Friday, June 26, 2009

Looking for a Roommate on Craig's List is like trying to talk Helen Keller through an Obstacle Course

I'm having difficulty finding a roommate and I've decided to open up the scope to include guys. After all, most of my friends are guys—all they wanna do is have a beer, right? I can handle that.

Well, I'm still a little uncomfortable about living with a guy that I don't know. Trying to put the whole roommate thing into perspective, Abi gave me some advice:

"I like to think that the people I’m living with would be evenly matched with me in a physical altercation."

In other words: if you think that you could probably kick their ass if you had to, welcome home, baby! If not, take a hike, dbag.

This is a nightmare.

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Remembering Michael Jackson by drinking 30985 beers

[Also posted at
Fucked in Park Slope]

As the King of Pop "beat it" yesterday (haha, see what I did there?), I did what any person grieving would do: I went and saw The Proposal at the Pavilion, followed by burgers and beers at The Dram Shop.

After scarfing down the Dram's signature basket filled with a delicious cheeseburger and hand-cut fries, we drank about 700 ice-cold beers. Finally, one of the bartenders arrived with an iPod filled with Michael Jackson tunes (isn't it interesting to know that no matter how many kids you molest/name Blanket/hold over a balcony, you die and every bar across the country is singing along to "Billie Jean" and "Thriller"?).

He had all of the hits, of course, but we were waiting for "Man in the Mirror"–a lesser known, cheesy anthem from Jackson's Bad album. We figured they wouldn't play it because it's not exactly a good bar song (it's more like a song you sing alone in your room at the top of your lungs and then you realize that your roommate came home and heard everything and is paralyzed with laughter outside your bedroom door—not that that's ever happened to me).

All of a sudden, we hear the beginning notes of "Man in the Mirror" (ie: angels singing). The bartender lets it play, and we're all singing along. Once he realizes what a ridiculous, sappy song it is, he turns it off and searches frantically for another MJ song that's a little more upbeat.

The bar FREAKS out.

An acapella version of "Man in the Mirror" was then sung by myself and my fellow Dram Shop patrons, even punctuated with MJ's signature "woos" and "hehe's." The bartender realizes what he'd done and starts the song over.

Hey, if you wanna make the world a better place, you better look at yourself and make a change.

Well played, Dram Shop. Well played.

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Wednesday, June 24, 2009

An Insider's Look into my Daily Subway Commute

8:35: Arrive on the subway platform
8:36: There is a cute young couple holding hands. He just kissed her on the cheek. Precious.
8:40: Okay, he has kissed her on the cheek 3 times so far. What is she, your grandmother? Knock it off with the weird, sterile PDA.
Where is this stupid train? Yesterday, I waited 10 minutes for the train and then a garbage train showed up. The garbage gets better service than people do. Thanks, MTA.

The train shows up, and I position myself in the prime spot against the doors.

Hey. I like that girl's necklace.

I should integrate more green into my wardrobe.
8:52: Train arrives at the station, I have to wait on the platform to transfer to another train.
Hey, that guy is reading a book I was supposed to read for class in college, but I was to drunk to do so.

I regret nothing.

The train comes and I elbow my way in.

We get to the Broadway-Nassau station and I try to get a seat but fail miserably. Good thing that middle-aged guy with a scooter got one, though.
9:01: If you have a scooter and you're over 14 years old, you should be shot. No exceptions.
I knock some bitch down to get a seat.
9:07: Honestly, if I see one more person reading "Eat Pray Love," I'm going to scream.
Oh, see you later, Mr. Scooter. Tool.

Oh fuck, this train isn't express.
9:15: Who gets off at Spring Street anyway? Nobody.
I'm just gonna put this out there: neck tattoos scare me.

Apparently, "Gjjfguhbdtilj Street" is next. Thanks, Queen Latifah,
for once again being so coherent.
9:19: Arrrive at Penn Station.
9:20: Go down two flights of stairs only to go up four more flights of stairs. Tell me how this makes sense?
9:22: On the street, walking to work.
9:23: Whenever I get off of the train, I am always surrounded by Hasidic Jews. They all go into this one building. I'm German, so naturally, I think this is a conspiracy.
9:24: I pass the Duane Reade Recruiting Center. I didn't know they recruited people. I thought they just let any vagrant or degenerate who could manage to stumble in the front doors work there.
9:25: Speaking of vagrants and degenerates, I pass the meth clinic, which is suspiciously located right next to the Duane Reade Recruiting Center. Never have I seen so many people with so few teeth.
9:27: Trying to cross Dyer Avenue at the mouth of the Lincoln tunnel. There is no light, so the street is named appropriately. I'm confident, that one day, I will die trying to cross Dyer Avenue.
9:30: I am at the office. End scene.

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Monday, June 22, 2009

Growing Up; Falling Down

I am definitely not in college anymore.

Living with a 19-year-old roommate has definitely highlighted that. When I go out, I'm usually home by midnight, shitfaced. When I'm walking (read: stumbling) in, she's just going out.

I just don't have the energy anymore. Anyone who knew me in college (or read this blog when I was in college) knows that I'm a boozehound, but while I still love to go out (New York/Brooklyn has a little bit better of a night life scene than Poughkeepsie) and drink like a fish, having a full time job makes you tired.

Nowadays, there's nothing I enjoy more than coming home from work, sitting on my couch and watching Jeopardy and Wife Swap.

Well—enter Scott.

There's something about the dynamic of Scott and I that makes each of us want to drink until we're hospital bound. Even in college, when it was normal to slam 12 beers in a night, everyone looked at us and were like "whoa" (Not Joey Lawrence "whoa," more like "whoa, you're probably going to die tonight").

One example that springs to mind is the time we accidentally did a power hour with double shot glasses, meaning that we each drank 6 beers in 30 minutes before realizing what we did. I promptly went to the bathroom to throw up. Scott told me that throwing up was like "hitting the reset button." We still went out and the evening ended with our IDs being inspected by Poughkeepsie police.

Scott has officially moved into my neighborhood in Brooklyn. About a 10 minute walk from my apartment. We have drank nearly every night since he's moved in, and somehow Patron shots found their way into my life on a week night.

This is not going to be good.

Or, it's going to be the kind of good that John Cougar Mellencamp mused about: Summer 09: It Hurts So Good.

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Thursday, June 18, 2009

Shameless Self-Promotion

Check out the June/July double issue of Every Day With Rachael Ray magazine.

I wrote an article about how to free your snacks when they get trapped in the vending machine.

I interview a guy from a vending machine company.

Thrilling stuff, I know

Check it out mofozzzz.

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Friday, June 12, 2009

As if I needed another reason to love Betty White

Thursday, June 11, 2009


Remember all of the times I've written about my sweet, adorable, 80-year-old landlord?


My lease is up in August and my roommate (who was subletting for the summer) is moving out, meaning I need to trick someone else into living in a bedroom the size of a closet (hey, I did it for a year—it was cozy) while still paying an insane amount in rent. Well, girlfriends, that's why we moved to New Yawk Citayyy, am I right? Am I right?

Fine, whatever.

My rent is already an obscene amount of money and now "Mr. I Maquerade as a Sweet Old Man but will have no problem stabbing you IN THE HEART" is upping it by $75 a month. Now, in the grand scheme of things, $75 a month is not that big of a deal. This is what he told me.

Well, if $75 a month is so inconsequential, why do I need to pay it? ANSWER ME THAT.

What bothers me the most is that he has this little schtick that he plays—saying that his sister out in Toledo owns half of the building and that SHE'S the one insisting that he up the rent.

"If it were up to me, Dollface," he says. "I wouldn't up it at all."

Yeah, okay.

Then he says that the new amount is what market will bear and I'm all like "I don't understand what bears have to do with anything."

What it comes down to is that I really love my apartment, and I don't want to leave, but I already couldn't really afford it at the current rate. How am I going to afford it now?

I wish I was dead.

Maria Bamford, who I coincidentally interviewed on the phone today, said it all:

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Tuesday, June 09, 2009

Hello, Newman

Summer is gearing up and so my calendar is taken up a notch as my schedule gets inundated with work events to go to (read: open bars, many, many open bars). As most of you know, one of the major perks of working in the media (at my magazine in particular) is that you get to go to awesome events for free. A movie premiere here, a rooftop event there. Basically, events I would never get invited to unless I was wearing my staff badge.

Since I've been with the company for a year, while the events are still cool, I'm starting to get all New York blase about them. However, tonight, there was nothing to be blase about. I got free tickets to the
Tribute to Paul Newman at the Lincoln Center, hosted by Robert Redford and Julia Roberts. It was a charity benefit to raise money for his "Hole in the Wall" camps. The tickets were $1,500 a piece.

The auditorium was packed, but I just kept thinking to myself, "these people can afford $1,500 a seat?" Where the hell am I?

The entertainment for the night included
Art Garfunkel, Kristen Chenoweth (from the original Broadway cast of Wicked), Harry Connick, Jr., Yo Yo Ma, Jerry Seinfeld, and James Taylor. Very special guest? A very incoherent Bill Clinton (isn't he supposed to be a prolific speaker?). Basically, my mother freaked out when I told her.

It was a really awesome evening—Kristin Chenoweth was amazing, Jerry Seinfeld killed, Harry Connick, Jr. was unexpectedly hilarious, and James Taylor ended it all with "Shower the People"—but there's something weird about Julia Roberts saying "give us all of your money."

Just saying.

Regardless, Paul Newman was a great philanthropist, and quite the fox, if I may say so myself:

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Friday, June 05, 2009

Great Balls of Fire

Yesterday, my subway car caught fire.

Okay, maybe I'm being dramatic.

I don’t know if the car was on fire, or if the track was on fire, or if some homeless man was on fire on the platform. What I DO know is that there was a fire somewhere near me.

I’m not prone to panicking, but when riding on the subway, I have very little confidence that my conductor, who can barely put together a coherent sentence, will be in control of the situation (ie: the gigantic fire).

I mean, there are a ton of things that could catch on fire in the subway. Check out this Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles bullshit I saw on the A line track at Penn Station:

Did someone get slimed? Where’s Rosie O’Donnell? I want my Kids Choice Award!

Anyway, everything was going as per usual: I was wedged up against the door of the train, uncomfortably close to a Hasidic Jew, observing how perfect his curls are (for realsies, do they use a curling iron?).

All of a sudden, we get to the Broadway-Nassau station and all of the Wall Street jerks get out. I knock an old lady down so I can get a seat.

All of a sudden, the subway car fills with smoke. If Ralph Wiggum were in the subway car with me, he would have shrieked, “it smells like burning!”

The train goes out of service (presumably because it’s on fire) and everyone is told to wait for the next subway car. Firemen are running on the platform.

Call me a nervous Nancy, but I’m gonna take a cab.

Because the MTA now “encourages” New Yorkers to complain by providing an email address to write to, I figured I would do it. If a Smoky Robinson train isn’t cause for an email, what is?

Subject: Great Balls of Fire


My subway car caught fire this morning.

Keep up the good work.



I thought it was funny, and I figured I would never get a response. A few hours later, I get one (probably from an intern) with a case reported incident number, titled “Great Balls of Fire Incident 090604-000084.”

The fact that this douchey email subject line I wrote is filed somewhere warms my heart.

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Wednesday, June 03, 2009

Joe Jonas Makes One Hot Lady

And this is why I can't tell my parents anything

Ever since I moved out of the house, if I ever call my parents and over the course of the phone conversation mention I feel a little under the weather, they FREAK THE FUCK OUT.

I mentioned to my father on the phone that my neck hurts and I have a headache. We hung up without incident and then I went into the living room without my phone to watch Law & Order.

I come back to my phone with FIVE frantic voicemails from home. They've enlisted my little brother to look up symptoms of terrible diseases that I might have (child abuse?) and of course I have all of them.

I know the world has gone batshit crazy and swine flu is infecting Brooklyn grade schools, but let's calm the fuck down, mom and dad.

I have a headache, not tuberculosis.