June 2006 Archives

I had the day off, so what else could I do but go to the 11:35 show of The Devil Wears Prada? Oh, that's right, I could "drag" Dave Gilmore to the movie. Normally the quotation marks wouldn't be needed, but that was before he started collecting candles and stopped eating meat.

Seeing a movie in Queens is always torturous. There are talkers. And not just normal movie talkers, like oh, that's funny, or oh, what did he just say? But seriously MOVIE NARRATORS. I thought I was safe the one time going to see Match Point but no, in Astoria, there will ALWAYS be a group of dudes saying stuff like, "OH NO HE DIDN'T!" even if you are at a Woody Allen film.

We were unfortunate enough to sit in front of two fashionably thin and distressed t-shirt wearing guys who literally read everything that appeared on screen. "THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA. BASED ON THE NOVEL BY LAUREN WEISBERGER, ANN HATHAWAY. MERYL STREEP. STANLEY TUCCI." until the girl next to them practically ripped their faces off. Then, for five minutes we were treated to a narrative that included threats of slap fights.

But getting back to the movie. I've long known that New York is the city of assistants. What I did not know is that so many of them live in Astoria and would be so moved by this film that they would not only laugh riotously, but would CLAP throughout the entire film. It was like every girl and boy in the theatre was having their lives played out on the screen, and even though there was some inappropriate outburts (I'm thinking of the mystery person making emu noises and the explosive laughter during the most emotional scene) that was kind of cool.

The book itself was a guilty read, the kind of thing you tear through on a rainy Sunday afternoon, like a big bowl of popcorn for your brain, delicious and filling but nutritionally void. The movie made the smart choice of trimming down the cast of characters and keeping the story simpler, making the entire movie an improvement over the book. I won't get into a complicated analysis of the movie, but I'll say that Meryl Streep is amazing and Anne Hathaway is greatly underrated. Also, I want to make out with Adrian Grenier. Every day.

"I used to love days alone. That was before I knew they might last forever."

-Taken from an email by an anonymous friend.

On Tuesday I went to see Los Nativos, Brother Ali, and Atmosphere at Irving Plaza with David. “Nora,” he warned, “This will be a HIP HOP concert. People are gonna be pushing on you, and maybe grabbing your boobs. Are you going to get in a fight? Are you going to punch someone?”

David met up with me near my work, looking like a total square in his work clothes. He fretted about whether or not to bring his brief case, opting instead to shove all of his important work items into my oversized purse, which was awesome when the doorman checked my purse and had to rifle through legal pads to make sure I wasn’t concealing the world’s smallest and most stylish weapon.

The crowd was mainly teens decked out in all their hipster finery. Girls in skinny jeans and asymmetrical haircuts slamming Budweisers and guys in faded black t-shirts and straight-billed baseball caps scratching at their dirty hair.

Luckily, my job allows me to dress like myself, so by peeling of a t-shirt we avoided looking like the douchey businesscouple and instead looked like the cool girl and her businessman boyfriend. Which is weird because I’m not cool and David isn’t a businessman. He hates business.

Los Nativos tried their best to warm up the crowd, which at that point was awkward clusters of white teenage boys chatting quietly while white teenage girls stood in separate awkward clusters. Los Nativos had a revolutionary message, which always appeals to middle-class white kids, who finally agreed to pump their fists in the air while Los Nativos shouted the hook, “I WANT TO BURN THE WHITE HOUSE DOWN!" at which the Dad in front of me turned to his embarrassed son and said, "WHAT did they say?!" Los Nativos smartly followed that song with a commercially viable tune about their low riders, to which all the awkward kids raised their right hands and pretended to drive. I did the same, only with my hands at ten and two, because I’ll dance when prompted, but we can’t change who we are and I am a cautious driver. Even in my low-rider.

The main event turned out to be Brother Ali, the second opening act, who took the crowd to church (or Mosque). I’ve never seen so many people come so alive in such a short period, but this albino held the crowd in a spell. Everyone knew his words, everyone sang along, the crowd shifting like puzzle pieces to fill the empty spaces in the floor, mesmerized and gravitating toward the stage.

By the time Atmosphere hit the stage nearly 3 hours after we had arrived, the kids who had begun the night demurely asking Los Nativos to entertain THEM were instead participating in a party and security abandoned all efforts to stop the crowd from smoking cigarettes or pot or drinking without a wristband. This is what I had come to see, with the exception of the extremely drunk girl trying to dance to the music (about 2-3 beats off) while also trying to make out with her unfortunate looking boyfriend.

Commercial rap usually makes me want to vomit or laugh. As awesome as it is that Nelly has made a career rapping about his shoes or his teeth, it’s also incredibly pathetic. What troubles me about that music is not the message, because we subject ourselves to plenty of negative messages whether or not we listen to rap, but the fact that none of it has a soul. It’s sterile, made in a studio where someone pressed a button to add a whistle, an extra drum beat, a barking dog, a portion of a classic song sped-up to sound like it was sung by Alvin and The Chipmunks. It’s mechanical and dry.

What I like about the Rhymesayers crew is that they bring some life and soul back to hip-hop, so that even if they say something you disagree with, they're at least saying SOMETHING. They bring politics and personality and passion to every track, a little piece of their soul, so that you feel a connection not only to the song, but to the artist and to everyone else who likes that same music. There’s no Cristal or bling, no brand-name dropping or bitches or hos or anything else that would make it to TRL. It feels real and raw and unpolished, like the crowd of awkward teenagers who hungrily ate up every verse.

I had dinner tonight with a dear old friend, a girl I met when I was 8 years old and new at Annunciation Catholic School. I was in 2nd grade and when I met Kate, I realized that I wasn’t the only little girl who loved old books, journals, ancient Egypt, museums, historical fiction, tea, and all things British. Kate and I were a match, right down to our matching haircuts: lank bobs with bangs and hair so fine that our ears often poked right through.

My memories of Kate conjure up the sweet and somehow woodsy scent of her parents’ Southwest Minneapolis home, the scratchy feel of my uniform jumper against my sensitive skin, the shared excitement over a new American Girl book, the feeling of total obsession over hieroglyphics.

Kate and I had active imaginations, which, when you think of it, means that the basis of our friendship was pretty much lies. Because honestly, we WERE NOT teenage aristocrats who happened to wash ashore on a deserted island with the wonderful luck of having our servant girl (Kate’s younger sister) survive the wreck and fall into her former social role, happily sweeping out our quaint but well-appointed grass hut and cooking up delicious acorn stews. No, no. We were awkward children wearing fine-knit turtlenecks and polar fleece huddling in the backyard and carrying around buckets of sewage. But oh, was it fun.

But here we were, meeting up for dinner. Just barely, as I had gone to the Haru on the Upper West Side while Kate sat at a table at Haru on the Upper East Side awaiting my arrival. In true Law & Order style Kate got a cab and cut across the park, leaving JUST ENOUGH TIME for her to distance herself from the murder victim…

The best part about dinner with a really old friend is that the dinner conversation is able to meander in a different way from any other friend. The hurried greeting and recap of the daily/weekly/monthly frustrations is punctuated evenly with reminiscences of a shared past, forgotten memories that color the present with a new sense of humor.

As children, we had imagined that our lives would be spent as archaeologists or, if all else fell through, as writers. I guess all else did fall through, because instead of uncovered ancient Egyptian ruins or doing press junkets for our latest novels, we were having unbelievably delicious desserts at Lalo. We were all growsed up.

Yes, all growsed up but not done dreaming. The light in Lalo casts an ethereal glow over the streets outside, and as the restaurant grew more crowded with hungry grown-ups seeking their desserts, our talk turned to the future. The city, we decided, gives you Farm Fantasy. The urge to run to the end of the Earth, or at least to Vermont. To live in a large house with a wraparound porch. To make lemonade. To grow our own vegetables. To bake cakes with your children. To craft. To fall asleep with the sounds of crickets and cicadas instead of the moans of sick pigeons and the honking of taxi-cabs.

Combined, Kate and I have already wandered over 6 continents and too many countries to count. We’ve woken up in other countries while our parents in Minnesota were just turning in for the night. Now we’ve settled here, but our minds are still wandering. Still dreaming, but in a different scope. In many ways, the world holds more possibility now than it ever did when I was 8, when my world was defined so clearly by Rand McNally maps and Louisa may Alcott.

As I walked home, I caught a familiar scent in the air, the faint beginnings of summer swirling through the nighttime streets, curling around streetlights and sneaking into bedrooms to keep young children awake. The scent of possibility.

*Title of post blatantly thieved from a short story and blog by Ryan.

"Really? I always thought she was a lesbian"

"Yeah, me too. But no, she's just really religious."

A few weeks ago I read the popular book Blink, by Malcolm Gladwell, who has the dream job of working for The New Yorker and just writes best-selling books in his spare time. In case you missed all the media hoopla over his book, which was similar to the media hoopla surrounding John Stewart’s America (the book) and Freakonomics, meaning multiple appearances on morning shows and soundbites on evening news programs, the book is basically about how our snap judgments are startlingly accurate.

For me, the biggest thing this book did was to give a new spin to what was formerly just considering bitchiness or snarkiness. I’ve been dismissed as judgmental for years, which always bothered me because everyone on this planet judges each other. Nothing bothers me more than people who act as if they’re above that, as if they reserve all judgments until after they’ve completed an in-depth interview and exchanged personal journals with each person they encounter. The kid who steps in front of you to get on the subway, the guy who stare a little too long in the wrong way when you’re walking down the street alone, the blind woman, the preppy white girl, you judge each of these people in different ways and you need to stop denying it because that either makes you a liar or a pod person.

What I like about Malcolm Gladwell is that he doesn’t say, “Quit being such a judgmental bitch and get a manicure.” He says, “dude, that’s totally fine. In fact, Nora, you SHOULD do that. Your snap judgments are often better than the long, drawn-out ones.” To which I say, “Thanks, MG. Let’s have lunch sometime. You’re neat.”

The first few weeks of college I was perceived as a little snotty, a bit standoffish. I know this only because of course, my girlfriends and I had a night of brutal honesty where we re-hashed all of our first impressions. I wouldn’t argue that perception of myself in a million years, because it’s completely accurate. I don’t jump into terrifying new social situations face first. I hang back, I evaluate, I watch and I judge.

I bring this up not to run through a list of people that I had pegged as douche bags before the rest of the world caught on (although I will furnish said list upon request) but to bring up another of my favorite topics: the self-doubt that plagues so many people my age.

I have brilliant and fantastic friends. Friends with talent and personality and intelligence and beauty. Friends who could probably do anything, but are unconvinced that they have what it takes to make their own decisions and steer their own lives.

I myself spend plenty of time agonizing over decisions. At age 10 I was having panic attacks about WHERE IS MY LIFE GOING? And AM I A FAILURE? Half the time I go to buy shampoo I leave the store empty-handed because I’M NOT JUST SURE if I need Volumizing shampoo or Moisturizing shampoo and I’d rather just continue not washing my hair than MAKE THE WRONG CHOICE AND WASTE $4.95.

The thing is (and advice is always much easier to give than to follow) I really do believe Malcolm Gladwell. I believe that everyone has that little voice inside of them that knows what is right, whether it’s to not accept a first date offer from a guy who uses more hair product than you do, or to choose the rigatoni for dinner. The more time you spend laboring over a decision, the more likely you are to make the wrong one. That last sentence was completely unscientific, but I feel like it held true during my brief stint in Honors Pre-Calc.

I had a heart-to-heart talk with a dear friend the other night, a person who feels stuck in the life they are living, and is now at a crossroads with what they believe has no clear path. I told my friend what I tell myself when I feel like that, which is that if we know ourselves, we DO know which decision is right, and we owe it to ourselves to follow that.

It’s not always popular and it’s not always easy, but honestly, the best part about life is the choices. Shit, it’s the ultimate choose-your-own-adventure. And before you say what I think you’re going to say, skipping to the end ALWAYS ruined the book and was a perfectly good waste of your book fair money so please do not abuse the analogy. The point is that yes, life is scary, but trust me, you can do this.

I love all of my friends wholly and passionately, to the point where yes, I’ve considered moving to a commune to begin a religious cult so we could all be together ALL OF THE TIME. This was easier said than done, clearly. Each of these friends was a total “Blink” success story. Josh made me laugh so hard I thought my heart would stop. Jay's so intelligent he could take your clothes off with his mind, but he doesn't. Ryan is not only a Latin geek, but has the best sense of self-deprecating humor ever. Beven is loyal, hilarious, and almost always ready to take a nap. Dailer is my mind-reader. Colleen has huge jugs, but she doesn't judge my A-cups. Cara Shannon is a straight-A student who can't calculate tax in her head. Erin Mulcahy can calculate tax vs. 10% off with a Get-One-Free coupon. Gilmore can name any movie or actor with just my weak, three-word descriptions. Gene Weaver can and will throw rocks at your window at 1am to wake you up for a drive around the lakes and a 44oz. Diet Coke.

Something in each of them was instantly recognizable as valuable and inviting, and as a result, I have a circle of people that I’m trying to recruit into my cult. Gladwell was really onto something, and I suggest you all read the book.

Scene: Belated-birthday dinner at a neighborhood restaurant. David has eaten 2 loaves of bread before we even receive our salads.

David: _______ is dating a new girl. Has been for a few months.

Me: So, where'd he meet this girl?

David: He said a blind date, which I think means the Internet.

Me: eHarmony.com?

David: Yeah, I think so. I mean, I'd do that, though. THEY MAKE YOUR PERFECT MATCH!

*Quiet eating*

David: Of course, when you're me, you've already met your perfect match. Katie Couric.

*Quiet eating*

David: Who is Katie Couric, anyway? All anyone talks about anymore is Katie Couric. Who IS she?

There are many questionable fashion statements going on in my neighborhood. I won't go into the multitudes of women wearing midriff tops that show off their nice stretch marks, or SEE-THROUGH WHITE PANTS THAT SHOW THEIR UNDERPANTS, I just won't go into that.

What I will go into is the obnoxious and ridiculous wave of message tees that are permeating our society. It used to just be that t-shirts were a place to wear your brand, to let everybody know that you had paid$32.50 for an Abercrombie and Fitch t-shirt and damn it, you were going to have that emblazoned across your chest.

Not anymore. And while I admit to owning a shirt that says, "Objects under shirt are larger than they appear," I'll also admit to feeling extremely uncomfortable with most of the "messages" I've been reading. Today a girl got on the subway wearing a t-shirt that says, "When your hot, your hot." I was staring at her hard enough that she noticed, which is when I had the urge to tell her that her t-shirt was sporting incorrect grammar, and was also ugly.

But bad grammar and poor spelling aside, there is a bigger issue at hand. I mean, what about age 14 dictates that it is appropriate to wear a shirt that says, "If you're rich, I'm easy." or "I'm good. Ask your boyfriend," or, my personal favorite, "This shirt looks better wet." I mean, I'm no prude, I'll talk to you about anything, except my parents having sex, because they never once did that. Never ONCE. NEVER EVER.

But there have always been slutty girls, that's not really news. What surprises me is how outright tacky teenage boys can be. The other day two dudes got on the subway, both well over 6'5", wearing clothes so ridiculously large that the dudes looked like the world's largest midgets, like oversized toddlers wearing their father's clothing. When I was in high school, it's not like the guys were wearing skinny jeans and tight black t-shirts.

Baggy was awesome, as were logos. I mean, if your clothes didn't have a brand name on them, why would you wear them? And if your sneakers didn't match your shirt and your belt and your purse, why would you walk out of the house? And if you weren't going to make sure that all those details were in place, well you could just forget about being cool, because COOL DOESN'T HAPPEN TO KIDS WHO DON'T WEAR THE RIGHT THINGS.

Which is what brings me back to the basis of this entire post, the tackiest t-shirts I've seen being sported by otherwise well-coordinated and perfectly baggy teenage boys. Picture in your head a large white t-shirt, sprinkled with a hint of glitter and maybe one or two sparkly jewels. On it is the Pink Panther, dressed in a fut coat, sporting multiple rings, and a large hat cocked over one ear. The t-shirt reads, "PINKIN' AIN'T EASY."

I mean, huh? Yeah, back in the early 90s there was that phase where Warner Brothers issued t-shirts with a "gangsta" Tazmanian Devil and Bugs Bunny, complete with sagging jeans and backward jerseys a la Kriss Kross, and that was bad, it really was. But "Pinkin' Ain't Easy?" That's tackier than the layers of eye makeup I wore in high school.

The boyfriend doesn’t like blogs. He’s not entirely sure what they are, or why they’ve enabled his sister and his girlfriend to become friends, but he doesn’t like them. So I’m pretty sure he’s not going to read this post. But has that stopped me before? No.

Today the boyfriend turns 24. 24! Dude, that means I’ve been making out with him for nearly a DECADE! That is NUTS!

The boyfriend doesn’t make a whole lot of appearances here, other than the odd photo and the usually more odd quote, which usually paints a picture of him as a man of random thoughts and awe-inspiring facial hair.

Sometimes, I feel like I just may not be doing him justice. There are plenty of naysayers in the world, people who want you to believe that what you have isn’t what you want, that it just isn’t possible for you to love who you love, or for you to stay in love with the kid you met in Art class your freshman year of high school, the kid who turned you down to a dance (not bitter) and on more than one occasion blocked your shot so hard in a game of one-on-one that you swore your forehead was broken. And to them I say, whatever man.

Not only can David lift heavy things (a bonus when my mom needs her furniture moved, or I need groceries carried) but he can also think heavy things (like how exactly DO snakes do it?). And there I go, making him into a character again.

I was out with a friend one night, talking about boys and life, when she said to me, “It must be nice, isn’t it? To go home and have someone who likes you, just likes you, so much.”

I hadn’t thought about it that way in awhile, but yeah, it IS so nice. It IS so nice to find a nice boy who grows into a great man, who grows into a person who is kind and intelligent, who is silly and serious, who has never wanted me to be anybody but just me.

So this is for David, who lends so much balance to my crazy life. Thank you for really big hugs, for your goofy-ass hair, for your perfect teeth (without the help of braces), for your love of kittens, for never even smashing a spider (even though I HATE that), for listening SO well, for chewing pencils, lint and paper, for making me laugh until my stomach hurts, for your love of the Olive Garden and your incredible handicapping skills, for your endless patience with those around you and your ability to school nearly anyone in basketball (so hot when you dunk that ball), for only owning ONE polo shirt and for never shaving your face when asked to. Thank you for being so true to yourself and so true to me.

We've managed to live together in the World's Smallest Apartment for nearly a year and we are both still alive with only emotional scars to show for it. All the things that make me crazy make you who you are, and I friggin love you.

Nora

So yeah, currently Madge is in my bathtub scrubbing my shower and bathtub with Kaboom! because according to her, "Yes, Nora. It's THAT gross."

Well, excuuuuuuuse me!

Today Madge-World invades my world for 5 days. Thrilled to have my mother here to see my little life, but am certain that the trip will end in bloodshed as she has already re-arranged my cabinets ("If I don't do, WHO WILL, NORA?") and asked me such questions as, "Do you have soap here?"

For the record, I do.

Having been forced to make the foray into network television this year, my eyes were opened to how terribly pathetic all women on Reality TV shows are. I thought it couldn't get any lower than the Bachelor. I mean, can it get lower than 30 girls clawing each other's faces off over some brain dead chach ball who, 7 weeks later, is weeping into a camera about how he REALLY LOVES both girls, and HOW COULD HE POSSIBLY CHOOSE?

Well, it just did. Four girls on ABC are currently being coached by two "love experts" on my television, experts who say that the three principles of meeting somebody are, listen closely: 1) Make eye contact, 2) Smile, 3) Invade their personal space. Experts who say things like, "Girls, approach EVERYTHING as an opportunity to MEET A MAN." They actually used the phrase, "drop the hanky" when talking about putting out the vibe. They actually used the phrase, "dating is a numbers game," and asked them to practice, "volume dating."

Now, assuming for a moment that men are unable to smell the stank of desperation, YOU ARE STILL ON TV BEING VIDEOTAPED TRYING TO PICK UP AT GUY AT FOOT LOCKER. Dating today is too freaking complicated. Friends are asking whether they should call him or text him, whether they should email him again since he didn't return the last one or wait for him to write back. Frankly, it's exhausting even to listen to it. Watching it on ABC is almost too much. It'd be unbearable if it didn't satisfy that inner desire to slow down at car accidents to see the carnage.

I'm no expert on dating, men, women, love, or marriage, but I'll tell you what my Mother told me: There is somebody for everybody. It'll happen when it happens. Life is simple: you find work you enjoy, you strive to be a good person, and you find somebody to share it all with.

Unlike some people, I’m really not into The World Cup. And by really not into it, I meant really, really, not into it. I mean, I don't even try.Not because it’s soccer and I’m a bonehead who doesn’t recognize that it’s popular in 99.9% of the world, but because big sporting events don’t hold a lot of significance for me.

In high school I could get amped over the State Championships, but as far as professional sports? I’m not gonna go nuts for it. Does that mean that if you have free Mets tickets you should call someone else? No way, call me. But if you’re going to paint your face for the Super Bowl please kill yourself.

That said, for the first time today, I kind of got it, this whole World Cup thing. I was walking down Steinway wondering what the cacophony of horn blowing and shouting meant, convinced that it was probably just an old-fashioned ass kicking or something. Not so. It was a bunch of nutso Italians stopping their cars to wave their flags and scream “ITALIA!!!”at anyone walking the sidewalk in an orderly fashion. Immediately my mind traveled to Italy, wondering how my little Italians were celebrating the win, and whether they’d been allowed to stay up late to watch the game.

The point is, most of the kids hanging out the windows of their friend’s cars weren’t from Italy, not in the literal sense. Italy was the land of their grandparents or great-grandparents, the place where they got their vowel-filled names and loud voices. Their cultural identity has been watered down to bad marinara sauce. The World Cup is a chance for everyone to be something other than America, for people to identify more closely with the lands they came from. Kind of like a really long St. Patrick’s Day for every different country.

Where I live, there is a good cross-section of World Cup participants represented, so I can only imagine what the next weeks hold. In my mind I imagine it will be something along the lines of a Sharks vs. Jets gang fight, with lots of choreography and theatricality. Flags are great for choreographed gang fights.

“I know how to make the girls go crazy. It’s pretty simple. One, have a girlfriend. Taken fruit looks sweeter. Two, present yourself well. Like a fruit plate.”

How did I ever entertain myself before I had a digital camera?

This was one of the best weekends ever. Sunshine combined with cool weather, a day spent reading at Belmont while David won and lost small fortunes. No fewer than three viewings of Purple Rain. The only thing that could have made it better would have been a time warp back into the 80s so I could join Prince and The Revolution. Or at least become a backup dancer for The Time.

I saw a lot of awesome things during my college years. I witnessed Josh eating an entire Crave Case (that's 30 burgers) from White Castle, holding them in for a full hour before puking his brains out. I saw garbage island (a pile of trash in the boys' dorm room that grew to epic proportions...just because). I saw every piece of our dining room furniture smashed by guys who were in the mood to bodyslam after 5 beers.

But in New York? I've seen even more awesome things. A blind woman calling a woman ugly and swinging her cane at her. A dude falling on his face while holding a to-go container of tomato soup. That 100 year old guy with a huge smile who plays the keyboard in the Times Square subway station while wind-up dolls dance along to the music. I even saw a girl walking down 15th street spontaneously puke into the gutter and then keep walking like it was no thang at all.

But the awesomest thing I have ever seen, the thing I've been talking about for weeks, happened on 12th Street while I was talking on my cell phone and walking to a babysitting job. Out of my peripheral vision I saw a flash of butt-white flesh. They were naked man-thighs. The belonged to a guy who was leaning against a Mercedes having explosive diarrhea with his pants around his ankles. He had the sense to cover his junk with his hands, but otherwise he was completely okay with the fact that he was pooping yellow diarrhea all over the street. And he wasn't a homeless guy, either, just a regular guy who couldn't make it to the bathroom, trying not to weep or let his stomach drop out of his ass.

I realize that this kind of thing isn't funny to everyone. Well, I don't really believe that. I think that secretly everyone can still be a 10-year-old and laugh at the misfortunes of others. Especially when it involves public crapping.

To Josh, Ryan, Dave, Paddy, all you other crazies, and my little brother Paddy: I sincerely wish you could have been there.

Lately, everyone has been asking me, "Nora, how do you do it? How are you so informed? So Au courant? So unbearably hip? And how do you get that awesome Jesus hair?" The Jesus hair I can't help you with. You're either born with it or you're not. Ask my cousins.

But as for the other stuff, I have only this to say: The Internet has been very very good for me. But since I love you all so much, and want you each to be able to hold a decent conversation at a dinner party or have obscure things to say to your co-workers, I present to you this reading list:

Gossip:

Pink Is The New Blog. Trent has great taste in celebrities, and hilarious captions.

Perezhilton. I think he's probably kind of a bitch, but he's a bitch who knows how to work the system. He somehow parlayed a gossip blog into a machine for partying with the Hiltons. Good for him.

Popsugar: Always updated with the best pictures. I also agree with most of her celebrity standpoints, especially the one where we all scream, "COME BACK TO US BRITNEY!!!"

Socialitelife: Really awesome celebrity news with a few random stories thrown in for good measure.

Dlisted. I wouldn't read this in front of your Grandmother or any small children. Oh who am I kidding, I totally would. I'd read it out LOUD to them just to see them cringe and possibly weep. The best combination of celebrities, profanity, and creative insults on the Internet. Oh, and don't forget to vote for Hot Slut of the Month.

Rich Famous and Gross. Give's Dlisted a run for its money in the Iiiiiiiiinapproprriate category. Not a whole lot of "facts" going on here, just clever captioning and good photos.

Egotastic. All the great aspects of a gossip blog, with a high percentage of celebritty bikini shots for those who like to admire or to loathe themselves. "News" peppered with biting humor and language that would make a sailor blush.

HollywoodRag: Great updates and photos with a good sense of humor.

The Superficial: Jill was right, no way I could forget this one. I've learned not to drink anything while reading this blog, as it will only end up being spit all over my keyboard.

Gawker: Not really a goosip site, but more of a who's who in Media and Manhattan, with a chance to post your celebrity sightings for complete strangers to validate (I've submitted four).

Defamer: Like Gawker for Los Angeles, which generally means a little more celebrity news

Natalie Dee:: Okay, so this isn't gossip at all. But it is the most hilarious collection of simple drawings I've ever seen. Makes me wish I'd taken art more seriously. No it doesn't.

It was brought to my attention by my "good friend" Eddie Mullin that during the most intense part of my awkward stage, I not only vageuly resembled Macauley Culkin (my sister's friend once told me to "get out of here with my Macauley Culkin-looking-ass.") but apparently also blatantly resembled another child star.

You be the judge:

Me at the San Francisco airport after my first flight. I am wearing an outfit from Gap kids, a bowler by Limited Too, and a cat brooch that is far too awesome to be sold in stores.

Compare that photo to the following photo of Danny Pintauro, precocious child actor on the popular show, "Who's The Boss?"

Can't wait to see who I end up looking like when I'm old. Oh, wait:

Yeah, that doll helped ease the pain of having only 4 teeth in my head. Plus, it fostered my love for Colonial Williamsburg, which hasn't subsided to this very day.