Archive for the ‘Stories’ Category

High Fives To This

May 27, 2009


I met Heather Armstrong at SXSW in 2006. We were on a bus together coming back from the Interactive Festival’s kick off party. I was drunk and went up to Heather, her husband Jon and their friend Maggie and asked them where they were headed next. It was like the head of the chess team asking the football team if they could hang.

I got denied.

Also I was sloshed and possibly have video of Heather on a bus and me yelling “That’s Heather from Dooce!” so I’m sure those factors didn’t help sway the vote in my favor.

So yeah. Long story short, this lady is the shit. Proof in the picture.

Saucy Street Walker

March 10, 2009

This past weekend I went up to Stowe for some skiing. On the trip there, a bunch of us stopped in New Haven, CT for some pizza. And can I tell you that I formed so many enemies there? In a matter of 5 minutes in the lobby of a pizzeria, I got hated on.

First, I said that I’d never had New Haven pizza because why would I ever just randomly be there? I’m either in Boston or NYC…never New Haven. And about 8 New Havenians turned around and evil eyed me. Like I told them I took a poop on the statue of the town’s founder or something.

When we were told a party of 10.5 was ahead of us, a lady joked Oh there must be a kid in that group! Then I went on to say that children only count as half a person. In front of about 3 sets of parents and their children. Evil eyes. Again.

So once we were seated, I made a conscious effort to not say anything that would offend or cause riots at the nearby tables. Epic fail, you guys.

This table next to us was comprised of a father and his three kids; two boys, one girl. This man had no control whatsoever over any of his children, and just let them run all bat shit bonkers all over the place. The two boys armed themselves with butter knives and began having sword fights around their table while the dad chatted on the phone. And then there was this.


This man had a depressed, under-aged street walker with a fistful of twenties as a  daughter, sadly walking around the restaurant. Probably pondering if what she just did was worth the cash she just got paid. And it’s not like she’s gonna end up seeing any of that cash, anyways.

All the money probably goes to paying for emergency room visits for her little brothers who have superficial scratches all over their bodies from butter knife fights or whatever. But I guess that builds character. Which is good, because hookers with a heart of gold always end up going for more, leading them to a lavish lifestyle and a Richard Gere related romance. Movies taught me that.

I’m sure it will all work out for them in the end. Slash not. Whatever, New Haven hates me, so I can’t be bothered caring too much.

photo via Gillian

Bowling Is Dangerous

February 18, 2009

Last night I went to a happy hour [thank God] at Lucky Strike on the west side. Which would normally be terrifying to me. So let me explain.

Last time I went REAL bowling [as in, bowled full strings rather than stealing someone’s spot when they weren’t quick enough to show] was back in Austin for the 2006 Bloggies. And if you go to that post, you’ll get to see a video that shows a general idea of what bowling was like for us.

What it doesn’t show is what bowling was like for ME. Which is this. Embarrassing frames. Horrific strings. Split pants. More bowling.

You guys, I split my jeans right up the ass. Thank God almighty that I chose to wear boxers that day, because at that period in my life, going commando was my thing. If I was about ‘my thing’ this night, all of Ft. Worth, Texas would know all about my ass crack.

This time, though, I’m ridiculously proud of myself. Not only are my jeans 100% solid, but I bowled a 123. That’s like getting a hug from Jesus to me, you guys. Because back when I was a boy scout, we had these bowl-a-thons where people sponsored you with a certain amount of cash for the amount of pins you knocked down.

So if you bowled for 4 hours, got about 150 pins an hour [decent for child-sized children] you would get about $30 for whatever charity you were raising money for. You guys, I routinely raised like, $5. That will not clothe, feed or shelter a puppy for a day, never mind a person. I totally failed in helping the less fortunate. I severely disappointed the less fortunate.

The less fortunate hated me.

But if they could only see me now! 123! Take that $6.15 and suck it!

This Post Means I’m BFFs With Jack Black

February 17, 2009

So after Flickr was bought out by Yahoo a couple years back, I had to go through the hassle of signing in with a Yahoo! ID and what not. I won’t lie to you when I say that once I got my ID, I immediately forgot about it and haven’t logged in, used, or even seen the pictures I posted up there in like, years.

The other day I randomly found myself wondering if my account still existed or if maybe I could see my pictures. After hunting through emails and trying out a bazillion different username slash password combinations, I finally got into my account.

And oh my god, you guys. I shouldn’t have.


That’s my friend Katelyn and I with Jack Black and Laura Kightlinger. This was taken in the summer of 2003 when we volunteered for the first annual Boston International Film Festival. Take a look at that hot hemp necklace I’m rocking. So pimp.

This was the same festival where I was coerced into wearing a full body pig costume after the screening of Jack Milton: Fairy Tale Detective. The pig was a rapping pig, of course, so I had to take that into consideration when I danced down the aisles in front of a theatre full of people and stood on stage next to the director, producer and so forth.

Needless to say, I’ll be do less hunting for that photo.

Stop It, Dreams

February 12, 2009

I have these dreams about flying, but one of them happens a hell of a lot more often than any of the good ones. So feel free to comment about what this means about me as a person.

In this dream, I’m flying, but not in the fun way. The fun way, to me, is flying through the air, arms outstretched as you shoot through clouds, zip past buildings and pull off wicked awesome loopty loops. Crazy awesome stuff that most people think of when they look back at their flying dreams.

But no, that rarely happens to me. Instead, I’m flying around the playground of my old elementary school, but in order to stay aloft, I have to keep flapping my arms like I’m trying to fan out fires. I don’t have wings or anything. Not even two long planks of wood attached to my arms. No, I’m just flapping my arms like an idiot to stay afloat. Oh, also, I’m dressed as a Christmas tree.

And that’s not even the weird part. Which is funny to say, because right now, you have the picture of me in your head, flapping, dressed in this felt Christmas suit with a star on my head, floating around an elementary school playground. And I think that in most situations that would be the weird part. But no. The weird part is that there are HORDES of children underneath me, jumping and reaching and trying to touch and grab and poke and pull me.

No matter where I try to direct my flight path, they stay right underneath me. And the worst part is that I’m slowly sinking lower and lower and lower. You guys, I start to panic in the dream. Like, I’m freaking out because my flapping isn’t doing a damn bit of good, possibly because the weight of the Christmas tree suit is weighing me down, and an army of children are waiting for me to descend so they can, most likely, rip me apart.

This is like, 6th circle of hell shit right here. The dream never lasts long enough that I end up actually falling into the hands of the children, but rather I end up sinking right above them, and then I wake up.

This dream frustrates me so much, you guys, it’s not even funny. In the beginning sure, it was kinda funny to be all I’m a flying tree, hooray! but now it’s all Those kids are going to reach for presents and I don’t think I’m wearing clothes under this felt Christmas tree suit, and that is an issue none of us should have to deal with.

So yeah. I just want to fucking fly in my dreams. Is that too much to ask for?

I’m So Evil, You Guys

February 4, 2009

Going back to my being a horrible adult, I got my W2 form the other week. And that means taxes.

I’m about to sound really spoiled right now, so I’m just gonna ask that you shut it and let me vent my first-world problem to you. I’ve never done my own taxes, and I get a little hyper-ventilatey when I think about doing them. I worry that I’ll accidentally check the box that says I have a kid or handicapped geriatrics living with me and the government finds out and fines and fees explode all over my face, and that pressure is too strong and too bizarre for me to willfully ignore.

Throughout high school and college, my mother always did my taxes along with hers. It made much more sense and was easier for all parties involved if she handled it rather than I [meaning easier just for me] because of the whole “child in school and a dependent” thing. Last year was the first time that the taxes would be reflective of a whole year’s worth of income of me as an adult. And boy was that just a hurricane of a clusterfuck.

I was supposed to receive two W2 forms, one for the job I have now, and the other for American Eagle, only the American Eagle one never came. Which immediately made me freak out. I ended up calling my mother [how old am I?] and she got me an extension for filing taxes, until the end of October. Which was awesome.

So after hunting down the right people and a good deal of waiting, I eventually received the W2 form. I happened to be on the phone with my father when I saw I had received it, and he said that if I fax over all my W2’s, he’ll take care of my taxes for me. Done and done!

Seasons change. And my new W2 arrives.

I’m on the phone with my father saying that maybe this time, I’ll take my taxes to someone like H&R Block or something in the hopes of getting more money. Good idea! he says, followed by Make sure you bring them last year’s W2’s, as well.

Father what?

Apparently he never got to my 2007 taxes. At all. Yeah, they just weren’t done. As in not completed and given to the government. As in, every single time you’ve seen me in the past year, you were looking down your nose at a dirty, low down, piece of shit felon. I have committed tax fraud, you guys. I’m a fucking criminal. I’ve broken federal laws and shit and now I’m a goddamn fugitive.

Here I am, Dr. Evil, sitting on my [no doubt stolen] throne of illegalities, reveling in my land-o-lack-o-taxes, breaking the law EVERY DAY and acting all la-di-da about it all, just grinding my arrogance all over Uncle Sam’s face and laughing like a vicious beast.

Don’t look at me, you guys. Avert your gaze.

I told you. Horrible adult.

Where Are You When I Need You, ShamWow?

February 2, 2009

For the last few nights I’ve been taking TheraFlu to help me get to sleep. With this plague that has come down upon me, I’ve had a difficult time both getting to sleep and staying that way. TheraFlu has been my ambrosia recently, being the only thing that has helped out my throat so I can get at least 5 hours of rest.

Whenever I take TheraFlu or NyQuil, though, I tend to take it…exuberantly. I feel that if I want my symptoms to be non-existent and I want a good night’s sleep, then I need just a little more than the suggested dosage. I mean, if one little cap full promises relief, then a cap full  and a half must be like, liquid awesomeness all down my sore throat. And I don’t care how sexually explicit that sounds.

I had my medicine on the shelf by my bed. Apparently I misjudged how much liquid the TheraFlu cap can take [the NyQuil one is shaped differently] and I just caused all types of a mess. Theraflu down my chest, on my blanket, down my side, onto my sheets. Somehow it was drooling out of my mouth. I looked like a 6 year old on Halloween who had his mom paint ‘blood’ on his face to make him look scary.

This shit was everywhere, and it was seeping and leaking and sticky and was touching everything. In a panic, I tore everything off my bed. Sheets, blankets, pillows. All to the floor. And of course, the TheraFlu seeped through the sheets to the mattress pad. I hate to say it, but I have to give credit to my dad for forcing me to get waterproof mattress pads.

Something that you have to keep in mind right now. I’m in a panic. My roommate is sleeping. It’s like, 2 in the morning. And I’ve just taken a shit load of TheraFlu. Drying everything off, finding and putting on new sheets and trying to keep myself from passing out in my doorway was a Herculean effort.

Throughout the entire procedure, though, I couldn’t help but think how easy my life would be if I just had myself a ShamWow. Because according to Vince, the ShamWow guy, this thing will absorb anything, anywhere.

And I got so irrationally angry right then and there for not having purchased a ShamWow in the past. Because if I just had even a PIECE of a ShamWow, I would have this clean up over and done with in less than 2 minutes. But no. I don’t have a ShamWow, and because of that I spent 15 minutes at 2 in the morning high on TheraFlu fixing my dumb bed.

God, I’m so angry about this.

I’d Kill To Be Able To Eat A Hot Wing Right Now

January 30, 2009

I never get sick enough that I need to call out from work, but this week has been more time at home rather than in the office. And it’s not nearly as fun as it was when I was in high school and my mom would baby me back to full health.

Being a genuinely horrible adult, I have no doctor of any kind in NYC. I’ve lived here almost 2 years now, and I’ve not even bothered checking what my insurance offers me, never mind setting up an appointment for a general health physician. For all I know, the coverage offered me is comprised of hugs and travel sized bottles of Advil, partnered with a monstrous co-pay. Why? Because I’m a horrible, horrible adult.

So Monday night I went on to WebMD and input my symptoms. After they told me through several caution notices that I should go and seek emergency medical attention, they told me my diagnosis…


So according to WebMD, I have either strep throat, thyroid cancer, the scarlet fever [?] or a cold. I guess it’s always nice to have options.

Also, can we take a moment and notice that one of the possible symptoms is “Involuntary head turning or twisting”?!


That’s fucked up.

So after things started to get worse, I finally decided to find a doctor and perhaps pay a visit. Which I did. And lo, I have strep throat. Which was, surprise surprise, a delight to hear, because for days I was concerned Lucifer had taken up residence in my body and was going to force me to spew all the soup I’d been eating all over my room, right after giving me a wicked sore throat and a case of the grumpies.

I’m on antibiotics now, 3rd day of 5 of the infamous Z-Pack. And I still feel like shit. My goal is to get better by Sunday so I can swallow solid foods and attend my friend Andrea’s Superbowl party, which is one of the pinnacles of my culinary calendar. And if I can’t make that, most likely I’ll be in my bedroom with my head involuntarily turning and twisting. Kick ass.

Being A Tourist

December 1, 2008

Yesterday, I arrived in Seattle for a work trip. I’ll be staying here a week, and will be trying to squeeze in some tourist action time while here. But as of right now, my internal clock is completely going haywire. When the clock here on the west coast says 8:30 pm on a Sunday, my internal clock is telling me it’s last Tuesday and I’m drunk. Hopefully I’ll adjust to the time change quickly, otherwise my days will consist of gallons and gallons of coffee and lots of bathroom breaks.

On the way here, I had a 2 hour layover in Minneapolis. Which turned out to be not nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Because I got this!

Larry's Bathroom

Larry's Bathroom

Nicole looked up online what bathroom Larry Craig solicited sex in with a series of jazz and ballet tap moves, and luckily [!!!] it was just a few gates away. So I snapped a quick pic with my camera phone. I have another picture with a giant Snoopy statue in the foreground, but for some reason that isn’t uploading. Which is sad, because having Snoopy and Woodstock in the foreground and a homosexual bathroom sex haunt in the background is pretty awesome.

Now I’m going to bed for 17 hours, until the hazy fog of this time travel is over.

Vamp Is The New Camp

November 25, 2008

A few friends and I went out to brunch on Sunday before going to see Twilight. This was the plan. We eat a fulfilling meal at Friend of a Farmer down in Union Square. Really, there are very few things that start the day off in such an awesome way. You all should go check it out for Sunday brunch, but be prepared for a line.

After brunch, we went to the theatre to get in line for the movie. An hour early. Which may sound a little much, but when you factor in that at least 3 of the 5 of us were ready to stiff arm 14 year old girls in order to get a decent seat in the theatre, you’ll appreciate the steps we took to avoid chaos.

After settling into our seats, securing popcorn and freaking the fuck out over a Harry Potter trailer [I hope you people don’t come here for high culture…], the movie began, along with our incessant ridicule of everything thereafter.

This movie was as difficult to watch as it was to read. And I say that in the best way it can be taken. I read all four books, and if more come out, I have no other option but to read them all as well. However, I will hate myself every word of the way. Mostly because they are all just dripping with all this teenage angst that acts as a poison to anyone over the age of 18. Also, there are only so many times you can read about someone’s “smoldering, topaz eyes” before going completely ape shit insane. If I ever get an attack dog, the kill command will be “topaz eyes”.

I think that because I read the book, I was prepared to see the movie for what I actually think it should be viewed as. An awesomely low brow, bottom of the barrel budget, campy-beyond-measure movie. After seeing it just once, I imagined a Rocky Horror Picture Show-esque relation to Twilight evolving, where audience members would scream things at the screen, just in time for the actors to answer in a mildly comic, but always slightly filthy, way.

Honestly, I can’t see how anyone could view the movie any differently. With scenes like Edward shimmering like a body glittered man in the summer sun during Pride Week and Bella staring as if it WASN’T the gayest thing witnessed by a living being in the history of ever, you can’t argue the campy value.

But that’s totally okay. Did I rip apart the movie for the ridiculous dialogue, over-acting [I don’t think anyone can portray a sad emo teen falling in love without me mocking them out or peeing myself laughing] and ridiculous make-up? My ethical beliefs would allow nothing less! However, I loved it for all the same reasons. It’s as if the movie were so horrible, it just completely circled back around to being awesome.

Which is probably why I attended a free screening last night, too. Try not to judge me too harshly.