Wednesday, December 31, 2003

Best Pickup Line for New Year's Eve: It's noon, orange alert, the homeland defense choppers are flying low-enough to set off car alarms on my block, I'm already buzzed from too much Ratafina de Montserrat in my coffee this morning and my friend Del has already coined the best pickup line of the night.

"If you don't fuck me tonight, then the terrorists win."

Tuesday, December 30, 2003

New Year's Resolutions You Can Keep.

1. Forget about last year. 2003 is so 2003.

2. Throw out your Uggs. What the fuck did you buy them for anyway? Ugly is out this year.

3. Get better drugs. That shit you've been doing is totally over. You need to rotate into something new. Also, see a dentist because you've fucked up your molars with all that grinding.

4. Get a better drug dealer. Your guy sucks. He's late, his gear is crap and he's becoming a bit too familiar with your habits.

5. No more fucking the Strokes. Their new cd sounds just like their old cd, and that started sounding so last year like three years ago. They're not famous anymore, okay?

6. Drink more. This is going to be the year of the bender. Trust me. Start practicing now.

7. Stop using hip-hop slang, yo. Okay, you're not going to do this but I had to try.

8. Adopt the seven habits of highly successful New Yorkers: not giving a shit about anyone else, cocaine, repeating yourself, cocaine, cocaine, brunch, cocaine.

9. Watch more television. You are going to do this anyway, so I want credit for it.

10. Don't quit anything. We love you just as you are.

More Resolutions:
The Black Table

Monday, December 29, 2003

Lit. Lit. Lit. Spent the long Christmas weekend with The Time Traveler's Wife. It's by someone called Audrey Niffenegger, and it's about this time traveller and, uhm, his wife...

Aw, hell, you're right Maccers. I can't do this. I am so not lit.

Like Bridget Harrison, but More Shameless:

Dear Manhattan Transfer,

I'm beginning to think your treatise 'On Being Single' may have been ill advised. I don't think I'm equipped to handle the responsibility. Even if my relationship was causing me to lose interest in being alive, some of that was nice. There was always someone around who wanted to touch me and I didn't have to worry about feeding myself. Or grooming.

But I took your advice and decided to revert to my single persona. I've stopped cooking and cleaning. My room is strewn with high heels, smoky clothes and thongs. I got rid of all the food in my house. All that's left is some Chinese food and champagne in the fridge and three half-empty bottles of vodka in the freezer.

I intended to date as many people as possible, but week one got off to a rocky start. Since your KGB pills haven't arrived yet, I decided to avoid the hangover by staying drunk all week. It's made the work a bit less productive, but all of my dates much more attractive.

Sunday night I went to a concert with "Roy" (that's his real name but let's put it in quotes so I can deny it later) to ease back into dating. His sexual advances intrigued me, since he definitely gives off the impression that he's gay. Turns out he's just Dutch. He left the country on Wednesday, but I might have had an intervention otherwise. He's a great dancer, with great fashion sense, but his favorite musician is Elton John and if he were a bit thinner he'd bear a close resemblance to Art Garfunkel (his favorite singer). He'd be so much more fulfilled if he slept with boys.

Monday night at happy hour Sleazboy from work cornered me by the bathroom and asked me why Loser never came out. It's been three months since we broke up, so I thought I should break the news to Sleazboy. When I informed him that we split, his reaction was "Good news for me." To get out of that mess, I had to bump into him and spill his drink on some girl standing behind us. I mumbled some excuse about the bathroom and pulled Kat away from a very cute man while Sleazboy was occupied with the girl's angry boyfriend. I don't remember the next bar because I had to buy Kat a lot of shots to get her mind off the guy I robbed her of.

Tuesday night was set to be promising. One of my pre-Loser crushes was having a going away party. Unfortunately, I got held up at work and by the time we got to the bar, he was passed out on stool in a sombrero and his friends were singing Jimmy Buffett. Eh, he was a college crush – I should have known better. Kat and Nina made a break for the door before anyone recognized us, but I got sidelined. Before I could get to there I was face to face with Loser. He was looking very stylish in the scarf I bought him last Christmas and had finally listened to my advice on the importance of a decent haircut. That's the ultimate tragedy about exes, isn't it? You school them on how to be more attractive, generally better human beings, only to make them better prepared for the next girl they date. At least she'll be caught totally off guard when all his psychoses come to light. We were right next to his office, but I was caught totally off guard because he usually avoids fun like kryptonite.

His presence in a bar was inexplicable. Was Loser discovering fun in my absence? He quickly informed me that there was there to watch a Georgetown game, so no. Still lame. But very unfair of him to moonlight in my habitat. The girls brought me to a new bar and filled me with sushi and sake to make up for it, but the encounter definitely put a damper on the evening.

I don't remember Wednesday, but Thursday was a black-tie fake date on a cruise. An acquaintance asked me to Kat's holiday party awhile back and I was looking forward to it. She was bringing our cute friend Nate and there was going to be an open bar. Things were looking up when John showed up at my door with flowers. Turns out it was a real date. However, the night got worse quickly, as I learned that he has the personality of dry toast. I was not thrilled. But the night proved to be amusing. Being trapped on a boat with your friends' drunk coworkers can be very entertaining. While Nina was thwarting advances from her boss, Nate and I made the old people do shots and two of them went on to make out during the electric slide. Unfortunately, John turned out to be a very possessive date. He actually called Nate a "datestealer" for dancing with me. Luckily, his opinion of me didn't change throughout the night, so I put him on refill duty and had him chauffeur my friends and I around to bars after the boat docked. I'll have to keep him in mind as a designated driver for future events.

I decided I'd have a low key night on Friday, but forgot about The Hawker's $4 Bud Ice pitcher happy hour special. I was trashed by 7. Ended up hanging out with the guys all night and wandering around various bars. Finally ordered some dinner at Murray's, but forgot to eat it. Spent most of the night playing pool while Will picked up chicks. Decided to make it an early night and Will insisted that he walk me home. Told me about his big score on the way there and then hit on my roommate while I was in the bathroom. On his way out, he tried to kiss me. Even though he's Loser's best friend. Classy.

The whole single thing isn't going so well for me, Mick. Loser may have been boring, but the other men I meet haven't finished evolving. By Saturday night's party I had given up on men again. I got so drunk that I kept introducing myself to people as Ben. Then I decided to rip Santa hats off unsuspecting girls' heads and blame other partygoers nearby. I almost got into a fight with a six footer once, but somehow calmed everyone down by laughing and speaking Spanish. Good news. I can speak Spanish.

I'm not sure how, but I made some guy fall in love with me. He was a little boring (Georgetown grad), but was absolutely the cutest guy at the party. He was very quiet - couldn't quite make out if he was drunk or dumb - but got bonus points for being very obedient and being entertained by my rude, inebriated self. We're going out after Christmas. I think he'll be the perfect rebound. After the bars closed, he and his much more amusing but less attractive friend came with Nina and me to get pizza. Since he had been paying for me all night, I didn't realize until they left that I no longer had my wallet. Nina and I walked to her place.

Unfortunately, she lives with Loser (due to bad advice from me a year ago). I was slightly more inebriated and it was slightly later than I thought. I was trying to pass out peacefully while waiting for Nina to get out of the bathroom when he woke up and came out of his bedroom. Let's just say I didn't end up sleeping on the couch. I must have still been drunk when I woke up in the morning, because it took me a good ten minutes to realize that the nice sensation I was feeling did not come from receiving designer Christmas presents in my dream, but Loser making out with me in the real world. Eh. He threw a bit of a fit when I tried to leave with Nina while he was in the shower, but all in all we avoided much of the "Why don't you love me? Why can't we make it work? You only want me for my body" bullshit. And he still doesn't have my new cell phone number.

Sunday. This week made me tired. I'm beginning to see why people stay trapped in their suffocating relationships for so long. Being an interesting person all the time is so much more draining than letting your personality dissipate because you know your significant other will never have the balls to chuck you. Besides being a refresher in Bad Decision Making 101, I can't say that getting back into dating has been wholly successful. I snagged a twenty from Loser for brunch, so I can't imagine we'll be getting back together anytime soon. Which is good, since I don't think I could stay drunk enough long enough to convince myself I'm still interested.

At least the sex is better now. And I have a promising date after Christmas.

Love always,


Manhattan Transfer's Merry Christmas: After Christmas dinner, the Manhattan Transfer family retires to the cards and games room. Smokes are passed around, and the good scotch is poured. Let us listen in to the holiday merrymaking.


"No. I'm sorry. The answer is Abominable Snowman."

"Same thing. Give me the pie."

"Not a chance. They aren't even spelled alike."

"It's species and genus. My answer is right."

"Except that's not what the card says."

"Fuck you. Give me the card."

"Don't get excited."

"I can't believe you are going to try to steal the game on Christmas. You're a dick."

"Fine. Fine. I'll let you have it."

"Oh no you don't. Do not fucking act like it's charity you are giving to me."

"Fine, bro. Whatever. You deserve to win it. It's yours."

"Thanks. That's better."

"Of course, you still got the answer wrong…"

Thursday, December 25, 2003

Un-lit: It's more or less clear where in the blogdom Manhattan Transfer stands--in the hurly burly realm of "hard-partying Manhattanites" dedicated to chronicling our complete, total and wholly unapologetic embrace of decadence.

If I needed further confirmation of my role of the dark side, Cup of Chicha provided one by recently describing Manhattan Transfer as "un-lit." But I have to admit to being slightly surprised at finding myself among the unlit. My formal education consisted of reading literature and philosophy almost to the exclusion of everything else.

"I am so fucking lit," I told Maccers.

"You are not lit," she said. "And you wouldn't want to be."

On further consideration, I've decided that Maccers is right on both counts. The question is why? Or rather, what happened to turn this bookish lad unlit?

I think what happened didn't just happen to me. I think it happened to the world and to literature, and roughly in that order. It goes by various names so I'll just call it This Modern Life, or TML. Here's the short version. The best English language literature of the twentieth-century was written by Christians, often Catholics, who rejected or, once rejection became futile, despaired of TML. (The possible exception to this is Saul Bellow, who stands between the ancien regime and TML as Leo Strauss's Machiavelli does between classical and modern natural right.) But TML won, of course, and now the best books are written by mad French anarchist hedonists.

It seems to me that writing about books these days is a bit like--no, not a bit, more than a bit, or even exactly like--the situation in which the protagonist of Evelyn Waugh's Handful of Dust: reading Dickens aloud to a canibal who is holding him captive.

I'm not confident that my response--internal exile, or as it says on the marquee, reactionary counter-decadence--is really my last, best hope. But its the one I've got.

Or, as Maccers might put it, we're all stuck alone in an apartment after drinking too much wine, with a child who is not our own, and our best hope is exposing ourselves to the man with the Christmas Tree.

Tuesday, December 23, 2003

Now That "We Got Him" Can I Keep My Clothes On, Please?

We're all experts now on not having any metal on us at all when we board airplanes. Change goes into the pockets of panhandlers before we even get to the airport. Belts are swiftly removed, coats undonned, phones and wallets and money clips discarded into that ugly plastic bin. It should be enough but its not.

An unlucky few are subject to further searches. Exactly who is subject to these searches is apparently based on criteria such as whether you are traveling alone and how near to your departure you booked your tickets. This is because it is a well-known fact that terrorists do not act in groups or book their tickets ahead of time.

I was selected for further searches because young, New York City professionals are very dangerous. The rifling through my carry-on was fine. The probing with the probably radioactive wand was not altogether grotesque. It should have been enough, but it was not.

"We'll need you to remove your shoes, sir," the representative of Homeland Security informed me.

"That cannot really be necessary. There was that one guy, right? What kind of shoes was he wearing?"

"Sir, remove your shoes." The tone was meant to convey that I should not engage in any more terroristic activities such as questioning the logic of Homeland Security.

"What kind of shoes was he wearing?" I asked again.

"You need to remove your shoes, or you are not getting on the aircraft. It doesn't matter what kind of shoes he was wearing."

"Of course it matters. It always matters. These," I pointed down at my feet, "These are Gucci lace-ups. No one would ever cut them apart to put a bomb in them."

"Sir. This is the third time I will ask. You need to remove your shoes. You will not be asked again."

"I can see that you do not understand anything. This makes me feel less secure than if you actually allowed people to bring daggers and firearms on to planes. Here are my shoes. Handle them with care, Homeland."

Monday, December 22, 2003

Eurotrash's Undisclosed Location Disclosed: We captured Saddam Hussein, the terror alert shot up to Orange, and Eurotrash vanished into an undisclosed location.

Well, as a service to my readers, I have tracked her down in her transatlantic hideaway, whence she continues to blog.

Update: Still buggy, but the regular Eurotrash site is back up.

The Definitive Guide to Gifts.

It's better to give than to receive. Ever wonder why? It's because most gifts suck. Let's face it. If that shit was any good, you would have bought it for yourself already. And if your friends really thought it was good, they'd buy it for themselves instead of you. Gift giving is mostly giving things you don't want to people who don't want them either.

The biggest problem with the holiday season is what to do with all the useless tat. Here are some suggestions.

Regift Everything. Don't keep any of your gifts. Pass them on and free yourself of your attachment to these material possessions. Give it away. Be like the Buddha. The Buddha with wrapping paper and no budget for new gifts.

Except Drugs. If someone gives you drugs as a gift, you have to do them. Unless they suck. But come on, it's the holiday season so you'll probably need to do them anyway.

Oh, and socks. Everyone needs new socks. Everyone. These are pretty much the only good gift. Thanks mom.

Gifts from girls/boys you are dating. These are the worst. Nothing will fit because the person you are dating imagines you are either bigger or smaller than you really are. None of it will be your style because you are dating someone who really doesn't know that much about you. Also, the main point of the gift is to brand you as taken. Think dogs and fire-hydrants. Give anything from the person you are dating to your younger brother.

Games. Nothing really to do about this. You're not even really going to play with games on Christmas day. Does anyone really need the Return of the King edition of Trivial Pursuit? Maybe a good doorstop?

Except Grand Theft Auto Vice City. That shit rocks. If someone gives this to you for Christmas you totally have to make out with them. Isn't it cool how you can navigate your way around Miami just based on a video game?

A last word about drugs. Coke is a totally acceptable holiday drug. Lots of pep and less temptation to slip into the guest bedroom where your parents have ridiculously exiled your visiting girlfriend. The pot is not acceptable unless you smoke it with your father and confess how much you've always wanted to say you love him but never got the chance. Heroin is okay, but only if you are alone in a Detroit hotel room into which you've dragged from the lobby a fern that you've decorated with lit cigarettes. Crystal Meth is never okay, not even on Christmas.

Giving gifts to that drunk guy you've been hanging out with a lot lately. This is v. v. hot this season. He promises not to give away any of your gifts. Especially if it's whiskey.

Gifts from your parents. See entry for socks.

Books, Music and Other Crap. No one is ever going to get this right because everyone else has spazzy tastes that don't make any sense. If you get them what they want, you're only encouraging them. If you try to improve them, they'll just regift it. If you want to buy something special for someone, give them drugs. Or booze. Or socks.

Other Holiday Guides:
The Morning News: 2003 Holiday Survival Guide for Slackers.
Swamp City: Guide to Regifting.

Friday, December 19, 2003

FriendAlert: On instanting messaging, you can tell when your friends are online and willing to chat because they pop up on your buddy list. Isn't it about time we set one of these up for life offline?

I'm thinking it would be a function of your mobile phone. A button you would press that would signal that even though you'll later claim you didn't actually do lines of JaysonBlair off the bar at Siberia, you are indeed having breakfast at five-thirty a.m. with a couple of other drunkards who have to work in a few hours, so it's okay to call.

This would revolutionize drunk-dialing. No more waking-up the unwelcoming. With FriendAlert you'd know who is waiting for that booty-call and who has become a boring-as-all-get-out-asleep-before-2am-type.

The big drawback is that mobile phones already have this capability. It's called the "off" function. Which you really should use when you go to sleep if you don't want to be interupted by those of us who are still floating through the night on Primatene mist at 5:07 a.m. If you leave your phone on, well you've been warned.

Thursday, December 18, 2003

Defend Chelsea: Choire Sicha on the endangered beauty of the neighborhood where I: 1) first held an illegal gun in my hand, 2) regularly fought pitched street battles against a gang that called themselves F-Troop (if they had a sense of irony, I may have let them off easier), 3) lost a friend to heroin overdose, 4) had my first experiences with whip-its/40s/the pot/dope/crack and 5) used to house my junior high (they abolished it years ago), where all of the above took place.

Monday, December 15, 2003

Maccer's New Health Regime: I'm glad to see that Maccers is finally taking care of herself.

It was two-and-a-half months ago that I first revealed the three-step program to women's health: 1) stay thin, 2) never do housework, and 3) wear spindly heels.

She's got part one down. And from what I've seen of her living quarters, part two isn't an issue either. So congrats, Maccers, on taking the final step toward healthy living. Maybe you should get your health insurance to pony up the cash for those things.

Also on The Kicker.

Friday, December 12, 2003

We're Number One!

On MSN's search engine for "paris hilton sex tape free down loads." Nice.

Also #1 for Google's "buy 'underwear in a can.'"

And, well, no. I'm not putting this one up. Go look for yourself.

Sunday, December 07, 2003

Liz Smith Loves Taki: Using my extensive contacts in the publishing world, I have obtained the latest issue of The American Conservative. Got to page 2 before I was stopped dead in my tracks by a love letter from the New York Post's Liz Smith to Am. Con. editor Taki Theodoracopulos:

Dear Taki,
I appreciate your generous lead-in the your piece, "Slander & Its Uses", and I am sorry if I hurt your feelings. I was using this ridiculous call as a kind of barometer of the idiots out there. It reminded me of the best slander ever uttered about me--Bobby Zarem writing to Robert Mulholland of NBC that I had had a woman killed. After that absurd attack, I always felt safe from Zarem's meanderings. I realized nobody could take him seriously.

So the repetition of that slander was to show reductio ad absurdum. I don't think anyone believe you and Mr. Buchanan are neo-Nazis and anti-Semites. And you are incorrect. My calls are answered by whoever is in the office--Denis, Mary Go, Diane, or Liz. "Screened" isn't the word. We are in the phonebook as M.E. Smith. People call us all the time screaming and carrying on, and we rather enjoy it. I wish you did not want to make for of this than was intended. Writing of Mel Gibson's movie, I recall we received many calls and letters accusing us of anti-Semitism. We printed that accusation against this column and against me as well.

I am sorry that holding the anonymous caller up to ridicule upset you. My point was that the remark was so bad it was good. These callers always hang up before they can be engaged in meaningful argument. Listen, I love you. I admire you.

Liz Smith, New York, NY.

I'm putting this in the unreality file along with the joint television appearances of Vince Gallo and that blond conservative girl.

Thursday, December 04, 2003

How to Survive the Season: Let's be honest. The holiday party season is horrific. You have to go to lots of parties thrown by people who have no business having parties—people like your boss. It's perfectly natural to invoke the powers of booze and drugs to help cope with the season.

And the New York Post's guide to surviving holiday parties doesn't cut it, does it? I mean, look at number eight—"You're not drinking and everyone else is." What the fuck are they talking about? Here's an alternate guide to seasonal survival.

Scenario 1: You can't remember the name of the co-worker you are making out with in the supply cabinet.
Try to keep her mouth occupied in ways other than talking. If necessary, call her "baby" and "beautiful." In my experience you should never resort to "mami" unless you are of the Latin persuasion. The fact is she probably doesn't remember your name either. Unless you are her boss. Then you're fucked.

Scenario 2: You are trapped in conversation with somebody boring. (The David Eggers Syndrome).
Retreat to the bar. He'll follow you but the point isn't to lose him. It's to drink him away. Grab something strong enough to be irresponsible and make it a double. Drink for as long as he talks. Eventually you'll develop the super-power of time travel and won't remember a thing he said.

If this fails, try asking him lots of questions. Like who would win in a fight--cocaine or crystal meth? Or, who's the scarier alien--ET, Spock or Paris Hilton?

Scenario 3: The person you are talking to wants to escape. (The Vendela Vida Sydrome)
I cornered a very famous actress at a party thrown by a Big Bad Rapper. She was a wee-thing and absolutely terrified because I had just been through Scenario 2 and had my super powers on. She ended up convincing her hot friend to make out with me in order to provide an opportunity for her escape. That rocked.

Scenario 4: You are wearing the same outfit for three days straight because you haven't made it home.
If you're a male of the species, you should be wearing a suit. No one will notice. Just buy a clean shirt if necessary. If you're a female, you need to make some adjustments. I suggest progressive slutiness. Try shortening the skirt with scissors, or adding a slit. Plunge your neckline. Extra-skin always helps distract from your dissolute lifestyle.

Scenario 5: You run into your current significant other.
You're supposedly working late, and instead you run into your S.O. at a party. Retreat to the bar. Have two or three strong drinks. These will help you lie more effectively. Sneak into bedroom and steal a piece of jewelry. Tell S.O. you came here to surprise her with this fabulous gift. Insist you can only give it to her in private. Make out on the cab ride home to keep her mind off the utter implausibility of this scenario.

Scenario 6: You want to introduce yourself to someone.
Retreat to the bar. Have two or seven strong drinks. Insist on buying the person a drink even though its an open bar. Bonus hint: while a few drinks will make you boldly social, try not to fall down on people the first time you meet them.

Scenario 7: You suspect your drugs suck.
There's nothing worse than being on the verge of making loads of new friends, only to find yourself ostracized because you have dodgy drugs. The only way to know for sure is to sneak off somewhere private and do your own stuff alone. If it sucks, you haven't made any new enemies. If it's good, you haven't wasted good stuff on those people you barely know anyway.

Scenario 8: You are undressed.
You never, ever want to be undressed in the office. Try to keep your clothes nearby, and don't let that hot assistant from the thirty-ninth floor snuggle up in your shirt after conference room sex. She will take it. And you will have to march back through the party sans one shirt.

Scenario 9: You are drinking more than everyone else is.
That's okay. You don't have a problem. Everyone else does. It's only a problem if the reason they aren't drinking so much is because they have really good drugs they aren't sharing.

Scenario 10: Someone throws up.
Someone? Please. We're talking about you here. Plants are good places to throw up. Avoid bathrooms and other places people are likely to be doing drugs. Windows can be spectacular but the danger of defenestrating yourself is too great. If you are in a cab, you are going to make a mess. Try to jump out when the cab is stopped at a light. Jumping out while it is moving is almost as dangerous as the window thing. Always try to have a drink immediately after throwing-up—it helps get rid of the stench and the taste. Also, take a couple of KGB pills.

Wednesday, December 03, 2003

My Reply to the New Yorker:

Thank you for considering my work. Unfortunately, I am unable to accept your rejection. Best of luck finding another article to cut from the upcoming issue. Again, I look forward to reading my piece in the next issue of The New Yorker.

Tuesday, December 02, 2003

Kids' Table: The BlackTable's Holiday Review List includes Aileen Gallagher's lament over the decline of the kids' table.

Watch out, Aileen. I thought the same thing had happened at my family's Thanksgiving when I discovered I was sitting between two little shriekers, with a dixie cup of apple cider in front of me. Shouldn't they be at a kids' tale, like when I was young, I wondered. Then I looked around and realized that I was still at the kids' table.

Now We Can All Go Buy Some Porn: Thanks to the Kicker for letting us know that The Devil Wears Prada author Laura Whatshername has an article in Playboy. Now we can all go pick it up with the excuse that we're only doing it so we can make fun of the girl who wrote that awful book that we all envy because, fuck, we should have done that already too.

Update: D-Nasty promises to use his "extensive contacts in the publishing world" to obtain a copy of the full article.

New Yorker Rejection: Just got my first rejection letter from the New Yorker.

Thank you for giving us the opportunity to consider your work. Unfortunately, we cannot use your submission. Best of luck placing the piece elsewhere. Again, thank you for your interest in The New Yorker.

Only took them eight weeks to write those four sentences.

This Modern Life, Part II: Don't Worry, Be Ugly:

Fairy tales such as Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty give children the harmful impression that "it pays to be pretty", say American social scientists.

Can't have that, can we? After all, everyone knows that in the real world being pretty never helps.

Also, we'd better get rid of Jack and the Beanstalk and all those other stories that might teach the little lads and lassies to be strong and brave and smart. Because none of that matters. Everyone is above average in the modern world.


Simple Life in China:

It occured to me how simple life here is. I really have very few choices to make. I don't even get to choose what I eat on a daily basis. As far as dressing goes, i wear my orange uniform pants, a t-shirt and a sweat shirt. Saturdays in siping involve some high power descision making, though. I have to decide whether i want to go to the internet cafe before or after going to the grocery store, but that is such a boneheadedly easy call that it doesn't even count. That's really about it.

I fear that I may not be able to cope with the everyday choices that have to be made in life. "What kind of beer do I want?" "What should I wear today?", "What should I eat for lunch/dinner?", "Should I take the A or the E train?" "Patroit or Idiot?" The answers to some of these questions are some times made easier by the day of the week, but some of them are down right crippling. I hope I don't have too much trouble getting back into the life of an unemployed loafer.

Don't worry Grasshopper, we've got plenty of unemployed loafers around here to show you how it works.

Oversharing: Swamp City reveals a touch of her own insecurities while she mocks Salon's Rebecca Traister for pointing out how little difference there is between the gestalt of the young urban woman and Monica Lewinsky.

Monday, December 01, 2003

Another Bad Date: Bridget Harrison has gone on another date that didn't work out. But then, it can't, can it? Her plan is ten dates with ten different men by Christmas. Date number four cannot be a keeper or the plan, and the easy column idea, is done for.

But let's get to what really matters. Miss Harrison reveals she lives on 9th Avenue and 14th Street. What's the big deal? Well, that's where the Troll Bar is. So now we know how Bridge's series will end. She's obviously going to meet the man of her dreams in the most disgusting bar in Manhattan. The lesson is "looking for love in all the wrong places" and etc.

86 Rules of Boozing: There's more to it than tipping a glass and acting foolish, according to Modern Drunkard magazine. [Via Maccers.]

Rule 87. When your friend tells you to lay off the Zubrowka, lay off the Zubrowka.

Also: I feel compelled to point everyone both of you in the direction of the Modern Drunkard classic--Bar Signs.

Snow! Bright and sunny, although cold this morning. Grey and oppressive this afternoon. Now: snow. Hurrah. I love the snow. Even if its just a few flakes floating past my window, and will likley turn to rain soon. Snow!

The Sociobiology Diet: Despite my opinions about evolutionary sociobiology, I will not be adopting this diet.

"Lean meat, fish, leafy and green vegetables and fruits are advisable as health-promoting because of our long pre-agricultural ancestral experience during which such foods fuelled human evolution."

The rest of you are welcome to it. You can go sleep in a cave also. It might be good for your back or something.

I'm sticking with the diet of civilization: meats, cheeses and intoxicants.

City Squirrel v. Country Squirrel: It has been brought to my attention that some of you missed last month's epic smackdown between the city squirrel and country squirrel.