Archive for July, 2007

Things Wrong About Turning 23

July 31, 2007

I just turned 23 on Sunday. Yay for me! And for my heart, which is still beating! 23 years down, approximately 8 to go [I’m estimating].

So here’s where I carry issue right now…

*I’m another year removed from college, youthful indiscretions and innocence. Which pretty much means I’m running out of excuses for any of the ridiculous things I’m sure to be held responsible in the near and distant future.

*When I was little, and my cousin Mimi or Billy would tell me they were 23, I would just be aghast as to how incredibly old they were, and therefore how much money they must have. Because, come on, if you’re that old there has to be some sort of make do. And money is pretty much the only thing that could compensate for surviving to the decrepit age of 23.

FYI. I’m 23 and have no money.

*Another year gone, and my super powers have yet to reveal themselves to me.

*One year older to the last three milestones of life. Being able to rent a car, getting a senior citizen discount and dying. None of which are exciting enough to put down in my calendar.

*”Twenty-three is old. It’s almost 25, which is like almost mid-20’s.” Jessica Simpson.

*MTV has, more or less, lost it’s appeal. Meaning I’ve moved out of their target audience and may as well begin watching Larry King, complaining about how fast my cabs go and have people repeat things louder and more slowly.

Though I do appreciate those who wished me a happy birthday, both on Facebook and in real life. It honestly made me feel very loved. Kind of like the person in the box at a funeral [years away, people].

I also got this really funny card from Courtney.

Isn’t she sweet?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find a bodega that is both a) still open, and 2) has Depends.

My Future Appears To Be Very Sexy

July 24, 2007

Two of my fortune cookies from the past week read…

Soothing your body is the name of the game today.


Avoid the opposite sex today.
Yeah, right!

I’m not even kidding. My fortune cookie was saturated with innuendos. And told me to jerk it.

In other news, my brain’s stereo system has had Marilyn Manson’s Dope Show on repeat in my head since 10 this morning. Rock on.

Operation: Break Into My Mailroom

July 21, 2007

Right not it’s about 4:45 pm, and I’ve been checking my Harry Potter order since 1:30 this morning.

When I pre-ordered my book, I didn’t even think to check that the 21st might be a Saturday. I figured that the release of the book would happen sometime during the week, and since I normally don’t get home from work till after 8 pm, I figured I should just have my book delivered to my desk. This way, I could show my co-workers first hand how big of a nerd I am.

But now, here I sit in my apartment, knowing full well that very shortly Amazon will tell me that my package has been delivered to my office. And I’m not there. So instead, I’m trying to figure out how best to break into the mail room on the third floor so that I can secure the 7th book and thereby have every hour between then and 9:30 am on Monday planned out.

I need this book now.

Thank God For My Obsessive Stalking Tendencies

July 17, 2007

We’re in the downstairs area of a restaurant in one of the two function rooms available. The Mystery Dinner Theatre has just finished [it was the cop, who was upset the eccentric billionaire slash playboy’s chauffeur ran down his family] and we were all chatting about what was a great time.

Then James Gandolfini walked by the door.

Curious, we wandered into the hallway and looked too see where he was going. He walked into the other function room, meeting up with Edie Falco, Steve Buscemi, Bobby Cannavale and several other Sopranos cast members.

The only reasonable thing to do in a situation where you are feet away from a closed door Sopranos party is simple, in my mind.

Crash it.

Fast forward a few wines, and I see James Gandolfini head towards the bathroom. I don’t quite know what it is in me, but I’m drawn to celebrities. I’ve only seen The Sopranos a handful of times, and maybe a film or two he was in, so he isn’t even someone who I can become easily obsessed with and begin to act a fool around.

I’m someone who enjoys a challenge, though, and stepped up to the plate. By following him into the bathroom.

I don’t know what I expected to happen. We’d bond over stories of difficult zippers while peeing at the urinal? Share a laugh over some graffiti in the stall? That would be nice, because when I stumbled into the bathroom, I didn’t even have those lame ass ideas to jump off from.

And even if I did, it wouldn’t have helped. When I opened the bathroom door, no one was there. James Gandolfini had disappeared. I’m pretty sure that, according to the laws of every science ever, it’s impossible to just vanish into thin air. Confused, I went to stand in front of the urinal.

Just as I unzipped and began to hold myself, James Gandolfini walked out of a hidden door which led to the inner bathroom, presumably reserved for celebrities and those sober enough to notice it in the first place. He walked over to the sinks, which were semi divided from the urinals by a wall. I had yet to begin peeing. Instead, my body began to expel something else.

Internet. I farted. And when I tell you that what escaped my ass was one of the most alarming sounds I’ve ever heard, I’m not lying. For a long time, it just kept coming, low and deep and resonating off the tiled walls of the bathroom. It lasted so long that seasons were changing.

After I finally finished, there was a pause. No noise from the sink or my ass. Complete silence. Except for the tinkling of my pee. Because of course, this is when I would start peeing. After I alerted the ships in the harbor of the incoming fog bank.

In a flood of shame, I muttered two words.

“Excuse me.”

James Gandolfini took two steps back, stepping out from behind the wall dividing the sinks and the urinals. He turns to look at me, pointing his finger.

“What did you say?”

So to give you a visual, I’m alone in a bathroom with James Gandolfini, and he is talking to me while I am holding myself and peeing into a urinal.

“Um…oh…Well, I farted. And I was a little embarrassed. So I said ‘excuse me’.”

James Gandolfini stood there, still pointing his finger at me while I still had my fingers aiming a stream. He was facing me. I was facing the wall, but had my head turned over my left shoulder so I could face him.

He started shaking his finger at me, up and down. I was still peeing.

“That’s funny.” Shake. Shake. Shake. “I like you.”

He then turned around, opened the door, and headed back to the party. Leaving me standing at a urinal by myself, wondering how James Gandolfini stood there, spoke to me, and told me he liked me while my penis was hanging out of my pants.

The After Party

July 17, 2007

[yes…a bit delayed]

After we got out of the movie premiere, it was time to head to the after party. Since a theatre full of people had all left the Ziegfeld at the same time, getting a cab for four people was next to impossible.

After standing on the corner for about 15 minutes, we decided to wave down a car service. We ended up in a more than nice car, which had enough room for the four of us to sit in the back seat. As we neared the after party, we noticed that the street was so clogged with taxis, we were going to have to get out and walk the rest of the way.

That’s when the after party bouncers began clearing the street. For us. Because we were the only car on the street that wasn’t a yellow cab. People were moved, cars were shooed, and space was made for us as our car pulled up to the red carpet and papparazzi began to take pictures.

They stopped once they saw us step out of the car.

We knew we would see celebrities while at this party. But it never occured to us that we would be anywhere near them. To be honest, I was surprised by a lot of things that night. For one, I figured people like me would be kept behind a chain link fence, or perhaps asked to wear sandwich boards indicating my status as a normal person. Also, when I first saw Brad Pitt, for some reason I was shocked he had skin. I don’t know what I expected him to have, but skin wasn’t it.

While bumping around the party, we saw so many celebrities it made us giddy. There was Fran Drescher, who still looks incredible. There was also Kumar, from Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle. We also saw Brian Williams, the Duchess of York, and Jeremy Piven.

Now. Jeremy Piven. He had showed up by himself to the party, and I’m pretty sure that the smell of desperation that escaped from his pores could bring tears to just about anyone. He was walking around just waiting for a woman to walk up to him and fawn all over his celebritiness.

And eventually, one did. Jaslene. Winner of America’s Next Top Model. Who is nothing more than a pile of toothpicks held together with some spit and a prayer. Have you ever been around someone that was so skinny, you wanted to see if you could pick them up over your head or break them? I know I do.

It wasn’t until later that night did we notice [read: followed them around] that Jeremy Piven and Jaslene were spending a lot of time with one another. We now know that they are dating, and the very shallow side of me is excited that I was there to watch this doomed relationship at its birth.

When it was finally time to leage, we walked out of the party and towards the red carpet. Parked where they were when we went in, behind little barricades, were the papparazzi. I don’t understand it, but they took our pictures. A lot. So we did what first came to our minds. We posed.

I’ve yet to find these pictures, even though I’ve scoured Wire Image. Although I wouldn’t be surprised if these people were just nice enough to endulge our celebrity for a night status, then went and deleted all the pictures once they got home. Because I feel the cost to take our picture drastically outweighed whatever they could have sold it for.

I’ll try to get the pictures we took up here. They were taken from Jill’s cell phone, so we have to upload them somehow.

Finally, sorry for the lack of posting. From here on out, I’ll do a better job of posting. Promise!

Walk It Out

July 14, 2007

I’m back.