A Pint of Love

Give one of these to someone you love.

They'll thank you.

Back to the Forest

Well, folks, it's time for me to face those 'Midsummer' demons. Here we are, a little more than a year later, and guess what?

I'm doing Puck again. This time, however, it's a thoroughly normal, low-budget, bring-your-own-costume production in a ramshackle black box in Brooklyn.

And there's NO SINGING!

That's no way to overcome my fears!

So what do y'all think? Seeing as how it's low/no-budget, I figure they could use a ukulele interlude at some point in the second act. Anybody opposed to the notion of Puck plunka-plunking a jaunty rendition of "Why Must I Be a Teenager In Love"?

Mrs. Yuck

I've been out of the loop this week. That's because I've been apartment/dog-sitting for a friend who lives nearby. She left for the week and asked me to look after her precious pup. In exchange, I could stay at her spacious apartment and get away from Dirty Roommate for a few days.

In the end, however, I just traded one dirty roommate for another.

42nd Floorers, meet Mrs. Yuck.

Mrs. Yuck isn't her real name, of course. It's the name I gave her after spending fifteen minutes alone with this dog. First, let me point out that white swirl in her eye. No, that's not my artistic prowess at work adding a little sparkle and shimmer to the canine's eyeball. That white swirl is really there.

This dog is completely blind, completely deaf, has arthritis, weird boils all over its back, pees every fifteen minutes, tries to bite your face if you pet it under its chin--but really only gums you since it's only got, like, three teeth--and has a brown beard.

Yeah. A totally yucky pooch. Can't see. Can't hear. All it can do is smell a little bit. It's like the dog version of--no. I can't. Can't say it. I'm NOT going to make a Helen Keller joke. She was a great humanitarian. This is just some wrinkled old dog.

The thing is, the person I dog-sat for seems to think this once homeless pup is pedigree. My instructions included everything shy of feeding that four-legged prune paté from a crystal goblet.

I was supposed to let the dog sleep with me so it wouldn't feel lonely. Yeah. Except it's about a hundred and eighty years old so it quivers like mad and shakes the whole bed. At one point I knudged it in my sleep which set it to barking the bark of the banshee. So terrifying. Enough was enough. "Okay, bitch, you're sleeping outside."

And since it's a girl dog, it's okay for me to call it that.

When I got back to my apartment, there was a bird in my bedroom.

So that's what I did with my week. What did you guys do?

Oh My Broadway

My friends don't make any sense. Not a lick.

So as a Hallamaween treat, JJo sends me two tickets to the Schnauser Schaperone, just about my favorite show on Broadway. I've seen it three times.

Thing is, I've seen it three times.

Three.

And since JJo didn't pay for the tickets--he acquired them from friends of his who had to cancel their trip to the NYC at the last minute--I got to thinking, "You know, I tell people about this show all the time. I just love it. Maybe instead of hogging them to myself I should share the wealth."

So I started calling up my friends.

And they all said no.

Kids, these are free tickets. To a big-time Broadway show. A show that I love. They're front-row center. These tickets would normally cost $120 each. Did I mention they were FREE?

Yeah. All my friends turned me down. I couldn't GIVE them away.

"I'll be too tired."

"I've had a long week. I want to go drinking."

"That's too inconvenient for me."

"You mean I have to leave work and RUN to the theatre and sit and watch a SHOW?"

Yeah, I know.

So my friend Jams suggested I scalp them.

Scene: Crimes Square, 7:45pm

Me: Umm...excuse me? Sir? Umm...I'm so sorry to bother you. I know you're busy and this is Crimes Square and all, but...would you...um. Would you like to see the Schnauser Schaperone toni--"

Bronx Bob: F--kin' f--k your f--kin' s--t f--k a-s tickets, motherf--kin f--ker!

Yeah. Forget that.

In the end, I managed to give them to my ukulele teacher, but only after promising to pay him an extra $50 a lesson if he took them off my hands.

Queen III, after hearing my story, gave this dramatic reinactment of what my friends said to me:

WHAT? You're trying to give me FREE TICKETS?! To a BROADWAY SHOW? The nerve! And after all I've done for you. And this is the thanks I get? This is too inconvenient! I can't take your free tickets! So DON'T EVER ASK ME AGAIN!!

Sidewalk Rage

As some of you already know, when I moved to the NYC from Everycity, USA, I was thrilled at the prospect of not having to drive. My road-rage had reached such a fever pitch that I started worrying I was going to lose my salvation.

The only answer seemed to be that not driving would restore me to my usual laid-back, not uptight, anal expulsive self. The self you all used to know.

But when I arrived in the NYC, it didn't take more than a week for me to realize that my road range merely channelled itself into a different form: SIDEWALK RAGE!!1!

How the crap does a person get over something like this? It's a real problem!

Imagine with me:

You're walking down the sidewalk. You've grasped the understanding that your feet are your wheels. You have somewhere you want to be and the faster you move, the sooner you'll get there. You aren't going for a stroll or promenade. You're on the move.

Now imagine there's swarm of people poking their way down the sidewalk that stretches before you who are outside enjoying the 86 degrees and 90% humidity and the exhaust from the buses.

They're walking slowly.

And they're in your way.

What's wrong with them? Don't they realize that this isn't the sort of place you go to to drink in the scenery? Times Square I can understand. That's where the tourists go to experience "New York". You expect it. But TENTH AVENUE??? Either pick up the pace or get out of the effing way, grandma! My life depends on it!

I know what you're thinking.

"Those slow-pokes deserve to get yelled at."

But the thing is, you mustn't yell at them. As much as they might enjoy it, (Omaha Annie: ...and we were walking along minding our own business when a REAL NEW YORKER yelled at us, "Move yer caboose, lady! Dis ain't Central Park!" It was so exciting!) you have to restrain yourself and be polite. You weren't raised in a barn. Or Jersey.

The only way to get past road rage is to hit the sidewalks with a working knowledge of some very simple principles.

It's taken me a while to learn these lessons and rules du pavement I'm about to impart to you. I'm still working on them myself. But hopefully you'll find them useful.

Here we go.

figure 1

Lesson #1: Remind yourself that New York City is one of the most densely populated cities in the entire world. If everyone on Planet Earth wants to be here and "here" is about the size of Six Flags Fiesta Texas, that means that there are about three people per square foot. So as you're stepping out, take a breath and remind yourself, "I'm going to bump into someone." (see figure 1)

Lesson #2: Taxis (and buses) are alive and want to eat you. Under no circumstance should you attempt to provoke, outrun, tease, touch, feed, stop, or fight a taxicab. It will kill you. Every time. And if it doesn't kill you, it will paralyze you from the neck down.

This rule is of tremendous importance. Taxis and buses are not just aggressive, they're prone to "snapping" like those terrifying pit bulls who are usually docile and friendly, but all of the sudden develop bloodlust and eat your face off. Even when it's your turn to cross the street, you'd do well to keep your eyeballs on any cabs that are stopping or idling at the crosswalk. Because they're hungry. (see figure 2)

figure 2

Lesson #3: The streets and sidewalks are revolting. That poop you just stepped over has about a 40% chance of being human. Not only can you expect to play hopscotch the entire way to your destination, but once you get there, if it's a friend's apartment, please, do as the Japanese do and do, do, remove your doo-doo shoes. And if you see some weird New Yorkers walking around barefoot, say a prayer for them. They'll be dead by the end of the week. (see figure 3)

figure 3

Lesson #4: If you're approaching a tight spot on the sidewalk, someone will be approaching that very spot from the opposite direction. This happens so often that if it doesn't occur, assume the Rapture. You must either squeeze past them or be polite, screech to a stop, and step aside until they pass--even though doing so will add precious seconds to your trip and completely halt the forward momentum you've built up. You can try stepping into the street to avoid the tight spot altogether, but this must be reserved as the ultimate last resort since such a manouever can cost you your life. (see figure 4)

figure 4

Lesson #5: Regardless of weather, seasons, temperature, or time of day, there will always be puddles in the streets. No one knows why. Just avoid them.

Lesson #6: Unless you're a blindly optimistic sort of person, it's foolish to expect that you'll be able to pass easily through a block that has a hotel on it. Take another street. Trust me. It's so much easier. This rule mostly applies to people who live in Midtown near Times Square. The downside is that quiet streets are usually that way because the crazy lady with the shopping cart and/or dog in a stroller probably scared everyone away. Still, the lesser of two evils, I always say. (see figure 5)

figure 5

Lesson #7: Times Square. Are you insane? Are you kidding? Don't. Even. Try it. Nothing--and I mean nothing--is more dangerous to the recovering sidewalk rager than a walk through the center of the universe.

If you learn nothing else, remember that taxis will eat you. But if there's one other thing to keep in mind, it's that, to the serious sidewalker, Times Square mustn't exist. That is, you must retrain your brain to think 37, 38, 39, 50.

If you MUST pass through (oh GOD!), remember that the space north of 42nd and south of 49th is no-man's land. And don't be at all surprised if the person you're with looks at you in disbelief and says, "You're going through...THERE? But...but that's crazy!" If your reply to them is, "It's crazy, I know. But it's the only way" then godspeed.

and finally...

Lesson #8: On any given block in New York City, there will be people hotter than you. 3-4 on longer blocks, 1-2 on smaller blocks or if you're far west. Everybody knows it. Everybody worries about it. Nobody admits it. Don't worry. It's normal. Just remember: they're more insecure of themselves than you are of you. Or maybe not. (see figure 6)

figure 6

With these rules tucked away in your prefrontal cortex, there's no reason for the byways of this sooty City to get your goat. Now go on out there and make some people get out of your way with the shine of your delightful demeanor! Good luck!

Scarecut 07

It's a haircut. It's new. And it's mine.

I can't believe it.

As the stylist snipped away with her shears, I watched in disbelief as inches of my life fluttered to the floor.

It's also REALLY curly. This picture doesn't really do my curls justice. It's almost embarassing how curly my hair is.

SO embarassing, in fact, that, before I got THIS haircut, I was asked by "friends" no less than five times if I got a perm.

And even when I DID get this new haircut, I bumped into a friend of mine on 43rd and he asked the question that makes me want to do nothing more than kick the asker in the 'nads, "Did you get a perm?"

I decided, at that point, that it was time for it all to go. Back to actually having normal, boring, short hair. After all, how's anyone supposed to take me seriously when I walk around looking like Little Orphan Annie?

But then, another friend of mine, (the Cachinnator, in fact) reminded me that people WANT curly hair.

Me: They do? I thought Everybody wanted straight hair.

Cach: NO! Everybody has straight hair. And they KNOW how boring and flat and lifeless that is. What they WANT is curly hair.

Well, can't argue with that reasoning. So we'll see what happens if I stop using so much leave-in conditioner and just apply a simple dollop of pomade instead.

Who knows...?