What I Did for the Past 30 Days

1. I had a bad birthday. A miserable birthday. Something like 3 people remembered it was my birthday. One of them was my father, who sang his annual "Happy Birthday to youuuuu" into my voice mail. He was calling from the hospital and sounded weak and sick, but still managed to call his Baby Girl on her birthday. I deleted the message at the end of the day, telling myself that I would call him on Sunday, after the morning news shows so we could have one of our talks about the jerks who populate the Republican party.

2. On Sunday morning at approximately 2:00 a.m., Dad died. So I didn't get to call him, after all. Tony Blankley will have to go on being a jerk without Dad to comment on it.

3. On Thursday, we buried him in the new National Cemetery of the Alleghenies (one of the early arrivals at this new cemetery built to accommodate the approximately 325,000 veterans living in Western Pennsylvania.) Quoth my younger brother, "I think this is probably the slowest Dad's ever driven on Clifton Road."

4. I became, at last, a full-time, permanent staffer at the company where I started in August. The wheels of HR turn slowly, slowly, slowly. I attended new-hire orientation. Apparently this company has grown so much and continues to grow that they are doing a weekly orientation with approximately 30 new hires every week.

5. Last week, as I turned the corner from 53rd Street onto Madison Avenue on my way to work, I heard a thump, then screams, and turned my head in time to see two people get hit, then RUN OVER by a speeding yellow taxi, which then, missing me by inches, crashed into a building a foot in front of me. I watched a white-haired gentleman with blood on his head get to his feet and wander away. The woman was not so lucky. Though the police officer to whom I gave my statement said she was alive, she was face down and broken in the gutter. It was the worst thing I've ever seen in person. What I keep seeing is the look of disbelief on her face as she flew by me. What I keep wondering is -- how is she doing now? What happened to that man? And, had I been two or three seconds faster, I would have been crushed against the building by the cab. One down, eight to go.

So you see, it's been an unsettling kind of month for me. So I'm taking a little break.

And Still More Thoughts

I am far too old to be tearing around New York City on a Thursday night until 3 in the morning, on the back of a Harley Davidson, with my skirt hiked up around my hips. But I can't say I didn't have fun.

***

I was just at the 40th b-day party for a friend of mine who just sold his company in an EIGHT FIGURE deal. His part of the nut was seven figures, but who's counting. I am so, so happy for him! He and his wife bought a yacht and are learning to sail. I love that. Even if he does like to say that after World War II his father left Austria and went to Chile as a "tax exile." If that's what you call war criminals these days, I'd love to see what euphemism they come up with for George Bush.

***

I spent Labor Day picnicking with my friend Alisa in Battery Park, then wandering uptown on the promenade. We always have great conversations, though I did feel it was my civic duty to say, each time we passed a group of tourists, to say in a very loud voice, "Rudolph Giuliani is a VERY BAD MAN."

***

Did I mention that I love my job?

***

Okay, I'm off to Hoboken tomorrow afternoon to drink beers and listen to live blues music. Yes, I am crossing two waters to drink beer, in New Jersey. Lord, I have been tamed, haven't I?

***

Spoke briefly to the ex married man thingamajig, and something about him just makes me say mean things. What can I say, he earned it.

***

Learned today to my surprise that one of our contract models is 21. Shit, really? She looks 40, honestly. And that makes me feel good.

***

Just came from the Marshall Stack, and I have to give it the highest compliment that I can give a bar. It's a Shithead-Free Zone. I don't know how MK manages that in the heart of the Lower East Side, but somehow he makes it happen.

And with that, I'm going home to watch a re-run of "Rescue Me" that I watched twice back to back on Wednesday.

Catching Up on Jane's Job and Other Stuff

Okay. Here we are, a month later, and I am officially wallowing in the goodness of life.

I mean, after all these months, after freelancing with the Doyenne of Domesticity and the Luxury Resort chain, I landed at the Dream Job. Now, the DJ means that I get to do what I love and have fun alllll damn day. I don't see much downside to that, so I am just going to day, life is freaking great right now. I'm working for a Major American Designer, and even though Preppy is not my thing, the job is fantastic. It's the most functional work environment that I've ever been in, and I have to wave the flag of feminism here, because other than The Man Whose Name is On the Clothing Label, this company is run by women. Chicks rule. Even the ones who epitomize the Preppy Ideal of the M.A.D. I am just so damn happy going to work, and I don't feel as if the other shoe is going to drop any time soon. Yes, I know it will, but somehow I don't think it will be with the resounding clunk I've heard at other places. I'm challenged and busy all day long, and one thing I can say is that compared to this, I spent an awful lot of time fucking around at other jobs. I am literally busy (and happy for it) from the minute I sit down at my desk in the morning until I check out in the evening. Just to demonstrate how cool this company is, I was offered more money than I asked for when I interviewed. Because the company values talent and grit and brains. I am blessed.

I was plunged into the job headfirst (luckily I know what I'm doing) getting the M.A.D.'s PR department ready for his 40th Anniversary celebration, and it was so cool to work on the materials for the party. (ahem, fifty GRAND on invitations? I was in printing heaven!) Let me fondle Crane's every day, and I'm a happy girl.

I've even had three M.A.D. sightings. The first was one day as I was leaving the office and he was getting off the elevator when I was getting on. It was like those times when you see a celebrity on the street or in a restaurant (well, he IS a celebrity, I guess). That frisson of "ooh, it's M.A.D.!!!" I thought, wow, what a handsome guy, too bad he comes up to my eyebrows. The next time I saw him, it was after hours and he was shuffling around in his signature black tee shirt, jeans and beat-up boots, and I thought, "Wow, the M.A.D. looks like a little old Jewish man. Wait a minute, he IS a little old Jewish man!" Third time, he was lounging on the steps of the office reception area, having an impromptu meeting with some underlings. Very louche.

I can't believe how lucky I feel, knowing that I worked so freakin' hard to be this lucky.

Okay, there is a downside, and it's called a firewall. No blogging allowed through the company servers. And they have something called a Profanity Filter, and if you send me an email with "hell" in the text, it will be screened and quarantined. It's actually funny when you think about it. Oh, and they do restrict access to some websites, so there's no You-Tubing at work. It makes me realize just how much fucking around we do at work. Now, when I'm at work, I'm working!

And that's the Jane Job Report.

Now for the random stuff:

- Don't let your pets get old, folks. I took my 17-year-old cat in for what I thought was a standard checkup, shots, etc., vet visit, and $400 later, turns out the little shit has a kidney infection. Not only does Dorian Cat cost the earth, but now I have to chase him around the apartment every night to give him antibiotics. This requires swaddling his entire body in a towel and holding him captive between my knees in order to give him the liquid antibiotic. At this point, when I emerge from the bathroom with the bath towel in my hand, he peers at me suspiciously for a second, then bolts for the under-the-bed. I can almost hear him saying, "Feets don't fail me now!"

- And speaking of kidney problems, looks like that little issue is moot for me now. Dad went back into the hospital complaining of cramps. After all the hospital hoo-hah, turns out his bowel has completely stopped functioning and he had a colon re-section and now has one of those colostomy bags. Sheesh. I will quote Marty here, and say, "Don't get old."

- Paula, I finally checked out Sugar Sweet Sunshine with my friend C, and OH. MY. GOD. The best cupcakes you've EVER had. Fuck Magnolia and their SATC crowds (I called the cops on them one night, by the way, when they wouldn't get out of my way.) These are cupcakes to die for. I like them because they LOOK like home-made cupcakes. They're a little lopsided, but so buttery and delish that we each ate TWO.

- Having vetted, screened and edited the comments that I got in my prolonged absence, I realize that blog readers are just like cheating husbands. If they can't get it here, they will get it somewhere. So, while I can't promise that I will be a faithful and dedicated blogette, I'll at least throw you a blow job often enough to keep you interested. Just remember one thing -- THAT'S AN EXIT, MAN!

Topsy Turvy Week and Bitching about the Subway

Oy vey, finishing out one job, starting at the new one.

But, ahhhh, the bliss of not having to awaken at 5 o'clock in order to arrive at work at 8:45.

Downside: riding the subway with creeps, cretins, and dumbasses at rush hour.

Why is it the skinny white kids (and by kids, I mean those hipster-wannabe 20-somthings in artful 2nd-hand clothing and too many tattoos) who always take up more than their fair fucking share of space on the subway? I mean, the chicks either spread their shit over two seats, or they sit on one of the bench seats pretending they don't realize they're taking up 1-1/2 seats. I've made it my personal crusade that no matter how many other empty seats there are on that car, I will walk over and point my substantial ass directly at girlie's Vera Bradley bag. Do you have one ass? Then you get one seat. You WILL move, bitch.

And the guys? What the F-in F do they have in those backpacks? They wave them around like camel humps without regard for anyone standing near them, and refuse to remove them and put them between their feet during rush hour. Your civic duty is to lean against them as if they are a wall.

Someone once asked me, "What's a 9/12 New Yorker?" Well, these kids certainly fit part of the description. All I would need to hear one of them say is, "My parents help me out," to know they are real NineTwelvers. Oh, and by the way, the English translation of "My parents help me out," is "My parents send me a check every month that covers my rent, utilities, and incidentals. My paycheck is my going-out money."

This heat is definitely taking a toll on my temperament today.

Fershure.

LeTour

*sigh*

I feel so let down this year. Le scandale of doping has me so bummed out. With entire TEAMS being bounced because of doping, it feels like 1998 all over again. (Though Miss Midwesterly's friend had the best "lemons out of lemonade" take on it that I've heard so far...)

The upside is that it bounces Levi Leipheimer right into the top 3, with a yellow jersey kinda reachable.

Wouldn't that just chap the asses of the French if another American won by default?

CAUTION: HARRY POTTER SPOILERS!

Just kidding.

To my friends: if you want to talk about it, there are lots of other people besides me to do it with. Somewhere around the Goblet of Fire, I lost interest.

And for all you perverts out there (and I know you're out there) Emma Watson turns 18 on April 15, 2008. You can start your creepy countdown now. But just so you know, the Karmic retribution for having "I could legally fuck her" countdowns is that somewhere in your town, someone inappropriate is thinking about YOUR daughter and wanking in the shower. Could be her band director, her soccer coach, her SAT prep coach.

Probably, though, it's that 50 year old divorced guy who lives next door to you.

Addiction is a Choice

As a firm believer that addiction as a "spiritual sickness" or "disease" is just a big pile of steaming horseapples, and that 12-Step programs are downright dangerous, I am waiting, waiting, waiting for someone in the scientific community to grow enough balls to say so.

That being said, I read the Time cover story, then followed the blog here and here, then this Slate article, I have a few questions that I want to explore further, but in short, they are:

1) Are there any other "diseases" in the medical canon besides addiction that can be self-diagnosed? The conventional wisdom is that you're an alcoholic if you say you are. Can I walk into my doctor's office and say, hey, doc, I've decided that I have cancer, hand over the Oxycontin! Or go to a shrink and say, I have anxiety, hand over the Xanax. Oh wait, I can do that last one.

2) I had a discussion with a pal who is a member of the cult -- er, I mean, a devoted AA (and I have never met an angrier group of people) -- and when I told him I did 90 days but decided it wasn't for me, his response was, "Then you're not really an alcoholic." But the logic doesn't follow. If I stayed, and became a devotee of the AA Way, would that mean that I was just an alcoholic with a high bottom?

See what I mean about a load of crap? Why is no one in the medical community willing to step out and really test and study the efficacy of 12-step programs, when the evidence is right there in front of them that THEY DON'T WORK. I've heard 5% success rate. Most diseases have a spontaneous remission rate of about... oh... 5%.

Sadder still, I've sat and listened to people who have been in and out of AA something like 20 or 30 times say "It Works." Oh, really? I'd say, looking at you, that it doesn't. And everyone who "fails" out of AA takes all the blame on themselves. They say they failed the program. WHY DOESN'T ANYONE EVER SAY, THE PROGRAM FAILED ME.

Wanted: Grim Reaper. Must be Cute and Furry, Have Loud Purr

I don't think he's a harbinger of death, I think he's a spirit guide, or a Reaper in the spirit of Dead Like Me.

And Now, Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Crankiness

So I went onto Barnes & Noble, looking to see who was going to be reading at Union Square or Astor Place this week, and goddamme if there isn't ANOTHER fucking book that some guy wrote about his dog.

You know what? I love my pets. I love them dearly, and I will be very very sad when Mambo finally kicks it. Unless he's got a painting growing old in some secret spot in the apartment, that won't be very long from now... he is nearly 17, after all. That's like, 125 in people years. A Portrait of Dorian Cat.

But jeez louise, do we have to be subjected to five books a year that are people eulogizing their damn dogs?

After getting 250 pages of fatuous crap published about how loyal, devoted, funny, friendly, and playful your dog is, will you actually have the energy to say 250 words at the funeral of a parent?

Last note on this: is it my imagination, or do the title characters of these sappy-crappy memoirs all have names that start with "M"? What is it about "M"? Marley, Merle, Morrie -- oh wait, Morrie was an actual human being. The book was no less fatuous crap than any of the dog books, but at least MORRIE WAS HUMAN.

Beautiful weekend

Did you ever have a weekend that is just... perfect? I mean, from the time you wake up till the time you lay yourself down to sleep.

Well, I had one of those weekends. Just fun and engaging, and lots of great conversation and interesting people...

Friday night went to the Stack for "one perfectly chilled glass of celebratory wine." Then got to talking to a guy at the bar about music, guitars (he took one look at my little kitten paws and declared that I need to switch from the dreadnought to a parlor and that would solve all of my problems), politics, guns... you name it. Then his wife joined us and the conversation expanded to design and art and commercialism, and gosh, four perfectly chilled glasses of celebratory wine later, I toodled on home. If it's possible to have a crush on a couple, they are good candidates.

Saturday was one of those perfectly clear, warm and un-humid New York City weekend days where you meet up with an old, old friend, go to a movie (even one you dislike, as I disliked this one -- I let myself be talked into the latest "Die Hard" and spent most of the movie thinking to myself, "I'm a Mac!"), stroll through the East Village, eat New York's best burger with onion rings in the backyard of a tiny pub (soon to be reviewed here) served by a sweetheart of a little girl who just celebrated her 21st birthday (bless her widdle heart), then stroll to the Marshall Stack and commune with not just the bartender but the other patrons at the bar.

Gotta tell you, the Marshall Stack is just that kind of place -- you go in, sit down, and end up chatting with everyone around you. I've played drunk Scrabble with friends at the Stack, which says something for the quality of patron. It's not a curved-brim-baseball-cap or tan-in-a-can kind of crowd. Oh my god, dare I say it -- it's full of .... gulp -- GROWNUPS! Matt has somehow created a poseur-free place which, in New York City, and especially on the Lower East Side, is a very, very special thing.

Witnessed a car accident while I was outside smoking, strolled back in, picked up my phone, calmly said to my friend, "I just saw a car accident at Stanton and Orchard," and dialed 911. When I went back inside, one of the girls at the bar admired my poise. "Wow, you were so calm about that." I kinda thought, what else am I supposed to do? Scream and cry? It was a car accident, not a plane flying into a building.

What a nice, nice weekend.

I know the nice days are so boring to read about, but they can't all be about fucking married guys, hating on skinny white chicks on the subway, and ranting about George Bush. And the really nice ones just need to be remarked.

Friday Rambling

1) Sometimes you forget, really, the things that make New York amazing. Happening upon this guy in Union Square subway station, ripping out a note-perfect "Sweet Child O'Mine" on the violin took me all the way back to my youth, to my white-trash, Kansas-loving days. Hard to see on his website, but he was actually kind of hot, for a guy named Michael Shulman. I love that somewhere his mamma is probably wringing her hands and moaning, "Where did I go wrong?" I give the kid credit, he's found a way to be a dorky violin player AND probably get laid a whole lot.

2) And sometimes, every now and then, something good happens to someone you love. Namely, ME. Dream job came through, I start on 8/1. It's a little bittersweet, because I have actually begun to love the place where I had this freelance contract up in the burbs. Best thing about the dream job? Oh, hell, who knows? I'll keep you posted, but one things for sure, I'm about to become a whole lot better-dressed because of it. (That's a hint).

3) Small-world story, at the current gig -- there's this woman there, totally gorgeous, completely sweet, and we liked each other immediately. 3 weeks in, she and I are having a casual conversation, she admires my lotus ring and I tell her where I got it. She knows the store well, since she worked in the area. Where? I ask her. D____ C____ she tells me. I AM ON THE FLOOR. She worked for the same assholes that I did. Oh MY GOD, I say, you're THE Cynthia? The one who got fired on her birthday? We traded war stories, and it turns out that she had been subjected to the same sexual harassment that I had, as had two other women she knew who had left the company. I had a moment of happy schadenfreude thinking, "We are out here in the world, telling everyone what kind of people they are." And I realized that there are more of us than there are of them, which would explain why at a couple of jobs I interviewed for I got this response, "Ohhhh, you worked for D___ C___? I've heard not-so-good things about them." Karma's a bitch, ain't it? (Here Jane laughs her most evil laugh and says "NO, Mr. P, I expect you to DIE!" You know, sometimes I'll throw out these little pop-culture references and I truly wonder if anyone actually notices.)

4) Another reason to love being an adult: I ate a big cupcake for dinner TWO NIGHTS in a row this week.

5) Wednesday was nothing if not an adventure in commuting. Going to work: Train pulls out of Grand Central. Train sits in tunnel for a long time. Train pulls back IN to Grand Central. Metro North kicks us off of train and makes us get on another train, combining THREE trains worth of passengers into one. Our 40 minute train ride takes well over one hour. Total Going to work time, door to door: 2.5 hours.

Then, coming home, train pulls into Grand Central at 6:30 pm, right on time, emerge into the main waiting room to find it eerily empty save the dozens of cops and National Guardsmen directing us firmly, but urgently, to LEAVE THE BUILDING IMMEDIATELY. Weird, sinking, anxious post-9/11 feeling as I emerge onto 42nd Street at Vanderbilt to see more cops, firetrucks, a man being rushed by on a gurney by EMT's, three other people being tended to by other EMT's on the curb. And still no idea what's going on. I call my friend Alisa. "Hey, can you turn on Channel 1," I ask her, "and tell me what the fuck is going on up here?" I am walking rapidly away from Grand Central while, surprisingly, some nudnicks are walking TOWARD it to gawk. Hello? Tourists? When you see a whole lot of firetrucks and cop cars, you'd best beat-feet it in the opposite direction. Do you remember what happened six years ago? Net-net, big steam pipe explosion, big crater in Lexington Avenue, blah-blah-blah, and Jane had to walk to 14th Street on a sticky, humid evening. Break for the bathroom in blissfully-cool Barnes & Noble. Total Coming Home Time: 3 hours.

Kids, that's FIVE and a HALF hours commuting on Wednesday. The Dream Job couldn't have happened soon enough!

6) The old Married Guy I Used to Sleep With called me to congratulate me on the Dream Job. Call me a cynical old bitch, but looking back, he's only nice when he thinks there is something in it for him. He's never nice for niceness' sake. I hung up the phone and said out loud, "Not ONE DOLLAR of my business will you EVER get again, you prick." And, to be honest, it felt good.

7) My current hero is Keith Olbermann, for hammering, hammering, hammering the impeachment issue every night of the week. Plus, he's the hottest dorky guy on television.

8) Here's my idea for Michael Vick: Every time he throws an interception, or loses a football game, NFL fans get to shoot at him, douse him with water and electrocute him, or repeatedly pound his head against the ground until he's dead.

No seriously, please BOMBARD his sponsors (which include Nike, Rawlings, AirTran Airways and Hasbro), threatening a boycott if they do not cancel his contracts. I mean, his contracts must be null and void because dogfighting is illegal, right? There must be some clause in them about doing illegal shit, right?

Then, write to the NFL and the Atlanta Falcons and demand that he be fired immediately. Before someone throws the whole Barry Bonds shebang in my face, just remember that whatever Barry Bonds is doing, he's doing it to HIMSELF. Michael Vick participates in a lowlife form of animal abuse, against creatures who have no voice to speak for themselves.

And that, my friends, is just one Jane's opinion.

And on a Seriouser Note

Two things

1) My dream job, which I never heard from after my GREAT interview with them (sorry, I'm feeling grammatically challenged today, and there was just no way to for that to make sense), resurfaced... They haven't even finished first interviews -- TWO MONTHS LATER -- but the woman who would be my boss said, "I haven't met anyone I liked except you." She should just hire me and be done with it. Right? And save me from the reverse-commute-with-no-benefits.

2) Awhile back, I told my Dad if he needed a kidney transplant he could have one of mine. Well, I may be called on that. Part of me is saying, What the fuuuuuuck? The other part of me is saying, Well, I have two kidneys and only one dad. I can live with one kidney, but it would really suck to live with no dad. Granted, he's almost 80 and probably doesn't have much time left anyway, but I have never in my life encountered someone who likes being alive more than Marty. It would be nice if we could keep him here for a few more years. *GULP*

Some Thoughts on Men for Friday

1) When you introduce us to your friends by saying, "This is my very dear friend Jane," we are well aware that it's code for "No! No! I'm not sleeping with her! OF course I'm not sleeping with her!"

2) When you introduce us to your friends by saying, "This is Jane," we also know that it's code for, "I want this guy to think I'm sleeping with her."

3) Just because a really drunk homosexual hit on you once, that doesn't mean you are catnip for gay men. So quit walking around saying, "The Gays love me."

4) One pair of flat-front pants does not make you a metrosexual. Generally you let your hetero DNA show by filling up your pockets with shit, anyway. What the hell are you carrying in there that you've got these two tumors on your thighs? Do yourself a favor, buy a purse.

5) We're thinking about what it would be like to fuck you, too. More often than not, it gives us the full-body shivers. And not in a good way.

6) Are you color blind? Make sure you take a woman with you if you need to buy a pair of brown shoes, or suffer the fate of walking around with what appear to be two oversized slices of pumpkin pie sticking out of your pant legs. Make a note: ORANGE is not BROWN.

7) Please don't text message us pictures of your dick, thinking it will make us hot. We have a hard enough time not laughing at it when we see it in person.

8) If you do feel the need to text or IM or email a naughty message to us, at least be imaginative. And NEVER, EVER spell it "c-u-m."

I just needed to get that off of my chest. I feel better now.

WAAAAAY Overdue

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Chertoff Has a "Hunch"

What I can't seem to grasp is how any editor in the country would deem this newsworthy.

Having a hunch that someone, somewhere, wants to attack us, sometime, is like saying, hmm I have a feeling the sun is going to come up tomorrow morning!

Pay close attention to this. Call me cynical, but I believe it can only mean that someone, somewhere is firing up shredders and finding ways to hack into server host systems to wipe them clean. And I'm not talking about the ones with the DC Madam's database of users.

Just call it a hunch.

Occipitally Obsessed

Ever since I read this article a few weeks ago, I find myself staring at the back of men's heads wherever I go -- on the subway, walking down the street, sitting on Metro North.

Then I slowly scan the rest of the person to see if there's anything that screams "GAY" or "HETERO" about their clothes, grooming, etc. It's like a little test for myself, to see if my gaydar still works.

What can I say, it's a way to pass the time and it beats doing the jumble, right?

Retardopedia

Scary, scary, scary

Random Thoughts for Friday

Jane has a nasty summer cold, feels like doody, and has exhausted herself writing, of all things, a restaurant review. I feel so craptacular that I even cancelled a sex date with my Special Naked Friend tonight... yes, it's that bad. So all I've got today are some random thoughts to regurgitate...

1. Why hasn't Henry Waxman started impeachment proceedings against Dick Cheney yet? And if you haven't been keeping up with the Washington Post series, here it is. Read it and weep for your country. Archer's got the best take on it so far... (Archer, have I told you lately that I love you?)

2. The new job is very, very cool, and although the reverse-commute is going to take some getting used to, so far, so good.

3. I hope Rita Ragone gets a bundle from ESPN. This is exactly what happened to me at the Bad Place -- sexual harassment that would not stop, complaining to management about it, having the other men who work there close ranks, and eventually getting my ass fired for my troubles. In fact, I may just call Rita's lawyer and sic him on the Bad Boss.

4. Miss Midwesterly is coming to NYC in two weeks! Yay!

5. I adore cheesy 60's pop songs. Right now The Walker Brother are on, and if you can name their big hit without googling, then I will know you are a paisan of the first order. And they've just segued into Spiral Starecase (no that's not misspelled).

6. Win a prize, tell me why this picture is so sad:














7. We who have been their people have always known of their superiority. I've always suspected that Mambo and Madison are merely biding their time before they go all Lyle and Erik Menendez on me one night.

"Unlike other domestic animals, which were tamed by people, cats probably domesticated themselves, which could account for the haughty independence of their descendants. “The cats were adapting themselves to a new environment, so the push for domestication came from the cat side, not the human side,” Dr. Driscoll said."

Just a Few Special Mentions:

A few shout-outs to those who helped me through the morass of unemployment:

Miss Midwesterly -- crazy, kooky girl whose perfectly-timed visits, among other things, got me through some dark times. She was always the first one to call me when I posted a grim note here on The Boat. Invariably cheerful when I needed it most.

Racer X -- always a voice of reason, right in the neighborhood -- introduced me to the best hot dogs in the East Village, and fronted me for uncountable drinks. Cooked me a steak.

Peeker -- the guy who can make me laugh hard enough to make me wet my pants a little. Also bought me many, many beers.

Ace -- What can I say about Ace? My oldest "New York" friend. Willing to travel in to NYC from HOBOKEN to buy me many, many beers. Ace, you are the only person I know with the balls to fire up your one-hitter directly in front of a cop and pull it off. My hat is off to you.

EmKay -- Presiding over the taps at Marshall Stack, I know you gave me more free drinks than your new bar could probably afford. But it was always nice to know that a few blocks south of The Bean, I could count on a cheerful face to greet me.

And to my Special Naked Friend -- I wouldn't have made it through the depression without our Naked Times together. Cause sometimes, a girl just needs to be naked with someone.

The New Job

Okay, so I landed this gig in White Plains, working for a luxury resort and hotel chain, as a Print Production Manager, which is what I DO, fachrissakes.

If anyone had told me that it would take me SIX months to land a gig, I would have laughed in their faces. I mean, I'm Jane Doe, dammit. Smart, motivated, hard working, reasonably attractive, all that good stuff. Impeccable eye for color. Tough but fair. Blah blah blah...

Actually, all the experts DO say it takes about six months. But since I started my path of unemployment absolutely convinced of my own specialness, my own star power (insert jazz hands here), surely, I told myself, it would only be a few weeks for me.

HAH. The echo of the Universe's ugly laughter still peals in my ears.

So -- now I know. It takes that long. So here are the hard, fast, practical things I learned from unemployment:

1) The experts are right. Have six months of living expenses set aside, MINIMUM. And if that sounds like it's too hard to do, picture yourself scrambling to explain to your landlord that you can't pay your rent, ducking phone calls from creditors, selling your car for a per-pound rate, and choosing to feed your pets over yourself. And if that doesn't get your currently-employed self to start saving, I don't know what will.

I was lucky. NYS Unemployment didn't even cover my rent, but I'm lucky enough to have a friend who loaned me a chunk of money, and my sisters stepped up as well. There were a couple of times when hooking seemed like a fairly viable option for me, honestly.

2) The experts are right, the sequel. You have got to make finding a job your job. None of this aimlessly sending your resume out to cherry-picked ads on monster or hotjobs. You've got to spend about 4-5 hours a DAY looking for a job -- that includes not just cruising the internet, but getting on the phone as well. My experience is that any more time per day than that is too tiring/demoralizing -- for some reason, looking for a job is much more draining than actually having a job.

3) There will be days on which you will wake up, consider another day of unemployment, pull the covers over your head and want to go back to sleep for another 50 or 60 hours. This is called the blues and it is natural. Some days, you just gotta listen to that inner voice very very closely. If you're paying attention, you will know which days you should just stay in bed. (Generally, for me, it was the ones with the dumping rain).

4) Prepare yourself to become unhealthily obsessed with the characters on a syndicated show. I actually said this to a friend at one point: "I hope I don't get a job too soon because then I won't find out how they killed Pru off on "Charmed." Hello? Time to take off the drawstring pj bottoms, put on some hard shoes and re-enter the world.

5) That being said, the smartest way to NOT have this happen is to get up, get ready and GET OUT OF THE HOUSE without turning on the TV at all. (Charmed also comes on a 4pm here, so I knew I could watch after a productive day of job hunting). Cause before you know it, CNN American Morning is morphing into something else, which morphs into something else, and before you know it, you're watching Turk and JD do one of their black guy/white guy comedy routines in a Scrubs re-run.

6) I recommend NOT doing it at home. Too many opportunities to procrastinate, distract yourself ("hmmm, wow, look at the dust kittens under the refrigerator...and behind the toilet...you know, come to think of it, i haven't given the apartment a good cleaning in a while...") Trust me. While my apartment was gleaming during my unemployment, it's all too easy to let situational ADD take over so you don't have to actually deal with the fact that your ass is unemployed. Pack up your laptop and go somewhere with free wireless. While I was looking for a gig, I was grateful that I don't have internet at home. If I did, I would never have left the house. I would go to The Bean like it was my job, which in essence it was.

Next, more tips for the Underemployed....

Everyone Was Lying

Just who did the surveyors in this study talk to? Mormons and Hassids?

I'm sorry, if you are surveying 20-59 year olds, you've managed to include an entire generation that defined sleeping around and the Sexual Revolution. And they're claiming they've only slept with 4 people (women) or 7 people (men) in their lifetimes.

Come ON. I ain't buying it.

Then again, I always promised that if I had a daughter, I would send her off to college with these words of wisdom: "Sleep around. I did."

News Flash

Got a job!

News at 11.

Sunday Afternoon at Jane's House

What a couple of dorks. Mambo (16+) and Madison (3-ish) in a rare moment of not bugging the shit out of me. Yes, Mambo is that big. Even the vet comments on how very tall he is.

Burqa's A-Comin' Here!

When I first heard about this, the Cranky Old Man who resides behind the curtains of my soul was at first grimly satisfied. (YOU know who that Cranky Old Man is, he's chasing you out of his yard or confiscating your wiffle ball. He's the Junior Soprano of my psyche. Or maybe, in this case, the Bill Cosby.)

I loathe the oversized, beltless pants look almost as much as I hate the flat-brimmed ballcap (with its MLB sticker still affixed) that is the inevitable topper to the low-pants look. And before you give me the social lecture about prisoners having their belts taken away from them, blah blah blah, yeah, I know. But still, I see a young thug on the subway wearing his pants low, so low that he can't take a normal stride, instead shuffling along like he ate too many jalapeno poppers last night, and my first thought is "WHAT A TOOL."

But I thought about it for a few minutes, and I looked at the picture that accompanied this article, then I noted where the ordinance was passed, and then at the wording of the ordinance, and a teeny tiny little flame of indignation started to burn. Not a blazing fire, maybe something pilot-light sized, but it got me a-thinkin.

Here's the ordinance: It shall be unlawful for any person in any public place or in view of the public to be found in a state of nudity, or partial nudity, or in dress not becoming to his or her sex, or in any indecent exposure of his or her person or undergarments, or be guilty of any indecent or lewd behavior.

Vague (actually, not so vague when you think about it) racist overtones aside, it's the phrase, "in dress not becoming to his or her sex" that carries a whiff of the Ayatollah about it. Who makes that determination? If the Town Fathers of Buttmunch, Louisiana decide that women must not wear tight jeans, or ANY jeans for that matter (not becoming to their sex!), what will happen next? What if I use a public restroom, inadvertently tuck my skirt into the waistband of my thong, and parade down Main Street without realizing I'm shootin a moon at the Civil War re-enactors in the village green -- can I be arrested if no kindly soul helpfully points out that no one wants to see my ass?

You're not allowed to wear baggy hip-hop pants in this cracker-ass town, but I'd bet my life that you can pretty much buy a gun any time you want.

Paula's Interview: Question #2 & #3

What's the Best Thing About Living in New York?

I never thought I'd say this, but: Living in Brooklyn. This from a woman who lived in Hell's Kitchen from 1988 to 2001 and loved every minute of it. Okay, maybe getting mugged a half block from home wasn't so great. Or being burglarized. Not so great, as well.

Runner up to best things: Getting 30 rides out of a $24 unlimited ride metrocard. The bagels (trite, I know, but until you've eaten a "bagel" in Colorado, you just don't understand). Shopsin's. Coney Island Cyclone and the Brooklyn Cyclones. This year, the Mets (with their two players who are PUSHING 50!).

What's the Worst?

9/12 New Yorkers. I hate them all.

And the fact that Manhattan as the magnet for innovation and creative vitality is over. An overpriced, homogenous gated community for rich white people and their trust-funded kids. Plus the Staten Island/Bensonhurst/Bay Ridge wannabes who want to be their friends.

When you hear about artists leaving New York and taking up residence in Philadelphia, you know that something is seriously wrong -- sociologically, economically, and culturally. Foul, fetid, fuming, foggy, filthy Philadelphia as the place for artists on the East Coast -- it's just wrong.

Smoke Up, Johnny!

Just Launched: you can also find Jane here

Freelancing

I've posted only one comment on the subject of my long absence, that would be Archer, because he's got the general tone of the comments pretty much covered...

I gotta tell you, I'm kinda digging the freelance life. You can go in, work for a company, and not have to get caught up in the whole political shenanigans that go on in a large corporation. You show up, do the job you've been hired to do, and because you're a freelancer, you just don't have that paw and claw mentality of the full-time staffers. I kinda like it.

The Company is populated with many "young girls," and they fill me with a kind of nostalgia. They're generally young and completely career-driven -- I remember that feeling well -- and they've got that endearingly serious demeanor that young female executives-in-training seem to have. That "you will take me seriously" mien that they think indicates that they are serious businesswomen. It makes me wonder, as I remember my days in advertising, with the suits and heels and briefcases and client meetings, at what point did I cast off that mantle of bullshit? It may have been when I looked around at some random agency meeting and thought to myself, "Wow. These people really think that selling subscriptions to magazines with television commercials is IMPORTANT."

While I can't disclose the name of The Company (they've contracted me through the next couple of weeks), I'll give you a few clues, just for grins.

1) The Company is located in New York City (duh).
2) The founder/owner/creative genius of The Company is a woman.
3) The founder of The Company was once a model AND a stockbroker.
4) The founder of The Company is recognizable to pretty much everyone in America.
5) The founder of The Company, for a short period of time, got a whole lot of attention for her handbag.
6) She's my very favorite ex-convict, and I have blogged about her in the past (albeit in one of my other blogs.)

Let's just say, the founder raised the bar for middle-american style far above marching-duck dishtowels -- forever. There's something to be said for that...I've always admired her, though I don't own a glue gun and I certainly can't imagine that making a cranberry wreath is anything other than occupational therapy for Lindsay Lohan. (Do they let addicts have pins?)

And that's a good thing.

By the Skin of My Frickin' Teeth

Whew.

Finally -- a 3-week freelance gig at a major media corporation, doing something I am good at, at a decent rate. Twenty-six bucks an hour isn't going to dig me out of a debt hole anytime soon, but money coming in is better than money going out, even if I should actually be making about 35.

And, I'm on my way out to Long Island to sell my car to one of those car-buying services. I don't care if they give me 500 bucks for it -- again, money in vs. money out. I haven't driven the damn thing in 3 years and I don't NEED a car in NYC.

I can put the blow-jobs-for-cash idea on the back burner for the time being, at least. Last week a guy I used to sleep with offered me a hundred bucks for one -- I TURNED IT DOWN, OF COURSE. But, hey, at least now I know what my rate should start at.

Free Hitchens

A Barnes & Noble gift card is probably one of the best gifts that you could give me, so when an acquaintance passed on to me a $25 gift card that had been given to him I was only too happy to accept it.

Hey, I'm so unemployed and flat broke, at this point I'm considering theft and prostitution to earn a buck, so who am I to turn down a freebie like that?

Besides, not being able to figure out how to spend twenty-five bucks in B&N is a special kind of stupid, so I'm happy to profit from his stupidity.

So, of course, I picked up Hitchens and the latest issue of Esquire. I've been dwelling a lot on Hitchens lately, I know.

Total out of pocket for the book and the magazine? 25 Cents. Yes, I handed over a quarter and walked out of there feeling like I had gotten one over on The Man.

I was lucky to get home on Friday in time to catch Hitchens on Bill Maher, as well. Then I spent the entire weekend engrossed in the book, emerging at about 5pm yesterday, squinting and exhausted.

Ok, here's what I came away from it with: CH is not just some bloviating blowhard. He's an intellectual blowhard. I haven't decided yet if that's better or worse than just being a blowhard. Then again, if you have to dislike someone's personality, at least expend the energy disliking someone whose intellect you respect, right?

And I'm slowly beginning to believe, despite scary things like The National Day of Prayer (read this if you want to be truly terrified), there are more atheists, or nontheists, or non believers, or whatever the hell you want to call us, than you might think.

Giuliani Said This (Really. I'm Not Kidding)

"Freedom is about authority. Freedom is about the willingness of every single human being to cede to lawful authority a great deal of discretion about what you do."

Arbeit macht frei!

Hitchens!

Gosh durnit, he's everywhere. If nothing else, he's garnered a LOT of press attention with his book, "God is Not Great."

He was on Anderson Cooper last night, and well, he came off, if not exactly likeable, then at least reasonable.

Now Salon has this article about his book.

Paula's Interview - Question #1

Paula's interview has been fermenting in my in-box for a few weeks now -- I wrote out thoughtful and considered answers on my G3 at home, dutifully saved them to a zip disk only to find out that no one has zip drives anymore at internet cafes. Sorry for the piecemeal, Paula.... Questions 2-5 will be along later!


1. Name a writer who greatly influenced you and why.


Anne Lamott -- She's a Christian, I'm an atheist. Yet she is so raw and real in her essays, which I have to say I prefer to her fiction. "Bird by Bird" is one of the best books on writing that I have ever read. One of the others is "Writing Down the Bones" by Natalie Goldberg.


Tom Robbins -- He talks about important things in a lighthearted way. Saw him speak at B&N in Union Square a few years back. He looked down my shirt when I bent over to put my book down for him to sign, then looked up at me and gave me the most joyfully dirty grin I've ever seen. Also the writer with whom I'd most like to have naked playtime.


Richard Russo -- When I was growing up, before its 80's renaissance, Pittsburgh was a dying blue-collar town, so I know the people in his books. He treats all of his characters with respect and humor, even the not-so-nice ones. Turns a phrase that can make you bark with laughter out of the blue.





Michael Chabon -- I mean, come on. Read "Wonder Boys." If the image of an aging, overweight stoner professor driving around in a vintage 70's Yank Tank with a dead dog and a tuba in a pony-print case in the trunk doesn't have you on the floor, you can't ever be my friend.








Steinbeck -- Probably the greatest American writer of the 20th century. A man's man without all that machismo Hemingway bullshit.

Talkin' Out of Both Sides of My Mouth

The yin and yang of the world is demonstrated to me again, and again, and again.

I hate Christoper Hitchens. I hate his pro-war stance. I hate his Bush apologism. I hate the way he behaves when he is on television (boorishly drunk, most of the time).

Then, dagnabbit, he goes and writes a book in the Dawkins/Harris genre, with a viewpoint that I agree with.

I admit, I have a hard time separating the artist/writer/philosopher from the person. Anyone else ever hear what a complete asshole Miles Davis was? Or that Adolph Hitler was a dog lover? Yeah, me too. I boycotted Elvis Costello for about a millisecond back in the 80's when I heard that he was making anti-Semitic remarks. Then, well, then, you know what happens next... It's the fucking music, man. It's a slippery slope.

I guess we project "goodness" on the people whose art or whose viewpoints we admire...and dualistically, "badness" on those with whom we disagree or whose art we dislike. The whole need to create separateness and otherness is basically what's at the bottom of all conflict and violence. Isnt' it?

Well, with a sigh, I'm off to B & N to check out Hitchens. But I just want you to know, I feel like the caveman that bought Geico.

Uh, Just Whose Self-Esteem are We Restoring Again?

I just have to accept it.

Sigh.

You men are never going to get over your balls.

Or any balls, for that matter.

The Great Pop-Tart Debate

Ok, this is completely inconsequential, but lately I've been having many conversations with my friends about Pop-Tarts. I don't know anyone who actively dislikes a Pop-Tart, but a debate rages about which is the best flavor.

I stand firm in my assertion that if you're going to eat a Pop-Tart, Frosted Strawberry is the way to go. It toasts well and seems to have the best frosting which stays crunchy when toasted -- not to mention the little colored sprinkles IN the frosting.

Another friend swears by the Frosted Cherry, so in the interest of good scientific experimentation, I bought a box of them, and was, frankly, disappointed. They got far too mushy in the toaster, sagged and broke against the sides, and the frosting and filling melted onto the inside of the toaster. The next time I wanted to toast something, the gooped-on filling started to burn and filled my house with the stench of burning sugar!

Usually I buy my Pop-Tarts as if I'm conducting a drug transaction, on the down low, at my corner deli, and I always buy something "necessary" to hide my true intentions. Because I needed to buy kitty litter and paper towels at midnight. But my corner deli does have a limited selection, usually just the strawberry and cherry.

I marched myself over to my big grocery store and sought out the Pop-Tart Aisle. Man! When did they introduce all those flavors? Grape? I can't wait to try Grape! I remember the commercials from my childhood, and the tag line was something like, "Blueberry, Cherry, and Brown Sugar Cinnamon!"

Ahhh, the Brown Sugar Cinnamon. They were my very, very favorites when I was a child. I've looked in several grocery stores and haven't been able to find the elusive Brown Sugar Cinnamon. I feared for a while that they had been discontinued, but according to the good people at Kellogg's, they do still exist. I will just have to range further afield to find them, I guess.

And I gotta say, "S'mores" flavored Pop-Tarts just sounds gross.

We're All A Little Monkish

The P occasionally sorts her M&M's.

Ever since I moved into my railroad apartment with NO sink in the bathroom, my toothbrush lives next to my kitchen sink. And then, hearing somewhere that toilets spray a mist of something like 10 feet when you flush them -- I cannot STAND to have my toothbrush in a room with a toilet in it. GROSS.

How are you Monkish?

Remind Me, Please....

Someone, please remind me about all the "shoulds" that we're supposed to adhere to when it comes to family, and why those "shoulds" are true. You know, all that happy horseshit about how we're supposed to love our siblings no matter what.

Well, right now, I'm feeling so annoyed right now at my brother that I'm sorry that I share one single strand of DNA with him.

Some examples of his words of wisdom recently:

"If you haven't found a job yet, you aren't going to."
"You need to find something else to do besides the career you've been in."
"(insert any social problem here) is the Women's Libber's fault."

Sorry folks, right now, I hate those people.

Next Time, I WILL Call Your Kid a Brat.

Hooray for Heather Havrilesky.

Writer Needed, Literacy Optional

I came across this ad on Craigslist today. I think this is proof that kids are just more stupid than they used to be. Yeah, I said it. College graduates today are a bunch of illiterate morons.

Here's a perfect example of "shoulda been held back in the eighth grade, or at least sent to summer school, to polish her basic writing and grammar skills, but god forbid we damage Johna's self-esteem, let's pass her and set her free to inflict communications like this into the world."

"We are a very professional indie production company (The Micles Prod TMP) We specialize in Short Films and incredible visualy Music Videos, all done in HI-Def and Hi-End Digital Tecnology or in Film.
We are majorly searching for interns from NYU or NYU Film Accademy, at the end of the work we provide proofs that in some cases are considerate credits in university exchanges.
We need very smart and very fast people non competitive, with some experience. The qualifications now
opening are for: SCREENWRITER.At the moment we are prep for a indie version of the "Hamlet" of Shakespeare, so if you know the subject it will be much better. The most important requirement is that you have to own a cell phone and we want that number, people without cell please don't apply, e-mail is secondary. Thanks contact Johna."

It's Kinda Like Dollywood for Smart People

"Dickens World, located in Chatham Maritime, Kent is a stunning NEW £62 million indoor themed attraction based on the life, books and times of Charles Dickens. The attraction is now entering an exciting phase as we move towards opening."

I want to go and see if they've got "Miss Havisham's House of Horrors."

Jesus Jumping Christ

Godalfuckingmighty.

I was waiting for the pro-gun and anti-gun lobbies to start weighing in, and sure enough, they started issuing statements a couple of hours after the murders in Virginia.

Without going into how the Pro-Crime lobby willfully misreads the 2nd Amendment, I want to go on record as agreeing with the General. General Wesley Clark, that is, who said, if you want to play with guns, there's a place for you and it's called the US Army. (I'd add Law enforcement to that).

Daily News editorializes against guns here.

More on Vonnegut

What a great essay

Kurt will be sorely missed. The pissed off patriots are starting to die off... Will Gore Vidal be next?

The Most Annoying Songs of All Time (????)

Perusing WNBC this morning (and who can say that without hearing Howard Stern saying, "Doubleyou ENNN bee cee"?), I gathered that despite our 8.5" of rain in less than 24 hours, it is a slow news day, for I saw this link, and yes, I just had to go there.

For the record, here's my take on the 22 songs selected:

1. "It's a Small World." It's perpetrated by The Rat. But I'm generally neutral to this, and both times I was at Disneyworld I avoided this attraction. My tastes run more toward the loud and fast and scream-inducing.

2. "I Love You, You Love Me." Not a parent, so never had to suffer through this one.

3. "Mr Roboto." HEY. I love this song. I own this -- in vinyl AND cd. Though I admit I can only listen to it once a year or so.

4. "The Meow Mix Jingle." "now you know that the cat's meow means meow mix, meow mix, meow mix, meow mix, meow meow meow." Irritating as hell, but catchy, innit? And does anyone but me remember the Cat Chow commercial, "I love I love I love my calendar cat...January, chow ch-chow chow chow..." with the cats doing the little back and forth steps? God, I'm old. (PS I remember the Chuck Wagon commmercials, too)

5. "Who Let the Dogs Out." Um. Not a Mets fan, and I think the last time I heard this song was during the Subway Series of 2000.

6. "Achy Breaky Heart." Does Billy Ray still have that mullet? For that matter, does Jaromir Jagr?

7. "The Chicken Dance." I'm from Pittsburgh, we do the Alley Cat at weddings (which in my day were held at VFWs and Firehalls)

8. "Copacabana." Come on. There are so many better Manilow songs. I'm a sucker for Barry.

9. "Macarena." Manufactured dance crazes have never been my thing. Don't know how to do it. Can't Electric Slide, either.

10. "Theme from Scooby Doo." No feelings either way about this one.

11. "YMCA." I AM a Yanks fan, however, so when the 7th inning stretch comes around and the groundskeepers come out and to their VP thing, I do enjoy it. When I was 13, I OWNED the Village People's first album. Also their 2nd and 3rd albums. Did I mention I'm an enormous fag hag from way, way back?

12. "Hot in Here" sooooooo not my generation. Again, GOD I'm old.

13. "Mambo #5." My last memory of this song was dancing drunkenly on top of a speaker at The Roxy. Right. Fag Hag.

14. "Theme from I Dream of Jeannie" No feelings either way about this one.

15. "Muskrat Love." Okay, now we're talking... yes, this should actually be NUMBER ONE on the list.

16. "MMMMM Bop." They were such cute little boys, I could never hold this song against them.
So sue me.

17. "Play That Funky Music." Again, I'm from Pittsburgh, they're a hometown band, I have to remain loyal. Frankly, I'm surprised some hack rapper hasn't poached that lead guitar line yet.

18. "Wannabe" No argument here, I always hated the Skank Girls.

19. "Theme from Good Times." Shit, I can't even remember this song.

20. "Thank God I'm a Country Boy." As far as John Denver songs go, yes this is annoying. But remember, I'm a dork who LOVES John Denver. I cried when he died. Don't hold that against me. I cried when Stevie Ray Vaughn died, too.

21. "It's a Sunshine Day." Once a year, it's okay. And though I have no recollection of ever seeing the episode with the song, somehow through some sort of pop culture osmosis, I know all the words.

22. "Jump." The Kriss Kross version. I have a soft spot for this song, since a very very good friend of mine directed the video.

As the greatest treatise on bad songs ever, I would recommend you go to your local bookstore and pick up a copy of Dave Barry's Book of Bad Songs. You don't necessarily have to actually buy it, since it's a short and easy read, though the bookstore may ask you to pay to clean up the carpet after you wet yourself in the aisle.

Two Cents on Don Imus

They aren't my two cents. They're Joe Conason's two cents. But I happen to agree with him -- it's about the networks doing something on the side of basic decency.

Sometimes You Just Need to be Cheered Up

Or as we say in da 'burgh, "Sometimes you just need cheered up." It's a Western Pennsylvania thing, that dropping of the verb "to be." You'll always be able to tell who we are by the way we say things, like...

"My shirt needs arned."
"My car needs warshed."
"My house is a mess, I gotta go home and redd up."
"Hey, I lost my barrette, you got a gumband I can use to pull my hair back?"
"I can't stand my boss, he's a total jagoff."
"Yinz guys think the Stillwers are gonna make the playoffs this year? Nah, dem guys ain't the same since Cahr retarhed."

My mother, not being a native, did a pretty good job of eradicating the accent in most of us, though my sisters and brothers who stayed still let an occasional "dahntahn" slip into their speech. I still find myself using the colloquialisms occasionally, much to the befuddlement to my friends from New York. A friend of mine, a card-carrying Brooklyn goombah (would that make him a Friend of Ours?), heard me describe someone as a "jagoff," and said it had more impact than just your garden variety "jerkoff." Try it, you'll see!

Unfortunately, guys here just don't get the reference when I tell them, "Kennywood's open!" and will happily stroll away with their fly open. They can't say I didn't try to let them know, even if it was in a different language.

But I have totally digressed from my original cheering up post. I've been feeling glum this week - unemployable and just spent from a flurry of job interviews. I now know what a Broadway performer feels like - you go out every single day and do the same thing and every time, you've gotta be on. So I took this week off to recharge the mental and emotional batteries. I haven't done one productive job-searchy thing, and it feels okay. Who knew that looking for a job was harder work than having a job? Sheesh. Why don't these people just recognize the wonder that is me and hire me?

So, sometimes you flip through channels and come upon something that you can't pass up, and it has the effect of cheering you up -- a lot. This week it was puppies. Yes, puppies. I mean, how can you not be cheered up by puppies? Yes, I know, I'm a cat person, but puppies are just more fun to watch on television. So I'm a dork, sue me.

In other news, my Special Naked Friend spent some time in the hospital -- apparently had a DVT incident, resulting in a pulmonary embolism, coulda died, blah, blah, blah. And do you know that when he got back to work this week, the idiot wanted to know when we could start messing around again!!! Hellooooo??? Since I wish to avoid any unplanned or unexplainable visits to a Brooklyn emergency room, I suggested he make sure all his parts work okay and try out the equipment on the wife for a few weeks before crossing two waters for more dirty playtime. When he gets a clean bill of health from his doctor, his wife, or both, he can come back to the burg of William. Sheesh.

This week, my vote for hottest TV moment comes courtesy of Tyra Banks and Terrence Howard. I think you have to see it to understand it -- it was like watching foreplay. And in case you were wondering, this was just a cheap ploy to mention Terrence Howard. Who, as far as I'm concerned, can fore my play any day of the week. He's the hottest cross-eyed guy on the planet.

I think this weekend will require a Vonnegut binge. Though I loaned my copy of "Breakfast of Champions" to the East Village Guy last year and never got it back. Damn. Speaking of the EVG -- I ran into him while I was out with Racer X last week, and since his girlfriend dumped him, he looks just terrible, and is back to skanking around the East Village. I mean, Skanking, with a capital "Skank." The pink-haired cokehead bartender he's shtupping looks like she could use a round of penicillin. Funny, he got less attractive when he lost the "good" girlfriend. Men, take note.

Which brings me to the question that Racer X and I were pondering one night over Guinnesses (Guinnii?):

If you could take ONE back (and face it, everyone has at least one who makes them cringe at the memory), who would it be? For me, hands down, it would be THIS GUY.

Unstuck In Time

And so it goes....

From a New Yorker to the USA: STOP GIULIANI

We have to work to stop Giuliani.

Here's more.

Chocolate Bunny: First You Bite Off the Ears

But what do you eat first on Jesus of Hershey?

And Stay Out!

Okay, so it was more like Clash of the Titans than David versus Goliath, but I was inordinately delighted to awaken to NPR and hear Wal-Mart threw up its hands and walked away from New York City. It's nice to know that the juggernaut was stopped

I was tickled to read this:

"H. Lee Scott Jr., the chief executive of the nation’s largest retailer, said that trying to conduct business in New York was so expensive — and exasperating — that “I don’t think it’s worth the effort.”"

Ha! They gave up because New Yorkers are just huge pains in the ass. I love that. I love that more than you can know.

Let me paraphrase Mr. Scott in our reply to why there won't be Wal Mart in New York City: "Because We ARE Better Than You and Don't Want You In Our Community."

Watching Too Much Television

Since I hate those sanctimonious pricks who walks around saying "Oh, I never watch television," (while at the same time being able to comment in a detailed fashion on what happened on "Desperate Housewives" last night), I'll confess that since losing my job I've probably watched more television than most of you have in your lives.

I've always owned up to the fact that I love watching television and have on occasion spent 10 or 12-hours on a showerless Saturday watching "The Sopranos" on HBO OnDemand. I'm talking: wake up, make coffee, turn on OnDemand, drink coffee and smoke cigarettes in pajamas, make pancakes and bacon, think about brushing teeth, watch more episodes, wash dishes, watch more episodes, eat leftovers for dinner, smoke more cigarettes, watch more episodes, wash dishes, brush dingleberries out of cat's pantaloons, smoke, think again about brushing teeth, watch more episodes, go to bed with dirty teeth.

Aside: A True Sopranos Fan will note that this post is titled after a Season 4 episode. I would have worked in the title of my favorite episode of all time, but since this is a post about TV, "Pine Barrens" just wouldn't have had the same ring.

So here are my musings on TV for the unemployed, Video Crack.

A show that I NEVER, EVER, NOT ONCE, watched while it was on during primetime, has accidentally become one of my favorite afternoon breaks. (Gotta love that TNT Primetime in the Daytime). Give it up for Charmed, ladies and gentlemen! I like it against my will. I mean come ON -- three brunettes with magical powers kicking ass for good? That's right up my alley. Though I have to admit that in the later seasons, the addition of the dipshitty Billie and her equally dipshitty sister Kristy must have been the original fans' jump-the-shark moment. Kristy is supposed to be simmering with rage or something, and all I get from her expression is vaguely frustrated constipation.

Next, there are reality TV assholes and then there are reality TV assholes. Up till recently, my very favorite reality TV asshole was Assahola, I mean, Omarosa, on the first season of The Apprentice. There were some halfway decent contenders on other shows in the intervening years, but most only reached the level of "slightly irritating" rather than "complete asshole." But two have really caught my attention recently, and I'm tickled to anoint them 2007's first great Reality TV Assholes.

First, we have Becky on The Agency, who, it appears, is chronically late, frequently and blatantly insubordinate to her boss, and quite clearly an alcoholic. This woman takes "Workplace Asshole" to new levels, and I spend the 1/2 hour of the show wishing Pink would throw her skanky Limey ass down a flight of stairs. But, I take comfort in the fact that her behavior is out there on national television and that alone might be enough to ensure that she never works in fashion again. Hi, here's my resume, right there on VH1. Watch, here's where I overslept because I was drunk and was an hour late for a meeting. Here's where I demonstrate my team-building skills by badmouthing my boss behind his back. And here's where I attack my boss for reprimanding me when I was clearly in the wrong. What Becky needs is a good spanking, and I'm not talking the good kind. I'm talking nuns with wooden paddles with holes drilled in them. Please, someone, pick me to do it.

And second, there's Renee on Cycle 8 of America's Next Top Model. She's the girl who repeatedly talks smack and stabs the other girls in the back, then cries on the phone to her husband that they aren't nice to her. She has, in her life, apparently mastered not only the art of being a sore loser, she's even a bitch when she succeeds at something. I often wonder why men put up with women like this, then I remember that she is pretty enough to be on a modeling show, and we all know, people, that for 99% of men, "Hot Piece of Tail" offsets a whooooole lot of crazy. This girl makes you want to use the C-word. Seriously.

And don't say "Janice Dickinson" to me, because while she is often crazy, inappropriately outspoken and has a big mouth, somehow you see that under all the Botox and plastic surgery a kind heart, a loving mother, and a broken little girl. Janice, I can't help liking you!

Coming up on "Watching Too Much Television" -- why I love Tyra Banks.

It's Not Easy Avoiding Green

But somehow I managed to do it this weekend -- no easy feat in NYC on St. Patrick's Day.

Taking into consideration the fact that I hate a) crowds, b) drunken crowds, and c) drunken crowds of New Yorkers, I stayed far, far from the madness of St. Patrick's Day.

After spending Friday sloshing around in a suit AND heels on the messiest day of the winter, slogging from interview to interview, I orbed myself to Williamsburg, changed into more slog-friendly gear, and trekked to the Upper East Side to meet the Principessa.

There's only one real reason to go to the UES, and of course, it's gotta be a museum... Checked out the Gaudi exhibit and met her pals for drinks afterward on the balcony, the Met being open late on Fridays and everything. We had zingy Roz Russell-Cary Grant style conversation for a couple hours while drinking a nasty bottle of red wine (awful-awful-awful!), then trekked our way down to the Principessa's favorite hang in midtown. A snug French bistro where we had a gorgeous bottle of red to wash away the taste of the overpriced bad wine.

PS - I love-love-loved the P's friends, who were fast and funny and intelligent and witty.

In my now-standard style, of course, the third, fourth and possibly fifth glass of wine were all mistakes. I have no real recollection of getting home except I know I did it on the subway. It's official, I've turned into an old sissy. It was made even more official by the scale of the hangover I had on Saturday -- which was distinctly out of proportion to the amount of wine I drank. Given what I drank, I shoulda been upright by noon. But again, I'm old.

The P came over on Sunday afternoon and we lay around like slugs drinking coffee and gossiping about a (former?) friend who I think is starting to display signs of a serious personality disorder.

More on that later...

Feast or Famine

Just a quick-quick-quick update....

Company A has resurfaced after flaking for 2 months and assures me that they have not forgotten about me and the Creative Director will be in touch to schedule a meeting.

Company B has contacted me to come in for a 2nd interview today. They are looking for someone on a freelance to perm basis. A try before you buy.

Company C flew me to Washington DC yesterday to meet their home office folks. It went swimmingly and I got a great vibe from everyone I met. Money is not quite where I want it to be, but the benefits package is one of the best I have EVER seen. (How many companies offer their employees discounts on PET INSURANCE?) And we all know how I ended up after chasing the dollar...

Company D called me as I was in the taxi on my way home yesterday and I supposedly have an interview scheduled for tomorrow -- no confirming email yet, so this one is sorta on hold.

Had an interview with Company E on Tuesday, which I am pretty certain is not for me. The guy was kind of a dick -- he had this arrogance that just didn't sit well with me. And suffered from an ailment that so many men are afflicted with -- the "Not as Good-Looking as You Think You Are" disease. More on that later. And more on the "test" he gave me, which was more insulting to me than I think enlightening to him.

Gotta dash.

Promised a pal a coffee, muffin and NY Post (I bought it where no one knows me).

Friday Random Musings

So it's been a productive week all around. Some random stuff:

I'm still working on my little IRS project (it's a lot of years of paperwork to plow through), and let me tell you the weirdest thing: I've finally been telling my friends about it, and as I've "come out of the closet" I've been quite surprised to find out that a lot of people have one issue or another with the IRS. Seriously, there should be a support group, because as I've been telling people about it, I've seen this mixture of recognition and relief on several friends' faces. Interesting, admitting a basic financial irresponsibility or money management issue is like admitting you have a drug or alcohol problem.

As far as the job search goes, something very promising has been happening this week. I'll know more next week, so I'll be able to reveal more. I'm feeling a little superstitious and don't want to jinx it, but suffice it to say that whenever a company is willing to fly you to another city to meet more people at the home office, it can only be a good sign, right?

A Tibetan man told me that people with big foreheads are destined to have good lives. And since I'm sportin' a fivehead, I guess that means I'll be the next megaball winner or something.

My ex-boyfriend just walked by the window of the coffee shop, spotted me, and squooched his juicy pout at me. Cute.

I went out for a drink with Racer X the other day, and sitting at the bar was a brunette. Cute, youngish, and kind of perky. Then she started talking. Bloody hands of Jesus! Twenty minutes into telling us a story about her cat, I felt my eyes glaze over and all I could think was, "Wow, this girl never wants to have sex EVER again." Found out later that her "kind of perky" is generally fueled by cocaine. Not surprising, considering that this corner of 2nd Avenue and 5th Street IS the Portal To Hell, and the steps apparently are paved with coke. Yuk. What a loathsome drug. I can't help but feel superior to people who do coke.

Then again, I'm positive there are people who feel the same way about me because I am sleeping with a married guy. Dan Savage on cheating:

"The pros? Sex, excitement, variety. The cons? Discovery, breakup, hellfire. Every idiot knows those pros and cons, including you. But here's a pro that's rarely acknowledged: Sometimes cheating can save a long-term relationship. Sometimes only cheating makes it possible for a sexually rejected partner to stay in a relationship that's worth preserving for other good, valid reasons—like kids, for instance. And sometimes only cheating makes it possible for a person whose partner has a chronic, debilitating illness to stay put and stay sane. In these cases, cheating isn't just the right thing to do; it's the decent and honorable thing to do. Some fuckwits, of course, piously insist that Cheating Is Always Wrong. To the CIAW crowd, I say this: Fuck you, you self-righteous Pollyanna fucktards. I am so sick of CIAW types insisting with one breath that sex and sexual exclusivity are hugely important. Even the contemplation of an affair, to say nothing of its consummation, represents an unforgivable betrayal. And then in the very next breath, CIAWers insist that sex is so unimportant, so colossally trivial, that a person should be able to go without—forever! —if their mate is unwilling or incapable.You can't have it both ways, CIAWers. If sex is hugely important, then people can't be faulted for wanting some; if it's unimportant, then it shouldn't be seen as a huge betrayal when some poor fuckers, under duress, are forced to get their needs met elsewhere." So there.

Why do people who are married or in a couple keep insisting that I must be unhappy because I am not married or in a couple? Or that deep down, I really want children? Nyet! Nyet! Nyet! They shake their heads sadly when I mention that I have a married sex-buddy and say things like "You deserve more." Ummm, folks? I don't WANT more. In fact, I'm perfectly content to have a guy who comes over for two hours, pleasures me in ways that leave me weak, then goes back to New Jersey where he belongs. Though I do admit, other than his oral dexterity, he is quite tall and I can get him to change the lightbulb in my kitchen fixture that I can't reach.

Quick, Kill it Before it Grows!

Yesterday I heard someone use a word on television. It was spoken by an otherwise intelligent-seeming human being (that is actually arguable, as it was someone on television) who appeared to have half a grasp of the English language. And yet, it is just so wrong, so awful, that I rank it right up there with "irregardless" and "uncomfortability."

I would have written it off as mere individual ignorance, but this was about the third time I've heard it, which tells me that it's seeping into everyday use.

Someone said, "agreeance."

As in, "So, are we all in agreeance about this?"

Are you kidding me?

As my friends know, I'm all for the evolution of language, but I deplore the ghetto-ization of it.

It's not a word! We need to kill it as quickly as possible! Possibly as quickly as we need to kill the candidacy of Rudolph Giuliani.

Who is doing this to our language? Is it the same people who think that putting an "o" at the end of a word makes it Spanish?

Are we the Land of the Stupid?

Agggh.

A Little More Perspective

Okay.

I got fired on December 26th and have been living the Unemployed and Searching for a Job life ever since.

My nearly 80-year-0ld dad went into the hospital with some sort of kidney failure again last week.

Two days later, my 56-year-old brother went into the same hospital with congestive heart failure. Both are still there, leaving my other two brothers and one of my sisters to take turns taking care of my elderly and demented mother.

I'm dealing with a huge -- and I mean HUGE -- issue with the IRS after a few years of not dealing with it.

So given all of these crappy things happening around me, how's come I don't feel so bad?

It's a puzzlement.

It could very well be that I have finally taken my own advice, which I have given to many many of my friends. Here's how it goes:

When you don't what to do next, just do the next thing.

Think about it.

Just commenting on the news...

Just a few comments on the latest news...

1) The city is cracking down on dog owners again, and I say, "GOOD." $250 if you're caught not picking up after your dog. Cops, Parks and Sanitation workers can issue the tickets, but can we also allow regular people to make citizens' arrests, or at least knock the offending owners down into the poo they've left so discourteously behind? I don't blame the dogs, I blame the cretins who own them. Same goes for all o'y'all who insist on dragging your dog into every establishment you venture into. Note -- your dog doesn't belong in a bar, restaurant, deli, or anywhere else that they are serving food. Or any public retail establishment, for that matter. And all you business owners out there, what's it going to take? I know, you don't want to seem uncool, but what's cooler? Letting that chick bring her dog into your coffee shop, or the fine that you will get from the Health Department? Ooh, wait, I know what would be really cool: if her dog bites someone and then you get sued...

2) Of course I have to comment on Britney Spears. What a privilege -- we've now got living breathing, walking-amongst-us evidence that some people are really not meant to ever escape from the trailer park. It's kinda like the thought that crosses my mind whenever I see people getting on the PATH: "Ah, back to New Jersey, where they belong."

3) On the other hand, I picked up the latest fat issue of Vanity Fair, and couldn't help but notice that a huge number of the ads feature everyone's favorite cokehead supermodel, Kate Moss. However, I notice that, despite the fact that I couldn't care one way or another about her, my reaction is, "So much for those photos of her hoovering coke like an anteater ruining her career...hooray for Kate! The morality police didn't win!"

That's all for today... back to the job hunt....

Media Junkie

Since Janey's been gettin her money-saving on, what with the whole unemployment situation and all, I've had ample opportunity to catch up on things like Movies on Demand, TV, and even occasionally splurging on going to a real movie. Going to the movies enables me to be in the company of people without having to actually interact with them. Perfect!

So here are my recommendations:

See Pan's Labyrinth immediately. And I mean immediately. It is dark and haunting and phantasmagorical, full of magical creatures and monsters (of both the human and non-human kind). Do not, I repeat, do NOT take children to see this movie. It's far too scary for little kids -- Disney, it ain't. And (spoiler alert!)





a child dies at the end.

I've become a die-hard Scrubs fan. It's the only show on television that can consistently make me laugh out loud. Lots and lots of guy humor (fart jokes, anyone?) but come on, scatology is frickin funny!

Hustle & Flow on demand. Terrence Howard should have won the Oscar for this one. As far as "everyone has a dream" movies go, I thought this one was far, far better than the incredibly overrated Little Miss Sunshine. And call me crazy, but I find the idea of a pimp and the whores who love him a much less creepy topic than baby beauty pageants. It's that whole JonBenet thing, ya know?

Back to Back Watching: Munich and One Day in September. In Munich, Spielberg does a surprisingly good job of portraying the ambivalence of revenge. At the end I was left with only the desolate feeling that revenge accomplishes nothing, but reduce the avenger to the level of the criminals. Almost as if, had the terrorists of Black September been caught and executed on the spot, it wouldn't have been as bad as the systematic hunting and murdering that followed. I know Spielberg took flak for "humanizing" the terrorists, but I commend him for taking the risk. One Day in September is a quite compelling documentary about the terrorist attacks themselves, narrated by Michael Douglas. It's utterly fascinating, and the most disturbing thing to me was one of the German policemen talking about being involved in the bloodbath at the airport and laughing. It had me thinking what the hell is wrong with those Germans, anyway?
(Then again, ask any German who is about 40 what his/her father did in World War II. You will, almost without fail, get a huffy response along the lines of "my father/grandfather was NOT a Nazi." To hear them tell it, you'd almost think there were no Nazis in Germany at all! Yeah, and my friend's Austrian father relocated to South America after the war for income tax purposes. Mmmm hm. Right.)

Secret TV Shame: Charmed. I can't help myself, goddammit! I managed to go all those years without seeing a single episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer (you Buffy people are as bad as the folks going to Star Trek conventions) and unemployment caused me to get mildly hooked on this show. Not heroin-junkie hooked. More like caffeine-hooked. But I've even bypassed Law & Order repeats to watch it, and if you know me, that's saying something. On the older episodes, there's something repellently fascinating about studying Shannen Doherty's face -- didja ever notice that one of her eyes is, like, a quarter inch higher on her face than the other one? She's a living Picasso, really.

Well, that's all I've got for today, other than it's gorgeous outside and I'm going to go out and walk around.

Principessa

Well, what a nice chance to spend some real quality time with the Principessa the past few days.

First, she let me weep all over her on Wednesday night when I was feeling glum. It was nice to be able to do that -- then she got down to brass tacks and offered to lend me a few buckeroos to get me over this disgusting financial hump. Then of course I went and had some sort of social-phobia panic attack when I saw her on Thursday night and ran away from her and her friends. Weird, right? I realized that for all of my boosterism about "you are not your job!" deep down, I really haven't believed that.

I wrestled with that one for a while -- and came to realize that I do garner some of my identity from the mere fact of having a job. The idea of sitting at a table with strangers and answering the innocuous question, "So, what do you do?" and not having a definitive answer sent me into a complete panic.

In the meantime, the crying seems to have cleansed me somewhat, and enabled me to start crawling out of the hole I fell into.

Sunday night I went to the P's hotel and we got deli sandwiches and sat and yakked for a couple of hours about everything and nothing. We're both hyper-articulate and really, really funny Oriental girls. I'm not bragging. I'm just saying.

Yes, I still call myself "Oriental." I mean, I am, right?

So, over the course of our meandering conversation, I pondered this: What must it be like to live in New York City and go to the bat mitzvah of a 13-year-old Chinese girl named Lauren Feinberg? Can an adopted Chinese girl even BE bat mitzvahed? Doesn't your mother have to be Jewish or something like that to be considered Jewish? Do the girl's adoptive parents have to get special dispensation from the rabbi?

It's a puzzlement.

We went to Pete's Tavern afterward to meet W who, frankly, acted like a complete asshole to the bartender. I guess if someone in the group is going to get a loogie in his food, I'd rather it not be me, but honestly, CrankyPants should have just gone home and not inflicted himself on us. When he acts like that, it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to call him by his father's name.

Jane Today

Janey blue.
Janey unemployed.
Janey broke.
Janey scared.
No.
Janey terrified.
Janey defective.
Janey broken.

That's all I got today, folks.

Fuck it all.

Perspective

1) Someone throws a baby down a trash chute.

2) Volunteers take to the streets to count the homeless.

3) A lowlife gang member beats a woman and leaves her on the street.

4) And well, of course, you can't spell "quagmire" without I, R, A and Q.

And you're crying about a HORSE?

East Village Ridiculousness

So I get to my favorite coffee shop/internet cafe yesterday morning to find the block cordoned off and crowds of cops and onlookers inside and outside the cafe. I figure, what the heck, must be one of those temporary distractions that we New Yorkers are so familiar and comfortable with. I mean, if it isn't a jumbo jet flying into the side of a building, we just aren't fazed by it.

Screw it, I thought, too crowded. I decamp to SoHo to liberate my G3 from Varick and then Rector Streets (more of the Orts of Jane scattered all over the tri-state area). My friend who is taking me and my pathetic computer to Brooklyn wants to get busy, but since he is the guy formerly known as "My Married Friend," I demur as kindly and politely as possible. Thanks but no thanks. No backward steps in 2007.

Hours later, I return to my coffee shop only to find that the crowd of police and onlookers has not dissipated -- in fact, it has grown, and to it have been added TV news vans complete with their eye-in-the-sky antennae extended and an NYPD police helicopter circling overhead. It's still standing room only inside the cafe, and I ask one of my fellow gawkers what's going on.

"Something with the He11's Ange1s" he said. Durrrr. I shoulda figured. With a sigh, I call my pal Racer X because, hell, I'm in the neighborhood.

Racer X treats me to pizza (did I mention that if nothing else, my friends are not assholes? I think I did), and we meander over to the 2nd Ave side of 3rd St to see if we can see any activity. Nothing happening, so he goes home, and I wander back around the block to the 1st avenue side of things, closer to the action. I'm hoping maybe I can jump into one of the camera shots and flash a "We're number one" finger or mouth "Hi, Mom," or maybe just do some spastic jumping jacks behind the announcer. I remember I left my flat-brim baseball cap and oversize, stamped-leather coat at home, so I just go home.

Net, net, a 52-year-old woman got into it with some Aitch Ays and one of them beat her nearly to death then pushed her out into the street. (Hey, I'm no idiot, I know better than to actually put their name in this post in a googlable form -- these are stone criminals who clearly don't have any problem beating women)

Now, let me speculate here -- a woman is beaten within an inch of her life and left on the street in New York City and this results in a daylong police standoff and results in ONE -- count 'em -- ONE arrest? Gosh, do you think the NYPD would do the same thing if it happened to, say, me on the streets of Bushwick? Just asking.

I think the NYPD saw their opportunity to get into the clubhouse, which is really why they brought out the show of force. City government being what it is, it took them ALL FUCKING DAY to get the warrant to get into the building (I'm sure Ron Kuby, that Prince Among Men, did everything in his power to slow the process even further), which gave S0nny B@rger's Boyz plenty of time to get rid of their drugs and guns. Hence, a single, piddling arrest.

I don't know where I'm going with this, maybe just to vent about the bikies. I have a friend who glamorizes these lowlifes and will reflexively take their side over the police, even though the evidence of their lowlifeness is lying bloody and bludgeoned in a hospital. She even witnessed their lowlifeness with her own eyes when she was playing a gig in the Village and two of them came into the club and STOLE THE MUSICIANS' TIP BUCKET. And still she says, "Oh, they must just be bad seeds, not everyone is like that." How do I explain to her, "they are all bad seeds, and they're all like that"?

Then you have the neighborhood idiots who say, "Oh, 3rd Street is the safest block in the city because of these people!" What the f***? The criminals make the street safer because of their reign of terror? You frickin morons. Sheesh. They're the modern day Mafia, and if you don't believe it, you need to read this book.

Ok, that's my rant for today.