November 2005 Archives

Well good. That was the whole point of making you wait so long for another post. That, and I've had an eventful holiday weekend. On Wednesday I went to the taping of The Late Show with David Letterman, courtesy of my awesome Auntie Emily. Claire Danes was on, and the entire time I had to fight the urge to shout, "I LOVE YOU ANGELA CHASE!" I am sad to report that I did not make good on my resolution to fight Paul Shafer if ever in the same room as him. I blame it on paralysis due to the shock of seeing an old man in a leather suit with a bedazzled tie.
On Thursday, Austin overslept the 8:30 train (which is why a narcoleptic should never claim he will wake up at 6am to travel) and rolled into Penn Station around 1pm. I showed Austin the neighborhood (and shopped for snacks) while David literally ran to pick up our food. Yes, I cooked some of the Thanksgiving dinner (hello wild rice stuffing and fresh cranberry sauce) but since our oven is too small for a Turkey (and I don't like to touch animal bodies, although I do like to eat them) I had the turkey and some sides made by a quant little bistro nearby. You might have heard of it, it's called Boston Market. We were joined at our meal by Adam and Will, David's co-workers and fellow Midwesterners who are also new to the city. Will is from Detroit and Adam is from--wait for it--Brainerd, Minnesota.

On Friday Austin and I had a full day. We found a few parks that he had his heart set on seeing. This was not an easy task seeing as how Austin is a grad student at Penn and so "finding a park" means "finding a small and secluded example of landscape architecture that no New Yorker has ever heard of." Here, there is only one park worth mentioning. We found them and they were well worth the long walk and the blistering wind. We also went to the Neue Museum, which features German and Austrian art. I know, Germans? If you didn't know, my hate for the Germans is outweighed only by my love of Austrians, and Austin wanted to see an exhibit on Austrian Egon Schiele, so that is what we did.

Austin left on Saturday...he told me to wake him up at 8:30 which of course meant that he woke up at 10:30 and caught the 1:55 train because he and David wouldn't do anything until I left the apartment to fetch donuts. I was sad to see Austin leave. Being 7 years his junior, I've spent much of my life idolizing Austin and begging him to be my friend. And it finally happened! My brother really is the coolest! Meghan has been deposed and now I, the lowly middle child, have finally fallen into Stinky's good graces!

This weekend I had a lot to be thankful for. Two months ago I was sitting on the floor in this apartment, eating my "meals" off of plastic boxes and crying because I didn't have a job much less a couch. Now I have a rockin futon for all of my favorite people to sleep on when they visit and a job that keeps my bills paid and my tummy full. What else am I thankful for? Cameras!

This is the street where I live.

And this is what my apartment building looked like last week. To quote Jimmy, "Someone threw their apartment out of their window. And into their front yard."

Aut, Henry, and Jack. Giving the peace sign is the first indication that you are entering your awkward stage. Sorry, Jack.

Aut on the roof of my building.

Austin and I stumbled upon this structure, a memorial for the Irish famine.

There were no starving Irish at Apt 9. And yes, that is a turkey breast shoved into a tin foil pan. Don't judge me.

The first little park we found. Success!

In case this is too hard to read: "Please do not break lock. Please use key." Because I mean, you CAN break into the building, but just don't, okay?

The full view of our little apartment. As seen from the toilet. Well, Ma! You wanted to see it!

My mother wants to know more about my life, both in words and in pictures. Well, too bad, Ma. Today was dark, windy, icy, and altogether terrible weather for photos. Right now, my camera batteries are charging in anticipation of the coming weekend. Tomorrow is the taping of The Late Show with David Letterman, which I am attending with Auntie Em, who is making her triumphant return to the city of her wild youth, this time with her husband and three kids. Thursday Stinky arrives for a hot Thanksgiving feast prepared by myself and the good folks at Boston Market. Who knows what the rest of the weekend holds, but whatever it may be I will document it with sharp photographs and a rapist wit.
Until I can properly update you on my life, you'll have to make do with what used to be my life: Tuscany. For better or worse, most of you weren't around when I returned with photographs and stories of my summer abroad. So, as winter wraps her icy fingers around us, gaze upon these images of a sunny, happy place...

Here is my little house.

The infinity pool. Infinitely beautiful. Infinitely relaxing.

Irene taking a break from biking around Lucca.

Performing our signature pool party trick.

Me and my little Italians.

One of the many Passionist crosses found along the roadsides.

Beware. I am about to extoll the virtues of yet another Vh1 show. What entertains me most about "Hogan Knows Best" is that even though Terry (aka Hulk) outdoes my father in terms of bulk, tan, spandex, and facial hair, he seems to have gone to the same school of parenting. Alas, he seems to have managed to outdo him in that category as well. In today's rerun, Hulk noticed his daughter eating a chocolate chip cookie, and took the chance to tell his 16-year-old daughter the following:

"One turns into two. Two turns into three, three turns into four, and four turns into a big back door."

For that alone, Hulk Hogan beats out Steve M*Inerny for the coveted Father of the Year title. Tough luck, Steve-O. You will have a chance to reclaim your title when I come home from December 23-28 by pinching my back fat and asking if I've gained some weight. Which I have.

PS: Once, for my birthday, my dad arranged for me to go to a WWF event, where I was given a Hulk Hogan toothbrush AND tear-away t-shirt. It was soooo cool.

"I chose these two books because they were written by the most influential writers of our epoch:

Well, I chose the John Stossel book because I wanted to know what the words in the title meant. Like Hucksters."

Girl: You know Orson Wells? The actor?
Girl 2: Mmm. No.
Girl: He was an actor? He wrote War of The Worlds? He also wrote Team America?

42nd & 6th

I love cable. Today, VH1 treated me to a 1/2 hour of R. Kelly's Ghetto Opera, "Trapped In The Closet." I had caught the original performace of Chapter 3 (or was it Chapter 4) on the VMAs, but today I was exposed to chapters 6-8. The basic plotline involves adultery, guns, and every character being voiced by R himself. To bring you up to speed Sylvester went home with some lady he thought was single, her husband comes home early and Sylvester hides in the closet until his ringing cell phone gives him away. The jilted husband gets on his phone and calls his lover, some dude named Chuck. For some reason R Kelly pulls out a gun because he can't handle the madness. He then calls his wife and a dude answers the phone, prompting him to rush home and get a speeding ticket from a dude who ends up being his wifes lover, who returns to the scene of his love crimes and for some reason holds Sylvester and his wife at gunpoint. The gun goes off, shooting Sylvester's wife's brother (who just walked in the door after getting out of prison) and the cop goes home to his wife and declares, "you got something up your sleeve." The Chicago Sun-Times tells me that apparently, more madness awaits in the upcoming chapters.

The weirdest of the new twists and turns involves a white Southern woman cheating on her African-American husband with an African-American midget who defecates in his pants when the cuckolded spouse, a city police officer, pulls his gun. As in the past, Kelly sings the roles of all the characters himself with an impressive show of vocal bravura. Different actors lip-sync in the video, while Kelly plays the role of one cheating "player" (Sylvester) and the narrator.

I, for one, can't wait.

Or, at the very least, will Jamie Foxx please sit down?
I want to know wtf is up with Jamie Foxx. Sure, he won an Oscar for his portrayal of Ray Charles in Ray. Did I see it? No, because biopics aren't really my thing. The point is, the movie is over, and he can stop playing Ray Charles any day now. Why on earth is he collaborating with the likes of Kanye West and Ludacris singing hooks sampled from Charles' songs? I won't get into how "Golddigger" is a grand misappropriation of Ray Charles' "I Got A Woman," I'll just say this: there is (or was, anyway) only one Ray Charles, and it isn't this guy:

Lately it seems that a lot of my friends have been going through some heartbreak. Specifically, they've each had their heart systematically removed from their chest, pooped on, and lit on fire by members of the opposite sex. While it sucks having your heart broken, it also sucks to watch your friends go through it. So what I'm trying to say is, I'm here for you. So call me whenever you need someone to talk to. Just try not to make it during day time minutes unless you have T-Mobile, cuz I'm not trying to go over my minutes.

What happens when you pop this much popcorn?

David's solution: throwing the hot popcorn into a plastic bag.

Worked brilliantly.

Today my sister called me at work, and ended up talking to the lady at the front desk, a lady I see nearly every day at the coffee machine. Their brief conversation went something like this:

Lady: Hello, ----- (Name of my company)

Meg: Hi. May I please speak with Nora?

Lady: WHO?

Meg: Nora M*Inerny

Lady: What? Hold on. (Rustle of papers) Okay.

After a fruitless pursuit of the white whale, Jimmy and Dave swung by NYC via Cape May, New Jersey. After being led to 30th St and 43rd Ave rather than 30th Ave and 43rd St (which led Jimmy to believe that I lived in a warehouse), the guys finally arrived in the White Shadow (the 1990 Honda Accord). The visit was short but sweet, and my abs are still sore from all of the laughing.

Perhaps the best part was when Dave and Jimmy were trying to figure out the sleeping arrangements in our Lilliputian apartment. They finally settled on this arrangement, sleeping horizontally on the futon and using chairs as "extensions" so they wouldn't, you know, have to touch.

One year ago, my beautiful sister and her wonderful husband got married. Congratulations to the Nerd Couple on their first anniversary. I wish you many many more happy years to come.

Carmelo Anthony, Baron Davis, and Kenny Smith are great basketball players (or so I've been told). They are also generous men, appearing on Wheel of Fortune NBA Week to raise money for charity. However, they aren't much for words, as I gathered from watching the following two "puzzles" go unsolved.

_ U S T L I N G
M A R K E T

One of these fellows (I'm not naming any names) guessed "Hustling Market" rather than the more correct "Bustling Market." The incorrectness of that response is more due to difference in vernacular between the average Wheel of Fortune watcher and the average NBA player, so I'll let it slide. But there are no excuses for this one:

_ O U R T S I D E A T _ A D I S O N _ _ U A R E _ A R D E N

You're basketball players for crying out loud! Not only that, but you're paired with a "super fan!" It would be like me being unable to solve _R I T N E Y ___A R S. Wouldn't happen. Get it together, guys.

Do these things go together?

I didn't think so, either. East Japanese Restaurant on East 44th doesn't seem to have a problem with it. "Cockroach?" Our waiter asked as we handed him the dead offender in a napkin, "Okay. We spray today so they come out of walls."

Oh. Okay. Great. I mean, I still ate all my food but don't think that I wasn't totally grossed out.

I didn't know that Borat, everyone's favorite reporter from Kazakhstan, was now designing websites.

This morning, after uploading an ad at a publication's website, I got this message from Borat himself:

88 years ago Grandma Mary was brought into this world, the first in her family to be born in a hospital. Nine kids, 30 plus grandkids, and a handful of great-grandkids later, she's still making pottery, creating art, driving an SUV, and traveling the world. I love my Grandma, and you should, too.

(That's Granny on the left)

Because I know that the rest of the country has NO WAY of knowing what happens in New York, and that my website is the ONLY source of news for all of my readers, I'm filling you all in on the latest news. Or semi-latest news.

For some reason, the city smells like syrup. I'm not complaining.

A woman in Chelsea is attacked by a man dressed as a firefighter. As if that weren't bad enough, the New York Post places the story next to a photo of LIndsay Lohan dressed as a slutty firefighter on Halloween.

This guy wants to lose the mayoral race to Bloomberg, but at least get his jabs in.

This guy also wants to lose the mayoral race to Bloomberg.

That concludes today's News Flash.

This is Sam, winner of the ugliest dog contest for 5 years now. As far as I'm concerned, there was no contest, because there is clearly no competition.

I'm sorry for any nightmares this photo may cause, but this dog has been haunting my thoughts all day and it is only fair that I share the experience.

I'm not one to complain about the over-medicated state of the union, but something the other day pushed me over the edge. The straw that broke the camel's back was none other than the commercial for something called restless legs syndrome. Thank GOD they found a cure for moving legs. What will they think up next?

On another note, the award for Best Name For A Medication goes to Boniva, a medication for menopausal women.