This Is A Nice Find.

I'm on the farm with Deb and Steve during perhaps the most inopportune time of the year. My mother goes through phases where she thinks she hosts a show on Home and Garden Television and as a result 3,000 random projects ensue simultaneously. I'm reminded of her scrapbooking/stenciling summer in the early 90's. Half of the pictures from our childhood were cut and pasted to the pages of "Footprints In The Sands of Time" (her scrapbook's actual title) and all of our bathrooms had seashell borders.

This summer will be remembered as "The Clearing." She must have gotten her hands on some books about Minimalist design because I swear she is determined to wipe out the contents of the home. Everyday there's a carload of things to be dropped off at the Volunteers of America and every night my father asks what has been thrown away. "Debbie, where did the table by the door go?" And my mom's eyes grow wide as she sort of shakes her head to say, "oh I don't know." But we all know she knows.

The other day she went through each cabinet in the kitchen and basically threw away everything. To be fair, so much was not needed. She had a crystal deviled egg tray with actual grooved out little place holders for deviled eggs. This is not necessary in life. How often do people make deviled eggs that a tray made specifically for that food would be warranted? And she kept pulling out tons of stuff like this. In fact, so much random stuff that my sister and I had no choice but to play "Antiques Roadshow."

If you've never seen Antiques Roadshow, a part of my soul weeps for that incomplete part of your soul. But for those of you who have, you must agree that the best part of the show is when people bring something they think is valuable only to learn it's worth 11 cents. Anyway, Nessa and I took turns playing owner and appraiser and would have to tell the story of how we acquired the item or share the actual history of the item. Note to reader: This is instant fun.
We must have spent an hour making up fake stories about strainers (Viking helmet), metal kebab skewers (ancient Korean sword), and a lemonade pitcher with "Happy Holidays" written on it (lemonade pitcher with "Happy Holidays" written on it).

When my mother emerged from the basement with a bag of stuff to be given away she found me standing over a pile of ice cube trays giving a detailed account of their history as Ness listened intently. We ignored the random thing she was doing, she ignored ours.

Bobby, You'll Be Tree Number 4.

I saw an article online that said a man robbed a bank in New Hampshire dressed as a tree. I can't help but love everything about this story. I love thinking about his mindset going into the robbery, I love the cartoon nature of the disguise and I love imagining what the other people in line at the bank thought as a tree waited patiently to make a transaction. Crime is wrong, obviously, but if someone demanded my wallet dressed as some sort of shrubbery (or anything really) I think I'd go along with the whole thing. Yes, I'd be out some cash, but just think of how many times I could mention that I was robbed by a pencil (or cat, or spruce). You can't put a price on that.

For anyone who has ever seen The Bushman at Fisherman's Wharf in SF, you have to appreciate how hilarious this story is. I hate Fisherman's Wharf, but 5 minutes of watching this guy scare people was worth getting stuck behind slow-walking tourists. The Bushman is brilliant for 2 reasons.
1) Watching startled people jump and scream is one of life's simple pleasures.
2) People are actually surprised someone is behind a random group of branches sprouting out of nothing on a city sidewalk.

I like to think the Tree-Man in NH had the Bushman in mind when he robbed the bank. "I'll just move slowly along, la de da, I'm just a tree, nothing to see here, and then when they least expect it, 'Give me all your money!'' The more I started to think about the whole thing, the more I started to really like this guy. How sad is that? I just can't help but smile when I imagine him breaking twigs off the trees in his yard. "Oh, this one is good! I am so going to look like a tree."

But all of this raises the question, why? Why would a grown man think dressing as a tree and robbing a bank would work? Or, not even work, but why would he think this was a good idea? Or, not even a good idea, why would he even think it? I know little (read: nothing) about the origins of the criminal mind but I'd say the source is a childhood trauma. For this man in New Hampshire, it's quite clear to me that he played a tree in one too many an elementary school play.

Do you remember elementary school plays? The quiet kids were ALWAYS trees. It was the only way to get Shy Sally on stage so her parents could get a picture and she wouldn't feel left out. But even when I was in first grade it amazed me that these kids didn't tell the teachers to fuck off. Trees never had lines, they literally stood there, and I swear to you, I remember one kid being a tree that didn't even have a hole for his face. He was literally behind the tree, holding it up. That kid is without a doubt in jail right now. Telling a child to be a tree (particularly during aquatic scenes) does very little to build his sense of self and establishes within him the idea that he won't be noticed. Enter Tree-Man, stage right.

I like to think that if he'd been given a few lines in a play as a kid, he might have done something more sophisticated than robbing a bank dressed as a tree. Maybe a soft soliloquy delivered at the ATM.

Existential Crisis On A Bun.

Today I watched the Nathan's Hot dog Eating Contest for the first time ever. I've seen enough highlight footage to get the gist, but I thought I owed it to myself to actually witness the full 12 minutes. I tried to go into it with an open mind. I thought, perhaps it isn't the worst display of gluttony the world has ever known. Perhaps there's a level of sportsmanship that trumps the blatant disregard for millions of starving people. Maybe it's just really fun to watch.

It turns out, the answers to those thoughts are as follows:
1)Yes it is.
2) No there's not.
3) Are you effing kidding me?

Around 3 minutes into the event (which is of course, an eating competition but also,"The World's Biggest Dumbass" contest) I grew predictably nauseous. If there is anything more disgusting than consuming mass quanities of hot dogs, it's eating wet hot dogs. The dipping of the buns into water caused me to dry-heave in a manner that is usually reserved for finding hair in food. But the eating wasn't necessarily the main source of my discomfort. I think it was the spectacle.

The announcers introduced each competitor with a laundry list of their achievements. World record holder in oysters! World record holder in cheesecake! Birthday cake! Fried Asparagus! Chicken Wings! Ribs! Shoo-Fly Pie Champion of the World! This man ate his own baby! And with each name announced the crowd roared with enthusiasm. Roaring crowds for people who eat. "Hey! I eat food too! But you eat waaay more food than me so I painted your name on my face! I love you! I love the way, you know, you eat food... and stuff."
I don't understand the cheering. If you've ever been to a buffet and noticed the gross guy who keeps going up with the same plate, you might not be inclined to clap so hard.

And I'd like to think the announcers weren't being 100% serious with their commentary but it was honestly hard to tell. When introducing the American hopeful Joey Chestnut one commentator said that some American heroes people think about on Independence Day are "Abe Lincoln, Neil Armstrong, Taylor Hicks, and Joey Chestnut." Normally I'd find this comical. But coming from a man who is paid to moderate a hot dog contest, I'm not so sure what to think.

Events like this, where there seems to great excitement over something I don't understand on any level, send me into introspective overdrive. People could be cheering or dressing up or taking pictures and I'm left in a slight panic questioning what the hell is going on. So as each minute ticked off the clock, and 30, then 40, then 50 hot dogs were devoured by each eater, I heard my inner Alvy Singer grow louder and louder. The universe is expanding and these idiots are eating 60 hot dogs.

It was impossible for me to make it through the 12-minute gorging without questioning our collective purpose. And maybe, that's what this whole thing was about. Nihilism, solipsism syndrome, and the meaning of life all called into question outside of Nathan's on Coney Island, Brooklyn.

Or maybe it was about eating hot dogs really fast.

Broker's Fee (Fie Foe Fum).

Fee! Fie! Foe! Fum!
I smell the blood of a renter in a desperate situation
Be she live, or be she dead
I'm going to charge 10% of annual rent because I can, and you'll pay it, because this space is really nice and you can't have it until you give me my money first. Sorry, It's just sort of how the industry works.

Note: This is an actual excerpt from an actual Real Estate Marketing Fairy Tale, "Jack and the Two Bedroom, One Bath, Quiet Tree-Lined Street Close to Shops Beanstalk." It's not great. It has this really annoying ending where it turns out that heat and hot water aren't included and jack just decides to live in his sister's living room until he's 30.

So I'm going crazy. Looking for an apartment in NY is basically the worst thing in the world. Some people might enjoy it. Those people might also enjoy soft rock, mystery smells on a crowded train or watching strangers eat corn on the cob. Different strokes. I for one, would prefer not to spend the vast majority of my weekends walking around Brooklyn in intense heat looking at places that either A) Scare me in a, "Will a bug eat my face off when i sleep?" kind of way
or
B) Are so amazing I can't believe I can afford to live there, and then the Broker chimes in with a ps--I can't.

The whole process is frustrating, and that's why people should really limit it to looking at one or two places a day. But you can't do that because everyone is telling you that the great spaces will be picked by noon and that good apartments won't last longer than the day they're posted. But no pressure. Just get out there and have fun with it!

Do you know how painful it is to spend hours a day looking at apartment listings on Craigslist? Do you?! It's a modern day cilice. Craig Newmark lived in my neighborhood in SF and I always ran into him when grabbing a coffee at Reverie. I never thought to look for a hairshirt, but I'm quite certain he was wearing one.

Saturday was a real treat. I woke up early to search open-houses, made some calls, and Vanessa and I set out. Long story short, by 11AMi was delirious and sweating like some sort of sweaty animal (pig, i guess? are there others?) because of the heat and the billionth floor walk ups. Note: Be leery of "Views." An ad that reads, "Nice View" just means that by the time you reach the top floor, you'll be very dizzy and start hallucinating that you're dancing on a giant cupcake (if it's giant i guess it would just be a cake) and a pony walks up to you and says, "Hi, I'm Buttons."
That's all "Nice View" means when you have a budget.

By 2:00 we had walked so far away from anything we knew that we were searching for any establishment that served or sold food. Where the hell do people eat in random parts of Brooklyn?! We ended up getting a sandwich at a convenient store with one aisle--(complete contents of aisle included: Fantastic spray cleaner, a 6pk of Sam Adams, beef jerky, and kotex products--that IS convenient!) A woman who looked like she was about to die, walked to the back of the aisle and started coughing violently. I was so punch-drunk by this point I go to Ness, "Clean up on aisle...aisle." and literally burst into tears laughing.

The whole process is unhealthy.
Looked at a few no-fee apartments yesterday and fell in love with one, but when I spoke with the guy today it turns out there is a broker's fee. Well, sure. It's only fair. I mean, he did unlock the doors for us, and then he had to lock them back up when we left. Makes sense that I should give him a few thousand dollars.

Foe Fum.

Could You Spell That Please?

The Scripps National Spelling Bee might be the last genuine bit of programming on television. It's not puffed up with lights and celebrity (it's at the Hyatt), it's galaxies away from the influence of fashion (ah, the white polo t-shirt!), it lacks a plot created in an editing suite, and is basically a huge bore. Only, it's not a bore at all. And that's why it's so fascinating. The Spelling Bee has the potential to be worse than watching Charlie Rose on mute, but whenever it's on, I'm glued.

And It's not about the spelling. Well, not entirely. No one needs to know how to spell anymore--that's common knowledge. So i guess there's a strange fascination with these little kids who have spent the better parts of their youth memorizing words no one uses. Spell check Peggy! Now go out and play! But it's this strange art almost. This awkward, brilliant, performance art and ESPN is smart enough to let us all in on it. Spelling words is the excuse to see how the brain works. To actually view the process of the left brain churning and then to witness it link up with the right when the bell either dings, or doesn't. It's the most advanced form of people watching on TV. Some of these kids have already perfected their poker faces at 11-years old, and that's pretty sad. But the kids who react as if playing "emotion charades" are the best. Their relief, or surprise, or frustration, or sadness is loud in their expressions. It's so real you have to think hard about the last time you might have seen something so honest.

But let's not build it up too much. Some of the kids are really annoying, asking questions for the full 2-minutes they're allowed. "Could you use it in a sentence?" "Could you repeat that sentence?" "Language of origin please?" "What was the word again?" "Is there another pronunciation?" Ok, Jimmy, spell or leave. They repeat the word over and over, and the announcer repeats the word back to them.
"Reseau."
"Reseau."
"Reseau."
"Reseau? Is that right?"
"Sounds right. Reseau."
"Reseau?"
"Reseau."
"Reseau."
And then you feel like you want to punch someone.

A few years ago I came up with the "Lord of the Rings" Drinking Game. Basically, anytime a character in the movie stared into the distance, you had to drink. 15-minutes into each movie, everyone was wasted. The National Spelling Bee Drinking Game might beat that. Every time the word is said out loud, take a drink. It's probably not a great idea at the actual event, but for people viewing at home, it could be a good time. If by next year the event is called the "Miller High Life National Spelling Bee," you owe me a dollar.

God's Weird Birthday Party.

If you happen to watch Fox News you know that God's Birthday falls on May 23, or, whatever day of the year the American Idol Finale airs. And to celebrate, God enjoys throwing a little party. It's called, the American Idol Finale. It's actually pretty convenient how that all works out. But then, why wouldn't it be?

I don't watch Fox News, so I didn't know about this whole birthday thing. But after seeing the show last night, it became quite clear that only an omniscient being could have put that little get-together together. Party hats and streamers do not a God birthday make. One needs the most interesting people, one needs Ryan Seacrest, one needs lots of music, and one needs an ice cream cake. (It was in the back of the auditorium, the camera never showed it but it was there). Last night's finale at the Kodak Theatre was the most bizarre grouping of humans in one space--ever. It was obvious that God had made the guest list in hopes of outdoing last year's party, which He so carefully planned with a twist ending, "Um, and then i want the 'Soul Patrol' guy to win. He's funny."

Let's discuss that guest-list, shall we? In no particular order, these are some faces I saw in the crowd.
-Jerry Springer
-Jeff Foxworthy
-Rebecca from Full House and some young boys who were definitely not Nicky and Alex
-Constantine "I'll stare into every camera i see" Maroulis
-Denise Richards
-Jennifer Hudson
-Madonna
-Jack Bauer
-Helen Thomas
-The Shah of Iran. Or, I think it was the Shah's cousin.
-Popeye
Just to name a few.

For such an esteemed list of attendees, the performances had to be spot on. Hot artists of the now such as Gwen Stefani and Kelly Clarkson.
A Pretenders cover by Carrie Underwood.
A set with Smokey Robinson and the fat kid with the horrible hair.
Gladys Night. (Because nothing sets off a party quite like a woman named Gladys.)
A piece in which Blake and Doug E. Fresh worked the stage together, ensuring that everyone in America would try for at least 15 seconds to beatbox.
Oh, and then Bette Midler showed up out of nowhere to sing "Wind Beneath My Wings." You know, because it was relevant.
I enjoyed watching Randy Jackson and Paula Abdul dry-hump each other while doing the Angels in the Outfield arm movements to that song. It was appropriate. PS. Randy, the man who is making your suits is pulling a tragically successful joke on you. Fire him dog, the suits really didn't work for me. Particularly that suit with sailing rope all over it. I wasn't feeling it dog.

The entire night was just about as weird as you could want. But just to make sure there were no doubts about that, this lady showed up.

Maybe next year, I don't know, perhaps just a small dinner party? A few close friends, the ice cream cake, maybe make a cool little party shuffle on your playlist? Just a thought.

Enough Already.

Enrique Iglesias sang "Hero" on Dancing With the Stars tonight and it occurred to me that the song could easily be 35 years old. Still with the Hero Enrique?? Really?!

My problem with the song is trifold:
1) It's horrible. (Did I even need to mention that?)
2) It's a song comprised almost entirely of questions and that's really annoying.
3) Still singing this song is like the inventor of the crimp iron still walking around and saying, "Hey, you know the crimp iron? That was me. Should we make out now, or later?"

With every question he asks in the song I grow more and more frustrated. Who the hell is he talking to? And hasn't he figured out after all these years that they're not going to answer?

It's a random rant. I'm just not a fan.
And at one point during the show I was pretty sure Enrique was tap dancing. That turned out not to be the case. Either way, it was lame.

Remember When Fridays!

The blog has taken a backseat to a few things as of late. (Thanks for still reading grandma.) In an effort to keep things interesting, and guarantee a post a week, I am proud to introduce "Remember When" Friday.

There's no way for you to know this, but an old Asian man wearing a baseball cap that reads, "Whatever." just blew on one of those blowout party favors into my face. He was hired to do so. I'm going all out for these "Remember When" Fridays, people.

Please feel free to contribute pieces of garbage stuck in your mind to Remember When postings on Fridays. It'll be a fun. Or, it won't. But I can promise you, it will be one of the two.

So, without further ado. Ah-hem.

Remember when DJ Tanner was invited to a Kimmy's pool party but felt bad about her body in a bathing suit and tried to lose weight by starving herself and eventually passing out on a StairMaster?

Yeah, I remember that one too.

I'll Pencil That In.

When I arrived in New York, Sabrina told me it was imperative that I buy a planner. She said that people living here have too many things going on and that if I ever wanted to see anyone, I'd have to plan weeks in advance. That's fine. It's so not me, but you know, when in Rome.

But here's the problem with planners for people who don't have "jobs." They're really silly. No, I mean like seven-year old kid scheduling you into their Blackberry silly. When people ask me my plans for 2 weeks from now, I can say with great confidence that I'll be free. But part of me wants to flip through my imaginary planner anyway and look over the blank pages with great care. "I have nothing going on the 20th, that'll be perfect. Oh, you said the 21st? Shoot, let me check. Hmm, OK, that's also looking very good."

I suppose all of this will change when I decide to actively look for gainful employment. But that's not scheduled until June. The other day I interrupted Vanessa in the middle of a story to tell her about a commercial contest for Heinz 57. Describing my idea for the commercial I want to submit, and then wondering about all of the rules for the contest, I jumped up to grab my computer and started searching online for the fine print. While reading the official rules aloud, I looked up to Vanessa's judging look.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing. I just like how instead of looking for a job, you're running to read the rules for a ketchup contest."

It was a good point.

Anyway, the no job/open schedule combo is not a total bust. On the contrary, it's awesome! Sabrina and her old roommate Justin have all these great tickets, and because normal people have things going on at 2 in the afternoon, I am able to take in fantastic shows, free of charge. It's nice. Justin called the other day saying he had an extra ticket to a Tarzan matinee. Brina covered the phone and goes, "You don't want to see Tarzan tomorrow, do you?" And I was like, "Um, yes I do. Thank You."

I had to take Vanessa in to her first day of work yesterday because she hasn't figured out the train yet and on the ride in we discussed my plans for the day.

-Well let's see. I'm riding on a train with you this morning and then walking you to work like the first day of school. Then I have to return a pair of pants, and then i have Tarzan at 2:00.

Brina was right. People living here just have too much going on.

I'd Clap But I Have A Beverage.

I was at a concert with Ashley and the music was fantastic. We were both holding beers and she looked over and said, "This is really great. I'd clap, but i have a beverage." I thought it was such a funny line. I want it to be a track on my fake band's album. That and "Baby, It's my Latin Temper." Those will be two hot tracks. Anyway, Ashley's line was sort of a theme for the graduation weekend. More pics.

Donna Martin Graduates!

Pics from Nessa's graduation weekend.

She got a great job in New York and now I'm in the same city with both of my sisters. It's sort of a huge deal.

Clueless "R" I.

My cousin's baby shower is coming up and I've been meaning to stop by a Babies "R" Us, to pick out a gift. Only every time I thought of doing this I became overwhelmed. I'm terrible at picking out gifts for people. And these are people I know. Grown people who can talk and have interests. How do I shop for a newborn? Do infants have hobbies straight out the womb? Is pooping a hobby? An entire level of Babies "R" Us says it is.

Sabrina told me that there were no Babies "R" Us stores in the city so you can imagine my surprise when I saw one whilst walking around Union Square. (I think I'm the first person to ever say, "*%$# YES! Babies R US!") I walked into the store and printed out my cousin's registry, but because I was obviously the last person to buy a gift, the only things left on the list were pacifiers and random cloths. Can we discuss the "cloths" for babies? Is this Capitalism's biggest joke? Burp cloths,wash cloths, cleansing cloths, cloth diapers, and all things terry. And then, to make us feel even dumber for purchasing the same piece of fabric priced differently because some genius at Gerber or Koala Baby gave it a different name, all the cloths are just about the same size as the blankets, receiving or warming, or what have you.

So standing with an arm full of cloths, growing slightly steamed that I was being made a fool of, I kept referring back to the registry to ensure that there was actually a need for these things. I must have had a pained look of confusion on my face because a sales woman approached me.

-Can I help you?
-Um, I think I'm good, thanks.
-Are you shopping for a friend, or?
(Note to self: Stop eating)
-For my cousin's shower.
-Oh, those warming blankets are great.
(Yea? Well I'm glad it was one of 5 things left that this printed list told me to buy.)
-Can I ask you? Is there really a big difference between the function of a warming blanket and say, a burp cloth? I mean, couldn't you basically wipe a baby down or wrap it up with any of these things?

Note to reader: NEVER EVER say that in Babies "R" Us.

The woman gave me a look that told me I was a total ass. I tried to smile it off but she wasn't having it. I walked away to find a unisex pacifier, and left.

um, hilarious.

Erik (of Gwen Stefani forgery notoriety) sent me this text last night when I landed in NY.

Ball-busting knows no geographic limitation.

This Might Fit.

I'm not a great packer. Never have been. I try to subscribe to the rule that you shouldn't pack more than you can sprint with. That if you can't start running with your bags at a moment's notice, you've packed too much.

I took this rule to heart after traveling with Allison, one of my roommates in London. On a trip to Germany, she had obviously packed too much. Cd's IN their cases (who does that?!) snacks, clothes, books, basically everything she owned for a 4-day vacay. So much stuff in fact, that she needed about 9 plastic bags to hold the overflow. Seriously. So cut to the end of our trip. The plastic bags were nearly doubled thanks to all the crap she bought and she stared at everything in the hotel lobby wondering how she might make it to the train. We told her to throw most of it away but she refused, so we offered her a head start and she left 20 minutes before us. I know what you're thinking, that it was mean of us not to help. Whatever. 4 of the bags she refused to throw away were groceries from London. I wasn't about to carry 25 lbs of crisps and her entire music library to a train, I just wasn't. After a leisurely breakfast, Jackie, Robin and I happily threw our backpacks on our shoulders and walked to the train station.

About a mile down the road we saw Allison dragging her luggage, holding 3 large bags and (I need to tell you, this is one hundred percent true) kicking all the rest of her things down the street. All of the plastic bags had ripped, and yet, she still didn't get the hint that perhaps it was too much.

I mention this story only because I've felt a bit like Allison in the past few days. I'm packing up to head back to New York and it's forcing me to evaluate what I really need. It's hard to send the contents of your life across the country. The airline says 2 bags but your life says, what, are you kidding me? I don't want to keep taking junk with me coast to coast but it's hard to part with old t-shirts and pants I have no intention of ever wearing again. Every item of clothing is subjected to the test.
Q: When was the last time you wore this sweater?
A: 2002.
Q: Why are you keeping these pants?
A: Well, I might make them into shorts.
Q: Then why are you keeping all these shorts?
A: Well, I might make those into a blanket.

I kept all of my MUNI passes for 3 years thinking that I was going to do something artistic with them but I never came up with anything. Of course, now that they're gone I think they would have made a sweet pair of shorts. I've saved all the letters I've received (yay pen pals!) while I was out here but those are heavy and have forced me to throw out classic old shirts. People, we have too much crap. Or, I have too much crap. I've had Erykah Badu's "Bag Lady" on repeat while packing to remind me of Allison and force me to cut ties with my favorite useless things.

Truly, I want to throw everything away. The packing is driving me nuts. Speaking of which, can we discuss the Styrofoam peanut for a minute? The Styrofoam peanut is bubble wrap's evil twin. Bubble wrap is sleek, and fun, and practical. Everyone loves bubble wrap. No one likes the nut. The Styrofoam peanut is impossible to arrange once in a box--think trying to shovel a hole in the sand right where the waves hit. Just when you think you have a little space in the box, all the peanuts fall over filling it up. I was actually screaming at a box this morning. I'm not proud of it. Wars should not involve bombs or guns. Planes should simply drop tons of Styrofoam peanuts over cities forcing the bad guys to dig out of it.

So I've been looking at everything I own and thinking about it in terms of shipping costs. Yes, I love that jacket, but it's going to put this bag over the 50 lb mark. Leave the gun, take the cannoli. Or rather, toss the wool, pack the chiffon.

Ha. The idea of me owning chiffon anything made me laugh.

I'd Hate To See The Old Day.

I just read that Celine Dion's Vegas show, "Celine Dion: A New Day," will end it's run at Caesar's Palace in December. The show has been going on for over 4 years and while I haven't seen it, I'll bet you my uterus each show ends with "My heart will go on."
Perhaps more impressive than the ticket sales (over 90% of seats sold at each performance) and far more interesting than Ms. Dion's stamina (she's a robot, everyone knows that, right?) is the fact that there wasn't a repeat episode of Jonestown among the employees at the Coliseum.

The show's creator, Franco Dragone (best name ever) said the performances have varied over the years and that the last show in December will be much different than the opening show years ago.

Sidebar, your honor.
-Celine Dion still sings Celine Dion songs at these shows, correct?
-Well, yes.
-Then I don't care how you spin it Dragon, it's the same day. It's like the worst version of Groundhog Day, with 45 costume changes and heartfelt talks given by Dion to the audience as she flies around on swings.

"You know people-- (rises into air). Whoa! What ees dis that is happening to me? (Flies from one side of the stage to the other). You know, growing up in Canada I used to fly around my house at night because there was no where on the floor to sleep. I have 36 brothers and sisters (Flies into a giant bubble). Hey! Look at me in this bubble! This reminds me of a song. Can I sing dee song for you people? It's called, 'My heart will go on.' It's from a little movie about a boat. I hope you like it."

And while the flying, the bubble, and the song were the essence of the show, it was a New Day, everyday. For $600 a ticket, people could get a sneak preview of Hell.

That's a tough act to follow. The Coliseum, the arena Caesar's built for the show, cost almost $100 million. They'll need to find an artist come December who can:
A) Fill those seats
B) Act semi-human despite actual robot/alien status
C) Keep that Hell on Earth vibe fresh

Michael Bolton comes to mind but even Vegas has standards. My money is on Clay Aiken filling the spot. The show will be called, "Clay Aiken: A Thousand Different Ways" and it will be done the same way every night for 5-years.
You owe me a dollar if it happens

I'm Sorry.

Did anyone see that sign a fan held up on Idol last night? It said, "Sanjaya is my Papaya."

In related news, REM front man Michael Stipe has been contacted to rewrite the lyrics for "It's the End of The World."

How "Lost" Ends.

Warning: This is a Spoiler. If you watch Lost and don't want to know how it ends, go read somebody else's blog.

I came home last night and Raf was watching Lost. He totally got me hooked the first season, but I became fed up with knowing less and less and annoyed with the additional information thrown at me every week, basically ensuring that I would have no clue what was going on.
OK, in this episode, they're going to find another hatch. And this hatch will have a computer too, and um, they have to push a button every so often and then the others will come, and um, they'll bring a polar bear, and then oh, watch out, there's this black blob thing that could kill you, and this guy says, "brother" a lot, and oh here's a flashback to how the Koreans met and fell in love and isn't this the best show you've ever seen!

NO! The man who shouts, "Big Sky, Montana!" over and over on the bus makes more sense than this show.

Raffi thinks it's brilliant because he believes the writers have known all along how the story will end. I think the writers were shocked that the show lasted this long and have no effing clue what's going on. You know the writing meetings every week are like, "So, any ideas how we could end this believably?" And they all just stare at each other with guilty looks.

Have you ever had a conversation with a child who was lying? They drag the story out including random bits of useless and unrelated information in hopes that they might eventually weave it into something someone would buy. The writers at Lost are about as creative as a 4-year old trying to explain that he didn't sit on his own birthday cake. "And then...and then....and then..."

So I was telling Raffi this and he said I was wrong and I was like, "You know, they could just end it. They'll play that weird music, Mathew Fox will look down a hole and that could be it. You'd never know how it really ended."
"They would never do that."
"But they could. How mad would you be?"
"I would just be mad if the last episode someone woke up and it was all a dream."

And there it was. Raffi had solved the Lost puzzle. Waste no more Wednesday nights my friends, this is how Lost ends. In the final episode, just as the people of the island are about to have the truth revealed to them, Bob Newhart will wake up and discover that he's just had a very strange dream. There will be clues to this ending next season, when they find another hatch that happens to be a quaint Inn in Vermont.

Wind It Up!

Gwen Stefani was the guest coach on Idol this week and truthfully, it was the only reason I watched the whole show. How could you not love her?! She's just about as cool as a human being could hope to be. When her latest cd came out I was like a 13-year old on TRL. "AHHHH! I'm Jess from San FranDisco and at number 3 this is 'yummy!' I DARE you not to dance! AHHH." This kid at work kept making fun of me and repeated, "Wind it up!" about 45 times a day for 2 weeks until he ruined the song for me.

A little while after this, I went into work and ran into Erik who was like, "You'll never believe who stayed here last night. Your girl Gwen."
So I did the Elaine "Get Out!" shove and started flipping asking if he met her, if she was still there, etc. And he was like, "yea, she's cool. and I mentioned that you were a huge fan so I got her to sign something for you."
Cue 13-year old reactions. "You did!?! Let's see!!"
So he gave me this picture of her and I saw her autograph on it and started to jump around before I even read the note. Erik was laughing a little bit and I thought it was because of my reaction but I looked at the note and it said, "To Jess, Wind It Up!" Gwen Stefani.

I stopped jumping and my smile faded away. "Wind it up?!!" And he just burst out laughing.
She was never even there.

I'm keeping it anyway, I don't care.

Just A Thought.

You know what would make Britney Spears a better mother and role model?
A machine gun leg.

Change And a Joke.

Richard Hell wrote a great article for the New York Times when CBGB's closed. (Note: CBGB's has a special place in my heart because a bartender there once threatened to beat me up. Another story, for another time.) The article ended by saying:

"We all know that nothing lasts. But at least we can make a cool and funny exhibit of it. I'm serious. God likes change and a joke. God loves CBGB's."

So i don't know if God caught that whole incident with the bartender, but i love the bit about change and a joke. It's my new mantra because it's so true, right?

I put in official notice at work yesterday, sans the dramatics I had envisioned. No big Jerry Maguire, "Who's coming with me?!" speech. No rants about how questions of beef temperature will suck the soul from your body, or that the only skill I've gained in the last few years is knowing when people will need an extra fork. I have those rants, and if we're drinking together, you'll get to hear them. I have a ketchup diatribe that could easily last all night. But I refrained from any of that, and it felt good. Just a short note typed on company paper, sealed and placed in Karen's mailbox. I really feel like I've grown. The last time I quit I said, "This is my last day, bye." Something on paper is a big step for me.

The crazy thing is, when things end, you really just want to make a cool funny exhibit of it. My job blows my nose, but knowing I'm leaving makes it seem like this hilarious little party I went to everyday. The guys I worked with made me laugh, I got to talk to some cool celebrities about their sandwiches, I learned a lot about food, and even days that I would sit there and stare at the floor seem funny now too. I was able to pay off my student loans staring at the floor. Not many people can say that, outside of maybe a radio contest winner.

A few things I'll take away from this job:

-Japanese people LOVE clam chowder, and will always order it. Always.

-Know how your significant other takes their coffee. There was a couple staying on their honeymoon and the groom ordered coffee for the morning and I was like, "Would you care for any cream or milk on the side?" and he's like, "Oh, I don't know. Babe, do you like milk in your coffee?"
This marriage will not last.

-Always tip more than you have to. Just do it.

-Talking with fake accents on the phone is important for your being.

-Don't ask strangers, "What do I want to eat?" They don't know and you won't listen to their suggestion anyway. Unless your last name is Fujiwara, in which case, you'd like the chowder.