'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...

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...