Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Frankly, He Oughta Get a Medal
How many times have you sat, seething, in a movie theater while someone nearby is yammering away to their companion?
This guy is my hero of the week.
This guy is my hero of the week.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Dock Ellis, R.I.P. 1945-2008
For providing us with the most heavy-metal moment in professional sports, pitching a no-hitter while tripping on LSD (if you can think of any moment MORE metal than that, please advise), for intentionally beaning 4 Cincinnati Reds players (including Pete Rose) while hopped up on speed, nay, for being one of the most badass, heavy-metal, original gangsta players of any sport (apologies to Jacks Lambert, Joe Greene, Brian Trottier, et al), for being the Nikki Sixx of sports, Jane must say ...
R.I.P, Dock Ellis.
R.I.P, Dock Ellis.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Don't I Know You From Somewhere?
The great thing about New York City is that no matter where you go, there's always a chance you'll see someone famous, semi-famous, or thinks-they're-famous. It's one of the charms of our city, our famous people are more regular people than they are in LA. They live their lives shoulder to shoulder with us, simply because they have no choice. They buy coffee in the deli, sit at the next table in restaurants, walk their kids down the street.
Some of my favorite celebrity sightings in New York:
* Alec Baldwin in about 1994 or 1995, walking through Times Square on a Friday night. I never found him particularly good looking in movies up till then, but face-to-face, he was hands down the handsomest man I've ever seen.
* David Byrne walking his bike on a side street on the Upper East Side.
* Chris Meloni, right after Law & Order: SVU premiered, at the next table at a little bistro in Tribeca. I said to my dining companion, "Hey, I recognize that guy from Law & Order!" He responded, "I recognize him from gay porn!"
* Ivanka Trump, all business, striding (if you're a 6-foot woman, you can only stride) past the deli where I sometimes get my coffee in the morning.
* Matthew Broderick, drinking alone at the bar at a restaurant called Indigo that used to be on West 10th Street.
* Matthew Broderick and Sarah Jessica Parker hand in hand on Bleecker Street. It was a steamy summer night and they were both eating ice cream cones. Man, are they the tiniest couple EVER?
* JFK, Jr., shirtless, in Central Park.
* Vincent Donofrio and Kathryn Erbe shooting a Law & Order episode on Varick Street.
* Storm Phillips at the opening night party for a movie called "Gay Sex in the 70's."
* Ethan Hawke, pushing a baby carriage, post-Uma, in Central Park.
* Randolph Mantooth, walking down Park Avenue, unrecognized by everyone except me and my friend Juliet. Recognizing Randolph Mantooth is proof that I am OLD.
Today's very minor celebrity sighting:
Jonesing for biscuits and gravy, I called on my now-married pal Racer X with a cry for brunch at our favorite cajun spot on 5th Street. When he and the little lady joined me, I was seated at the bar, nursing a spicy bloody mary and reading the Village Voice.
As we were waiting for our table, I realized that I recognized the bartender from somewhere, and after a while, it came to me. It was Mr. Pussy! Now, you'd have to be a Sex and the City fan to have any idea who I'm talking about, but let me just say, Season 2, Episode 15.
Turns out this guy has been the bartender at this joint for years; Racer X and he both recognized each other.
Of COURSE I'm not going to tell you where to find him, lest it become one more attraction for the odious "SATC" mobs that currently mill and litter outside Magnolia Bakery.
Some of my favorite celebrity sightings in New York:
* Alec Baldwin in about 1994 or 1995, walking through Times Square on a Friday night. I never found him particularly good looking in movies up till then, but face-to-face, he was hands down the handsomest man I've ever seen.
* David Byrne walking his bike on a side street on the Upper East Side.
* Chris Meloni, right after Law & Order: SVU premiered, at the next table at a little bistro in Tribeca. I said to my dining companion, "Hey, I recognize that guy from Law & Order!" He responded, "I recognize him from gay porn!"
* Ivanka Trump, all business, striding (if you're a 6-foot woman, you can only stride) past the deli where I sometimes get my coffee in the morning.
* Matthew Broderick, drinking alone at the bar at a restaurant called Indigo that used to be on West 10th Street.
* Matthew Broderick and Sarah Jessica Parker hand in hand on Bleecker Street. It was a steamy summer night and they were both eating ice cream cones. Man, are they the tiniest couple EVER?
* JFK, Jr., shirtless, in Central Park.
* Vincent Donofrio and Kathryn Erbe shooting a Law & Order episode on Varick Street.
* Storm Phillips at the opening night party for a movie called "Gay Sex in the 70's."
* Ethan Hawke, pushing a baby carriage, post-Uma, in Central Park.
* Randolph Mantooth, walking down Park Avenue, unrecognized by everyone except me and my friend Juliet. Recognizing Randolph Mantooth is proof that I am OLD.
Today's very minor celebrity sighting:
Jonesing for biscuits and gravy, I called on my now-married pal Racer X with a cry for brunch at our favorite cajun spot on 5th Street. When he and the little lady joined me, I was seated at the bar, nursing a spicy bloody mary and reading the Village Voice.
As we were waiting for our table, I realized that I recognized the bartender from somewhere, and after a while, it came to me. It was Mr. Pussy! Now, you'd have to be a Sex and the City fan to have any idea who I'm talking about, but let me just say, Season 2, Episode 15.
Turns out this guy has been the bartender at this joint for years; Racer X and he both recognized each other.
Of COURSE I'm not going to tell you where to find him, lest it become one more attraction for the odious "SATC" mobs that currently mill and litter outside Magnolia Bakery.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
A Fine Waste of Time
Sometimes you just want to kill some time.
Here's one way.
Just close your office door so your co-workers aren't alerted you are fucking around by the mad cackles emanating from your space.
Here's one way.
Just close your office door so your co-workers aren't alerted you are fucking around by the mad cackles emanating from your space.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Make-Believe Maverick
If, like me, you kind of had the sense that John McCain's heart really wasn't in the nasty campaigning, and that he is really, deep down inside, an honorable guy, you should read this article from Rolling Stone.
It's very, very illuminating and paints a really unflattering portrait of a guy whose motto shouldn't be "Country First," but instead, "McCain First."
I guess Cracker (aka "Real") America thinks it's okay for a guy to call his wife a c**t in front of three reporters.
My favorites zen teacher says it this way: How you do anything is how you do everything.
It's very, very illuminating and paints a really unflattering portrait of a guy whose motto shouldn't be "Country First," but instead, "McCain First."
I guess Cracker (aka "Real") America thinks it's okay for a guy to call his wife a c**t in front of three reporters.
My favorites zen teacher says it this way: How you do anything is how you do everything.
Some Belated RIP's
Lefty Rosenthal Without Lefty, Scorsese wouldn't have one of his masterpieces, Sharon Stone wouldn't have an Oscar nomination, and one of my old pals wouldn't have his anonymous blog ID for commenting on my posts.
Levi Stubbs No singer yearned quite like Levi. Go back and listen to "Bernadette" if you don't believe me. See, he's a guy who has Bernadette, but living in terror that he won't be able to keep her, that other men will steal her away. In the first part of the song, before the break, Levi doesn't even sing the melody -- he's just guttin' it out in one despairing shout. You have to love that.
Plus, who else could have played the Mean Green Mother from Outer Space?
Paul Newman Sigh. There's just nothing else to say.
Levi Stubbs No singer yearned quite like Levi. Go back and listen to "Bernadette" if you don't believe me. See, he's a guy who has Bernadette, but living in terror that he won't be able to keep her, that other men will steal her away. In the first part of the song, before the break, Levi doesn't even sing the melody -- he's just guttin' it out in one despairing shout. You have to love that.
Plus, who else could have played the Mean Green Mother from Outer Space?
Paul Newman Sigh. There's just nothing else to say.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Oldie but goodie - a big laugh
I'm fully aware that lately I am angry and more than a little shrill. I wake up with my jaw clenched and my shoulders hunched forward as if curled to protect my soft nougaty insides. I am drive-by eating and not exercising or sleeping enough. I'm certainly not getting laid enough.
From the important -- a failing economy (along with my own bank auguring in), the scary specter of Dubya in a skirt being one malignant melanoma away from the presidency, my dear old pet coming back from the brink of death, the upcoming first anniversary of my father's death, learning that an eternally young at heart old New York friend passed away tragically in Malibu in August -- to the relatively mundane -- a project going south in a spectacular crash and burn way -- these things have all mixed together to make me anxious and fearful for the past several weeks.
I believe this is a tad bit evident in some of the posts that I have written.
This week I'm in California again on business, and maybe it's the distance from my everyday life, or maybe it's the mood-enhancing, Vitamin D-laden southern California sunshine, but today I feel like a little air has gotten in.
I realized that in the last month I haven't had any really big laughs in a while; recognizing that laughter will oxygenate things even more, I went looking for videos that delight and amuse me, that quite simply, crack me up.
So I Googled something guaranteed to delight me:
Models Falling Down.
Now, the video itself is hilarious. Not only does the model fall TWICE, but when she goes down for the second time, her ankles do this crazy wobble as if suddenly they are cooked spaghetti. And pay attention! Both times, she never lets go of the watering can! But the best part of the video is the news anchor wraparound. After the video finishes, they cut back to the studio, where the anchor is laughing so hard he is unable to speak.
I swear, this made me laugh as hard as the clip of Frasier Crane singing "Buttons and Bows."
And I can breathe again.
And totally unrelated to anything else in this post, how frickin' adorable is Rachel Maddow?
From the important -- a failing economy (along with my own bank auguring in), the scary specter of Dubya in a skirt being one malignant melanoma away from the presidency, my dear old pet coming back from the brink of death, the upcoming first anniversary of my father's death, learning that an eternally young at heart old New York friend passed away tragically in Malibu in August -- to the relatively mundane -- a project going south in a spectacular crash and burn way -- these things have all mixed together to make me anxious and fearful for the past several weeks.
I believe this is a tad bit evident in some of the posts that I have written.
This week I'm in California again on business, and maybe it's the distance from my everyday life, or maybe it's the mood-enhancing, Vitamin D-laden southern California sunshine, but today I feel like a little air has gotten in.
I realized that in the last month I haven't had any really big laughs in a while; recognizing that laughter will oxygenate things even more, I went looking for videos that delight and amuse me, that quite simply, crack me up.
So I Googled something guaranteed to delight me:
Models Falling Down.
Now, the video itself is hilarious. Not only does the model fall TWICE, but when she goes down for the second time, her ankles do this crazy wobble as if suddenly they are cooked spaghetti. And pay attention! Both times, she never lets go of the watering can! But the best part of the video is the news anchor wraparound. After the video finishes, they cut back to the studio, where the anchor is laughing so hard he is unable to speak.
I swear, this made me laugh as hard as the clip of Frasier Crane singing "Buttons and Bows."
And I can breathe again.
And totally unrelated to anything else in this post, how frickin' adorable is Rachel Maddow?
Petulant Old Man Gets Testy With Des Moines Register
Unwittingly hilarious.
"I'm not an astronaut but I understand the challenges of space."
You know, come to think of it, I work on the Upper East Side, and Mike Bloomberg LIVES on the UES, so I must be qualified to be mayor of New York. I ride the subways, so I'm fully qualified to be the head of the MTA.
And I can see Russia from my house.
Do you think if the Smothers Brothers still had a variety show, they'd write a song with the chorus "And I can see Russia from my house."?
And yes, the Smothers Brothers reference outs me as old.
"I'm not an astronaut but I understand the challenges of space."
You know, come to think of it, I work on the Upper East Side, and Mike Bloomberg LIVES on the UES, so I must be qualified to be mayor of New York. I ride the subways, so I'm fully qualified to be the head of the MTA.
And I can see Russia from my house.
Do you think if the Smothers Brothers still had a variety show, they'd write a song with the chorus "And I can see Russia from my house."?
And yes, the Smothers Brothers reference outs me as old.
Everywhere Like Such As
Obfuscate
Function: verb
Etymology: Late Latin obfuscatus, past participle of obfuscare, from Latin ob- in the way + fuscus dark brown — more at ob-, dusk
Date: 1577
transitive verb
1 a: darken b: to make obscure
2: confuse
intransitive verb
: to be evasive, unclear, or confusing
Personally I like the translations from the Latin, "Dark Brown, In the Way." Fits perfectly in the palinabulary, which as we've seen from her interviews, amounts to a strategy of "keep throwing shit to eat up the time allotted."
In other words, everywhere like such as.
Seriously, how is it that "everywhere like such as" didn't become a cultural buzz phrase the way "Don't tase me, bro!" did?
Function: verb
Etymology: Late Latin obfuscatus, past participle of obfuscare, from Latin ob- in the way + fuscus dark brown — more at ob-, dusk
Date: 1577
transitive verb
1 a: darken b: to make obscure
2: confuse
intransitive verb
: to be evasive, unclear, or confusing
Personally I like the translations from the Latin, "Dark Brown, In the Way." Fits perfectly in the palinabulary, which as we've seen from her interviews, amounts to a strategy of "keep throwing shit to eat up the time allotted."
In other words, everywhere like such as.
Seriously, how is it that "everywhere like such as" didn't become a cultural buzz phrase the way "Don't tase me, bro!" did?
Sunday, September 28, 2008
TWTWTW
Dear Senator Biden -
I am waiting anxiously for Thursday. Don't go all soft and courtly on me. I want to see blood around your muzzle come 10:30. Publicly humiliate the bitch, then eviscerate her. Leave her entrails and eyeglass fragments in a steaming, stinking heap on the stage.
Oh, and in case you're looking for some talking points of why Sarah Palin is even more dangerous than that crackpot old man (who is exhibiting some symptoms of incipient Alzheimer's) on her ticket, read what Sam Harris has to say in Newsweek.
As an aside -- I'm not kidding about that Alzheimer's thing. I think McCain has Alzheimer's. A couple of stage four Alzheimer's symptoms:
* Decreased capacity to perform complex tasks, such as planning dinner for guests, paying bills and managing finances. Or campaigning, preparing for a debate, and attending a White House meeting.
* The affected individual may seem subdued and withdrawn, especially in socially or mentally challenging situations, like a complex discussion about the economy at the White House, in which he hunched toadlike in a corner and contributed nothing to the discussion.
Can we find a Democratic Drudge to start floating that rumor?
I am waiting anxiously for Thursday. Don't go all soft and courtly on me. I want to see blood around your muzzle come 10:30. Publicly humiliate the bitch, then eviscerate her. Leave her entrails and eyeglass fragments in a steaming, stinking heap on the stage.
Oh, and in case you're looking for some talking points of why Sarah Palin is even more dangerous than that crackpot old man (who is exhibiting some symptoms of incipient Alzheimer's) on her ticket, read what Sam Harris has to say in Newsweek.
As an aside -- I'm not kidding about that Alzheimer's thing. I think McCain has Alzheimer's. A couple of stage four Alzheimer's symptoms:
* Decreased capacity to perform complex tasks, such as planning dinner for guests, paying bills and managing finances. Or campaigning, preparing for a debate, and attending a White House meeting.
* The affected individual may seem subdued and withdrawn, especially in socially or mentally challenging situations, like a complex discussion about the economy at the White House, in which he hunched toadlike in a corner and contributed nothing to the discussion.
Can we find a Democratic Drudge to start floating that rumor?
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
The Wheels on the Bus Fall Off, Fall Off
Well, I'm relieved that the post-convention bounce has disappeared. The wheels are coming off the McCain/Palin bus and while I'm not quite ready to do a Riverdance on their graves (since, after the 2004 election I never underestimate the stupidity of Americans), I am managing a restrained Peppermint Twist.
If you read the Palin profile in this past Sunday's NY Times (the Times apparently doing the vetting that the McCain campaign didn't do) you get further evidence that Palin is nothing but a vengeful and petty Northern Exposure Boss Tweed.
Wonder if McCain is now wishing he had done the truly maverick thing and tapped Joe Lieberman (not that that would have helped him)? Unless, as I've posited privately to friends, Palin is being cast as the Harriet Miers character, who will implode under the scrutiny of her abuses of power, cronyism, and secretiveness (sound like any President we know, hmmm?), so McCain can bring Joe L in at the eleventh hour?
Actually, since it's now well established that the McCain/Palin campaign is now just a bunch of desperate liars (well, with the exception of maybe Carly Fiorina, and look where that's gotten her), perhaps I should get out my red patent leather high heeled Mary Janes and get ready to do that dance on their graves.
PS. Three cheers to Hillary Clinton for backing out of a UN appearance after she found out Palin was going to be there. Hillary, better than anyone, knows that if one photo of her appears standing next to the radioactive Palin, it will, somewhere down the road, come back to bite her in the ass.
If you read the Palin profile in this past Sunday's NY Times (the Times apparently doing the vetting that the McCain campaign didn't do) you get further evidence that Palin is nothing but a vengeful and petty Northern Exposure Boss Tweed.
Wonder if McCain is now wishing he had done the truly maverick thing and tapped Joe Lieberman (not that that would have helped him)? Unless, as I've posited privately to friends, Palin is being cast as the Harriet Miers character, who will implode under the scrutiny of her abuses of power, cronyism, and secretiveness (sound like any President we know, hmmm?), so McCain can bring Joe L in at the eleventh hour?
Actually, since it's now well established that the McCain/Palin campaign is now just a bunch of desperate liars (well, with the exception of maybe Carly Fiorina, and look where that's gotten her), perhaps I should get out my red patent leather high heeled Mary Janes and get ready to do that dance on their graves.
PS. Three cheers to Hillary Clinton for backing out of a UN appearance after she found out Palin was going to be there. Hillary, better than anyone, knows that if one photo of her appears standing next to the radioactive Palin, it will, somewhere down the road, come back to bite her in the ass.
Let's Mambo
With twice daily oral antibiotics, lots of soft food, some force feeding and watering, Mambo is looking and acting like his bright-eyed old self. Albeit with an accusatory and judgmental glint in those eyes that says, "You stupid slut! I almost died!" (he did).
Now he's sitting at my shoulder, ready to accept my bribe of Greenies treats to win back his affections.
And I know he's getting better because he now hurries away when I pick up the towel I use to wrap him up for the antibiotic dosing. You can almost hear him saying, "Feets, don't fail me now." Then when I do manage to catch him, he struggles and fights instead of doing his Chicago '68 "I'm not resisting arrest," thing. Good Mambo!
Honestly, you wouldn't guess that this cat is nearly 18 years old.
Now he's sitting at my shoulder, ready to accept my bribe of Greenies treats to win back his affections.
And I know he's getting better because he now hurries away when I pick up the towel I use to wrap him up for the antibiotic dosing. You can almost hear him saying, "Feets, don't fail me now." Then when I do manage to catch him, he struggles and fights instead of doing his Chicago '68 "I'm not resisting arrest," thing. Good Mambo!
Honestly, you wouldn't guess that this cat is nearly 18 years old.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Obama v. Palin
I know it's really, really, really lame not to post anything for months, and then post something that was forwarded to me in an email. And it's even lamer to give it a title that bears no relation to the actual contest coming up in November (Obama isn't running against Palin, remember? Well, the Retardicans can't seem to remember that, even as Barack is starting to do the Bristol Stomp all over the McCain Lie Machine). But I know you must have at least one Republican friend (we all have one, and we all call him/her "my Republican friend," the way people used to say, "my gay friend."), so I wanted to give you your talking points. They were forwarded without attribution (for you Republicans out there, I know 4-syllable words are hard, but that means "I don't know who wrote them first"), so I don't know where they got their start.
Here they are:
* If you grow up in Hawaii , raised by your grandparents, you're "exotic, different."
* Grow up in Alaska eating mooseburgers, a quintessential American story.
* If your name is Barack you're a radical, unpatriotic Muslim.
* Name your kids Willow , Trig and Track, you're a maverick.
* Graduate from Harvard law School and you are unstable.
* Attend 5 different small colleges before graduating, you're well grounded.
* If you spend 3 years as a brilliant community organizer, become the first black President of the Harvard Law Review, create a voter registration drivethat registers 150,000 new voters, spend 12 years as a Constitutional Law professor, spend 8 years as a State Senator representing a district with over 750,000 people, become chairman of the state Senate's Health and Human Services committee, spend 4 years in the United States Senate representing a state of 13 million people while sponsoring 131 bills and serving on the Foreign Affairs, Environment and Public Works and Veteran's Affairs committees, you don't have any real leadership experience.
* If your total resume is: local weather girl, 4 years on the city council and 6 years as the mayor of a town with less than 7,000 people, 20 months as the governor of a state with only 650,000 people, then you're qualified to become the country's second highest ranking executive and next in line behind a man in his eighth decade.
* If you have been married to the same woman for 19 years while raising 2 beautiful daughters, all within Protestant churches, you're not a real Christian.
* If you cheated on your first wife with a rich heiress, and then left your disfigured wife and married the heiress the next month, you're a true Christian.
* If you teach responsible, age appropriate sex education, including the proper use of birth control, you are eroding the fiber of society.
* If, while governor, you staunchly advocate abstinence only, with no other option in sex education in your state's school system while your unwed teen daughter ends up pregnant, you're very responsible.
* If your wife is a Harvard graduate laywer who gave up a position in a prestigious law firm to work for the betterment of her inner city community, then gave that up to raise a family, your family's values don't represent America 's.
* If you're husband is nicknamed "First Dude", with at least one DWI conviction and no college education, who didn't register to vote until age 25 and once was a member of a group that advocated the secession of Alaska from the USA, your family is extremely admirable.
Are you clear?
Try to have this discussion with your Republican friend in a calm, assertive tone of voice. Don't follow my example, which tends to be a little drag-queeny, arm-wavy, and punctuated with exhortations about "that Alaskan cunt." This does not tend to move the conversation forward.
And now, I have successfully used the word "cunt" in back to back posts. Can I call myself the Rude Pundette?
But anyway, I thought these were actually pretty good points to bring up.
And if you aren't watching Keith Olbermann at 8pm and 10pm on MSNBC on weeknights, you should be.
Here they are:
* If you grow up in Hawaii , raised by your grandparents, you're "exotic, different."
* Grow up in Alaska eating mooseburgers, a quintessential American story.
* If your name is Barack you're a radical, unpatriotic Muslim.
* Name your kids Willow , Trig and Track, you're a maverick.
* Graduate from Harvard law School and you are unstable.
* Attend 5 different small colleges before graduating, you're well grounded.
* If you spend 3 years as a brilliant community organizer, become the first black President of the Harvard Law Review, create a voter registration drivethat registers 150,000 new voters, spend 12 years as a Constitutional Law professor, spend 8 years as a State Senator representing a district with over 750,000 people, become chairman of the state Senate's Health and Human Services committee, spend 4 years in the United States Senate representing a state of 13 million people while sponsoring 131 bills and serving on the Foreign Affairs, Environment and Public Works and Veteran's Affairs committees, you don't have any real leadership experience.
* If your total resume is: local weather girl, 4 years on the city council and 6 years as the mayor of a town with less than 7,000 people, 20 months as the governor of a state with only 650,000 people, then you're qualified to become the country's second highest ranking executive and next in line behind a man in his eighth decade.
* If you have been married to the same woman for 19 years while raising 2 beautiful daughters, all within Protestant churches, you're not a real Christian.
* If you cheated on your first wife with a rich heiress, and then left your disfigured wife and married the heiress the next month, you're a true Christian.
* If you teach responsible, age appropriate sex education, including the proper use of birth control, you are eroding the fiber of society.
* If, while governor, you staunchly advocate abstinence only, with no other option in sex education in your state's school system while your unwed teen daughter ends up pregnant, you're very responsible.
* If your wife is a Harvard graduate laywer who gave up a position in a prestigious law firm to work for the betterment of her inner city community, then gave that up to raise a family, your family's values don't represent America 's.
* If you're husband is nicknamed "First Dude", with at least one DWI conviction and no college education, who didn't register to vote until age 25 and once was a member of a group that advocated the secession of Alaska from the USA, your family is extremely admirable.
Are you clear?
Try to have this discussion with your Republican friend in a calm, assertive tone of voice. Don't follow my example, which tends to be a little drag-queeny, arm-wavy, and punctuated with exhortations about "that Alaskan cunt." This does not tend to move the conversation forward.
And now, I have successfully used the word "cunt" in back to back posts. Can I call myself the Rude Pundette?
But anyway, I thought these were actually pretty good points to bring up.
And if you aren't watching Keith Olbermann at 8pm and 10pm on MSNBC on weeknights, you should be.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Proof that I am Old...
Frequently, some youngun will flatter the crap out of me by being astonished when I tell him how old I am. I never lie about my age -- I figure why bother? I always figured if you tell that lie you have to spend the rest of your relationship with that person mentally doing math, subtracting those years from your experience. All it takes is one slipup about seeing Motley Crue's "Girls Girls Girls" tour when you were a senior in college and the jig is up. I know one guy who was 32 from 1998 to 2005 (Since his default position was always a lie, I wouldn't be surprised if he isn't still claiming 32 in 2008.)
Anyhow, the point of this is that I've started presenting things I've experienced about New York as evidence that I'm old.
To wit:
1) I remember the "K," the "RR," and the "LL" trains.
2) My first real job in New York was in a building with a Horn and Hardart Automat.
3) There was a Woolworth across the street. (I miss Woolworth. Where can you go now to pick up a little spool of thread in exactly the color you need, or a card of buttons for that coat button that you lost on the subway?)
4) The subway cost $1 when I came here, and you had to pay with something called a "token."
5) I voted for David Dinkins. Then I voted for Rudolph Giuliani. Twice. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
6) Coliseum Books used to be one of my favorite hangouts.
7) Billy Martin was manager of the Yankees, and their lineup included Don Mattingly, Rickey Henderson, Dave Winfield, and Willie Randolph.
8) Lower Fifth Avenue at around 12th Street was home to the Lonestar Roadhouse, and they had a giant fiberglass iguana on the roof. Can you imagine the residents of that neighborhood tolerating a big plastic lizard in their rarefied midst?
9) I had a friend who lived at First Avenue and 10th Street, and her neighborhood was reallllly scary.
10) I had another friend who lived on Sixth Street between A and B, and his neighborhood was totally terrifying.
11) I've danced at Save the Robots, Cave Canem, MK, Limelight, and Palladium. Palladium is now an NYU Dorm, fachrissakes.
12) I saw Erasure at the Ritz -- on 11th Street. It's now called Webster Hall or some such nonsense.
13) Worldwide Plaza had movie theaters that showed 2nd-run movies for TWO DOLLARS. If you waited 6 months, you could see any movie you had missed when it came out.
14) I saw "Reservoir Dogs" at the Quad on 12th street in its first run, and half the audience was so disgusted they walked out.
15) The Hamill we read in the Daily News was Pete, not Denis.
16) I once saw JFK Jr walking through the Sheep Meadow, shirtless. Yes, he was a piece of walking beefcake and 100% heartthrob.
17) I lived in Hell's Kitchen when it was still hellish. You didn't walk west of 9th Avenue -- ever.
And the most indisputable proof that I can offer that I am OLD:
I used to smoke at my desk, and no one thought there was a thing wrong with it.
Anyhow, the point of this is that I've started presenting things I've experienced about New York as evidence that I'm old.
To wit:
1) I remember the "K," the "RR," and the "LL" trains.
2) My first real job in New York was in a building with a Horn and Hardart Automat.
3) There was a Woolworth across the street. (I miss Woolworth. Where can you go now to pick up a little spool of thread in exactly the color you need, or a card of buttons for that coat button that you lost on the subway?)
4) The subway cost $1 when I came here, and you had to pay with something called a "token."
5) I voted for David Dinkins. Then I voted for Rudolph Giuliani. Twice. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
6) Coliseum Books used to be one of my favorite hangouts.
7) Billy Martin was manager of the Yankees, and their lineup included Don Mattingly, Rickey Henderson, Dave Winfield, and Willie Randolph.
8) Lower Fifth Avenue at around 12th Street was home to the Lonestar Roadhouse, and they had a giant fiberglass iguana on the roof. Can you imagine the residents of that neighborhood tolerating a big plastic lizard in their rarefied midst?
9) I had a friend who lived at First Avenue and 10th Street, and her neighborhood was reallllly scary.
10) I had another friend who lived on Sixth Street between A and B, and his neighborhood was totally terrifying.
11) I've danced at Save the Robots, Cave Canem, MK, Limelight, and Palladium. Palladium is now an NYU Dorm, fachrissakes.
12) I saw Erasure at the Ritz -- on 11th Street. It's now called Webster Hall or some such nonsense.
13) Worldwide Plaza had movie theaters that showed 2nd-run movies for TWO DOLLARS. If you waited 6 months, you could see any movie you had missed when it came out.
14) I saw "Reservoir Dogs" at the Quad on 12th street in its first run, and half the audience was so disgusted they walked out.
15) The Hamill we read in the Daily News was Pete, not Denis.
16) I once saw JFK Jr walking through the Sheep Meadow, shirtless. Yes, he was a piece of walking beefcake and 100% heartthrob.
17) I lived in Hell's Kitchen when it was still hellish. You didn't walk west of 9th Avenue -- ever.
And the most indisputable proof that I can offer that I am OLD:
I used to smoke at my desk, and no one thought there was a thing wrong with it.
Coney Island Mermaid Parade 2008
I know I've been completely incommunicado for far too long, and I hope I haven't lost everyone, especially since I just figured out I don't need the Nikon-supplied photo software to dump my photos onto my hard drive.
Saturday was brilliant and sunny, a perfect day for MERMAIDS! The perfect opportunity to unleash your inner drag queen and letcher freak flag fly!
Janey and Roni, hanging out in Ruby's.
If you get hungry for calamari...
Some mermaids are even beauty school dropouts!
Sometimes a mermaid just looks at you and says, "Wha-evahhhh!"
We met Kitty and Crystal, two rock and roll mermaids, at Ruby's.
Somebody looked under a rock, but it wasn't a rock -- it was a rock LOBSTER!
By the end of the day, Janey and Roni are happy, but absolutely wiped out.
So here's a kiss from a mermaid, until next year!
Saturday was brilliant and sunny, a perfect day for MERMAIDS! The perfect opportunity to unleash your inner drag queen and letcher freak flag fly!
Janey and Roni, hanging out in Ruby's.
If you get hungry for calamari...
Some mermaids are even beauty school dropouts!
Sometimes a mermaid just looks at you and says, "Wha-evahhhh!"
We met Kitty and Crystal, two rock and roll mermaids, at Ruby's.
Somebody looked under a rock, but it wasn't a rock -- it was a rock LOBSTER!
By the end of the day, Janey and Roni are happy, but absolutely wiped out.
So here's a kiss from a mermaid, until next year!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Don't Give Up on Me Baby
Dudes, I am STILL on #$%&*% jury duty. Today was DAY 10, and we have to go back tomorrow.
Ask me what I do for a living, go 'head, ask me. Jane, what do YOU do for a living?
I'm a #$%^@^ juror.
Ask me what I do for a living, go 'head, ask me. Jane, what do YOU do for a living?
I'm a #$%^@^ juror.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Jane Veers Republican for a Minute
"A bunch of girls think that you don't need no man to raise no child... shut the fuck up with the bullshit! Yeah, you can do it without a man, but it don't mean it's to be done! Shit! You can drive a car with your feet if you want to; it don't mean its a good fucking idea!" -- Chris Rock, Bigger and Blacker, 1999
Call me a closet republican, but as far as I can see, everything, EVERYTHING about this story is just plain WRONG.
From the oh-so-jolly headline, to the happy family grins on these womens' faces, WRONG WRONG WRONG.
Yeah, I'm judging these people. So sue me.
Even more disgusting, the Daily News has chosen to glorify and normalize this, rather than examining it from a serious point of view. And we wonder why the cycle of poverty and teen pregnancy and crime in the inner city remains unbroken.
"If a kid calls his grandma 'mama' and his mama 'Pam,' he's going to jail." -- Chris Rock again
Call me a closet republican, but as far as I can see, everything, EVERYTHING about this story is just plain WRONG.
From the oh-so-jolly headline, to the happy family grins on these womens' faces, WRONG WRONG WRONG.
Yeah, I'm judging these people. So sue me.
Even more disgusting, the Daily News has chosen to glorify and normalize this, rather than examining it from a serious point of view. And we wonder why the cycle of poverty and teen pregnancy and crime in the inner city remains unbroken.
"If a kid calls his grandma 'mama' and his mama 'Pam,' he's going to jail." -- Chris Rock again
He's a what?
I knew it was only a matter of time before the ghost of Nazi abettor Prescott Bush raised its ugly head. I didn't expect it to come up in Rush and Malloy, the New York Daily News' gossip column.
Of course the family claims it's the "age difference." I don't care what the age difference is, wouldn't most parents would be over the moon if their daughter was dating the the heir apparent to a multibillion (yes, that's BILLION, with a "b") fortune?
Oooh, I just hope the press can get a good quote from Barbara "these Katrina victims are doing better here at the Astrodome than they were before the storm" Bush, Sr. Cause if there's one thing the Bushes can't seem to avoid, it's gnawing on a little shoe leather now and then.
Of course the family claims it's the "age difference." I don't care what the age difference is, wouldn't most parents would be over the moon if their daughter was dating the the heir apparent to a multibillion (yes, that's BILLION, with a "b") fortune?
Oooh, I just hope the press can get a good quote from Barbara "these Katrina victims are doing better here at the Astrodome than they were before the storm" Bush, Sr. Cause if there's one thing the Bushes can't seem to avoid, it's gnawing on a little shoe leather now and then.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Still Out
I'm still on jury duty, by the way. We're up to Day 6. It's not actually that bad. More on it after we finish.
Still can't say anything about the case, but let me say, after today I did have to come home and watch this.
Watch it and tell me you don't laugh until you cry.
Also, I seem to have defeated the pigeons, but now I'm in a war with the squirrels. No one told me they were SMART.
Still can't say anything about the case, but let me say, after today I did have to come home and watch this.
Watch it and tell me you don't laugh until you cry.
Also, I seem to have defeated the pigeons, but now I'm in a war with the squirrels. No one told me they were SMART.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
New Jersey Works on Low Self-Esteem
Today was the opening of the New Jersey Hall of Fame. From its website:
"The inaugural class of the New Jersey Hall of Fame inductees includes Buzz Aldrin, Clara Barton, Yogi Berra, Bill Bradley, Thomas Edison, Albert Einstein, Malcolm Forbes, Robert Wood Johnson II, Vince Lombardi, Toni Morrison, Norman Schwarzkopf, Frank Sinatra, Bruce Springsteen, Meryl Streep and Harriet Tubman. We anticipate that most, if not all, of our inductees and/or their families will be on hand for this historic event."
I wish I could have been there, just to see how Albert Einstein, Clara Barton, Vince Lombardi and Harriet Tubman have been holding up after all these years.
And where the f*** was FRANKIE VALLI? I mean, come ON.
"The inaugural class of the New Jersey Hall of Fame inductees includes Buzz Aldrin, Clara Barton, Yogi Berra, Bill Bradley, Thomas Edison, Albert Einstein, Malcolm Forbes, Robert Wood Johnson II, Vince Lombardi, Toni Morrison, Norman Schwarzkopf, Frank Sinatra, Bruce Springsteen, Meryl Streep and Harriet Tubman. We anticipate that most, if not all, of our inductees and/or their families will be on hand for this historic event."
I wish I could have been there, just to see how Albert Einstein, Clara Barton, Vince Lombardi and Harriet Tubman have been holding up after all these years.
And where the f*** was FRANKIE VALLI? I mean, come ON.
The March of the Penguins?
I'm completely metrocentric about New York city, but folks, when it comes down to sports, I'm a Pittsburgh girl, through and through. (Though I do admit being mystified at how the Mets could lose 13-1 to the lowly Pirates).
So I stayed at home today, forgoing the sunshine, to watch the Penguins-Rangers playoff game. Call me a dork. So worth it.
Right now, Pittsburgh is thanking these two guys:
Yay, Sidney! Yah, Mario!
Now, Pens, time to march on to Philadelphia. Actually, if you could, please just march ON Philadelphia.
So I stayed at home today, forgoing the sunshine, to watch the Penguins-Rangers playoff game. Call me a dork. So worth it.
Right now, Pittsburgh is thanking these two guys:
Yay, Sidney! Yah, Mario!
Now, Pens, time to march on to Philadelphia. Actually, if you could, please just march ON Philadelphia.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Mau Mau-ing the Songbirds
Much like this writer, I want to be able to pick and choose which creatures visit the makeshift feeders I've placed on my fire escape.
At first, I was in the habit of putting out stale loaf ends instead of simply throwing them away, and I noticed that I had started to gather a small following of neighborhood birds. Encouraged, I began buying seed and filling bowls for my morning visitors. Pretty soon, I had a veritable Hicksian Peaceable Kingdom happening every morning. An avian be-in as it were.
I became interested in what I started thinking of as "my" birds, looking them up on Google to try to identify them. Mourning doves I was familiar with, and I welcomed their haunting "coo...coo...coo." Among the various plain brown sparrow-type birds, I noticed a couple of red-headed house finches, and was thrilled to spot another familiar flash of red, a male cardinal, who was soon joined by his mate (dun colored and not in the least flashy).
One morning, I looked out the window and surprised a squirrel foraging among the seeds for the choicest black sunflower seeds. I added whole peanuts to the bowls. Now, as soon as I open my screen in the morning, I can watch the squirrel scamper across fences and wires from two yards away. He used to wait politely at the bottom of the stairs on the fire escape for me to retreat back inside and close the screen, but I think we have a relationship now, because he runs to the top of the fire escape, turns the corner and waits a couple feet away until I've put out the nuts. Of course I know I'm anthropomorphizing, but I'm pretty sure the look in his eyes when I'm a little late is nothing short of insolence. He's since been joined by another squirrel, who joins him from the roof -- I can turn my head when I open the screen, and see him peering over the edge of the roof, waiting. He climbs down the ladder head first.
On my side of the window, when the birds are gathered, Mambo or Madison will hurry in a low crouch across the kitchen floor and jump onto the table by the window. They will sit there, just watching the birds. Mambo makes that "eck-eck-eck" noise that cats make, his tail making a slow, sweeping motion across the table. I think it's like television for him.
Now, if this all sounds bucolic, it was.
One day, I heard a ruckus outside the window, and when I went to investigate, I found a neighborhood pigeon strutting around the bowls. None of the other birds could be found. The next day, it seemed as if every pigeon in the neighborhood had discovered my open buffet, and now they are waiting there every morning, on the telephone pole and electrical lines behind the house, and before the other, nicer birds get a chance to have their morning feed, they swarm onto the fire escape. They're like the fricking Hells Angels. They fly in, chase all the other birds away, and basically ruin it for everyone.
It's just another reason to hate the damn pigeons.
At first, I was in the habit of putting out stale loaf ends instead of simply throwing them away, and I noticed that I had started to gather a small following of neighborhood birds. Encouraged, I began buying seed and filling bowls for my morning visitors. Pretty soon, I had a veritable Hicksian Peaceable Kingdom happening every morning. An avian be-in as it were.
I became interested in what I started thinking of as "my" birds, looking them up on Google to try to identify them. Mourning doves I was familiar with, and I welcomed their haunting "coo...coo...coo." Among the various plain brown sparrow-type birds, I noticed a couple of red-headed house finches, and was thrilled to spot another familiar flash of red, a male cardinal, who was soon joined by his mate (dun colored and not in the least flashy).
One morning, I looked out the window and surprised a squirrel foraging among the seeds for the choicest black sunflower seeds. I added whole peanuts to the bowls. Now, as soon as I open my screen in the morning, I can watch the squirrel scamper across fences and wires from two yards away. He used to wait politely at the bottom of the stairs on the fire escape for me to retreat back inside and close the screen, but I think we have a relationship now, because he runs to the top of the fire escape, turns the corner and waits a couple feet away until I've put out the nuts. Of course I know I'm anthropomorphizing, but I'm pretty sure the look in his eyes when I'm a little late is nothing short of insolence. He's since been joined by another squirrel, who joins him from the roof -- I can turn my head when I open the screen, and see him peering over the edge of the roof, waiting. He climbs down the ladder head first.
On my side of the window, when the birds are gathered, Mambo or Madison will hurry in a low crouch across the kitchen floor and jump onto the table by the window. They will sit there, just watching the birds. Mambo makes that "eck-eck-eck" noise that cats make, his tail making a slow, sweeping motion across the table. I think it's like television for him.
Now, if this all sounds bucolic, it was.
One day, I heard a ruckus outside the window, and when I went to investigate, I found a neighborhood pigeon strutting around the bowls. None of the other birds could be found. The next day, it seemed as if every pigeon in the neighborhood had discovered my open buffet, and now they are waiting there every morning, on the telephone pole and electrical lines behind the house, and before the other, nicer birds get a chance to have their morning feed, they swarm onto the fire escape. They're like the fricking Hells Angels. They fly in, chase all the other birds away, and basically ruin it for everyone.
It's just another reason to hate the damn pigeons.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
I, The Jury
Folks, your Janey got picked! Gosh darnit! I was so sure that I would be in and out in 1 day, and well, true to my Instant Karma, at the end of DAY 2, I was picked. I won't say any more until after the case is over, suffice it to say I will be out for several more days.
So far, there's a whole lot of sitting and waiting, and looking at people, and doing crossword puzzles and reading the paper. Which, of course, is the perfect opportunity for a few random thoughts:
1) If you are going to buy one of those do-it-yourself eyebrow kits at Duane Reade, you are now officially warned that your eyebrows are not going to turn out like this:
You are going to look like this:
2. It's a really lucky thing for Albert Pujols that he's good-looking AND a major league baseball player. Otherwise, he's just a poor schmuck named "Pujols."
3. Why are people flipping out over this:
more than they flipped out over this:
In our culture of countdowns to age 18 and the oversexualization of teenaged girls, I don't see how showing that a teenager is fuckable is worse than gestational proof that a teenager was actually fucking.
Besides, I think the Annie Liebowitz photo is beautiful and everyone needs to untwist their knickers.
4. I always knew Roger Clemens was a dick. I never trust guys whose eyes are too close together. (ref: Jason Giambi)
So far, there's a whole lot of sitting and waiting, and looking at people, and doing crossword puzzles and reading the paper. Which, of course, is the perfect opportunity for a few random thoughts:
1) If you are going to buy one of those do-it-yourself eyebrow kits at Duane Reade, you are now officially warned that your eyebrows are not going to turn out like this:
You are going to look like this:
2. It's a really lucky thing for Albert Pujols that he's good-looking AND a major league baseball player. Otherwise, he's just a poor schmuck named "Pujols."
3. Why are people flipping out over this:
more than they flipped out over this:
In our culture of countdowns to age 18 and the oversexualization of teenaged girls, I don't see how showing that a teenager is fuckable is worse than gestational proof that a teenager was actually fucking.
Besides, I think the Annie Liebowitz photo is beautiful and everyone needs to untwist their knickers.
4. I always knew Roger Clemens was a dick. I never trust guys whose eyes are too close together. (ref: Jason Giambi)
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Jingle All The Way
I have a porous brain that sucks in everything the media has to offer and every now and again, something will give it a squeeze and these... things ... will come dribbling out. I've been known to randomly shout "WWWIZARD!" But usually, it's a commercial jingle, and more likely than not, it's the last commercial I heard before I left the house that morning.
These musical squeezes frequently earn me the Random Evil Song Planting award from my co-workers.
I'll be sitting at my desk, toiling away at some complicated printing estimate, and a song will be running through my brain like an underground stream (for some reason, I work better if there's a soft undercurrent of music, even if it's only in my own head). And like an underground stream, it will inevitably have to surface at some point.
One in particular was planted by a friend who admitted his own obsession with it a couple weeks ago. I guess it stuck subliminally, because yesterday, the underground stream emerged thusly:
"FIVE! FIVE DOLLAR! FIVE DOLLAR FOOTLOOOONG!"
Make it stop!
I guess it could be worse. That one actually has an interesting and surprising chord change. The worst are the ones that have you singing a damn phone number all day long. YOU know the ones -- "1-800-em ay tee tee ARE ee ess!" "800-five-eight-eight-two three hundred, EMPIRE!" and the worst ever, "877-three-nine-three, FOUR, FOUR, FOUR EIGHT!" (That one nearly got me killed by my cubemates)
Damn jingles.
These musical squeezes frequently earn me the Random Evil Song Planting award from my co-workers.
I'll be sitting at my desk, toiling away at some complicated printing estimate, and a song will be running through my brain like an underground stream (for some reason, I work better if there's a soft undercurrent of music, even if it's only in my own head). And like an underground stream, it will inevitably have to surface at some point.
One in particular was planted by a friend who admitted his own obsession with it a couple weeks ago. I guess it stuck subliminally, because yesterday, the underground stream emerged thusly:
"FIVE! FIVE DOLLAR! FIVE DOLLAR FOOTLOOOONG!"
Make it stop!
I guess it could be worse. That one actually has an interesting and surprising chord change. The worst are the ones that have you singing a damn phone number all day long. YOU know the ones -- "1-800-em ay tee tee ARE ee ess!" "800-five-eight-eight-two three hundred, EMPIRE!" and the worst ever, "877-three-nine-three, FOUR, FOUR, FOUR EIGHT!" (That one nearly got me killed by my cubemates)
Damn jingles.
You Haven't Lived Yet
I've noticed that the memoir tables at Barnes and Noble are getting bigger and bigger, and as I browse the back covers and look at the authors' photographs, I'm struck by their dewy-eyed, unwrinkled youth. I have to say, I'm perplexed. What 25 year old has had a life so chock full of events that it merits a book contract? I mean, at 25, your life just isn't that interesting.
Is there such a dearth of good fiction writers out there that "What I Did on My Summer Vacation" now constitutes a turn-on for the publishing industry?
Sigh.
Is there such a dearth of good fiction writers out there that "What I Did on My Summer Vacation" now constitutes a turn-on for the publishing industry?
Sigh.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Chris Jones Made Me Cry in Public
This is the best magazine article I've read in a long time.
Read it. I can't say anything about it because it speaks for itself.
But Chris Jones needs to win an award for this amazing piece of journalism.
Read it. I can't say anything about it because it speaks for itself.
But Chris Jones needs to win an award for this amazing piece of journalism.
Lame Duck
I wonder what the thought process was.
"Do-do-dooo. I'm lame duck. I don't have much to do. Let Barack worry about this pesky war and $120 a barrel oil and this economy that's in the toilet. I've got all this free time, I think I'll go on a game show!"
Are you f-in kidding me????
I think a quote from Chris Rock is appropriate here: "And for those doubters out there who keep askin', 'Is America ready for a black president?' I say, 'Why not? We just had a retarded one!'"
"Do-do-dooo. I'm lame duck. I don't have much to do. Let Barack worry about this pesky war and $120 a barrel oil and this economy that's in the toilet. I've got all this free time, I think I'll go on a game show!"
Are you f-in kidding me????
I think a quote from Chris Rock is appropriate here: "And for those doubters out there who keep askin', 'Is America ready for a black president?' I say, 'Why not? We just had a retarded one!'"
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
On a Lighter Note
I crack up every single time I see the Diet Pepsi Max commercial, with Chris Kattan picking up his dry cleaning at the end saying, "Oh, stop it!"
And good for Haddaway, he'll get a few royalty dollars out of it.
And good for Haddaway, he'll get a few royalty dollars out of it.
Rush Limbaugh: American Traitor
Paraphrasing one of my heroes, Keith Olbermann, my vote for Worst Person in the World today is Rush Limbaugh, who believes that inciting his dittohead moron listeners to subvert the core of our democracy by undermining the election process is either a) protected free speech, or b) funny.
Shouldn't this be considered treason? What do we do with traitors, ladies and gentlemen?
Shouldn't this be considered treason? What do we do with traitors, ladies and gentlemen?
The Temple of Meat
Last week we went out for an oft-delayed "holiday" dinner hosted by one of our vendors, and we found ourselves in a midtown church of the carnivore called Del Frisco's.
It's been a long time since I've been in a place that pays homage to the big swinging dickery of the testosterone-heavy half of the population, and I honestly thought that places like this had become some kind of anachronism. I guess since I have spent the last few years actively avoiding hanging out with the kind of guys who populated the tables here, I guess I made the mistaken assumption that they didn't really exist anymore. Let me tell you, the bloated white-collar tick is alive and well in midtown Manhattan, and is no more likeable than he was in 1988. So homo-testosteroney was the atmosphere in this restaurant that I thought they would stage a circle-jerk when Rudolph Giuliani walked in. The 18-inch necks at the next table looked like dogs ready to pee in place when he came up the stairs. For the record, Rudy is shorter than I thought, and as a Bensonhurst-reared co-worker responded, "What did you expect? He's ITALIAN."
The other notable feature of the patrons of the restaurant was their dates -- every single one of them clearly bought and paid for. Whether or not any one of these chicks could carry on a conversation was obviously beside the point; what was more important was whether or not they could stand upright while carrying their remarkable pairs of aftermarket boobs. Along with free-market secondary sex attributes, you saw a lot of ash-blonde frost'n'tip dye jobs in a shade I like to call "Atlanta Blonde."
Now, on to the food. I have no complaints about a single thing that hit our table; honestly, it was one of the best steaks I've ever eaten (and I've eaten in pretty much every steak house in NYC). The service was amazing, and our little waiter, Matt, was so adorable I wanted to put him in my pocket and take him home. I guess if you are a waiter in a restaurant where the tab on a table of 10 people must come close to 3G's, the prospect of a 15-20% tip on such a tab pretty much guarantees that you'll give great service. Those must be the most coveted waitering jobs in Manhattan.
All in all, a thoroughly enjoyable evening, but not one that I ever want to pay for with my own money...I'll happily let someone else's expense account pay for it!
It's been a long time since I've been in a place that pays homage to the big swinging dickery of the testosterone-heavy half of the population, and I honestly thought that places like this had become some kind of anachronism. I guess since I have spent the last few years actively avoiding hanging out with the kind of guys who populated the tables here, I guess I made the mistaken assumption that they didn't really exist anymore. Let me tell you, the bloated white-collar tick is alive and well in midtown Manhattan, and is no more likeable than he was in 1988. So homo-testosteroney was the atmosphere in this restaurant that I thought they would stage a circle-jerk when Rudolph Giuliani walked in. The 18-inch necks at the next table looked like dogs ready to pee in place when he came up the stairs. For the record, Rudy is shorter than I thought, and as a Bensonhurst-reared co-worker responded, "What did you expect? He's ITALIAN."
The other notable feature of the patrons of the restaurant was their dates -- every single one of them clearly bought and paid for. Whether or not any one of these chicks could carry on a conversation was obviously beside the point; what was more important was whether or not they could stand upright while carrying their remarkable pairs of aftermarket boobs. Along with free-market secondary sex attributes, you saw a lot of ash-blonde frost'n'tip dye jobs in a shade I like to call "Atlanta Blonde."
Now, on to the food. I have no complaints about a single thing that hit our table; honestly, it was one of the best steaks I've ever eaten (and I've eaten in pretty much every steak house in NYC). The service was amazing, and our little waiter, Matt, was so adorable I wanted to put him in my pocket and take him home. I guess if you are a waiter in a restaurant where the tab on a table of 10 people must come close to 3G's, the prospect of a 15-20% tip on such a tab pretty much guarantees that you'll give great service. Those must be the most coveted waitering jobs in Manhattan.
All in all, a thoroughly enjoyable evening, but not one that I ever want to pay for with my own money...I'll happily let someone else's expense account pay for it!
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Black is Black
Today's interesting conversation about race, with two women at work. Both happen to be black women. All three of us are (shameful confession ahead!) America's Next Top Model junkies, and we were talking about who was our favorite winner of all time. I threw out "I looved Danielle," and both of them looked puzzled and said, "I don't remember her."
"She was the African-American girl with the gap in her teeth."
Pause.
"You know, you're allowed to say 'black.' You don't have to be all politically correct..."
I was a little flustered, and responded, "I know what you mean. It doesn't bother me at all when people call me 'oriental.'"
Their vehement response:
"OH NOOOO, I couldn't ever say that! Who says that anymore? That's just WRONG!"
"She was the African-American girl with the gap in her teeth."
Pause.
"You know, you're allowed to say 'black.' You don't have to be all politically correct..."
I was a little flustered, and responded, "I know what you mean. It doesn't bother me at all when people call me 'oriental.'"
Their vehement response:
"OH NOOOO, I couldn't ever say that! Who says that anymore? That's just WRONG!"
Today's Word
If you sense danger and are feeling watchful and cautious, you are not "weary."
You are WARY.
Pronounced as if you are saying the 2nd syllable of the word "beware."
You are WARY.
Pronounced as if you are saying the 2nd syllable of the word "beware."
Dear Senator Clinton
You know I love you, but, please, please, please stop doing this with your eyes:
It makes you look a little scary, and a lot crazy.
It makes you look a little scary, and a lot crazy.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Spitzer
I can't believe how bummed I am about Eliot Spitzer. I mean, the guy was one of my HEROES, fachrissakes. It's like finding out that Morris Dees was secretly burning crosses and hanging Nazi flags in his basement.
*sigh*
But I did find the FOX Noise report tonight kind of amusing. They interviewed one of the call girl's neighbors outside her $5,000 a month building, and this knuckleheaded chick said something like, "If she lives in a building like this, she shouldn't have to be selling herself." Earth to airhead, how do you THINK a 24-year old can pay for a $5,000 a month apartment? Then Rosanna Scotto says, "Find out what her mother has to say about it..." I switched channels, but I can imagine that Mom probably said something along the lines of,
"HOLY SHIT, my daughter's a HOOKER!"
*sigh*
But I did find the FOX Noise report tonight kind of amusing. They interviewed one of the call girl's neighbors outside her $5,000 a month building, and this knuckleheaded chick said something like, "If she lives in a building like this, she shouldn't have to be selling herself." Earth to airhead, how do you THINK a 24-year old can pay for a $5,000 a month apartment? Then Rosanna Scotto says, "Find out what her mother has to say about it..." I switched channels, but I can imagine that Mom probably said something along the lines of,
"HOLY SHIT, my daughter's a HOOKER!"
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Louis Vuitton to use Keith Richards' Face to Make Luggage
Oh, wait. I meant to say that he is going to be the new face of Louis Vuitton, and they're going to use him to SELL luggage.
But it still works the other way around, I think.
But it still works the other way around, I think.
What Was The Biggest Clue That It Might Not Be True?
Ummmm, would it have been, uh, er, the fact that she claimed to have been sheltered by PACKS OF WOLVES?????
I just don't understand. Do people need so desperately to believe every tall tale they hear that they will, in total gullibility, believe even the unbelieveable?
Now this one.
Sheesh.
Now, here's a fun memoir you oughta read. I love Lily Burana!
I just don't understand. Do people need so desperately to believe every tall tale they hear that they will, in total gullibility, believe even the unbelieveable?
Now this one.
Sheesh.
Now, here's a fun memoir you oughta read. I love Lily Burana!
Monday, March 3, 2008
A Little Sad
Wow...was cruising the pics on an old friend's website, and came upon this one:
That's Janey on the right with WTC Tower 1 looming.
That's Janey on the right with WTC Tower 1 looming.
You're Gonna Need a Bigger Boat
I am so ashamed that I never posted this:
Roy Scheider, R.I.P.
11/10/32 - 2/10/08
Without you, this blog wouldn't have a name.
My preteen self thought Roy was a fox.
I think it was his big nose. I happen to love guys with big noses.
Roy Scheider, R.I.P.
11/10/32 - 2/10/08
Without you, this blog wouldn't have a name.
My preteen self thought Roy was a fox.
I think it was his big nose. I happen to love guys with big noses.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Now I Know Why Hello Kitty Looks Like That
I think it's because Japanese kitties look like this:
I know, I know, they're Scottish Folds, but judging by how many videos there are of the breed posted from Japan, I have to wonder if the Japanese like them because they look like anime characters.
I know, I know, they're Scottish Folds, but judging by how many videos there are of the breed posted from Japan, I have to wonder if the Japanese like them because they look like anime characters.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Temporary Insanity
I make no effort to hide the fact that most days, the needle of my mental state wavers between normal and mildly nutty. However, when I told my shrink friend that I thought that I had a slow, minor, 9/11-induced nervous breakdown that lasted for 5 years, he nodded solemnly and agreed with me.
Hard evidence, you ask?
Not only did I date this guy, I also dated this one.
Your honor, I rest my case.
Hard evidence, you ask?
Not only did I date this guy, I also dated this one.
Your honor, I rest my case.
His Casket Will be Draped In a Terrible Towel
Myron Cope, the voice of the Pittsburgh Steelers, died today.
He was the voice of Steeler Nation for 35 years. His Pittsburgh accent remained uneradicated throughout his broadcast career, and my growin' up years were punctuated by his voice saying "This is Myron Cope, on sports."
You had to hear it to believe it. If you want to hear what we loved about him, go here. May I suggest you click on "Brown Brings McDonalds Onto Plane," to hear a pure, unfiltered, old-school Pittsburgh accent.
He was the voice of Steeler Nation for 35 years. His Pittsburgh accent remained uneradicated throughout his broadcast career, and my growin' up years were punctuated by his voice saying "This is Myron Cope, on sports."
You had to hear it to believe it. If you want to hear what we loved about him, go here. May I suggest you click on "Brown Brings McDonalds Onto Plane," to hear a pure, unfiltered, old-school Pittsburgh accent.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
The Most Unfashionable Woman in the Fashion Biz Offers Fashion Tips
You know the state of fashion is in bad shape when I am routinely puzzled by some of the getups I see walking around in New York. I mean, you live in New York F-in' City, one of the fashion capitals of the world -- at least TRY, for god's sake.
It's true, I work in a fashion hothouse. Very few people come to work and just look nice. These women costume themselves every morning. Somehow, thankfully, my plain-Jane look melts me into the wallpaper, so my glaring lack of fashion sense, in the "fashion" sense of the word, is overshadowed by the glittering blonde butterflies who alight next to me in meetings. Truth be told, I'm just too old and lazy to try that hard, and have been for years. A good pair of boot cut jeans and a great turtleneck sweater -- that's my fall-winter-spring uniform. (By "great," I mean "not some shapeless, sexless Land's End cotton schmatte.") Oh, and of course, my Frye Boots. It suits my nature. Somehow, I think it kinda works. I've been told I dress "very L*****."
That being said, I somehow delude myself into thinking I can now comment on the non-fashion that I'm subjected to every day. Herewith, 10 of Jane's Fashion Tips and Observations:
1) Pants or a dress. CHOOSE ONE!
2) Lose this tote. It is just tired, tired, tired, and unless you're a personal trainer, too casual for everyday. Buy yourself a medium sized chic handbag. I happen to own this one, which I found after searching for a new black purse for a year and finding only hard, shiny, cheap-looking bags all junked-up with silver studs and large enough to carry a toddler, which annoys me and everyone else trying to navigate the subways. This one looks great, doesn't flash its designer name in invitation to snatchers, and holds my 13" laptop comfortably. I love it. If you knew how little I paid for it, you would probably want to beat me up. Oh, yeah, it goes great with my boots.
3) You know that little "X" of thread at the bottom of your skirt? Those are called "whipstitches" and garment manufacturers put them there so your skirt will keep its shape while it's on the boat from Indonesia. YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO CUT THEM OFF AFTER YOU GET YOUR SKIRT HOME, nitwit. I learned this when I bought my first serious interview suit after college (a navy blue double breasted Evan Picone, which in 198- was very fashionable, though I cringe now and think, "Double breasted? Agggh!" I looked like a minor mafiosa, but I thought I looked grrreat. ) Maybe young women just aren't wearing as many suits as they used to, but I see this at least once a week.
4) For you young men: That label on the sleeve is not an accessory. It's there so the salesman at the Men's Wearhouse can find your size. It's another thing you're supposed to cut off and get rid of before you leave the house.
4, the sequel) I know it's probably the first suit you've ever bought, but lose the flat-brimmed Yankee cap in gang colors. It's not adding anything to that air of businesslike sobriety you're trying to cultivate.
5) Those oversized hoodie sweatshirts with patterns all over them are just butt-fuckin ugly, man.
6) "She has a real sense of style," is never said about a woman whose primary wardrobe source is Ann Taylor. Except maybe by guys wearing pleated Dockers.
7) Just because it's fashionable doesn't mean you have to wear it. Are you short, chunky, Yugoslavian-calved women aware that tucking your jeans into your boots cuts your legline
in half and makes you look shorter, chunkier, and Hunkier?
8) Most women need a visit to an experienced bra-fitter. A good bra is essential to avoiding the dreaded quadraboobs and back fat over-under rolls. And ladies? Save that filmy unlined bra for going out or for your boyfriend. Your nipples aren't going to get you promoted. Own your sexuality after 5 o'clock.
9) More than one earring in each ear? Welcome to the secretarial pool!
10) Just because you have squeezed your ample bottom into size 6 jeans, it doesn't mean you are actually a size 6. Buy jeans that fit. Or a mirror. The last thing I need at eye level when I'm sitting on the subway at 8 am are your muffin tops and cameltoe.
Now, I have to pick out tomorrow's turtleneck.
It's true, I work in a fashion hothouse. Very few people come to work and just look nice. These women costume themselves every morning. Somehow, thankfully, my plain-Jane look melts me into the wallpaper, so my glaring lack of fashion sense, in the "fashion" sense of the word, is overshadowed by the glittering blonde butterflies who alight next to me in meetings. Truth be told, I'm just too old and lazy to try that hard, and have been for years. A good pair of boot cut jeans and a great turtleneck sweater -- that's my fall-winter-spring uniform. (By "great," I mean "not some shapeless, sexless Land's End cotton schmatte.") Oh, and of course, my Frye Boots. It suits my nature. Somehow, I think it kinda works. I've been told I dress "very L*****."
That being said, I somehow delude myself into thinking I can now comment on the non-fashion that I'm subjected to every day. Herewith, 10 of Jane's Fashion Tips and Observations:
1) Pants or a dress. CHOOSE ONE!
2) Lose this tote. It is just tired, tired, tired, and unless you're a personal trainer, too casual for everyday. Buy yourself a medium sized chic handbag. I happen to own this one, which I found after searching for a new black purse for a year and finding only hard, shiny, cheap-looking bags all junked-up with silver studs and large enough to carry a toddler, which annoys me and everyone else trying to navigate the subways. This one looks great, doesn't flash its designer name in invitation to snatchers, and holds my 13" laptop comfortably. I love it. If you knew how little I paid for it, you would probably want to beat me up. Oh, yeah, it goes great with my boots.
3) You know that little "X" of thread at the bottom of your skirt? Those are called "whipstitches" and garment manufacturers put them there so your skirt will keep its shape while it's on the boat from Indonesia. YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO CUT THEM OFF AFTER YOU GET YOUR SKIRT HOME, nitwit. I learned this when I bought my first serious interview suit after college (a navy blue double breasted Evan Picone, which in 198- was very fashionable, though I cringe now and think, "Double breasted? Agggh!" I looked like a minor mafiosa, but I thought I looked grrreat. ) Maybe young women just aren't wearing as many suits as they used to, but I see this at least once a week.
4) For you young men: That label on the sleeve is not an accessory. It's there so the salesman at the Men's Wearhouse can find your size. It's another thing you're supposed to cut off and get rid of before you leave the house.
4, the sequel) I know it's probably the first suit you've ever bought, but lose the flat-brimmed Yankee cap in gang colors. It's not adding anything to that air of businesslike sobriety you're trying to cultivate.
5) Those oversized hoodie sweatshirts with patterns all over them are just butt-fuckin ugly, man.
6) "She has a real sense of style," is never said about a woman whose primary wardrobe source is Ann Taylor. Except maybe by guys wearing pleated Dockers.
7) Just because it's fashionable doesn't mean you have to wear it. Are you short, chunky, Yugoslavian-calved women aware that tucking your jeans into your boots cuts your legline
in half and makes you look shorter, chunkier, and Hunkier?
8) Most women need a visit to an experienced bra-fitter. A good bra is essential to avoiding the dreaded quadraboobs and back fat over-under rolls. And ladies? Save that filmy unlined bra for going out or for your boyfriend. Your nipples aren't going to get you promoted. Own your sexuality after 5 o'clock.
9) More than one earring in each ear? Welcome to the secretarial pool!
10) Just because you have squeezed your ample bottom into size 6 jeans, it doesn't mean you are actually a size 6. Buy jeans that fit. Or a mirror. The last thing I need at eye level when I'm sitting on the subway at 8 am are your muffin tops and cameltoe.
Now, I have to pick out tomorrow's turtleneck.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Random Blabs
* Another trip to LA last week. Gray and dreary weather. I wasn't nearly as enamored this time around. Celebrity sightings: Julianne Moore on the way out, and Mary Kate Olsen on the way back. She got off the plane in LAX with her truly hulking bodyguard, wearing black leggings and huge sunglasses, and she looked like a fashionable spider. I was taken to dinner at Capo in Santa Monica, and it was okay, though there were some service missteps that would never happen in a white-tablecloth restaurant in New York: The bread was placed on the table as soon as we sat down, the waiter felt it necessary to advise us of which dishes on the menu were his favorites (as if I care), and my plate was cleared before my companion was finished eating. With entrees rounding out at $40+, Capo needs to button up its service to justify the prices. I've eaten in 4 restaurants in LA now, and for some reason I get the impression that everyone in them wishes they were someone. My dining companion told me the guy in the corner was one of the most powerful agents in Hollywood. Again, do I care? I guess that's what makes me a New Yorker. I was more impressed to sit next to Charlie Rose at Nobu than to see poor Jeff Conaway at The Ivy.
* On the flip side of it, I have two words: Business Class. I probably could have lit a cigarette and they would have let me smoke.
* I find it horrifying and uplifting at the same time that Lorin Maazel accomplished more diplomacy in one night in North Korea than Bush has been able to accomplish in 7 years.
* I think many things about people who read The New York Post on the subway, and funnily enough, none of them are, "Wow, you must be really smart."
* If those cheap Glad plastic containers are disposable, how come no one ever throws them out? By the same token, you only get out the Sharpie for the $6 Rubbermaids, don't you?
* Perez Hilton is living proof that there is indeed work for ugly people in the entertainment industry.
* Some of my secret vices: blue Kool-Aid, Raspberry Zingers, Orbitzgames Island Hop, America's Next Top Model
* Does anyone else find it interesting that even though everyone thinks the Clinton camp leaked the Obama photo (by now I shouldn't have to tell you what Obama photo), the first place it showed up was on Drudge?
* I wonder: Why is there a "d" in "fridge," but not in "refrigerator"?
* On the flip side of it, I have two words: Business Class. I probably could have lit a cigarette and they would have let me smoke.
* I find it horrifying and uplifting at the same time that Lorin Maazel accomplished more diplomacy in one night in North Korea than Bush has been able to accomplish in 7 years.
* I think many things about people who read The New York Post on the subway, and funnily enough, none of them are, "Wow, you must be really smart."
* If those cheap Glad plastic containers are disposable, how come no one ever throws them out? By the same token, you only get out the Sharpie for the $6 Rubbermaids, don't you?
* Perez Hilton is living proof that there is indeed work for ugly people in the entertainment industry.
* Some of my secret vices: blue Kool-Aid, Raspberry Zingers, Orbitzgames Island Hop, America's Next Top Model
* Does anyone else find it interesting that even though everyone thinks the Clinton camp leaked the Obama photo (by now I shouldn't have to tell you what Obama photo), the first place it showed up was on Drudge?
* I wonder: Why is there a "d" in "fridge," but not in "refrigerator"?
Monday, February 18, 2008
My Friend the Artist
I have a friend whom I see every month or so. She's a very talented sculptor and painter who walks dogs for a living. Somehow she's able to pay for her rent-stabilized apartment on West 11th Street by walking other peoples' pets.
We frequently go to museums, where she can tell me all kinds of good stories and tidbits about artists and movements, and in my artistic ignorance, I completely appreciate the mini-lessons in art history that she can provide. It's like having a private docent with me no matter where we go. What she told me about Edvard Munch's "The Scream" is quite eye-opening and unexpected. She makes the artists seem like real people, like when she told me that Picasso's friends used to hide what they were working on because they were afraid he'd steal their ideas. Apparently, he was known to do this. I loved learning that the most revered artist of the 20th century was a plagiarist, a hack.
What's inspiring is her approach to her own art. Her work is worthy of gallery shows and acclaim, but for her, it's about the process. She totally gets off on making art. She's not a blowhard about it, but speaks so passionately about what she does that you find yourself getting caught up with her. And she couldn't care less about whether anyone ever sees her art. In today's world, where everyone has their eye on the main chance, and says they want to be an artist, when in truth what they want to be is rich, famous, and acclaimed, her artistry is pure.
If you were to point this out to her, she would wave her hand and laugh her big laugh and give her version of "pshaw!"
Other people do it because they need to hear other people say, "Hurrah!" in order to get their validation. She does it because it's fun, because it charges her battery. She gets excited when she finds an undistinguished chunk of wood on the street and carries it home. Somewhere in it, she sees what it's supposed to be, and simply carves away all the things that it isn't.
Going to her apartment is like going to a little gallery in itself.
There's a part of me that is so envious of her for being a true artist. I realize that I am merely a highly skilled technician at my chosen craft. Yet there's the bigger part of me that enjoys being around her and her art in the same way I enjoy going to a great concert, or reading a fantastic book. You just have to appreciate the art for art's sake.
We frequently go to museums, where she can tell me all kinds of good stories and tidbits about artists and movements, and in my artistic ignorance, I completely appreciate the mini-lessons in art history that she can provide. It's like having a private docent with me no matter where we go. What she told me about Edvard Munch's "The Scream" is quite eye-opening and unexpected. She makes the artists seem like real people, like when she told me that Picasso's friends used to hide what they were working on because they were afraid he'd steal their ideas. Apparently, he was known to do this. I loved learning that the most revered artist of the 20th century was a plagiarist, a hack.
What's inspiring is her approach to her own art. Her work is worthy of gallery shows and acclaim, but for her, it's about the process. She totally gets off on making art. She's not a blowhard about it, but speaks so passionately about what she does that you find yourself getting caught up with her. And she couldn't care less about whether anyone ever sees her art. In today's world, where everyone has their eye on the main chance, and says they want to be an artist, when in truth what they want to be is rich, famous, and acclaimed, her artistry is pure.
If you were to point this out to her, she would wave her hand and laugh her big laugh and give her version of "pshaw!"
Other people do it because they need to hear other people say, "Hurrah!" in order to get their validation. She does it because it's fun, because it charges her battery. She gets excited when she finds an undistinguished chunk of wood on the street and carries it home. Somewhere in it, she sees what it's supposed to be, and simply carves away all the things that it isn't.
Going to her apartment is like going to a little gallery in itself.
There's a part of me that is so envious of her for being a true artist. I realize that I am merely a highly skilled technician at my chosen craft. Yet there's the bigger part of me that enjoys being around her and her art in the same way I enjoy going to a great concert, or reading a fantastic book. You just have to appreciate the art for art's sake.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Having My Mind Changed -- a little
I have to admit that I came to LA with a lot of pre-conceived notions and, well, let's just call them what they are, prejudices about the left coast, but I gotta tell you, dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker that I am, I don't hate LA the way I thought I would. I'm not ga-ga over it and dying to move here the way I was about the Rocky Mountains, but it totally does not suck.
Now, my rep tells me that I got extremely lucky since it rained buckets on Sunday, but by the time I landed on Sunday night, the rains were finished, and there was a very brisk breeze to keep things moving. It was about 50 degrees, and frankly, it was beautiful. I'm being put up at The Beach House Hotel in Hermosa Beach, and I gotta say, stepping out onto the balcony to look at the Pacific Ocean a hundred yards away isn't too awful, either.
The weather has been beautiful -- I keep comparing it to those gorgeous and clear high country days in Colorado.
Even better, I haven't experienced any of the fabled Los Angeles traffic jams.
LA really put on the party dress for me, I guess she knew that I was coming with a jaundiced eye and needed to have my mind changed a bit.
The work I'm out here for has gone relatively smoothly -- looked at 8 press forms over the course of yesterday's 15-hour marathon press check session (btw, the mailer is going to be guh-huh-horgeous), which meant that I didn't get back to the hotel until after 1:00 a.m. this morning, but it did mean that I got to sleep in.
And let's see, yesterday I was taken to lunch at the Pacific Dining Car, which has that hokey old power-broker feel to it. It felt like the kind of place where Los Angeles politicians might eat rather than celebrities. By the same token, it also had that air of being one of those "special occasion" restaurants, you know, where a family goes to celebrate their first kid being accepted into Harvard. A little bit fuddy-duddy and corny, but a fine meal nonetheless.
And to flip the card over onto its back, today she took me to THE IVY -- yes, the one you see in all the movies, complete with paparazzi flocked out in front waiting for someone famous to come out. I admit to being a little star-struck myself. We got to sit outside in a prime location where we could watch people coming & going, but alas, the celebrity sightings were minimal. Peter Fonda sat alone at a table with his sunglasses on, fiddling with his Blackberry. And celebrity tragedy/train wreck Jeff Conaway was there, looking a hundred, with his chief enabler, that truly terrifying girlfriend who shows up on "Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew." I mean, come onnnn -- Kenickie is a JUNKIE. How sad is that?
Now, my rep tells me that I got extremely lucky since it rained buckets on Sunday, but by the time I landed on Sunday night, the rains were finished, and there was a very brisk breeze to keep things moving. It was about 50 degrees, and frankly, it was beautiful. I'm being put up at The Beach House Hotel in Hermosa Beach, and I gotta say, stepping out onto the balcony to look at the Pacific Ocean a hundred yards away isn't too awful, either.
The weather has been beautiful -- I keep comparing it to those gorgeous and clear high country days in Colorado.
Even better, I haven't experienced any of the fabled Los Angeles traffic jams.
LA really put on the party dress for me, I guess she knew that I was coming with a jaundiced eye and needed to have my mind changed a bit.
The work I'm out here for has gone relatively smoothly -- looked at 8 press forms over the course of yesterday's 15-hour marathon press check session (btw, the mailer is going to be guh-huh-horgeous), which meant that I didn't get back to the hotel until after 1:00 a.m. this morning, but it did mean that I got to sleep in.
And let's see, yesterday I was taken to lunch at the Pacific Dining Car, which has that hokey old power-broker feel to it. It felt like the kind of place where Los Angeles politicians might eat rather than celebrities. By the same token, it also had that air of being one of those "special occasion" restaurants, you know, where a family goes to celebrate their first kid being accepted into Harvard. A little bit fuddy-duddy and corny, but a fine meal nonetheless.
And to flip the card over onto its back, today she took me to THE IVY -- yes, the one you see in all the movies, complete with paparazzi flocked out in front waiting for someone famous to come out. I admit to being a little star-struck myself. We got to sit outside in a prime location where we could watch people coming & going, but alas, the celebrity sightings were minimal. Peter Fonda sat alone at a table with his sunglasses on, fiddling with his Blackberry. And celebrity tragedy/train wreck Jeff Conaway was there, looking a hundred, with his chief enabler, that truly terrifying girlfriend who shows up on "Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew." I mean, come onnnn -- Kenickie is a JUNKIE. How sad is that?
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Did You Know... (Wonder-ful Trivia)
...that Michael Sembello, the same guy responsible for that crappy song "Maniac" from Flashdance, played guitar on FIVE Stevie Wonder albums, including the brilliant Fulfillingness' First Finale and Songs in The Key of Life? He even co-wrote a song on Songs, which by the way ought to be on everyone's Desert Island Disc list.
I KNOW.
...that Stevie wrote "Tears of a Clown" for The Miracles and "Tell Me Something Good" for Rufus & Chaka Khan.
...that some of the background vocals on "Pasttime Paradise" were provided by an actual gospel choir AND real Hare Krishnas?
...that Stevie had 3 Album of the Year awards by the time he was 27 and 25 grammys in all by 2007. Holy blind guy, batman.
Well, that's just a few tidbits. Can you tell I'm in a Wonder-ful mood today?
I'll finish with a little thought that goes like this:
If God is Love
And Love is Blind
And Stevie Wonder is Blind
Isn't Stevie Wonder God?
I KNOW.
...that Stevie wrote "Tears of a Clown" for The Miracles and "Tell Me Something Good" for Rufus & Chaka Khan.
...that some of the background vocals on "Pasttime Paradise" were provided by an actual gospel choir AND real Hare Krishnas?
...that Stevie had 3 Album of the Year awards by the time he was 27 and 25 grammys in all by 2007. Holy blind guy, batman.
Well, that's just a few tidbits. Can you tell I'm in a Wonder-ful mood today?
I'll finish with a little thought that goes like this:
If God is Love
And Love is Blind
And Stevie Wonder is Blind
Isn't Stevie Wonder God?
Scruffy Duffy's Farewell!
Kids, Scruffy Duffy's is CLOSING on February 6th.
I remember when it was just another 8th Avenue bar, way back when 8th Avenue was scary as hell, it was far too scary to even walk in the door. Then Pat and Eileen took it over from their father, renamed it Scruffy Duffy's, and opened their doors. I had a roommate who got a job bartending there, and Scruff's became a regular haunt. Those were the days when you didn't start getting ready to go out until 10 pm, and that was on a Tuesday night. I don't know how I did it, but in those days I consumed my fair share of brown liquor at Scruffy's on lots and lots of school nights and still got up and went to work clear-eyed and sharp. There were peanut shells on the floor, cable spools for tables, and the floor was see-through. We showed up for Karaoke Thursdays anyway.
In the late 90's there was a core group of regulars, your Janey included, who used to camp out at the front of the bar around the pool table. We would lounge in the two park benches at the front of the bar and the front windows and at the front of the bar. I plugged my five dollar bills into the jukebox and played "The Female of the Species (Is More Deadly Than the Male)" nine hundred and forty five times. I thank Alan the bartender for not hating me for making him suffer through it at least twice a night. The Rev used to come in on Ash Wednesday and give ashes. Shelly invented a drink, served in a pint glass. It was 1 shot of Absolut Currant and the rest of the pint was filled with club soda. It became known as the Shelly Cocktail, as in, "What'll you have? A Shelly?" You went to the john a lot, but you never got drunk, just mildly happy, and you could stay all night just cruising at 33,000 feet of buzzed. It was a neighborhood place. Roni and Sean were the most beautiful and in-love couple in the neighborhood, until they weren't.
Joe Pool ran the table almost every night. When he wasn't there, Tom W would take over with his funny break. Everyone followed the house pool rules (Rule #1: Don't be an idiot. Pretty good life advice, too).
There were scandals and hookups and fights and feuds.
The bartenders were part of our little family, Bob, Sean, Alan, Enda, Dermot.
Pat used to take regulars on "outings" -- to the Renaissance Fair, Booze Cruises, and once he even chartered a bus to take us to Great Adventure. We were on a Scruffy's booze cruise one night in August 1997, and we all drank tons of beer and I danced to salsa music until my feet in their strappy black sandals bled. We came off the boat and piled into cabs and didn't believe the cab driver when he told us "Princess Diana! She dead!" For some reason, none of us went back to Scruffy's that night -- we went across the street to JR's instead, where the Irish contingent of our group were all in tears. I remember the fine shine went off the night and I went home.
Pat would turn New Year's Eve into a "members only" night to keep out the bridge and tunnel riff-raff who would try to come in after watching the ball drop.
For my birthday in 1999 I asked Pat to hire Karaoke Dave from the early years, and he did it! I got to have my own private karaoke birthday party at Scruffy Duffy's. As a present, my ex-boyfriend gave me his Levi's denim jacket, perfectly worn in (falling to bits, actually), with the zebra striped collar he had had his grandmother sew onto it. He went home with a girl who wanted to be my friend and never would be after that. I still have that jacket and wear it occasionally.
Over the years, Pat made gradual improvements to Scruffy's, in lockstep with the upscalification of the neighborhood. The crowd got a little more uppish, and pretty soon the regular crowd scattered a bit, finding the crowds of suit-wearing Ogilvy ad guys and the ones from the financial firms that had set up shop in Times Square a little too "duuuuuude" to tolerate. The regulars scattered to other bars, other neighborhoods.
We do still drop in from time to time, and we always get a warm welcome from Pat.
So now, the Scruffy's era is coming to an end, not with a bang but not quite with a whimper, either.
Thanks, Pat. It was fun.
I remember when it was just another 8th Avenue bar, way back when 8th Avenue was scary as hell, it was far too scary to even walk in the door. Then Pat and Eileen took it over from their father, renamed it Scruffy Duffy's, and opened their doors. I had a roommate who got a job bartending there, and Scruff's became a regular haunt. Those were the days when you didn't start getting ready to go out until 10 pm, and that was on a Tuesday night. I don't know how I did it, but in those days I consumed my fair share of brown liquor at Scruffy's on lots and lots of school nights and still got up and went to work clear-eyed and sharp. There were peanut shells on the floor, cable spools for tables, and the floor was see-through. We showed up for Karaoke Thursdays anyway.
In the late 90's there was a core group of regulars, your Janey included, who used to camp out at the front of the bar around the pool table. We would lounge in the two park benches at the front of the bar and the front windows and at the front of the bar. I plugged my five dollar bills into the jukebox and played "The Female of the Species (Is More Deadly Than the Male)" nine hundred and forty five times. I thank Alan the bartender for not hating me for making him suffer through it at least twice a night. The Rev used to come in on Ash Wednesday and give ashes. Shelly invented a drink, served in a pint glass. It was 1 shot of Absolut Currant and the rest of the pint was filled with club soda. It became known as the Shelly Cocktail, as in, "What'll you have? A Shelly?" You went to the john a lot, but you never got drunk, just mildly happy, and you could stay all night just cruising at 33,000 feet of buzzed. It was a neighborhood place. Roni and Sean were the most beautiful and in-love couple in the neighborhood, until they weren't.
Joe Pool ran the table almost every night. When he wasn't there, Tom W would take over with his funny break. Everyone followed the house pool rules (Rule #1: Don't be an idiot. Pretty good life advice, too).
There were scandals and hookups and fights and feuds.
The bartenders were part of our little family, Bob, Sean, Alan, Enda, Dermot.
Pat used to take regulars on "outings" -- to the Renaissance Fair, Booze Cruises, and once he even chartered a bus to take us to Great Adventure. We were on a Scruffy's booze cruise one night in August 1997, and we all drank tons of beer and I danced to salsa music until my feet in their strappy black sandals bled. We came off the boat and piled into cabs and didn't believe the cab driver when he told us "Princess Diana! She dead!" For some reason, none of us went back to Scruffy's that night -- we went across the street to JR's instead, where the Irish contingent of our group were all in tears. I remember the fine shine went off the night and I went home.
Pat would turn New Year's Eve into a "members only" night to keep out the bridge and tunnel riff-raff who would try to come in after watching the ball drop.
For my birthday in 1999 I asked Pat to hire Karaoke Dave from the early years, and he did it! I got to have my own private karaoke birthday party at Scruffy Duffy's. As a present, my ex-boyfriend gave me his Levi's denim jacket, perfectly worn in (falling to bits, actually), with the zebra striped collar he had had his grandmother sew onto it. He went home with a girl who wanted to be my friend and never would be after that. I still have that jacket and wear it occasionally.
Over the years, Pat made gradual improvements to Scruffy's, in lockstep with the upscalification of the neighborhood. The crowd got a little more uppish, and pretty soon the regular crowd scattered a bit, finding the crowds of suit-wearing Ogilvy ad guys and the ones from the financial firms that had set up shop in Times Square a little too "duuuuuude" to tolerate. The regulars scattered to other bars, other neighborhoods.
We do still drop in from time to time, and we always get a warm welcome from Pat.
So now, the Scruffy's era is coming to an end, not with a bang but not quite with a whimper, either.
Thanks, Pat. It was fun.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Has Anyone Noticed...
...that you never see singer/songwriter Rufus Wainwright and figure skater Johnny Weir in the same room?
I'm just saying.
I'm just saying.