it finally happened...

I got a new job!

And it's a bit scary, to be honest. I love love love my friends at M____ - seriously, there's nothing I look forward to more on Monday morning than getting in and going over to Denis's cube and chatting about the weekend or past shows or just joking around. Ok, so it's every morning - I love shooting the shit with him or Divino or Casey or Tizzles... c'mon... I've established a relationship and a reputation among this group after being there for 2.5 years, and it's hard to think of starting over somewhere. I just hope that the new place gets me as well as the old place did... which wasn't always SO well, but at least my immediate peers had the love.

The new place is called K___ Communications, and it's in PR. I will be writing more and being able to express myself more creatively - that's the idea. I'm really looking forward to it, and will keep you all up-to-date after I start the new job on Tuesday!!!! :) :)

Funniest review of a club I've ever seen

"Seriously, this place is soo hot right now. And by hot I mean that if you took the hotness of PM added a dash of Suite 16 heat, then multiplied that by Marquee's hot factor you would equal half of Hiro's hotness. Scorching. Try the gin and tonics."

Parenting 101

Father pushing a stroller on 6 train platform to 6-year-old kid, who has sort of run off ahead of him:
"Get back here or I'll punch you in the face!"

Now that's a shining example of the parent I hope to become one day.

Dancing with the Has-Beens

Oh Tucker Carlson, what have you become?

Just because you didn't graduate college doesn't mean you have to go from hosting CNN's Crossfire to dancing next to:



Mario Lopez (still reeling from cheating on Ali Landry at his bachelor party. oooh so close, Slater) and...

"Joe" Lawrence. By the way, "Joe" you aren't fooling anyone with your shaved head and shortened name. You'll always be the idiot brother. And you know it, too. Why else would you capitalize on it 10 years later in an "Ice Breakers" commercial with the Duff sisters? ExACTly.


But...C'MON, Tucker!! You didn't have a popular TV show in the early '90s! You HAVE two popular shows - right now!! On two different networks! Is it that bad to be known for wearing colorful bowties or delivering hard-hitting news? Does being a libertarian not pay that much? Or did you just get the dancin' bug?

I am glad you got voted off in the 1st Round. Now you can get back to being a "still-is" instead of having to share the bill with a bunch of "has-beens."

the most crowded lonely place in the world

i read something fascinating in the Metro. It was just this small section where a local person is asked a few questions about his or her livelihood. The interviewee this particular day happened to be a little person who is an actor. He said something so extremely apropos and compelling that I thought about it all day. The gist of it was that New York City is a land of extremes - when you've had a good day, it's a REALLY good day. When you've had a bad day, it was a REALLY bad day. It rang so true.

And it got me thinking - you can never be alone in New York City. You can never "get away." Think about it: when I have a shitty day at work, I can't just hop into my car, turn up my stereo loud, put the windows down and drive away from it all. No - I have to get on the subway where I will have to lobby for a seat, smell odd smells, be smushed against a stranger, listen to a baby cry or a homeless person sing, get off at my sketchy stop in Queens and walk the 4 blocks to my apartment that is sort of my haven.

Of course, I don't HAVE to deal with any of these things. I could very well pack up and head down home to Florida (funny what one still considers home...), find a nice quiet job somewhere, and resign myself to that life. But I digress...

It just struck me today (and a lot of other days), how lonely New York can be. The notion usually arrives when smushed into the back or armpit of a stranger in a crowded train car on the way to or from Manhattan or Brooklyn. But then there are those times, like last Friday night, when I was surrounded by 6 new friends, drinking and singing karaoke till 3am, when your heart can't feel more full of love for the City.

To paraphrase Dickens, New York is the best of times and it is the worst of times...

Headphones + Children = ??

I take the subway every day of the week, at least twice a day, except for maybe some Saturdays. The majority of the time, I take the N or W lines, but I also frequent the 6 (to get to DJ's, friends on the UES and Union Sq.), the C or E (from the gym to work), and the S (Grand Central to Times Sq. and vice versa).

Like many bands, restaurants or prime real estate locations, you discover the best of the City underground. It has been written about numerous times (including on a out-of-home advertising campaign for the NYPD), but it's completely true. The subway gives you a front-row seat to the greatest show on Earth. Just by watching people and their actions on a rumbling, dirty metal car, I've learned so much about how to present myself and how I would act if I was older/ pregnant/homeless/fat/tall/a mother...

Which brings me to my next issue. Why do I see so many parents holding small children's hands and WEARING HEADPHONES?! Isn't the point of hanging with your kids to interact with them? Why is it normal for a child to just sit there without any vocal stimulation while his or her parent is rocking out to Beyonce? When did the love for an iPod replace the love for a child?

Moratorium on Midriffs

On a typical day walking down any street in Manhattan (or I suppose, in any of the boroughs - I just happen to notice it mostly in Manhattan b/c I'm there 85% of my week), you will encounter the most hideous trend this side of the LiveStrong bracelet (oooh... too soon?! fine, the fem-dyke mullet) - the bulging midriff.

Yes, folks, for some reason, these poor women wake up in the morning, go to their closets and pull out a tight, midriff-baring tee that may or may not have a cute and/or offensive saying like "Ms. Timberlake" or "I'm a Bitch" or "I Stole Your Boyfriend" airbrushed on it. They then proceed to squeeze into the too-small tee with the aid of the Jaws of Life, manuveuring into positions not even mentioned in the Kama and sweating like a bikram yoga session. They take a triumphant look in the mirror, either not noticing or not caring about the spillover of pudge between their back-pocketless jeans and the tee, grab their purses and saunter out the door, ready to reveal their tummy rolls to the City.

Why I am so anti-bulge? Because it's just gross. The only people who should MAYBE be revealing their stomachs to the public are those who have spent the time in the gym and time watching their diets and have worked hard enough to earn a presentable, mostly flat tummy. And it should be tan.

Those are just my standards. And with this outrage and disgust, I propose a moratorium on bulgy midriffs. I apologize, ma'am, but you really shouldn't be wearing that tee. It's far too tight and far too small. No no - please put down the Cinnabon and frothy latte, and come with me to the Sports Club. You will LOVE. PROMISE.

Am I wrong for this? I think not. Frankly, NYC spends a lot on city beautification - shouldn't my moratorium on midriffs make the agenda this year??

Just give me some money, Bloomberg. The bulge-fighters will make your City pretty again.

Drug Store Obsession

When I'm drunk, I walk into drug stores and I just can't help myself! All the bottles look so pretty and they all smell so yummy. Then I buy a shitload of things that I end up using once. All because I drunk-shop. Yes, I'm a drunk-shopper. I buy cosmetics and shampoos and cleansers and conditioners and mouthwash and really randomly, Easy Mac.

The conclusion is: when I get drunk, steer me clear of drug stores. Especially those damned 50% off bins.

What is value?

Although it's March 23, I got started thinking about things I have learned this past year. You know what inspired me? Riding home in a cab from work for the 3rd time in a week (last Thursday, Monday and tonight), I passed an auto parts shop that had huge lettering on the side of the building that read "WE BUY CARS!" I started thinking about my own car-selling experience. And then about other aspects of my life this year. Why do I get so damn reflective? Maybe it's the 12-hour work days. Maybe.

My dad told me something important as I was walking home from "selling" my car (I got really jacked on the price- I even tried to flirt with the salesguy. It didn't work, but damned if that asshole didn't try to call for a date the next week!) - that people aren't going to pay for the emotional value of things. At the time it seemed like a shitty way to cheer me up as I trudged sullenly from 11th avenue, CD collection in tow, clutching my tempur-pedic chair booster. But now it resonates with me.

Memories come in currency that wholly transcends our human idea of value.

The car was named Screaming Mimi the Ghetto Roadster, after her deceased sister, Bianca Pimpmobile Roadster. She was brand-spankin' new in 1989, when my Grandpa drove her off the lot of "Mahwah Honda" in Mahwah, New Jersey. She was the car in which my Grandpa drove us to lunches, tromping on the pedal then hitting the brakes, lurching us forward. If I didn't love him more than anything, I really would've sued him for whiplash. Then she was given to my brother, who took her up to college. During holidays, he would drive her down straight thru the night, not stopping once to pee. He drove with all the windows up to prevent wind resistance and he didn't use the air conditioner. Why? Because that would "waste" the gas, causing him to have to stop at the gas station! Oh, the agony. Then she was given to me - or, excuse me, SOLD to me - by my brother (I argued him down off the Kelley Blue Book price b/c it was going to screw me - yeah, my own brother!), who was going to married that summer and use his future wife's car.

I LOVED Mimi, mostly b/c I love the freedom of the open road, open windows and a blaring sound system, and she allowed me that. I couldn't let her go even after I moved into NYC, and had to rush home every Monday night in order to repark the car b/c of "alternate side parking" laws. Then some punk kids broke into her, stole my radio (slash freedom) and busted the passenger door with a crowbar. WTF?!! She was becoming a liability - more trouble than she was ending up being worth to me. I had to sell her.

Drove her into Manhattan to this used car sales place. Sat in the room with the son's owner, trying to flirt my way to a higher price. No such luck. I got $300 for my baby car. THREE-HUNDRED DOLLARS FOR MY FREEDOM AND LAST REMEMBERANCE OF MY GRANDFATHER! I was so crushed, I cried all the way home.

My dad consoled me as we chatted and I sobbed. I felt I was robbed - robbed of the memories, robbed of my happiness, robbed of my ticket out of the city should I decide to change my mind about moving here without knowing anyone or having anything, robbed of what I felt was the "true" value of the car. He told me that there were 2 values of the car: the emotional and the rational. The emotional was what I felt - the $2,500 the Kelley Blue Book value (if the car was in perfect condition and didn't have many miles on it, which it wasn't and it did). And the rational was what the rest of the world saw - a 16-year-old car with 10s of thousands of miles on it, a busted passenger door, no radio, an overheated radiator and a slight old smell.

What is the true value of objects? Why do we get so attached to hunks of metal? Why did I write such a long blog about this car?

Because I loved it so much.