Important Update!

The Web site ihateeveryone.info currently does not exist.

MEANING: Now is the time to stake a claim!

If anyone would like to contribute to the "thelaurenbell WILL own ihateeveryone.com Fund," please send checks, money orders, cash and various bartering items (shiny buttons, candy, etc.) my way.

Success in this mission means 1) I am more ridiculous than I thought. 2) I will form a fake (or not?) organization under the name ihateveryone.info. Those who contribute to this worthy cause will receive an officer-ship of the highest status, i.e.: VP of Surliness.

Let us go forth and make this glorious site available to the masses.

A special gift for you, reader

At the tender age of 6,when people would ask me my favorite singer, I would answer with this guy.

Revel in his awesomeness.

And then ponder why I would ever be IMDB-ing him at work.

John McCain doesn't believe in vaginas

I don't know about you guys, but I totally voted yesterday JUST FOR THE FREE STUFF. Democracy, shmecrocacy, I needed a Ben & Jerry's cone -- and I wasn't about to pay $3.75 for that nonsense.

And you know what else I needed? A politically-themed masturbation aid. Good thing some online sex store was totally sharing my brain!

Babeland was doling out party-neutral Silver Bullets and a John McCain-themed "masturbation sleeve" (for guys, obvy) for people who could prove they voted.

Problems:

1.) I did not receive any proof of voting.
1a.) One of those bodacious "I voted" stickers would probably have quenched my thirst for free voting-related stuff, but apparently NY doesn't really believe in rewarding people for voting/handing out stickers to people over the age of 4. I now blame the city for leading me down this dark path to unpaidfor sex technology.

2.) How do I flash someone my [non-existent] "I voted" sticker over the Internet (home of Babeland)?
2a.) Why does saying "flash my sticker" in conjunction with "Internet" and "Babeland" make me feel ooky?

3.) Why is there a dude-exclusive McCain sex product?

It's this last one that really gave me pause. First of all, gross. Gross in concept (do you really need a "sleeve" for these things?) and gross in name (McCain? Sex? Sleeve? *vomit on my shoes*)

Secondly...what? I know McCain did not willingly put his name on this item (or did he? Maybe now that he's lost he'll open up a sex shop and say goodbye to politics forever), but why would you ever link these things?

I think this has something to do with his disbelief in women's health. The good people down at Babeland were hanging out in their product development laboratory, trying to think of something to name after the Republican candidate, and they realized: that man does not like to think about what happens in a women's nether-regional area. Let us do him a solid and keep him far away from that. Thus, the Maverick Sleeve was born.

P.S.: It was really hard to write that second-to-last sentence without any double entendres. At first I was like "nether regions...keep him out of there." No. And then I thought, "keep him far away from that sticky situation." Double no.

P.P.S.: I am totally writing this at work.

On the flight to Vegas

United Airways, in their limitless good judgment and wisdom, has decided that the best possible entertainment for a 4 hour flight to Las Vegas is:

1) The Hulk, starring Ed Norton

2) A 2-year-old episode of The Office (Halloween, first season)

3) An hour-long (possibly longer) History Channel special on hotdogs.

There are so many things wrong with this.

Even ignoring the flat-out bad-ness that is The Hulk -- why would you kick off a lengthy flight with something full of explosions, violence and growling mutants? That is not the sort of thing that puts your passengers at ease. In fact, it is just the kind of thing that gets passengers like me worried because what are you going to do if someone gets all hulked up on this plane over the desert? That’s what I thought.

We’re going to totally ignore the Office thing because it’s mostly benign and it’s too random for me to think about.

Okay, the hotdog thing. Maybe I’m just 8 years old here, but I cannot take a History Channel show seriously when it is wholly composed of lengthy, loving shots of flaccid brown penis-looking things. People holding the penis tenderly in their fingers. People posing next to the penis and smiling. Penis after penis shooting off a conveyer belt.

Even if no one else’s mind went there, a hotdog is a weird thing to highlight because no matter how freaking delicious they are (and they are), they are disgusting sacks of chopped up, nameless meat pieces. No one wants to learn about that. No one wants to see extended factory shots of the meat bits getting stirred.

It’s bad and it’s wrong and it’s making me hungry. (That’s what she said).

Important Life Choices

The laundromat is the heart of any good community.

[sidenote: I’m trying to start posts with words other than “I.” It’s much harder than one might think.]

Being the good community member that I am [as in, member of a good community, not as in being good at it], I was at the laundromat over the weekend. Don’t worry, I was not actually doing laundry because that’s for plebeians; I was merely helping my plebeian boyfriend fold his plebeian underpants. Then, I saw some signs.

These signs were not your usual laundromat signs, instructing me to put three quarters in the machine or to not dye my clothes in their washers (who does that?). These were COMMUNITY signs -- fliers with tear-off phone numbers, entreating various laundromat patrons to put down that lint trap and pick up an oboe for your local reed instrument symphony, or to call Susan [licensed instructor!] for free French lessons on Saturdays.

Those left me nonplussed. Whose community doesn’t have a joint math gang/medieval war reenactors’ club? Yawn.

However, just when I thought folding underpants was going to turn out to be just as boring as it sounds, two very special signs caught my eye. One told me that if I called the number listed on the bottom, I could learn to speak to angels. The one right beneath it told me that if I took their number, I could learn to speak to Animals! OOOOOOO!

The signs gave the distinct impression that they were in competition for willing students. The kind of linguistical genius that can learn to speak the languages of both angels and animals at the same time comes along rarely, and never in a laundromat. These signs were out for blood. Signblood. Interested parties had to make a choice.

So I did what any underpants-folding fool would: squealed, pointed out both, and proceeded to ask the pleb what he would choose. He said animals, which immediately made me think angels were probably a better choice. Animals would just be all up in your business asking for food all day. Angels would have some real shit to talk about because they have weightier things on their minds than, “Who peed here last?”

Then again, angels might be kind of a downer. What if you tried to start a normal conversation, like, “Hey, angelguy, have you seen the latest episode of The Office?” The angel, having weightier things on its mind, would sigh, roll its angelic eyes and expound upon virtues and blahblahblah.

We don’t need those kinds of snobs mucking up our neighborhood.

Discarded Titles for Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

Sweeney Todd: The Unlicensed Surgeon of Fleet Street

Sweeney Todd: The Overly-Gregarious Dentist of Fleet Street

Babar the Elephant King and his Lollipop Song

Sweeney Todd: The Scurrilous Haberdasher of Fleet Street

Sweeney Todd: The Surly Pig Farmer from that Farm North of Fleet Street. No, not that one. The other one. North. Yes.

That Promiscuous, Dirty Handed, Sweet and Salty Noted Fashion Photographer: You Know Who He Is, Even Though you Don't Want to: A Cautionary Tale for the Children: Sweeney Todd

Sweeney Todd: The Pugnacious Ocularist of Fleet Street

Sweeney Todd: Story of My Life

Thought crumbs

I was walking past a fancy-pantsy lingerie store yesterday.

Okay, none of that is true. I was walking. And then I happened to pass a lingerie store. And, by essence of it being a store for undergarments, it was actually the opposite of "fancy-pantsy."

But I digress.

I walked past this fancy-schmancy lingerie store yesterday, and a big sign in the window said "Fall/Winter Collection is in!" My mind then exploded and dribbled out of my ears because how can you have "Fall/Winter" underpants? Are they made entirely of fur? Do they smell like cranberry sauce (which would be amazing!)? Are the nipple areas on the bras covered with those little paper doilies people put on the ends of turkey legs? Honestly, this last one was the VERY FIRST THING that I envisioned. I'm a sick-o.

Also, I just realized how gross the word "crumbs" (see title) is when paired with the idea of underwear. I actually had another, entirely unrelated, anecdote to share in this same posting -- hence that very clever title, which says, "I thought these things were funny, but I can acknowledge that they are pathetically short." -- but now I've totally forgotten it.

Pathetic Thought of the Day

I was in the shower this morning (woo!), thinking about the exciting day ahead: the inane e-mails, the pointless phone calls, the repeated bashing of my head against my desk as I wondered what I was doing at this place.

Suddenly, I realized that all was not lost. "thelaurenbell," I said to myself, "Today is not just any old painfully tedious day; it's a painfully tedious Friday!"

"And that means only 3 more days until the new Gossip Girl!"

So went my personal pep talk this morning.

I am 23.

How I Amuse Myself at Work

An actual e-mail that I received at work:

Lauren,

25 years ago the quintessential homemaker was June Cleaver, but today it could very well be Bobby Flay—a fact that seems obvious in today’s gender blurred generation (check out your local grocer over the weekend: over 40% of its shoppers are men buying cooking or cleaning supplies).

So why aren’t household brands marketing to men? A special report in Adweek examines the issues and facts. Among the highlights:

· A A recent survey found men neck-and-neck with women in purchasing household items including cleaning products, home décor, child-care products and cooking utilities.

.......Wonkity wonkwonk blaghier sdkhaohf;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

Don't worry readers! I wouldn't really make you read the whole thing! Instead, I'll break it down into bite-size bits of rancor (Ranc-os! Like a fun snack!), just for you:

"25 years ago the quintessential homemaker was June Cleaver, but today it could very well be Bobby Flay..."

Holy hell! Mentioning Bobby Flay in the very first sentence? Janice (I've decided that's the PR person's name), why would you do that to me? Personal biases aside, I don't think anyone EVER has thought, "Oh, Bobby Flay -- that's a freakin' great homemaker guy." Alton Brown, perhaps, but Grilly McSmug over there, I think not.

"today’s gender blurred generation"

Jan, I don't even know what this means.

"companies tend to eschew marketing to men"

I just wanted to point out here that Jan used the word "eschew." Someone's been using her SAT prep flashcards...

"testosterone appealing aspects: emphasizing size, power and length – even for vacuum cleaners or cooking utensils."

Heh. Phallic references. Fine, Jan, I'll forgive the Flay reference -- I'm kind of enjoying this.

"In a 2007 survey on relationships, participants rated 'sharing household chores' as a top priority for a healthy couple, with only 'faithfulness' and 'a happy sexual relationship' ranking above."

Annnnd I totally take that back. Not enjoyable. Are you kidding me, Jan? Priorities = 1) security, 2) orgasms and 3) only vacuuming half the time?

"The days of froufrou sheets and frilly pillowcases are gone..."

Hi. I'm a woman. I enjoy ruffly things, the color pink, and being repressed -- just like all you other lady people out there!

"Former New York Times media writer Andrew Adam Newman presents new data..."

And she ends it with a zinger. The Times? Seriously, Janice? Did you just build a little window into my brain, see everything I loathe and create a press release around it for your own amusement? We are done, Jan -- done.

This is how I treat my friends...

Jolly just got a real freelancing writer job offer. That's really great. Here is how I congratulated him (via gchat because i'm an incredible friend.):

me: jolly, 1) that's awesome, congrats!
2) would you call someone who had gotten their foot sliced off "depedicated?"
i can't think of anyone else to ask that wouldn't get freaked out

John: haha
um . . . i don't know if that's a real word, but that sounds like what it would be

me: awesome
that's a load off my mind

Lucky for me, nothing disturbs Jolly anymore, so instead of trying to talk more about his awesome new job, he sends me this:

depeditate

/dee-ped'*-tayt/ [by (faulty) analogy with "decapitate"]
Humorously, to cut off the feet of.  When one is using some
computer-aided typesetting tools, careless placement of text
blocks within a page or above a rule can result in chopped-off
letter descenders.  Such letters are said to have been
depeditated.

(I was so close to being a word genius! Blast!)

me: humorously, eh?

John: haha

i think it's more of a media term

me: like, omg, that girl was just depeditated...ha

John: but it does mean to have the feet cut off

by a roller coaster!

John: HI-LARIOUS!

me: i'm going to coney island tonight

Thus did I, your trusty blog heroine, deftly turn the conversation away from my friend's great achievements (Bo-ring!) and towards an in-depth discussion of a Christopher Pike book that showed young and impressionable thelaurenbell all the horrible ways I could die at Coney Island.

That's what friends are for.

*(per Jolly's lightning-fast comment): I also made him read a lengthy description of a funhouse statue that is both projectile vomiting and suffering from explosive diarrhea. Really the only proper mental image to have when considering a job offer.

Hating...Foiled!

For MONTHS I have been mentally preparing a post concerning the inferiority of Post brand cereals -- how their Raisin Bran is but a poor cardboard imitation of the delicious raisinness and brandtasticocity that is Kellogg's; how their so-called "shredded wheat" (heh, creative name guys. real clever.) wants so badly to be Frosted Mini Wheats but is certainly not; how Fruity Pebbles are just...weird. Could they think of a less-appetizing shape for a cereal? It looks like the dandruff flakes of some horrible Red17/ascorbic acid monster. Blurgh.

Today, however, you, dear readers, were robbed of my masterpiece in the medium of derision.

Today, I experienced one of my top 18 breakfast cereal moments, and, though it pains me, I must credit Post for this breakthrough.

I was at the grocery store, getting my usual spaghetti sauce and beer (...), when I decided that I might also like some solid foods -- preferably of the breakfast variety. I went to the ceral aisle with a craving right on the tip of my tongue (where a food craving should be) for something sweet, but not too sweet. Good wet or dry. Not too small or too crumbly. It was a very complex craving.

In spite of my many many misgivings, I chose the latest offering from those chuckleheads over at Post: Shredded Wheat with Strawberries.

Dudes, I cannot even explain to you how delicious this stuff is. The taste may have been enhanced by the fact that I was hungry enough to consume a small donkey, but I think this stuff has got legs. Tiny, bite-size shredded wheat squares, fake white sugar coating stuff, actual freeze-dried strawberry bits...I mean, it's NO Cracklin' Oat Bran (greatest cereal of all time, hands down), but damn.

Of course, you can trust a world-class ruiner of breakfast like Post to keep such satisfying experiences at a minimum. When I looked at the site to check the name of the life-changing cereal (and then felt really stupid when 'that shredded wheat-y one with the strawberry bits' turned out to be 'Shredded Wheat with Strawberries'), I happened upon a mother lode of morning food atrocities that Post is unleashing on the world:

"Dino S'mores Pebbles:

Pebbles cereal introduces Dino S'mores Pebbles! Great s'mores flavor served up in fun Dinosaur Bone, Marshmallowy Boulder and Chocolatey Nugget shapes. Just like Cocoa and Fruity Pebbles, it's low in fat, cholesterol free, and has 10 essential vitamins and minerals. All of this brought to you by the Flintstone's fun-loving dinosaur pet: Dino!"

Biggest problem here = "Marshmallowy Boulder." Do not feed me oxymorons for breakfast, Post!

"LiveActive Cereal:

New LiveActive Cereal from Post is made with whole grain wheat and inulin, a prebiotic fiber, to help promote digestive health. The best part? It tastes great!"

Breakfast to make you poo. I guess it's a good idea, but...ew.

"Shredded Wheat with Strawberries:

I have deleted their description because all you need to know is that this is delicious.

"Chocolate HoneyComb:

Honeycomb cereal introduces Chocolate Honeycomb! A new Honeycomb cereal with a delicious chocolate flavor. Just like Honeycomb, it's an excellent source of whole grain – 16 grams per serving*, has 10 vitamins and minerals and 0g of trans fat. Of course it has the BIG Honeycomb size for the biggest chocolate bite in breakfast!"

Wait for it...

"Honey Bunches of Oats Chocolate:

Announcing new Honey Bunches of Oats with Real Chocolate Clusters cereal! The perfect combination of crispy flakes and crunchy oat clusters with chocolate baked right in. It's a good source of whole grain - 10 grams per serving* and has 9 Essential Vitamins and Minerals. It's sweet, but not too sweet!"

A one-two punch of unnecessary chocolate! Thank you, Post.

Monologue for Chase Utley, Phillies Second baseman

players: 1 man, athletic build, 20-30 years old, strongly resembling a billygoat.

scene: It's the bottom of the 3rd inning. Utley, the young hero of this tale, races to catch a ground ball that speeds past him. He stumbles. His muscle-bound hulk twists to the ground, kicking up a spray of dust.

UTLEY: grrrrarrrr.

He has just failed epically. The ball piffles past him, allowing a base hit for the Phillies' arch nemeses, the New York Mets.

UTLEY: Stupid. Stupid Utley. That's another night of being chained in the dugout for you.

The crowd, composed largely of Mets fans, cheers maniacally.

UTLEY: Is it cool if I scratch my groin right now? It always helps me feel better.

His hand inches towards his groin. The TV cameras zoom in.

UTLEY: Yesyesyesyes...NO. They're watching. Reveling in my failure. Oh, they'll pay for this torture.

...

UTLEY: How about now? What do you mean they're still watching? They cannot long separate Utley from his ultimate bliss!

First base guy gives him a warning look, as if pleading with the headstrong lad, "Boy, don't embarrass us here."

UTLEY: Look, I don't give a damn how long they were watching the Coors Light Extra Cold Freeze Frame Awesomachine -- they need to take those cameras off of me because I have a NEED right now.

And when did they stop calling it "Instant Replay?"

A short and boring strike-out. The cameras return to Utley -- the beacon of drama.

UTLEY: Yessss...satisfact -- what? Really? That's it -- you, shortstop, create a diversion; awesomeness, stupidity, I don't care how you distract them. I have things to do.

[Insert wholly inappropriate "I have a ball game to play" joke here.]

Jurassic Fight Club

I saw a poster up for Jurassic Fight Club, the TV show? Movie? Live (oh pleasepleaseplease) performance? about a week ago, and i have been trying to think of something funny to write about it ever since. Through much internal debate, however, I have decided that NOTHING could possibly be funnier than those three words put together.

Observe:

JURASSIC. FIGHT. CLUB.

Are you freaking laughing your pants off right now? You bet you are. (an added dose of funny - because once you get the JFC ball rolling you can't be stopped - I first wrote this sentence as "are you freaking your pants right now?" you figure it out.)

For added hilarity, check out their oh-so-serious, do-they-really-think-they-are-being-cool-or-is-this-ironic-? art work*:



Crazy handwriting! Blood spatters! Dinosaurs screaming for the noble glory of the kill! Do you feel testosterone, awesomeness and Mountain Dew seeping out of your every pore right now? Well, good because you're watching the History Channel, bitch.

*This version of the art work, I admit, is slightly less awesome than what I've been seeing about town because it actually tells you that this is a TV show featuring CGI dinosaurs as imagined by the History Channel. The posters I have been laughing about only show that middle wordy part, and leave the rest to the magic of fanciful interpretation, hence my confusion at the beginning of this post, wherein I was hoping that Jurassic Fight Club might actually be an audience-participation-enhanced musical theatre dinner show.

Look! I'm linking!

My friends over at Box Box Stick (annnnnnnnd...I just got what that means when you have two girls and one guy as your cast. Neat.), just put up their first podcast. It's basically just them talking about their days, their lives, their favorite drinks, etc., but they happen to be naturally delightful and funny people (as all my friends are. except that one -- you guys know who I'm talking about...). Moral of the story: you should check them out.

Anyways, Becca was talking about this lady who came in to return something at the baby boutique where she works. The problem with this interaction was that the return item was over a year old. The company whose name was on the onesie or the goofy hat -- or whatever it was that had come from the baby store in some forgotten and long-past era -- didn't even exist anymore. But the woman was quite insistent that it was within her rights to return it, and even got a little bit rude. All in all, it turned out to be a pretty horrible experience for poor Becca, and I felt bad for her, really, but at the same time...I kind of love that random return woman.

Really, who has the cajones to do something like that?

"Yes, I realize it was handsewn by palace maidens in the dark ages, and yes, I do realize that no self-respecting baby would wear this particular style of goofy hat in this day and age, but, you see, I simply don't want it anymore." Her kid had probably worn it and outgrown it ("Oh, the tooth-marks? And the fraying? I take no responsibility for the fact that your store sells raggedy things."). I just have to admire her a little bit.

I rarely return things, even when they are brand new. In fact, the entire shopping experience is something of a challenge for me because, rather than going into a store with the goal of purchasing something, I go in with only the overwhelming desire to make the salespeople like me.

It's probably disgusting to watch me in a store; I creep noiselessly from rack to rack, trying not to disturb the salespeople. They ask if I need help, and I say, "Oh! No need, I can get it!" as I try unsuccessfully to find things in my size or pull a box off the top shelf. I kowtow, I grimace, I scrape.

The dressing room is even worse, particularly in small stores, where you have to leave the safe confines of your personal cube and walk into the store to see a mirror. They always have an opinion (usually something along the lines of, "You should totally buy that!"), and it always kills me to disagree. "Yeah! I mean, the whole 'doesn't actually button right over my boobs' thing is totally in, right?!" or "Oh, definitely, I mean, I've been looking for a dress with strategically placed crotchal pockets [true story]!"

And then there are the returns. When asked why I am returning their perfectly fine product, I can never just say, "Buyer's remorse." or "Well, I didn't want it and was bullied into it by a salesperson." I always need a story. A favorite of mine is that I bought it for my sister (conceivably a twin, since the shirt or skirt being returned is obviously in my size), who decided she didn't like it. I like this one because it moves the blame onto someone else, and I can sit and commiserate with the checkout girl about what a fool the sister is to not want such a great item.

I don't know why I do this. Someday soon, I'm going to have to accept that it's the salespeople's job to accept returns. Or I'll just have to get over my aversion to the crotch-pocket dress that is currently taking up space in my closet.

thelaurenbell's List of Things that should Just Stop Trying...

...because they are so painfully bad:

2) The Rite-Aid (Rite-aid? RITE-AID?) on the corner of 5th St. and 7th Ave.

You all thought I had forgotten this thread, didn't you? You thought the heading on the first go-around was just a clever ploy for bashing the NYT, and, well, it was. BUT no matter how mind-numbingly awful the Times is; no matter how far ahead on the list it lies; no matter how much like the sun the badness of the Times is, in comparison to the other, wee, inconsequential celestial bodies in our scale-model-of-the-universe metaphor for awfulness, there are some other things that manage to similarly melt my face off by force of sheer incompetence and wtf-osity. 

One of these things is the neighborhood Rite-Aid.

Even disregarding, momentarily, the stacks upon stacks of never-unpacked/shelved random items (a pile of Heineken mini-kegs once prevented me from getting in the door -- a good situation to stumble upon in my apartment, a bad one when I really need new deodorant), the Rite-Aid stands out as a blackened pit of retail despair. 

There is only ever one person manning the 4-register counter. Yes, other people do work there, but they manage to stay far away from any place where they might actually be needed by the customers. There is one particularly charming young lad who sees it as his duty to hide -- freakin' HIDE -- in the lipstick/ladies' hair products aisle. I have been leered at more times than I can remember by this little turd, and still, every time I turn the corner, he manages to freak me out. 

What is he doing back there? Does he have an undying passion for categorizing each color of lipstick by a different strategy every morning -- alphabetically, by color family, by the stereotype of womanhood for which they are named (flowers here, shades of sunlight/sunset here)? If that's the case, than he has my utmost sympathy for his lipstick affliction (coincidentally the name of my grrrl rock band), and I beseech the RITE-AID, to bequeath at least one "employee of the month" plaque to him each and every 30-day period, without fail, for his unswerving dedication. 

As a matter of fact, the lipstick man is so focused on the incredible task set before him each morning that he can't be bothered to help me when I moved beyond the narrow scope of his interests and into the razor section. This is unfortunate because the razors happen to be locked up -- a situation that forces me, again, to ask the RITE-AID some serious questions, as though it is a sentient being. These questions are along the lines of, "RITE-AID, what sort of rasorial crime could be so horrible as to merit imprisonment in your dank and dusty aisles?" 

There are a great number of expensive products in a RITE-AID: fancy face lotions infused with diamonds and the blood of lambs, various barely-legal medications, giant vats of Flintstones vitamins, etc. -- which I can understand wanting to protect against thieving little hands, but a $12 pack of disposable Schicks? Really? Asking Lips mcGee for help in getting those out is just asking to be inched closer to "please get the KY Jelly behind the counter" in the leering spectrum. I don't need that.

Foiled in my attempt to get razors on my last, hellish visit to the RITE-AID (and, yeah, I keep wanting to make a WRONG-AID joke, but that would be embarrassing for everyone involved), I went for the simplest of products: a band-aid. Feeling cheap and surly, I went for the basic RITE-AID brand of "sheer bandages." Upon getting these "sheer bandages" home and attempting to put one on my skin, I discovered that "sheer" in RITE-AID language, means "kinda darkish-tannish and DEFINITELY OPAQUE." Interesting. I don't really mind non-sheer bandages (though they do make it hard to discreetly cover the disgusting random infection that my elbow is currently cultivating), but it's the lying, RITE-AID, that really disappoints me.

Maybe I'll get ads about ads now

Dude, Google AdWords is so lame. I added it to my blog thinking, hoping, praying against every sense of rationality, decency and pride that I could make a bit of extra cash off of it. 

I don't really know why I thought it would work -- my friends are too smart to fall for banner ads (They're also too smart to get sucked into reading whatever swill I'm jotting down here every week. Damn my awesome taste in people.), and I don't think my parents trust the Internets enough to click anything.

Even if my friends and parents were the sort of mythical, click-happy, Web-trolling consumers that all these ads are made for (and who are those people? Do they really exist? I imagine they're all in some godforsaken place, like Arkansas, trapped in a 1960s fallout shelter, and the only way for them to understand the present day is to mash any Internet button they can...I don't know why the bunker has Web access.), what in the world would make Google think that my friends would want the particular ads they have chosen?

Am imagined scene in the life of "Jolly" John Bavoso: 

"La la la, I'm just reading Lauren's blog. Man, I am such a good friend to plow through this every week. Oh, look, she's angry about something again...

"OoooooooOO - why, yes! I DO want an Eliot [redacted to keep the ad from reappearing] ringtone!"

What in the name of ham sandwich is a [redacted] ringtone? Does it play high-class stripper music? Does it only sound when your pimp is calling? Is it legal in the state of New York?

I demand answers, Google! Drag out your giant brain machine and make it speak to me!

If the G-team were really all that smart they would have ads for free beer and ice cream -- those are the things that appeal to the type of people who read this blog. Or maybe an ad for funny things - "Hey People! Tired of the soul-crushing disappointment that comes from reading thelaurenbell every week? Come read funny things here!" 

As it is, I'm not expecting a cheque for my AdWords contributions any time soon. . . unless you're all secretly huge fans of Abigail Adams (really, Google? Can we get at least get this shiz updated at some point? I was angry at John Adams, like, two weeks ago). 

I'm actually not angry this time...also not really funny...

I've started reading Watership Down. No, I don't particularly like rabbits, and, yes, I am over the age of eleven. I picked it up in an effort to fix a bit of a problem I've been having: I cannot stop referencing this book.

For years now, every time I've seen anything featuring, or even resembling, rabbits, I have had the horrible compulsion to blurt out, "Ohmygod Ohmygod -- it's totally like Watership Down you guys!" The numerous occasions that communists, furry bands of animals, or some combination of the two, have made it into conversations with friends (you'd be surprised at how often this happens...or would you?), I HAD to bring up Hazel, Fiver and the gang. It's gotten so bad that, though this hasn't happened yet, I can assure you if I saw a ship on the water go down somewhere, I would certainly attempt a pun on everyone's favorite rabbit-based novel.

The weird part (aside from, you know, all those other parts I just talked about): I haven't even seen the book since I was about nine years old.

Watership Down is, in fact, just one in a long line of classic, beloved works of fiction that I recklessly, wantonly and probably erroneously bring up in my daily conversations.

The boss leaves our relatively youthful office alone for the day? Suddenly I'm making cracks about Lord of the Flies. I rushed through that one once, in a blind dash of terror, sometime around the 8th grade.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas I have a bit more context for because I'm creepy and I've actually read the book (and seen the movie) recently, but that doesn't make it any less weird when I start growling about a trunk full of mescaline and a massive bat-fight in the desert.

Why have I let myself become this person? I think it's partly human nature - we like joining in the cultural conversation, embedding our lives into the bigger picture by picking up on things that are popular and connecting them to our own lives.

People reference stupid movies all the time. Because I enjoy getting beat up by common grade school thugs, I'm doing the same thing -- just with books. When you stand on a railing and scream, "I'm king of the world!" (or, more likely, unless you were a 14 year old girl when Titanic came out and you saw it 9 times in the theatre, some ridiculous bastardization like, "I'm on top of the world!" "I'm the king!" or "Fuck yeah!"), it's like me trying to sneak a Hemingway mention into conversation any time there's excessive drinking and manliness going on. You know what I'm going for, even if it's not dead-on.

If a book really is a cultural icon (and I hope to god that's still a possibility), is referencing one really that much lamer than quoting Anchorman for the billionth time? Sure, Gatsby may not be as endlessly amusing, but I'm betting he has many leather-bound books, and his home smells of rich mahogany.

I got the shakes -- hand me that paper

Anger is like my crack; I am horribly, painfully addicted. I love the way it feels coursing through my veins. It enervates me. It makes me cackle gleefully, and unlike other potentially life-damaging chemical addictions, it comes with absolutely no hangover. 

And that is why I cannot help reading the New York Times, no matter how insufferable it becomes. I am especially a fan of the Sunday Styles and, most particularly, the wedding section. It is the worst. 

Who Are These People? An actual kicker line from a one this week: "They discovered they lived only one block apart, which made it convenient for dating." If that's not a recipe for true love, I don't know what is. 

"Hey, you live here? I live here! OMG Let's bang!" 

If that were the real way of the world, don't you think I would have been in some interesting situations with the surly lesbians downstairs by now? Get real.

I wonder how these get written up. My theory is that it's something like a Mad Lib (okay, a form letter, for those of you who have progressed since middle school). You pay the Times whatever obscene amount of money you have to pay to get in there, they send you a questionnaire: Name an Ivy League School. Which brokerage firm employs you currently? Do your parents live in A) FL, B) Manhattan, or C) NJ (JK! we don't care about people who live in NJ!)? A company my father has been president of =  etc. Then they get those darling Times writers to just whip up one of their insightful and extremely well-phrased narratives. Voila -- the announcement of your special day looks just like everyone else's. Congratulations, you do fit in here.

Of course there are some that stand out: The couple who did not run a picture this week. Are they too poor? Or just really ugly? Where are your investigative journalists when you need them?

Another stand-out: those scallywags who were the main feature -- the best friends who ended up getting married. I was going to overlook the fact that they stole their romance from the plotline of every Julia Roberts movie ever, until they actually compared the bride TO JULIA ROBERTS. Smooth move, Freud. 

The worst part, though? The part that really inspired my utmost rage? The in-set picture on the featured couple was not a close-up of their faces, nor a photo of the ring, nor a crowd shot dancing. It was the groom's sneakers -- shiny black Converse. Because he's EDGY. 

Hey! Hey Guys! Do you see these? Do you see my "kicks" -- I am forever young! I am Virile! The Man can't hold ME down! Who wants to see me make out with Erin Brockovich over here?

If you can't wear big boy shoes to your own wedding, maybe it's time to re-think that whole life-long commitment thing -- it can get awfully tedious if you start counting when you're 14.  

I hope that next week features a wedding with a completely un-ironic Paris Hilton theme -- I'm going to need an even bigger hit to feed the addiction.

Why I didn't major in history

There are a lot of reasons why I didn't major in history, and many of them have to do with personal preference: After living in Colonial Williamsburg for 4 years, I decided that colonists, even with their wacky butter churning parties and ale-soaked taverns, were boring. I dislike dealing with numbers of more than two digits, which makes it hard to keep track of important years. I despise the study of government, which always seems to be latching on to history's coattails, and I find the idea of competing in a class with Nora Wolf terrifying.

However much I would like to pretend, though, that I would have done excellently in a history class had I deigned to take one, my recent adventures with a certain historical mini-series have shown the situation to be otherwise.

Things I've learned from the 7-part John Adams TV movie (which, yes, I have been watching on DVD. Alone. All weekend):

1) Paul Giamatti (in the role of John Adams) has a finely-shaped skull.

The man repeatedly removes his wig, and, astute history-movie-scholar that I am, I sit up and take notice. I count this one as an important take-away lesson only because Mr. Giamatti is normally not cited for his looks.

2) Thomas Jefferson definitely went to William and Mary.

According to the great truth-disseminator that is HBO, Thomas Jefferson was painfully awkward, bookish and anti-social. When dragged into conversation with the more verbose Adams, he often directs his comments to the ground rather than to poor Mr. Giamatti. That one of my alma mater's most famous grads would act in such a way was less a history lesson than vindication; William and Mary students have not changed much (for reference, see my previous post, on my inability to interact with strangers). Still, it's one of the few things that, half an hour post-viewing, I can remember, and so I count it as a sign of my great historian-type abilities.

3) South Carolina is a douchebag.

While I have no idea who this Mr. South Carolina delegate is supposed to be, I do know that he is one of John Adams' main frenemies in the Congress, and that HBO has decided he is the "bad guy" (denoted by inordinate amounts of yelling, bitchy eyebrow raising, and a smugness that could only be surpassed by that of a true a Mean Girl).

That's it.

I can't tell you the names of any of the important meetings Mr. Adams attended (and believe me, there were a lot). I have no idea if the man attending the meetings alongside him is the famed brewer Sam Adams (though I like to believe that it is, and drink accordingly during my viewings). It baffles me why New York (the delegate, not the state nor the reality TV star) is so fat and belligerent. When I IMDB'd the show, I was astounded to see that Adams' daughter's name is supposed to be "Nabby." Really? Nabby? -- I hope she lives through episode 2 and goes through a revolution of her own, involving piercings, tattoos and a chain-smoking boyfriend.

Had I any brains for history, I might have picked up some actual facts from this, by all accounts, mostly-accurate depiction of our country's birth. I would have gotten a true picture of all the tensions, motivations, struggles and dramas of the real people of the time.

Instead, I formed snap judgments about their character flaws and pitted them against each other in imaginary dramas (SC and Regina George V. John and Nabby Adams, cage fight/bitch fight extravaganza. If this were on HBO I might actually pay for it.).

And that's why, barred from the hallowed and stately halls of history by my own inadequacies and perversions, I slunk off to the English department to receive a degree in something I was good at: nonsense.

And speaking of on-the-spot come-backs...

(and posting more often): Sometimes I wonder if there is something wrong with the way I was raised. I can never seem to interact with crowds and strangers appropriately; even simple, human reflexes, like saying "hello" or "thank you" dry up in my throat. I often find myself whispering to people, or worse, mouthing things at them. Imagine if a giant goldfish came up to you -- a check-out girl at the grocery store -- you might nod encouragingly as the goldfish gulped away at the air, but in the end, you would never know if the poor thing wanted cash back or was just making small talk about the weather. 

I don't remember any dark moment of my childhood that might have led to this extreme form of social anxiety. Maybe I was secretly raised by evil gypsies, forced to travel the land and deliver sub-par stand-up routines each night of my young life, and I just repressed it like any other unpleasant memory. I doubt it. Perhaps I spent too much time staring at Jim, my fish, or playing with Ninja Turtle dolls, and, like a child raised by wolves, lost any need for language. I don't know. 

It's only important that I discover the cause of this problem so that I can cure it. My inability to speak to strangers has, aside from causing small annoyances like not being able to order in bars, really cut down on the amount of biting sarcasm and well-deserved citizen citations that I can dole out. 

Example: I was standing in line at the worst Dunkin Donuts in the world, when I felt this tapping on my shoulder. I ignore it because who taps people at 9 AM before they've had their coffee? Children? I don't talk to them. The tapping continues, so I turn, and it's a full-grown lady, who tells me, "I could take your wallet right out of your purse!" I froze. Was this a threat? She went on, however, to tell me that she could see my wallet sitting inside my very large purse and that, if she were a thief, she could have grabbed it and been gone. 

I wanted to respond that the joke would be on her because then she'd be stuck with a raggedy wallet, an out-dated Georgia driver's license and a gift certificate to the GAP. But I couldn't tell her that. Nor could I tell her, "Don't worry -- this is just the decoy wallet, I keep my real wallet hidden from criminals like yourself." All I could do was make big eyes at her, nod and remove the wallet from my purse -- thereby keeping it safe in my grip of steel. That story isn't nearly as amusing as the one I imagined -- the one where I had a voice! 

 

There are many people in this world who need my particular brand of tough love. That woman needed someone to tell her that, while she though she was doing a public service, she was really just annoying me and providing fodder for a blog post. The asshole who sits on the stairs in the subway station needs to be told that stairs are for walking on.  The drunk ex-fratty who thinks that massaging your arm as he yells inanities at you will help him get you home from the bar needs to be told that I will stab him if he doesn't stop. If I have no voice, how can I tell these poor, misguided souls that what they are doing is, in fact uncalled-for and, also, that it makes everyone want throw them in a very deep pit? They need these warnings, and I need to cure this serious affliction. 

Suggestions, dear readers, are welcome. 

Life is soooo hard

Hey people. I don't know if anyone reads this blog anymore because I've been so awful about posting regularly. If you do still check occasionally, I'm sorry there has been not been a fresh supply of hilarious anecdotes and charming puns streaming forth from thelaurenbell. 

What can I say? One, I'm lazy. Two, cleverness cannot simply be tapped and harnessed like oil from a fresh Texan field. And, even if it can, I am, unfortunately, no Daniel Day Lewis from There Will Be Blood (does anyone actually remember his character's name in that? I'm pretty sure he was just playing himself.). If I were DDL, it probably wouldn't make any difference because I'd be too busy crushing people and being maniacal -- very time-consuming. 

As it is, I am simply thelaurenbell: a girl so un-clever that she couldn't even come up with a vaguely amusing blog title. No, I had to depend on the glorious cinematic masterpiece that is Maverick to supply my obscure and unrealistic blogger name (it' s the name of the boat, for you philistines who have yet to revel in the genius that puts Mel Gibson on a riverboat gambling binge with Jodie Foster). In fact, I have the same user name (and password, for all you identity thieves out there) for every possible online identity. And my password is definitely a carryover from seventh grade.  

Excuses aside -- I promise to post more often than I have been of late. Feel free to berate and belittle me if I don't. I probably won't be able to think of any good comebacks on the spot anyway.

thelaurenbell's List of Things that should Just Stop Trying...

...because they are so painfully bad.

1) the New York Times:

I was perusing the New York Times this afternoon (read: trying desperately to burn time at work. Why is a work day 8 hours long? Doesn't that seem excessive to anyone else?), and an article about the latest Starbucks opening -- in Jackson Heights, Queens -- caught my eye.

I know it's a stupid topic. That's why I wanted to read it. You don't spend your futzing-around-at-work time reading about the latest breakthroughs in applied physics, as they relate to the economies of third-world countries with lengthy and confusing histories, do you?

My choice of reading material doesn't matter. What matters here is the Times' choice of writing material. 

Now presenting New York Times: The Blog: A Very Special Episode in Phraseology:

From the "City Room" NYT blog: "the debate has been debated on the local blogs like Jacksonheightslife.com and JH Families.com."

Really? The debate has been debated? Not, i don't know, raging, highlighted, represented, or anything that makes sense without using the same freaking word, Mr. NYT? Or, how about an interesting verb -- why can't the debate be gargled or bamboozled or passionately ravished, if we're not really thinking through this whole verb-usage thing? I demand answers.

And another thing (I will never tire of arguing the argument that the times is shite...[see what I did there?]): "the local blogs like Jacksonheights.com..." Is it me, or is something about this little journalistic nugget just terribly, incredibly awkward -- like elderly Uncle Jack showing up at your 14th birthday party...in a speedo? 

Hey! Hey! NYT, have you heard about what all these kids are doing? These Web Logs? They're somewhere on the internets! You believe that?

Why can't they just be "local blogs like J.." or "the local blogs, J...?" There are too many words here, no? We live in the age of speed and concision, NYT; now stop hurting my brain with your inferiority.

News Update, corrected

So I may have been a little hasty in my last posting. Eliot Spitzer (who, among other character flaws, doesn't believe in the wonders of extraneous first-name consonants) may ruin a hell of a lot of things: people's faith in elected officials, his marriage, Lauren Bell's personal time with Alex Trebec, etc. etc., BUT a single man, no matter how rich or powerful or stupid cannot possibly ruin everything. That would be ridiculous. It would take at least 5 of ESpitz and a smattering of other people with similarly ridiculous nicknames (Speidi anyone?) to truly bring about the end of civilization as we know it. 

There are, however, some other unsavory characters vying for the title of "everything-ruiner" -- much to the collective relief of the four horsemen of the apocalypse (let's face it, the waiting game must be getting pretty old for them by now).

One of these responsible and hard-working souls is someone with whom you may be familiar. His name is Chef Bobby Flay. I believe he had the "Chef" legally added as insurance after Rachel Ray beat him on an Iron Chef showdown (thank you, Wikipedia, for that priceless nugget). There's nothing more damaging to your chef reputation that being shown up by the Triscuit Queen.

Everything about this man rubs me the wrong way. And, as if offending me by his very being weren't enough, he manages to smear his personal brand of horrendousness on approximately 19 different Food Network shows, thus making himself inescapable to those of you who, like me, insist on watching only the FN if Jeopardy is not on. 

An illustrative example: "Throw Down."

Are you aware of this atrocity? "Throw Down" is a television program in which Flay, bored with annoying just me, tricks people -- tricks them -- into thinking they are being showcased on the FN (yeah, I'm going to keep calling it that) for their personal recipes: Edna's Texas Chili, etc.

Then, he sits around in the Food Network test kitchen and demands that his soulless minions concoct a better recipe of the same ilk. He shows up to a party full of poor, unsuspecting Edna's family and friends and tells her, "No, I'm not here to honor you. I'm here to potentially humiliate you...THROW DOWN!" He might also say things like "BOO-YAH" and "Oh SNAP" -- he's that awful.

The minions, bearing the specially-prepared recipe, descend upon Edna's party like a plague of locusts. Snooty guest judges sweep in from secret side doors. Giant Mao-esque banners featuring Flay's all-mocking mug unfurl across the kitchen.

Bobby Flay (which I first typed as "Booby Fly." And then I laughed. Because I'm nine years old.), trying to figure out why you do this every week makes my head hurt. Edna has been making her Texas Chili for 97 years, and everyone has already agreed that it is the best. Why must you rob her of her hard-earned mantle of good-cookery? Is it because Rachel Ray stole yours?

Well, I don't care, Flay. What you're doing is just wrong. Write Rachel a nice letter asking for your mantle back. Release your minions from their miserable bondage and stop surprising people. Please, start putting your time towards something productive, and not encouraging the destruction of all goodness. You are upsetting me. You are upsetting Edna. And somehow, I'm sure, Trebek has heard about this and is shedding a single, phoenix-like tear. 

News Update: Eliot Spitzer Ruins Everything

So Eliot Spitzer, governor of New York, was busted today for taking part in a "high-class" prostitution ring. 

Note #1: Honey, just because they're actually women and you pay them a lot doesn't make them classy. Nice try there, though. Imagine if he had been busted for taking part in a "skanky-ass, chlamydia-ridden, reality-TV-ready prostitution ring." Someone give his press people a bonus. 

Note #2: When I first saw the headline for this story, I read it to mean that Eliot Spitzer was a high-class prostitute. (insert hackneyed 'politics is full of prostitutes' joke...[wait for it]...here). Wasn't he once known as the Sheriff of Wall Street or some such boondoggle? God, what a great stripper theme -- money and assless chaps. I can see where he would be tempted to try it.

And #3, the real tragedy: Because I am an ignorant, apolitical fool, I didn't really care about his little shenanigans (especially when I could no longer picture our once-esteemed governor showing up at someone's hotel room wearing something sassy). 

What I did care about was coming home from my horrible job and winding down with some Jeopardy at 7:00. I fed my fish, removed my shoes and plopped down, only to find Eliot Spitzer's face where Alex Trebek's should be! Coverage of that philandering phool (Spitzer, not Trebek) had superseded all my Daily Doubles and questions posed as answers! Yelling at the face of a stupid politician on TV is simply not as soothing as yelling out answers to esoteric questions. Watching Spitzer apologize for getting caught doesn't make me feel smug -- I still don't know if I am smarter than him, and I certainly haven't won more money -- it just makes me feel shocked a disappointed. 

Minor note, 3a: The worst part about the "breaking news" that totally destroyed my evening: it was mostly the News Team talking to "New York Voters" out on the street. The problem: all of their men on the street were people grabbed straight from Times Square. At 7 at night. How many of those people do you think are from New York at all? I don't need to hear that some Ohio tourist is surprised to hear the news about our governor (and no shit you won't vote for him, lady -- we all know you are here to see Spamalot). What I need to hear right now is the name of the second-highest mountain range in the 27th latitude. 

Moral: Spitzer ruins lives. 

Club Famous

I saw Paul Giamatti on my morning commute the other day. Or maybe it was just some guy who had the misfortune of looking just like Mr. G (only without that very handsome sheen of fame and the flattering glow of cash money lighting up his face), but that's not nearly as exciting, so I'm sticking with the famous-guy story.

New Yorkers want everyone to think that they run into celebrities so often that it's more of a nuisance than an event: "Of course!" they heartily guffaw at all you silly, midwestern rubes. "They all live here! They're practically swarming the streets! Gosh, sometimes I wish all these kooky celebrities would just go somewhere else and leave me alone, you know?"

These aggressive exclamations are nothing but bald-faced lies. Seeing famous people is still really freaking exciting, no matter where you live. Being a cool New Yorker just means you're very much aware (and afraid) that you'll look like a tool if you talk to them. New Yorkers, in my observations, often skip the chance to touch the famous in favor of quietly judging them as they pass by.

That doesn't mean it's not totally rad to see someone recognizable.

I live in Park Slope, a neighborhood with a celebrity-to-boring-person ratio of approximately 1.37:2.5 (babies, who are only kinda people but a large segment of the population here, make for some weird numbers). Sure, some of these so-called "famous" are not entirely recognizable -- a lot of writers, for instance -- but, according to all the reports, they are here.

HOWEVER, in nearly a year spent wandering our lovely, stroller-filled streets, I have managed only once to see anyone of note in the area. Granted, that one glorious vision of stardom was John Hodgman, and, when you love NPR as much as I do, a Hodgman sighting is rather like the average person catching a glimpse of, I don't know, John Stamos (sorry, he [as Uncle Jesse, no less] was just the first person to pop into my head -- but do you see what I was going for?). It was kind of amazing.

The reason why movie star/model/really rich person-spotting still manages to send our little hearts a pitter-pattering -- even in the big fancy city (or the big...Brooklyn-y...Brooklyn) -- is that famous people may be our neighbors, but they are certainly not "just like us" -- no matter what those lying minxes over at US Weekly are trying to tell you .

The most stunning difference between the famous and people who are just like us is not the swimming pools full of money or the all-night orgies or the secret stables full of flying unicorns. No, no. It's that they manage to have exciting, decadent, must-watch lives while never leaving their houses.
It's true.

Aside from The Hodg (and wouldn't it be awesomely douchebaggy if he actually called himself that?), I have never seen even the shadow of fame peeking from one of the Slope's brownstone fortresses. I imagine that this is because the "talent" sticks together, going to other famous houses for famous people dinners, playing famous softball in the Prospect Park Famous-Only Softball League, building famous forts with large "NO NON-FAMOUS ALLOWED" signs nailed to the outside.

I mean, really, where ARE these people? What do I have to do to score some face-time with Paul Auster? Sure, Buscemi (of the Steve variety. He's supposed to live a few blocks down from me) may have a great pitching arm, but, really, can we not share the famous? Maybe I want him on my softball team for once. Dammit, Auster, let Buscemi do his own thing!

Confession: I don't really have a conclusion for this post. I mostly just wanted to say, "Hey, famous people, why don't you show yourselves to your resident pretty pretty princess?" I can keep a secret, and I'm really fun at underground hot tub/unicorn/gold outfits parties.

SO, famous people -- those of you with faces that I may have seen on the gossip blogs or on your books -- come to me. Because you're not really famous until I mistakenly identify a random, ugly dude on my morning train as your golden, blessed famous self.

Organization is the Key

I have an official "Shit List." A friend of mine gave it to me, as a method for dealing with what she lovingly (?) refers to as my "rage disorder."
The Shit List is a fill-in-the-blank sort of memo pad, its purpose etched out in massive block letters across the top. The color scheme on this little stationary gem is brown on tan. Cute, right?
Aaaaanyways, the Shit List helps the confused and angry spell out a special little haiku of hatred for any occasion. Anything you might need to know when stoking a good, strong, ridiculous grudge is laid out: "offender," "violation," "severity," "plan of attack," along with the minutiae of where and when someone dared to offend you -- so it will be easier to track them down and punish them. There's even a check-box for pay-back, so that, with all the justice you're handing out, you can remember who you've already gotten and avoid double-dipping with the long arm of righteousness.
This thing is a God-send.
I'm angry at someone pretty much every hour on the hour -- a veritable weather channel update of rage. Before I received this miraculous gift, however, I was not organized with my hating. I'd be doing really well, focusing my death-ray glare on talks-too-loudly-in-public guy, and then, without warning, lady who can't walk in a straight line EVEN THOUGH THERE ARE LINES BUILT INTO THE SIDEWALK would steal all my precious precious anger forces.

Irrational rage is hard to keep up, people! And woe betide the crooked walker (or loud talker, or person taking up too much space on the subway) who would unwittingly (everything they do is unwitting, the jerks) turn my wrath upon him. Back in the good old days of unfocused, under-organized, manic anger, the poor sap would have received the double whammy of me being angry for whatever he was doing, as well as my anger at being distracted before I could show my full disgust at the previous unwitting jerk.

No longer.

Not only does this list allow me to be more efficient in my hating -- producing a single, laser-like beam of incensed-ness with each new entry on the list, it also keeps the fires of my displeasure burning longer.

Before, I would have been angry at the girl wearing a Fashion Institute hoodie (rather akin to wearing a PETA-brand dalmation puppy coat, only much worse-looking) for only the brief moments that we passed on the street. If I had thought hard enough and hadn't been distracted by my commute home (the subway being a traveling gypsy caravan of ire-inducements), I might have been able to let my anger steep for the next hour or so, but eventually, she, like so many others before, would have shuffled from my mind and gone on her ignorant, hoodie-swathed way.

Would have, but with the List, no one is safe.

Hoodie girl is just the first entry. Now, when I feel that horrible cold blankness in my heart that comes after an extended period without the warmth of pure outrage to power me, I need only glance at the little brown notepad siting on my desk: "Offender: Girl on Street [stranger]; Violation: Wearing FIT hoodie; Plan of Attack: angry bafflement," to return focus and meaning to my life.
It's almost enough to make me smile.

An Imagined Affair with the Big Bad Gawker

A friend of mine -- a good, good friend who actually deigns to read this blog -- suggested today that I write something about the incestuous world of New York gossip-mongers. The bloggers, the page-sixers, the...bloggers. In fact, this lovely friend (who reads AND comments! what a guy!) went even further and suggested that I write about one professional gossiper in particular: Nick Denton of Gawker.
The formal submission of the idea:
"Can you make up a blog entry about running into Nick Denton? PLEASE! Since it's Valentine's Day and all, maybe it could be about an imagined affair with the Big Bad Gawker? I KNOW he's gay. but, hey, maybe it could be a purely platonic affair?"
I got very excited when I read this, thinking, "Oh my God, blogging is so awesomely easy! I don't even have to think to do it -- my friends think for me, and i just bang on my keyboard until I manage to beat some funny out of it!"
I gleefully tilted my head to one side, attempting to envision an incredibly satisfying encounter with the BBG himself.
And then I realized -- it's a good thing I don't need brains to blog because I am a moron. I know absolutely nothing about life, and this ignorance extends to the identity of the BBG. I have no idea who this man really is. And by "really is," I don't mean that I cannot sense his essence or imagine the gawker-y goodness of his personal musk. I mean, I don't read Gawker. Never have. Probably will in about five seconds just to see what this man is about, but as of this very moment, I am in a Gawker-free state of innocence.

But innocence is not what my friend wants from me. Innocence is boring. Innocence is lame. Innocence is the opposite of torrid affairs with confirmed homosexuals. And you can't have a good blog without at least one of those (torrid affairs, I mean...or the homosexuals...they're good too).

So I finally dug out my own brain from the back of my closet and started thinking. What would a girl have to do to whip up a believable affair with Le Gawker? I'm not going for the real thing (although I believe there is an opening in my planner for a tempestuous lover on Tuesday and Thursday nights...just saying). I just need enough knowledge of the man to make a satisfying story for my friends.

The easy thing would be to Google him like crazy (which almost sounds dirty -- I'm gonna Google his brains out!) , maybe actually read his little blog or whatever he's twiddling around on these days, pester my friend for more details so I can stop thinking for myself, OR -- OR! -- I could actually meet this fabled Prince of Gossipland.

"How might we encounter each other?" I wondered. Perhaps I will just run into him on the street one day. After all, it's small world, and I walk a lot. Then again, he is in charge of a blog, so perhaps he sits in his mom's basement all day, in which case, I would only have a chance of running into him on "random basement tour Sunday," which I conduct on the third Sunday of each month.

Maybe I could track him down. He is all over the Internets; surely I could reach him through his favorite medium. A banner ad? Posting my contact details and an enticing picture on Gawker's comments pages (because that wouldn't attract any weirdos...)? Writing his name in this post often enough that some search engine picks it up? I don't think search engines actually work like that, but I in trying to engineer some sort of massive shout into the void, all I could come up with was to write Nick Denton! Nick Denton! Nick Denton!

Like I said, I am a damned fool.

Once I found him, what would I do? What would I say? Would we chuckle our way through an awkward first date and then rush home to write snarky things about each other?

God, I hope so.

Maybe as our romance blossomed, we could go on a heartwarming rampage of judging and curmudgeonry together. We could curl up on cold nights, keeping each other warm with the combined powers of hilarity, vitriol and a dash of sexy. Nothing makes you feel more in love than agreeing that everyone else is inferior -- that's a fact, kids.

So Nick Denton (Nick Denton! Nick Denton! Nick Denton!), if you're out there, listen to my friend's Valentine wish, and snark me, baby, snark me.

Bizness Lunch

I went to a luncheon today. For work. Yes, I do manage to hold down a job, though you'd never guess from my behavior at these things. No amount of free food is worth the pure psychological and arm-pitular torture these things put me through. They make me nervous, and, worse, they make me very aware that I cannot be trusted to interact with other people like a normal, professional adult.
Everyone at a business luncheon is supposed to be schmoozing, getting people really stoked about this great new thing their company is doing.
I don’t do this. I never know anybody at "industry events." I barely know what “schmoozing” is -- according to my Word program, I don’t even know how to spell it. I'm 22 years old. I haven’t even been in the work force for a year. I know my parents, people I went to college with and my roommate. I don't even know everyone in my own office.
Luncheons, as translated through my non-business-person mind, are very similar to one of those high-school-misfit-gets-picked-on-then-makes-good-in-the-end movies, only there is no crowning of the homecoming court at luncheons. It’s one of their many flaws.
You (the misfit, of course) show up at a party and none of the cool kids who invited you are there, just weird kids you don't know. The cool kids hang around in the shrubbery long enough to see the complete shock and dejection on your face and then scamper off to their own cool-kid party, where there might be some beer and people will probably get to make out with each other.
In the luncheon situation, my boss, who tells me, “Oh, you should go, what a great opportunity!” but who would never attend such a thing herself, is the cool kid. She definitely looks like she would lurk around in someone’s azaleas for a laugh.
Just like every true nerd party, luncheons do not encourage any false sociability brought on by booze (flaw number 2). They make foolish excuses for such disappointments, like, “You have to go back to work after this, and we don’t want you passing out in front of your boss again,” or, “The cheap tables we have set up cannot support someone dancing on them,” or, “This particular luncheon takes place at 11 in the morning, and, in some circles, drinking at 11 AM on a Wednesday in front of your professional peers is frowned upon.” But, as the slow-blossoming seed of a can-do business lady, I don’t like excuses, I don’t take no for an answer and I DO like a good bloody mary.
When I got to this little shindig, and there was no bar to hang out at, I was at a loss. So I did what any really professional person would do and hid in the bathroom (after walking in on another lady in there and then forgetting to give her my card).
I spent about 10 minutes more pretending to rummage around in my purse for some very important documents and checking my phone for all the very important phone calls I was missing by deigning to be here with these people. Really, I was just standing over my purse in the corner with my head down, waving my hands about every so often, but I thought that if I looked serious enough, I could probably fool people. I furrowed my brow.
When that 10 minutes was up, I still had about 45 to burn. A true innovator, I poured a Coke into a wine glass, hoping for some sort of placebo effect that would make me as charming and witty as I KNOW I certainly must be when I have been drinking. I did my best to chat people up -- which means I stumbled into groups of people who were obviously enjoying pleasant conversations, muttered some words about my job and threw my business cards at them, all while blushing and stuttering and sweating up a storm.
I looked like I was a really bad liar trying to pull something over on them – “No, you caught me, I’m not a journalist at all, I’m just using your strategic business input for my own nefarious schemes. Blast you!”
Thankfully, no one caught on.

Sleeper Crazy

Everyone has at least one intensely crazy friend. They’re good to have around: fun for parties and, an excellent addition to your posse in sticky situations -- like when people want to kick your ass for using words like “posse.”
Sometimes your crazy friend is easy to pinpoint -- that one throwing whiskey glasses at people in the bar? Yeah, that’s probably her (unless, you know, there’s one on the other side of the bar actually setting people on fire, while catching the thrown tumblers in his mouth. Though, if that’s the case, you probably have bigger concerns than figuring out which of your friends is the ‘wacky’ one).
Other times, though, “THE crazy friend” is bit harder to identify. In these cases, it might behoove you to take a deep look inside -- perhaps YOU are crazy friend. If you took that “look inside” in any sort of literal sense, you are definitely the crazy friend. If you have sufficiently scoured each of your personal orifices (orifi? ew.) and found not even the tracest amount of crazy, you may have what we in the industry (yeah, there’s an industry of crazy...just stay with me here -- i haven’t been writing in a while) call, “a sleeper.” The sleeper is someone who appears normal, nay, wholesome, from the outside, but who secretly dreams of someday being a baton-twirling cannoli chef in Vermont (the least wholesome of the 48 contiguous states - if only you knew). The sleeper is dangerous because you never know when the crazy will escape; it might be during a street brawl, when you need it, or it might be when she’s supposed to be performing an emergency tracheotomy on you, in which case you need her head to be in its place.
I met my secretly crazy friend at college. She lived in the all-girls dorm with some of my other friends freshman year, and I thought she was just a cute little Italian city girl.
Wonderful and amazing, yes, but also relatively normal.
Until we went to the secret bar of death.
Back in December, we were out with some friends. We didn’t know everyone there, and it was getting to one of those points in the night where we were all just sort of staring at each other and wondering how lame we would look if we went home early. Finally, one girl took the initiative and said she was heading out. Everyone else -- a group of decidedly UNCRAZY IN ANY WAY friends -- offered to escort her to wherever she was going. We’re not really that nice, but it was on the way to the subway.
We came to a dark street. On the dark street there was a dark door -- all black, no windows, no signs. She knocked, then stood back (a trick that was, I later learned, for the benefit of the hidden security cameras), and a small man in a fedora appeared, looking as though 1939 were just on the other side of that magical portal. Dazed by the turn of events (so THIS girl is crazy friend? why didn’t anyone tell us?), we all trooped in to what was, essentially, a secret speakeasy.
I was dark. It was empty. People smoked -- a sure sign that this place was above (or below) the law. Every wall was plastered with the eeriest of eery mixtures: childish kitsch and cigarette smoke, with maybe a dash of evil thrown in. A moldering Bart Simpson doll leered at me from above the fridge. It was missing an eye, and combined with the beard-like pattern of grime creeping up around its jowls, it looked like a particularly-scurvy-ridden pirate. An equally-bedraggled Raggedy Anne nailed up (nailed! they probably did that to actual children in this place!) next to him played the role of pirate wench. Hula hoops, pressed tin ice cream ads and a corner full of mismatched crutches (for people whose knees got broken in this place?) created a decor that House Beautiful might describe as “retired, feeble-minded, killer chic.” It was like every skeezy flea market in the city had vomited in this place.
I turned to a friend and stage-whispered, “This is how people die!” I was poised to hear the sound of a chainsaw revving up behind one of the mysterious doorways, or to have manacles fly up out of the bar to entangle us. I have seen movies, my friends -- i know how this stuff works.
Photographs of happy young drunks grinned at me from every wall -- the owner, we discovered, had a keen interest in the art of photography. I wondered if it was wise to keep photographic evidence of one’s victims, and then I realized that, if no one ever escaped, it didn’t really matter what they saw.
“We need to leave,” I hissed desperately, trying to look nonchalant when the gaze of the fedora’d proprietor swept in our direction.
“No, this is too weird -- we have to stay,” Giuliana shot back -- sidling up to the bar.
I gave her the bug-eye of fear. She came right back with the bug-eye of excitement -- pure crazy seeping out of her pupils. They had that sheen that you see on over-caffeinated children or American Gladiators with the scent of blood in their nostrils. She would be no help to me tonight.
Two other men passed the security camera test and came in. One was a “bartender,” meaning he was allowed to step behind the bar and toss us Heinekens, Budweisers and Heineken Lights for the reasonable fee of $5 a pop. There was no Bud Light -- the only part of the night that gave Giuliana pause. “Heineken, Heineken Light, Bud...and no Bud Light?” she squeaked, her sense of propriety clearly shaken but the lack of symmetry in the beer selection.
“Nah, but we have vodka tonics.”
“Um...Heineken Light.”
And that was that. Completely at ease, she turned to the other man who had come in and struck up a conversation. He smelled pretty, like gardenias, and jolted by the complete non-threatening-ness of such a thing, we all started talking about his lovely odor.
I imagine it’s what groups of dogs do when they all get together -- stare dumbly around then spend five minutes going, dude, what did you roll in? Although i also imagine that scents like poo and dead animals are of more interest to said group of dogs.
Not to be distracted from my completely rational state of terror, I managed to pull my other friends out of their perfume-induced trance and remind them that our lives were in increasing peril with every minute we spent here -- pretty smells or not. But when we turned to G, she was deep in conversation with eau de gardenias guy, and waved off our offer of escape, safety and continued existence.
We turned to the one who had guided us there -- the pied piper of slow creepy death -- and, from the lap of proprietor she motioned that G would be totally fine.
So, being the good friends we are, we ran. G stayed, apparently not even aware of the possibility that she might be sold into white slavery later that evening, hand squeezing gardenias to make intoxicating perfumes for the wealthy.
I guess the crazy badasses of the world don’t worry about things like that.