I've moved.

I needed a bit of focus, so I've decided to concentrate on my first love, books. And maybe a little taste of travel-related stuff too. But that's it! Focus!

Warm Afghans

Let's hear it for Ruffles and dirty socks!

Via Suck.

PBR-Themed Coffin or Beer Cooler?

It's both! This gentleman is using his PBR coffin as a beer cooler until he dies. Only in Chicago. Da Bears.

'An Abortion of a Magazine Company'

That's an awesomely graphic description, Nick Denton! It's from Gawker's story this evening about how Hachette (owners of Elle and some other mags you don't care about) is basically going to hell in a handbasket, fast. Which isn't so surprising.

There have been layoffs, their Websites are sucking, Nina Garcia is gone, and Gawker predicts that even head honcho Jack Kliger will be forced out soon. This is not so good because it makes me sad when older men are laid off from their jobs because I'm afraid they'll get depressed and won't be able to find another job and lose all their money/stock options on drinking and gambling. And yet!—It also seemed the perfect time to tell my Jack Kliger Christmas story!

It is three days before Christmas 2006 and me and the rest of the staff of Hachette's "magazine for illiterates" had been laid off the day before by Kliger in his office. I go back to pack a small box of my desk things and then head to the elevator. I push the down button, get in with my cardboard box, and just as the doors go to close, a man in a suit pops into the elevator with me. It is Jack Kliger leaving for the day. He sees my "I-just-got-fired" box and it's a really uncomfortable moment. When we get to the lobby, I consider saying, "Merry Christmas!" for comic effect, but I think I actually tried to be sincere and said, "Have a good night." In retrospect, I bet he probably thought I was trying to be an ass.

Nice.

Things I Did Last Night.

Dear Big Sir

Dear Big Sir:

Maybe when the subway is packed during rush hour, you shouldn't take up an entire pole by leaning your HUGE 6'5" or 6'6" body against it so that the short, dark-haired girl next to you and even the tall, blonde girl next to you and every other single person standing within three feet of you has to grab onto something else (like the roof of the subway car) or stand on their tippy-toes to reach the pole above your shoulders so as not to dig our fists into your back. Worst of all, you seemed to kind of enjoy this because even though people (OK, mostly me) gave you dirty looks that tried to say "Maybe you shouldn't hug the pole like this," you seemed pleased with yourself and wouldn't budge, which kind of makes you a jerkface, no? Even tourists budge when you look at them like that.

xo,
Lorem Ipsum

New Favorite Word: Abecedarian!

n.: one learning the rudiments of something (as the alphabet)
adj: of or relating to the alphabet, rudimentary

Most Disturbing Headline Ever

Grody. It reminds me of Ferris Bueller's Day Off when Principal Rooney says, "So that's how things work in that family" after he sees Sloane and her "father" kissing.

Man (Allegedly!) Tries to Cash Fake Check for $360 Billion, Never Learned Meaning of the Words 'Start Small'

My friend J. just alerted me to this story. Thank goodness for gchat!

Public Transportation, '70s Style

We need more hot pink in our current subway system. I like the turquoise, too. See more here.

This blog is starting to look like a kaleidoscope, no?

Craftacular=Awesome!

OK, I know I'm two days late with this, and I'm not really into posting personal photos—But! The Craftacular at Warsaw was so much fun! Excellent merchandise at amazing prices. I got an awesome black tank top, a great T-shirt from Jezebel (you can read more about the label here), some super cute note cards, and a kick-ass feather headband, which you can sort of see on my head in this pic, above. I didn't get the name of the gal selling the headbands, but I predict that she'll be big soon. She had such an amazing personal style and wonderful merchandise. My friends and I preceded the Craftacular with a great brunch at Lokal, and afterward we went to Enid's for drinks, and then finished the night at Barcade—kind of like a Sunday circa 2004 in Williamsburg! Fun, though. And the Craftacular offered pictures a la prom style—hence the photo above. See the rest of the photos here.

Someone Lost Their Drugs on Jay Street in Downtown Brooklyn?

The Pad Condos: Everyone's on the Same Cycle!

So I just learned that there's a new condo building in Williamsburg called "The Pad." Which to me sounds like a maxi pad. But whatever. So I thought I'd check out their Website (not b/c I will ever be able to afford a condo—and if I could, I wouldn't live somewhere named after a feminine product—but for fun!). And, ta-dah! Their intro page has three red dots parading against a white background! It looks like a period commercial. How did NO ONE CATCH THIS? Did Kotex do the Web design for "The Pad"? This should win some sort of worst-marketing-ploy-ever award.

'The Last Person Who Sat at This Desk Died.'

File under: Conversations at your new freelance job that make you sad and just a little bit wary.

If We're Not Open, It's Because We're Closed.

Courtesy of my friend Kimmie, who works for the Peace Corps and just received this picture via e-mail from a volunteer in Africa.

Blogger Regresses to Age Five With Repeated Viewings of Sesame Street Clips on YouTube

And the subway one is my favorite. I especially love the lady who's like, "You should say you're sorry!" Also, I'm pretty sure I won't be able to get this song out of my head for the next five years, but it's better for my daily commute to involuntarily think of this song as opposed to horrific wheel screeching. See, I once saw a filmed version of Amiri Baraka's The Dutchman, and for months, every commute brought to mind that ominous horror-movie "eeehkk-eeehkk" the subway made in that production.

Flip-Flop Weather, Finally

Tulips in Washington Square Park, Saturday

Another sign that summer is on its way: McCarren Pool has announced its summer lineup, beginning with M.I.A. and ending with Wilco. I lived in Chicago for four years and took away a lifelong love for the Cubs, deep-dish pizza, and Wilco, so I'll be one of the suckers handing over my hard-earned 40 bucks (plus outrageous Ticketmaster surcharge!) to be there.

Does Candy live in a loft in Williamsburg?

Cause when I lived in a loft at South 4th and Bedford, bright eager things would move into the building and they would post some random, friendly note like this in the elevator (it was usually the ones who were a bit older and trying to create a sense of "community"). And this (above) is exactly the response they would get—probably by some NYU-attending, parent-mooching asshole, but who's to say?

Also, Candy, next time, don't put your name! And maybe you could start going by Andy instead of Candy? Candice? No, definitely Andy. It's a cute name for a girl, like Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink.

Photo via The Triumph of Bullshit

Someone is blasting Stevie Wonder on the street in front of my apartment right now ...

And wow, I think I'm going to program "Superstition" and "You Are the Sunshine of My Life" into my phone/alarm clock to wake me up every morning. Stevie's voice makes you super cheery, especially on bright and sunny days!

Orange gets the short end of the stick.

Patrick Moberg illustration via A Shot of JD

How I Became a Caricature of All the Single New Yorkers You See on Some Dumb Sitcom

On my lunch break this afternoon, I was walking along 42nd Street, enjoying the day -- bright yellow sun, check! Crisp blue skies, check! Ex-boyfriend walking exactly three people in front of me, shit!

It's funny how one doesn't realize that she really, really doesn't want to talk to/see someone until she is confronted with the possibility. A more mature person would have kept walking and figured, if we bump into each other at the light on the corner, so be it. Que sera, sera. Apparently, I am not a more mature person.

Without really thinking, I froze. Then I took a step back, scanned for a hiding place, ran behind a green kiosk, pulled my dark glasses out of my bag, put them on, popped my head out to see if the coast was clear, and took off in the opposite direction.

I Once Took an Overnight, 19-Hour Bus Ride From Chicago to Baltimore. Yes, I AM a Trooper.

Bolt Bus is offering one-buck bus tickets between places like NYC, D.C., Philly, and Boston. That's really nice of them (and even the high-end tickets are only 7 or 10 dollars), but how are they making money off $1 tickets? And they are, apparently: Their FAQ says the goal is to offer customers the lowest price possible while still making an operating profit.

Plus, they have free wi-fi on the buses! I know it's a bus and all, and buses are sometimes gross/scary*, but for the price, I totally think it'd be worth checking out. They don't allow small dogs, though, which is no bueno since I'd wanna take Boo to visit friends in MD/D.C.

*I live down the street from a Greyhound station, and I see people piling on everyday, looking pretty pissed that they can't afford to fly. And what's scary is they have all this luggage THAT NO ONE CHECKS FOR ANYTHING. There could be bombs, weapons, whatever! Bring it on, all good! As long as you paid your fifteen bucks, no one cares. Oh lord, I guess buses are pretty scary still, even if the price isn't.

Please sign this petition.

It's a very heartbreaking story that I'm way too sad to explain, but you can read more about it here. It's hard to believe that as much as the world has progressed, horrible things like this—that are completely avoidable and just plain malevolent behavior—still happen.

And you can sign the petition here.

Thank you.

'Recession Dressing' With the New York Post

With the downturn in the economy, the NY Post realizes that most of us are going to have to scale back a bit, and that includes clothing. As a sort of service piece, they include some "steals" that will get us through these troubled times. Like this outfit. So here's the breakdown:

* Rebecca Taylor jacket, $460 at Bloomingdale’s* Viscose Coven striped tank top, $168 at Intermix, 1003 Madison Ave.* Hello! SkinnyJeans DayWash jeans, $178 at skinnyjeans.com* May Day heels, $175 at Kenneth Cole* Rebecca Minkoff Market bag, $630 at Bloomingdale's

Gee, thanks, NY Post, but I think we have different ideas of slumming it.

Nothing This Cool Ever Happened When I Lived in Indiana

And I was there for seven LONG years. We moved from Maryland when I was seventeen, right before my senior year (Thanks, mom and dad!!). I stayed, inexplicably, until I was 24. I made a few good friends and we hung out at old-man bars with names like Old Glory, but generally, very few awesome things happen in the Hoosier state. Until now!

Hot Hillary Clinton Party Photos

Completely Unsolicited Family Advice

I sent my very sweet aunt an e-mail with a picture of my dog. She lives out west with her husband and has two grown children. I asked how they all were doing, nothing more. This is the quite interesting (I think!) response I got:

Don't be in any hurry to get married. If anything, don't get married at all—just live with a person til you tire of them then move on.

My very Catholic family has come a long way.

Custom Cake From Wal-Mart

Via Cajun Boy

If you die, then maybe the least the Washington Post can do is figure out how to write your name properly.

Dith Pran, the journalist and activist whose life inspired the movie The Killing Fields, passed away Sunday. He died from pancreatic cancer, which is very bad and which I have a personal vendetta against. Anyhow! Let's carry on: Poor guy, and you'd think the Washington Post could at least get his name right. I understand that those Cambodian names can be a doozy, but they had NO CLUE. Above, you can see that in the first story that appeared online, the paper was baffled about whether Dith or Pran was his first/last name. So they just decided to run his full name in every reference. Which looked really dumb, as you can see.

They even have a quote from someone calling the guy Pran, which would seem to suggest that it was his first name, and if you weren't sure, why not just ask your source? You could have even asked the NY Times, cause they had it right the first time. Just sayin'. I really respect the WaPo, but you'd think that they'd have someone there who would know these things. Even on a Sunday.

The story was fixed in a later edition. You can see that here.

Stuff I Never Thought Would Happen ('80s Edition)

1. I would watch someone play Super Mario Brothers for 23 minutes. From the comfort of my computer. And find it hilarious.
The Hardest Mario Bros. Level Ever

2. I would discover that Mr. T does indeed have magical healing powers.
Mr. T Brought Boy Out of Coma
Via LiveJamie

3. My favorite Website would make me even happier.
The Cocaine Photos
I think the best pic is the one with the guy giving the thumbs up. Also, note the framed poster of the DeLorean in the background, not to mention the dude posing next to the Duran Duran poster. I also think it's funny that in the last photo you can see there's no furniture in the room. Maybe someone just moved in? Maybe this was one of those help-me-move parties, where they give you pizza and beer for helping, except this time it was cocaine.

Fun Conversations With My Mom

Fun Conversations with My Mom is an occasional series on Lorem Ipsum. I love my mom more than anything, but sometimes she says funny things! Or insulting things! But she doesn't mean it. I don't think ...

This conversation took place in Florida around the holidays. My mom and I were driving to the flea market.

Mom: You wouldn't want to live out here.
Me (putting Fresh Sugar Blossom lotion on my hands): Yeah, it's kind of a weird neighborhood.
Mom: And it stinks! Do you smell that?
Me: I don't smell anything.
Mom: You can't smell that? It's awful!
Me (holding up my hand): Is it my lotion?
Mom: Oh, yeah, that's it.

Dear Clay Aiken

Dear Clay Aiken:

Don't do it. How come?

Oh, no particular reason.

Sincerely,

Lorem Ipsum

Things That Rick Astley Won't Do

Sorry to repost, but I just loved it too much. From Challenged Confessions—if you haven't checked it out, it's wonderful. Also highly recommended for similar reasons: The Triumph of Bullshit.

So I Was Just Watching The Bachelor

I know! OK, embarrassing moment over. Anyhow, here's something you should never say if you were just dumped on national TV (I paraphrase, forgive me). Consider it a public-service announcement:

"I miss my cat's purring. And how he sleeps on my legs. I'm looking forward to going home to him."

Update: OK, here's what Michelle P. really said: "I'm gonna see my cat and make sure she's OK and it'll be great to have her purr again and lay in my legs again and to be with her again 'cause she's the love of my life at the moment."
YouTube at 6:05

Why I Would Have Made a Crappy Banker / Investment Manager / Finance Whatever (Aside From the Fact That I Find Long Division Challenging)

Sometimes you have to come in at 3:30 a.m. for weeks at a time. Bill Gross, who people on Wall Street just love to death (he's a genius!), talked to the New York Times this weekend about the current financial crisis. You know, the recession, comparisons to the Great Depression, etc. (Side note: Maria Bartiromo had the head of the FDIC on her show this morning who was all like, "Big deal, everything's fine! You can trust banks!" Do not believe her! I am going to start storing my money under my mattress.)

Anyhow! Gross runs Pimco, which is one of the world's largest specialty fixed-income managers (please don't ask me to explain that), and he was asked how he and his company are managing the current recession. Aside from somehow managing to set aside $50 billion in cash in the event that trading partners came calling, he also noted that staff schedules had changed:

And every day for the last three weeks he has convened meetings in a war room in Pimco’s headquarters in Newport Beach, Calif., “to make sure the ark doesn’t have any leaks,” Mr. Gross said. “We come in every day at 3:30 a.m. and leave at 6 p.m. I’m not used to setting my alarm for 2:45 a.m., but these are extraordinary times.”

Math + Insanely Early Alarm = Deal Breaker for This Girl.

The Most Hilarious E-Mail Exchange Ever Between An Editor and A Would-Be Poet

At the risk of being cruel, I will give you three reasons why our poetry editors passed on publishing your latest submission: First and foremost, as stated in our submission guidelines, TRR only considers previous unpublished material (though, I must confess, we are unfamiliar with the publication, Bitch Factor); secondly, "New Beginnings" suffers from the similar simple rhyming scheme that our editors did not care for in your earlier submission; and lastly, we here at TRR have an unwritten in-house style rule that eliminates poems that employ either the word "panty / panties" or utilize the image of a leaf falling from a tree ...

You can find the whole thing here. Really, it's hilarious in its entirety.

If you're looking for some more light Sunday reading, I also recommend:

Enough Said at failbetter
Gordon Ramsey Has a Nice Quiet Family Dinner at Home at Yankee Pot Roast

Meet My Heroes: The Gentlemen of the Typo Eradication Advancement League

These two guys are currently on a cross-country tour to wipe out spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, and any other typos. For example, they added an "R" to this sign from a bookstore in Galveston, Texas. They are headed west and expect to finish the tour back east in May.

Whew, I was really paranoid about typos while typing that paragraph.

P.S. Hi, TEAL guys! If you read this, just a little tip! There used to be a corner deli in my old neighborhood in Chicago at Montrose and Clark and it said something like "Vegetales" on its sign instead of vegetables. It used to drive me nuts. So, if you're in the Windy City, maybe you could check out that corner?

Husky.

Children's department store, downtown Brooklyn.

There are kinder, gentler ways to advertise clothing for large children, no? I'm sure they were strained to come up with a euphemism for fat, but if I'd been a big kid, I think I would rather have been called just fat instead of husky. Husky implies a rough nature, gruff voice, and (if a woman) manliness. I have not been into this store, but I imagine the "husky" section to be a wonderland of XXL camouflage pants, gun or animal-themed T-shirts that fall to one's knees, and oversize sweats with stretchy elastic. Poor kids.

Way to Ruin Paris for Everyone

This guy Rosencrans Baldwin wrote an essay for the Morning News called "Paris, I Love You, But You're Bringing Me Down." No offense, man, but I think that you're the one bringing people down. Or maybe your friends are bringing you down. I mean, you can feel the weight of this essay just pushing down on the guy's shoulders. First his wife has the flu, a cold, vertigo; then he's hanging around with some French guy who doesn't understand American humor (but he fails to see the humor in the French guy's snooty response!); then he invites someone to dinner who suggests that cheap real estate can be had near nuclear facilities. Get new friends; you'll enjoy France more!

I think he's trying to assign the qualities of his small group to all Parisians, and that can be frustrating for the reader when we're given generalities and expected to eat them up as truth. I mean, here's a guy who ends up standing next to Karl Lagerfeld during one point in his essay. Yeah, if I based my perception of New Yorkers on people I met at Fashion Week, then I'd say that a good 50 to 60 percent of NYers are dickheads—though that's not even true, it's just a perception that one might have of them at that point in time. To be fair, Baldwin acknowledges that his malaise is misunderstood by people like me and, well, everyone:

No one hears you when you say you’re sick of Paris. Sick of Paris: three words that make sense to people separately, but not in sequence. And they’re right—what am I talking about?

Don't know why this essay bothered me so much. It's very well-written and I certainly enjoyed it, but such generalities and it just sheathed Paris in this gray, gauzy cloth for me, making the city of lights drab and depressing. Which it isn't! Well, I don't think moreso than anywhere else. I think maybe there's a certain way we have of looking at cities when we're mad at them. I've certainly felt that way about NY, but only in rare moments. Maybe Baldwin is just frustrated and angry with Paris right now, maybe he really loves it, who knows. I think of Joan Didion dissing NY in "Goodbye to All That," it's a city for the very young or the very rich, she knew when it was her time to exit—but she still came back.

Update: Elaine Sciolino is stepping down as Paris bureau chief for the New York Times and offers some really astute and funny observations about France here.

Happy Easter, Peeps

Peep Show from the Washington Post
Via the L Magazine

Gross.

Spotted this ad at the gym today. An eggy martini with specks of god-knows-what suspended in its gooey mixture. That's the kind of shit you pay some dumb kid five bucks to drink when you're like eight years old. Yuck.

I think it is a safe bet to say that if you wear shoes made from reindeer skin, you won't get any Christmas presents.

If you wanted to experiment and see, you could order them here, but I don't recommend it.

Via Stylephile

I'm fascinated by this hotel room's walls.

Hotel Particulier, Montmartre
Via Oh Joy!

Shock and Awe: Total Assholes Hang Out in Midtown on Friday Nights

Friday evening I'm leaving work around 8 p.m., headed to the subway to go downtown and meet some friends. I'm walking west on 40th Street, but the sidewalk is totally blocked by about eight people who are in some little friend circle/huddle. Some are smoking, some are just yakking. Whatever. Not wanting to interrupt, I notice a sliver of free space—between a man with a cigarette and the scaffolding rail—and decide to pass there. As I pass by him, he swings his hand out with his cigarette (I suppose he was gesturing to make the point of a story). Out of shock at nearly having someone's cigarette land in my eye, I simply said, "Hey, watch it" and walked on by.

To be honest, I used to be the kind of person who would have said, "Hey, fuck you, what was that?" But I've learned that's not exactly the best coping method (Hey, Maturity!) and I just feel like it's better to try and be positive and make the world a nicer place as opposed to being mean. Anyhow. I say something like "Hey, watch it" and keep walking and I'm about five feet away when I hear, "Get out of here, you stupid bitch."

Well! Without thinking, I spin around and just stare at this guy. I mean, after all, what was his problem? He almost burned my eye out and I'm the one in the wrong? So, being my new nice self, I think I say something like: "Why would you say that? I was just trying to get by and..."

This is when he runs over to me with his lit cigarette and starts jabbing it in my face, back and forth, just millimeters away from my nose, cheeks, eyes. He is screaming: "Oh, you think I did that on purpose?! Now I'm doing it on purpose!" He's too close for me to turn around and run; he's right up on me. All I can do is take steps back, but with each one I take back, he takes one closer and jabs his cigarette in a new place. This probably went on for all of five seconds, but it seemed to be more like a minute, at least. To be honest, it was terrifying and I was really worried he was going to burn me.

Finally, one of this guy's friends had the decency to say: "C'mon, leave her alone." Still, he said it rather lackadaisically, I thought. Cigarette guy dropped his cigarette and walked away, back to his friends. I think I was shocked cause I just stood there for a second. I said: "My god, what's wrong with you?" One of his girl friends said to me: "Just leave him alone!"

Whaa? Me leave him alone? Then the cigarette man turned back around to me and said, "Yeah, get out of here with your fake Louis Vuitton bag." And at that point, I know that I REALLY should have started walking, but I was just really bothered that this dude apparently doesn't know what a Louis Vuitton bag looks like. They're brown and have those little gold emblems (I'm not really a fan), and my bag is this freaking huge, white, slouchy thing that I got at Urban Outfitters for like $50. It might be cheap, but it isn't a fake. So I said: "This isn't fake Louis Vuitton. It's cheap Urban Outfitters."

Which I realize might have been kind of annoying, but I have this thing with accuracy. And then I left.

I have a friend who claims that the fake Louis Vuitton line is a Jay-Z lyric. I don't know it.

I know I should have just walked away in the first place, but I just don't get people like that. Like if he had said sorry in the first place, and then I would have said, no problem, have a good night! And wouldn't everyone have been happier?

Wednesday Afternoon in an Elevator: A Play in One Short Act

I get into the elevator in my office building. There is already another gal in there. She is pretty, petite, well-dressed.

Her: Oh, do you work on 13?
Me: Yeah, I'm in research. Freelance.
Her: I'm K, the fashion editor.
Me: Oh, good to meet you!
Her: You, too. I never meet people on the other side of the room.
Me: Me, neither.
Her: So I should have some fashion stuff for you soon!

Please keep in mind that there are always free books and DVDs and such at magazines, and I sit right next to the "free" pile, so I somehow thought that she meant FREE FASHION STUFF! Woo hoo! That's why I said:

Me: No way, are you serious?!

She probably never heard anyone so excited about work.

Her: Yeah, it's totally late.

This is when I realize that she's totally talking about COPY not free stuff.

Me: Oh, no, I don't think it's late, I think it's ... (you know how you start to babble when you're embarrassed and trying to cover your tracks? Oh ...)

London Has a Williamsburg

OK, really it's a Bushwick! It's called Hackney.

Artists, designers and young bohemians in ever-skinnier jeans are getting priced out of nearby Shoreditch, and opening bars, clubs and galleries in this gritty immigrant enclave.

The funny thing is that this article was written by Joshua David Stein, yeah, that guy, who used to write for Gawker, and this article really seems the kind of thing that Gawker would have said Ha! about. And then made fun of the Times for picking up on a trend like five years late.

I mean, maybe not—maybe Hackney really is hoppin', hell if I know. But I do know that this is about the lamest, sappiest story ending ever:

During a recent Sunday night jam session, nearly 25 musicians crowded into the space. A dreadlocked African man played the djembe, an African drum, accompanied by a tall, bearded Englishman on trumpet. And they were in perfect harmony.

New Home for Arts Refugees

I look like hell today.

Last night I witnessed someone take four pregnancy tests (all negative!), drank way too much Champagne, formed a human pyramid with five other people, and ended up at a bar table next to the Olsen twins and that dude from Superbad who looks like Seth Rogen but isn't.

Intro to Nature & Its Positive Emotional Benefits

I had the best Sunday afternoon wandering around the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. I went to see Daffodil Hill, which supposedly blooms in March. Well, that was a crock. But! The rest of the grounds were lovely, practically deserted, and a quite peaceful way to spend one's Sunday. My favorite spot was the wooden deck by the Japanese garden. If you sit on the bench and glance down at the water, you'll see dozens of huge fish, all orange, silver, white. My brother once told me that when he had a large aquarium, he found fish-watching relaxing; I dismissed his comment at the time, but he's right: It's oddly calming. There were also lots of interesting trees, if you're into that sort of thing. In the conservatory, I was excited to find red mangrove trees, which I first discovered on a dolphin-watching excursion in the Gulf of Mexico. They're beautiful in the way that they rise from the water, without any land to support them. Lots of weeping trees, too: A willow (pictured) and a beech that looked so battered with dozens of initials and hearts carved into its trunk. And one that was just plain crazy crooked. Not to mention happy squirrels with nuts!

BBG Pics on Picasa

When Children (Try To) Attack

I have always considered Fort Greene Park to be just about the safest place in the world on any given day around 2 p.m., so the story of an attempted robbery (by children!) in the middle of the day last month is sort of unexpected.

Attempted Robbery in Fort Greene Park Yesterday

Wyoming Town, Pop. 1, Gets 10 New Residents; Price of Omelets Increases

Bill, Wyoming used to have "one, two, or three residents, depending on if you counted pets," says the New York Times. Now the small town—which Google maps identifies as being at the center of Interstate 59 and Dull Center Road—has at least 11 people. Why the influx? Freight trains constantly pass through Bill and their drivers are required to stop often. So, developers decided to build a hotel and 24-hour restaurant in the small town that got its name when some goddess of literalness noted that "several area men were all called Bill." How do the freight workers/town transients feel about the new hotel and adjacent diner?

Some complain about stuffy rules at the new hotel (like having to remove one's cleats before entering!). What else? The diner prices.

Jarod Lessert, 35, a train engineer and one of Bill’s longtime transients ... adds that some of the hotel’s rules are plainly ridiculous. He also expresses shock at the prices in the diner: “Nine dollars for an omelet?”

What is this, New York?! Read on:

Actually, an omelet costs $7.99, plus tax, with meat, hash browns, toast and drink. But at least now you can have an omelet here.

Hmm, eight bucks does seem a bit pricey for the middle of nowhere in Wyoming. That almost seems what one might pay for a diner brunch in New York, perhaps sans the meat and drink. Below, a price comparison between Penny's and some NYC diners.

Penny's Diner, Bill, Wyoming: $7.99 for omelet with meat, hash browns, toast, and drink.
The New St. Clair Restaurant, Boerum Hill, Brooklyn: $5.50 for cheese omelet, home fries, toast, and drink.
New Apollo Restaurant, downtown Brooklyn: $6.10 for cheese omelet with one side (add meat for $1.50).
Diner, meatpacking district: $8.95 for omelet with fries and toast.
Tick Tock Diner, west midtown: $5.95 for cheese omelet with potatoes and toast.

Interesting, especially when, according to my sources, I could take a nearly 50 percent decrease in salary if I moved to Wyoming and still keep up the same lifestyle (ie, the barely scraping by kind ...).

Above: Photo of Bill from the Times.

These Shoes Are Not Cute At All, Ms. Portman, Not Cute At All!

As an animal lover and vegetarian (except for fish, I know, I'm so ashamed), I'm really glad that Natalie Portman came out with a vegan line of shoes. Usually vegan lines are super ugly because the designers assume that they're for crunchy girls who enjoy pigtails, granola, and long hikes in Vermont woods. God bless people like the wonderful Stella McCartney who realize that you can be animal-friendly and extremely stylish!

So, yeah, way to go, Natalie! Except: These shoes are not cute! Seriously, they look like you designed them for 23-year-olds who wear Ann Taylor suits and work administrative office jobs in Omaha. Even though the Paloma style (not the one pictured here) is sorta OK, it still has an ankle strap which makes short girls (I am raising my hand here) look even shorter! No good!

Here's hoping that Natalie's designs will continue to evolve and become more inventive, cause she's doing a good thing. And, with any luck, more designers—like Stella!—will choose to use animal-friendly materials.

'Eeeee' is the Name of a Tao Lin Book or the Uncomfortable Sound You Make When Speaking With Him

Dear Tao Lin (Who Is So Weird and Extremely Difficult to Have a Conversation With):

I went to your reading last week (or maybe it was the week before—I've been busy!) at my friend N.'s writing workshop. I was hanging out by the table with the free booze (to be opened afterward the reading) when you walked by.

Me: Hey, I think we met before.
You respond with a blank stare, like I am making this up.
Me: You know, at the reading with J. last year. We had dinner afterwards.
You respond with a blank stare, like I am making this up.
Me: Well, I mean, *we* didn't have dinner, like, together. There were other people there!
You: Where was the reading?
Me: At Galapagos.
You: I didn't eat dinner that night.
Me (now annoyed): Yes, you did! At Anytime? There were five or six of us. Around a table. With food. And J.—remember J.?

Then you asked me if there was somewhere on the table where you could sell your book. And I was like, I don't work here. Maybe after that you said something again about not eating that night after Galapagos, so maybe you meant that you were at the dinner but didn't eat. Maybe you don't remember, period. Usually if I don't remember something, I'd blame it on alcohol. But I seem to remember you saying that you don't even drink! And yet! Immediately after the reading, with all that free booze, you and your pal came up to the table, announced that you were leaving, and ASKED TO TAKE HOME A BOTTLE OF WINE! What?! Who asks that? My friend N. looked at me, and even though I have nothing to do with anything, I shook my head No. Then N. said, "You can take some beers," and your friend stuffed some beers in his backpack. I think you grabbed one or two. I don't get you. And if I see you again, I will stare down at my feet until you pass by.

Sincerely,
Lorem Ipsum

Last Night I Went to That Williamsburg 'Bowling Alley'

Why don't they just call it a waiting room and get over the false advertising? Nice bar, by the way. Great drinks, friendly bouncer, nice decor; you can check it out here. But! My friend N. got there around 8 p.m. to reserve a lane for our group. They told her there was a three-hour wait. I got there around 9:30, followed by the rest of our crew. We had a ticket (like the kind you get when you're in line at the bakery or meat counter) that said No. 29. When I arrived, the red digital number board (overhead) said 5. An hour later, it said 6. By 11 p.m., I believe it said 11, but I had been drinking all evening at this point, so my recollection becomes slightly less reliable.

The point being—there was no bowling to be had. Maybe my friends finally got to bowl. They were waiting it out when I left. I think they were on No. 20 when I walked out the door, sleepy, looking forward to home. Perhaps weeknights are a bit luckier at Gutter?

Image above of people who are not me bowling at the Gutter, from Shecky's.

The Gutter

Nothing Says 'I Love You!' Like a Dead Man Holding a Crocodile

Valentines with tattoos now available (99 cents) at the Goodwill store, corner of Bond & Livingston streets, downtown Brooklyn. Hurry up; they've only got a handful left!

File Under: Things That Are Super Cute

Bigfoot: I Not Dead by Graham Romieu
Coming from Plume, April 2008

I've only read a few pages of the advance copy I found, but it cracked me up. Can't vouch for the whole thing, and humor books (I'm not usually so much a fan) often get old after the first few pages; but even if the book doesn't rock, how can you not love the adorable cover?

Fun Conversations with My Mom

Fun Conversations with My Mom is an occasional series on Lorem Ipsum. I love my mom more than anything, but sometimes she says funny things!

Phone conversation, Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Me: Did you hear about Heath Ledger?
Mom: No!
Me: It's awful. He died. They found him in Soho.
Mom: Oh my god! That guy from the Rolling Stones?
Me: No, Heath Ledger; he was a really great actor. You would know him from Brokeback Mountain.
Mom (off phone, to friend): Do you know who Keith Ledger is?

Today in Brooklyn=Loveliest Day Ever

Even though this tree looks slightly ominous in my camera-phone picture (taken in Fort Greene Park), it really was the best day ever. Look at that cloudless sky!

Amazon.com Goes Goth for V-Day

Amazon.com is circulating an e-mail filled with Valentine's Day gift ideas. Depending on your relationship with the giftee, you can choose a colored heart to suggest a gift. There's your typical red, pink, even a pure white, and black -- cute, Amazon!

Who knew that America's best-known online bookseller was so full, of, well, hate? Click on the black heart, and you'll see gift options for that person you just love to despise. Example: A 5-inch "realistic" rat. Here are some other helpful suggestions from Amazon:

1. A book called All About Scabs
2. A pig costume
3. An acne-treatment system
4. A book called Shut Up, Stop Whining, and Get a Life
5. A book called When Love Dies (this is actually a rather ingenious way to suggest to a loved one that things "just aren't working out"
6. A tick-removal tool
7. Alli weight loss supplement
8. Rogaine for Men
9. Wolf urine lure
10. Ex-lax

So, everyone, don't rush at once! If the past is any indication, I can hopefully expect to receive the weight-loss supplement from my mother.

Irish Not Too Drunk To Come Up With a Good Idea

It's OK, I'm part Irish; we're allowed to make fun of ourselves! But let's not digress: Last summer, Whole Foods was selling those "I'm Not a Plastic Bag" bags, which people were supposed to use for groceries -- in order to save plastic bags. That idea obviously didn't work.

The Irish, however, got it right. The New York Times explains that Ireland in 2002 placed a 33-cent tax on each plastic bag that a customer receives at a store. You could request plastic and pay for it, or bring your own bag for free:

Within weeks, plastic bag use dropped 94 percent. Within a year, nearly everyone had bought reusable cloth bags, keeping them in offices and in the backs of cars. Plastic bags were not outlawed, but carrying them became socially unacceptable — on a par with wearing a fur coat or not cleaning up after one’s dog.

Why hasn't such a policy been instituted in America? Or at least in NYC? As I think I've said before, up to a trillion plastic bags end up in a landfill each year. And, as National Geographic puts it:

As a result, the (plastic) totes are everywhere. They sit balled up and stuffed into the one that hangs from the pantry door. They line bathroom trash bins. They carry clothes to the gym. They clutter landfills. They flap from trees. They float in the breeze. They clog roadside drains. They drift on the high seas. They fill sea turtle bellies.

If that sea turtle line doesn't get ya, then nothing will. I'm not saying that I never use plastic bags, but I've definitely cut down on my use. Even my Republican mother bought me cloth bags from her local Florida supermarket!

Pretty Please, Ms. Rowley, With Sugar on Top

Hi Ms. Cynthia Rowley,

Big fan! Love ya! I was really thrilled when I heard via WWD that you were going to be designing for Target again. I pictured a string of fun summer dresses, all reasonably priced at $70 or less. (To be honest, I used to frequent your shop on Bleecker Street; I couldn't really afford the dresses, but I had a CREDIT CARD! Oh, credit! Well, I don't have a credit card anymore and I'm slightly in debt, so I can't come to Bleecker Street anymore. Anyhow.) Yay, Cynthia at Target! I got really excited. And then I read:

According to sources, Whim [Cynthia's line] will not be part of the Go International initiative, and there will be no apparel. Instead, it will focus on novelty items such as outdoor games and inflatable pools, all given Rowley's irreverent touch.

Come on! It would make perfect sense for you to design clothing for Target. Please? Not that outdoor games and inflatable things don't sound just lovely, but we want dresses!

Sincerely,
Lorem Ipsum

Rowley Roars Back

NY Times: E. Manning Throws Like a Girl

A Famous Father, But Manning Took Cues From Mother

Craigslist Lonelyheart of the Week

I know it's been awhile, but I'm back with the Craigslist Lonelyheart of the Week. This time, we have a female-body-part theme, which means there are some really lonely guys out there. Our runner-up is a guy who knows how to ask for what he wants. He gets right to the point. His personal ad is titled, "May I Borrow Your Vagina?" Dude, it's not like a cup of sugar... He promises that he's not "a creep" and says "pretty please." Still, sometimes you just want to go over to these dudes' apartments and knock them over the head with their computers and scream, "Who the hell raised you?!"

And yet, vagina-boy is not our winner. Our winner this week has a special talent, which is evident from his personal's title: "Breastreader Extraordinaire." That's right, ladies! Have you ever had a relationship or career quandary and not known what to do? Why pay money to a therapist or psychic when this gentleman will read your boobs for free?! He says: "By putting yourself in my hands (Ha! hands! -- ed.), I gather the needed insight, mainly through tactile methods, plus conversation. This costs you nothing, and is also fun!" Worried this guy's not for real? Don't fret -- the anonymous "testimonials" at the bottom of his ad should convince you: "That was extraordinary!" Well, that is why he calls himself a breastreader "extraordinaire."

So, as someone who's kinda fascinated by human behavior and why we do the things we do, here's my question -- do these dudes realize they're being beyond creepy? Do they not care? If they want to get laid so badly, why not just pick up chicks at bars? And, of course, who the hell raised these guys? Can someone call their mothers, stat?

I'll Take This as a Sign of Maturity: Interest in My Neighborhood Garden

I'm sure I've walked by this spot at least a dozen times, but for some reason I noticed this plot of land at the end of my street on Saturday. It's one of the city's Greenstreets areas, which according to the NYC parks Web site, were developed in 1996; there are currently more than 2,000 of them. I know it's hard to see in this picture, but there's garbage strewn all around this one: Its weak fence is no match for the countless cups, paper bags, plastic containers, and even red ribbon that I saw inside the tiny garden yesterday. I also admit that I'm the farthest thing from a green thumb; I love flowers and plants but I suck at taking care of them.

How, then, to help this sad little neighborhood garden? It's in an area with mostly businesses -- there are few residential units in the surrounding blocks, which makes me think that I'm the one who should do something here. Apparently, there's a class on Wednesday called "Caring for Street Trees," in which one can get some tools and a permit, but it's full. Maybe I should just try to clear the garbage on my own, and hope that someone from the parks department comes to care for the plants in the spring? Or I could go back in time and actually pay attention in my college horticulture class.

My New Favorite Brunch Spot in Fort Greene

I'm working from home today, and decided to check out some brunch-to-go at Green Apple Cafe in Fort Greene—I'd heard it was yummy. Apparently, it closed? (Update: If it were a snake, it would've bitten me) So instead, I stumbled upon Caffe e Vino. The staff was beyond friendly (lots of Ciaos! and door opening) and the restaurant was full of doctors in scrubs from the hospital across the street (a good sign, I think, that it's got a chance at success). But what about the food? I ordered egg and cheese on a croissant, expecting to get just that; when I got home, I discovered a neatly packed container with perfectly fluffy eggs mixed with Swiss cheese laid over a croissant, plus a medley of potatoes with onions and tomatoes, plus an awesome salad -- often small salads that people throw in like this suck. (Even Bar Tabac, one of my favorite restaurants ever, could improve on its side salad.) And, they also gave a generous side of bread. All for only $8. And it was amazing! Seriously delicious.

In December the Village Voice reported that Caffe e Vino's menu looked rather bland -- well, the food is anything but. I'm definitely going back for dinner.

Caffe e Vino, 112 DeKalb Avenue, Fort Greene, Brooklyn

Boys Just Wanna Have Fun

Last week I finished up at Martha, and this week I spent time on the research desk of a men's mag. While I love working at Martha and all, boys are so much more fun! Here's a list of some subjects I fact-checked this week:

1. Cannibalism, including a guy who invited a woman over for dinner, shot her, and then ate her boob.
2. Artificial blood, what it is, and what is it good for?
3. Marijuana: I have never been a fan of pot, but I can now tell you the difference between sativa and indica.
4. Porn. Seriously, this was fascinating. Who knew that so many people were making YouTube-style amateur videos on XTube and YouPorn? I mean, duh, people make sex videos all the time (I mean, I assume!), but I didn't realize that it had become so, well, prosaic.

As you can see, it was a fun change from the land of chicken Kiev recipes and closet organization tips. I'm working at the men's mag for another day or two (gonna miss it!), and then I'm off to a weekly city mag for a month. It's somewhere I've applied about 800 times in the last few years, but they're super cliquey so it's hard to get in. Somehow the 801st time was a charm. Wish me luck!

Is It Just Me, Or Are Red-Heart Balloons a Really Odd Way to Advertise a Full-Body Massage?

These made me think of a friend who recently visited his masseuse of many years, and for reasons unknown, got a happy ending that totally freaked him out. It was the first time it had happened. Love must have been in the air. He tipped well and then ran.

Thursday Night at a Boerum Hill Bodega: A Play in One Short Act

I am standing in line behind a guy holding a huge pack of diapers. This is Boerum Hill, former home of such famous babies as Matilda, so of course they're au naturel chlorine-free diapers (who even knew regular diapers contained chlorine!). As the guy is being rung up, I wait behind him, with my purse in one arm, my dog Boo in the other.

Cashier (ringing up diapers): That'll be $18.53.
Guy: Jesus! Nineteen bucks?!
Cashier: Yeah.
The guys looks at me, looks at the diapers, looks at Boo.
Guy: I shoulda just stuck with a dog.

Worst. Ads. Ever.

Gothamist posted this ad today, reportedly run by a publication called Le Point in 1979. Oops! Well, I guess they couldn't predict the future, but, uh, pretty bad. Here's the link to the original site that posted this ad, along with nine of the other worst ads of all time. Frankly, I think the last one -- of a pig chopping himself up to be someone's dinner -- is the most appalling, but as an animal lover, I just didn't have the guts (ha, guts) to post it here. I'm going to alert Suicide Food, though! Update: I should have figured; it's already in their archives.

In Loving Memory of Brandy

Who always hated when I went on vacation. Many thanks to the awesome people at Veterinary Emergency & Referral Group in Cobble Hill, who were super sweet and kind last night. Branner, you will be missed tremendously. Love ya, pumpkin.

This Baby-Namin' Business Is Rough

In case you didn't already know how neurotic I am, here's more evidence! My friend M. in Chicago just asked my advice on what to name her second child, a boy. She has three names on the table: George, Simon, and Henry. I'm a girl, but I have a boy's name, so I'm going to deem myself an expert on this subject. Besides, getting teased about your name sucks (I know), and I want to be thoughtful and provide honest insight. Probably, though, my e-mail response to her (below) doesn't offer any insight as much as it unmasks my fear of schoolyard taunts, possible career failure, and being ridiculed by the other kids:

I like Henry. Do NOT name your kid Simon. B/c there's Simon Cowell, from American Idol, and he's a dick. Or else, it's just too easy a name to make fun of. OK, granted, nothing rhymes with it, but let's imagine this scenario on a playground, circa 2012:

Asshole kid: Give me your lunch money.
Simon: No.
Asshole kid: Simon says, Give me your lunch money.
Simon: What?
Asshole kid: Simon says -- that means you have to do it.
Simon: No?
Asshole kid: Simon says, I'm gonna kick your ass.
FIGHT SCENE.

Actually, Simon also rhymes with Climb On! This is faintly reminiscent of All Aboard!, a term which destines your child to become a train conductor. And it sort of rhymes with diamond. Like Diamond Simon. Next thing you know, kids are calling your kid Diamond Simon, the Rhinestone Cowboy. NOT Cool. Unless, of course, you want a kid who looks like Liberace, and I'm guessing no.

George. Problem with George is, there was that dude George whom you totally LOVED sophomore year of college. This might be a little bit like me naming my first born MikeXXXXXX (name X'ed out to protect former beloved & save self embarrassment). Actually, George is a nice name, but it's a bit tainted because that girl LXXXXX 's dick boyfriend was named George, and they both suck.

Which leaves us with Henry, the obvious choice! Love it! Just don't let anyone start calling him Hank, cause then he'll be Hank the Stank Who Drank. Don't get me started...