Chanukah smackdown

Perhaps in the truest spirit of Chanukah, a fellow Upper West Side Bloggette has called my partially Spartan Greek self (genetically residing in my eyebrows and temper mostly ) out.  

"Tastic", as she called up here in the Pussy Precinct (so named by neighborhood cops), is aside from being a writer and antagonizer of innocent semi-Hellenes, a b-girl, an ex-pat Orthodox woman of the Jewish persuasion, and occasionally a very nice person.  For the purposes of this post, I rename myself Feta and will strike a warlike Athena pose.

Let the smackdown commence.

Apparently, Tastic and friends were discussing over a lovely shabbat meal, the Jewish laws of Harchakot, which state a man must keep a healthy distance from a woman if she is bleeding.  Not exactly challah talk, but anyway.  Basically, and I'm still very much a student, this rule means no sex for once a month for 7 days or so.  However.  It also can mean for the wildly observant, the prevention of a husband/soon-to-be-dad to be in a delivery room of his wife/soon to-be-mother of his child. The question arose: if it's a no- sex rule, why in GdashD's name would a couple be screwing in the Delivery Room?  

Good question.  It was decided by the shabbatniks that, if that were to happen, it would be the ultimate Oedipal triangle.  Dad on Mom on Newborn.  Remember, I had no part in this discourse.

The challenge is this: To find something more Oedipal.   You're Greek, said she.

Here's the deal, I've racked my proudly depraved brain for all eight days of the festival of Light.  A holiday, which essentially celebrates the rededication of the Holy Temple, but not before kicking some serious Greek ass for making Jews get their Zeus on.  Enter irony stage right.

But while I'm getting historic about it, there was a time when ancient Jews and Greeks coexisted fairly sanely, before the crazy King Antiochus had to go and pull the idol worship stuff.  But I digress, hellenically.

In short, I cede to my Jewish counterpart, my little Miss Maccabee, on the last night of Chanukah, just as it was done some 2,ooo plus years ago or so.  You definitely have the sicker mind. My people never thought to make it a menage-a-trois.  We've progressed, I promise.

So to all of you, from Feta, a partial Spartan who has lit her very first menorah this year, Happy Chanukah, all 18 ways you spell it.  Exit irony stage left.

Code Tasti

We live in an age of alerts.  

There's the color coded terror kind.  There's the Amber Alert child abduction variety.  Then there's that weird, jarring, old school t.v. broadcasting alert which makes one wonder: What would/will happen if for once it said, "THIS IS NOT A TEST".  

In short, there aren't many warnings that do anything but inspire hording a water supply, grabbing a flashlight, and hiding the children.

But then came Tasti D-Lite.

Just when you thought frozen dessert couldn't get any easier, Tasti has announced Flavor Alerts.  Got a favorite flave- no problem- let them know and you'll be notified via text when it's featured.  Want to know what's on tap at your local frozen paradise?  Just check your email.

Forget that these alerts are like the crack dealer who knows where you live and buzzes you to see if you need more rock, I love it.  Tasti is my rock and I look forward to the text that reads:

CHOCOLATE NY CHEESECAKE & PEANUT BUTTER FUDGE. XO TDL

Malachy's Blues

I got an incredible case of the Malachy's Blues tonight.  

It was less of the classic mournful rainy day sing into your Guiness kind that the joint is famous for.  The place is a gem, albeit in need of a polish, and is one of the last great Irish with a capitol I, Erin Go Braugh, dives on the Upper West Side,  There's a bartender named Fenton with a bonafide brogue, if you know what I mean.

It's like Cheers only dirtier, and if Sam Malone was a mean, barking brogue speaker who teaches Catholic school during the day,  and I played both the parts of Carla and Diane.

Back to my blues, since this is my narcissistic blog.

I was pouring two  thick pints of Guiness somewhere around 8- an activity I generally find really Zen- and waves of something kept rising in me.  Nothing was wrong.  I felt okay, but the tears were beginning to brim.  So much so in fact, that I did that dumb thing you do when you're about to cry- open your eyes bigger and bigger with the hope that if the eye socket is big enough it will somehow stop the sob.

Maybe I'm becoming Irish.

I am prone to ethnic osmosis.  In the dark days of Williamsburg, I assumed a very cracked out Puerto Rican persona.  In the East Village I was especially bitchy in that Ukranian way.  And the Upper West Side, my current locale, has provided the neurotic/natural fit of the  Jewishish writer/actor, who scribbles notes about her misery in dark dank pubs called Malachy's.

Maybe it was the jukebox barrage of classic NYC suicide songs that had me down.  There's only so many times one can hear, "New York State of Mind."  Or perhaps it was the same old sweet, slightly pathetic crowd of career alcoholics that line the bar.  Everyone has their unofficial assigned seat and if someone is missing, it goes noticed,  This bar is their living room, life, and their family.  

But probably it was just the sometimes overwhelming feeling that life is relentless and I too am relentless and tired and I wish to never serve another pint of anything for the rest of my life.

  Then again, it could just be hormones.

Whate'er it be, I've got the Malachy's blues.  Oh yah.

An Example of Aggressive Merriment

To experience SGAD, please listen here:

08 Carol of the Bells.m4a

Seasonal Greetings Affective Disorder

Q: What is SGAD?

A: Seasonal Greetings Affective Disorder is a very real, often misdiagnosed psycho-seasonal condition, prompted by the consumer crazed red, green and sometimes blue nightmare known as the Holidays.    

Symptoms include manic merriment, Macy's induced rapid heart rate, cold sweats and dizziness in Banana Republic dressing rooms, and disassociation triggered by most commonly, any version of "Carol of the Bells".  The scent of evergreen, Yankee candles, and various other festive Christian potpourris are also common panic inducers.

No, SGAD is not actors union.

Q: Who gets SGAD?

A: Everyone.  Christians, Jews, Muslims, Atheists, Agnostics.   Even Wiccans.  Especially Wiccans.  Those living closest to departments stores or other consumer hubs with insidious holiday jingle soundtracks are most affected. 

Q: How is SGAD treated?

A: PleaseJudgme recommends picking the perfect Tonya Harding get up- from leg warmers to earmuffs to peppermint flavored lipgloss- and ice skating, followed by binge hot toddy drinking, and then a visit to the Bergdorfs window display after midnight.

SOMALI PIRATES ARE SO RETRO

A return to piracy- not the cyber type but the good old fashion high seas kind- is weirdly refreshing.  

We've become so 9/12 code orange about things on dry land, it's nice to remember that terror is waterproof.  I'm not condoning it, but I welcome the change of pace.

But since these days, barring Somali bandits, pirates are generally reserved for Halloween or hung from the perfectly chiseled cheekbones of Johnny Depp, what will the next acceptable symbol of terror to dress up as or make a kid's movie about? 

Is hope the death of comedy?

Chief Rabbi Jonathan Saks once wrote, "Humour is the first cousin of hope."  

And if the last eight years has taught America anything, it's that misery is also a close relative- maybe the pervy Uncle.

But I wonder, and I wonder if other like minded Bruce Valanches-in-training wonder, now that we begin a new era of hope- is this the death of comedy?

I think probably not.  But I admit to slightly missing the easy targets like Palin.  

And so I will take solace in the words of a great Israeli psychiatrist,

"Don't worry, Leez, you'll always be miserable."

Michelle Obama: Fashion Fantasia

There are a multitude of ways in which America has to redeem it's image, we know it.  The election proved how desperately we want a 50 state facelift.  America has spoken, we need a major fashion makeover.

There's our pesky blatant disregard for the Geneva convention that must somehow be atoned for, our negligence in New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina, and that war in Iraq, you might have heard about it.  Oh, and that guy, who did lines in the 80's, couldn't even run a baseball team, and proved even an idiot can go to Yale.

Hopefully, the next four years will take us back from tarnished to burnished.  And I think Michelle Obama is going to be just the fashion forward first lady to catwalk us back into glory.

I welcome a first lady that knows how to work it.  I need a Jackie O part two.  But secretly, I just really want someone to give Carla Bruni-Sarkozy a run for her Euro.

geek critique: correction appended

You've got to love feedback.
A gentle reader has alerted me to the fact that, in my CNN hologram posting, I used the wrong joke.  The proper one would have been, "Help me Wolf Blitzer, You're my Only Hope." This is line from Stars Wars, I guess.

The Star Trek allusion, while Baby Boomerish, I believe still works.

In any case, I've asked for it.

Please Judge Away.  

Beam me up Wolf Blitzer!

VOTING and VICTORY and VIBRATORS, Oh My!

Forget that free Starbucks coffee or Ben and Jerry's ice cream cone you got for voting, Babes in Toyland is handing out free vibrators through November 11th, to all those patriotic and randy urban ladies (and their prostrate-centric brothers) who cast a ballot.  

Here's to a sexy four years!  

Me and Paul Rudd

Last night I dreamt that I met and then promptly married Paul Rudd in Las Vegas.

This is a fantasy because:

1.  He's Paul Rudd.  Famous Hollywood actor.  Husband.  Father.

2. I never date actors.

The reasons for my no-actor policy are aplenty.

A. There aren't enough mirrors in the world for both us.

B. When said actor and I inevitably break-up, having to watch him on primetime television and then again and again in syndication, doesn't exactly promote the healing process.  I'm speaking hypothetically, of course,

C. Actors are bonkers.  I know because I am one.

 But somehow in the REM state of Nevada, I overlooked his thesbian-ness.  Please judge away, but can you blame me?

That chest, my Lord.

"SNEAKERNIGHT": A Dirty Secret Pleasure

to chillax or not to chillax

To chillax or not to chillax

Who the hell came up with this word?

 

This is age of language amalgams.

Languamalgams.

Brangie Frenemy TomKat Staycation Edutainment Recessionista.

I feel like the poor hipster's William Sapphire here, but someone has to do it.

Chillaxing, for those who don't know or couldn't figure it out, is the clever combination of the words, chilling and relaxing.  As in, "We rolled a splif and are now chillaxing."  It can also be a directive, as in, "Chillax!  You're making me nervous."

My thorough 10 second google research reveals the first usage was in 2003, in the film, "Final Destination 2".  According to the three people I polled (including myself), one person claims to have heard it first in Maine, another in the Georgia, and the third discovered it in the vast virtual chasm known as Facebook.

My next etymological quest: HOT MESS.

Stay tuned.

Move Over Judy Blume

Ever wonder who actually writes Young Adult novels?  I mean, what does Christopher Pike really look like?  And Judy Blume, you don't know, could be that tranny sat next to you on the 1 train.  Carolyn Keene, forget it, she had to be a freak.

Well, get ready to be jealous.  I know one.  Yes, a tranny, but also a YA novelist.  His name is David Van Etten, and his book, All that Glitters, "drops" as the kids say, today.  And besides from being a totally delightful yum of a read, it's also by far the most homoerotic teen book jacket I've ever seen.

Go out and get two.  

THE WINK EFFECT

I promised myself this week I wouldn't make another Palin joke.  

Call it a Rosh Hash resolution.

The reasons for this pledge are aplenty,  Highlights include: 

1.My brain has turned into a 24 hour Palin pun generator, leaving my other obsessions to suffer.  

2.Making fun of her ever rising bouffant, her sexy librarian style glasses, her rumored tattooed on lip liner- no matter how much I disagree with her politics- is no better than  using Hillary's pantsuit as a punchline.

HOWEVER.

I've rationalized that this isn't a comedy bit.  It's an observation.  It's a cautionary tale.

It happened last night. I was, once again, reprising the thankless role of sultry benchwench at Malachy's on 72nd street.  My interpretation of the part is an amalgam of Carla and Diane from Cheers, with a dash of Mae West, if you don't like dirty Irish bars or get uptown much. Thank God I went to acting school.

I noticed, as I delivered teeming pints of Bud, sloppy oozing pitchers of Stella, cleared decimated baskets of cheese fries, and most importantly, dropped checks, that I was winking.  

A lot.

It appears that I've subconsciously incorporated this bit of visual punctuation into my cocktailer schtick.  This is, no doubt, Sarah Palin's influence/fault.

"Here ya go boys.  These ones are on me."  WINK

"Two shots of Jaeger.  Did ya know my middle name is Yeager?"  WINK

"Corned beef on rye?  You betcha."  WINK. 

I look forward to November 5th, when hopefully I can have my brain back.  Or at least part of it.

WINK. 

HI DEF DREAMING

I always dream big in October.  It's not the ambitious and aspiration waking kind, but more the REM technicolor nightmarish sort.  The kind of sleep where you wake more tired than you went to bed.

October is transitions.  It's sleeping weather finally, when you open up the windows and pull out the flannel pj's.  It's the High Holidays of Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, my birthday, and Halloween.   

So, it's no surprise that I'm dreaming in high def.

Last night, I found myself smack dab in the middle of pregnancy panic dream.  You know the kind(or maybe you don't)- Omigod, I'm pregnant.  When did this happen?  I don't want to be pregnant and now it's way too late, since I'm 7 1/2 months along, to do anything about it.  I cannot possibly give birth.  I'm too much of a wimp.  I don't even have my ears pierced, for Christ's sake.

There are many variations of this nightmare, which I've had throughout my life.  There is the who is the father? theme for instance.   Or how will I tell my parents?  motif is another.  The I'm-not-prepared  kind is most frequent.  Occasionally, I do indeed give birth in the dream, only to find it's not a baby, but instead a full grown adult or an inanimate object.   But I perpetually digress.

Last night, a new version emerged.  I was pregnant, very pregnant,  I knew the father, that wasn't the problem.  My parents would be thrilled since my brother is a priest and I am the only hope for progeny,  And though I was horrified by how fat I had become and that, inevitably I would have to deal with the exit strategy for the monolith in my belly, it wasn't pain I feared.  My twenties taught me I have an unnatural threshold for discomfort.

It was that I wasn't Jewish.  I'm a pretty quick study, I reasoned in the dream, but there was no way I could do a legit Orthodox conversion in a month and a half.  The father was Jewish with a capitol J and this was going to be a big with a capitol B problem.

I awoke from the dream, my flannel jammies soaked with sweat and twisted around my body.  It made me miss my Yia Yia, the ultimate dream interpreter, who could decode any dream- no matter how strange- with equally esoteric solutions.  

For instance:

Me: Yia Yia, I dreamt all my teeth were loose and falling out.

Yia Yia: O-poh-poh.  You better walk to school then.

Me: Yia Yia, I dreamt I gave birth to a fully formed grey man.

Yia Yia: What good luck!

I think last night's dream isn't really that much of mystery for a number of reasons, but still I could use some ancient Greek village wisdom.

   

the stages of ;-)

I've been trying to pinpoint the exact moment I started reflexively emoticon-ning.

A year ago, I sneered at ;-) sign offs.  Grow up, thought I.

Two years ago, I had no idea what an emoticon was.  I was too busy figuring out Facebook.

Three years ago, I'm not sure it was even a word.

This is a pattern in terms of my relationship with technology.  CD's, cell phones, email, Ipods, Facebook- it's all the same.

Here are the stages of ;-)

disorientation: what is an emoticon?

annoyance: why can't you just express emotion through words?

generational disdain: why is my generation so lazy and immature?

rebellion: I will never use emoticons.  

psychological analysis: why is it easier to write a a smiley or frowney?  what are you really avoiding?

anthropological critique: is this an emotional disconnect specific to our post industrial pre-apocalypse world? 

bargaining: ;-) is kind of easier.  I'll just ;-) sometimes.  

acceptance/exhaustion: I love emoticons.  I'm too busy to feel.  How did I ever live without ;->

 

LIVNI VS. PALIN

This is a street fight I'd love to see.

PALINDROME

Palindrome [palin drom] noun: a chronic, debilitating psychopolitological condition currently plaguing Liberals and Comedy Writers on both the East and West Coasts of the United States.  Symptoms include media induced mood swings, obsessive racing thoughts centered around Palin puns, joining pointless Facebook hate groups i.e. Sara Palin should stick to being a Lenscrafters model, and snowmobile-centric auditory hallucinations (see snow machines).

I've got the fever.  Majorly.

Of the 3,000 thoughts I've had today about SP, one seems worth mentioning.  In light of the public skinning of Mr. and Mrs. McCain on The View, wouldn't Palin be a brilliant permanent addition to the panel?  Picture it.  She'd be Hasselback's BFF.  She'd give Joy Behar enough material to sell out Ha Ha's Comedy Club in Seacaucus for years.  She'd make Sherri look learned.  Whoopi would eat her for breakfast.  Barbara could retire, finally.  The show would implode.

Does anyone have the Viewmaster's phone number?

 

smell the crazy

Sometimes you can just smell the crazy.   And last night the Upper West Side reeked.  More specifically, Malachy's Bar on 72nd street, where I have recently taken on the role of sultry bar wench two nights a week. 

A lucky few are born with an innate loony meter.  Others cultivate the skill of "crazy sniffing" from years spent hanging out with Method actors or working in restaurants.  And then, there are the ill fated handful, who seem to attract the deranged, as if by magnetic pull.  

I'm a triple threat.

I knew something was rotten as soon as my crackpot sat down and ordered her pastrami on rye.  There was an edge to her, a shiftiness beyond that of the typical New Yorker.  I couldn't put my finger on it, but my crazy-dar level was instantly on Amber Alert.

Then came the rapid fire q&a:

How long does it take to make pastrami?  It should be done by now.  

How much do I owe?  $8.  I need to pay now.

Where is the closest drugstore?  I need a bandaid now.

Can't you see I'm bleeding?  I am bleeding.

I disappeared into the kitchen, alerting the cook I needed the pastrami stat and on wheels (that's restaurantese for to go).   She was working up towards her show stopping number, it was clear, and better it happened on Broadway than at table four.

It was too late.  She was ready to shine.   

"WITCH!  YOU'RE A WITCH!  I KNOW YOU'RE A WITCH," she hissed at a poor Irish girl I was training and then promptly spit in her face.  A gal who was enjoying her second day ever in NYC.  A wee lass I had assured New Yorkers get a bad rap.  

I rushed down the stairs from the second floor kitchen, avec pastrami, to carry out OPERATION YOU ARE 86'ED.  

And there she was, God love her, waiting for me, practically foaming at the mouth.

I've experienced a few things as cocktailer- being spanked for instance- but never have I been jabbed in the solar plexus.  It was a attack move that, I imagine, Marines are taught in bootcamp or empowered single women learn in self defense class.  

It didn't hurt, but it was shocking.  My Spartan warrior instinct was to lay her out, but since it was my third shift ever, I wasn't sure where Mr. Malachy stood on hitting customers.  But before I could catch my breath, my pastrami loving bandaidless patron was lifted off the ground by two burly bartenders, feet kicking in midair, and escorted back out into the night from whence she came.

So when you smell the crazy, trust it.  Or wear a bullet proof apron.

 

 

      

TASTI D-WHO?

While all eyes have shifted and locked on the financial implosion on Wall Street, back uptown Tasti D-Lite is having a crisis of its own. And aside from a few other disoriented Tastiholics I've seen- staring blankly at where my local outpost used to stand- the problem has gone largely unnoticed.  Sure, I'm sorry the second Great Depression is around the bend, but the collapse of my frozen dessert obsession deserves attention too. 

I should have seen this coming- I saw the signs.

At first, the changes were nearly imperceptible.  So slight, in fact, I thought maybe it was just me.  First, the color of the trademark cup morphed from royal to a less majestic baby blue.  The logo went from the now retro original to a cuter pastel design.  Then, the cup size seemed different- was it deeper?  was it narrower?  My friendly Tasti counter gal assured me it was not.

I saw the toppings selection was changing- more fresh fruit and other naturalish things  like apple chips.  I wrote it off as the inevitable result of living in an ever increasingly Pinkberry/Yolato world.  Denial's a funny thing.

But yesterday afternoon, there was no more lying.  Upon landing on West 80th street after a long car trip- a carsick journey, by the way, spent chomping on Nicorette, visualizing TDL, concocting the utopian flavor combination of Peanut Butter Fudge/NY Cheesecake- I went directly bag still in hand, to my closest, and therefore favorite, branch.  

It was magically replaced by The Lite Choice, which so far I can tell is the Designer Imposter version.  I admit it, I had a sample.  It tasted like a manilla folder.  The same counter gal was there, now in a new uniform.  She acted like she didn't even know me.  

Frantic, I sprinted up Broadway to my next closet branch.  It was still there, but with a "new look" and "new attitude" and a cheery pink grand REopening sign.  The flavors remained, but a new quote/mantra is painted on the wall:

DESSERT YOUR GUILT: A CELEBRATION OF HEALTH AND LIFE

Not even I, perhaps the most d-voted d-lite fan, am buying that.  

Healthy?  Well, it is mostly air.  A celebration of life?  While I don't recommend it, I have, in fact, lived on it.   Just give me the 12 ounces of heaven and save me the Oprah affirmation.

At least it's still kosher.

POLL DANCING

America loves a poll.  

I devour them- Gallop to Glamour, Pew Research to Teen People.  Bring it on.

But this latest Washington Post/ABC News Palin poll, which indicates her popularity with petulant PTA moms has propelled the Republican ticket into the lead has me absolutely sick.

Come on ladies.  

Thanks RNC!

And to think I'd almost fully repressed the memory of former Hizzonerette, Rudy Giullani.

Thanks RNC, the grand old party could use a few more big bad queens from Brooklyn.

PBCSSD

Maybe it's the fancy schmancy Fashion Week invite that just arrived in the mail.  Perhaps it's a simple case of PBCSSD (Post Barney's Co-op Sale Stress Disorder).   Quite possibly, it's the obsessive week long hunt I've been on for the mythological, perfect-in-every-way dress that, like so many things, exists only in my mind.  

Whate'er it be, I woke this morning mentally scrolling through the list of clothes items I would outlaw if I had the power and there were legal fashion mandates.

So before I set out for another mind numbing day of pushy sales types born in the mid 1980's, iron maiden style dressing rooms, looking at my body from every blessed angle under every sort of sacred light, a small list of garments to be eliminated forever:

• gaucho pants
  
• empire waist t-shirts aka baby bump tees
  
• stiletto ankles boots
  
• prairie dresses
  
• arm warmers
  
• bubble skirts
  
• kimono sleeves on things other than kimonos
• high waisted shorts
• bandeau bikini tops
  
• anything ruched
  

This is in no way exhaustive. but list making is just so soothing.

MISS ALMOST

  First runner up Miss Alaska 1984 and now McCain's concessional token female VP choice.

Sara Palin, a truly second class lady.

I love her hair though.

AN IRONIC DEATH

The news that "100 Things To Do Before you Die," author Dave Freeman has, well, died, confirms my absolute worst fear: 

DYING AN IRONIC DEATH.

My adult onset terror surrounding all things chronic and ironic started in the days leading up to age 30. 

Here's the pre-birthday posthumous script I wrote in my head:

FRIEND #1: Hey, did you hear about Liz?

FRIEND #2: Yah, I'm sorry I missed her birthday party. The big 3-0! I can't believe she survived her 20's!

FRIEND #1: No, dude. She didn't. She was hit by the crosstown M79 bus the night before turning 30.  Pretty sad.

FRIEND #2: Wow, That's terrible. But hey, she would have appreciated the irony, right?

There are darker scenes suited for even more joyous occasions, but I'm afraid to write them.  And yes, gentle ironist, I realize the irony of, I Ironia, fearing irony.

I'm almost afraid to mention this phobia, lest I add another layer of irony to the ironic death that could be lurking around the next corner.  But compulsion trumps superstition and so I begrudgingly press PUBLISH POST.

THE PANTSUIT STRIKES BACK

There are just some lines that are so brilliant, so obvious, so completely on the nose that a writer can spend the better part of a day trying to figure how she didn't think to write it first.  This she has done just that.  

How could I not have thought to marry two popical (that's topical and popular culture, better late than never) references?  It's like that category on Jeopardy:

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants + Pantsuit = Genius.

  

I'm Greek.  I had a Yia Yia.  How did I miss it?  I hate myself.

Make no mistake: I've never had a single ounce of affection for Hillary Clinton.  Not one cc.  But during the non-stop pantsuit comedy roast primary season, I jumped to HRC's fashion defense(see this blog, July 6th, until I can figure out how to link), not because I liked her, but because:

1. I like pantsuits a lot

2. Yves Saint Laurent had just gone to the big garment district in the sky

3. It was the feminist thing to do

But with that one line- HOW DID I NOT THINK OF IT?- justice was served.

Today, August 27, 2008 marks the day I became a fan of Hillary.  Or at least her speech writer.  

UNSOLICITED AND MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS ON THE BODY POLITIC

• Theme songs.  Politicians should do without a soundtrack.  "You're Still the One," was a decidedly inappropriate song for Ted Kennedy, following his speech at the Democratic convention.  Last night left me longing for the good old days of the Clinton dynasty and Fleetwood Mac.
  
• Get the Obama kids out of the picture.  Sure, they're cute.  Yah, they remind us of the future. Definitely, they add an element of spontaneity to a highly staged event.  But it's creepy.  Let's learn from the Mary Kates, the Jon Benets, the Patti Davis' nee Reagans.
• The high price of "Gasolina".  Let us all pray to a Gdashd that we don't believe in that music super star, Daddy Yankee's endorsement of John Mccain will respectively cripple Reggaeton record sales and the Republican bid for the presidency.
  

Rediscovered on the NYSC music channel:

OBAMA + ME = ;->

Okay.  We can all agree Obama's dreamy.  Sure.  We have a major crush.  Yes, we collectively want to wear his Varsity Letter jacket.  Indeed, we've had visions of making breakfast for us both, clad in nothing but his boxer briefs and an apron.

HOWEVER.

This Vice Presidential nomination notification by text message thing is a little too Junior High even for me, the perpetual 13 year old.    

L'CHAIM CUPCAKES

Kosher Chocolate Cupcakes with a Cheesecake surprise center.

CHILD, JULIA CHILD

The report released today that Julia Child was somehow involved in a WWII international spy ring is by far the most refreshing, most inspired news item since the I don't know what.  A secret agent who made  her own mayonnaisse?  Feminists, take notice: this stands as the definition of the modern woman. 

It seems so obvious now.  Of course, the ultimate domestic had a dark foreign side.  Are there secret codes embedded in her recipe for the perfect flaky pie crust?  Let the confectionary conspiracy theories commence!

   

A LUNESTA MIRACLE

I'll do anything for a good night's sleep.  

I've taken so many pills, I probably shouldn't donate blood.  Mosquitos would be better off steering clear, unless of course they're insomniacs too.  

 

Xanax.  I still toss and turn, I just don't worry about it.  Ambien.  Works like a 3 hour charm.  Trazadone has a cinderblock-on-my-face effect and I run into walls like I'm Karen Black the next morning.  Melatonin makes me dream in a nightmarish technicolor.

Now I'm on Lunesta.  So far so good.  Apparently, there is a side effect of male breast enlargement, so I'm hoping for the miracle of miracles: 

to be well rested and stacked by the month's end.

FRANCE vs. USA

My father is on Facebook and it's making me really uncomfortable.  

I live in fear of the notification:

YOUR FATHER HAS SENT YOU A FRIEND REQUEST.

You have 0 friends in common.

Exactly.

It's not that there's anything on my page that's especially racy.  It's not that in real life we don't have a workable relationship.

This is a very specific sort of Baby Boomer/Gen X kind of dilemma/collision.  Can't we just share Bob Dylan?  

Thank you for being a genius.

1923-2008

 

I found out recently that I'm actually a man.  Not only that, I was once a boy too.  According to the Social Security Administration I have been an red blooded American male since 1985.  Before that I guess, the government didn't consider me period.

These days a kid is tagged immediately- that is to say, given a social security number right at birth- but back in the freewheeling 1970's in Maine, there wasn't a rush.  Parents were too busy composting, starting food coops, and reading Thoreau.  You got a card when you needed one.  I mean, for now, let's just weed the garden, shuck some corn,  and can preserves. 

For me, the necessity came when I spent my first seven minutes of fame in a Stephen King movie and thusly began my life as a taxpayer.

Social Security hasn't been easy to convince, by the way, that I'm a Ms.  A phone call, with my most sultry female voice didn't do it.  The operator laughed actually.  On the first trip to the main office in Brooklyn, where a young lady(ostensibly) ahead of me had a scalpel confiscated, I also failed.  Despite my utterly convincing breasts practically falling out of my most feminine summer dress, I didn't have proper documentation.  And though hoisting my tits onto the counter and pressing them against the bullet proof glass made the agent laugh, she won the Mark Twain Award:

"Honey, this is New York.  I've seen some really good work."

I'll be honest, in that moment, facing an in-person rejection of my sex, I started to panic slightly.  My mom is fairly famous for leaving out big details.  For instance, "Oh pumpkin, I'm sure I told you I was married before your father!"  I was too busy hyperventilating then to answer or to laugh now.

Could she have overlooked telling me?  Was there an accident during the circumcision?  Had I been born a true blue tranny and my parents had to make a sexual Sophie's choice?  My dad is Greek, was I the real life version of, MIDDLESEX?  My mom always had said she really wanted a girl first.  Had she been trying, albeit WASPily, to tell me something?  Omigod.  This explains everything about me.  No wonder I only have gay male friends.  I am a gay male.  No wonder I like wigs and to show my boobs in public.  I am a tranny. 

So instead of trusting my mother's insistence of my gender as female, I contacted the state of Maine directly for my birth certificate.  The good friendly folks at bureau of vital records thought my story was totally shelarious.  Who knew bureaucracy had such a sense of humor?

Social Security has since accepted the document as genuine (and my vagina valid), but my sex is still pending with the state of New York.  Stay tuned.

 

HOKEY POKEY: WHAT IS IT ALL ABOUT?

What does it mean exactly when you're poked on Facebook?  I have enough trouble decoding people in real life and now this?  I phoned a wise friend in Los Angeles hoping he could help. He only said he wouldn't touch "the Facebook" with a virtual 10 foot pole, after the therapy bills he accrued from being a victim of Friendster. 

So, I got a little Nancy Drew/Lois Lane on it and went to the faceless Facebook information page to get an automated quote on the ambiguous virtual gesture.  Amazingly, there is a section dedicated to POKES and their meaning.  I guess I'm not the only one.  

Their explanation is equally esoteric:

A poke is a way to interact with your friends on Facebook.  When we created the poke, we thought it would be cool to have a feature without any specific purpose.  People interpret the poke in many different ways, and we encourage you to come up with your own meanings.

Cool? Sure, if by cool you mean, horrible.   What is so awesome about things without specific purpose?  That is so my anti-narrative loving irony obsessed generation.  I spend every waking moment interpreting.  The last thing I need is to come up with more of my own meanings.  

To me the poke is inherently pervy and I welcome any and all definitions from you gentle reader, just pretty please, be specific.

IF A TREE FALLS IN THE MAINE WOODS

Maine is a strange place to be from.  Imagine growing up inside a Norman Rockwell painting, but styled by LL Bean.  It's monogrammed canvas tote bags and cross country skis, wild blueberries and bug spray.  It's sailboats, it's Christmas trees, it's softball games.  It's a wood burning stove, penny candy village store kind of existence.  

To live year round in Vacationland, to be a full time native in a seasonal state breeds a very specific sort.  There is a pride that comes with sticking out the brutal 9 month winter and a singular pleasure in rolling your eyes at the prissy out-of-towners come summer.  Now I am one of the prisses.

 The unofficial motto, found just over the Kittery Bridge upon entering the state says it all:

MAINE: THEY WAY LIFE SHOULD BE.  

Not that is or was, just that it should.  As a neurotic, allergic kid without an ounce of innate rusticness, comforted only by the thought of Greenwich Village, that notion threw me into a pint size existential crisis.  WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?

 The way life SHOULD be?  The way LIFE should be?  The way life should BE?  The question becomes a horrible method actor exercise. 

And sitting here at sunrise, on a perfectly New England dock, overlooking an equally ideal little lake, pondering the trip back to New York City, I'm still asking.

Why is it that New York City is so excruciatingly beautiful whenever I'm packing to leave?  

The sky today is that 9/11 terrorist blue, perhaps the most specific color of my lifetime.

And why does that last Tasti-D-Lite before the schlep to Penn Station, taste so much better than any of the other thousands I've had before?  This morning I had a large custom Peanut Butter with a Milky Weigh(yes, weigh not way) floater and devoured it as though it was my last meal on earth.  

It's true that the only way to live in NYC is to go away often, but I wish I could do it without leaving the Upper West Side.

Where are you now John Mark Karr?  

ALL YOU NEED IS LARRY KING LIVE

Ringo Starr was on Larry King Live last night.  I admit it, I'm huge into LK.  And while I'm being honest, I like Donny Deutch too.  And since we're now judging, I've been known to watch Tavis Smiley as well.

It was the single most depressing hour of television viewing since Girls Next Door (which I had just finished gagging through).  You know Girls I hope- the "reality" show shadowing the octogenarian nympho, Hugh Hefner, and his three live-in girlfriends, who's ages put together make them collectively still younger than him.  The episode followed the ladies trials and travails of making a workout video at the manse.  Quality stuff.

Back to Lare.  Ringo was on celebrating his 68th birthday.  It's not like he was ever the most understandable of Beatles, but he has gone from out-there-groovy to first-stage-dementia-loony.  It was funny and sad, sort of in the same way my great Uncle Yianni is prone to exclaiming(loudly and publicly), "Mamma Mia!" or to tell people, albeit politely, they are boring.  Ringo kept repeating, "Peace and Love".  He claimed the Fab Four inspired Cirque du Soleil show was amazing.  He even said he was happy that Yoko Ono called in to sing Happy Berf-day De-ah Rin-go.  Crazy time.  Even Larry was rolling his eyes.

It's just plain sad to see a Beatle get old. 

Bea is for Blogging!

THE PAN(GS)T SUIT

I'm having a really strong reaction to pantsuits.  It's when I see one, when someone mentions them, even when I think of the two-piecer, unprovoked.  

It began after the Patti Lupone dream.   Something about that nightmare- being beat down by a stage legend with rabies- left me feeling demoralized.  And when I feel hopeless, I go to the utterly more active emotion of anger.  And with no place to put my newly recycled rage, my brain made a non sequitur-ial jump to pantsuits.  I don't why this is, but it is.  

Perhaps I'm still mourning the loss of Yves Saint Laurent.  Maybe I'm reflecting on Hillary Clinton, or more precisely, having been battered all this past primary season with the same old dumb chauvinistic jibes at her fashion choices.   

Either way, it's time to get back into therapy. 

The definition of insanity is going to Herald Square over and over and expecting a different result.

-Albert Einstein

THE PATTI LUPONE PROPHECY

I had a dream, a dream about you baby.

It's gonna come true, baby.

They think that we're through...

GYPSY! The Musical

I had this horrible dream a couple nights ago, starring the Tony winning toast of New York, Patti Lupone.  It was the classic actor's nightmare- I had to go on last minute for Gypsy Rose Lee and didn't know the lines, couldn't remember if I knew how to sing, or how I had somehow ended up as an understudy for a Broadway musical in the first place.  To complicate things, instead of fessing up to the pitbullish stage manager demanding I go get fit for my costume, I decided I would fake it instead.  How hard could it be?  

And as is true with all my anxiety theatre dreams, I searched for a script backstage to learn the lines before curtain but it was too dark.  I'm too blind to find anything by the red lights that all actors nocturnal eyes have adapted to navigate "the wings".

I never have actor dreams when I'm actually doing a show in real life.  I dream of waitressing.  And likewise, if I'm waiting tables in real life, I toss and turn all night with visions of choking on stage.  It's classic transference.  There's probably some actor having it right now as I type.

But there's one way in which this dream was different.  After realizing there was no way I could pull off learning a play, numerous musical numbers, and various dance routines in 30 minutes, Patti Lupone appeared.  She was warming up- doing scales and stretching- saw that I was frantic, and asked, "What's up kid?", in that salty old NY stage actor way.  

Omigod, I thought Mama Rose is talking to me.  Evita just asked me a direct fucking question.  She looked more Italian up close somehow, older.  This is one of those weird disappointments, seeing a face up close that's meant to seen from the back of the house.

And maybe it was because I was starstruck, perhaps it was sheer admiration, or maybe I didn't want to ruin the show, I blurted out, half crying, 

"Patti," the P utterly popping in my ears, "Patti, I don't think I should be here.  To be honest, I have no idea how I got here.  I'm not prepared.  I don't know how this could have happened.  If you knew me at all, you'd know I'm the consummate profession-"

But before I could finish groveling, Ms. Lupone forcefully slammed me up against the wall.  Knocked the wind straight out of me.  I was more shocked by her superhuman strength, than being assaulted by Broadway star.

I don't remember her exact words, only that her verbal assault was even more powerful than her body check.  

I closed my eyes, prepared to take it.  She was right after all.  How dare I?  Who did I think I was?  Yes, Ms. Lupone, there were indeed thousands of girls ready to take my place.....

And here's the truly terrifying part, as I timidly opened my eyes with the  snarling Patti berating me, she was foaming at the mouth.  Completely rabid.

And that's where I decided to wake up.  It was one of those swimming through honey, trying to reach the surface for air kind of waking up panics.  And two days later, I'm still thinking about it.

CELEBRATING 100 DAYS IN OFFICE

MY HERO

THE BLOOMBERG NICKEL

Let me preface this small criticism by saying first, I have a major thing for Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg.  You're hot for Hizzoner too?  Well, take a number sister.  He's mine.  It's a doodle-our-initials-in-my-notebook kind of, read-both-of-our-horoscopes-every-day sort of crush.  He's perfect for me- a Jewish bazillionaire in favor of posting calorie counts and public art?  I'll take two.  

And believe me, our imagined relationship wasn't always easy.  First, he fined restaurants for even the most minor of infractions at a time when I was running a restaurant with the most major infractions.  He banned smoking.  I was smoking, often in the restaurant.  I knew he was doing these things because he cared and so I forgave.  But this latest Metrocard thing is testing my love and I'm having trouble seeing how it's for my own good.  Let me explain.

If you live here in our fine city and take public transport, you are aware of the latest Metrocard debacle.  I realize this isn't directly Bloomberg's fault and more the doing of the infinitely corrupt MTA, but since I see M.B. as omnipotent, it falls to him.  In the good old days of two months ago, it was simple for the non-committal straphanger like myself; those too agoraphobic to require a monthly unlimited pass and yet too poor not to get some kind of  frequent flyer card which rewards you with free rides for buying in bulk.  My standard was the $10 card which bought 5 rides @ $2 and extra ride just for investing.  Clear as mud? 

The incentive card rates have changed.  Now, just as brown is the new black or Queens is the new Brooklyn, $7 is the new $10 card.  It buys you 4 rides, 1 freebie fare and a puzzling and measly 5 cents left on the card.  The city is robbing me one Bloomberg nickel at a time.

As a result, I have no less than six of these orphan 5 cents in my wallet.  I'm on my way to a deck.

This means- and keep in mind I never passed math after the ninth grade- that if I continue to refill one of the orphan cards, it will take 40 refills to equal one fare.  A more adaptable friend of mine deals with the nickel dilemma by using spare change to buy the ride.  But come on- who has the time to coin feed 95 cents when the train is quickly approaching?  And who even carries around 95 cents period?

I am reticent to post this because I fear I'm now that person i.e. the homebound crazy woman who blogs about the MTA and imagined affairs she's having with the Mayor, but in the name of strengthening my bond with M.B. will press PUBLISH now.