No I'll pass on seconds.

We all have that little voice inside our heads. The voice that inspires us to move forward; or the one that discourages us, makes us admit defeat before we have begun.

So what voice do I have inside my head you ask?

MY MOTHER.

I'll be in a store trying on clothes and that voice:

YOU'RE NOT GOING TO WEAR THAT, ARE YOU?
THAT MAKES YOU LOOK FAT.
THAT MAKES YOU LOOK TOO BIG (a.k.a not flattering on the hips--thanks, Mom)
THAT'S JUST NOT FLATTERING.

You catch my drift.
Most of the time I'm fine and Jim Dandy, but there are those times when I really want those pants...

OH, NO--YOU'RE NOT WEARING THAT!

Okay, okay, I'm taking off the pants... I'm walking away... My hands are in the air... I'm walking away...

A couple of weeks ago I heard the voice, actually it was my ACTUAL Mother giving me the business
"You shouldn't wear skinny jeans".  My response clearly from the junior high playbook was ''I like it I don't care mom".  Actually my playbook in High School was say nothing.(and eat ice cream later). Oh! and she said it on Thanksgiving.  Kinda lost my appetite.

So, the voice in my head it's always there and aside from a lobotomy there is precious little I can do.

I only wish my little voice gave stock tips.

The Dread

Must be the season: I feel out of sorts.

I hate the cold, I hate that it gets dark so early, I never want to go out at night. 
OK I'm not a night owl, but given better weather I can be reasonable.

I dislike work--One job is quite alright, the second is depressing,
 no I'm not being over dramatic and yes I spend all my free time looking for a job.

Oh and the weekends aren't that great. Either filling days worth of errands
into two days hoping I can throw a book or movie into the mix.

One time I was listening to NPR (Nice People Radio as a friend once called it).
The topic was "the dread of Sundays" (sounds like a Smiths tribute band).

 they had on a writer for the Wall Street Journal
(don't remember his name does it matter)?
His article was about the dread of Sundays.
The whole article was about "why do people dread Sundays"?
The premise is the dread starts in childhood--
weekend's over; school's on Monday.
Shows on TV that remind us it's Sunday.
People are in denial it's Sunday and act like it's Saturday.
What does all this mean?  Nothing, just a crappy time of the year, too damn busy.
I must leave--nothing more to say.

Just admit it.

I used to smirk at the people in Starbucks tied to laptops and cell phones, now I'm one of them.
I understand the addiction. email; there's nothing worse than waiting for that important message.
Did I get it? Did I accidentally delete it? Could it be the message I've been waiting for? 
Texting? please, I've turned into a 14 year old girl waiting by the phone                                                    (gimme back my Duran Duran poster). 

Years ago, I tried a chat room. Struck me as a bunch of teenage and mid-twenties douches trying to one up each other. Sorry, I have better things to do. Like what you ask? Maybe I'll watch a marathon of documentaries about crystal meth. There, I can find out how people buy the products on line, cook it up at home in their lovely double-wide trailers and proceed to sell and or smoke it all. At that point, you sit in your hole, surrounded by beer cans, porn, pizza boxes and the smell of rotted teeth. As you probably can tell, I watch too much of the Discovery Channel. Yes, I know far too much about bikers, speed and meth mouth.

I've done something I would not have done otherwise

 

I've been reading my horoscope a lot lately. Not that I belive in any of that; personally, I think most of it's recycled generalizations.

 

Taurus - You're stubborn; try to be nice, change your attitude and you will be free of the bitterness that is blighting your life. Yes--that was part of my horoscope.

Listen: if I'm bitter, it's not because I'm an water sign born in the year of the pig (okay, I would prefer snake or dragon; no woman wants to be called a pig). On the bright side, my number in numerology is 7. Seven is the number of the mystic (ooh, my inner workings are intricate) and I have an uncanny understanding of human nature. I'm sure you are dying to meet me now... aw shucks.

There's nothing about today that interests me except tommorow

It's easy!

I thought they were retired.  Those stupid "Easy" buttons;  (Yes from the old Staples commercial). Things are tough, so you press the Easy button and magically, things are perfect. Now, as revolting as the commercial is, you know what's worse--people who buy the damn thing. Why are you buying a useless piece of red plastic crap? And why does the teller at my bank  have one at her station; why is this nimrod handling my money? Should I be surprised if she had a wall filled with Kathy cartoons and a poster of the "Hang in there baby" cat poster. If any of you out there have an "Easy" button and you are constantly pressing it, every time you do that, you lose a small piece of your soul.

Hello...Exactly...

I need coffee.  Every day, just the way it is.

I've tried the tea thing, that only works when I'm  sick.  I go where the java is.
Sometimes at work, I'll partake in the homemade brew but usually I'm too late,
I get the last cup what you could call "burnt goodness". 

As usual I  travel to my local Starbucks down the block
and order up my cup of Pike or Xmas blend,whatever 54 cent refill can't lose. 
But today--Today my coffee tasted funny...  Why?  Yes I wondered also.
Got to my office sat in my cubicle pored the contents into another cup and found--
The top of a salt shaker at the bottom.
Okay this explains the salty yet metallic taste but WTF? How does this happen?

 Did I go back and explain "yes I know the coffee refills are cheap
but really could you have looked a bit closer and noticed this before you gave me the beverage"?
No like a jackass i just threw out the coffee.  Too much to go through in one sitting...

Multinational death burger: the sequel, "No country for old Hippies"

Do you know this person?

Everthing to them is a conspiracy: "the corporations are destroying this country". Yes, I get it: Wal-Mart is the devil; so is Kmart, Target, all large bookstores--Borders, Barnes and Noble, the grand Satan, Mc Donalds and of course the Big Daddy, Starbucks.


Of course it goes a little something like this: you sit there with your coffee (latte, extra foam, do you know how many Guademalan children have to pick those beans for you to get one cup? Read a book from some conglomerate store, swallowing up the little guy so you can get the new Oprah's book selection half price. Go buy your wares at one of the "stores" (they dare not speak its' name, like it's Candyman or Voldemort, for goodness' sake). All the suffering, so you can have your things. Oh yes, you must be hungry; have a bite at the local McMultinational death burger--that should make you feel good. Can you hear the cows screaming in pain?


Does any of this sound familiar? Save the earth, Free trade, Stop the corporations from taking over the country... I have always wanted to ask this question: have you ever been to a local coffee shop? I might be generalizing, but coffee shops and diners stink. Overpriced; service is lousy and from the minute you sit down, they want you to go. I always shop at Target; I love Target--sorry, vintage overpriced duds aren't my thing anymore. And as far as I'm concerned,
I hate fast food; I've learned not to trust food that smells the same coming in and going out
(don't make me spell it out). If you want to eat a McRib, God bless--your insides
will probably explode, but you will enjoy it going down your gullet.

The world in general is a scary place, filled with lots of nasty dictators, thieves and vile scum.

Fine; if it makes you feel better carry a bag to the supermarket, support your local whatever, fight the good fight, carry your silly heart on your sleeve, just don't do it in front of me. I laugh and point.

Multinational death burger

Do any of you have friends that just make you cringe?

Not cringe in a good way, like your drunken friend from college--still drinking and whoring like it's 1994. Every time its the same--starts out fun; hours later she's in a supply closet, blowing the porter crying in a puddle of bile. You cradle her, brush away her vomit crusted hair and whisper gently, "It's okay; your stepdad isn't here. Let it go; he cant hurt you".

The whole time, you're filming it on your cell phone and stick it on YouTube.


How about this group: vegans. Not the wimpy "I only eat fish" types; the no leather, wool, silk,
won't eat meat, cheese,dairy. Always against animal testing, want to blow up research labs, attack the ASPCA and generally thinks that people are scum. Just a bunch of Tofurkey eating loons. I had a debate class with one of these wack jobs in college. We had to choose between saving a baby or a dog and she picked the dog. She put a higher value on Marmaduke-- granted, he could really get into some funny shenanigans, but we are talking about a baby, people.

Now if it was the choice of baby Hitler and Lassie, maybe she might've had a point.


But thats the problem with these people. Chickens don't have a soul; cows are cute, but dumb, and you know what? No matter what you do--how many animals you save--Clarice, the lambs will not go silent. Trust me; if I'm in the ocean, the shark that will rip me to shreads isn't thinking about my existence.

Eat a damn cheeseburger and put on some ill-fitting leather pants.

The folly of youth brings memories I'd rather forget

The fun, frolic and frivolity of days gone by; when you didn't have to get up in the morning, you could play all day and in the evening sit on the porch, drink Country Time lemonade and listen to old-timey music while grandma braided your hair. Actually, I made that part up. I only had one grandparent and she could have been described as a "passive-aggressive manic depressive", who one minute was nice; the next minute, putting rat poison in my fruit punch. "Come on sweetie, grandma made you a drink; it's got an extra kick to it". No wonder I always had stomach aches and nose bleeds as a kid. Yes, my grammy was Lucrezia Borgia, damn her and her hollow ring.


Remember the lovely Peanuts animated specials? I was never that much of a fan.

Charlie Brown was a pussy; Lucy: just an angry feminist living in a man's world. Linus and that stupid blanket--did he ever wash that damn thing? Peppermint Patty aka Jodie Foster--just one of the boys with a gentleman's hair-do (wink, wink), oh and Franklin; what the hell did he ever do? Poor token cartoon character; he probably had to be bused in from another comic strip every day. Do not get me started on Snoopy; damn war monger. There was no Red Baron, you loony canine, and always doing his dumb dog house dance. Oh and Woodstock, hippie bird --probably had mescaline in his bird seed. I don't know if you were aware of this; back in the day, my mom described Peanuts as a bunch of Christian comic strips, lots of homilies for the kiddies being spoon fed this pablum right under their noses. I guess that made Charlie Brown Christ, and Lucy was Mary Magdelene (angry whore, not actual whore). Who knows the truth?


My Mom also hated "Little House on the Prairie"; she thought that was a load of of do-gooder, fake sentimental crap. Honestly, I can't argue with that; have you ever gone back and watched it? Trust me, if there's ever a marathon on TV Land, you will be running for the remote. Either that or in the begining when "little half pint", Melissa Gilbert goes running down the hill, you'll hope she trips and breaks her neck. Please spare me another picture with Michael Landon and his poofy '80's hair. Loved the Gingam though.

I want to be alone...

You go on Facebook, My Space or any other social networking site with the best intentions (Call it "My date rape and murder and body found in a shallow grave 2 weeks later, if you're dumb enough to meet someone you talked to on line"). And it becomes  a creep congregation. You just want to get in contact with someone for networking friendship or a business transaction and it turns into perv free-for-all.

I joined a site to sell jewelry and the freaks came out of the woodwork.  Jackass #1 calls himself "Well Hung"; next winner calls himself "Porn69". Do they realize I could be 12; do you want to end up on Dateline NBC? "I thought she was 25"; sure you did.

Anyway, why do people do this crap? Is it any different than the garbage that makes the sounds and gestures to you when you walk down the street? If only my hard, cold stare carried the Ebola virus, I could have taken care of this problem long ago.

I would like to share with you a reply I sent to a master of subtlety:

Dear Sir,

Or shall I call you by your other name, "Recently Released Sex Offender"? I am just a simple lass, trying to make a busisness transaction. I have no interest in a hook up, dirty messages or being sent private photos. I know you are from the generation that hooks up first, asks questions later, like "why don't you like being chained to my radiator? I thought you enjoyed crying and blood? Wasn't in your profile?"

But I, sir, don't tolerate this sort of guff. Now I ask you to leave me be; go back to your collection of underage prostitute body parts you have stuffed in your large freezer and who knows? If you wish real hard, maybe you can create one whole girl from that mess. Go away creep.

Let's do the the time warp

So here I am, sitting in the car waiting for the light to turn--what breaks my concentration?

The guy in the next car over.

He's playing Pearl Jam. Now I know you people out there think, ''but they were one of the greatest band of the 90's.''

And yes I had a copy of Ten (red cover, their arms outstretched: ''reach the sky, man'').
Maybe that's my point, I had a copy. And yes, before you even think it, there was worse--
Nirvana maybe? God, how I wish Kurt Cobain would have done his suicide pact with the wife, Gig Young style (Google the name for a chuckle).

Sorry--back to the guy and the car. He was driving a Jeep and had on a on a sweater, a beanie cap, long hair and yes--a soul patch. All that was missing was a girlfriend with green hair and a nose ring lunchbox as purse, Doc Martens and a ''Take Back The Night'' t-shirt. The song that was playing? "Jeremy", from Ten.

I had a suspicion Ole Grunge Boy got caught in a worm hole 14 years ago and just got
spit back out. Sadly, he broke my illusion by whipping out his cell phone. Bye-bye
Grunge Boy, wherever you may mope.

1989

My worst New Year's hangover was about twenty two years ago. Just a bunch of silly teenage geese going to every bar on Avenue A that would serve us liquor. How many? All. So after many hours of drinking "Blue Whales" I found myself at a friends house, with an urge to vomit. I was such a good friend, I waited to hurl after I left the apt., just did it in the street and a cab. Got home eventually and put a bucket next to my bed. How cute; like a little Bukowski in training. Many hours later I awoke, dragged myself into the living room; my Mom watching a Gilligan's Island marathon, barely looking at me. All she said was "I made a ham; eat some and take out the garbage." Translation: "I don't know what you did last night; I don't want to know. Eat some ham because we are Jews that laugh in the face of God." Or something like that.

Don't bogart that cigarette my friend

 

I have never been one to get on a soapbox about anything. I have my opinions and such. If you want serious commentary or political dissertation this isn't the blog. I just feel that the cigarette hysteria is a bit much for me. No, my dad isn't Fred Marlboro and I don't think smoking is ''cool''. Well, I used to; it had that whole chic Euro thing and gave all the shy girls something to do with their hands; oh yeah and it tasted good. I'm not saying for or against cigarettes, I'll say instead the pungent aroma never bothered me much.

Remember the good old days? You would see smokers everywhere, restaurants, movie theaters and airplanes. Remember bars? You can still go to a bar, pickle your liver till it looks like an olive, but you can't smoke. And as far as I can see in films nowadays, they have "special" ratings for smoking, and it's always after "mild scenes of violence". What a bunch of pandering sissies. The only time you see a smoker nowadays, there usually a Terrorists, and European. Yes, people the threat to this great nation is... a bunch of French guys filled with ennui. Stop, please stop.

Yes, I know the old amputeed foot guy and hole-in-the-throat-where-the-voice-box-used-to-be are very effective commercials, but don't you think somebody warned those guys? And they would probably still be smoking if not for the fact one guy can't walk to the store to get the cigs and the other one has no throat? Just a sick observation; sorry, no really, sorry.

In conclusion, I am a big proponent of free will. You want to smoke, go ahead, if twenty years from now you get sick and they remove your larynx and you sound like Neil Young circa Trans-- hey, if you're happy, what do I care? So ol' Lucille Ball voice--smoke up and have fun until those crazed Frenchmen destroy our American way of life.

Desperately seeking superficiality

 

You and I may have similar traits. Maybe a love of films, music, good bottle of white wine or
mixed drink ("Love potion" -- banana liqueur & gin; very tasty). Maybe you and I love tasteless jokes: "what do you say to the woman who has two black eyes"? Answer--"nothing she hasn't been told twice already". Okay; if you're laughing, you know this is a joke; if your mouth is agape in horror, remember somewhere in the recesses of my brain the synapses aren't firing at 100%. Either that or I can just blame it all on my parents.

Even with all my personal flaws people still seem to like me, especially men. Well, the types
that either troll Facebook at 2 in the morning and have a duffle bag filled with torture porn, a rope, shovel and bad intentions. Or maybe the guy whose My Space profile has a
picture of someone who looks like Clive Owen, but in reality seems to to be a 300 lb. gentleman with a mullet and possessing the social graces of Stuntman Mike. (I just know the reality of life. If you're a woman, have a sunny disposition, breasts, legs and all your teeth, you may wind up a target for some types).

Maybe it's my way of looking at the world that stops me from enjoying some things in life. For some reason, everyone I know loved the show "My So-Called Life"; me, I would have rather drank bleach then have to sit through that self-important hour long "teen drama" of the horrible '90's. Did the people who made the show ever go to high school? Sorry; really pretty girls with the porcelain skin, perfect hair and slim bodies didn't have the problems--try being 50 pounds overweight, have acne, pissed-off & warring parents, dyslexia and no privacy--that's high school, boyo. Of course it probably says something about me that I'm writing about
a show that's probably been off the air for 14 years. Yes, just call me relevant; next, I'll discuss
whether "Red Dawn" was a piece of cold war propaganda or could Quincy really do his job as ME and solve crimes at the same time (please bring that show back; just to hear ol' half a larynx speak would be worth it).

For all my bravado I really am a sensitive gal. I have a keen idea of the inner thoughts and personality traits of others. I'll tell you who you really are and just what you're thinking. In the end, dispensing thoughtful, sage advice. Now if I could follow my own advice, then I would have it made; instead, I wisely chose not to. One can't spend too much time thinking of one's self can we and let's face it; without something to have neurosis about, how would I exist?

The ol' whippersnappers need to get the what for from me

 

There are many things I regret: from the minor--using a sun lamp three inches from my face, without sun block (my face looked like pink puffer fish) to the time I bought a pair of shoes
1 size too small (it was the only size they had; hey they were adorable). Unfortunately, I then
walked around N.Y., turning my feet into a bloody mess. Maybe sometimes I drank too much. Maybe I didn't take school seriously enough. Then there's the monumental; things you said that you wish you could take back--you feel as if they've changed the course of your existence. I bet right now you might be wincing at the thought of your grand faux pas.

Maybe it's me. I've had a strong sense of shame all my life; the old right vs. wrong. You do something bad; hence, you feel bad right? Why does it seem as if no one has a sense of shame at all anymore: I do what I want, when I want--screw you. And why does it seem the ones doing it are all younger than me and couldn't give a flying rat's ass?

The one thing I find interesting about getting older is how much disdain I have for the youth.
Age gives you that great force field of indignation; no, not the old "in my day" speech, just the way things are going the youth today do seem like a cavalcade of schmucks.

They were mollycoddled as kids, can do no wrong as teens and now in their early twenties are covered in tattoos and piercings, sitting in Starbucks with laptop all day long. Why don't you
have a job? What do you do all day? I would love to have the life of leisure; why, in fact I've written about it, but I can't--I have that pesky thing called rent. Whatever happened to having tattoos that you could hide; you know, if you had a job. I love when women have tattoos on their necks; nothing says classy like having "Tony's Girl" blazoned across one's throat. I want that woman handling my cash at the bank.

It's just my opinion--I can just imagine the parents of some of these winners. Probably out there, a couple worked their fingers to the bone to send Fred to college, only to find he's in debt
from his second life habit. His avatar name is Thor--he's quite the lady killer for a cartoon; his
girlfriend's avatar name is Luxana, a raven haired goddess (!)--actually, she's a Midwest lump with two kids and probably has a bunch of dumb tattoos--a bunch of cherubs and fairies.

Me, I don't have kids--don't want them and I can't imagine what it must feel like to be the parent of some of these wretches. Parents, I would say I feel for you , but I would make me a liar and that would make me feel shame.

Nothing to it but to do it

 

This blog suffers from ADD, so don't be alarmed at the lack of cohesiveness.

This gem of a title came from an expression a gentleman I knew years ago.He would do the old hand smack with his male friends before they would go out and get there party on. Yes I admit it I have known many douche bags in my life. Where is he now? Probably selling sensible shoes in the heartland of America.
Relax, strap in and get ready for the blinding lack of continuity .
Let's do a remember when--remember when: You saw your first movie alone? Jaws 3D; year, 1982. Nothing to report; it was a piece of crap, but I got to see this dreck alone, so I felt cool. First time you thought you were going to die in a movie theater? Early '90's, watching Alien 3-- fella in back of me was making quite the racket, so I gathered up all my gumption and said "hey could you and your ladyfriend keep it down? I am trying enjoy my cinema experience. He obliged by kicking my seat quite forcefully and explained in very salty language that I would meet a bad end at the barrel of a gun; oh, and his girlfriend was going to f#ck me up, too. No, I did not die, but I certainly did not enjoy my cinema experience

 

"I used to love them, but now, not so much"... I've been thinking about this; have you noticed that so many of the things that happen to you in life become metaphors for relationships?
Bands you like. At first, every thing was great; then, it changed. Things were never the same;
now you pretend they don't exist. You liked them before they were popular, now they're the pretty girl at the prom who's ignoring you. You're probably angry because they loved you when no one else did; they moved on--you didn't. But hey, let's face it; human relationships are so
yesterday.

Even old jobs have become abusive relationships. At first it was fine , then became controlling treats you like moron , might as well push you down the stairs. Suddenly a lousy boss turns into Ike Turner. Now I've had some lousy bosses, but I don't ever remember being beaten with a shoe, as far as I'm concerned maybe if I did some physiological beatings I might have ended up in a better place.

One last piece of the confused pie:

As you may have surmised, I used to watch a hell of a lot of TV, so you start to see many of the same actors over and over again. Do you ever think Keith David and David Keith ever get confused
with each other? The two fellas bump into each other on the street...


Start: Keith David and David Keith


Hey you! It's you!


David Keith:
Don't you narrate commercials for the Army?


Keith David:
Didn't you make that movie where you killed yourself and you were in the Army?


Both guffaw.

Keith David:
Weren't you in the film Lords of Discipline?

David Keith:
Hey weren't you in that movie with Jennifer Connolly where you taught her a little discipline with a stripper and a double sided dildo?


Both laugh heartily, slap each other on the back and decide to make plans for a sitcom.


Scene: fin.

Bad morning at Foggy Bottom

 

"You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villany".

I use this quote because:
a) I'm a Star Wars geek (complete with Princess Leia costume)
b) I'm describing a typical workplace

...OR...

c) public transportation

If you picked "C", you are correct sir.

Now let me tell you about my morning ride:

Reading The Post, trying to keep myself awake (yes, The Post, not The Times--too expensive). Eventually I decide to stand to try to kill time, staring out the window, trying to discern shapes in this sea of fog. Suddenly it seems that voices are piping up; two, to be exact. Bodies tumble to the groung. Kicking. Biting. Scratching. Two teens--no, two fully grown women. This display seemingly goes on forever. Finally, one middle- aged woman finally steps in to stop the fracas and gets caught in the melee of airbrushed nails and braids. Of course, what fight wouldn't be complete without the security guard? Yes, I know he's a professional--it says so on his jacket. Three other women start yelling out, "ladies, please; we're all adults", to which one woman on the ground said "I'm gonna kick yo' ass, bitch".

Where was I? In the back. I'm no fool. Considering an old woman got cold cocked by one of the women and others had been pushed or pulled. I was happy to stay in the back and watch the Gladiator fight. All we needed was a tiger and Russell Crowe in his metal skirt.

The fun ended, as it always does. One woman (the one who proabably started it) yelled out that she was going to "arrest the animal who assaulted me", screaming at the deckhands to get the cops. Me, I haul ass outta there.

Women are the fairer sex?

Talk about philosophy, thinking about porn

This is the way it goes: not hot enough for metal, not cool enough for alternative and I haven't given up on life enough for emo. Oh, aren't we all in a bind.

Never really thought of myself as an artist; a mere dabbler, as they say. I recently tried to work on a painting. Oh, it's always so much better in our heads. What comes out on the canvas? That's another story. Sorry, I'm quite tired.

So... my train of thought has been derailed. No funny pictures; no witty comments.

This smells funny...Try it

Sunday in New York

Sunny crisp October. Don't have to work so enjoy the day right?
Spent the afternoon in Dumbo, went to this Steampunk event, held at a loft space.
I've been intrigued by the whole concept of  the Victorian/Science Fiction meld.
I'm also a sucker for the old timey style of dress. 
Top hat, canes, spats, gals in corsets, men with wacky facial hair
drinking tea, eating lavender infused cookies.
All the while sitting in folding chairs as various writers gave impromptu readings
of their work.  I gave it some time enjoyed myself and left.
Not a total convert but enjoyable afternoon.
So there I was taking photos, a relaxing day. What would make it complete?
a lovely grande cup of Pikes Place at Starbucks. Cup at the ready:
( little secret refills are .54 cents as opposed to paying 2.40 for another cup.
seems logical, oh and it shows I care about recycling).

I put my cup on the counter proudly exclaim "refill please" and patiently wait for
my java.  Change in hand the barista says 2.40 "please".
Confused I say "but this is a refill". 
"Oh sorry we don't do refills".
"If you got the coffee here we would,  but you didn't
and its at the discretion of the baristas" 2.40 please"...
"Please don't hold up the line thanks"...

Seeing the barista mafia was holding my cup hostage,
and attacking me with more please than anyone should have to endure
and I really wanted the coffee I acquiesced.
Before I left I got "sorry about that, please come again" complete with
sarcastic smile. thanks. Outside of the store I realized I paid full price
for my coffee and they didn't replace the cup. 
Full price dirty cup-- I take a large swig, not realizing the coffee
tasted funny not bitter, rancid. The second gulp was even worse
I now have nauseous feeling and an awful taste in my mouth
what to do?  I found a frozen yogurt truck, order a simple
vanilla hoping this awful taste will go away.
At first it worked. then about 10 min later I found myself
feeling the strong urge to throw up.

I find myself wandering the crowded streets trying to find an empty space
to "take care of the problem".  Kids, old people, strollers, hipsters,
gypsies, tramps and thieves.  I NEED ONE EMPTY BLOCK!

Finally one garbage can and empty street, I cross the block I look to my left
I look to my right , I cross and a guy walks in front of me.  Are you OK?
Do you need help?  He blocks my way to the garbage can. I gently nudge
Mr. Helpful out of the way to reach the goal.
As I look up he's standing over me "Oh I get it sorry"...
I dab my mouth with a tissue, and say
"sorry you didn't get your merit badge helping me with directions
but I'm sure you'll find an old lady you can help across the street". 
He mumbled something and walked away...

Later in the evening I found myself in Manhattan, thirsty and a bit drained.
I still needed my Pike.  Rancid cup in hand  go to the counter at Starbucks
expecting the worst and order my coffee. Huzzah! grande 54 cents, my faith
was tested by Brooklyn  but all was well in the isle of Manhattan.

What's the moral of the story?
There is no moral- just try to avoid  the Starbucks Brooklyn douchbag baristas.

I like the quiet, don't you? (my own private soundtrack)

As you already know everyone has an opinion.

Please allow me to opine on a subject dear to me.

Much has been written lately on the iPod (or as I like to call it "the glorious music machine"). The complaint is (and there's always one) -- "everyone is now hooked up, tuned in and tuning out. Public spaces have now become cocoons; sealed off from one another".

My question is: when did this become a bad thing?

As I'm sure you know from reading my previous blogs I so enjoy interaction with people (especially the subway riding public).

Between obtrusive conversations and dirty comments (I have a good one); a gentleman (actually, a human douchebag), greeted me with "Hey pretty eyes,
I like your ass". From my eyes to my ass. What a sweetie.

When I have my iPod, it's as if I have an invisible force field that says "I CAN'T HEAR YOU; I DON'T WANT TO HEAR YOU--GO AWAY!". Being able to shut out the maddening crowd (and for a brief moment) and enjoy a soundscape of good music (God knows, I'm sick of hearing snippets of crap music).

Listen: iPods didn't start human isolation. The people who write these articles haven't lived in the big city for long (let me guess: you're from a small town where you bought penny candy. Your mother went to the town Woolworth's to buy gingham for a "purdy" new dress, and of course, Shopkeeper Dan knew your name and was always glad you came. Too bad--we are city folk; we do things differently.

Now if you'll excuse me, I must go back to my wall of isolation.

In the land of the paste eaters, the man with the Moe Howard haircut is king

Every day is a challenge.
Yes, many look at the bright side of things and I admire that.
For me I feel obstacles are constantly in front of me. 

Simple things- try to post a picture on twitter only to encounter whale fail
or that stupid robot icon.  Writing this goofy blog and having my computer
crash on me (because I love to edit over and over). 
Dealing with my phone a Pre--Say what? Never heard of a Pre?
Came and went, now I have an obsolete phone that doesn't take new apps. 
At this point I should take two Campbell's soup cans, tie strings at both
ends and get better reception. 
Nice- pay 83.00 a month for the privilege of being unable to log into facebook. 

One thing about facebook-
When people "friend" me I  accept.  Maybe I know you, maybe not.
Really who cares, It's facebook.  As long as you don't send me pictures
of your cock, or spam who cares its facebook.  I send a request and
it's "do I know you"?  Do you want a five page essay on how we were
friends in college, or I knew you twenty years ago in Junior High
or I saw your FB page and golly you seemed interesting! 
Accept or don't; but please I'm not gonna steal your personal info  or identity. 
Your just not that important.

Every day crap-
I go to Starbucks to get my dose of Pike, and without fail the "Barista"
is always washing and rearranging every cup behind the counter,
completely ignoring me.  I'm glad they want to be clean,
but spare me the OCD for a second.  To get counter girl to notice me
I tap my foot and let out a little cough, nothing. 
At this point I could be Savion Glover  with whooping cough,  this bitch isn't looking up. 
Finally some guy from the back alway comes to the rescue. 
Unfortunately he just threw out the trash, and probably has garbage juice on his hands.

When all fails Dunkin Donuts-
I love a place that says "environment be damned" and uses Styrofoam cups.
yes the place smells and it feels like you walked into an oven, but the coffee does the job.
Just don't  let them sucker you into a breakfast sandwich. Croissant, plastic cheese
mystery egg product and a whiff of maple...just give me a coffee to go.

More to come...

Ecch

I try to stay out of the way, keep my head down and go about my business.
That being said- I find a great many things annoy me.

Why when I go to the supermarket, Duane Reade, CVS or Walgreen's
I'm expected to shell out more money. You know breast cancer, leukemia
hoof and mouth disease. I just gave the store all my cash, now you want me to dole out more.
"Do you want to donate to help cure Cancer"?  Asks Nancy the cashier.
"No thanks" I reply.  Of course Nancy gives me that "so you want more people to die" glare.
Just put a jar next to the counter and cut the malarkey.

By the way, does every Chinese food restaurant have that one tin can
"To help stop child abuse".  Some no name charity with a creepy picture
of a  a cute blond kid in pigtails cowering in a corner.
Please I'm begging you- give me my egg drop soup and leave me be.

dicks and cellphones- No not a new indie rock band.
Everywhere I go some schmuck makes me privy to every piece of his or her life.
Imagine being stuck on a bus with a migraine at two in the morning sitting next to the woman
giving a play by play of her abortion to her ex boyfriend, intermittently screaming "can you hear me"?
My only consolation was that she had just sucked out the next generation of her horrid family.

My recent encounter with a jerk off was on Sat.  Dressed like he was going to the Benny and June  lookalike contest- baggy pants and yes he even had the stupid hat.  Talking loudly on his cell, nervously laughing and swinging his arms.  Everywhere I went he was there, constantly making dumb jokes and knocking into me.  Did he say he was sorry or an "oopsie daisy"?  Nope.  Pissed off, I drop my basket and run to the exit. Of course Benny decides now he wants to go and runs to the door knocking into me one last time.  The last thing I heard him say was  "had a rough morning, took  Zanax with my scotch". 
One last chuckle.  Yes drinking and having a pill addiction is a laugh riot...

And last-

For the last couple of months Ive tried to avoid watching TV. Maybe this makes me a closet intellectual
but I find myself reading much more that watching Television. Bored and against my better judgement I watch a show called- wait for it... Jerseylicious. Yes, the titled intrigued me. The premise is the reopening
of a salon in Green Brook, NJ called the Gatsby. Owned by a mother and daughter team complete with a "cast'' of stylists and the usual wacky situations and cat fights.  Yes all this from the great state that made
Guido's and Guidettes famous.  The Gatsby is an "artistic environment of timeless classic beauty". 
They wrote it not me.  No you can't make this shit up. 
Last I checked having the skin color of a Cheeto, nails that look like talons and make up that gives the impression you were the victim of an assault wasn't very stylish. Then again maybe everybody wants to be Snooki and I'm the crazy one...

Still True

Back again riding the ferry, may I just say "voyage of the damned"? Why does the drug addict, the woman with 10 kids, the really loud woman, the wino and the shitty teenager have to sit next to me? I must have done something really bad in a past life. If I have learned anything about public transportation, it's keep your head down and always look busy.