Very happy to have a Penguins game to watch tonight!
No playoff hopes for Tampa Bay and Pens already in and looking to win the Division.
Two of our key Russians out again -- Gonchar with strep and Malkin still nursing the foot that took one of his own teammate's shots a couple weeks ago. Fedotenko took a giant hit in the first period that left him facedown on the ice for a couple minutes (offender Lashoff immediately ejected from the game) but he did leave the ice under his own steam.and returned a little while later, so Lashoff probably won't be suspended.
Okay, start of the 2nd and Pens just gave up their 2nd goal. The clock is now running on Flower.
To be perfectly honest, how this Penguins team got to 2nd place in the Eastern Conference with such a crappy power play is beyond me. Pens need to fire their PP coach.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Boy, They Sure Sleep a Lot, Don't They?
It's the last day of my vacation and the last day for me to observe the daytime habits of Mambo and Miss Kitty.
Mambo tends to curl up in his chair for hours at a time, then he wakes up, hurls himself off the chair, flops around on the floor like a landed fish for a second, then regains his feet and staggers around until he accidentally finds the food bowl. He eats for a little while, wanders around some more in the vicinity of the food bowl until he accidentally runs into it again, and chows down once more. Given his age (19+) I kinda think he eats the second time because he forgot he just ate two minutes ago. Then he wanders around some more, exploring the apartment with his forehead (punctuated with an occasional "chunnng!" when he makes contact with my geetar), looking for all the world like Stevie Wonder doing his "Isn't She Lovely" thing. This is broken up by his occasionally getting lost in a corner and wowling his way out. There are usually six big "WOOWWWWL's." I've counted. If I pet him in the middle of his litany, his tone immediately changes to a soft and inquisitive, "berruooot?" Then he wanders in the general direction of one of the 3 litter boxes in the house. If he poops, it's always IN the box. But because he's old and feeble, he never covers, just walks away nonnchalantly, ignoring the labrador retriever sized turds he leaves behind. (Where do they COME from! I ask you) If he pees, more often than not it is "litterbox adjacent." (Hence the rising stock price of Bounty paper towels, wee-wee pads, and "Nature's Miracle.") After two or three tries, he manages to hop back into one of the chairs, where he stares into the cushion for a half hour or so before laying down and going to sleep. He's so motionless that sometimes I get a little nervous and poke him just to make sure he's alive. He makes an "I'm not dead yet!" squawk, and usually repeats the food thing.
The little one, on the other hand, is only, I think, pretending to sleep. From my railroad flat vantage in the living room or kitchen, every time I look in at my bed, she's in there, lookin' at me. And lookin' at me some more. She will occasionally decide the I've summoned her telepathically and tear ass into the kitchen, where HER demands must then be met. She's one of the only cats I've ever had who actually says, "Meee-owww." The unbearable cuteness of this cannot be explained but must be witnessed, especially when I pet her and it turns into a Lumbergh-like "yeeeahhhh." It's not so cute when she jumps into my lap and "forgets" that my jeans-clad leg isn't a scratching post. She then visits the food bowl, where her eating habits seem to consist mostly of flinging the kibble all about the kitchen so I can sweep it up and throw it away.. Then it's time for HER visit to the litterbox, which mostly seems to consist of her covering up Mambo's leavings, then spending the next ten minutes or so gleefully flinging cat litter about the box as if it's New Year's confetti while meowing loudly. This is followed up by several hounds-of-hell laps of the apartment, after which she settles back onto the bed for more of that lookin' at me action. She's doing it right now!
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is all the proof you need that I have spent far too much time on vacation, my brain has turned to mush, and it is most definitely time for me to go back to work.
Mambo tends to curl up in his chair for hours at a time, then he wakes up, hurls himself off the chair, flops around on the floor like a landed fish for a second, then regains his feet and staggers around until he accidentally finds the food bowl. He eats for a little while, wanders around some more in the vicinity of the food bowl until he accidentally runs into it again, and chows down once more. Given his age (19+) I kinda think he eats the second time because he forgot he just ate two minutes ago. Then he wanders around some more, exploring the apartment with his forehead (punctuated with an occasional "chunnng!" when he makes contact with my geetar), looking for all the world like Stevie Wonder doing his "Isn't She Lovely" thing. This is broken up by his occasionally getting lost in a corner and wowling his way out. There are usually six big "WOOWWWWL's." I've counted. If I pet him in the middle of his litany, his tone immediately changes to a soft and inquisitive, "berruooot?" Then he wanders in the general direction of one of the 3 litter boxes in the house. If he poops, it's always IN the box. But because he's old and feeble, he never covers, just walks away nonnchalantly, ignoring the labrador retriever sized turds he leaves behind. (Where do they COME from! I ask you) If he pees, more often than not it is "litterbox adjacent." (Hence the rising stock price of Bounty paper towels, wee-wee pads, and "Nature's Miracle.") After two or three tries, he manages to hop back into one of the chairs, where he stares into the cushion for a half hour or so before laying down and going to sleep. He's so motionless that sometimes I get a little nervous and poke him just to make sure he's alive. He makes an "I'm not dead yet!" squawk, and usually repeats the food thing.
The little one, on the other hand, is only, I think, pretending to sleep. From my railroad flat vantage in the living room or kitchen, every time I look in at my bed, she's in there, lookin' at me. And lookin' at me some more. She will occasionally decide the I've summoned her telepathically and tear ass into the kitchen, where HER demands must then be met. She's one of the only cats I've ever had who actually says, "Meee-owww." The unbearable cuteness of this cannot be explained but must be witnessed, especially when I pet her and it turns into a Lumbergh-like "yeeeahhhh." It's not so cute when she jumps into my lap and "forgets" that my jeans-clad leg isn't a scratching post. She then visits the food bowl, where her eating habits seem to consist mostly of flinging the kibble all about the kitchen so I can sweep it up and throw it away.. Then it's time for HER visit to the litterbox, which mostly seems to consist of her covering up Mambo's leavings, then spending the next ten minutes or so gleefully flinging cat litter about the box as if it's New Year's confetti while meowing loudly. This is followed up by several hounds-of-hell laps of the apartment, after which she settles back onto the bed for more of that lookin' at me action. She's doing it right now!
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is all the proof you need that I have spent far too much time on vacation, my brain has turned to mush, and it is most definitely time for me to go back to work.
Day Brightener
I suited up to run to the store for milk, butter, toilet paper and oranges (a strange recent craving) and when I opened my door I found a bunch of roses on my doorknob!
I realized what an old suspicious New Yorker I am when my first thought was not, "ooooh, how nice! Maybe I have a secret admirer," but, "Who the hell left the front door of the building unlocked so someone can just come upstairs and leave crap at my door?"
The culprit was my downstairs neighbor, who got drunk and thought I'd like them for Easter. I think this must've been a couple nights ago, 'cause they do look a bit depleted. So I dropped 'em into water, stat, hopefully they will revive!
At any rate, I think he really got them for Mambo, who is his buddy when I go away on business. I always fill my fridge with beer so Carlos can hang out with Old PeePants (which is also Sarah Palin's nickname for John McCain, btw) and watch "the good cable."
I'll take it. I honestly can't remember the last time someone gave me flowers other than when my dad died, and those don't really count, do they?
I realized what an old suspicious New Yorker I am when my first thought was not, "ooooh, how nice! Maybe I have a secret admirer," but, "Who the hell left the front door of the building unlocked so someone can just come upstairs and leave crap at my door?"
The culprit was my downstairs neighbor, who got drunk and thought I'd like them for Easter. I think this must've been a couple nights ago, 'cause they do look a bit depleted. So I dropped 'em into water, stat, hopefully they will revive!
At any rate, I think he really got them for Mambo, who is his buddy when I go away on business. I always fill my fridge with beer so Carlos can hang out with Old PeePants (which is also Sarah Palin's nickname for John McCain, btw) and watch "the good cable."
I'll take it. I honestly can't remember the last time someone gave me flowers other than when my dad died, and those don't really count, do they?
Rachel Maddow Drops the L-Word on Television
I caught the Rachel rerun last night as she continues to call out newbie Massachusetts Senator Scott Brown in his blatant lying about her.
She actually does the unthinkable and uses the L-word that television pundits are loathe to use...she calls him a liar. Complete with a picture of Brown with a giant "LIAR" stamped across his forehead.
This is so refreshing to me, because I can't even begin to count how many times I've seethed in frustration as people like David "I'm Doing My Best to Kill Meet the Press" Gregory nod and smile as their guests spew lies without calling out the liars as liars. All in the name of maintaining "access" I guess.
Political talk show guests know they won't be called out on lying, so they feel free to continue lying. Or if someone calls them out, they just raise the volume on the lies (Monica Crowley and Pat Buchanan, I'm talking to you.)
What if these interviewers (I can't bring myself to call Gregory and his ilk journalists) just stopped kowtowing to folks and held up their hand in the middle of some blowhard's blowhardiness and said, "wait a second, the facts are this. Why are you lying?" Wouldn't that be amazing?
I guess TV producers would say it wouldn't be very good TV. Personally I think it would be really compelling to see a politician splutter and twist while trying to spin his way out of a lie.
Go Rachel.
She actually does the unthinkable and uses the L-word that television pundits are loathe to use...she calls him a liar. Complete with a picture of Brown with a giant "LIAR" stamped across his forehead.
This is so refreshing to me, because I can't even begin to count how many times I've seethed in frustration as people like David "I'm Doing My Best to Kill Meet the Press" Gregory nod and smile as their guests spew lies without calling out the liars as liars. All in the name of maintaining "access" I guess.
Political talk show guests know they won't be called out on lying, so they feel free to continue lying. Or if someone calls them out, they just raise the volume on the lies (Monica Crowley and Pat Buchanan, I'm talking to you.)
What if these interviewers (I can't bring myself to call Gregory and his ilk journalists) just stopped kowtowing to folks and held up their hand in the middle of some blowhard's blowhardiness and said, "wait a second, the facts are this. Why are you lying?" Wouldn't that be amazing?
I guess TV producers would say it wouldn't be very good TV. Personally I think it would be really compelling to see a politician splutter and twist while trying to spin his way out of a lie.
Go Rachel.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Elected Wingnuts Trying to Make Constituent Wingnut Heads Explode
So now during the Congressional recess, Republican Cornyn has put out a memo instructing Republican candidates to hit the road in their districts and take credit for the parts of the new health care reform law that they now suddenly like, even though every single one of them voted against the bill.(They will continue with their tried and true tactic called "makin' shit up" about the rest of the bill).
Back in the sad old days of the Bill Clinton presidency, those black, grim days of peace and prosperity, when the Republican caucus proposed an alternative to Hillarycare (remember that?), it was basically the same as...wait for it...the current bill.
Are you gettin this? The Republicans were FOR the bill, before they were AGAINST the bill, before they were FOR some of it again even though they unanimously voted AGAINST it.
If that doesn't make your head hurt, I don't know what will. I assume my small cadre of readers are as smart as and in most cases are smarter than I am, so I can only assume that the Teabagger Nation people, most of whom seem to be functionally retarded anyway, will be bleeding from the ears when these candidates start stumping.
NOTE: On second thought, I doubt this will happen, since these are the same people who think Sarah Palin makes sense whenever she begins word vomiting.
UNRELATED yet semi-related aside: wouldnt it be really funny if five or ten folks showed up at every Sarah Palin appearance and just yelled out (together and on cue), "Hey Sarah! Show us your tits!" No policy challenges, or angry democrat stuff, just "Show us your tits!" What are her supporters gonna do? They secretly want to see her tits, too! This could be a movement. A flashmob for the new decade! I like it.
Back in the sad old days of the Bill Clinton presidency, those black, grim days of peace and prosperity, when the Republican caucus proposed an alternative to Hillarycare (remember that?), it was basically the same as...wait for it...the current bill.
Are you gettin this? The Republicans were FOR the bill, before they were AGAINST the bill, before they were FOR some of it again even though they unanimously voted AGAINST it.
If that doesn't make your head hurt, I don't know what will. I assume my small cadre of readers are as smart as and in most cases are smarter than I am, so I can only assume that the Teabagger Nation people, most of whom seem to be functionally retarded anyway, will be bleeding from the ears when these candidates start stumping.
NOTE: On second thought, I doubt this will happen, since these are the same people who think Sarah Palin makes sense whenever she begins word vomiting.
UNRELATED yet semi-related aside: wouldnt it be really funny if five or ten folks showed up at every Sarah Palin appearance and just yelled out (together and on cue), "Hey Sarah! Show us your tits!" No policy challenges, or angry democrat stuff, just "Show us your tits!" What are her supporters gonna do? They secretly want to see her tits, too! This could be a movement. A flashmob for the new decade! I like it.
Wasillarity
Not to mention people who dig up shit on Sarah Palin.
Gahhhh, what an awful human being! She would have to disembowel Trig on live televsion and eat his heart before their eyes before her fans turn on her. Even then I'd have my doubts; pretty sure the most devout would rush forward with napkins for her to dab at the corners of her mouth.
I say keep your eyes on the creepy Todd. He's the brains of that operation, I'll bet. Maybe he's who the RNC was entertaining at that bondage club in Hollywood while Sarah was doing her strafing run through that celebrity gift tent.
Gahhhh, what an awful human being! She would have to disembowel Trig on live televsion and eat his heart before their eyes before her fans turn on her. Even then I'd have my doubts; pretty sure the most devout would rush forward with napkins for her to dab at the corners of her mouth.
I say keep your eyes on the creepy Todd. He's the brains of that operation, I'll bet. Maybe he's who the RNC was entertaining at that bondage club in Hollywood while Sarah was doing her strafing run through that celebrity gift tent.
Hitchens!
Once again, I find myself agreeing with someone whom I find to be personally loathesome.
But yes, I do agree with Christopher Hitchens 100% on the issue that the Pope, as chief enabler of a state, culture and corporation ("Vatican, Inc.") that endorses and protects child rapists, must answer for the crimes of the church.
As more and more people come forward with their tales of abuse at the hands of Catholic priests, I wish some powerful prosecutor would come forward with a raft of charges against the Vatican, and Ratzinger the ex-Nazi himself. Is it too much to wish for an ICC trial at der Haag? Frankly, I'd love to see him tried and found guilty, and tossed into prison with other child molesters. I'd settle for having him named as some kind of international criminal who is unable to travel outside the walls of Vatican City without being arrested, or even forbidden to travel to some countries (hey, Dick Cheney has been declared a war criminal in Spain, so I can dream, right?).
The church's willingness to settle billions (yes, with a "b") on those who have already gone public, demonstrates that they will pay any amount to protect itself, so why can't a conglomerate of US Attorneys General and their international counterparts file massive suits seeking punitive damages for the rest of the church's money?
Bankrupt them.
And for all those namby-pambies who claim that these were the actions of a few "bad apples," fuck you. The very first time the church moved an abusive priest rather than serve him up to the police, it became institutionalized pederasty, and every child-raping priest breathed a sigh of relief knowing that his job was safe and that no punishment would ever be meted out by the corporation he worked for.
If anyone thinks the Mafia, or the Yakuza or the Russian Mob or the South American drug cartels are bad news, they need look no further than the Catholic church down the block to see where the most powerful gangsters in the world are found.
And the capo di tutti capi is enthroned in the Vatican, the Bishop of Rome in his red Prada shoes, rubbing his hands together as the faithful line up to feed their children to the beasts in cassocks in their communities.
I have to ask this of every parent who is at this moment indoctrinating his children into Catholicism, why? Why are you going to allow YOUR child to become a part of a religion and church that has made shielding child molesters part of its very public corporate policy? Why do you think it won't happen to your child? Do you think the priest in your parish won't hold the same bludgeon of shame and silence over your child that these child-rapists held over their victims?
And when it happens to your child, what will you say to make yourself feel better as your child's rapist is spirited away to another parish to inflict himself on someone else's child? Will those 30 pieces of Vatican silver you receive as hush money assuage your guilt that you knowingly fed your own child to The Beast?
But yes, I do agree with Christopher Hitchens 100% on the issue that the Pope, as chief enabler of a state, culture and corporation ("Vatican, Inc.") that endorses and protects child rapists, must answer for the crimes of the church.
As more and more people come forward with their tales of abuse at the hands of Catholic priests, I wish some powerful prosecutor would come forward with a raft of charges against the Vatican, and Ratzinger the ex-Nazi himself. Is it too much to wish for an ICC trial at der Haag? Frankly, I'd love to see him tried and found guilty, and tossed into prison with other child molesters. I'd settle for having him named as some kind of international criminal who is unable to travel outside the walls of Vatican City without being arrested, or even forbidden to travel to some countries (hey, Dick Cheney has been declared a war criminal in Spain, so I can dream, right?).
The church's willingness to settle billions (yes, with a "b") on those who have already gone public, demonstrates that they will pay any amount to protect itself, so why can't a conglomerate of US Attorneys General and their international counterparts file massive suits seeking punitive damages for the rest of the church's money?
Bankrupt them.
And for all those namby-pambies who claim that these were the actions of a few "bad apples," fuck you. The very first time the church moved an abusive priest rather than serve him up to the police, it became institutionalized pederasty, and every child-raping priest breathed a sigh of relief knowing that his job was safe and that no punishment would ever be meted out by the corporation he worked for.
If anyone thinks the Mafia, or the Yakuza or the Russian Mob or the South American drug cartels are bad news, they need look no further than the Catholic church down the block to see where the most powerful gangsters in the world are found.
And the capo di tutti capi is enthroned in the Vatican, the Bishop of Rome in his red Prada shoes, rubbing his hands together as the faithful line up to feed their children to the beasts in cassocks in their communities.
I have to ask this of every parent who is at this moment indoctrinating his children into Catholicism, why? Why are you going to allow YOUR child to become a part of a religion and church that has made shielding child molesters part of its very public corporate policy? Why do you think it won't happen to your child? Do you think the priest in your parish won't hold the same bludgeon of shame and silence over your child that these child-rapists held over their victims?
And when it happens to your child, what will you say to make yourself feel better as your child's rapist is spirited away to another parish to inflict himself on someone else's child? Will those 30 pieces of Vatican silver you receive as hush money assuage your guilt that you knowingly fed your own child to The Beast?
Monday, March 29, 2010
Crappy Rainy Vacation Day and Good Smells
For the love of god!
I'm trapped inside by the rain and now I have no choice but to hang pictures, rearrange furniture, start swapping out winter clothes, and mop my floors. Dagnabbit.
Alas, there's no 14-hour "House" marathon to distract me like there was yesterday. (I fear I've become far too captivated by television, and I can't wait for Spring to finally settle in for awhile.so I can go outside and play.)
Today was supposed to be "First Ride of the Season on the Cyclone" Day with Roni, but the weather put the kibosh on that. Again, dagnabbit.
At least my house smells yummy. Instant potpourri: as you peel an orange for a snack, toss the peels into a small saucepan with a tablespoon of cloves. Cinnamon optional (tigers hate cinnamon). Add water to cover. Simmer over a very low flame as your house fills with good smells. Toss in more water as needed.
I'm trapped inside by the rain and now I have no choice but to hang pictures, rearrange furniture, start swapping out winter clothes, and mop my floors. Dagnabbit.
Alas, there's no 14-hour "House" marathon to distract me like there was yesterday. (I fear I've become far too captivated by television, and I can't wait for Spring to finally settle in for awhile.so I can go outside and play.)
Today was supposed to be "First Ride of the Season on the Cyclone" Day with Roni, but the weather put the kibosh on that. Again, dagnabbit.
At least my house smells yummy. Instant potpourri: as you peel an orange for a snack, toss the peels into a small saucepan with a tablespoon of cloves. Cinnamon optional (tigers hate cinnamon). Add water to cover. Simmer over a very low flame as your house fills with good smells. Toss in more water as needed.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Antidote for Weltschmertz
A cup or so of very ripe pineapple chunks
2 bananas that are so ripe they are almost liquid in their skins
That cupful of shriveling blueberries from the back of your refrigerator
A couple of good glugs of orange juice and skim milk
Toss it all into the blender and give it a whirl for a couple of minutes to make sure all the lumps are gone. It will be a really ugly color, like beige, speckly baby vomit, to be honest (those dark flecks are the blueberries and they're really, really good for you).
Pour into your favorite glass, the one blown by your friend with the famous literary great-grandfather. Drink. You won't be able to do this slowly, because it spackles some of the crevices in your soul and tastes like Smarties.
Watch the utterly ridiculous "Pretty in Pink" and realize that James Spader has based his entire acting career on playing...James Spader. He's like Tom Cruise without the Scientology and with the gross completely exposed. Also realize that Sidney Crosby looks disturbingly like the young Jon Cryer.
Then realize that it is a beautiful, sunshiny Saturday afternoon and you are indoors watching a crappy 80's movie.
Turn off the TV and go outside. Give yourself a timeout from thinking about Sarah Palin, or pedophile priests, or crazy-ass teabagging racists.
You will feel better.
I promise.
2 bananas that are so ripe they are almost liquid in their skins
That cupful of shriveling blueberries from the back of your refrigerator
A couple of good glugs of orange juice and skim milk
Toss it all into the blender and give it a whirl for a couple of minutes to make sure all the lumps are gone. It will be a really ugly color, like beige, speckly baby vomit, to be honest (those dark flecks are the blueberries and they're really, really good for you).
Pour into your favorite glass, the one blown by your friend with the famous literary great-grandfather. Drink. You won't be able to do this slowly, because it spackles some of the crevices in your soul and tastes like Smarties.
Watch the utterly ridiculous "Pretty in Pink" and realize that James Spader has based his entire acting career on playing...James Spader. He's like Tom Cruise without the Scientology and with the gross completely exposed. Also realize that Sidney Crosby looks disturbingly like the young Jon Cryer.
Then realize that it is a beautiful, sunshiny Saturday afternoon and you are indoors watching a crappy 80's movie.
Turn off the TV and go outside. Give yourself a timeout from thinking about Sarah Palin, or pedophile priests, or crazy-ass teabagging racists.
You will feel better.
I promise.
Friday, March 26, 2010
I Love Wonkette
For a minute I thought John McCain had brought Sarah Palin back so he could push her back through the doorway to hell he dragged her out of in 2008. Alas, no, it was just a desperate move by a desperate old man.
Is it me, or does Sarah Palin look and sound like she's coked out of her gourd? And poor Cindy McCain looks like she wants to dive headfirst into a bottle of percodans.
Go here.
Like I've been saying, Retard Barbie is the comedy gift that keeps on giving. Make sure you read the comments on the Wonkette post if you don't believe me.
Take a deep breath while you watch and you can get a whiff of that old man smell mingling with dirty Depends and desperation.
And a fashion note for Sarah: Sister, there ain't nothing sadder than a woman of a certain age dressing like a teenager. It reeks of "I'm clinging desperately to my youth! And my hair is falling out!"
Is it me, or does Sarah Palin look and sound like she's coked out of her gourd? And poor Cindy McCain looks like she wants to dive headfirst into a bottle of percodans.
Go here.
Like I've been saying, Retard Barbie is the comedy gift that keeps on giving. Make sure you read the comments on the Wonkette post if you don't believe me.
Take a deep breath while you watch and you can get a whiff of that old man smell mingling with dirty Depends and desperation.
And a fashion note for Sarah: Sister, there ain't nothing sadder than a woman of a certain age dressing like a teenager. It reeks of "I'm clinging desperately to my youth! And my hair is falling out!"
Smelly Cat
The little one is quite possibly the cutest kitty, but I gotta tell ya, the long fur situation can sometimes get a bit stanky. She just spent 15 minutes in the litter box, followed by a couple of minutes running laps back and forth and patching out on the wood floors, then scootering while meowing loudly, and now she has just settled into my lap with that kitty-luv look in her eyes.
Which would all be fine except for the cartoon stink lines that are coming from the vicinity of her butt.
Excuse me while I don my chain mail gauntlets to begin the Trimming of the Pantaloons. This ain't gonna be pretty. There will be blood.
What happened to the idea of cats as self-cleaning?
Which would all be fine except for the cartoon stink lines that are coming from the vicinity of her butt.
Excuse me while I don my chain mail gauntlets to begin the Trimming of the Pantaloons. This ain't gonna be pretty. There will be blood.
What happened to the idea of cats as self-cleaning?
Poked by a Ghost
I went to Foley's on Wednesday after work with my friends Anthony and Veronica. We were there to watch the Penguins-Capitols game.
Foley's is one of those rare old spaces in New York that seems immune to modernization. When you walk in, take a look at the bar. Under the sports memorabilia is an elaborately carved wooden frontispiece, the kind you just can't find anymore. If anyone remembers the Cedar Tavern, that's the kind of bar I'm talking about. I still wonder what happened to the wonderful old Cedar Tavern bar.
The walls of Foley's are covered with sports stuff, but underneath all of that (I'm told it's worth in excess of 4 million dollars), you can see that the space has good bones. One can imagine Boss Tweed and Stanford White smoking cigars and eating steaks here, dropping ashes onto the same tiles where you spill your Budweiser.
All that aside, in its current incarnation, Foley's has the feeling of a good New York Irish pub that isn't trying to be anything more or less than that. The barstaff is friendly, the crowd is unassuming, the food is hearty and unpretentious (try the Backwards Burger, with the bacon and cheese cooked in thw middle of the burger patty, served with a side of superb, perfectly crispy home fries) and the lights are bright. Fabulous it is not.
Most of all, it feels like it's been there forever.
We were sitting at the first table by the front door. I had my back to the door, so I could see the television. Near the end of the game, I felt someone poke me in the middle of my back, between my shoulderblades. Three pokes, like someone pokes you with an index finger.
I stopped Roni in the middle of what she was saying, with a hand on her forearm.
"Tell me, is there someone standing behind me?"
She looked over my shoulder.
"No."
"I was just poked. Like this." I leaned over and demonstrated on her. She leaned back in her seat but didn't look surprised at all.
"I could tell this place was haunted as soon as I walked in the door," was all she said. Then she ate a french fry from my plate.
It makes me want to know more.
Foley's is one of those rare old spaces in New York that seems immune to modernization. When you walk in, take a look at the bar. Under the sports memorabilia is an elaborately carved wooden frontispiece, the kind you just can't find anymore. If anyone remembers the Cedar Tavern, that's the kind of bar I'm talking about. I still wonder what happened to the wonderful old Cedar Tavern bar.
The walls of Foley's are covered with sports stuff, but underneath all of that (I'm told it's worth in excess of 4 million dollars), you can see that the space has good bones. One can imagine Boss Tweed and Stanford White smoking cigars and eating steaks here, dropping ashes onto the same tiles where you spill your Budweiser.
All that aside, in its current incarnation, Foley's has the feeling of a good New York Irish pub that isn't trying to be anything more or less than that. The barstaff is friendly, the crowd is unassuming, the food is hearty and unpretentious (try the Backwards Burger, with the bacon and cheese cooked in thw middle of the burger patty, served with a side of superb, perfectly crispy home fries) and the lights are bright. Fabulous it is not.
Most of all, it feels like it's been there forever.
We were sitting at the first table by the front door. I had my back to the door, so I could see the television. Near the end of the game, I felt someone poke me in the middle of my back, between my shoulderblades. Three pokes, like someone pokes you with an index finger.
I stopped Roni in the middle of what she was saying, with a hand on her forearm.
"Tell me, is there someone standing behind me?"
She looked over my shoulder.
"No."
"I was just poked. Like this." I leaned over and demonstrated on her. She leaned back in her seat but didn't look surprised at all.
"I could tell this place was haunted as soon as I walked in the door," was all she said. Then she ate a french fry from my plate.
It makes me want to know more.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Uncanny
Isn't it amazing how the body just knows that a vacation is imminent? As if, by the simple act of handing in that little piece of paper saying, I have 2 personal days and 3 vacation days that I must use before the end of March, I am signalling to all the virulent microbes hiding in my world to suddenly leap into action. Hey! The weather will be beautiful and you will have 5 days off. Let's start with a shot across the bow of unexplained vomiting on Monday morning, followed by a day of vertigo and staying well away from subway platform edges. Then, let's fill your head with cotton batting and give you just enough of a fever to make you uncomfortably unable to concentrate on your big-corporation-mandated self-review (just use the words "collaborated," "implemented," and "impacted" a lot, make up bogus "goals" for your "career development" and you're golden. Apparently in corporate America, where I am admittedly a cynical observer, it isn't enough to be great at your job. You are also apparently required to ASPIRE to something MORE, even if all you want to do is come to work, do your job in an excellent fashion, and go home at the end of the day satisfied, so you can live your life doing whatever it is you want to do.) Then, the day before said vacation begins, those nasty little germs blow up into a full-blown factory of phlegm, so by the time you send that last email and shut down the computer, you are in the grips of a massive springtime cold.
What the hell is that about?
Having grown up with indoor-outdoor cats, I observed that the best healing seemed to take place when kitty would crawl under a piece of furniture and sleep for a few days. (We had an old black and white tom who once tangled with another animal, and staggered home with a gaping, bloody hole in his neck. My mother wrapped a clean rag around his neck, and he disappeared under the china cabinet for about a week. When he emerged, he was fine and went back to his tomcat ways). So I've adopted the same strategy -- sleep -- as my first defense against most ailments -- lots and lots of sleep. I believe it's the best way for the body to heal itself. Sure 'nuff, 12 hours of good zzz's later, I feel a little better, though the pile of snotty kleenex next to me seems to bely that fact. And a mere half dozen hours after crawling out of bed, I'm kinda ready to crawl back in...I think another 12 hours and I'll be good...
In other, less important news than my chest cold, Congress passed and President Obama signed some kind of legislation into law this week that apparently made a million wingnut heads explode. If you hear another person whining about being forced by the government to buy something from a private corporation, just ask them if they have auto insurance, and when they answer yes, ask them why. Then feel free to kick them in the nuts and walk away. But I do have to ask, what are the Republicans going to do now that they have painted themselves into an ideological corner -- they're surrounded by teabaggers with pitchforks, burning crosses, and pointy white hats, and I dont see how they can extricate themselves. See what happened to David Frum today to see what happens to conservatives who tell the truth about their FOX news overlords.
And one other unrelated thing: Jesse James has got to be the sorriest motherfucker in Hollywood right now. But honestly, look at the guy and who he used to be married to -- is anyone really surprised that old JJ has a taste for skankmeat?
And lest you think I was going to post without talking about hockey...HAHA, joke's on you! The Pens are in some weird slump, losing to teams they shouldn't be losing to -- the NJ Devils OWNED them this year, winning all 6 games they played, and the desperately-grasping-at-playoff-straws Detroit Red Wings beat them on Sunday (the question I have watching the Wings is: why is Todd Bertuzzi allowed to skate on NHL ice at ALL? Google "Bertuzzi Incident" to see what I mean). I'm not all that worried about the loss to the Capitals last night, since the Caps usually fall apart in the playoffs anyway. I predict the surprise clutch player of the playoffs for the Pens will be scrappy little number 9, Pascal Dupuis. Tonight I cruised the Rangers-Devils game for a while, if only to see what d-bag Sean Avery was up to. Unsurprisingly, he was running his trap in warmups, yip yip yip, starting up with Clarkson before the first puck drop. What an idiot.
I have to check out here because I am fading fast. Off to bed!
What the hell is that about?
Having grown up with indoor-outdoor cats, I observed that the best healing seemed to take place when kitty would crawl under a piece of furniture and sleep for a few days. (We had an old black and white tom who once tangled with another animal, and staggered home with a gaping, bloody hole in his neck. My mother wrapped a clean rag around his neck, and he disappeared under the china cabinet for about a week. When he emerged, he was fine and went back to his tomcat ways). So I've adopted the same strategy -- sleep -- as my first defense against most ailments -- lots and lots of sleep. I believe it's the best way for the body to heal itself. Sure 'nuff, 12 hours of good zzz's later, I feel a little better, though the pile of snotty kleenex next to me seems to bely that fact. And a mere half dozen hours after crawling out of bed, I'm kinda ready to crawl back in...I think another 12 hours and I'll be good...
In other, less important news than my chest cold, Congress passed and President Obama signed some kind of legislation into law this week that apparently made a million wingnut heads explode. If you hear another person whining about being forced by the government to buy something from a private corporation, just ask them if they have auto insurance, and when they answer yes, ask them why. Then feel free to kick them in the nuts and walk away. But I do have to ask, what are the Republicans going to do now that they have painted themselves into an ideological corner -- they're surrounded by teabaggers with pitchforks, burning crosses, and pointy white hats, and I dont see how they can extricate themselves. See what happened to David Frum today to see what happens to conservatives who tell the truth about their FOX news overlords.
And one other unrelated thing: Jesse James has got to be the sorriest motherfucker in Hollywood right now. But honestly, look at the guy and who he used to be married to -- is anyone really surprised that old JJ has a taste for skankmeat?
And lest you think I was going to post without talking about hockey...HAHA, joke's on you! The Pens are in some weird slump, losing to teams they shouldn't be losing to -- the NJ Devils OWNED them this year, winning all 6 games they played, and the desperately-grasping-at-playoff-straws Detroit Red Wings beat them on Sunday (the question I have watching the Wings is: why is Todd Bertuzzi allowed to skate on NHL ice at ALL? Google "Bertuzzi Incident" to see what I mean). I'm not all that worried about the loss to the Capitals last night, since the Caps usually fall apart in the playoffs anyway. I predict the surprise clutch player of the playoffs for the Pens will be scrappy little number 9, Pascal Dupuis. Tonight I cruised the Rangers-Devils game for a while, if only to see what d-bag Sean Avery was up to. Unsurprisingly, he was running his trap in warmups, yip yip yip, starting up with Clarkson before the first puck drop. What an idiot.
I have to check out here because I am fading fast. Off to bed!
Monday, March 15, 2010
Don't Swing at the Easy Ones
I wish the GOP wouldn't make it so easy for us to make the obvious "Another GOP-er Goes Down" jokes.
Fish in a barrel.
Fish in a barrel.
Friday, March 12, 2010
For Your Weekend Entertainment
Some kitty porn:
You have to admit, that's pretty effin cute. Right down to the tongue.
What are you complaining about? It could be worse, I could have posted a photo of Evgeni Malkin, shirtless.
Well, if you insist, okay, here:
Who knew he was so pale and scrawny under all those pads?
Let me tell ya, he's no Sidney Crosby, that's for sure.
And now that I'm officially a pervy old woman, I'm out.
Have a nice weekend everyone, and just a reminder to STAY BEHIND THE YELLOW LINE.
You have to admit, that's pretty effin cute. Right down to the tongue.
What are you complaining about? It could be worse, I could have posted a photo of Evgeni Malkin, shirtless.
Well, if you insist, okay, here:
Who knew he was so pale and scrawny under all those pads?
Let me tell ya, he's no Sidney Crosby, that's for sure.
And now that I'm officially a pervy old woman, I'm out.
Have a nice weekend everyone, and just a reminder to STAY BEHIND THE YELLOW LINE.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Boba Fett'll be Here All Week, Don't Forget to Tip Your Waitress
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Back from the Olympic Break, Part 1
Before I go on obsessively about ice hockey and Sidney Crosby's corruptible angel bee-stung pucker, I just wanted to ask, didn't The Brand look completely AWESOME for two weeks? Every time I turned on the TV, there we were! Even Stephen Colbert wore us head to toe the entire Olympics! Unfortunately, most the rest of the world apparently thought so, too, because that groovy little moose cap sold out over the first weekend of the games. Snooki-wahh!
Back to business...
So admit it. If you never watched a hockey game in your life, you were tuned in on the last Sunday in February. And if you were one of the five people in America who weren’t watching USA-Canada gold-medal hockey, you missed one of the best hockey games ever. Even though we didn’t win the gold medal, Zach Parise won the “Play with the Most Heart” for creating the cheer heard ‘round the world at 19:36 of the 3rd period. And finally, after waiting for the entire Olympic tournament, we got to see the Sidney Crosby I’ve known and loved for the past few years, at the right moment, doing what he does best…flicking it past Ryan Miller with a wrister that completely silenced the bar where I was watching and winning the gold medal for Canada.
We won’t talk about how silly drunk I got on Lansdowne’s $3 Labatt’s drafts while taking rafts of shit for wearing a Penguins Crosby t-shirt. Let’s just say that Roni and I were handed a tab for 36 bucks at the end of the night, which means we drank an awful lot of beer. So let’s leave that, Crosby’s gold-medal shot, and Monday’s hangover, for the record books, and move back to regular season play, which resumed on Tuesday night.
Tuesday, March 2
Buffalo Sabres at Pittsburgh Penguins
On a hunch, figuring the League would want to capitalize on a post-Olympic hockey high, I flip to the 430-something channel and discover that woohoo! the NHL network is back on for a free preview. So I totally get to see the first game back, which I’m completely psyched for, as we’ll not get to see the hero of Team USA, Ryan Miller, in the house of the Man Who Beat Him, Sidney Crosby.
So the Pens have a little ceremony before the game, complete with cornball NBC Olympic music, introducing all the Olympians in the house. Wow, there are something like 11 Olympians in the Igloo. Five Penguins players – Sidney Crosby and Marc-Andre Fleury (Canada), Brooks Orpik (Team USA), Evgeni Malkin and Sergei Gonchar (Russia) and five Sabres players – Ryan Miller (Team USA), Jochen Hecht (GER), Henrik Tallinder (SWE), Toni Lydman (FIN) and Andrej Sekera (SLO) and Coach Lindy Ruff.
It’s all pretty cool, except there’s apparently been no FSN producer coordinating with the players, so we get crappy static headshots of some players, a shot of Ryan Miller standing in the shadows until a spotlight can find him, at which point the crowd goes apeshit crazy, chanting “USA! USA! USA!” Miller, still looking incredibly bummed, looks like he wants to cry. Marc-Andre Fleury looks sheepish (“Hey, I got an Olympic gold medal for not playing one minute of hockey!”), and when they show a replay of Sidney Crosby’s winning goal, the Pittsburgh crowd actually boos – loudly. Cut to a lonely and exhausted-looking Crosby standing at center ice with a spotlight on him, at which point the boos are sort of overtaken by cheers (“He’s our hometown hero! But he beat our COUNTRY! BOOOOO! YAAAYYYY!). He may be able to tune out the ubiquitous “Crosby Sucks!” chants every time the Pens are on the road, but to be booed – even in replay -- in his own arena seems to hurt his feelings.
As for the game? Well, let’s hope the Pens are coming back strong from the break, as they went into it having lost 3 out of the 4 games beforehand. Not to worry. We get a good, solid back-to-normal, nothing-to-see-here NHL game, including Sergei Gonchar’s 200th career goal, and the debut of Jordan Leopold, who was acquired in a trade on Monday, from the Florida Panthers (I’m sure he’s pleased to be coming north to the ‘burgh; would you be upset to be traded from a 25th-place, no-playoff-hope team to the 4th place, current Cup champion team playing with arguably the best player in the league?) Oh, and Fleury sat out this game (the Flower must have been tired from his Vancouver exertions. I kid the Flower! I love the Flower!), giving us a chance to see backup goalie Brent Johnson in his Led Zeppelin mask.
The Pens are mightier than the sword.
Penguins 3 – Boston 2