Monday Morning Dance Party: "Make your own scrapbook" edition

Back by popular demand, it's the triumphant return of MMDP! And who better to kick it off than our fearless leader, seen in action here fighting the scourge of malaria with his bare hands and a drum. Those evil-doing mosquitoes don’t stand a chance. That’s the power of a dance party.

Where the hell is my ticker-tape parade?

Last night was kind of a big deal for me: I finished the last of a medium size container of fat-free sour cream. Huzzahs all around. Not all in one sitting, though I suppose that would have made me even more impressed with myself. No, the celebration here is that I powered through a single kind of food before it got moldy.

That’s the bad thing about grocery shopping for one: You have to commit to eating enough of one kind of food before it goes bad. Am I in the mood for a dozen eggs? Can I commit to a container of milk? The economical size yogurt tub? A bag of apples might work out to be cheaper per apple than picking up just a few. But it’s not wise. Or healthy.

Sour cream and I didn’t get off on the best foot, what with it having that “sour” misnomer. (It’s like the Greenland of food!) I gazed at it warily on many a taco night at Casa de Little Kate. But I’ve become a convert in recent years. Eating dry baked potatoes is no way to live your life.

I’ve yet to beat the mold spore clock with a loaf of bread. I’m ok until about two-thirds into the loaf, and I hit the wall. I don’t want toast, French toast, a sandwich of any form or egg in a hole. And I refuse to buy the short-bus loaves that they pawn off to shopper-for-ones. Hell no. I’ll go feed bread to ducks before that happens.

Bonus “I love New York” debauchery

I really can’t believe I forgot to mention this part yesterday. One of the finalists for New York’s heart was sent to get cleaned up at a salon. They waxed his eyebrows, or as he called them, his unibreezy.

There’s nothing you can’t thug out! Excess facial hair gets the Snoop treatment now, a mere 3 years after the D-o-double-gizzle stopped with his patented suffix treatment.

I don’t care though, it’s still the best sentence I’ve ever heard. Seriously, if I were on Pee Wee’s Playhouse, this would be my word of the day. As it is, I’m considering changing my IM name and email password. I’m definitely working it into my life as much as possible.

Flavor of perfection

My favorite word in the English language—next to “alacrity” (obviously!)—is “begat.” It’s more of a honking noise than a word, made doubly fun by the fact that the only time I heard it was as a kid in that Holy Week reading about Ezekiel begatting Shlomo et al. Apparently in biblical days there was begatting going on all over town, because it’s “begat” like 38 times, followed by the silliest names you’ve ever heard. Followed by Cadbury Eggs. Easter is truly magical.

Oh but there’s a new sheriff in town, a new messiah if you will: Flavor Flav.

The Surreal Life begatted Strange Love, which begatted two seasons of Flavor of Love, which begatted I Love New York, which I think we all agree is the best, most debaucherous half hour on TV today.

Fact: Jesus associated with untouchables and prostitutes.
Fact: Flav hangs with New York.

Fact: Jesus had many enemies.
Fact: Flav had Public Enemy.

Fact: Jesus carried a heavy cross.
Fact: Flav carries a heavy clock.

Fact: Jesus preached that the greatest gift of all is love.
Fact: Flav gave us the greatest gift of all: Flavor of Love.

Fact: Vying for Jesus’ attention caused Mary Magdalene and someone else. (Martha? I forgot my Bible today, oddly enough) to argue.
Fact: Vying for Flav’s attention caused otherwise reputable young women to hock loogies, thrown stilettos and pull out each other’s weaves.

I could go on, but I think you get the picture. And while Jesus might have had Jehosiphat and Jebiddiah, the Bible is far from a lock on winning the having-people-with-funny-names battle. In fact, Jesus was sorely—and mysteriously—lacking in the “hanging out with people named Deelishis and Hoopz” department.

I watched the I Love New York reunion show last night at the gym, and it is awesome. Imagine a woman, or “woman” as the case may be (I remain unconvinced, VH1. Why? See right. That's why.) who was raised in some sort of highway toll booth, sustained on only sass, push-up bras and toxic levels of eyeshadow. At the age of 24 (yes, she claims to be 24) she was let out of her booth long enough to attempt to mate with several young men who have facial hair that says “I’m not now—nor in the foreseeable future will I be—gainfully employed.” Also there’s a random accountant from Boston who wandered in. He literally got knocked out in on earlier show, which got him kicked off. New York needs a fighter in case she runs out of shoes to hurl in the club. Bitch is hardcore

The woman who unleashed New York on the world goes by the name Sister Patterson, presumably to avoid being associated with her daughter. Clearly, though, she’d schooled her youngster in the ways of Disco Ball Eyelids. (Trademarked)

There was a dispute from a gentleman caller about how genuine her faith was, questioning if it was just for the cameras. (A legit question, given her daughter’s general demeanor and STD to IQ ratio. Then they cut to a clip of Sister Patterson praising Jesus like she was at a revival. Case closed. “I will praise him wherever and whenever I want to!” she bellowed, missing the Jesus forest for the trees.

Next up were two meatheads who rode the crest of their fame to start some knockoff Chippendales company. They are suspiciously like the Dog Brothers from that MTV show “Sex in the ’90s.” (Please, MTV and Viacom, if you never do anything else for me, find out what the Dog Brothers and their sin bin are up to now. It’ll make up for “Date my Mom.”) I don’t need to tell you their dancing involved a Greek flag.

Then! They played a clip where the Greek guy said he’d feed his Mom and Ya-ya before New York in some sort of imagined buffet scenario. Unacceptable to Sister Patterson. Then they played a clip of Mom and 80-year-old Ya-ya smoking and saying how they’d kick New York’s ass because their son/grandson was much classier than her.

Then two of the guys, Chance and I forget, so I’m calling him Herpes Simplex discovered they were both from Florida. This is an unacceptable fact in this parallel universe so they were going to get in a fight about it. Here’s my re-creation of the events as they unfolded:

Chance: He know he ain’t be from there. He don’t rep Florida.
Herpes Simplex: I’m what’s really hood. Know how we solve this in Florida?
(Chance begins to take off his glittery sweatshirt, and Herpes Simplex knows this is the international sign for a fight.)
Herpes Simplex: You don’t want none! Go on, hit me.
Chance, however, comes to his senses and puts his clothes back on.

He realizes he’s won the fight of a lifetime: The love of a “woman” called New York.

Pick me, choose me, love me

Feeling too shy to leave a comment?

Email me! postcardsfromkate@gmail.com



Think of me as that little boy with cancer who needed 10,000 get-well cards to be cured.

I'm the white devil, or: Why I can never go back to the 51st street stop

When I was but a little Kate, I remember an old white man getting out of his car and screaming at my brother, sister and me for playing with our black friends across the street. It’s something a 26 year old can’t absorb, let alone a five year old.

Our town in North Carolina was almost evenly divided between black and white kids. (I assume this was before Hispanics and Asians were invented). After some initial confusion early on, I discovered I wouldn’t turn black if I colored my hands. When I lived in Iowa, I was confused why my class’ entire black population was named Marcus Hester.

Race relations continued rather swimmingly through high school, where I happily studied with, befriended and played soccer with whoever was around. Vakessha and I were going to get rich off our “expanded skin tones” line of Band-Aids.

I’ve learned about the many uses for a peanut and the miracle of the cotton gin, appreciate rap and wholeheartedly apologize for slavery.

In short, I’m the white devil.

It’s been a big week for race relations, what with Don “nappy headed ho” Imus, and the racially charged Duke lacrosse case coming to a close with the charges being dropped. For me personally, the highlight was having “fucking white bitch” screamed in my face for about 20 minutes on the subway platform.

I blame myself. I’d been home for a few days, where people are friendly. The biggest challenge I’d faced was fending off the onslaught of food from my mom. (She would be in her optimum state of happiness shoveling potatoes into our open mouths the entire time.)

So after work yesterday, when I couldn’t find my MetroCard and a pleasant voice calls out “I got you miss” and swiped me through (as people do for each other from time to time) I said thanks and gave him a wave.

“That’ll be $2.”
“I don’t have $2, that’s why I was going to the machine with my debit card.”

I went back through the turnstile up to the booth, and he followed me, yelling about what a spiteful white thief I was, how I stole $2 from him just like I stole this country. It will shock you to know the MTA guy who sold me my ticket watched this man scream at me and just brushed him off with, “You can’t sell swipes here.”

Again I go through the turnstile, assuming my new friend will want to stay at his post and let the matter die down.

He followed me, yelling in my face, less than a foot away. Flipping me off. Shaking his fists. Yelling racial slurs worse than any I could imagine. After my initial protests that I never owned slaves, you’re breaking the law and you didn’t lose money because you have an unlimited MetroCard I did something unusual and just shut up. He kept yelling, like an underground drill sergeant, and I stood there and took it, trying to figure out how to avoid the third rail when he inevitably pushed me onto the tracks.

People around me were looking concerned, no doubt trying to figure out why—and more importantly how—I’d personally enslaved and stolen from this man.

Then the train came, and he got on with me, still shouting in my face. I was impressed to no end how the young business guys around me handled the matter. There wasn’t a big confrontational, “Stay away from the lady or I’ll punch you” show of machismo. One guy took my elbow when the subway doors opened and put himself between me and the guy, then two other guys stood between us too, so there was a barrier around me that Angry Guy could continue to shout through.

I don’t know what made him decide to get off a few stops later, but thank God he did, because I had no plan of action. Start to finish it was about 20 minutes of unhinged screaming in my face. And I didn’t cry until he got off. Then I went to the gym and called the police.


P.S. This is the second time in as many months that I've been called a "Fucking white bitch." The other time was a guy collecting for that bogus homeless charity with the water bottles. Apparently he was new, because the guy training him had to point out "No, no, we don't say that to people." I think this officially upgrades being racially harassed to "On a fairly regular basis."

Stupid liberal media

At some point CNN.com gave up on reporting human news and became CADUT.com Cute Animals Doing Unlikely Things site. When I become an elderly shut-in, this will be the source for all my pet updates. You heard me Animalplanet.com

I’ll click on a few times a day to be greeted with this delightful vision of sound news judgment:



Be with you in a minute, tsunami-ravaged villagers!

But since dogs can’t be saving their choking owners all day every day, CNN sometimes does people news too. Especially if it's literally within their building.

I'm assuming that's why we're going into day two of Breaking News! about a run-of-the-mill shooting in the CNN complex. Sometimes you gotta bring the news to the journalists. They also like free food. Just sayin.

But! I'm nothing if not one to see the positive in this tragedy. Rarely does a silver lining contain the word “Pimpin”:



Aaaawwww yeeeeah.

I think the killer actually came out looking better than this writer/witness. Note to self: Never ask a journalist for a quote. It will come out sounding like this:



After years of seeking quotes from others, Brad, you knew just how to phrase the emotion and drama of the situation without actually sounding like how a real human being would speak.

Well played.

Happy quarter year!

It’s the end of March, which I thought would be the perfect time to update everyone on my new year’s resolutions. Those who were with me to ring in the new year heard my bold proclamation: I wouldn’t be setting just one resolution. Ho no. Any joker off the street can swear they’ll start taking their Centrum Silver every day. I was going for the decathlon of resoluteness. (Editor’s note: Kate, decathlon is 10. It says so right in the name. Read a book or something.) Dodecagon of resoluteness! (Editor’s note: Closer)

At one point I had them all written out, but then I realized that if I accomplished something every month, I could just say that was my resolution.

Nevertheless, here’s my original list, with updates:

JANUARY

Goal: To get a manicure.

Accomplished: Yes!

Story: I’d never had a manicure before, not even for prom. What can I say? I’m pure of heart and steady of hand enough to paint my own nails. Also, I’m not a lady of leisure, and the whole thing struck me as sort of imperial, sitting there while some (let’s face it) Korean woman tended to me.

Off to the salon! Hibernating Bear and I went after work one day where I paid $10 for a half hour of hand massaging, filing, undercoating, polishing, top-coating and shoulder massage while under the hand dryer. Also, she buttoned my coat for me when we left.

The nice Korean manicurist also told us she’d failed her driver’s test three times. Look kids, it’s a stereotype come to life! Take my picture with her.

Verdict: I am impatient because I kept trying to hop up because I thought I was done. Also I am clumsy because I managed to get wet nail polish in my friend’s hair.

FEBRUARY

Goal: To finish my I’m-a-giant-New-York-cliché screenplay.

Accomplished: Yes!

Story: Originally started in 2002, and lost when it was 70% complete, the screenplay made a triumphant return, bigger and badder than ever. It was erased during a tragic memory-update attempt by an ex boyfriend, but I knew it was in good hands when the monitor went black and he told me, “Pack it in your suitcase and bring it home when you come for Christmas. Me and (friend) will get some beers, crack it open with a screwdriver and have it fixed in an hour.” (Sidenote: It was not a laptop, it was a 900 lb. Mac)

So I immediately knew it was gone forever, and got so mad every time I thought about it that I didn’t do anything with it for a few years. I started it up again around Thanksgiving, and typed the final “fade out” around the middle of February.

Verdict: Depending on who’s reading it, I should either be writing my Oscar speech now or not quitting my day job.

MARCH

Goal: Moving

Accomplished: Yes!

Story: I realized that while I technically clung onto Manhattan by my fingertips (What are those bight lights outside my window? That’s the Bronx.) it was time to live in the city where my commute home didn’t involve Harlem. Also, after two years it was wearing thin to keep saying “North of there” when people asked if my neighborhood was near xyz. I also heard “The streets go up that high?!?!” a lot.

Verdict: Successful transition all around. Except for the 86th Street subway stop in the morning. Someone please tell me what is up with that post-apocalyptic clusterfuck. It’s six people deep on the platform, throwing elbows to strong-arm their way on to an already-packed train. There is an honest-to-Thor a police presence.


And looking ahead:

APRIL
Goal: Get a haircut.
Reason: It’s been a while.

MAY
Goal: Finish “Salt.” (The history of salt.)
Reason: I’ve started it thrice, and I’m really enjoying it, but I keep re-reading passages because I feel like I need to be cramming for a test. It’s chockablock full of facts, and I just need to accept I can’t take them all in.

JUNE
Goal: Skateboard.
Reason: Never have, always wanted to. Want to be able to sing “Sk8er Boi” with some authority. (Boy, spellcheck does not like that song.)

JULY
Goal: Get tan.
Reason: I’m currently so pale you can see my internal organs. I’d like to blend in with the other summertime people and not make kids cry.


AUGUST
Goal: Make something out of clay.
Reason: Clay is delightful, and I haven’t been artistic in a while. One can never have too many ashtrays.


SEPTEMBER
Goal: Have a birthday.
Reason: Outlook is good on this one.

OCTOBER
Goal: Play a dead body on “Law & Order”
Reason: The reruns are shown in perpetuity! Someday my grandkids will duck home from work to grab a tuna sandwich for lunch, and boom, there’s grandma, scaring an innocent jogger/arguing couple.

NOVEMBER
Goal: Learn some Italian.
Reason: I’m curious in nature, and I think learning Italian will help when I eventually go to Italy. Also at the Olive Garden.


DECEMBER
Goal: Have insurance
Reason: I’m clumsy (see January) and I love medical tests.

Hometown heroes, back for more: pro-smoking, anti-gay edition

As I read (hometown)'s newspaper online, I remember why I used to cry on the inside a lot. And the outside a few times a week. The letters to the editor come from parents of my former classmates, customers I’d have to wait on at the places I worked, your friends and neighbors.

Here’s one now! Remember, a real-live person sat down and composed this (possibly on a computer, possibly written in transmission fluid or possum blood) in regards to a survey on banning smoking in restaurants:

…I also asked (local person involved in smoking survey) if I could see who participated in the survey and she told me to go to (Web site) and click on the directory. Of the 1,200 partners, there are 28 restaurants; there were no bars or taverns. For (city) to make an accurate survey, it should include all bars and restaurants, not just a handful. These are the businesses that will suffer from a smoking ban.

Logical! Stop while you’re ahead! Whatever you do, don’t turn it into an anti-gay rant!

The (City) Tobacco Prevention Coalition seems to hold Lexington up as its role-model city. I read in yesterday's paper that Lexington is now ranked 10 as one the nation's most gay-friendly cities. Whoo hoo! Maybe (city) can become the 11th.

If gay recognition comes with these smoke bans, I think that most of the non-smokers would rather live with the cigarette smoke. This ain't gay bashing; it's just that the people of (state) have voted that marriage is between a man and a woman. Let's leave the smoking in the preachers' hands. God knows the Baptists give it to us on a regular basis.

Again, I’d like to emphasize that this was not generated by a big-shot Hollywood writer mocking Homestate. Thank you for your time.

Uh-oh Fred.

You’ve got competition. Your lack of dedication to the multiple parentheses tells me you’re just not ready for a real relationship, even if I supply full-body non-webcam pictures. You know who is ready for a relationship? Omid, that’s who. His lack of spelling skillz/coherency is more than made up for in his enthused punctuation.

*Hi,...IF U R 4 ((((REAL))))????...I am SINGLE man with strong family values, very haerd working, I love kids & sports,...soccer my (1), looking & very interested for a (real woman) to be in a serios relationship.. I do not like playing the games in todays dating.(((sick of games)))))... seeking nice, fun,((real woman )))...with strong family values .who can undrestand respect and believe honesty above all things, I would love to meet real woman with ((NO GAMES))??? to be my best friend & lover..to shaer the rest of my life with...?...pleaes if u feel the same...I am waiting for u ...with love,,,,,


P.S. Why is “1” there? And “real woman” is in parentheses? Has he been burned by she-males before? This note is even better if you read the parentheticals in a robotic voice, like they were dubbed in later.

An open letter to March

Aw, c’mon now baby, why you gotta do us like that? Remember all those good times we had together in the park on Tuesday and Wednesday? OK, we didn’t actually go to the park. We told you, we had to work late. Next week, baby, next week. Well excuuuuuuse us, but if you would do more than just….nevermind we’ll talk about it later.

It’s not like we didn’t compliment your warmth, and the way the sun brought out the color in your flowers. We didn’t fall in love with you for your hotshot 80-degree days. If we wanted that, we’d be with June. We love you for all the little things you do for us. You take away February, and promise us springtime.

You don’t have to be flashy to impress us, just be consistent so we know where we stand. We have new spring clothes to wear for you, but we’re not going to bother trying to look cute for you with our sundresses and tank tops if you keep pulling away.

And we know, we’ve talked about our drinking problem before, but it’s just we’ve had these plans for a year to drink green beer all day tomorrow. We’ve got friends coming into town, and when you get frigid, it hurts us.

Just when we think we’re making progress in our relationship, you go and get all cold on us. We’ve gone through so many ups and downs already, we can only take so much more of this. We give our relationship 15 more days.

Love,

New York

Fred in relationships

When you’re in a relationship you know isn’t working, you’ve got a few options: Dump them, start being an ass in the hopes that your former beloved will do the dirty work and dump you, flee to Reno in the night. Or you can just drag your feet, knowing that maybe life would be better without Cody fussin’ at you about dinner being cold and telling you to hush up when NASCAR is on. But on the other hand you’ve known Cody since before he got his GED, you’ve figured out how to get him to mow the lawn sometimes and he even lets you go to bingo once in a while. And he did get you that nice reindeer sweatshirt last Christmas. And he’s pretty close to remembering when your birthday is. (This is the year! The 18th, Cody!)

And if you stay with status quo Cody (Quody?), you’ll never have to get Match e-mails like bachelor number 1:

*Subject: OK.... I'm here what are your other two wishes?

Hello God? It's me again, Oh God, is there a man out there who owns
his own business, has his priorities in order, is smart AND great in
bed, grew up not being a momma's boy, never lies-EVER-- about
anything!--Is he out there? Oh good, and God, could you make sure he
puts all of that pretentious bullshit info in the first email? Thanks.

I hope I got your attention. :-)

You got my attention like cartoon promotions get Boston police attention, darlin’. Let me just say I’m flattered frightened that you think my relationship with God is close enough that I’d pray for a man to be good in bed. And say “bullshit” to the Almighty. Also, you’re 38. There’s a moratorium on emoticons after 30 unless you’re the editor of Seventeen.

Or how about bachelor number 2?:


*Please, NO WINKS! Email me and I will respond. I am a paid member so i have the capabilities to respond to you directly. Have pictures on your page that are representative of how you look. I have updated pictures on my page so I expect others to do the same. We don't have the luxary of seeing each other face to face so pictures are important. Please no webcam face pics. Have full body pictures. Also please read my profile. I think it tells you a lot about who I am and what I am looking for. R.I.F LOL 

Now that we got that little unpleasantry out the way, let's get to know the man that is Fred. Let the journey begin..LOL

Fred in relationships? I believe you treat the woman in your life special and appreciate her. You make time for her and dont use priorities in your life as a crutch or a tool to prevent you from being with someone. I am someone that believes in quality time, cooking for someone, massages, wine, maybe a weekend getaway. Physical chemistry is very important to me. I need to be attracted to someone physically AND mentally. I want someone that will support and challenge me. I am aggressive, very easy going and easy to talk to.

Fred, Fred, Fred. I don’t think I need to tell you this is a man who has one of those thin lines of facial hair outlining his chin. LOL

What does R.I.F. stand for? LOL. I thought I was abbreviation savvy, but you’ve opened new doors to me already. LOL I can see some woman have done you wrong, that’s why there’s the strong need for multiple, full-body, non-Webcam pictures. LOL Did you date that woman from Norbit? LOL


Although I must say, I do like being treated special. LOL Even by the dichotomy that is Fred — aggressive AND very easy going. That’s more than Cody ever did for me.

Just call me Weezy

After weeding through the seedy dark side of humanity that is Craig’s List New York, I shall fox wit them no more.

I moved down the island this weekend, to my own little bedroom/cubbyhole on the Upper East Side, part of a two bedroom I’m sharing with Greatest Roommate Of All Time. I met her online, actually, but worlds away from guys looking for feet to tickle in exchange for free rent. ’Cause, you know, I keep it classy. Turns out we work in the same building, one floor apart, do the same job, I know one of her bosses, and we’re from the same state. A match in roommate heaven. Or famous last words. We’re off to a strong start though — GROAT even made me dinner Sunday night while I assembled my bed.

Added bonus: I no longer breathe in plumes of black mold from my wall (or as my super adorably called it “just humidity.”)

I actually had to put together my bed twice, as I realized the hard way that in the bed's original direction the final, uh, metal thing was about 3 inches longer than the room. So up against the other wall it went, and now it’s in a cool little nook exactly as wide as the bed that I’m calling “cozy” and “like being in a playhouse” to keep myself from feeling claustrophobic.

I had the offer of bed-assemblage assistance from Azerbaijani Mover, who wanted to come back off the clock to help me put it together, then take me for margaritas.
“I can think of no more awkward-at-best/terrifying-at-worst situation,” I did not say.
“No thanks, I’ve got it,” I said.

What I called “making conversation to fill the silence in the moving truck talking about caviar from the Caspian Sea” he saw as flirting. Likewise, when he said he could lift the box because he “made many of the push-ups today” I saw as a fun translation, like being near a real-life Borat. He saw it as bragging.

Also, he warmed up by saying, “You might not really believe this, you might not hear this a lot, but you are actually quite pretty.” Did he just compliment me and insult me at the same time? And then there was this gem: “You will be a good mother some day.” Is this hitting on a girl Azerbaijani style?

Well that’s just great. Plus, he knows where I live. Stranger Danger! Stranger Danger! I’ve seen Law & Order: SVU, I know how this works.

Burying the lede

If you’re like me—and I’m going to go ahead and assume that you are—you wonder what kind of person would be friends with Mentally Unstable Monica. Wonder no more.

M.U. Monica had a party last Friday. Fine. Fair enough. It’s her apartment too.

I’d been up until midnight babysitting the night before (because the fun doesn’t stop with me.) and had to be up at 5 Friday morning for a meeting in Washington D.C. So when I walked in that night to 5,622 people (not an estimate) hanging out, listening to Thriller I was slightly dismayed. Determined to not be the shushing roommate, I said hey to M.U. Monica and went to my room where I tried to sleep for the next 6 hours with people coming into my room looking for the bathroom. Pretty funny stuff, right? They seemed to think so, judging from the giggles. My door doesn’t lock, so I had to ghetto it up with a garbage can in front of the door. They tipped it over.

I pulled M.U. Monica aside around 1 to ask her to make sure her friends knew where the bathroom was. The party went until 3, and friends kept coming in, waking me up and walking back out. They also kept blaring Thriller, which I was more confused than upset by. I was also pretty psyched to stick it to my reggaeton-blaring neighbors.

As her friends left, they were all sure to push open my door to remind me of all the good times we shared. The next day I discovered that someone had also thrown away my shampoo, juniper gel and exfoliating glove. Now how am I supposed to smell like juniper?

M.U. Monica’s reaction to that was, “That’s weird, maybe it was an accident.” Then she went back to reading because she doesn’t own a TV.

Oh, and unrelated: I’m moving this weekend.

I don't know what to say. This award comes as such a surprise

I read Red's blog today and was like “Hot damn that’s some banter! I want to be friends with them!” Then I realized it was because half of it was mine. So here I am, reclaiming – for you, the reader – the brilliance of last night’s liveblogging, Special Oscars Edition. (For the nine of you who don’t come here directly from The Tent)

Me: Do you have an Oscar speech?

Red: Yes, it's really dignified. Would you like to hear it?

Me: Yes, please. And tell me what you won for.

Red: First, you should know that I'm wearing extensions that are so real-looking that my hair simply looks like it suddenly became voluminous and wavy. I'm at my 18-year-old weight. The smile eye wrinkles have disappeared.

Me: In other words, you've gone all Hollywood on us. I assume you've forgotten the little people and we no longer speak.

Red: I glide onto the stage as if propelled by invisible wires and the love of the audience.

Me: Awesome. The blogosphere will be agog.

Red: The real Red would throw up and then die. But Oscar-winning Red tears up just enough to be genuine but not too much, so as to keep all make-up intact.

Me: And what witty comments will you make to be the buzz of the Oscars?

Red: I start with the adjectives... the incredible cast, amazing director, and (choke) my wonderful family and my friends who I love so much, and of course my doting husband Jason [Varitek].

Me: You are quite the accomplished couple! The toast of Boston.

Red: What color should my dress be?

Me: Deep navy with some sparkle. Duh.

Red: I already know that when I'm on the red carpet and they ask me what I'm wearing, I'll say blue.

Me: Gucci will take back their swag!

Red: Okay, now tell me... your award/speech/dress?

Me: Ahem, well, I'm assuming that I'll win for Best Screenplay.

Red: Yes.

Me: I'm going to jump on stuff, likely trip up the stairs, then say "I became a writer so I wouldn't have to speak in front of people, and it's backfired horribly..."

Red: I like that.

Me: Then shout out to friends, family, amazing cast, my husband John Krasinski. We met on set. How cute are we?

Red: Jason and John are in their seats with misty eyes, maybe a single tear. But I don't really want them to Chad Lowe out.

Me: From there it'll devolve into a bitter Constanza-like rant about the people I hate, and they'll drag me off, one security guard under each armpit.

Red: Totally! Pull a Fiona Apple at the MTV awards. "This world is bullshit!"


Me: You gotta make a name for yourself.

Red: From then on, anytime people throw fits it'll be called pulling a [my last name].

Me: I'll parlay that into a book deal: "This world is bullshit!: Saying what you feel in a messed up world."

Her life on the G-list

The day is young yet, and I don’t want to get cocky, but I think I’ve got the winner for Most Comical Juxtaposition Involving Work Ethic and Gay Porn:



Gold medal to Kathy Griffin and The New York Post, and condolences to Kathy’s dad, who is now forever linked to the GAYVN Awards in my mind. Just hope there isn't an article written today about Martha Stewart's famous work ethic driving everyone to tears on the set of her jailhouse gay porno "A Good Thing (and by Thing I Mean Gay Sex)"

This space is MySpace

Ok, so I can’t start a sentence that says “You'll never guess what happened on MySpace…” without feeling like a total 11 year old (or like I should be on “To Catch a Predator.” Whatevs.)

Sure, I know, it’s totally legit for someone in his or her 20s to have a page – most of my friends do too – but I can’t shake the feeling that if you’re too old for Tiger Beat, you’re too old for MySpace, with it’s innocuous motto of “A place for friends” totally belying the volume of amateur porn stars who ask if I want to join their ranks.

Mostly though, I just get poetry in the form of comments like so:

*Tuesday baby Tuesday Do u know where ur kids r??? Home Sleep,??? Wrong we at the club shaken dat ass Shaken dat ass, Shaken dat Ass,,
Baby Tuesdays@MARQUEE 27th street & 10th ave Let me know if u want to come???

*Whats up KateIts Friday finally I thought it was never gonna get here but now its right on time.. Its kinda like money, orgazims and drug dealers. If some one owes u money and they r suppose to pay u on Monday but now its Wednsday u get angry, gotta pay bills, ur stressed out then they show up with the money and its right on time u forget all about it being late. Or have u ever had an orgazim that came to late or too early as soon as it cums its right on time... I dont think I need to elaborate on the last u get the idea.. The moral of the story is that all the before metion things only r good for a short time so make the best of it while its here... Come to STEREO tonight and make the best of ur Friday night P Diddy and the Fam. was there last Friday so u know its official.. STEREO 29th btw 10th and 11th ave I will be walking in at 12am if u want to meet me infront u can walk in with me or just talk to TIM at the door and tell him ur on Ellingtons guest list. txt or call me when u get there.
Ellington

Oh Ellington, you had me in the first line of your sonnet: "Do u know where ur kids r??? Home Sleep,???"

Lyrical. And my kids thank you for your concern.

That said, you’ll never guess what happened on MySpace! Someone stole my “Who I’d like to meet…” line. Ahem… “Other people, is that a trick question?” It’s not all that clever, but it’s in lieu of just a list of people nobody cares about. And I’m betting most people don’t know who David Cross is, and John Krasinski still has that restraining order out, sooooo…

Anyway Thiefy McPlagerizer then tried to MySpace friend me. Oh no you did-n! So I emailed him.

Me: Huh, um, did you steal my “Who I’d like to meet” line?
Him: Why yes I did, sorry it was just so witty and original....lol....would u like me to erase it?

Guess what pal? Look at my face. I’m not LOLing over here. It negates the originality if you (sorry, “u”) copy it, don’tcha think? The mind reels.

I’m sulky!

Valentine’s Day pop quiz.

Let’s say it’s Valentine’s Day. On your way to work maybe your face got exfoliated with ice pellets. (Yeah, that’s not snow, Sam Champion. Put away your snowflake graphic.) Perhaps you're feeling a wee bit cold and unloved. What’s the last thing you’d want a random stranger to put on your desk?:

A. Candy
B. A valentine
C. A copy of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition with Beyonce on a tropical beach looking happy, healthy and, most importantly, warm.

Hibernating Bear: There could not be a more perfect contrast between the day I'm having and the day pictured on the front of the magazine.
Me: The only thing worse would be if she were holding a sign like the Roadrunner saying, “I’m loved and you’re not!”
Hibernating Bear: “My boyfriend's a billionaire and yours doesn't exist.”
Me: Beep beep!

Answer: C. (We also would have accepted mystery answer D: A stuffed frog holding a heart.)

Bonus question:

If you were Crazy Monica and you burned your dinner last night to the point of filling the hall with smoke and setting off the smoke detector, would you:

A. Let your roommates know there is no cause for evacuation/fire department calling.
B. Wait until your roommates had their shoes on and were coming to get you to say, “Oh, yeah, I burned my rice. It’s fine.”

Answer: If you don't know the answer, you still win a copy of SI. Come get your prize.

Metaphor?

Starbucks is – as I’ve said before – where I tithe. Sure, any two-bit financial magazine can point out how much you spend a year on coffee and that if you just invested it at a healthy 8% a year and reinvested the dividends…zzzz…sorry, what’s that? I need some coffee before I listen to your lecture. Know what? Sometimes they have free newspapers, so that’s like a crip $1 bill I’ve saved right there. Besides, the first place I’d go if I had skaty-bajillion dollars would be Starbucks. Also, if I didn’t have coffee, I’d never get out of bed, so I’d lose my job. And the circle of life continues.

Some people think Starbucks is burned tasting. To them I say: shut up. No it doesn’t. Then there are the people who are more on the brick-through-the-window spectrum of fans, either because big corporations aren’t cool or because they put your cousin’s coffee bean farm out of business. I’m sure you’ll be very happy at Gimme! Coffee in Williamsburg. It’s right over the bridge there. Subway’s $2.

Starbucks is my first stop of the day, a clean well-lighted place where I pay five times more than needed in exchange for a skim peppermint mocha. I love my Baristas. (Except for the Special Olympian they have working the bagel orders who toasts the bagels upside down, so the insides stay untoasted. We’ve talked about it. He refuses to see it my way.)

They smile when they see me, know my order before I can pay and call me “sweetheart” and “mi amor.” Last week I got a free cupcake. Basically they treat me better than my last boyfriend.

In our post-modern world (que?) it says a lot that people lead such busy lives that they reach out to Baristas for human interaction. Or not, since just about every culture on the planet discovered cafes before us.

The peppermint mocha is simple enough – coffee, milk, chocolate and peppermint. Christmas in a glass. Today I took a big ol’ swig and discovered they left out the coffee. I don’t know what it means, in the big picture of Life, but it has to mean something, right?

Not now Lisa, Daddy's on his high horse.

I think history will remember Jerry Seinfeld as the father of the blog. Without him, nobody would know how funny “someone cut in front of me on line today” could be. Of course blogs – blogs! – are killing newspapers, so I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.

(I’m feeling a bit pontifical today…bear with me.)

I started reading the newspaper in third grade, and the stacks of them have made my room a fire hazard ever since. Precocious brat that I was, I wanted to do a sixth grade report on Butros Butros Gali and my teacher (hi Mrs. Guterriez!) wouldn’t let me because she didn’t know who he was.

Newspapers are on hard times. Readership is down, they’re in the Bush administration’s pocket, uh, YouTube fits in there somewhere. There’s no time for Iraq when there’s a dick in a box. They aren’t a media stepchild. They’re more like the oldest sibling who gets shoved out of the way in favor of a flashier younger sibling who offers brighter colors and sound effects. And dicks in boxes.

When I worked at a newspaper, the immanent demise of our industry was not well received, for some reason. Sure, nobody wants newsprint on their hands, but without newspapers we’re back to nailing notices on church doors. Or finding the nearest town crier and gathering at his feet as he shouts at us. I get enough of that on the subway, thanks.

In a small media market, there’s predominantly slovenly newspaper reporters and don’t-you-know-who-I-am pompous TV personalities. Our reporters would come back from house fires and car accidents shaking their heads that someone would actually tell a police officer, “Excuse me, but I'm allowed to stand here. I’m Stephanie (redacted).”

I shouldn’t laugh too hard at that, because my dad was in TV news, and they really are treated at local celebrities. One year, at the county fair a local entrepreneur made marionette puppets of my father to sell at his booth. (Go ahead, let that sentence sink in.)

But there’s no such glory for a newspaper reporter. I did run across an Ernie Pyle doll once, complete with it’s own typewriter, but I imagine it wasn’t a hot seller come Christmas. I’m holding out for Tickle Me Ernie.

Back in Hometown, if a high school basketball game ran long, the sports anchor would show first-half highlights and then ask viewers to call in with the score. We can get an astronaut to drive 900 miles in adult diapers but we can’t find a better way to get the people their sports scores?

I suppose it was the bitterness of being shoved aside that led our sports department to call the TV station almost every week with made up scores. And with the sure-there-are-weapons-of-mass-destruction school of fact checking, almost every week they’d get on the air.

The saddest thing to me is when newspapers try to hip themselves up. Like your grandfather saying “waaaaaaazup” eight years too late, it’s just embarrassing for everyone involved. Case in point, the survey. TV and newspapers both offer pointless questions because you, the audience, is so important. I do not understand why someone would read this and think, “They NEED my opinion on this matter!”

(It’s like my favorite Simpsons moment of the last few years. The doorbell rings, and Homer leaps up like a puppy, going “I’m needed at the door!” )

My favorite local TV one I ever saw was, "Have you had a flu shot this year?" and the choices were yes, no and I don't know. Almost 10% of the respondents who called in weren’t sure if they’d had a flu shot, but still had a compulsion to share their thoughts.

Here’s the latest cringe-worthy one I saw: