Wednesday, February 28, 2007

The Museum of Natural History: A Historical Snoozefest

My father is a huge history buff, and because of that, my whole childhood was a long series of museums, reenactments, and lectures. I've read many a plaque in my day, but it's still not enough. So, when my family came up to spend the weekend in New York, my father a
nnounced that he wanted to go to the Museum of Natural History.

I thought it was odd, consider
ing that he likes actual history and not the history of various nuclei and mitochondria, but I went along with it because, frankly, I didn't really care either way. After making a suggested donation of $50, we made our way into room after room filled with stuffed animals and replicas of statues and tribal masks.

"This whole thing is science?" My father asked. Apparently, he had heard the word "history" and immediately said, "SIGN ME UP, I LOVE OLD SHIT!," not realizing that history includes more than Hitler's rise to power. Specifically for this museum, history involves the fossil records of mastadons.

My father, right before he discovers what "Natural History" entails.

For once, my father was bored in a museum, and I took the opportunity to give him a taste of my childhood. So I dragged him through the Hall of Minerals, the display of the Mollusks of New York State, and my personal favorite, the Birds of the World exhibit.

The museum employee in the rather small Birds of the World exhibit didn't take very kindly to me asking, in a rather disappointed ton
e, "These are all of the birds in the world?"

She looked up from the origami cranes she was making, presumably to add to the m
eager exhibit's collection. Indignantly, she replied, "The sign doesn't say all of them."

The thrilling Mollusks of New York State Exhibit

My brother and I: are we excited for the exit sign, or for the Birds of the World exhibit? The world will never know...

After much whining from my father, I finally let up and allowed us all to go to lunch. In the end, we all found that the most exciting exhibit at the Museum of Natural History was the exit sign.


I hate the sound of laughter

I seriously hate Times Square. Yes, it was awesome the first few times I saw it, but now I'm jaded, and as far as I'm concerned, Times Square is just a bunch of blinding lights and dumbass tourists that get in my way.

So, as I'm walking through Times Square with my father this past weekend, we're solicited by people selling half-priced Broadway tickets, tours of the city, and of course, tickets to stand up comedy shows. Normally, I smile and say "no" to their offers, but the second question that these comedy ticket hawkers always ask is one of the most ridiculous ones I've heard in my life: "Do you like to laugh?"

No, actually, I hate the sound of laughter. Things I also hate: sunny days, puppy dogs, and fluffy pillows.

So, being my bitter self, I responded to the guy, "No, I hate to laugh."

Let's look at this situation from the perspective of my ticket hawking friend. You're in New York, and your job is to stand on the street and try to make people buy something they don't need. How many smart ass comments do you hear in a day? A lot, apparently. And by the time I came waltzing by, he had his fill.

"You know, there are so many horrible things I could say to you right now..." At first, I thought he was joking, but I realized he wasn't as my father was telling him to fuck off.

Moral of the story: It's not my fault you have a shitty job, and hey- you're working in a comedy club. Get a sense of humor.


Thursday, February 22, 2007

Pizza My Heart

Out of all of the things that people tend to argue about, (religion, politics, etc.) the one subject that is most important to me by far is where you can find the best pizza. Usually, people will argue that you can find the best pizza in some hole-in-the-wall bearing someone's first name as their moniker. While this may be true, there are two places that will always hold a special place in my heart for consistently amazing pizza.

La Hacienda, Niagara Falls, NY: A family-owned Italian restaurant curiously decorated with Mexican decor, La Hacienda has notoriously bad service, but their pizza is well worth the wait. And this is coming from someone who has no patience for incompetence, especially in service in which I tip. Some people think that th
ey should tip 15% no matter what. I think that you have to earn your tip. So, the waitresses at the La Hacienda always get stiffed by me. BUT- my compliments to the chef, that pizza is great!

Two Boots, New York, NY: Stumbled upon this on accident in Grand Central. I had literally watched the 5:26pm train pull out of the station, and I had to wait around to catch the 5:50pm, so, to kill some time, I went in search of food. Two Boots has pretty much the best pizza I've ever had, plus some of the most creative pizzas I've ever seen. My usual is the Tony Clifton; roasted red pepper sauce, mozzerella cheese, shitake mushrooms, and sauteed vidala onions. OMGGGGGG I want it right now.


Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Hey, Girl on the 6:47AM Train: Shut the Fuck Up

My father calls me when I'm on the train going into the city. He pretends he just wants to talk to me, but most often, I've talked to him the night before and hey, what do you know-nothing has happened between the time I go to bed and when he calls me at 7AM. We both know why he's calling; he has all of these scenarios in his head of what could happen to me, a plain ol' country bumpkin out in the Big Apple. He wants to make sure that I don't get accosted on my way to work. Always full of cautionary tales, he illegally bought me pepper spray and told me to carry it in my pocket when I'm walking in the city. I choose not to do this, and I have two very good reasons why:

1. I'm in mid-town Manhattan. I have a better chance getting attacked in Poughkeepsie. In fact, this reminds me of a story. It's a story about a girl who had to venture to Main Street, Poughkeepsie for the first time in the daylight. She doesn't mind going to the shithole bars at night when she's toasted, but when it's daylight, and she's sober, she's extremely aware of the imminent danger. Basically, I think my favorite thing about downtown Poughkeepsie is all of the homeless people having arguments with themselves.

2. The only time I will end up using my pepper spray is when I accidentally pepper spray myself, and after writhing around on the cold concrete and screaming "MY EYES, THEY BURN!," I'll be forced to tell a medical professional that I was trying to mug myself and that's when the pepper spray got involved.

ANYWAY, while my father may feel like he needs to have these pre-dawn cell phone conversations, I don't agree. Mainly, because I don't want to be
that girl. If you've ever ridden the Metro North, you know what I'm talking about. She's probably anywhere from 18 years old to 25, she has a liberal arts education, a high, grating voice, and most importantly, a cell phone (most likely a pink razor) permanently attached to her ear. She'll go on for what seems like hours about her boyfriend, or homework, or how she got sooooo drunk last night, punctuated with an excess of "omigods" and "shut ups!" and annoying giggles.

So, girl on the 6:47AM train, I have one thing to say to you, and that is: Shut the fuck up. Who are you talking to, anyway? It's 6:47AM?! I hate you. And that's not a "chu," that's a "you."


Saturday, February 17, 2007

I'm Just Mortified

On Monday, at work, the social committee arranged for a performance from
Mortified: New York along with cupcakes and beer. Mortified started as a book released by SSE last season, and went on to spawn several shows that are performed throughout the country. To make a long story short, Mortified is a collection of letters and diary entries from different people written when they were young that are so embarassing that they're hilarious. This book alone is hysterical, but seeing them read aloud by their adult authors is even better. Lucky for me, I was given two free tickets to see the entire show on Valentine's Day. And so, Christine and I decided to change the level of our friendship from "a little creepy" to "pretty freakin' creepy" and go for dinner in the city and see the show. It was nothing short of brilliant. Go see it.


Wednesday, February 14, 2007

The Office Printer: Like a Needy Girlfriend

Happy Valentine's Day!

Pathetically enough, the only romance I have in my life right now is with the office printer. Now, you may be thinking, "Amanda, that's pretty weird!," and my response to you is "shut the hell up." For real, though. The printer in my office is like the needy girlfriend that I never want to have.

You want it to do something simple, like, oh, I don't know... PRINT. But it wants something from you. You have to give, give, give (more paper, usually). So you refill tray 2 with more love/paper. You think that will be enough to satisfy her. But no! She wants more, like the bloodsucker that she is. She beeps/bitches until you refill tray 3 with even more love/paper. Then she yells "ERROR!" and you're left, trying to press buttons, pleading with her to just do one little thing for you. No matter how much you try, no matter how much love/paper you put in. It's just not enough. What a whore.


Monday, February 12, 2007

If my liver could talk... would tell me to fuck off.

Yes, it was my 21st birthday on Friday, and after celebrating heavily Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, I'm pretty sure my liver is about to break up with me. Do you need your liver to live? Probably.

Christine bought me a pink, fuzzy crown that says "I'm 21, Buy Me a Drink!" Not one to advertise, I resisted, but after I got liquored up, I decided that I would make an ass of myself and wear the crown. Good thing I did, because it worked.

Let's recap all of the things I didn't pay for:

-The cab ride there
-The cover charge
-Four jager bombs
-Five shots (given to me by some generous strangers)
-2 beers (again, from strangers)
-The cab ride home

I wish it was my 21st birthday everyday.


Thursday, February 08, 2007

But she was so healthy....

Anna Nicole Smith is dead. I am so shocked. Maybe, because you're reading this, you couldn't sense the sarcasm that drips from that last sentence. I'm not surprised. Since I've already seen the media hailstorm that's ensued following the announcement of her death, I'm predicting some full-fledged martyrdom. Remember when she inspired overweight women to get in shape? What a gal! Remember when she made all of those guys happy when she posed nude in Playboy? And then we'll all forget that she was just a stupid, gold-digging slut.

Oh, I'm sorry! We're not supposed to say things like that because she's dead. But no one would have had any problems saying that yesterday, when she was alive, snorting coke and shooting up heroin, so, really, there's only one thing that has changed because of this tramp's death:

A sentence I would write yesterday: Anna Nicole Smith is a cheap whore.

A sentence I'm writing today: Anna Nicole Smith
was a cheap whore.

Maybe I should do the eulogy. And then Elton John could write a song about her, because she's soooo much like Marylin Monroe. Seriously, people. Where are all of the Marylin Monroe comparisons coming from? Sure, Marylin Monroe was a dumb slut, too, but for some reason, she seemed to have a little more depth than our Anna Nicole. Maybe it was because of the black and white photographs. For real, if you're naked in a color photograph, it's porn. Turn it black and white, and it's beautiful, beautiful art. At least that's what I told my mother.

Moral of the story: Anna Nicole Smith was a cheap whore.


Wednesday, February 07, 2007

He's Just Not That Into Me

Ok, seriously. I'd have to say my favorite part of my internship is the 4 hours I spend on the train everyday. Okay, maybe I'm lying.

But the perks, of course, are the abundance of free books and both the vicarious and the actual encounters I have with celebrities. Today, I accompanied Greg Behrendt and Liz Tucillo, authors of
He's Just Not That Into You to CBS's Early Show for an interview. Here are some things I learned:
-the green room is not actually green

-the Early Show keeps a jar of hard boiled eggs on ice in the green room for the guests

-models on TV are about seven feet tall and chances are, they'll stand in front of the monitors so you can't watch the interview
Showbiz, man... it's glamorous.