The thing about Halloween landing on a Friday this year is that it gave people the excuse to make it a weekend long event. For some, face painting and sugar-highs started as early as Thursday.

I’ve written in the past about how I’m not a huge Halloween fan. I created a cop-out excuse last year about how ‘every night in New York is Halloween’ (it’s true, every night you can wear anything you want) and ‘going out is hard enough without specific wardrobe requirements.’ These excuses, while nicely crafted, are lame.

The truth: Horror movies make me cry. I get scared easily. I still have horrific memories of supposedly fun haunted houses terrifying me into months of insomnia as a child. I just don’t like dressing up. I really like things to pretty all the time. I’m anal about my skin and can’t imagine putting yucky face paint on it. I so hate being scared myself I can’t even fathom dressing up as something spooky and scaring others.

In short, I’m a Halloween loser. But this doesn’t mean I didn’t go out to do a full investigation of Halloween events taking place in the city all weekend long. I realize Halloween is over, we admired the costumes and hopefully ate a year’s worth of candy corn, but before everyone forgets about Halloween completely and refocuses 110% on their idle mind time on New Years, I wanted to put in my quick two cents on the club with the best Halloween decorations.

And my winner is… Continue

Why did the chicken cross the road?

SARAH PALIN:
Well you know, that chicken was crossin' Main Street because the gosh darn economy is so bad that Joe Six Pack and Hockey Mom were chasin' it for dinner.


BARACK OBAMA:
The chicken crossed the road because it was time for a change! The chicken wanted change!


JOHN MC CAIN:
My friends, that chicken crossed the road because he recognized the need to engage in cooperation and dialogue with all the chickens on the other side of the road.


HILLARY CLINTON:
When I was First Lady, I personally helped that little chicken to cross the road. This experience makes me uniquely qualified to ensure right from Day One! That every chicken in this country gets the chance it deserves to cross the road. But then, this really isn't about me.

GEORGE W. BUSH:
We don' t really care why the chicken crossed the road. We just want to know if the chicken is on our side of the road, or not. The chicken is either against us, or for us. There is no middle ground here.

DICK CHENEY:
Where's my gun?

COLIN POWELL:
Now to the left of the screen, you can clearly see the satellite image of the chicken crossing the road.

BILL CLINTON:
I did not cross the road with that chicken. What is your definition of chicken?

AL GORE:
I invented the chicken.

JOHN KERRY:
Although I voted to let the chicken cross the road, I am now against it! It was the wrong road to cross, and I was misled about the chicken's intentions. I am not for it now, and will remain against it.

AL SHARPTON:
Why are all the chickens white? We need some black chickens.

ANDERSON COOPER, CNN:
We have reason to believe there is a chicken, but we have not yet been allowed to have access to the other side of the road.

NANCY GRACE:
That chicken crossed the road because he's guilty! You can see it in his eyes and the way he walks .


PAT BUCHANAN:
To steal the job of a decent, hardworking American.


MARTHA STEWART:
No one called me to warn me which way that chicken was going. I had a standing order at the Farmer's Market to sell my eggs when the price dropped to a certain level. No little bird gave me any insider information.


DR SEUSS:
Did the chicken cross the road? Did he cross it with a toad? Yes, the chicken crossed the road, but why it crossed I've not been told.

ERNEST HEMINGWAY:
To die in the rain, alone .

JERRY FALWELL:
Because the chicken was gay! Can't you people see the plain truth? That's why they call it the other side. Yes, my friends, that chicken is gay. And if you eat that chicken, you will become gay, too. I say we boycott all chickens until we sort out this abomination that the
liberal media white washes with seemingly harmless phrases like the other side. That chicken should not be crossing the road. It's as plain and as simple as that.

GRAND PA:
In my day we didn't ask why the chicken crossed the road. Somebody told us the chicken crossed the road, and that was good enough.

BARBARA WALTERS:
Isn't that interesting? In a few moments, we will be listening to the chicken tell, for the first time, the heart warming story of how it experienced a serious case of molting, and went on to accomplish its lifelong dream of crossing the road.


ARISTOTLE:
It is the nature of chickens to cross the road.

JOHN LENNON:
Imagine all the chickens in the world crossing roads together, in peace.

BILL GATES :
I have just released eChicken 2008, which will not only cross roads, but will lay eggs, file your important documents, and balance your check book. Internet Explorer is an integral part of eChicken 2008. This new platform is much more stable and will never crash or need to be rebooted.

ALBERT EINSTEIN:
Did the chicken really cross the road, or did the road move beneath the chicken?

COLONEL SANDERS:
Did I miss one??

Hey, so I had a bad posting day. Sort of like a bad hair day. Sorry for the confusion. Here's some fun stuff to make up for it:

On the markets

CFO -- Corporate Fraud Officer

BULL MARKET -- A random market movement causing an investor to mistake himself for a financial genius.

BEAR MARKET -- A 6 to 18 month period when the kids get no allowance, the wife gets no jewelry, and the husband gets no sex.

VALUE INVESTING -- The art of buying low and selling lower.

P/E RATIO -- The percentage of investors wetting their pants as the market keeps crashing.

BROKER -- What my broker has made me.

STANDARD & POOR -- Your life in a nutshell.

STOCK ANALYST -- Idiot who just downgraded your stock.

STOCK SPLIT -- When your ex-wife and her lawyer split your assets equally between themselves.

FINANCIAL PLANNER -- A guy whose phone has been disconnected.

MARKET CORRECTION -- The day after you buy stocks.

CASH FLOW -- The movement your money makes as it disappears down the toilet.

YAHOO -- What you yell after selling it to some poor sucker for $240 per share.

WINDOWS -- What you jump out of when you're the sucker who bought Yahoo @ $240 per share.

INSTITUTIONAL INVESTOR -- Past year investor who's now locked up in a nuthouse.

PROFIT -- An archaic word no longer in use.

On the election

On the markets

If you had purchased $1,000 of Delta Air Lines stock one year ago, you would have $49 left.

With Fannie Mae, you would have $2.50 left of the original $1,000.

With AIG, you would have less than $15 left.

But, if you had purchased $1,000 worth of beer one year ago, drunk all of the beer, then turned in the cans for the aluminum recycling REFUND, you would have $214 cash.

Based on the above, the best current investment advice is to drink heavily and recycle.


On the election

While walking down the street one day a US senator is tragically hit by a truck and dies. His soul arrives in heaven and is met by St. Peter at the entrance.

"Welcome to heaven," says St. Peter. "Before you settle in, it seems there is a problem. We seldom see a high official around these parts, you see, so we're not sure what to do with you."

"No problem, just let me in," says the senator.

"Well, I'd like to, but I have orders from higher up. What we'll do is have you spend one day in hell and one in heaven. Then you can choose where to spend eternity."

"Really, I've made up my mind. I want to be in heaven," says the senator.

"I'm sorry, but we have our rules."


And with that, St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell. The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a green golf course. In the distance is a clubhouse and standing in front of it are all his friends and other politicians who had worked with him.

Everyone is very happy and in evening dress. They run to greet him, shake his hand, and reminisce about the good times they had while getting rich at the expense of the people.

They play a friendly game of golf and then dine on lobster, caviar and champagne.

Also present is the devil, who really is a very friendly guy who has a good time dancing and telling jokes. They are having such a good time that before he realizes it, it is time to go.

Everyone gives him a hearty farewell and waves while the elevator rises.

The elevator goes up, up, up and the door reopens on heaven where St. Peter is waiting for him.

"Now it's time to visit heaven."

So, 24 hours pass with the senator joining a group of contented souls moving from cloud to cloud, playing the harp and singing. They have a good time and, before he realizes it, the 24 hours have gone by and St. Peter returns.

"Well, then, you've spent a day in hell and another in heaven. Now choose your eternity."

The senator reflects for a minute, then answers: "Well, I would never have said it before, I
mean heaven has been delightful, but I think I would be better off in hell."

So St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell.

Now the doors of the elevator open and he's in the middle of a barren land covered with waste and garbage. He sees all his friends, dressed in rags, picking up the trash and putting it in black bags as more trash falls from above....

The devil comes over to him and puts his arm around his shoulder. "I don't understand," stammers the senator. "Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course and clubhouse, and we ate lobster and caviar, drank champagne, and danced and had a great time. Now there's just a wasteland full of garbage and my friends look miserable. What happened?"

The devil looks at him, smiles and says.......


"Yesterday we were campaigning. Today you voted."

Related Posts:

What Women Want

Fashion Week My Ass

Clubbing Concepts I Don't Understand

Sloppy with a Capital 'S'

An anonymous friend of mine just started a new job which involves a training program. Knowing that she’d been looking forward to launching her career, awaiting this day like a kid craves Christmas and studying the company’s stats the entire week beforehand, I asked her in a joyous voice after her first day:

“How did it go?”

She seemed confused, then stunned, then angry.

“We played ice breaker games,” she pronounced, shocked herself at the absurdity.

“Ice breaker games?” I echoed back. As someone who’s only worked in the creative industry where it’s not a faux pas for me to throw grapes (or any other food) and my co-workers and boss, I’ve always harbored a secret fascination with ‘Corporate America’ and what it must be like to actually change out of your pajamas before going to work.

“Yeah, and we decorated stuff,” my friend added. Suddenly, I could feel her irritation overwhelming me.

She went on to recount how their ‘training’ involved drawing on poster boards and using arts and crafts tools like glitter pens. Oh, and they also did ‘team building’ exercises in which the importance of proper office attire and ‘being on time’ was emphasized.

Excuse me?

This was a training program for future executives. Yet it perfectly mirrored the kind of activities I participated in at YMCA camp at age eight.

“We were treated like children,” she explained. “The entire experience was humiliating. It was like, ‘hello, I’ve had a job before you don’t need to explain to me proper email etiquette.’”

Apparently, companies feel like they do. Sure, an employee manual should exist which everyone should read on their own time, but do college graduates with previous employment really need to go through the importance of ‘being on time’ bullet point by bullet point on a white board as if they’d just been released from a playpen?

What are we? Apes?

What a great way to make it clear to your employees that

a) you think they’re fundamentally retarded

b) you have extremely low expectations for them

Shouldn’t a company set the bar really high and simply expect hires to keep up? These people are on payroll. Isn’t it immensely wasteful to treat them like monkeys for a full business week (perhaps more) when you could actually be teaching them something or (gasp) having them actually work?

And here’s my real question: Is there anyone on the planet who enjoys ice breaker games? Have these kinds of superficial activities ever benefited someone in a significant way? I detested these things as a child. Yes, I was a lonely and antisocial seven-year-old, but I saw the fakeness and stupidity of these efforts even them. If someone asked me to do one now it’d be really hard for me not to burst out in laughter or attempt to stab my senses out with a pencil.

Remember at camp when you’d have to go around in a circle and remember everyone’s name and wholly irrelevant facts about them like, “That’s Lisa and she likes laughing. That Brenda, she loves blue.”

Am I the only one getting hives right now?

These activities were stressful when I was eleven, performing them in front of my co-workers, I’d be mortified. Perhaps I just have really low self esteem.

My friend explained that what she found most irritating was that if you’re going to be ‘chill’ and play games then let people for real relax: Put their feet up, stretch out, speak to one another uncensored. Yet it’s lame to be forced to play things like office jeopardy while maintaining office formalities. Either be truly relaxed or be professional because ‘fun professional’ / ‘faux chill’ just doesn’t really work.

Or are she and I just curmudgeons?

1. The Duchess: I was legitimately worried about this movie since I’m their target audience, obsessed with period pieces, a fan of Keira Knightley, and the trailer didn’t make me want to dash out to a ticket line or fork over the $12 I could be spending on Chipotle.

Well, the trailer is deceiving.

I screened the film yesterday with a group of NYC press people and bloggers. I sat through the movie thoroughly impressed, and not just because I was drooling over the costumes and fascinated by Knightley’s Mrs. Frankenstein-like wigs. Besides unexpectedly being one of the most beautiful period pieces I’ve ever seen in my life (and I’ve seen a lot), the art direction rivaled Ang Lee films and Knightley topped her Oscar-winning performance in Pride and Prejudice. The script was sassy, well-written and comedic at moments – always necessary in a story as tragic as this one. You can check out the not-so-great trailer below, just keep in mind it doesn’t come close to giving the film justice.


2. Wardrobe Inefficiencies: When I purchased a bicycle, it never occurred to me that it’d profoundly affect areas of my life beyond basic commuting. For example, the way I dress.

Newsflash!

Biking in inappropriate attire is not comfortable, or fun.

Take yesterday’s fashion decision: Knowing that the bike’s greasy chain had the potential to ruin the cuffs of my jeans (and in my whacky world, excellent-fitting jeans are more prized than diamond jewelry), I realized I’d be forced to make some adjustments to my daily outfit of jeans and whatever-I-feel-like-wearing-on-top.

I put on leggings since this would avoid the oil-on-pants issue, but then recalled I hated leggings, primarily because they make me look like an over-size Olsen twin. So I moved onto tights, which look foolish with out a skirt.

This is how I found myself biking in a mini-skirt.

When people tell me I’m not crazy, I want them to follow my logic in an incident like this.

How did a mini-skirt, perhaps the least biking friendly attire a woman could posses, become my solution?

I was secretly planning to divulge about an additional perk of becoming a biker chick: You get cat-called at way less. I’d found this to be true. Whether it’s because you’re moving by men at construction sites at a much faster speed so they can’t really see you or that guys are just less likely to harass you when you’re on top of a mechanism with wheels which you could steer into them, I’m not sure. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t hold true if you start biking around in a mini-skirt, an activity which garners MUCH attention, primarily for its absurdity.

This incident can go on my laundry list of titanic mistakes.

3. Some fun political stuff:

I'm a little confused. Let me see if I have this straight.....

If you grow up in Hawaii, raised by your grandparents, you're "exotic, different."

Grow up in Alaska eating mooseburgers, you’re a quintessential American story.

If your name is Barack you're a radical, unpatriotic Muslim.

Name your kids Willow, Trig and Track, you're a maverick.

Graduate from Harvard law School and you are unstable.

Attend 5 different small colleges before graduating, you're well grounded.

If you spend 3 years as a brilliant community organizer, become the first black President of the Harvard Law Review, create a voter registration drive that registers 150,000 new voters, spend 12 years as a Constitutional Law professor, spend 8 years as a State Senator representing a district with more than 750,000 people, become chairman of the state Senate's Health and Human Services committee, spend 4 years in the United States Senate representing a state of 13 million people while sponsoring 131 bills and serving on the Foreign Affairs, Environment and Public Works and Veteran's Affairs committees, you don't have any real leadership experience.

If you’re total resume is: local weather girl, 4 years on the city council and 6 years as the mayor of a town with fewer than 7,000 people, 20 months as the governor of a state with only 650,000 people, then you're qualified to become the country's second highest ranking executive.

If you have been married to the same woman for 19 years while raising 2 beautiful daughters, all within Protestant churches, you're not a real Christian.

If you cheated on your first wife with a rich heiress, and left your disfigured wife and married the heiress the next month, you're a Christian.

If you teach responsible, age appropriate sex education, including the proper use of birth control, you are eroding the fiber of society.

If, while governor, you staunchly advocate abstinence only, with no other option in sex education in your state's school system while your unwed teen daughter ends up pregnant, you're very responsible.

If your wife is a Harvard graduate lawyer who gave up a position in a prestigious law firm to work for the betterment of her inner city community, then gave that up to raise a family, your family's values don't represent America's.

If your husband is nicknamed "First Dude," with at least one DWI conviction and no college education, who didn't register to vote until age 25 and once was a member of a group that advocated the secession of Alaska from the USA, your family is extremely admirable.

OK, much clearer now

A more coherent article tomorrow.

Zzzzzzz. Zzzzzzzzz.

So I started asking questions about game to keep myself awake like, “Why is that player so much larger than that player?” and “Why are they all wearing jerseys from different teams?” and screaming, “This is so confusing!” At which point the host locked me in his bedroom with his Guitar Hero so they could watch in peace. I proceeded to play in Quick Mode and earn high scores over this girl names Kelsey. It got competitive and soon I had an interior monologue of, “Kelsey’s going down! My name’s going to be above yours on the bathroom wall, bitch!” I started to notice that Kelsey was all over this game – in every song, in every high score.

How much was this chick over player my guy friend’s Guitar Hero? I was irrationally jealous.

When he came back check on me I hollered at him, hurt, “Yo! Who the Hell is Kelsey?”

Turns out Kelsey’s the computer.

Yeah.

The computer fills in a bunch of names so you have someone to beat. When I still didn’t believe him, he pointed out that all Kelsey’s scores were even numbers like 2,000 or 3,000.

Woops.

Anyway…this entire boy experience reminded me of an apartment party I attended a few weeks ago, a party pad I’ve titled, “Where Good Boys Go When They Die.” Continue

The long weekend in the Hamptons involving daily mass quantities of Patron has rendered me stupid. I’m in the process of gathering the strength to recount the tale and review the clubs with some sort of wit and intelligence. Don’t think that can possibly happen today. As a friend in my house whined Monday while nursing a beer by the pool:

“I have too much blood in my alcohol system.”

Yes, that was slip of the tongue. Funny because it’s true.

Those of you seeking entertainment check out my Hamptons stories from last summer (one and two) in order to prepare for what a stark contrast it will be from this year. In addition, I’ve provided this humorous piece about the demographics of American newspapers. The full scoop tomorrow.

It’s Friday and my brain has already taken up residence in the weekend. Deep things I’m pondering:

-Where can I buy black skinny jeans this time of year?

-Where can I find someone/something to fund my new outrageously expensive addiction to Amore-Pacific’s skin line? (more about that next week)

-I wonder if I can make the perfect tuna melt, and how much / what type of cheese that would involve…

Recommendations for the weekend?

After a two month hiatus, there’s a Made in Italy party tonight at Mansion. They’re flying in one of the most famous female vocalist in Milan (who also happens to be one of my close friends from my days in Italy) so my attendance is mandatory. Those of you who want a recap on what Made in Italy is all about should jump here. I’ll also be interviewing this singer for a post on The Blaqlist next week.

On the cultural side, everyone get your weekly dose of intelligence by attending this exhibit at Moma PS1 about Design and the Elastic Mind. According to my sources, it’s mind blowing – and only around until May 12^th.

Since I’m incapable of putting together coherent, non-rambling thoughts today, I leave with some cartoons about our current gas crisis and a list of funnies I found resonated true. Enjoy.

Why do banks charge a fee on 'insufficient funds' when they know there is not enough money?

Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion stars, but check when you say the paint is wet?

Why doesn't glue stick to the bottle?

Why do they use sterilized needles for death by lethal injection?

Why doesn't Tarzan have a beard?

Why does Superman stop bullets with his chest, but ducks when you throw a revolver at him?

Why do Kamikaze pilots wear helmets?

Whose idea was it to put an 'S' in the word 'Lisp'?

If people evolved from apes, why are there still apes?

Why is it that no matter what color bubble bath you use the bubbles are always white?

Is there ever a day that mattresses are not on sale?

Why do people constantly return to the refrigerator with hopes that something new to eat will have materialized?

Why do people keep running over a string a dozen times with their vacuum cleaner, then reach down, pick it up, examine it, then put it down to give the vacuum one more chance?

Why is it that no plastic bag will open from the end on your first try?

How do those dead bugs get into those enclosed light fixtures?

When we are in the supermarket and someone rams our ankle with a shopping cart then apologizes for doing so, why do we say, 'It's all right?' Well, it isn't all right, so why don't we say, 'That hurt, you stupid idiot?'

Why is it that whenever you attempt to catch something that's falling off the table you always manage to knock something else over?

In winter why do we try to keep the house as warm as it was in summer when we complained about the heat?

How come you never hear father-in-law jokes?

And my FAVORITE......

The statistics on sanity are that one out of every four persons is suffering from some sort of mental illness. Think of your three best friends -- if they're okay, then it's you.

Spring has been an eternal excuse for people to get a little frisky; to let their guard down, let their worries down, let their pants down, etc. While this all sounds fabulous, it’s a big lifestyle adjustment to trade your nightly mac’n’cheese in bed for nightly evenings at Marquee. To help everyone cope, I've created my very first humorous quiz to determine if your spring party fever’s OK, dangerous, or out of control to the point where you need to padlock yourself in your apartment for some R&R. I've made it fun, so check it out here!

1. Blue label whisky, tequila and vodka straight up made bearable by a lemon slice (in that order)

2. Make a ‘fortress’ in you bed: Cheetos, laptop, phone, flashlight, book. You won’t have to get up or interact with anyone for hours.

3. Become addicted to Millioniare Matchmaker on Bravo and revel in others finding love while learning outdated yet fascinating ‘dating tips’ from Patti. Consider a career in matchmaking, then opt out when you realize your success will cumulate in you having to attend a lot of ridiculous people’s boring weddings.

4. Tell yourself you should date again, then realize the only way you’d feel comfortable with that is if prospective candidates sent you

a. naked photos of themselves
b. a reference list of ex-girlfriends and
c. a videotape of them having sex.

Realize that you’re insane and no normal person would subject themselves to that kind of Nazi-like scrutiny. Sigh and move on.

5. Go to C.O. Bigalow Apocethary on 9th Street at 6th Ave. Learn about eighteen additional homeopathic beauty products you never knew existed.

6. Stalk people you hate online and develop new plans to sabotage them (preferably via facebook)

7. Throw yourself into work, until you realize you’re at the office at 10pm alone, the janitor's left, and you’re locked in.

8. Absinthe (no, really. Read here.)

9. Retail therapy. Buy a lot of stuff you can convince yourself you need: a red poncho dress, gold hot pants, leopard print bikini, cowboy boots – wait, what of these things do I need?

10. Plan an impromptu trip to Brazil.

After trying various combination of all the above, I settled on option 10. Thanks to Uruguay, I’ve got the South American fever. With any luck the whole trip will be something like this (in Portuguese, of course).

I found this funny. It's crude. I'm warning you.



And this:

The pastor entered his donkey in a race and it won. The pastor was so pleased with the donkey that he entered it in the race again, and it won again.

The local paper read:

PASTOR'S ASS OUT FRONT.

The Bishop was so upset with this kind of publicity that he ordered the pastor not to enter the donkey in another race.

The next day, the local paper headline read:

BISHOP SCRATCHES PASTOR'S ASS.

This was too much for the bishop, so he ordered the pastor to get rid of the donkey. The pastor decided to give it to a nun in a nearby convent.

The local paper, hearing of the news, posted the following headline the next day:

NUN HAS BEST ASS IN TOWN.

The bishop fainted. He informed the nun that she would have to get rid of the donkey, so she sold it to a farmer for $10.

The next day the paper read:

NUN SELLS ASS FOR $10.

This was too much for the bishop, so he ordered the nun to buy back the donkey and lead it to the plains where it could run wild.

The next day the ad lines read:

NUN ANNOUNCES HER ASS IS WILD AND FREE.

The bishop was buried the next day.

The moral of the story is . . . being concerned about public opinioncan bring you much grief and misery . . even shorten your life.

* * *

I’m still recovering from the long weekend (which wasn’t even long for me). Intelligence tomorrow, I swear.

Just to give you a laugh over the weekend....

Not a lot of writing got done this weekend because:

a) Bartok visited and I'm just now embarking on a dual recovery from her / the Punta trip.

b) I spent all my time trying to learn how to dance like this 10-year-old girl. She's got mad moves -- observe:



Details on ALL (yes, they're juicy) tomorrow...

Despite the fact that I'm surrounded by heaps of snow, bursting pipe valves, damp furniture, and family, these still managed to make me laugh.

I realize most of you already have email Inboxes filled with spam. Yet this amused me:

Good day, gentleman! (I have a unisex name and therefore get a lot of info about penis enlargers, male order brides, etc.)

I still live with my parents under the same roof and I am sorry to say this,
but I am already tired to see how they rule over my life. (the words of every teenager…) I work hard and I make enough to have a good life, but I give a lot to my parents. My friends ask why don't I just rent an apartment and leave: I just think that I will be sorry all my life for leaving them: Maybe you can give me an advice? (making men feel powerful by pretending to ask their advice on stuff. Smart chick. I’ve used this trick myself) Is
there a way to get "divorced" with my parents (that’s all I wanted to do at age 16) and build my life with a man who will love me. I am looking for a life partner and friend, for lover and gentleman in my future husband (aren’t we all….sigh). I hope all these features are combined in you (good friggin' luck). Your answer should wait for me at http://russianbridesshop.info/?idAff=182 and I am thankful to my destiny that I have a chance to get to know you better:

Looking forward to get a letter from you

July P

OK, the letter is crap yet nonetheless written skillfully for what it is trying to accomplish. In a short paragraph, she projects to the reader that she’s:

a) Sweet & Virginal – She lives with her parents.
b) In Need of Help – Who doesn’t want to fuck a damsel in distress?

Sorry, July P. I’m not a wrinkly, ex-big shot male in Los Angeles with a cane and a drug problem, otherwise I’m sure I’d be dialing you a flight right now.



Sorry for the lame posting schedule this week. I’ve gotta cold and am having a really hard time functioning with out Olympic levels of Mucinex. I’m aiming for a full recovery this weekend. Stay tuned.

I was recently at a friend’s post-scavenger hunt birthday dinner, a party concept so genius that I’m displaying a section of the invite here:

You knew this day would come and now its here. You finally get to show your love and support of the world's biggest tourist - . Starting 2PM Saturday afternoon, you will be required to show up at the Irish Pub on 7th and 54th where you MUST be wearing ALL of the following tourist accoutrement to participate: - Baggy College Sweatshirt - Tight Jeans - White Sneakers - Fanny Pack You then will be divided into teams and each team will receive cameras and detailed scoring sheet - this sheet will provide you with Photo Ops (ie, "Stereotypical Tourist Photos") that will be ranked by a point system. Your team will need to capture as many Photo Ops as possible over several hours, and points will be assigned accordingly. You and your team can earn additional points for dressing above and beyond the 4 required ensemble pieces, such as money belts, turtlenecks underneath, foldable maps on keychains, whacky tourist hats, etc, and of course, each team will be required to demonstrate their own choreographed stretch routine at the end of the evening for the talent portion.

Needless to say, conversation around several large dinner tables in Little Italy after the scavenger hunt’s completion consisted quotes like:

“Did you guys get a photo with a midget?”

“No. We could only find a dwarf.”

“How many points for a midget?”

“Ten.”

“Ten. I thought it was twenty!”

“No. Twenty points is for documentation of gay sex.”

“Do teenagers making out in a bathroom stall at Macy’s count?”

“We got kicked out of FAO Schwarz. And Saks.”

Sadly, I was leaving this delightfully raunchy crowd a bit early to meet up with another friend at a nearby Sushi joint, but I asked them where the party train was headed later.

“Mason Dixon in Times Square,” the birthday boy proudly informed me. “We’re going to ride the mechanical bull.”

Me [distracted, not hearing him over the party noise]: Great. We’ll see you at Amazing Dicks later then.

The entire thirty-person table falls silent, then the laughter’s deafening.

Mason Dixon = Amazing Dicks.

Freudian slip?

Who knows.

I giggled along with them before making a not-so-graceful exit. I console myself with the fact that I was being taunted by people wearing fanny packs.