Domestic Divas Know How to Throw a Party (Duh)

On Friday night around 5 p.m., two co-worker friends and I left the office and headed over to Skylight Studios for the holiday party. We were a bit nervous, because even though we'd been working at Martha Stewart since June, we were the dreaded FREELANCERS. Being a freelancer is kind of like being a foster child; you never know how long you're going to have a home, and at any time, your "family" can say, "Sorry, kid, we can't afford you anymore, there's no room for you, time to move on, shoo, shoo."

Being freelancers, we weren't exactly given our own invitations, and not really sure if we were technically *crashing* the ball, or just showing up to a ball we were sorta invited to. Thankfully, no one questioned us, and the whole thing was rather impressive, more like a wedding reception than an office party.

Note the fabulous ice sculpture above (an elk? an antelope, maybe?) -- I never knew I loved ice sculpture until I saw this guy (although I do have a penchant for cute animals in any form). Employees decorated stockings at the aptly named Stocking Decorating tables and movie screens showed bits of Frosty the Snowman. There were countless photogs to document the fact that my silk dress was slightly wrinkled and sported a stain and, well, I'm sure I could have used some lip gloss, but I digress! My freelance friends and I grabbed drinks, mingled with full-timers, and watched the Beyond Wasted folk do their duty on the dance floor. A., this includes you, already hungover, doing The Robot on the sidelines.

Related: Three weeks ago, I spent about 30 excruciating hours fact-checking a book about Bravo's Top Chef, which I had never watched until then. Although I typically enjoy fact-checking (I know, I'm a dork), for some reason this book was kicking my ass. I diligently finished and then swore (jokingly!) to friends that if I ever saw a contestant from Top Chef in person, I'd punch him in the face. Harsh! I know, but I was just tired and frustrated, so forgive me.

Anyhow, point of the story. Harold from Top Chef, season one, was one of the chefs at the Martha party. I eyed him, with that big brown shaved head, noting the juicy pieces of salmon his servers were dishing out. And, I'm happy to report, that not only did I not threaten him (go, me! I'm a nice girl after all!), but I sampled the amazingly delicious and sweet salmon (it was sort of rich and sugary, "unexpected," as they say on the show), and he's clearly a super-talented guy who doesn't deserve any ill-will. Even if the book about him and his stupid Top Chef friends did nearly kill me...

Americans Have No Time to Read, I Apparently Have No Time to Blog

I know, I know, I've been horribly lazy and haven't written, but I swear I'm starting my new life of productivity today! My friend C. and I have decided to meet on Monday evenings to MAKE EACH OTHER WRITE, YOUNG LADY!! And while I hope to work mainly on fiction (you know, stuff I have hardly touched since college), I also hope that it will push me to keep this thing up to date. It's simply difficult with one full-time (er, full-time freelance) job plus dozens of other side projects to pay the bills. I did nothing on Sunday except lie around following a Saturday night holiday party, and Sunday was my first day of doing absolutely nothing in I don't know how many weeks. It was boring, but nice. Sounds like a bad date.

Another reason I've put off writing is that I've moved and realize I have to change my anti-LIC heading to something new and appropriate, since I've left Queens and don't plan to go back (ever!) with the exception of Mets games at Shea Stadium.

So! What prompted me to write again this morning was Salon's link to the National Endowment for the Arts' "To Read or Not to Read" report; Salon notes that the survey says one in four Americans have not read a book in the last year. Sad, right?

Other sad stats:

• Nearly half of all Americans aged 18 to 24 read no books for pleasure.
  
• 65 percent of college freshmen read for pleasure less than an hour per week or not at all.
• Slightly more than 1/3 of high school seniors in American can read proficiently.
  
• One in five employees reads at a skill level lower than his job requires. (Large corporate employers collectively spend $3.1 billion a year on remedial writing classes!)

Also check out Salon's list of 2007's best books. I'd like to get to a couple of them soon, but right now I'm the slowpoke who's still working on things I forgot to read in 2005 and 2006.

(You can find the amazing photo above, which I like to think of as a reading rainbow, er, sorry, here.)

File Under: Kind of a Jackass

Maybe two years ago in Williamsburg, the L train was down and I shared a car into the city with this guy named Mike. We started talking and he seemed like a nice guy and he gave me his card. He was a real estate broker. Several months later, when I was looking for an apartment -- albeit a studio under $1350 -- I e-mailed him and asked if he could help. He e-mailed back an enthusiastic Sure, I'll see what I can do. But of course, I never heard from him again. Understandable, I suppose. What broker is super-eager to follow up on $1350 when he has clients who will pay much more?

But then: This morning I receive an e-mail from the guy. It's called "Mike's Real Advice -- Williamsburg Edition." It's a mass e-mail trying to sell me a "Fantasy Loft" in Williamsburg for only $699,000! What a deal! And best of all, he provides lots of pertinent information about the neighborhood:

"In the 90's the artists moved into the loft spaces when SOHO and the East Village became too expensive. Once we got street cred the young, hip and good-looking discovered our cheap rents, and over the last 5 years, we went from a pretty quiet area to the colorful and bustling destination we are today. Now we have amazing restaurants and café's, a rocking bar and club scene with some great mid-size music venues, and a thriving local fashion and arts community. Check out Free Williamsburg ( http://www.freewilliamsburg.com/restaurants/index.html) for local info."

Wow, thanks, Mike! Then he goes on to discuss his "local favorites." Like, have you heard of this place called "DuMont Burger"? They have the best burgers ever! He also promises that Williamsburg is getting a Trader Joe's soon. Actually, Mike, Brooklyn is getting a Trader Joe's soon -- in Cobble Hill.

Remembering the Literature That Shaped Us

Earlier today, a friend was buying stocks online and I was taken aback because even though I'm more than old enough to engage in such adult-type activities, if I had enough money to buy stocks, I would likely spend the moolah on dresses or books or fancy dinners before I managed to get anywhere near a, umm, stockhouse? Broker? Trader? E-trade Online?

Anyhow, this reminded me of being a kid and wanting to buy stocks because I had read The Westing Game, in which a very smart and charmingly bratty Turtle Wexler (age7? 10?) knows more about stocks than anyone you'd ever find down at the NYSE. I remember wanting to learn to buy and trade stocks as soon as I had enough allowance, but alas, I never did. The same thing happened with Harriet the Spy, another favorite childhood book. Although I did manage to carry around a notebook for at least two weeks, noting interesting facts about neighbors and hiding in the Maryland woods, spying on one local man I deemed suspicious.

The point is, it's nice when a book inspires you as a child. And while Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time didn't make me want to time travel necessarily, it did open up my mind and stretch my imagination and I remember carrying around a weathered copy as an elementary school kid, enthusiastic to get to the end.

It happened, sadly then, on this day that I was thinking about these childhood favorites, that I read of L'Engle's death. As writers, we are often (or at least I have been) told that it is dangerous to have too much of ourselves in our work. I'm not sure I agree, and L'Engle certainly didn't. The phrase "dictation from her subconscious," I think, is quite an interesting way to look at things:

Her works — poetry, plays, autobiography and books on prayer — were deeply, quixotically personal. But it was in her vivid children’s characters that readers most clearly glimpsed her passionate search for the questions that mattered most. She sometimes spoke of her writing as if she were taking dictation from her subconscious.

“Of course I’m Meg,” Ms. L’Engle said about the beloved protagonist of “A Wrinkle in Time.”

Madeleine L'Engle, Children's Writer, Is Dead

Oh, the Irony of It All

On the heels of my entry about America Ferrera and Glamour slimming down her lovely figure for its latest cover, I came across the Magazine Death Pool via Gawker. The site has a Dead Magazine Museum, which I was happy to see features the long-lost publication I once worked for.

However, I also noted a magazine called Mode that folded in September 2001. Mode, as you probably know, is also the name of the fictional Vogue-esque magazine that America Ferrera works at on Ugly Betty. Ironically, though, the real Mode was a mag for plus-sized ladies; its cover advertised "Smile in Sizes 12, 14, 16..." I guess they weren't allowed to promote anything higher than a 16 on the cover (or anyone from the waist down), but the ellipses give you the gist of things.

So the fictional Mode on Ugly Betty would surely follow in Glamour's footsteps when confronted with a less-than-teensy actress and Photoshop her to death; the real Mode (pictured) would have featured the actual actress in all her glory, but it folded, so never mind. Maybe it folded because they needed a new fashion editor -- I mean, come on, look at this girl. Why is she wearing a nasty hat that looks like someone skinned a cow and plopped it on her head and such a dull bikini that doesn't look like it has much support and maybe was purchased on the buck-99 rack at Dress Barn? Ah, Mode, it's great that you loved all body types, but maybe your downfall was for the best. You could have taught thousands of women to dress like hookers; thanks to whoever put the kibosh on that.

If the Kids Cared Enough to, Like, Compete and Stuff

This is wonderful: overcoming hangovers, perfecting the judgmental stare, choosing ironic T-shirts, making sure your pants are tight enough. All events in the Hipster Olympics. Hilarious, and yet, somehow true.

Video via A Brooklyn Life

America Ferrera: Countdown to Anorexia

Not that she should stop eating, but she will. I started thinking about this after reading all the hullabaloo over her recent Glamour cover on Glossed Over and Jezebel. People are making such a big deal about the fact that the cover was obviously Photoshopped; they whittled America down to a skinny lady. Not super skinny, but smaller than she is in person. Enough to notice, let's say.

Anyhow, it would be nice to think that someone other than Kate Winslet had the balls to stand up to the Hollywood standard of what skinny is, but history teaches us otherwise. America Ferrera seems like a nice, wholesome girl from a good family, but yeah, I predict anorexia/bulimia any day now. It seems too tough to be in a Hollywood environment and hear everyone say, "Oh, that's great, you're so curvy," knowing that they really mean, "Man, that sucks, you're totally huge." She's not, of course, but you know, Hollywood is warped, etc.

This all made me think of that girl Sara Rue (whose name I couldn't remember at first) and she starred on that show, Less than Perfect, which you may or may not remember. She was totally adorable on the show and then I guess after she started to lose all this weight and now I think she looks like Tracey Gold from Growing Pains back in her Karen Carpenter phase. I present as evidence:



OK, maybe not Karen Carpenter; I mean, she obviously looks pretty here and not sick, but maybe it's just the idea that she looks more like all the other H-wood gals now, like she lost her spunk or something. I forget the name of that show that Selma Blair was on when she was first starting out, but the same thing happened to her. She was probably like 125 pounds or something, and people made fun of her and called her huge, and then she got super skinny, too. Nicole Richie, of course, also -- and now it's hard to remember a time when she looked normal (even now, knocked up). I give it six months before we start seeing split-screens of America Ferrera before-and-afters in US Weekly with the headline, "Has She Gone Too Far?"

To the Very Mean People (Person?) Who Stole My Bike Seat on Sunday

Quite frankly, I didn't even know my brand-new bike seat could come off so easily. So there, I learned something new, I guess. But, c'mon! Are you serious? Stealing someone's bike seat in Williamsburg in broad daylight? What if I'd come out of the restaurant earlier and stolen a peak down North 9th and seen you unscrewing my seat? Have you no decency!

And frankly, I expect this sort of thing to happen in Long Island City, but in tony Williamsburg, what with its new crop of trust-fund babies and their condo-buying parents?

So, a little research reveals that the hood and its environs (namely, Bushwick) haven't been doing too well with crime lately. The Brooklyn Paper reports that the 90th precinct had 18 robberies in one of the last weeks of August, which I'm sure doesn't include all the unreported things like a bike seat being taken. And my bike seat being stolen doesn't seem like such a big deal when you read about this poor little gal:

A 10-year-old girl had her bicycle stolen from her as she rode near the corner of Division Avenue and Roebling Street on Aug. 18. Cops are hunting for a 13-year-old boy on a girls’ bike.

Dobry Den: The Slovak-Czech Varieties Store

I know that I spend a lot of time bitching about Long Island City, but every once in awhile, I discover something great in the neighborhood. The Slovak-Czech Varieties store has been there for at least a couple of years, but I finally managed to visit on Sunday afternoon. It's a wonderful little enclave with Czech glass, magazines, books, food, tea, and (best of all) children's toys.
If you've ever been to Prague, you know about those Czech wooden toys that you see all over the place. They're super cute, but being the kind of person who despises most knickknacks, I declined to purchase one when I was in Prague. I always sort of regretted it.
Thanks to the Slovak-Czech Varieties store, I got one on Sunday. I highly recommend it as a good place to browse for unusual gifts; the staff and customers are super friendly, too.

Slovak-Czech Varieties, 10-59 Jackson Ave., Long Island City

Lorem Ipsum Apartment Hunting Update

For some reason I cannot remember to take pictures of viewed apartments. I'll tie a string round my finger from now on, promise.
Hell's Kitchen, 225 sq. ft. studio, $1400: With some brokers, it's like they maybe don't have too many friends or something. 'Cause even though I would rather work out our appointment over email, this guy insists we speak on the phone. For like a good 10 minutes. The apartment is on Ninth Avenue, but really it's in a building behind the building on Ninth Avenue. You walk through the first building hallway and then into a courtyard where everyone throws their trash, and then into your building. Apartment is incredibly small but cute; current tenant implies there might be a slight roach problem. Seems slightly sunlight-deprived. A no. Makes me slightly happy, since could admittedly not afford this much rent anyhow.
Park Slope real estate office No. 1: OK, I know what you're thinking, Park Slope?! You're not having a baby! Yes, but I promised myself I'd look outside of Manhattan, and besides, PS brokers have listings for places like Cobble Hill and Carroll Gardens. And I was in the neighborhood. But this broker, like every broker I have ever met in Park Slope, implied that I could not afford to live in their precious little community and tried to send me to Kensington, which she described as "getting groovy." Like three times. I tell her that I have been meaning to go to Vox Pop but that I think Kensington might be too far of a daily commute.
Park Slope real estate office No. 2: Filled out form. Uneventful.
Craigslist: Have emailed at least 30 different postings; have heard back from maybe four or five. I might actually have to start calling people and talking to them on the phone. Ugh.

Jessica Simpson Gets Dumped (Again)

Poor Jess! First things don't work out with Nick Lachey. Then John "O-Face" Mayer dumps her. And now even the Conde Nast delivery guys have kicked her to the curb. Literally.
As I walked to brunch on Sunday morning, I noticed that these boxes of brand-spankin'-new September 2007 Self magazines with Simpson on the cover had been dumped about a block away. There were more than a dozen boxes with Self pouring out, and there were several more boxes with new issues of Conde Nast Traveler.
Did someone just get tired of their job and decide they didn't want to make anymore deliveries? And they dumped them on an abandoned block in LIC 'cause they thought no one would be the wiser? Or were they trying to make a metaphorical comment about the state of Ms. Simpson's love life? Perhaps we shall never know.

Apartment Hunting with Lorem Ipsum!

My apartment search has officially started, and I hope to post pictures and descriptions of some of the ridiculously overpriced dumps I am sure to see during my quest for a roof and four walls. I saw a studio on the Upper West Side (for only $1,200!) on Saturday, and yet, it too was no bueno. I forgot to take pictures (dammit), but vow to do so from now on.

Anyhow, to begin, I'd like to share an email that I received from a gentleman named Andrew. I had responded to Andrew's post for a Lower Manhattan studio for $1,100 (I know, I know, it seemed too good to be true, especially since the pictures he posted made the studio look all shiny and new). But a girl can try. I emailed him, and yesterday, I received this email back:

Hello,

I'm the owner of this apartment, I want to rent this because I have moved out from New York with my job. Now I'm living in London, UK, as I work here. I'm looking for a serios client. The lease could be 1-2 maximum 3 years, as long as I stay here in London.

This apartment is well maintained, and everything it's on place.

Pets are allowed but the floor has to be clean. Regarding parties I also have no problem, decent atmosphere needed.

Payment: Must be made one time per 3 months (4 rates x 3,300 usd per year).

Deposit: I must get paid one month in advance (1,100 usd). After that you will pay me once at the end of that 3 months, mentioned above.

To proceed, I need your final decision and that deposit wired here in London, because I'm depending on that. It will enable me to come back to New York for 2-3 days and make the contract and hand over the keys.

I'm surely convinced that this is a reasonable price and I need SERIOUS OFFERS ONLY !NO BROKERS, only peaceful and law-abiding tenants.

If you have any other questions...go ahead with them.

Thank you...

Andrew

Awesome! Sure, let me wire you a thousand bucks in London. And then you'll come out here and give me the keys afterward? Oh, OK, I totally believe you. Sounds great, "Andrew."

Gentrification Kind of a Bitch, Generally Unsatisfying in the End

Cynthia Ozick wrote one of my favorite essays, "The Synthetic Sublime," in which she marvels at the way that New York manages to reinvent itself every few years. Gritty neighborhoods are transformed into hip neighborhoods, a downtown strip is renovated until it's rendered unrecognizable, an empty lot sprouts new condos, a building is destroyed by fire; our landmarks are constantly changing.

New York neighborhoods are always shedding their past lives to become something new, and Williamsburg's "shedding" is really starting to piss me off. I find myself, rather than embracing the neighborhood I came to know and love, being beyond annoyed at it. I spent Sunday afternoon there, getting my hair cut and selling clothes at Buffalo Exchange and drinking beers and reading a book in the garden at the always pleasant Soft Spot.

And what bothered me so much? Who knows...a snaky line of hipsters waiting to see Blonde Redhead, too, too many, it was sad, somehow, all that waiting. A trio of obnoxious assholes thrusting ironic T-shirts into the air like flags at Buffalo Exchange. The new cafes (even a sweets shop!) that make it look like the Hamptons. Me, annoyed at a Williamsburg where Galapagos and Northsix, among others, got forced out. I remember an acquaintance saying once that he didn't want to live in Williamsburg anymore cause it was like a college town.

I disagreed then, but yesterday it seemed a college town to me, and I found something uncontrollably and inexplicably frustrating about it. I ran into three people I knew within a matter of five minutes (go State College!) and maybe I'm annoyed in the same way that the old-timers who sit outside on their stoops must have been annoyed at me and all the people who got there before me. But I at least tried to be friendly and smile sweetly and say, "Good morning" or "Good night."

But these people! It sucks when a neighborhood becomes less of a place to live and more of a place to be seen. That's how I feel about it right now, but I hope that I find something to change my mind.

This conversation below isn't it. From 11222 via New York Shitty:

Earnest young wanna-be-yuppie type with phone glued to ear:
"Yeah, so I think I'm going to go in on this real estate thing...well, I know I've never done it before, but I think it's a really good idea...I just didn't see anything I liked in Williamsburg... well, this Greenpoint, it's definitely up-and-coming...of course, there are no *guarantees*, but, this place, there's like absolutely nowhere to go out, something has to change...it's got this really weird neighborhood-y vibe to it, you should see some of the people who live there..."

Overheard Cell Phone Conversation

Dear Mother Jones, I Love You, But Stop

Dear Mother Jones:
You know I think you're great and all, but you've become like an overbearing boyfriend with these email blasts you insist on sending me like every freaking day, and it's really kind of getting tiresome. If I want to read your online content, I know it's there now and I don't need 80 reminders a week to go to your Web site.
Sincerely,
A Concerned Reader

UPDATE: I have gotten at least two more newsletters since this post, but duh, there's an unsubscribe option. Genius.

Someone Missed a Crucial Day of Journalism 101 Freshman Year

Hi, Los Angeles newscaster, Mirthala Salinas! How's it going? What's that? Not so good? How come? You just got suspended from your job without pay for two months? That's awful! What happened? Really? You reported on the breakup of L.A. mayor Antonio Villaraigosa and his wife and you got in trouble for it? That doesn't sound right! Oh, seriously? You're screwing Villaraigosa? And you're the reason for the breakup? And you failed to note that conflict of interest? Huh, yeah, that was a really bad idea, Mirthala.

Newscaster Suspended Over Affair

The Border Between Astoria and LIC Is Referred to as ASSLIC? This Makes Perfect Sense

I am really glad to be moving in the fall.

Kunt City

You Can Practically Hear the Sound of Elle Magazine Choking As I Write This

Today in the Styles section, the NY Times is mean to Elle:

"THE most glamorous thing about the offices of Elle magazine is that they have an excellent view of Condé Nast, eight blocks to the south, where Vogue and GQ and Vanity Fair exist in movie-set-worthy splendor and Town Cars idle in perpetuity," the story begins.

Funny, but true. The Elle offices do have an accounting firm/government building feel to them. And to the north there is a lovely view of the Hearst Tower, which is even lovelier inside, and it makes you frown because you are reminded that you do not work there.

Hachette is kind of a shaky, precarious place to work. Like you feel you could be shut down any second. Trust your intuition on that one; you will be.

Even Elle, Hachette's prima donna child, has gotten screwed lately: "In Elle’s transition to a post-Gilles Bensimon era, it has been plagued by reports of budget cuts, canceled trips for editors to the couture shows in Paris and reduced access to car services. Twenty of its 59 editorial staff members and freelancers on the masthead have departed this year..."

Isn't Nina Garcia still there? Why hasn't she left yet? And it's kinda like, if you're Hachette, why would you screw with Elle, your best known magazine? Seriously, if Elle goes away, what have you got left? Car and Driver? That's depressing.

I would like to end with this quote from the story:

"“Vogue represents the ideal of fashion,” said Italo Zucchelli, the men’s designer for Calvin Klein. “Elle is for real people. It does its job, but I never read it.”

Ouch.

Elle Has a Little Work Done

I Prefer Sunday Crosswords to Sunday DJs, But Maybe That's Just Me

Not-so-good idea: Williamsburg's new diner (24 hours!) pairs its Sunday brunch with drinks (good) and DJs (heh?). Isn't the point of Sunday brunch to relax and get Saturday night out of your system?
Rock Brunch

Awesome idea: A group is pushing to turn Williamsburg's abandoned Domino Sugar Factory into "New York's answer to the Tate Modern in London." Alas, plans for residential conversion are already underway, making it unlikely that Williamsburg will get its own waterfront museum.
An Alternate Proposal for Domino Sugar Factory

Questionable idea: My lease is up in two months (I am dumping LIC) and I'm trying to decide where I might head next. I have considered Bushwick as an alternative to some of Brooklyn's pricier neighborhoods, but this comment on BushwickBK really makes it sound no better than LIC:

"I would love to hang out in Bushwick more, but there’s…nothing to do most of the time. Really. Now don’t jump on me for saying it, but I’m a single girl without roommates. I’ve gotten friends to come play croquet in the park with me once. There’s no local bar near me. (Yay for a bar on Starr St.) There aren’t a lot of events in the neighborhood. (No free movies, few concerts that I know of.)"

Yikes. At least LIC has P.S.1.
More Bushwick Rumors

Somewhere, Al Gore Is Gently Weeping

The whole point of Anya Hindmarch's "I'm Not a Plastic Bag" campaign was to save plastic bags from being used. Somewhere between 500 billion and 1 trillion of plastic bags go to landfills each year, and it's nice to think that someone might walk into Whole Foods, buy one of Ms. Hindmarch's bags for 15 bucks, and use it to carry his groceries home (shown, right), thereby saving a plastic bag.
Hindmarch's bags, as her Web site notes, have sold out in the United States. Is this because the U.S. is finally jumping on the Gore bandwagon and becoming a bastion of environmental responsibility?! Nope, no, of course not. It's because we love fashion!
I've seen many girls in New York carrying the sold out bag -- as a purse. No one is using it for groceries, no one is logging anything as much as a bottle of wine or a magazine in it.
Then, today, my co-worker reported that he actually saw a picture of irony walking down 23rd Street this morning: A girl wearing an "I'm Not a Plastic Bag" purse on her shoulder while carrying a plastic bag.
Was the offender too dumb to note the irony? I would have at least been smart enough to stash the plastic bag in my Anya Hindmarch bag, thereby escaping such uninvited scrutiny.

Maybe the Only Two English Degrees That Ever Paid Off

Inside my recent issue of Conde Nast Traveler, I noticed a pull-out advertisement (complete with excerpts) for a new book, The Conde Nast Traveler Book of Unforgettable Journeys. The pull-out guide contained a nifty preview to four or five of the writers who contributed to the anthology, including Nicole Krauss. I have always been a huge fan of her husband, Jonathan Safran Foer. Who seems like a nice guy. Not spoiled. Despite that $6.7 million-you've-got-to-be-kidding-me brownstone in Park Slope. V. Woolf said one needs a room of her own, not a fucking palace. Anyhow, I digress. Below, a sentence from Ms. Krauss' excerpt about Japan:

"We have come to Japan in part because we've had the brilliant idea of turning the patch of nothingness behind our Brooklyn house into a Japanese garden—only we don't know how."

Don't most people just buy a book for that? Like this one? Ah, to be a Krauss-Safran-Foer...

Rule of Thumb: Don't Assume a Woman's Pregnant Unless She's Crowning

So yesterday I get on the bus after work and I step up and slide in my card and the driver says, "Oh! Having a baby, huh?" I didn't quite know how to answer this since, no, I am not having a baby, so I just frowned and said, "No, not a baby; maybe I'm just fat."
I took one of those single seats next to the window and took some time to reconsider my dress choice for the day. Sure I had tied a large yellow belt around my waist so that the gold dress kind of poofed out below it, but still! Come on!
I might not be a Nicole Richie, but in the grand scheme of things, I'm not a big person. A Kate Winslet, perhaps, a Drew Barrymore in her less svelte stages, Lily Allen even. I eye other people getting on the bus: Some have obvious, huge tummies -- hefty muffin tops bubble over too-tight jeans and satin shirts showcase big, big bulges, surely much bigger than my stomach, but the driver doesn't say anything to these women!
So then I run some errands and get on the train to go home and I'm standing, holding onto a pole and my bags and then, a girl. actually. gets. up! And, eyeing my stomach area, she tells me to sit down. And I'm like, no I'm OK, thanks. And then her boyfriend says, Oh, C'mon.
I kind of go along with it: "I'm just going one stop, but thank you for being so sweet."
So, can I blame this on the tent-dress trend? Or am I doomed to spend eternity looking like I swallowed a beach ball, even though I am not with child?

How I Spent My Summer Vacation (Away from Blogging)

So you might have noticed that I've had one whopping post in the last, oh, three months or so. Here are some things I did instead of blogging (although I kinda missed it):
1. I got a new dog (right, center).
2. I read this and this and this. And I tried to read Don Quixote, but felt he just kept having the same adventure over and over and I grew kind of tired of his inability to realize that he is just a guy, not some great knight, and really wished Sancho would stand up for himself more, and waited for the story to give me some kind of jolt, but it didn't, so I gave up.
3. I waited outside Warsaw in Greenpoint for an hour until some kind soul sold me a Wilco ticket. This time could have been better spent, but the show was nice.
4. I visited my mother.
5. I saw Ratatouille and then a few days later found a mouse in my apartment.
6. Purchased humane mouse trap online. Mouse apparently was as disappointed in my neighborhood as I am, because she left and never came back.
7. Readings, work, drinking, etc.

Woo-Hoo, Gay Republicans

NY Mag makes an inadvertent suggestion with its headline placement.

At Least I've Had a Tetanus Shot Recently

Last night before walking into Piano’s, my friend, who had grown up on the LES, wryly noted that the bar is where her family used to buy pianos. Put plainly, Piano’s on a Friday night blows. You will keep bumping into douchebags, girls in flimsy tops will run into you and spill your glass of wine, and when you are searching for your friends on a faux dance floor you will step on something sharp that you cannot see and still will not know what it was when you wake up the next afternoon to discover blood on your foot.
Piano’s is a great place to go for a reading, like One Story’s excellent monthly series, on a Friday around 6 or 7. Friday around 1 or 2 is different. We would have gone somewhere else, but my friend’s friend from out of town was there. Which seemed to be a trend, out-of-towners at Piano’s. I was waiting for the bathroom downstairs. There was a huge line behind me. There was a bathroom that no one was going in, so I opened the door to see why. The floor was really wet and nasty, not completely flooded, but when you already have blood on your foot, you don’t want it to be wet, too. So I said to the guy behind me, “You can go if you want, I’ll wait for another.” And he said, “What’s the matter?” I explained. “You don’t want to go in because it’s wet?” He chuckled at me. So I waited for another restroom, went in there, and then I heard the douchebag leaving the “wet” bathroom and asking the guy behind him, all sarcastic and shit, “You sure you wanna go in there? It’s wet!” Then they both had a good chuckle. “That’s just par for the course!” one said. “What do you expect in New York?” the other said. The only people who say things like “What do you expect in New York?” are people who do not live in New York and have an image of the city as this drug-infested, crime-ridden, pre-Giuliani cesspool.
Call me crazy, but I don’t expect to be cut with glass and use flooded toilets when I go out. But maybe I’m just a snob.

How to Set up a MySpace Account in 13 Easy Steps

#1. Take an ironic picture of yourself. It is best if you are looking off to the side, all spacey-eyed, or wearing a Halloween costume. Even better, if you are a hardcore Democrat, use George Bush’s picture. If all the above fail, use a childhood photograph, pre-third grade. Half-naked as an adult also works, especially if you are female or a gay male.
#2. Post photograph.
#3. Come up with a crafty slogan. This should be something that shows off how witty and clever you are. Example: “Someone told me MySpace was for losers, so I decided to join.” Or, if you’re not the self-deprecating type, come up with some word salad that will beg the question: What does that mean?! Example: “George Michael ate my Jolly Rangers!!!” As a last resort, use some pseudo-intellectual bullshit that no one will remember from sophomore year of college ’cause they were too stoned (think rare Baudelaire verses, which work particularly well for the ladies, but not so much for the men).
#4. Post slogan.
#5. Write some witty banter about yourself for the “About Me” section. Wrong: “I was born in Chicago and am currently a patent attorney who enjoys watching movies, reading Stephen King novels and dining out.” Right: “I hate mayonnaise. I hate people who don’t know that the right side of the escalator is for standing, the left side for walking. Ketchup is my favorite condiment. I don’t understand math. Or science. I have a weird birthmark under my left breast. I always give money to subway musicians with accordions.”
#6. Post witty banter under “About Me” section.
#7. Post any dorky quizzes you have taken. The dorkier, the better.
#8. Download humiliating pictures of yourself from digital camera.
#9. Post humiliating photos under the additional pics link. Somewhere our culture got the idea that if we showcase our embarrassments, they cease to be embarrassing and merely become fodder for amusement. This is nowhere better evidenced than on MySpace.
#10. Under the “Here For” part, say friends or networking, but never dating. Your “friends” will snicker that you should have joined Match.com instead.
#11. Obtain as many friends as possible. Unlike in real life, it is OK to associate with people you hate on MySpace. Remember, they add to your friend total (see Tip #12).
#12. Do not put the people you hate on your main page, unless they are incredibly attractive or have impressively ironic photos (see Tip #1). If you cannot manage to obtain more than 250 friends, delete your MySpace page, or people will think no one likes you.
#13. Post comments on all your friends’ pages. With any luck, 75 percent of them will reply with comments on your page, and it will therefore appear that people are interesting in talking to you. If you do not do this, someone will invariably post that, “No one ever leaves you any comments!” Which everyone knows is MySpace death. Then you will be forced to resign your MySpace page and you will lose your home and job, wife and children, and you will be driven underground to live in sewer tunnels.
Good luck!

Where All the Depressed People Near Union Square Go After Work

Trade Joe's wine shop on 14th Street. Just look at the line that stretches to the back of the store, circa 6 p.m. on a Wednesday. Clearly we have no one to go to a bar with. Or, more realistically, we just realize that a bottle of three-buck Chuck is a more cost-efficient way of dealing with our depression. And cheaper than Zoloft. Sad, very sad.

A Very Long Reaction To Why David Blum, the Jerk, Is Completely Wrong About Joan Didion

Ex-Village Voice editor David Blum wrote a piece in the Sun this week that I missed until I saw it on Gawker. Man, what's his problem? Basically, he goes on this whole rant about how Joan Didion is one of the few people in modern letters who's immune to criticism. He asks: "But do memoirists of personal pain deserve the freedom from negativity that our culture seems to willingly provide them?"
I don't agree with his viewpoint that "memoirists of personal pain" receive some sort of immunity. (I shamefully recall quietly snickering with other writers at a memoir reading once; I forget the author's name). I think that if Didion has immunity, (which I'm not convinced she does 100 percent although she certainly has more than the average writer) it's because she has a solid reputation and has amassed a body of work that deserves respect. Had she written The Year of Magical Thinking as a first book, perhaps it would not have received the interest that it has. But as someone whose work I have read and enjoyed, I of course was curious to see Ms. Didion's views on death, loss and grief.
Blum also charges Didion with "coldness, her sense of detachment from events," which is a quality often attributed to Didion's writing. Even I was annoyed in "The White Album" when she seems to dismiss her psychiatric report not as a product of her own mental anguish but as a sign of the times, that period so tumultuous politically and socially -- how could anyone not be depressed in such an era? she seems to suggest.
It kind of sounds like bullshit to me and sometimes I wish that Didion's writing wasn't so detached from herself; but Blum's explanation of how Didion alienates her audience is definitely ridiculous.
He suggests that Didion is alienating her audience by making references to her "exalted social status," which is just inane and misses the entire point of the book. What does it matter if she and her husband attend a Knicks game with seats provided by the NBA commissioner? How would that be different if they went to a dive bar or a county fair or grocery shopping together? Death is a universal experience that people understand, regardless of where a story occurs. Apparently, Blum does not agree and suggests that if you have money, loss is easier to handle.
Blum's assertion that grief is "less of an ordeal for someone with the means to stay at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, or — for distraction — to get an assignment from the New York Review of Books to cover the 2004 political conventions" is one of the most insensitive things I've ever read.
I do agree with Blum that there's no catharsis in the book. As one commenter on the Sun Web site says, "Her big insight? Life changes in an instant. Anyone who has experienced loss in their life greater than the family dog knows that."
True, but for many of us who were fans of the book, we saw this book as a sort of beginning. I admit that I was disappointed that nothing more insightful came out of The Year of Magical Thinking. I waited for a big flash of insight, but the book, like life, doesn't work like that. But I suppose I assumed that Didion would follow up with something in time. For anyone who's lost someone incredibly close to them, it can take months to even process the death, months until you get around to really crying about it. For her book to be published so soon after losing her husband, I imagined that Didion hadn't had the time to actually process the event in full. I have faith in her that she'll gain new insights from her loss and perhaps write a follow-up; I also think that it will be interesting to see whether the Broadway play, starring Vanessa Redgrave, is more mature than the memoir.

Beyond Criticism

How to Tell That Your Old Neighborhood Has Officially Gone to Hell in a Handbasket

The Gap names jeans after it.

Williamsburg Officially Becomes an Adjective
Via Free Williamsburg

Anna Wintour Prays for Your Waifdom Every Night

On the April cover of Vogue, Scarlett Johansson is spread out on either a very modern-looking lawn chair or a very smooth rock. There is perhaps a pool in the background. She is wearing a silky green lingerie-type get-up. She looks, of course, lovely as ever. Yet, how does the magazine choose to describe her? "Curvy and cool." Huh. Everyone knows "curvy" is code for fat. Let's try it in a sentence: "Boy, that Queen Latifah sure is curvy!" But why would they call Scarlett "curvy"?
Continuing. In an unrelated tease to another story, the words "Nobody's Perfect" lie across Scarlett Johansson's perfect thigh. Oh, the irony! Anyhow, the "Nobody's Perfect" head apparently involves a story in which seven women obsess over their body flaws. Does that sound like hell to anyone else? Why would I want to listen to seven women bitch about their cellulite?
Then, the main head on the cover encourages us to: "Embrace Your Shape!" This head, along with the ultra-fat, err, "curvy" Scarlett, seems a condescending touch. It tells women to accept their bodies, but then presents "curvy" Scarlett as their poster girl. Like, Scarlett can accept herself, why can't you, Vogue reader? I'll tell you why: Because the average woman in America weighs more than 160 pounds and I'll guarantee she probably doesn't look like Scarlett Johansson. Or have those boobs.
What's funnier is that under the "Embrace Your Shape!" head, there are choices. That's right; Vogue accepts different body types. And those four body types are: Towering (read: tall), tiny (read: seriously anorexic), thin (read: aspiring anorexic or born in Eastern Europe), or top-heavy (read: big-boobed). You're just fat? Too bad.
I saw a photo of Madonna on a magazine cover from 1989 the other day. And what's funny is I thought, "She looks really fat." But I remember when I was young and saw the cover and thought she looked great. So it's just interesting how we've been trained, however so subtly, to think that what was thin fifteen or twenty years ago now translates into cow.
And then we wonder how this happens.
Or this.

Vogue

A is for Allawi, B is for Baghdad, C is for Civil War: Mother Jones Presents Iraq 101

Mother Jones is one of the best magazines around. They do an excellent job of reporting stories that no one else does and there are always several eye-opening stats in each issue. In addition to Eric Klinenberg's great article on the way that investors, greed and the FCC (and not the Internet!) are killing newspapers, there's an amazing report on Iraq. If you take a look at MJ's source page, you'll see the intensive and impressive research that went into compiling this story. It explains basics (like the difference between a Sunni and a Shiite); but it also goes deeper and reports statistics that I haven't seen anywhere else. Some examples:

* The family of a U.S. private killed in action can receive $500,000 plus $40,000 annually. The family of an Iraqi who is killed will receive no more than $2,500 from the U.S. government.
* Of the 323,000 members of Iraq's security forces, only 10,000 are "politically dependable." American trainers report that 70 percent of the police force has been infiltrated by militias.
* The war cost American taxpayers $1.9 billion a week, or $275 million a day. If the U.S. had not invaded, militarily containing Saddam through 2015 would have cost an estimated $23 million a day.
* In 2006, 30 percent of Iraqi children went to school. Before the war, attendance was close to 100 percent.
* Twenty-two Army soldiers committed suicide in Iraq in 2005, twice the number from 2004.

There are tons of other statistics worth reading and mulling over, so I hope you'll check out the article.

Iraq 101

Inadvertent Homeless Chic Gone Terribly Wrong or One Woman's Act of Repentance? Thankfully for This Blogger, the Latter

Today I was walking home from the grocery store and I was stopped at the corner of Jackson and 21st Street when a woman approached me. She was pretty, blonde, maybe in her mid-30s. She said, "Can I give you a dollar?"
Now the first thing I thought was: Oh my goodness, does she think I'm homeless? I mentally catalogued what I had put on that afternoon: dress, leggings, suede boots, coat. Not too horrible. (In the '90s, I went through a Mary-Kate-esque baggy clothing period. I also wore a backpack 'cause I was in college. Once, standing in line for a movie with my friend Kelly like that, she remarked, "You look like a homeless person." The fact that I was homeless chic before "bobo" was cool still doesn't make me feel any better.)
Anyhow, this woman asks me today if I will take her dollar. I must have looked confused because she said, "I broke a promise to myself, and I told myself if I broke that promise that I had to give a dollar to a stranger."
Then she slipped the lone dollar into my plastic grocery bag, next to the cornflakes. I meant to say, "Thank you," but instead, "Good luck" came out of my mouth. And then, "take care." And I wanted to ask what promise she had broken, but it seemed inappropriate. I decided she probably slept with someone whom she promised she would never sleep with again. Or maybe she fell off the wagon or something like that, but she seemed way too put together to have just gone on a bender.

Covers Serve as Grim Reminders That We Will All Grow Old and Unsexy Someday

There is a lot that we can learn from Rolling Stone. OK, maybe just one thing. And that is that we will all age and wrinkle and shrink (or in some cases, expand). Glance over the RS covers, from 1967 to the present, and you'll see that the girl you totally would have banged in 1972 now looks like, well, like she is 72. Obviously, everyone grows old, but some do it better than others. Here are some celebs who brought sexy back and then lost it:

Linda Ronstadt? Totally hot in the '70s.
James Taylor? Ditto.
Michael Douglas? Young and cute.
Mick Jagger and Keith Richards? Looking remarkably sprite and not too dead.
It's been awhile since I've seen Bruce Willis with hair.
Gary Busey looked better as Buddy Holly.
Sally Struthers was totally cute!
Jon Voigt looked a lot like Liam Neeson.
Michael Jackson still looked normal in 1984.
And, of course, Britney Spears was once pretty.

There are look-alikes, too. Is this Dash Snow? It also kind of looks like an "If They Mated" photo for Jack White and Kid Rock.

Rolling Stone Covers

Mirror, Mirror On the Wall, This is the Stupidest Idea I Have Ever Heard

I personally think this is taking technology a little too far. It's a mirror that talks back to you. Like you're out shopping and then you try something on and then the mirror says, "Your ass looks fat," or, "Nice rack in that dress." Actually, I don't know what it says or how it says it. All I know is that if you're at Bloomingdale's in New York, there are people out in cyberspace who can see you try on outfits and then they give you advice about your choices. And then they suggest outfits for you to try on and those outfits appear in the mirror like holograms. So Star Trek! This is dumb. Maybe this is why:

“The idea of being able to take your whole social network with you when you shop is a concept that any kid who leaves their house every day with their social network in their phone will understand,” said Tom Nicholson, the chief executive of IconNicholson. “They are already sharing everything with 500 contacts on Friendster, so if five of them happen to be online, why not ask them whether you look good in green?”

When did our society become that co-dependent? Have we always been? And is the convenience that services like these supposedly offer worth the sacrifice of one's privacy? IconNicholson, the manufacturer, explains on its Web site that the mirror also "further serves to help retailers monitor inventory in real time and collect data that provides valuable insight into customer mindsets, behaviors and evolving needs." Once again, it's a clever way for big business to assess consumer wants in order to sell them more. Like those grocery store discount cards that chronicle everything you've ever bought.
But more importantly, I'm dying to go to the Web site and make fun of people trying stuff on. But the Times article doesn't link to the site, and neither does IconNicholson. Boo.

If the Mirror Could Talk (It Can)
IconNicholson

Craigslist Lonelyheart of the Week

This is a new feature on Lorem Ipsum, in which I'll choose a particularly sad and pathetic Craigslist personal. Natasha, a 25-year old with a penchant for bad boys, almost won after I read her ad, which requests that ex-cons contact her. She's only interested in men who have been to prison, and if you haven't, don't bother.
Still, I couldn't be sure that Natasha was such a loser. Sure it looks that way; but she also could be a very successful woman with poor grammar and a fetish for perps. Some men, especially those who've been cooped up in a cell for awhile, might even find this Natasha girl appealing.
So our winner is this 22-year-old girl from Jersey. She sounds like a hoot! She doesn't know what you're going to do on the first date. (Eating, drinking, sex and even holding hands are total no-nos!) But I'm sure you'll think of something. Here's some things you should know about your new gal:

She's starving herself for the next month.
She's not drinking alcohol for the next month.
She's not going to sleep with you on the first date.
She bears a striking resemblance to Cousin Itt from The Addams Family.
She will see to it that your first date includes a quiz on current events.

So good luck, kids! Also, she notes that guys with facial deformities, married men and baldies need not apply. Sweet girl.

Wine and Dine Me...Well, Not Really

Dear Mr. Cab Driver (#3N39) Who Refused to Take Me to Long Island City

Dear Mr. Cab Driver (#3N39) Who Refused to Take Me to Long Island City:
Where do you get off? All I wanted was to go home. And while it was, admittedly, 2 in the morning and you had just dropped off some drunken hipster on the corner of Bedford and North 6th in Williamsburg and you were maybe really annoyed at having to work so late and maybe just wanted to get home to your wife and kids, your light was on. There was no “off-duty” light, or worse, a completely dark light – no, you were ready and willing to take someone somewhere – just not me.
See, my friend and I hailed you and I guess we just didn’t look like your cup of tea because you rolled down your window, heaved your chin in the air and asked, “Where you going?” in an accent I couldn’t place. You eyed us suspiciously like we might ask to go to New Jersey or Florida or even farther, like wherever you picked up that accent.
“You can’t ask us where we’re going, it’s illegal,” I said, grabbing the back door; it was locked. “You have to take us where we want to go,” I continued. My friend, who had faith in you, said, “Greenpoint,” and you sighed and you said, “OK,” like you were doing us a favor.
But what you apparently did not anticipate was that my friend and I were going to different apartments, and being tired and not wanting to be stuck in Greenpoint instead of home, I quickly added, “And Long Island City.” See, Mr. Cab Driver, I would expect for you (someone who drives professionally and for a living) to understand that Long Island City, though it is in Queens, is only a hop, skip and jump from Greenpoint, an extra two minutes, really, but no! Apparently you have some problem with Queens, Mr. Anti-Queens Cab Driver. I understand that the media portrays Queens in a weird light, and there are all those sitcoms with the fat, annoying husbands and pretty wives who would never really marry guys like that, and they always, always live in Queens in residential neighborhoods where you actually need cars and where grass actually grows, very far from the city. There are no lawns where I live, Mr. Cab Driver.
I live on a dark, deserted street in a converted factory building and it’s so desolate that once, when another cabbie turned the corner to my apartment, I could see him getting nervous cause it didn’t look like anyone lived there and he said, “So is this the part where you kill me?”
OK, so maybe that story helps me to understand your point, Mr. Cabbie, but still! This is your job! So as my friend and I stood by your cab in Williamsburg, you barked “No!” and sped off as my fingers were still gripping the back door handle. You were not nice. Just what do you think: Perhaps you think I am happy about having to live in Long Island City? Do you think it is fun, Mr. Cab Driver, being a small, dark-haired girl with no formal martial arts training who has to walk home alone down a deserted street on an industrial strip at 2 in the morning? Can you see where I might want some help with that?
It’s not like when I was a little girl, I used to daydream and say, “Someday when I’m older I want to live across from a factory just down the street from a homeless shelter and with a strip joint on the corner!” Not so much, Mr. Cab Driver, not so much. Do you think it doesn’t hurt a little every time I tell people where I live and their faces scrunch up like I just announced I have some sort of fungal infection? Thanks a lot, Mr. Cab Driver. You’re a jerk.

TONY Editors Like It When It Hurts So Good

Anyone who lives in NYC knows that Time Out New York is not a very good magazine. It has such potential, but their design consistently sucks (what's with all the bland cover art and italicized headlines?), their cover stories lack any substance whatsoever, and the only reason you really subscribe is to browse the listings and make sure you're not missing out on your favorite band playing.
What's funny, though, is that TONY seems to know it sucks. And it's punishing itself. Each issue editors choose a "letter of the week" from someone who bothered to write. The winner of the "letter of the week" gets a Time Out guide of his or her choice for free. You would think that maybe the editors would choose laudatory letters, but no. They know they suck. And so, those masochistic TONY editors choose letters that abuse, taunt and criticize. Let's take a look at a recent example:

Every year you bait me with your Valentine's Day suicide special. But this year, you totally outdid yourself. Not only was this year's guide to low self-esteem downright offensive, it was just the ammo that I needed to break up with you and look at my other New York magazine options. (Letter of the Week, Feb. 22-28, 2007)

Sweet, right? Here's another winner from someone who's pissed off about the "50 Greatest New York Musicians of All Time" issue:

Dion, Seanchai and the Unity Squad, Black 47, Shangri-Las, the Chiffons, the Chantels. Shit, even the fucking Blues Magoos and the Bullys before some of the pretentious bullshit you have. Since you have Madonna, then how about Louis Armstrong, the Reverend Gary Davis and Hot Fucking Tuna. No fucking Dion? Fuck yer mother, ya lousy fuckin' cocksuckers. (Letter of the Week, March 8-14, 2007)

Harsh! So, point of the story: If you'd like a free Time Out guide (not like you would, but just in case you're headed to Bora Bora soon and need some hotel listings), simply e-mail a nasty, curse-laden letter to letters@timeoutny.com. You're welcome.

Update: The March 15-21, 2007 "letter of the week" accuses theater editor David Cote of ageism. I love the progression here. The letters began with mere criticism of the mag, but now we're moving into the prejudices of individual staffers. Can't wait till next week when someone accuses Beth Greenfield of being a homophobe.

Not Only Do Long Island City Delivery Men Lack Balls, But They Also Like To Taunt You With Food You (Apparently) Can't Afford

So I've had my share of troubles with Long Island Shitty's delivery men. But no one has ever brought food to my door, dangled it in front of me and then shrugged and walked away with it.
I will explain. I have no cash and no money in my checking account. I have only one way to make purchases right now: a Visa gift card with $30 left on the balance. There is definitely at least $30 left on the balance because I just checked the balance online. So I called this greasy little piece of hell (whose Web site advertises it as "not your ordinary, run of the mill diner" - they're right; it's worse) and ordered mozzarella sticks, a Caesar salad and a diet Pepsi. They took the number and expiration date for my Visa gift card; it's easy and works just like a credit card and I've used it at a number of places this weekend, including over the phone. They said, "Be there soon."
Thirty minutes later the delivery jerk shows up with my food. I answer the door with a pen, expecting to sign for my food. He informs me that the credit card has been declined. I tell him that's not possible because I just checked the balance. We stand in the hallway, going over the numbers together. They are correct. He tells me I have to pay cash. I say I have no cash. He suggests that maybe I could use a different card. I say I can't. He is holding my food and I can smell the mozzarella sticks. He says, "Well, sorry, I have to take the food then," and he leaves, merrily swinging the bag from one hand as he exits down the hall.
I hope he enjoys those mozzarella sticks. And I hope they make him very fat.
Seriously, though: Why would a restaurant even bother to send their delivery guy if your credit card didn't go through? Wouldn't it make more sense to call you and let you know to see if there was some mistake? Not in Long Island City, I guess. Worst. Neighborhood. Ever.

Me and Al Gore Totally Have So Much in Common

I rushed to pay a ConEd bill this morning before the bastards decided to stop by and turn my electricity off. They send me weekly shut-off bills, threatening to leave me in the dark. You can tell the difference between these and a regular bill because they have a thick red line across them with the crimson warning, "Important: Dated Notification."
It's not that I don't want to pay; it would be easy if the bill were $25 or $50 or even $100. I live in a small studio apartment. I barely cook, I often turn the heat off, and it's not as if the TV were on all day. So I can't figure out why, today, when I called to pay my bill, my previous balance of $477 is now more than $600. In a matter of two weeks. For a studio apartment.
But I felt not so alone when I read that none other than the Goracle is having trouble keeping his bills down, too. Al Gore, who was the belle of the ball at this year's Oscars and basked in the light of environmental do-goodery, is being criticized by a small research group who discovered that his Nashville home's energy consumption was twenty times the national average.
Well, he's rich. He has a large house. He's a busy guy. It kind of makes sense that his consumption would be greater than the average American's. Just because he got all Ed Begley Jr. on our asses doesn't mean we should expect him to sit around in the dark. Besides, a member of Gore's team explained:

All the energy used for the Nashville home came from a green power provider to the Tennessee Valley that draws its energy from solar, wind-powered and methane gas supplies, among other sources. The Gores were installing solar panels on the roof of their home, Ms. Kreider added, and making efforts to reduce their energy needs. Besides, Mr. Gore had adopted a "carbon neutral" life whereby any emissions for which he was personally responsible were offset by buying green credits such as parcels of forests.

Yes, he's clearly a hypocrite. A solar-loving, panel-installing, wind-powered hypocrite.

An Inconvenient Truth: Eco-Warrior Al Gore's Bloated Gas and Electricity Bills

Eat Drink Man Woman: This Week in Food News

If you have the diet of an Olsen twin, check out these places.
If you do like to eat (see gentlemen above), and you enjoy meat and being greased up while you nibble, make a reservation here.
If you eat before you see this performance, you will probably vomit.

Assholes Drive Son 350 Miles to 'Cure' Homosexuality, Humiliate Him on Public Radio

So here's the bad news: Back in November, pastor Ted Haggard resigned from his church in Colorado 'cause he was screwing a male prostitute. But there's a silver lining! He's on the road to recovery and has brought attention to the "ex-gay movement," whose proponents believe that homosexuality can be cured. Really. Just listen to a few speeches, like this one, by Alan Chambers:

"The truth is, I used to be gay," he said at one point. "Big whoop."

Umm, can you even picture a straight dude saying that? "Big whoop?" Someone is in major denial. Even the title of the conference, "Love Won Out." It has "love" and "out" in the same sentence. Gay!
And who had to sit through Alan's shitty speech? Brett, a 16-year-old from San Diego whose Christian parents drove 350 miles so their son could hear Alan say "whoop" and be not gay anymore. Did it work?! Uh, no.

"Don't tell my parents but no; I know I'm gay, and like, their stories are really inspiring but I know this is me and I don't really want to change."

Poor kid. You just wanna give him a hug. And then see if he wants to go shopping or something.

Church Hosts Conference on 'Ex-Gay' Therapy

Tats Show Celebs How Much You Care

People with large, full-color tattoos of Tony Danza, Rodney Dangerfield, and Will Ferrell as his character in "Elf" actually exist.

All the Body's a Stage
From NY Times

SNL Carries on Legacy of Hilarious Comedy Coke Consumption

Gawker just posted this entry via Page Six regarding the following blind item:

Which "SNL"-er is living up to the show's storied history of drug abuse with a whole lot of blow at the all-night after-show parties?

I mention this only because I remember reading this Village Voice article back in October about how the current cast was so clean they squeaked:

For years, SNL was synonymous with wild and crazy, not just in its comedy but also in its animating spirit; the dark side of that was discord and drug abuse—to the point where, by the late 1990s, two cast members, Belushi and Chris Farley, had died of drug overdoses. Tonight, those days seem especially distant. No one is getting smashed. No one is in the bathroom snorting cocaine. A few cast members come outside for a cigarette—Amy Poehler with her husband, Arrested Development's Will Arnett, Bill Hader, Will Forte—but that's about it.

I remember thinking at the time that this was total bullshit and that whoever wrote it had really poor skills of observation. I used to live in the same Williamsburg apartment building as a certain cast member, and every time dude got off the elevator and I got on, I practically got high off his leftover fumes. He was like Pigpen, except instead of a cloud of dirt, he had a cloud of pot following him around. If he wasn't stoned at that after-party (above), I'll eat my arm. Seriously.

Which SNL Star Is Keeping the Coke-Addled Legacy Alive?

Grey's Anatomy Doctors Can Save Friend Who's Been Dead for Six Hours But Not Mildly Sick Strangers

So Meredith Grey was dead for, like, six hours on tonight's episode and then miraculously came back to life so she can continue to have sex with Patrick Dempsey. Well, we knew she wasn't going to stay dead; you knew that, right, producers? Title characters don't die (unless you're Valerie Harper). And what kind of superhuman loses that much oxygen and then wakes up with no brain damage? And who was that annoying dark-haired doctor who had like two lines throughout the show? And why did you guys give her a job? You know, the woman who told Dr. Bailey something about "a run for her money" at the end? The one who was super overzealous, kind of like that girl everyone knew in high school who sang louder than everybody else in drama class? And how come Meredith manages to keep her job even though she doesn't really do anything doctor-y? Unless you consider whining and screwing doctor-y.

Grey's Anatomy