Because that is how I roll

My Favorite Time of Day is Night

Ah, Lauren. With a voice like that I would have never thought that you consumed freeze dried grounds before bed.

Finally, I have learned how flavor is really in steam, and it can be trapped with the right glassware.

The Ooog

Let it be known, fair people of Brooklyntown, I was down for the count, but I am BACK.

After spending a week supine on my chaise, sweating Ricola, and watching the likes of Cashmere Mafia, I realized it was time to get well again. I mean in the physical sense, the mental part is just too taxing. I spent ten days in and out of feverish fantasies and doomsday visions, scouring my cabinets for pharmaecopia by day, and building pillow ziggurats to prop my head up on in order to avoid choking on whatever ghastly substance was brewing in my lungs by night. It was a fight of will, a fight for life, that one battle against death that I just wasn't ready to lose yet. Not alone anyway. Images of being found by a surly landlord under a pile of used tissues adhering themselves to me like a twisted papier mache kept me going. As did the will to see the first crocus of spring, sniff the first acrid aroma of burning charcoal and the flame inducing toxin it had been doused in...visions of good times to come kept me going. That, and Cashmere Mafia.

Spring Cometh

Springtime is definitely in my top 4 favorite seasons. It means tulips, Easter egg hunts (this year I have enlisted my favorite Jewish friend to do the honors in Prospect Park), and my all time favorite: the spring clean!!! It is around now that I start to eye the furniture suspiciously, wondering if I can manage to move it myself. Suddenly, nothing has value. I would gladly rid of my painstakingly collected matchbooks from shitty pubs from New Jersey, and that sampling of exotic potato chip flavors from the South suddenly has no meaning anymore. Nothing is sacred, all sentimentality has been stripped from objects d'art. Wedding photos (eh, it turned out to be a sham anyway) can be found in the bin next to a like letter (he just wasn't that into me) and a threadbare concert t-shirt from the formative years. Everything must go! New new new. I can't help but wonder if this is a natural instinct to free myself from the shackles of "things", or if I am just making room for the next round of crap that I expect to amass in the coming year.
Either way, it feels good.

Daddy drinks because you cry

Well, baby cries because she drinks champagne cocktails at an alarming rate. I am going to have to admit to being middle aged. I have reached the point in my life when a hangover is now a two day affair. What happens to the body? Is it less resilient, does my liver really know it is almost 40 years old? EVEN if I tricked it and didn't really enjoy going to the local boozeteria until well into my 20's? The only good to come out of my wasted Saturday was ample time to feel sorry for myself AND the opportunity to watch the first season of The Royle Family.

I will always marvel at the number of fantastic programs the BBC has churned out. In this particular show, nothing happens. The viewer is sucked into the mediocrity of a family of northerners who do nothing but smoke, watch tv, and eat the occasional bacon butty. Yet somehow, it is hilarious and endearing and enlightening all in one go. Unfortunately, it was short lived because of some sort of studio turmoil and the private lives of the cast and writers. The strangest thing is that I find the show somewhat inspiring. I guess a lesson on how NOT to live ones life.

Oh, Caroline Aherne, come to the U.S. and we will make it alright.

Morning Snippet

I hate it when someone gets into the elevator at the last minute. This a.m. it happened not once, but twice. First, a giant man wedged his body between the doors at the last minute. Shortly thereafter, a small mousy being with earmuffs and a coat 3 times her size zipped in before the doors slammed shut. The following conversation took place:

Doors shut, Mouse looks up at Large and says
"Helloooo", her voice is whiny and mocking and I snort a bit at her comedic approach to mornings at the office.

Large mumbles something with an 'H' in it.

Mouse gazes up at the informative Captivate screen, which notes that people from Denmark rate to be the happiest in the world.

Mouse: pointing at the screen, "Now, why do we need to know that?"

It is at this point that I realize that the comedic sound IS her real voice.
Large emits grunt.

The next news tidbit of the day grants the viewer with a list of the highest rated stocks.

Mouse: "And why do we need to know that?"

Large is doing a great job of avoiding Mouse's imploring gaze.
A newsflash about the Bush check incentives flashes across the screen. Mouse fidgets with excitement. The elevator stops. The doors start to open.

Mouse: "Hey, if they send me a check in the mail, I'll take it. Who wouldn't?"

Mouse scurries behind Large as he takes long steps, presumably to keep her from getting underfoot.

This snippet was a fantastic example of what is wrong with this society. The "who gives a fuck about that, oooh, can I have that?" culture. All immediacy, without a thought about the big picture. I hope Mouse spends her check wisely. She will probably plonk down a down payment on a Jennifer Sofabed or perhaps a singles cruise to DR.

I am going to sell all my stocks and move to Denmark.

Swiffer Train

I don't care if you ever take the Shuttle. I don't care if you are the type to not leave your hovel in the far reaches of Bay Ridge or Greenpoint. No matter what you do, you must take your hipper than thou self and get on the Swiffer Train. The interior is made to look like hardwood floors---floor, walls and ceiling, all shiny woodgrain. For some reason, it is very pleasing to the senses. Unless, of course, you have my luck and manage to get on the one car with the hobo. But only then does the campaign lose its appeal. I am going to go home and Swiffer the fuck out of my neighborhood.