i'm so not going to hollywood, dawg

Last night I dreamt I auditioned for American Idol.

I don't know. Just bear with me.

So there I was sitting in a big ass holding room along with all the other hopefuls at some hotel. I can't say for sure but it might have been the La Quinta in Secaucus, New Jersey. But don't quote me on that.

Then, suddenly, I was whisked into a smaller room where I was told by a production person that I was going on in a few minutes.

There were about four people ahead of me waiting to perform, Kenny Rogers and Paula Abdul among them. Like, Paula actually had to audition to be a judge and stuff. FYI, she and Kenny both got cut and Kenny looked positively devastated. I don't remember what happened to Paula. I was too transfixed by Kenny's sad face.

As I sat waiting for my turn, I tried to figure out what song I would sing... 'cause I'm well-prepared like that. I considered singing "Happy Birthday" because, apparently, my subconscious thought that timeless tune would really wow the judges. I suppose I would have had a big finish with an elongated and dramatic "to yoooooooooooooooooooouUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!" at the end.

Other options I considered: "If You're Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands" and that song that goes "Down down baby, down by the roller coaster."

Because I'm five.

Anyhoo, I was led into the room and there sat Randy and Simon Cowell... right next to the hotel reception desk. I voiced my concern about having to sing over the din of people checking in and out but I was ignored. And then I asked where I should stand because there was no "X" on the floor marking the spot. Simon got all sorts of bitchy with me and threatened to throw me out and then he made me stand in an area where there were a ton of hanging plants which were swinging back and forth in a most precarious fashion. Naturally, I totally whacked my head on a terra cotta planter. That shit hurt. He was a real dick about things, that Simon.

And then it was time to get down to business. Randy asked if I was ready and I responded in the affirmative and let fly with a deep-yet-nasally version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." I don't remember making that decision to change up the song but in retrospect, that was quite the daring impromptu move. Go me.

Granted, I mangled the words at times but neither Randy nor Simon cut me off so I really started getting into it. I actually believed that I was quite possibly going to Hollywood.

I finished up my number and waited to hear my fate. I don't remember what Randy said because, well, he's Randy and I never pay attention to him. But I'm sure he used the terms "pitchy" and "dawg." Just a hunch.

And then Simon said, "I quite liked your lower register but no. Sorry." And then he put his arm around me and walked me to the door. That was nice of Simon, I guess.

What does it all mean? I have no idea. However, my voice today is a bit hoarse and ragged which leads me to believe that I actually sang a deep-yet-nasally version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" in my sleep.

Thank God I don't have a roommate.

knockers

A knock on the door at around 7:30 this morning startled me from my semi-conscious state. My alarm had gone off about 30 minutes prior but I was enjoying that half-hour lazy grace period I always allow myself.

I didn't quite register the knock on the door at first because, at the time, I was entrenched in a very vivid dream. I can't for the life of me tell you what happened in that dream now because it's long forgotten. And for that, I'm certain you're all grateful because, really, is there anything more boring than hearing about someone else's dreams? I think not.

But as I was saying, the first knock on the door fell victim to the disorientation that ensues when I'm unceremoniously rousted from my slumber.

I lay in bed all confused, my eyes darting from side to side trying to figure out if I actually heard a knock or just dreamt it.

And then came a second knock on the door. It wasn't the same violent pounding and aggressive bell ringing I experienced during a carbon monoxide false alarm a few months prior so I ruled out the New York Fire Department.

After the third knock, I got up to inspect. My plan was to look through the peep hole and assess the threat level of the person on the other side. If the person looked like a potential murderer, I was going to pretend I wasn't home. Even if the person didn't look like a potential murderer, I was still going to pretend I wasn't home because I certainly didn't want to deal with whatever bullshit this person deemed important enough to address at 7:30am. Fuck that noise.

Anyhoo, I tiptoed gingerly across my apartment taking great pains to not step on any squeaky floor boards. I quietly lifted the latch on the peep hole and cautiously peered through.

On the other end was a young guy in a t-shirt and from what I could tell, shorts. He didn't look like a potential murderer but I was still uncertain as to whether I should alert of him of my presence.

As I was pondering my options, he yelled, "Tricia, let me in!"

And for reasons I still don't understand, I responded as such: "Um... I think you have... the wrong apartment?"

You know, if there was ever a scenario where it would be completely acceptable to respond, "You're in the wrong building, dumbass!" this would be it. However, for reasons I can't explain, I haltingly responded in the form of the question as if there was a possibility that maybe, just maybe, this Tricia lived in some hidden alcove or wing of my tiny wee studio previously unknown to me.

Fortunately, he didn't pick up on my uncertainty because he was too busy hauling his embarrassed ass out the front door.

Now if you'll excuse, I'm off to find this Tricia.

off with his head

For reasons I can't quite explain, I thought it would be a good idea to watch Halloween H20: 20 Years Later tonight... Alone in my apartment... In the middle of June. Just 'cause.

I adore the original and am completely pissed that a perfect story was dicked around with in a series of sequels, one more atrocious than the next. But I watched it anyway and yes, it completely sucked. However, I did have one moment of satisfaction during this monstrosity and I would like to share it with you.

Some background...

It's 20 years later and after yet another run-in with Michael Myers, Laurie Strode has had it up to HERE with his bullshit and decides to confront him once and for all.

You know, I'm not sure I understand her logic because he's survived coat hangers to the eyes, bullet wounds, several story falls, fire balls, suffocation, etc. I'm not sure why she suddenly thought she could magically do him in but, whatever, I was willing to suspend my disbelief.

Now, before heading off to face her psychotic brother, she had the good sense to grab an ax... conveniently located within arm's reach, of course. She searched high and low for Michael bellowing his name and then she finally found him as he was slowly descending from his perch on the ceiling.

Um, wait... what did I just type?

Anyhoo, before Laurie could swing around with ax in hand, I offered her a bit of advice: "DECAPITATE HIM! DECAPITATE HIM WITH THE AX!" My reasoning was as such: Obviously, Michael Myers is immune to straight-up causes of death but we haven't seen him really tackle dismemberment yet. Let's give it a whirl.

But did Laurie Strode listen to me? No! The best that dumbass could manage was a harsh chop to the sternum where the ax got stuck, which, of course, Michael easily extracted and flung on the floor. So weak.

Side note: I'm not sure why Michael didn't hold onto that weapon for added backup since he's had a history of being stabbed and poked by the ever-feisty Laurie. Clearly, common sense does not run in the Myers family.

Fast forward a few more stupid scenes and now Michael Myers is pinned between a coroner's van and a tree branch after he freed himself from a body bag in the aforementioned coroner's van being recklessly driven by his sister, Laurie Strode.

Um, wait... what did I just type?

Anyway, so here's Michael Myers in a position just ripe for decapitation, in my estimation, but I wasn't holding my breath because Laurie sorely disappointed me the first time with her hack hacking job.

But then she picked up the ax -- once again conveniently located within arm's reach -- and she sliced that motherfucker's head clean off, sending it rolling down the hill, William Shatner mask and all.

So there you have it... Evil was defeated. Personally, I like to think it's because of that bit of sage advice I offered Jamie Lee Curtis just a few scenes earlier.

Um, wait... what did I just type?

helpful hint #4

When approached by a blind man in Brooklyn Heights and asked where Joralemon Street is, it's wise not to point your finger in the proper direction and say, "That way!"

You know, so I hear...

anatomy, explained

Despite my sickly ways, I managed to hoof it across the Hudson River to visit my family for Mother's Day. Fear not as I made sure to steer clear of the new baby so as not to infect her with my funk.

The So-Fucking-Cute-I-Could-Just-Smush-His-Head-One-Year-Old Nephew has a cough as bad as mine so he and I were quarantined together. I sat him on my lap and talked to him... and he pulled my hair. I tried reading him a book... and he tore the pages. It was so sweet. The fact that he's a destructive beast only endears him more to me.

He had a dirty diaper at one point and well, that was not at all endearing and I wanted nothing to do with it. I summoned his mother and she took him aside to change him. Despite the courteous distance, the changing was still within the line of sight of those of us congregated in the family room, particularly the nosy, prying eyes of The Adorable Seven-Year-Old Niece.

She's seen her cousin get changed several times and by now, she's begun to notice a pattern, in particular, his hand movements and where they tend to... uh... roam when he's diaper-less.

Today, she took her observation a step further and emphatically stated a cause-and-effect theory she had been working out in recent months:

"He's always picking at THAT THING so that's why it's so squishy."

I don't know that I completely understand her logic but, regardless, it's still brilliant.

So let that be a lesson to you boys... If your THING is squishy, we'll all know you've been picking at it.

thank you!!!

Thanks to lots of shameless shilling on my part and some possible voting irregularities, it seems that Ham & Cheese on Wry is the 2006 TLL Lesbian Blog of the Year.

Lori of Hahn at Home technically received the most votes but she removed herself from the running because she felt some people voted for her site more than once.

Wow. That takes a lot of integrity and class and Lori deserves high praise. And my sincere gratitude... Thank you, Lori! You're truly awesome.

Thank you to everyone who nominated and voted for my blog. And thanks and a big welcome to all the new readers who stopped by and patiently read through all of my posts from the schmoopie to the insane. I'm happy to have you here.

And finally, thanks to Kelly at The Lesbian Lifestyle who organized this whole shebang. I know it was a lot of hard work and I know I speak for everyone involved when I say your efforts are much appreciated. Thank you!

I hereby promise to honor and uphold the duties of my crown and not pull a Tara Conner. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to tie one on in celebration. Uh... with a non-alcoholic beverage, of course.

Thanks again!

the new pollution

As some of you may recall, I was recently downgraded from an office to a cubicle here at work. I did my best to suck up the disappointment and embarrassment because causing a scene is not really my style.

Um, usually.

Prior to the move, my office neighbor approached me and said, "If it wasn't shitty enough that you're losing your office, I hear that we'll both be flanked on either side by some obnoxious guy who's a real loud talker."

This was a troubling development but, again, I did my best to just suck it up and deal. However, after about five minutes of occupying my new seat, I discovered that the rumors were in fact true... and he was sitting right.next.to.me.

I believe this is what you call adding insult to injury, my friends. The situation is far from ideal. If he was at least friendly, I'd try to cut him some slack. But he's a complete douche. And an eyesore, to boot! He's all oily-looking and sounds winded whenever he talks.

He also visits the bathroom with alarming frequency. It's noticeable because he even walks to the john loudly. It's uncanny. Theories as to why he's in there so much range from chronic masturbation to coke addiction to frequent urination due to an enlarged prostate. Actually, those three are my theories and mine alone. I'm not sure anyone else has given it much thought.

Furthermore, he sniffles and clears his throat louder than I thought humanly possible. He fidgets and fusses at his desk and frequently peers over into my cube. I really don't care for this practice in particular. Since I can't really hang up curtains or some nice blinds, I think my only option is to aim a gun at him the next time he does it.

Picture it: He slowly rises into his creepy prairie dog pose and meeting him at nose-level is a double-barreled shot gun. You know, kind of like the one Elmer Fudd carried around when he was hunting wabbit.

Fear not, the gun would contain the same kind of ammunition used in cartoons where the only injury sustained is a blackened, gun powder-filled face and crispy, teased hair.

Or, on a day I was feeling rather cheeky, perhaps I could launch a preemptive strike and shoot him in the ass. Oh relax! It's not like he'd bleed out or anything. Cartoon ammo, remember? The only trauma he'd suffer is that his red-and-white polka-dotted underwear would be revealed through a blast-shaped hole in his pants. Again, just like in the funny pages. I'm not out to kill the man... just ruin his complexion and perhaps a nice pair of trousers.

Today he took his bad cubicle etiquette to a new level. I've come to expect the egregious use of speakerphone and his Chris Matthews-like manner of speaking, what with the ear-splitting volume and baffling inflection, but this is the day we entered into brand new territory.

Today, my friends, I was treated to a deluxe combo platter of burps and farts, with some productive nose-blowing thrown in for good measure. It was symphonic at times. At one point, he reached a crescendo which reminded me of that scene in Ferris Bueller's Day Off when Ferris had all the bodily function noises programmed into his keyboard and then proceeded to play "The Blue Danube" waltz. :: WOT WOT WOT WA. Cough cough. Sneeze sneeze. WOT WOT WOT WA. Cough cough. Sneeze sneeze.::

You get the idea...

A loud fart punctuated the gruesome medley, after which a palpable tension and discomfort filled the air. Mercifully, those elements did not rendezvous with a noxious smell. Thank God for small, odor-free mercies.

The quiet didn't last long because I began giggling uncontrollably. You know, because I'm five. My less-than-subtle sniggering made the woman to my right laugh loudly which then made me giggle even more.

It showed no signs of stopping so I thought it wise to walk away from the crime scene and get the giggle out of my system in a neutral zone.

Good plan, right? Wrong. Unfortunately, I timed my escape at precisely the same moment the gas man decided to haul (noisy) ass to the bathroom. Of course there was a near collision which set me off into another fit of giggles right in the poor man's face, which then caused the woman to my right to laugh even harder.

I disengaged from the awkward tangle and then staggered into the nearest open office still laughing, which unleashed an infectious wave of chuckling among two other women who didn't even know the details of the fart-fueled fracas. Once they found out, however, the laughter reached a fever pitch, which no doubt was overheard by the gas man who was hiding out in the men's room.

Ten bucks says he's doped up on Beano tomorrow. At least I hope he is.

we are the goon squad and we're coming to town

Dear Grown Men and Women Who Wear Denim Shirts (or Any Article of Clothing, Really) Adorned with Embroidered "Looney Tunes" Characters:

Um, could you not?

Thank you,
Curly McDimple

i used to be by the window, where I could see the squirrels and they were merry

I've found in the 10 odd years that I've been working in corporate America that the best way for management to look busy and effective is to inconvenience their underlings. Boring, senseless meetings are scheduled in Outlook on a weekly basis even though nothing is ever accomplished in those gatherings other than annoying the attendees and the poor admin who had to arrange the thing on behalf of the organizer. Productivity is measured by pissed-off expressions it seems. The more annoyed people look, the harder management is working. It's all very Costanza-esque.

The office move is another tactic brand new management likes to unleash to make its mark in an established department. By moving people hither and yon, the powers-that-be look effective and definitive and powerful. Flowcharts and floor plans are the weapons of choice. Their executive assistants know VISIO and they are not afraid to use it. Mark.their.words.

So, if you couldn't tell already, I fell victim to a reshuffling of sorts at my job. Long story short, I no longer have an office. It wasn't a demotion, mind you, but I along with a few others in the creative department (read: non-revenue generating employees) are back to the 1-1/2 fabric wall arrangement. Gone is my closeable door and that highfalutin sheetrock I had grown so accustomed to. Sigh.

Yesterday was my first day in a cubicle. To say that the new feng shui didn't agree with me would be an understatement. With a little help from Meg, I started a little list of ways to revolt. Passive-aggressively, of course, 'cause that's how I roll...

1) Display symptoms of a permanent cold or infection of sorts that leads to lots of coughing, sneezing, nose blowing, etc.

2) Eat lunches at my desk that smell like farts, i.e. Hale and Hearty's Cauliflower Cheddar Soup.

3) Listen to music loudly and sing along, in particular the orgasmic wailing parts of Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love" and the "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!" portion of Rage Against the Machine's "Killing In The Name."

4) Use speakerphone always and often.

5) Call my gyno and talk about oozing sores, rashes and bumps.

6) Explain my BMs in excruciating detail to my gastro doctor.

7) Discuss the various fungi plaguing my nether regions and feet.

8) Ask my shrink if eating one's own dandruff is cause for concern.

9) Call my doctor to see if the results of my TB tests are in. Then say, "Oh."

10) Use my blog to solicit job offers. Seriously, hook me up.

More to come as my frustration levels rise.

they do know... they just don't care

In addition to brilliant writing, The Sheila Variations also boasts a band of regular commenters who excel at providing hilarious commentary. The tangents that often ensue are delightful. In fact, I was inspired to compose the following letter thanks to a wonderfully off-topic comment thread that began with talk of a deflated Santa and ended with a lyrical analysis of Band Aid's earnest yet erroneous "Do They Know It's Christmas?"

Please read the post and comments to see how that transpired. In the meantime, here's the byproduct of my hijacking. Enjoy.

Dear Messrs. Geldof and Ure:

Thank you for your noble famine relief efforts. On behalf of the African people, I would like to convey our appreciation for your selfless dedication and desire to "feed the world." Although, truthfully, as non-Christians we could do without the accompanying relentless proselytizing about Christmas but still, we are nevertheless indebted to your tireless humanitarian pursuits.

However, I do believe it is incumbent upon me to clear up some misconceptions you seem to hold towards our beautiful continent. Firstly, I dare say the agricultural industry would beg to differ with your statement that "nothing ever grows" in Africa. In fact, my garden alone sprouts enough weeds to choke an elephant.

Secondly, the good people of Ethiopia, Kenya, and Somalia who were recently displaced by flooding would most certainly disagree with the notion that "no rain or rivers flow." That, kind sirs, is sloppy and irresponsible reporting on your part.

And, lastly, I think you do our bell makers a great disservice by describing the melodic and resonant tones of their craftsmanship as "clanging chimes of doom." While not one of our bread-and-butter industries, our bells and percussion instruments in general are no better nor worse than your own continent's. Frankly, we feel this is yet another case of xenophobia rearing its ugly -- and obviously tone-deaf -- head.

Again, we are grateful for the money you helped raise and we are most thankful for the prayers you solicited on our behalf. But, to reiterate, we really don't need reminders that "it's Christmastime again" as we don't really celebrate it. At this point, it has become nothing more than intolerant badgering and we are weighing our legal options.

But, in deference to your season of good will as well as our desire to not contribute to your alarming paranoia about living in "a world of dread and fear," we would like to avoid litigation if possible. Perhaps you can pen a follow-up single to retract some of the falsehoods about our climate and topography as well as your cruel and slanderous claims against African bells, of all things. I'm certain the members of Bananarama, Ultravox and Spandau Ballet, in particular, would jump at the chance to help right these wrongs.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.

Sincerely,

Nala Simba Mufasa
President, African Board of Tourism

Watch the video here.

leftovers

I'm sort of lacking in blog inspiration these days. I thought maybe I'd write a holiday weekend recap but when I sat down in front of ye olde PC, I realized that not much happened out of the ordinary. But I'll take a crack at summarizing it anyway.

Suffer.

Let's see, there was the usual talk of turkey carcasses and then the subsequent simultaneous gagging/shushing of everyone who dared utter that word by moi, the lone vegetarian in the McDimple clan.

There was a James Bond marathon on cable and, of course, my father had it on all day. He simply cannot pass up a Bond movie, even though he thinks that any Bond other than Sean Connery is a right pussy. When I mentioned that Daniel Craig is getting favorable reviews, I was met with a haughty, "Ach! He canny even swim! Sean Connery did all his own stunts!" My father is rocking a serious boy crush on Sean in conjunction with his usual, "If it's not Scottish, it's CRRRRRAP!" mentality, you see.

On Friday, I watched Jaws with The Adorable Six-Year Old Niece. Lest you be concerned about her mental and emotional well-being after watching this scary film, you have nothing to fear. She's a hearty sort and not easily frightened. Actually, no, that's not true. She has a very specific set of fears but none of which involve a mechanical shark devouring Robert Shaw. However, don't go near her with this game. The face on that guy freaks her out. Between you and me, I was glad to see that toy get the heave-ho as I wasn't too keen on the idea of sticking my hand in the dude's cranial cavity. Ew, I said cavity.

Anyhoo, the niece got through the movie like a champ. Me? Not so much. My Equally Adorable One-Year-Old Nephew climbed up on me for a nap while we were watching it and during one scary scene, I totally jumped and nearly flung the boy clear across the room. And I've seen the movie countless times! The niece, on the other hand, didn't even flinch. Her reaction to the film? Anger. She was pissed that the shark (spoiler alert for anyone who's been living in a cave for the past 30 years) got bumped off at the end. Judging by her serious scowl, knit eyebrows and impassioned tone, she cares quite deeply for the species. I informed her that Jaws got his (her?) revenge several more times in a series of crappy sequels. Oh man, don't even get me started on Jaws 3-D...

The niece and I spent a good deal of time together drawing and coloring pictures. I went down to the basement to find some more crayons for her and I came across a beloved game from my childhood: Strolling Bowling.

Basically, you set up a little bowling alley and then you wind up the wee sneaker-clad ball and it hops down the lane in search of pins. Hours of fun, I tell you, particularly when you eschew the hopping part and just throw it like a real bowling ball. The niece squealed with delight whenever we broke the rules which was uh, all the time. If I may paraphrase Charles Barkley (because I'm too lazy and disinterested to Google the official quote), I never said I was a role model.

On Saturday, I put up my parents' Christmas tree. Yes, I know it's early but I don't feel like going back out there before Christmas to do it. December weekends are a precious commodity and I'm loathe to part with them. Now you might be asking yourself, "Why don't Curly's parents put up their own tree?" The answer is simple, really: My father is a decorating retard.

I love him but the man would be wise to step away from the tchatkes. Yet, despite his obvious inadequacy in this area, he is persistent in trying year after year. So, I've learned to relent and leave some of the trimming to his [in]discretion... often to comical results. Or, as I said a few years back, "When it comes to illuminated ceramics, the man knows no restraint."

So, as a favor to my mother, I assemble the very life-like fake tree and tastefully adorn it with beads, bows and Hallmark Keepsake Ornaments. The rest of the family has learned the painful way to just leave me be when I'm in decorating mode. I used to slap hands, tsk, sigh and eventually chase everyone out of the room because I felt like they were compromising the integrity of my design. Yeah, those movies and television shows that show happy families trimming the tree while singing carols and sipping eggnog? Complete and utter bullshit. If you want to portray the holiday rituals and traditions honestly, there needs to be impatience, frayed nerves and at least one person storming off in a huff. Otherwise, it's a complete sham.

Speaking of the holidays, I'm about to embark on a series of reviews/recaps of Christmas specials and movies. I'm telling you this now so that I don't slack off. I haven't exactly been motivated or consistent with updating the blog lately in case you haven't noticed. Anyhoo, if you'd like a somewhat relevant appetizer to tide you over, kindly check out The Alan Alda Sensitivity Project: Holiday Edition.

'cause we care and crap

In lieu of birthday drinks this year, I decided to shed some of the self-absorption and selfishness I acquired in the last year by inviting friends and family to join me in volunteering on New York Cares Day.

On Saturday, The Lovely Jess, A Lover and a Fighter, Azee, The Younger Sister, Steph and Amy joined me in sprucing up a high school on Manhattan's Lower East Side.

We scrubbed graffiti and the odd bit of spunk off walls and desks, cleaned classrooms and painted doorways, trim and radiator covers, among other things. We scarfed down Munchkins (which I picked up along with the thirst-quenching coffee for the questionably-dressed panhandler), BS'd like there was no tomorrow and had an all-around awesome time in the process.

Cleaning ourselves up afterwards was a bit of a bitch, as you can see by Jess's nails. We tackled the stubborn paint with a one-two combo of slimy gunk supplied by the custodian and a big ol' jug of paint thinner. Many manicures were scheduled on Saturday, I assure you.

By 3:00, we were good and high on paint fumes and quite giddy as a result. While cleaning up in the slop sink, I was quite taken with the noisy faucet. Its whiny, whistling shriek seemed familiar to me. And then I had my turpentine-fueled epiphany: "Hey, that sounds like Rudolph's nose."

Everyone agreed. And we laughed like it was the.funniest.thing.in.the.world. At least I did. Forget bong hits, if you want a real high, spend some quality time with oil-based paint and little-to-no ventilation.

New York Cares is a great organization. For you locals in need of something meaningful to do with your free time, I highly recommend giving this group a whirl.

I want to thank everyone who came with me on Saturday and all of you who sponsored my time with a nice donation. I really appreciate it. See you next year.

fuck the cup. pour it in my hand for a dime.

The scene: Outside of Dunkin' Donuts on Saturday at 8:30am. I am approached by a surprisingly well-dressed panhandler.

"Excuse me, miss! Would you mind buying me a cup of coffee? I am soooooooooo thirsty."

I momentarily pondered her snazzy leather jacket and her odd choice of thirst-quencher but figured a) scam or no, the two bucks won't kill me and b) whatever wets her whistle is really not my concern. So I agreed.

"Sure, how do you want it?" I asked.

"Uh, you know, in a container."

Kinda makes you wonder how she's received her coffee in the past, don't it?

on altruism and inadvertent anti-piracy measures

Picture it: The corner of Sixth Avenue and 23rd Street on a Friday evening. I had just surfaced from a short hop on the F train from Rockefeller Center and was waiting to cross the avenue teeming with rush hour traffic.

Over my shoulder, a soft voice asked a question: "Miss, when the light changes, can you help me get across?"

I turned around to see a blind elderly man facing in my direction with an expectant expression on his face.

I responded with a cheerful, "Certainly!"

"Thank you, miss. Would you mind if I held on to your arm?"

"No, not at all," I assured him as I offered my bent left appendage.

"Oh, thank you so much, miss."

"No problem. Ready? Here we go."

As we crossed the busy boulevard, people parted like the Red Sea and made way for the blind man with his cane bobbing from side to side and little ol' me cautiously leading him across.

Some people nodded at us. Others just did their best to not be that person, the one who bumps into the blind man.

I smiled as I once again found myself once again embroiled in a quintessential New York moment. Living in a walking city exposes you to insanity, offensive smells, piles of garbage and other unsightly things, not to mention the occasional bout of foot suckage, but it also gives you the opportunity to connect, however briefly, with someone outside your usual social set. For some, that's a turn-off. For me, I throw my arms around the opportunity and hug it to death. Um, except where my feet and unwanted advances toward them are concerned.

Despite my seemingly selfless act, there was a certain cockiness to my stride. I knew people were observing this display of man helping fellow man and just eating that shit up. And I won't lie to you... I really thought I was hot shit. I joined the ranks of those admiring my good deed and strutted across Sixth Avenue with a shocking amount of hubris. I rocked my halo with equal parts pride and "Gawd, I'm sweet!" arrogance.

However, my moments of grandeur and self-importance never last long. Not by choice, mind you. Instant karma does indeed get me. Right quick, in fact.

No sooner had I said, "Okay, we're coming up to the curb. Watch your step!" than the man barreled right into a display of bootlegged DVDs inconveniently situated on the busy corner of 23rd and Sixth. He then proceeded to stumble and stagger sending copies of Little Miss Sunshine and Open Season skidding across the pavement. He plowed through that pile of pirated movies like he was Jesus driving the money changers out of the temple.

I tried to regain control but he continued to stomp and smash everything in his path while saying, "Sorry! My fault! Pardon me! Oops! Sorry!" I was horrified by the bedlam that I helped cause. I echoed his rushed, sheepish apologies and then finally got a good grip on his arm and steered him away from the carnage. I offered him an embarrassed, "Sorry about that!" and then pointed him in his desired direction before hauling ass down 23rd Street. Awwwwwwwwwkward!

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to make a generous donation to Guide Dogs for the Blind as a means of doing penance for my "good deed"...

i'm a fan of chucking puppies myself...

Um, I know I shouldn't find this the least bit funny but dammit, I cannot stop giggling...

Twenty-seven-year-old Chytoria Graham of Erie, Pennsylvania was pissed at her boyfriend. Instead of whacking him with a cast iron frying pan or his golf clubs or something reasonable like that, however, she picked up her four-week-old baby boy by the legs and swung the infant through the air, hitting the boyfriend with the baby's head. (via BloggingBaby)

I'm sick and wrong, I know. However, if you picture that scene in claymation? Well, it's a hoot.

Update: Mejack and I discuss the physics of baby tossing...

Yours Truly: I'm picturing the baby being held by the feet and thrown like a hammer in track & field.

Mejack: See, I'm picturing holding the baby by its feet and doing like an airplane and swinging it around.

YT: I think you might get more distance if you toss with the feet. The head will provide some weight and carry it. And also, lofting it upwards by the feet will give you more air and better velocity.

YT: You know, so I've heard...

Fear not, we're both off to say a good Act of Contrition right now.

reliable sources

Overheard on the smoking deck of Cattyshack...

Whitney: There's a large Czech population in Houston.

Yours Truly: Really? I did not know that.

Whitney: Oh yeah. A large Vietnamese population as well.

YT: Isn't there a large Indian population there too?

Whitney: Native American Indians?

YT: No, Asian Indians.

Whitney: Hmmm... could be but I'm not sure.

YT: Eh, what do I know? I'm basing this assumption entirely on one episode of My Super Sweet 16...

Such an intellect, aren't I?

ratify this!

Wherein any individual found guilty of murder, aggravated assault and/or arson shall be granted immediate clemency if the alleged perpetrator's deeds were carried out in response to a persistent, annoying and loud ringtone. Furthermore, the victim, unless deceased, will serve a sentence of no less than 20 years in solitary confinement where he/she will be subject to an unending rotation of midi files, including but not limited to, the "William Tell Overture," "La Cucaracha" and the Sanford & Son theme song.

All in favor, say "Aye!" All opposed? Eat shit.

subway sightings

Observed on the Brooklyn-bound F train yesterday:

1) A man picking his nose in my direction with a wild-eyed expression and a very belligerent digging style. His boogers meant business, apparently.

2) The same man then asked the guy next to him to watch his bag while he went between subway cars to either a) urinate, b) throw up, c) jerk off or d) quite possibly all of the above.

3) A man adorned in a king's costume complete with purple velvet cape, a bejeweled gold crown and a snazzy scepter just chillin' and staring out the window.

4) A woman thumbing through photos she had just picked up at CVS. Taken on actual film. With, you know, a 35mm camera.

What does it say about me that of the four scenarios, the last was the only one that elicited a modicum of shock? Getting film developed? I mean, who does that?

rod 'the bod' and god side-by-side on the r train

Every now and then, I encounter the same busker in the last car of the downtown R train. As I step onboard, she's usually about a verse or two into a very slow and soulful rendition of "Always and Forever." I hate that song but I love how she wraps her voice around it. Each note starts out with a pleasant nasally tone and is finished off with a delightful rasp. Her voice is ragged and worn. There's a lot of mileage on it. She has indeed lived a life.

She's elderly and blind but she still glides through the subway car with the greatest of ease relying on her cane and years of experience negotiating the different subway cars. She doesn't stumble or bump into people. Crowds part to let her through. She's respected and beloved. I've seen this same respect paid to the blind accordion player and a few doo-wop and five-part harmony groups that barrel through the busy trains interrupting conversations, naps and novels.

If someone is talented and/or not screaming about Jesus and urging us to repent, we don't tsk and sigh over the intrusion. Good schtick garners patience, polite smiles, outstretched money-bearing hands and unfettered access to the next car where the performer can charm the pants off the awaiting group of grizzled locals and bright-eyed tourists.

I saw the blind busker again on Wednesday night. As usual, she shuffled through the car singing, shaking her paper coffee cup and offering thanks each time she heard the clink of change deposited in it. And as usual, I took my seat, opened up my paper and drifted off into the day's Daily News headlines with her song serving as the bed music to my nightly ritual.

She finished up "Always and Forever" and segued into the next song. It was a new one, for me at least, in her repertoire. Normally I don't notice the transitions in her medleys but her choice of song and her placement of her words of thanks that night made me lower my newspaper and observe with undivided attention and an appreciative smile:

If you want my body and you think I'm sexy
(Thank you. God bless you!)
Come on, sugar, let me know
If you really need me just reach out and touch me
(God bless you!)
Come on, honey, tell me so

She was far out of my reach at that point but I'm totally giving her a twenty the next time I see her.

are you there god? it's me, curly

M E M O R A N D U M

To: Mother Nature

CC: God (The Father, The Son and The Holy Spirit), Allah, Buddha, Shiva, George Burns

From: Curly McDimple

Date: 08.25.2006

Re: Optional Menstruation
_____________________________________________________________

As a female who is opting not to have children through vaginal birth or caesarian section, I would like to formally lodge a complaint against the presence of my menstrual cycle. It is a frivolous and needless monthly exercise and I urge you to reconsider its inclusion in my anatomy. Oh, and cellulite too as it's not doing me any favors either.

As I explained to "my friend" in an earlier bit of correspondence, I do think that under the right circumstances, menses is a noble process in that it paves the way for babies to reside in the uterus. However, I do not believe it should be a "factory-installed" feature.

Consider this: If I were buying a stove, I can opt not to purchase a model with the self-cleaning mechanism. If the likes of Best Buy can offer me freedom of choice, certainly you can too, Mother Nature.

As it stands, your current policy makes the assumption that all women want to reproduce. Now, I don't mean to lecture you, Mother Nature, but you know what happens when you assume, don't you? In this particular case, it creates a legion of cramped, bloated and irritable (childless) females hell-bent on making you pay for their misery, in addition to the whole making asses out of you and me business.

While males historically have been responsible for destroying some of your more well-received handiwork, i.e. the fouling of pristine Alaskan coastline in the Exxon-Valdez oil spill, I dare say the man behind this tragic error was drinking on the job in part to eradicate the pain from the blow to the head he received the night before from his rolling pin-toting, PMS-stricken spouse. That's just conjecture on my part but still, I think it's worthy of your consideration.

While I have the floor, here are some other bodily systems/functions I think you should consider making optional and/or on-demand:

:: Body hair
:: Ear wax
:: Phlegm
:: Flatulence
:: Diarrhea

Since humans spend millions in pharmacies each year on products to control/reduce/rid ourselves of these often-embarrassing extras, perhaps you should consider this a unanimous rejection of them. I, for one, do not rely on armpit hair for an additional layer of protection against the cold so why bother regrowing it after I shave it off for the umpteenth time? Save yourself the trouble (and me the expense of Gillette Venus Divine blades. They're pricey!)

I realize this request is a tall order but I propose speeding up the process of natural selection as a work-around until the Menstrual On/Off Switch™ is developed, tested and introduced into the species. Another interim possibility is a massive uterus donation drive. I'll gladly sign mine over to a barren woman. Seriously, take my healthy ovaries, please.

Thank you for your time.