. Crudup plays Katurian, a writer who is interrogated about the content of his work (such as children giving their fathers razor blade-filled apples to eat), and, more frighteningly, their similarity to child murders that are occurring in the same town. Goldblum and his partner interrogate both him and his challenged brother about the murders. That's where things get interesting.

I have yet to see anything, stage or screen, where Billy Crudup isn't fantastic. Tonight's performance has strengthed what I like to call my "Rules of Crudup" (or what used to be known as "You Have a Little Crudup on Your Sleeve"):

• Crudup is a great actor (see Almost Famous, Big Fish, or this play, for example)
• Crudup has great hair-- long, short, doesn't matter-- the guy's got a great mop

I also have a list I've compiled about things I've learned about Jeff Goldblum:

• Goldblum is a weird dude

Anyway, great play. Couple of stories:

First, during the curtain call, Goldblum gave a little speech about The Actors' Fund, and how it's important to recognize the contributions they make to actors and others. Clearly a serious speech. Mid-sentence, the curtain falls, Goldblum's eyes get wide with surprise, and everyone just stops clapping. People hang around for a few more seconds, realize the curtain is not coming back up, and everyone files out the door. And Goldblum never finished speaking! And no one seemed to mind!

Second, I ran into David Hyde Pierce in the lobby. I introduced myself and complimented him on his fantastic job in Spamalot! (which is hilarious). He thanked me, we left it at that, and one thing struck me as I walked away: For as put-together as he was in "Frasier" as Niles, he is that much of a schlub in real life. I mean, scraggly hair, wrinkled and untucked shirt. Just... wow.

By the way, as I am about to publish this post, I realize how poorly this follows my previous post about hypothetically kicking the crap out of children... because The Pillowman is about murdering children. Yeah, this might be in bad taste. Actually, the previous post was definitely in bad taste. Sorry, Mom.

Kicking the Crap Out of 5-Year-Olds

Let me preface this by saying a couple of things:

1. You are NOT too good a person to discuss this topic.
2. You are NOT too smart a person to discuss this topic; my office is mostly comprised of graduates from Penn, Princeton, and Harvard. We spent our entire lunchtime analyzing all of the different permutations of how this scenario could play out.
3. I do NOT advocate the assault of 5 year old children. This discussion is purely hypothetical, and will help you find your strengths, weaknesses, and most importantly, your boundaries.

Now, I feel like I lost you about the time that I said the words "assault of 5 year old children". So I'll stop here and just direct you to follow this link.

I can't lie, it's hilarious, provided you don't take yourself too seriously.

Here's 40+ pages of people discussing this very topic.

Planting Potatoes

I received this story in an e-mail a few months back. I rediscovered it while cleaning out my Inbox, and felt it was fairly amusing:

An old Jewish man lived alone in the country. He wanted to dig his potato garden but it was very hard work as the ground was hard. His only son, Saul, who used to help him, was in prison for Insider Trading and Stock Fraud. The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament:

Dear Solly:
I am feeling pretty bad because it looks like I won't be able to plant my potato garden this year. I'm just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot. If you were here, all my troubles would be over. I know you would dig the plot for me.
Love,
Papa

A few days later the old man received a letter from his son:

Dear Papa:
For heaven's sake Dad, don't dig up that garden, that's where I buried the money & stocks.
Love,
Your son, Solly

At 4 am the next morning, a team of FBI agents and local police arrived at the old man's house and dug up the entire garden area without finding any money or stocks. They apologized to the old man and left. The next day the old man received another letter from his son:

Dear Papa:
Now you can plant the potatoes. That's the best I could do for you
under the circumstances.
Love,
Your son, Solly

Moron of the Sea

Thanks to Arielle for finding this quote. It proves that not all parents fullful their obligation to lock the stupid kids in the basement until they're 40:

"Oh, no. I'm so totally blond. I don't think anyone would take me
seriously if I wasn't blond." -Jessica Simpson

Does she hear herself speak?

And who in the world lied to poor Jessica and told her she's being taken seriously??

"I never intentionally posted a blog entry. Period." -Rafael Palmeiro

"I never posted a blog entry. Period." -Rafael Palmeiro

TFW

My boss has a few favorite business acronym:

TFW - Totally Fucking Wrong

Fortunately, I haven't received this scarlett letter on any of my work. But still, it's harsh.

We were on a conference call a few days ago, and he just starts scrawling TFW all over the documents the client sent us. He throws the phone on mute and just starts repeating "Totally Fucking Wrong... this guy is Totally Fucking Wrong". Meanwhile the rest of us are rolling in our chairs. Just imagine the fallout if he didn't mute the phone the right way. That could have made for a great story.

He even started pulling Post-Its off the pad, scribbling TFW on a sheet and sticking it to the wall. It's 4 days later, that Post-It's still hanging on. Now I'm not even sure why he still has it up.

I guess terms like that are just par for the course in the office. Everyone's got their own consulting speak:

• If something elicits choices from customers, it's choiceful.
• When we implement something into a client's office, we're functionalizing it.
• Everyone loves McKinsey's term, MECE (sounds like mee-see), which means "mutually exclusive, collectively exhaustive"
• Everything needs to be QA'd or QC'd ASAP, and make sure you BCC it to the VP and the MD.

I guess perhaps it makes us all more efficient. Perhaps it saves a breath or two. Perhaps we can avoid 15 extra keystrokes when jotting down an email to the team. And perhaps we as business people are just better performers with all of these cocamamy terms to help us out each day.

Or perhaps we're just totally fucking wrong.

Sir Mix-A-Lot is rolling in his grave...Wait, is he dead?

A recent IM conversation between me and Blake:

Blake:

Target has rewritten Sir Mix-a-Lot's notorious 1992 hit, "Baby Got Back," and made it the centerpiece of its back-to-school ad campaign. Says a company spokesman, "There isn't anything particularly offensive about changing the meaning of the song from 'backside' to 'backpack' -- it's a short trip. No one is particularly offended along the way, maybe someone's mom won't like it, but offending mom has been a good way to sell the kids for a long time."

Me: what a great sound bite
Blake: i am horrified
Me: okay, what a "great" sound bite
Blake: there's got to be some kind of rule against taking dirty songs and making them family-friendly
Me: i've actually seen that commercial and thought to myself "really? this is where we're at now??"
Blake: what's next? Food Emporium remixing 2 Live Crew tracks to "Me So Hungry"?

This is why we're friends.

The Tale of a 6-Pound Burger

This is just so (sniff) beautiful...

Thinking on an Elevator

This ever happen to you: You enter an elevator with at least one other person, and press the button for your floor. Then you get that little thought.

Please don't pick a floor lower than mine.

Inevitably, if you even entertain that idea, they will DEFINITELY pick a floor that comes before yours. Oftentimes, they select the very first floor up, and you just want to grab that person by the throat and ask them why in the world they need an elevator to go up one floor?! ONE!

It elicits a very personal reaction too. I think I actually began to hate these people. Don't you sometimes start to believe they're doing this on purpose just to piss you off? Maybe they are.

There's just something so pleasing about a direct elevator ride to your floor. It's like catching all the green lights on the road, getting bumped up to 1st class for free on an airplane, or just having a really good BM.

Today, however, sucked. I live about halfway up my building, and six people entered with me. Mathematically, each one had an equal probability of picking a floor higher than mine or lower. 3 above, 3 below, I can deal with it. But then I got that little thought.

Turns out they all lived on different floors, and all below me. It's like ELEVATOR CONSTIPATION. The whole process is slowed, you become increasingly frustrated with each passing moment, and there's nothing you can do but simply wait it out until everyone unloads.

(I also may have been the first person to ever use and discuss the term "elevator constipation." Just saying.)

I'll tell you though, every time these neighbors of mine pushed a button, it was like a little man in my head would scream "GODDAMNIT!!!" and kick me the inside of my skull.

This is probably why I get nosebleeds.

Get Arrested

Annyong!

For all those who are already Arrested Development fans, rejoice.

For all of those who aren't, what the hell are you doing?

In case you missed all or some of the 2nd season (or you just need to see more of Tobias' balls, never-nude shorts, Gene Parmesan, GOB's magic, $5000 suits-- come on!!, a Lucille, a loose seal, Lucille drinking, rehab, Lucille 2, prosthetic hands, The Final Countdown, Ice the Bounty Hunter, the corn baller, promise rings, Girls With Low Self-Esteem, Abu Ghraib, wives with huge cans, tear-away pants, Sugarfoot, Spring Break--wooo!!!!, Motherboy XXX, Mrs. Featherbottom, 250cc's of George Sr., Les Cousines Dangereuse, and Franklin Comes Alive), I have good news! [And can you tell I'm excited?]

Fox is replaying the whole second season starting TOMORROW in weekly TWO-HOUR blocks to get you all caught up. That's right. From 8-10pm every Friday, you're gonna TiVo this bitch because it's too good to miss. Don't make a huge mistake and miss this.

This is all in anticipation of the new season beginning Monday, September 15th at 8pm (brand new time slot).

FOX should be paying me for this kinda promotion.

Oh, and you're welcome. That's in anticipation of you thanking me later.

Adios Hermano.

p.s. 29 A.D. references. I rule.

NBA Draft 2005

Went to the draft w/Blake & Brett today. I think this was Blake's 6th year in a row. This was the maiden voyage for the rest of us.

For me, the highlight came about 20 picks in. Things were really getting exciting, people were cheering, lights were flashing, and basically I got really excited and-- well, I think I ran up on stage, and everything was hazy and people were screaming, and it was just so exciting and...

I got drafted.

I'm not sure exactly how this happened.

I'm gonna need to move to Milwalkee now and start practicing before the season gets rolling. I don't think my family will be too happy either. I think I was supposed to attend a cousin's Bat Mitzvah, but I might have a night game.

Ignore me, I'm being ridiculous. It was a lot of fun, and now I'm going to bed.


NBA Draft 2005 at the Paramount Theater


Ready for Broadcast

Sunsets from 12 Stories Above The Street

I've started to try to appreciate the simpler things in life. I recently read an article about how the French can take 10 minutes to eat a single piece of chocolate. And while I'm not trying to mold myself into a cheese-eating, surrender monkey (kidding, I just really like that nickname), I think there's something to it.

However, as long as I'm talking about the French, here's a funny way to waste 20 seconds: Go to Google. Type "french military victories" and hit I'M FEELING LUCKY. Enjoy.

So as I was saying, I'm trying to pay more attention to my senses. I take my time with chocolate now too. Also, I've begun to... ah, well let's see. What else do I do? I know I do other stuff now. I eat choc-- no, already mentioned that chocolate thing. Well, there was this time that this girl and I-- no, that's not appropriate. Damn it, I thought there was more stuff. This is, well, this is slightly embarrassing now. I knew I wanted to lead with the chocolate example, but now that I'm here I just feel a need to keep typing thinking that a new idea would come to mind and clearly that's not happening so at this point I should probably change the subject in hopes that no one has noticed that my grammar punctuation and aversion to run-on sentences have regressed slightly and suddenly this more of a question of stamina than anything else and a contest that no one else besides me is playing called "Who Can Keep Typing Without Stopping Never Stop You Sonofabitch Never Fucking Stop" that tests nothing other than the apparent diarrhea of my brain and oh god someone please give me a reason to end this sentence with something interesting and surprising and entertaining and--

(The phone rings. I need to take this. A friend just invited me to North Carolina to see The Rolling Stones. Perfect, that'll do.)

So maybe all of that stuff I said before is merely a bad excuse to eat more chocolate. Especially dark chocolate.

[Moving on] Aside from justifying my own gluttony, I've found a great way to decompress on those days when I can escape from work at a decent time. Reading the newspaper on the roof of my building has really become one of the best parts of my day (at least on weekdays that don't rhyme with Fursday or Thriday). And while we're all going to ignore what that says about the remainder of my normal activities, it has become a nice unspoken pleasure. Hot girls in bikinis don't really hurt the situation either. But may I say something to these ladies for a moment? YOU CAN'T GET TAN WHEN THE SUN IS BELOW THE HORIZON! WHAT IN GOD'S NAME ARE YOU DOING UP HERE?? HOW DID YOUR PARENTS NOT EAT YOU WHEN YOU WERE YOUNG?

When I think to do it, I bring my camera up there too, in hopes that the smog that collects in pollution-riddled wasteland called Jersey (named after small African bugs that eat garbage and human feces for survival-- look it up, I know you won't) can refract the low-angled sunlight in such a way as to color the sky for a pretty kick-ass sunset.

Fortunately, tonight was pretty decent:

Amber Dusk

Looking West

Too Close for Comfort

On Friday night, there was a shooting across the street from my building. Turns out some rappers and magazine execs were involved. Amazingly, no one actually died, even though the main "target" (if you can call someone that) was shot in the head. The guy's in critical condition.

From the way some of the witnesses told it to me, there should be at least one guy dead right now.

I'm not really sure how to feel about this. I guess in a city, things like this happen. In a big city, it happens even more.

When I got to the scene around 2:30am, the whole block was saturated with ambulances and squad cars. Police were searching up and down the block with flashlights looking for who knows what-- blood, weapons, bullet casings? Apparently two guys were even chased down the street before they were apprehended, and perhaps shot in the extremities to slow or stop them. When I showed up, the street was illuminated with flashing lights, casting an alternating blue or red glows onto the surrounding buildings. People who sleep with their blinds open were probably in for a real show if they were light sleepers.

By the time the sun came up, you'd have never known anything had happened. The yellow police tape had been cut down. Joggers swiftly strode along the sidewalks. The bar where the incident began was full the very next night. Young 20-somethings strolled up and down the street wearing J.Crew button downs, halter-tops, and expensive jeans, looking for the next party at which to look fabulous and drink too much expensive vodka that's been ruined by a Red Bull. Unwitting, attractive, white girls stood idly on the sidewalk chatting on their Motorola Razrs exactly where a young black man of a similar age was nearly murdered by a bullet lodged in his brain not 24 hours earlier.

For all I know, the bullet's still in his brain.

In a city this big, it's impossible to dwell on this. You can run though a "what-if" scenario for every person in this city, and still not be satisfied. What if I had been lazy and decided to just grab a beer across the street at the bar where the fight began? Hell, even a busboy was hit with 3 bullets!

What if I had decided to walk home on the north side of the street instead of the south side? And what if I had left my party 30 minutes earlier? What if a bullet managed to miss its intended mark and made its way down the sidewalk to other pedestrians? It becomes absurd.

Living in a city this big, if you're looking 5 minutes back, you're 10 minutes behind schedule.

So in spite of the London bombings, you have to ignore the what-ifs. Instead, you pack your bag, jump down to the subway and hope the random bag checks aren't going to inconvenience you long enough to miss the next train, and render you too late to read CNN.com at work before your boss shows up. That's about as much control as you have so what does worrying do?

Read the Metro section of The NY Times. New Yorkers know that an attack in this city isn't of question of "if". It's "when". And yet most people can't or won't change their behavior. It's too overwhelming. Can you blame them?

It's nearly impossible to predict where the next bomb will go off, or even when the next shooting is gonna go down. So what can I do? This weekend, I'm going to put on my J.Crew button down shirt and jeans, grab my Motorola cell phone, and enjoy myself. Provided the worst injury I suffer is a liver no worse for the wear, I'll consider myself fortunate.

I just hope that busboy's okay.

Still Running in Slo-Mo

Two days later, and I'm still furious at Hasselhoff. If I see that rat bastard again, it's on.

Hear that, Hasselhoff?

I SAID HEAR THAT, HASSELHOFF!?!?

Toilet Paper & Roller Coasters

Do you ball or fold your toilet paper?

Have you ever given thought to that before? Will you now? At least the next time you start to take some off the roll?

It's a simple question, and yet it begins to expose the very fabric of your existence on this planet. There's no in-between on this. People do one or the other, and I've never heard of switchers. Never.

This also conforms to my other theory on people: Either you really like roller coasters, or you don't. There is a very hard split among the populace. Even as you read this, you know exactly where you fall.

To clarify, this is not a question about whether you ever ride a roller coaster. This question is attitudinal, not behavioral. What I'm discussing is whether you really enjoy it, or really don't. One test is to ask yourself, "When the cars slow down as they approach the loading cabin for the coaster, am I relieved that it's over, or severely diappointed?" Again, hard split.

Few things in this world are as black and white as these two subjects. There's really no gray. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. And is probably a communist.

And in case you were wondering, I fold, and I love roller coasters. So, ah....now you know.

Running in Slo-Mo with No Shirt On

Location: Bloomingdales, Men's sunglasses department
Time: 2:05pm
Accomplices: Matt & Davey
Situation: David Hasselhoff, who looks really gay since he's been dying his hair a light brown, walked by me and bumped my shoulder as he passed. Never apologized. Big mistake, Hasselhoff. Big. Mistake.

I don't know what I'm gonna do. Here you are, 6'5" of tanned, 53-year-old meat who is so masculine that your CD's have gone #1 fifteen times in Germany (Who the hell goes #1 in Germany?? Kernkraft?). And here's me...ah...pissed because you bumped into me.

I'd say my odds are pretty good, my friend. Prit-tay, prit-tay, prit-tay good. I mean, if you didn't have the most awesome first name ever, I would have just ended you on the spot. But you bought yourself some time with that. Well played, Knight Rider. You're smart.

Anyway, watch your back, lifeguard. That's right, I'm looking right at you, big daddy. Mark this: you'll rue the day you crossed me. Or at least, you'll feel slightly remorseful. I hope.

I'm always ready, I won't let you out of my siiiiight (I'llllllll be reaaaaady..... I'llllll be reaaaady)

Oh, and if you see Brande Roderick, can you tell her I say "hi"? Thank you David.

Books No One Wants to Read

"...Moving from cashing in on fictional kidnappings, to cashing in on real ones, there's Ashley Smith. She's the woman who's heroism consisted of not dying when taken hostage by Altanta courthouse shooter, Brian Nichols.

"Her upcoming book will tell the story of how she's been inspired by Christian best-seller 'The Purpose Driven Life.'

"So... she's getting paid to write a book...about how she read another book?!?! That's not a book!

IT'S A BOOK REPORT!!

"Why don't I just shop around my manuscript about how much I enjoyed 'Where the Red Fern Grows'???"

-Lewis Black, BACK IN BLACK on The Daily Show

Actually Famous

Allow me to begin this appropriately: Brett Pearlman is the man.

I use the power of this blog very rarely, but when you're responsible for taking me to my very first movie premiere, then hell, you're getting a damn Hot97-style shout-out.

I just got home from the New York premiere of The Island, and let me say that this is a hell of a film. It's everything you'd expect from Michael Bay. He's the guy who did both Bad Boys films, The Rock, Armageddon, and Pearl Harbor. And The Island doesn't disappoint. Did I say "ridiculous"? Cuz it was ridiculous.

The night begins as expected: speeding through 30 blocks of traffic in 5 minutes to make it to the theater on time. God bless whoever programmed the traffic lights last night; it was scary how perfectly they changed. Okay, this isn't interesting at all.

Upon arriving at the theater, we walked down the red carpet, past the paparazzi, and enjoyed every minute of it. Quite an experience. We were at the Ziegfield Theater, and the most noticable part of the premiere experience is that when the movie begins, it simply begins. No trailers, no dancing popcorn. It's just-- lights down, movie starts. That alone is cool. It's also incredible how interactive the audience gets -- constant cheers and applause when anything big happens.

But then the movie ends, and on to Roseland Ballroom we go for the after-party. The whole place was done up like the movie. They've got models of adult-size human embryos surrounding the entrance and hall as you walk in, all of the waiters are wearing costumes from the movie, etc-- it's incredibly overwhelming. I even got to briefly chat with Steve Buchemi and Sean Bean (006 in the James Bond flick, GoldenEye). Both were enormously gracious, but while Buscemi appeared to be moving around constantly, Sean Bean actually appeared to want to chat. I even made him laugh when his date began to sniff the mashed potatoes at the buffet and I made a face at him to say "What in the world is she doing??" He actually laughed out loud. Needless to say, Sean Bean is my new favorite actor.

Meanwhile, Buscemi was drunk off his ass.

It's all so remarkably silly. Wanna stand next to Michael Clarke Duncan, just to see how big he really is? Sure. Steal the sign on Sean Bean's table, just cuz it's funny? Go ahead.

But where was Scarlett Johansson??? I know she came to the party, but we couldn't find her! And that almost ruined my night. Almost. Granted, it would have been the perfect beginning to a story of how we met, locked eyes, fell instantly in love, and lived happily ever after... but alas, no. Did I mention how drunk Steve Buscemi was? Did I mention how cool Djimon Hounsou was? Did I mention how badly I needed to pee? All true.

Now that you have my immediate reaction, I need to go to bed. But what a hell of a night, and I just needed to get that out. It's so easy to give in to the superficiality of it all (I'd be lying if I told you that most of the people weren't beautiful), but it's suprisingly easy to get caught up in it. After talking to Buscemi, I couldn't NOT smile, clink glasses with Brett, and acknowledge a mission accomplished. And for those who know me, I can't begin to explain how pissed I am that I didn't bring a camera. This entry would have been a whole lot more interesting with pics of me with Michael Clarke Duncan, Michael Bay, Steve Buscemi, Sean Bean, and some gigantic Italian guy that I definitely recognize from something but couldn't place at all.

Well, I'm giddy like a schoolgirl. I better cut this off now. Thanks for reading.

Oh, random things I forgot:

• Pauly Shore was there. Here's the weird part (though I guess just seeing him there is weird enough): When we walked into the theater lobby, there was only one celebrity being interviewed by the press. Pauly Shore.
• Two words: Open Bar
• Two more words: Mini Cheeseburgers...
• ...and cornbread
• Mickey Dolenz of "The Monkees" was there just hanging wearing a fedora

Almost Famous

What a day! I was out with the parents for dinner, and in the span of 30 minutes, I ran into two huge celebrities.

First, I dined next to Christine Ebersole. Yes, that Christine Ebersole.

After a celebrity sighting like that, I could barely walk! I just mean, wow. THE Christine Ebersole. Not only was she in Ghost Dad, My Girl 2, and Richie Rich, but she played the evil senator in Black Sheep. How can one woman be involved with so many classics??? It boggles the mind.

So like I said, I could barely walk. I managed to stumble about a block down the street, contemplating my existence and wondering if Christine Ebersole realizes how she's a semi-recognizable actress who gets that, "I think that person is famous, but I can't recall one thing she's ever done" look at restaurants. Who do I practically run over?

Mo Rocca.

I know, I know. How did I not go into sensory overload at that point? But I managed to keep it together long enough to say, "Hey you're Mo Rocca! You're the comedian who used to be funny on the Daily Show, and then was hired for Larry King Live during the Democratic and Republican conventions in 2004 and was about as amusing as syphilis." Well, except for the time he called the DNC an "Obamarama." That got a chuckle.

I admit it. That was harsh. In all fairness, he is funny on occasion and I'm just tired so I felt like ripping on the guy. In reality, I didn't say word one to him. But he does look fairly young (especially when he's wearing an old undershirt), so for the first couple of seconds I knew I recognized him, and considered whether we went to college together. So I made that "I recognize you but don't know your name so it's better we keep on walking" face and nodded my head, as if to say "What is up?" He looked at me and nodded back.

I was about to say hi, but quickly arrived at a startling realization: Mo Rocca is not my friend. Mo Rocca is Mo Rocca. So on I went, mildly surprised with how unexciting pseudo-celebrity encounters can really be.

A Few Bits of Random Crap

Coolest feat of strength I've ever seen.

Where the hell is this?

"You will soooo be glue soon!"

Hey kid, do you like muffins?

Perhaps you like to dance instead?

Finally, is this not the happiest music video ever?

Big ups to my brother for assisting in today's compilation.