tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88232673673478482722024-03-05T22:28:22.595-05:00Do This New YorkSince my husband, Neil, and I fell in love five years ago, we've explored New York and traveled the world. This blog is about our adventures, and includes advice regarding things to do in New York City and around the world, and things to avoid. From restaurants to theater, museum exhibits to vacation spots, you can find it all here!Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-32181593881806017312011-05-14T08:30:00.000-04:002011-05-14T08:30:01.935-04:00BlunderlandHas it been two weeks? Really? I was on such a roll, there, for a while. <br />
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I guess time flies when you are suddenly subjected to the most confusing, frustrating and emotionally disruptive experience of your entire life; one that calls into question things you thought you knew for virtually your entire life.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdcFBE3xWIcEKzWZkDepRcraGDBYOsFPCWBqBSMtVbEa-Bl0eGKMNO-FSxksUtP65x4QCv5_4OO4ArChCJO6jLH6qDt5oUg7H1eZRr1zzCkDQ-WAJiTdpB6T9UpGnxWWrlm_w1koo0sOri/s1600/WONDER-blog480.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdcFBE3xWIcEKzWZkDepRcraGDBYOsFPCWBqBSMtVbEa-Bl0eGKMNO-FSxksUtP65x4QCv5_4OO4ArChCJO6jLH6qDt5oUg7H1eZRr1zzCkDQ-WAJiTdpB6T9UpGnxWWrlm_w1koo0sOri/s320/WONDER-blog480.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I am referring, of course, to Frank Wildhorn's "Wonderland," his modernized reimagining of Lewis Carroll's classic tale.<br />
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Oy. I'm not sure that even I, the great misanthrope, have a sufficiently sarcastic vocabulary to describe this show.<br />
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Apparently, Alice grew up, got married and had a daughter. She moved to Queens and teaches school in the Bronx. I hear this is a pretty common life-plan for girls from the English countryside. I'm sure Kate Middleton was considering a third-floor walk up in Astoria if that whole Princess thing didn't work out.<br />
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Anyway, for Alice and her daughter Chloe, it's the Worst Day of their Life (which is actually a song, and exactly the type of writing you'll find in a show with a book that includes rhyming "waiting" with "hesitating" and cliches like, "Long ago and far away.") To summarize: Alice and hubby have separated (the reason is never really clear) but she and Chloe are living with his mother. Chloe's had a bad day at school and hates the new neighborhood (this actually leads to the best line in the show: "There's a Starbucks right across the street." "That would be true anywhere.") Alice hates her job.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9lu9a8dEU9J-aZWsHnhxfvnwAy1zM4Bq3_L0puJwnda_amcDtq3s1N46AoNXhcnUa9F8KliqPA3P5s2tphhlVF9-nWk8lfkHSaUx0swfSR0UAY8icUGEjkmAwVpJ-ivqhHltIb_3vsmeo/s1600/caterpillar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9lu9a8dEU9J-aZWsHnhxfvnwAy1zM4Bq3_L0puJwnda_amcDtq3s1N46AoNXhcnUa9F8KliqPA3P5s2tphhlVF9-nWk8lfkHSaUx0swfSR0UAY8icUGEjkmAwVpJ-ivqhHltIb_3vsmeo/s320/caterpillar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>While waiting for dinner to be ready, Alice falls asleep, or maybe not, and ends up chasing a rabbit down the service elevator. She ends up in Wonderland.<br />
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This is where things go from the ridiculous to the sublime. There are a dozen singing, dancing Alices, an African-American caterpillar who sings hip-hop funk, a Latino Cheshire Cat (El Gato) who sings salsa, and a White Knight singing a bland, weepy white boy ballad. It's stereotyping through showtunes.<br />
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There are, however, boy dancers in tight white stretch pants that provide a nice diversion.<br />
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It's all very colorful and messy and confusing and, though the music isn't half-bad, the writing is sophomoric and awful and a little too reliant on inside jokes (things like not being able to get the rights from Disney, or ripping off more famous productions, like Gypsy and the Lion King.) The costumes are actually pretty good, other than Alice's big drapy shirt, leggings, and humongous belt (all she needs are hoop earrings and a Rosie Perez accent.) The plot is tissue-thin, turning on an underground movement run by the Mad Hatter (Kate Shindle, barely rising above the material, but looking resplendent in red) to overthrow the Queen of Hearts (Janet Mason, belting out the one show-stopping number.)<br />
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Other than those boy dancers.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Ms9r3DcHitnqniUM7PrbcTqucWteQQ0LGGQ-ox6k_o3SORaWAMRsQhIVEqmL_3TZ9uS3vBLBpHPGzoRSb45NViYbjN0WzlVRsvq6jnhhnnG09BdEhE8GbjM60XGN-zcgooLcfOGWwt5t/s1600/Kate-Shindle-Wonderland_510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Ms9r3DcHitnqniUM7PrbcTqucWteQQ0LGGQ-ox6k_o3SORaWAMRsQhIVEqmL_3TZ9uS3vBLBpHPGzoRSb45NViYbjN0WzlVRsvq6jnhhnnG09BdEhE8GbjM60XGN-zcgooLcfOGWwt5t/s320/Kate-Shindle-Wonderland_510.jpg" width="230" /></a></div>Anyway, the Mad Hatter is afraid Alice is impressing the Queen, and may stifle the revolution, so she kidnaps Chloe, and takes Alice's compatriots (the Caterpillar, the White Knight, and El Gato) prisoner in Looking Glass Land. It all turns out to hinge on the White Rabbit's magic pocket watch (trust me...it is even lamer than it sounds, and comes totally out of nowhere.) They banish the Hatter and Alice and Chloe return to Queens, which is somehow supposed to be a good thing.<br />
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Cue the Boy dancers!<br />
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Now, I love good theater (Book of Mormon). And I really love good bad theater (Xanadu). But this was mediocre bad theater. Thankfully, we went out for cheeseburgers afterward.<br />
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Otherwise, it was a slow week in Pop Culture. On Glee, reformed bully Dave Karofsky (Max Adler, who keeps adding layers to a role that totally could have been two-dimensional, and who I'm totally crushing on for all the wrong reasons) was crowned Prom King, while Prom Queen was a surprise write-in: Kurt Hummel. I HATED this story line; it just reeked of "plot twist" - there was no warning of it coming, it made completely no sense, and seemed to be included for the sole purpose of Making A Statement. Also, they brought back Jonathan Groff, whom I loathe. <br />
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Dear Ryan Murphy: yuck. He looks thirty and is already getting crow's feet, which - last I checked - wasn't likely among High School students. Plus, I wouldn't believe him as a straight boy if you actually filmed him having sex with Lea Michele. Perhaps he should have been voted Prom Queen.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAEDbdxe7LqoiH9iZn5eIwm1Dg0yIyJ-1XVbsoZnsM_OecUREzNgCeh72QyYyUBIjUPweRk9rI6TC9o0H3dow8y3tMo9mvnWYUgznL16G_f0tCYej1d4cEEK0NFjw2l8SjCMSgbyNDkiDN/s1600/GrantMattos_display.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAEDbdxe7LqoiH9iZn5eIwm1Dg0yIyJ-1XVbsoZnsM_OecUREzNgCeh72QyYyUBIjUPweRk9rI6TC9o0H3dow8y3tMo9mvnWYUgznL16G_f0tCYej1d4cEEK0NFjw2l8SjCMSgbyNDkiDN/s320/GrantMattos_display.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>On Survivor we're at that point in the season where even the hot guys have gotten so thin that it's impossible to look at them.<br />
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Meanwhile, I've totally skipped American Idol, so I'm apparently missing out on Jennifer Lopez's comeback as a personality and entertainer. I also need to get plugged in to The Voice, where Christina Aguilera is pulling a Britney and climbing out of the reputational hole she dug with some seriously bizarre behavior. <br />
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It's going to rain this weekend, so I guess I'll catch up on the DVR and eat ice cream in bed. <br />
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It may not be glamorous, but that's my wonderland.Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-37226166494725116992011-05-01T14:02:00.020-04:002011-05-03T20:18:19.946-04:00Through the Cooking GlassOne thing was certain --- it was the chicken’s fault entirely. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV5rg94JfuHkmgeA0QPuTJXVCZVWlIP-7XHpRKZnfaRMbjRdnuQHDzXV6uC0s4kJkuZrEhyphenhyphenEdDwADOmyu6aVEurUerzIHXDu3lFa3eeymzsx1yWjaLnat1oMYCveVKYpw5Ls4xyv1i5J6j/s1600/Fried+Chicken.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV5rg94JfuHkmgeA0QPuTJXVCZVWlIP-7XHpRKZnfaRMbjRdnuQHDzXV6uC0s4kJkuZrEhyphenhyphenEdDwADOmyu6aVEurUerzIHXDu3lFa3eeymzsx1yWjaLnat1oMYCveVKYpw5Ls4xyv1i5J6j/s320/Fried+Chicken.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div>To be more specific, it was the fried chicken’s fault – which is where this story begins --- a story of Fried Chicken, Phoenix, and Fraud. (See, I can be alliterative and rip off Lewis Carroll at the same time. If you don’t get it – go <a href="http://www.literature.org/authors/carroll-lewis/through-the-looking-glass/chapter-01.html">here</a>.)<br />
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Let me explain: This week, work took me to Phoenix to make a client presentation. I flew JetBlue, since the trip was booked last minute and their rates were the most reasonable. This meant that – once I finished my work and answering email offline - I could spend the rest of my flight eating Animal Crackers and watching DirecTV. And it was in precisely this manner that I, too dumb for CNN and too smart for something Bravo calls “Pregnant in Heels” (“Future Housewives of New York City”? Seriously, Andy Cohen, does your obsession with rich white women know no boundaries?) would up tuning in to the Nate Berkus show.<br />
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Oy – OK – we need to pause here (I know, you’re getting whiplash from my tangents.) In case you need background – Nate Berkus was a local interior designer in Chicago who became famous after his partner was killed in the Indonesian Tsunami and he wound up decorating for Oprah. I’m not really clear on the order of events, and I’m too lazy and indifferent to look them up, but the gist is basically: Wave, Drowned, Contemporary Home Décor, Oprah, Famous…his own tv show. He’s got one of those rectangular-shaped heads that James Van Der Beek made popular during Dawson’s Creek, and a moderate amount of talent, but he’s basically just someone who became famous off of the tragic death of a spouse. Think Prince Charles, but gayer…or Jackie Kennedy. <br />
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But gayer.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ_CKqXkc0P68WaztRL2FhYN_50SqbZQmk6aL2u8QC8SkA5sRvqjJ4MMkPX6D_TjhrOacDA5DehfT9Aw5ZeA9RhWJNpzZ8Wq7PZ9Pc9POBnDLYaJCgwL6X_TS0La1dsXYT4rO6Yk7qHdPV/s1600/nate-berkus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ_CKqXkc0P68WaztRL2FhYN_50SqbZQmk6aL2u8QC8SkA5sRvqjJ4MMkPX6D_TjhrOacDA5DehfT9Aw5ZeA9RhWJNpzZ8Wq7PZ9Pc9POBnDLYaJCgwL6X_TS0La1dsXYT4rO6Yk7qHdPV/s320/nate-berkus.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div>Anyway, from what I can tell, his show basically conforms to the same formula of daytime chit-chat – segments on lifestyle, health and fitness, home and garden, cooking; all integrated with a mix of minor celebrities and “average folks.” From Donahue and Oprah, to Ellen and Rachael Ray, to The Doctors and Nate – all these shows are pretty much the same, and really rise and fall on the talent of the host and the mix of subject matter and star wattage they pull together.<br />
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On that score, Nate is pretty much on the bottom (no jokes, please.) His show has been roundly panned and the ratings stink, so I wouldn’t have ordinarily watched it. But my channel surfing was abruptly halted by two things that would have caught my eye on their own and which, in combination, were irresistible: a hot guy and fried chicken.<br />
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The guy was Rocco DiSpirito, a once-lauded chef prodigy who, at a very young age, was receiving rave reviews for his work at a Manhattan restaurant called Union Pacific. After the plaudits came the articles, the cookbooks, the girls, (the gay rumors), the tabloid-star status, a failed restaurant, a failed reality show about a failed restaurant, weight gain, weight loss, and the slow, steady rise back to credibility with guest shots (Good Morning, Tampa!), better guest shots (Today), guest judging (Top Chef), more books, and a return to the tabloids. His reputation among his peers, and in the world of fine dining, is pretty mixed – some still consider him a genius for his work at Union Pacific and would best characterize Rocco as great talent and great promise, though not fully realized or sustained; others would call him a sell-out, and a bit of a fraud, who traded on his talent to obtain mass market appeal, both as a chef and as a personality. Sort of a male Rachael Ray, but with actual underlying skill and not just huge man hands and 400 ways to make a hamburger. <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSJ_52OXQrlpfCPNVjetr9fep8BZHkDglfkyKP3vWXtFlk8VUU-NRZ4jSCRo_5-a8skZGr76VnBlNHSxRyc-IAztpEoTomrYph6spwEkPyr5X8u2W0XlmS3igzcDCJae9UYP3abBLQcgzx/s1600/Rachael+Ray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSJ_52OXQrlpfCPNVjetr9fep8BZHkDglfkyKP3vWXtFlk8VUU-NRZ4jSCRo_5-a8skZGr76VnBlNHSxRyc-IAztpEoTomrYph6spwEkPyr5X8u2W0XlmS3igzcDCJae9UYP3abBLQcgzx/s320/Rachael+Ray.jpg" width="243px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yum-O!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>(Did you really think we were getting out of this column without a Rachael Ray joke? More on Rocco’s huge man hands, later. Oh...and the phto of Rachael...too funny not to post.)<br />
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Anyway, there was Rocco (who, I say with deep shame, is pretty attractive) looking all fit and towering over Nate Berkus, the box-headed waifish widower, showcasing double chocolate chunk cookies and fried chicken as part of promoting his cookbook, the “Now Eat This! Diet Cookbook” (a follow up to “Now Eat This!”) The basic premise is that eating healthy can be fun and flavorful. This is not innovative – virtually every celebrity cookbook or weight loss book, from Bethenny to Marilu Henner, markets the same idea. What was innovative, however, was the approach – everything from the cookies (which substitute much of the flour and fat with pureed white beans) to the chicken (not oven-“fried” – but poached in chicken stock and flash-fried for 30 seconds) uses a series of substitutions and techniques to obtain maximum flavor with minimal caloric impact.<br />
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Shortly after landing, I logged on to Amazon and bought the book.<br />
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To its credit, the book is founded on basic principles of nutrition, weight loss and exercise science. Yes, the only way to lose weight is to burn more calories than you consume, balancing those calories across a range of healthy carbs, proteins and fats in decent proportions. I will admit it is nice to see a weight loss program acknowledge you can’t realistically – or healthfully – load up your plate with bunless bacon cheeseburgers and gorge your way to long-term fitness. <br />
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But it’s also kind of awful.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirtLb48GSTwSjtr4b0YCRTqzlgcXFOpIV3F10GIBE8Hp3nwlBpufXUpd7gfPQ1O3cX3WhXtDEiuY-jAzJXPKmzwAuzNZUB-F4Ygoz72UplisHZ5ua9N3xkH6JyOoWiLiE9uh7WJm2tdXIC/s1600/Rocco+Disprito.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirtLb48GSTwSjtr4b0YCRTqzlgcXFOpIV3F10GIBE8Hp3nwlBpufXUpd7gfPQ1O3cX3WhXtDEiuY-jAzJXPKmzwAuzNZUB-F4Ygoz72UplisHZ5ua9N3xkH6JyOoWiLiE9uh7WJm2tdXIC/s320/Rocco+Disprito.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div>First, it must have been ghost-written. Rocco may have come up with the recipes; may have dictated much of the content – but the voice is somehow all wrong. It simply doesn’t read like it was written by the same guy you’ve seen on television. The structure, the use of language, the point of view – it’s all askew, like it was written by someone trying to write in the character of Rocco DiSpirito. If you’ve ever seen fan fiction on the internet, you know what I mean. (Fan fiction is when ordinary people write episodes of their favorite television shows, only they make up a fictional plotline – like having the bar in How I Met Your Mother invaded by an intergalactic space tiger and holding Neil Patrick Harris hostage in nothing but a silver Speedo.)<br />
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Second, I realize that boosting the confidence of the reader is important, particularly in a cookbook, but is it really honest to say, “If you have slathered peanut butter between two slices of bread, you have cooked.” Okay – No, you haven’t. You have not cooked. You have prepared food – and even that is a stretch. You have not cooked. And if you didn’t cook, why would you buy a COOK BOOK? Even if it were in there to calm the bookstore browser who might be on the fence, I think that person would probably have made up their mind by the time this sentence appears ON PAGE 74!!! <br />
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Didn’t Rocco use to be a chef? How would Daniel Boulud or Dan Barber react to that sentence? Also…slathered? Really? (Slathered is the kind of word to take you right back to fan fiction about NPH and that space tiger, but I tigress…I mean, digress.)<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But this last part is the best. Really, you can’t write stuff like this…you can write ABOUT it, but you’d never be able to make it up.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The last section I read before our weekend guests arrived was the section about dining out. We live in New York City, where most people use their ovens for extra storage (When I was single, that’s where I kept the good shoes – in boxes of course.)</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivYu_nE3ATx-lJyhCeMEXY_uys6jvd-84fpcTJG8G818HWHTpFtPWSXMgya4dgmm-gF6DYbRzwBvUTa9jpIOQl-7g9nacQPQHqKrAtaIwo3_WgDJkXBFKtqRyEw-uIlW1n00cooaEQCm8H/s1600/Rocco+Wine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivYu_nE3ATx-lJyhCeMEXY_uys6jvd-84fpcTJG8G818HWHTpFtPWSXMgya4dgmm-gF6DYbRzwBvUTa9jpIOQl-7g9nacQPQHqKrAtaIwo3_WgDJkXBFKtqRyEw-uIlW1n00cooaEQCm8H/s320/Rocco+Wine.jpg" width="238px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Actual photo</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The dining out section reminds the reader to avoid alcohol (“the epitome of empty calories”) and – if one does indulge, “Resist the urge to order a bottle of wine” because “you’ll probably drink less and there is no pressure to finish the bottle.” It also urges Rocco’s followers that, “Honestly, there’s really no dessert that you can order in a restaurant….And don’t even try a bite or two. No one has that kind of control.”</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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Marcelene and her boyfriend, Rory, arrived around noon. We showed them our home and then decided to go exploring. After a stop in Southampton, Marcelene wanted lunch – some place where we could sit outside, with a glass of wine (“the epitome of empty calories”) and take in the early spring scene. We went to Pierre’s.<br />
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Pierre’s is a French bistro and bakery market in Bridgehampton…it’s the kind of place where they put butter in everything – including the tap water. It was just about 3pm, so the Saturday lunch crowd was waning – particularly this early in the season. We had no trouble getting a table for four right outside.<br />
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Right next to Rocco DiSpirito.<br />
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There he was, in the Ray-Bans and baseball cap he apparently wears anytime he ventures out of doors without a camera crew and entourage. I’ve seen Julianne Moore walk Bleecker Street with no make up and a denim jacket during the full on Saturday rush, not to mention Steven Spielberg, Kevin Bacon, Kyra Sedgwick and Michael Douglas – all within a block of my home. No sunglasses. Rocco – methinks you’re safe.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO0an2czRGpZWuE24zgKCtOu3ny0hGmc8MlVcDz2c9UhOrj5X1odqbefDYOv6HHnYVNB29f1P517Dh_72Fz8rKd1ioINxgOcQcQPhzLPF7iLzndAQ25EG1DgZTffOrgUbhDP8XOrilgolU/s1600/Rocco+Dessert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO0an2czRGpZWuE24zgKCtOu3ny0hGmc8MlVcDz2c9UhOrj5X1odqbefDYOv6HHnYVNB29f1P517Dh_72Fz8rKd1ioINxgOcQcQPhzLPF7iLzndAQ25EG1DgZTffOrgUbhDP8XOrilgolU/s320/Rocco+Dessert.jpg" width="236px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rocco's Actual Dessert Plate</td></tr>
</tbody></table>But, for sheer schaedenfreude, nothing could beat the bottle of white he and his lady friend were polishing off as they left behind the last bite of a chocolate soufflé with vanilla ice cream. I couldn’t help myself but lean over and say, “That looks delicious…I wish I could eat dessert. I tell myself it won’t be so fattening if I only have a bite or two, but no one has that kind of control.”Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-88273111419438481962011-04-24T09:40:00.001-04:002011-04-24T19:14:53.340-04:00Crunch-a-tize Me Cap'n!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi83BaCO9iXlOwS6wjBiJT3ORStPB74gWEIZJEBAcMmFbylhlmk09wldsJUY0jpznzRV1GFyNcJtenT9v0Jdx70ifkvjFyK62XhibS4L65lNfFqv9fTHFhn8A6uTrm0TERWqZudD5R9RzM5/s1600/Easter-Eggs-21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266px" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi83BaCO9iXlOwS6wjBiJT3ORStPB74gWEIZJEBAcMmFbylhlmk09wldsJUY0jpznzRV1GFyNcJtenT9v0Jdx70ifkvjFyK62XhibS4L65lNfFqv9fTHFhn8A6uTrm0TERWqZudD5R9RzM5/s320/Easter-Eggs-21.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div>It is nice to know that, despite a bloody war in Afghanistan, unrest and instability throughout the Middle East, and crushing unemployment and economic uncertainty at home, ABC News can devote more than 15 full minutes to rabbits running rampant at Long Beach City College. I suppose I should be more forgiving, since it is Easter today - the holiest day in the Christian calendar. <br />
<br />
Mini-Sunday school for those of you who may not have had religious studies: Easter commemorates the resurrection of Christ, who after being betrayed by one of his disciples, was crucified. Three days later he rose, dressed like a bunny, and hid colored eggs all over the yard. Everyone was so happy, they put on a bonnet, had a parade, and ate marshmallow Peeps - except the Jews, who may or may not have been responsible, depending on who you believe. Anyway, no one blames them anymore because modern science reveals they were all constipated from Passover, and having to eat all that matza (or Matzoh, if you spell it that way.)<br />
<br />
This may not be strictly accurate, but you get the gist.<br />
<br />
Also, an interesting personal fact that people are surprised to know (and which bears only a tangential relationship to this topic) is that I was in a Jewish fraternity in college. Neil is always shocked when I remind him I was in a fraternity, because he says he can't imagine me being hazed. The truth is that hazing was a lot different in a Jewish fraternity: basically they just make you answer a lot of math questions and make fun of you if your father isn't a doctor or an accountant or a personal injury lawyer. Then they get you drunk - which usually takes about a drink and a half - and, voila! - you're in. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj43C5nF0Uu75X-0R8gcJ6zZ2pBCCwchq8nKd29Pk0Kdr2os_EPNpv9fmxnUPl_VyppTZRZwfZnwpyk5BFRoKAkP9qVL1qLuuB2ZJzSbB0oUrI2wmPgdGiq0EnI3AlwSNJU_Nd08LMBqr3L/s1600/passover1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj43C5nF0Uu75X-0R8gcJ6zZ2pBCCwchq8nKd29Pk0Kdr2os_EPNpv9fmxnUPl_VyppTZRZwfZnwpyk5BFRoKAkP9qVL1qLuuB2ZJzSbB0oUrI2wmPgdGiq0EnI3AlwSNJU_Nd08LMBqr3L/s320/passover1.jpg" width="277px" /></a></div>Anyway, I would have written about Passover, but there isn't much to say. The food at Cousin Nancy's was really good this year, and the evening wasn't interrupted by any sort of First Responder, so any chance of a good blog got destroyed (like the ancient temple, though this holiday is pretty much the only one that isn't about the destruction of a temple. Instead, the story of Passover is part of the holiday itself, and is retold every year. To summarize: Slaves. Egypt. Plagues. Wine. Freedom. Israel. Dayanu.)<br />
<br />
To continue our mini-Sunday school, for those of you who never studied Judaism, Dayanu means, "It would have been enough." It refers to telling the story of Passover and, involves looking back and saying, "If God had only set us free...it would have been enough; if God had only led us out of Egypt...it would have been enough; etc."<br />
<br />
I think the purpose of this is to help us understand irony, as it is often spoken by a table full of people who are more inclined to say things like "She couldn't have made a green vegetable?" Or "You know, you could have been a doctor or an accountant or a personal injury lawyer."<br />
<br />
(Also, Passover is known for having the Four Questions, which are:<br />
<br />
1. Where did you get your car?<br />
2. How much did you pay for it?<br />
3. What kind of mileage does it get?<br />
4. What do you pay for gas?)<br />
So, without a Passover blog, we will turn to Easter, and the Easter-i-est food of them all: <br />
<br />
Cap'n Crunch's Crunch Berries.<br />
<br />
(Seriously: it's like a bowl of Cap'n Crunch that someone has accented with little Easter eggs made out of cereal.)<br />
<br />
So here's my dilemma: Yesterday, Neil and I were in the grocery store to pick up a few produce items for dinner. As usual, I wandered the aisles, hal-wondering why a grocery store seems to be the only place that can counter-act my adult ADD. (Truly, I can get distracted in the middle of a sentence, but put me in the cereal aisle and I've got the laser focus of a fighter pilot.) As I was comparing the nutritional value of the cereal I wanted - Crunch Berries - with the cereal I thought I should eat - Kashi GoLean Crunch - I was forced to the following conclusion: Crunch Berries are better for you.<br />
<br />
How could this be? I must have been misreading the label, or otherwise missing something. But after buying both boxes and comparing them endlessly (or, for about nine minutes) it does appear that Crunch Berries are the healthier breakfast:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiQIPsDHcz9oLZE51PgsyE930jrs2BTj4oMGjpr0Pv167OnurcGmAp1xfLdUSqc4hWPXhU8B6TcndsrRyKGLCdcnNWlYDETtLId1ZMn-rQ9OY9vZE_2Od6kWufVm_rhMBwVFM_mARdsT_W/s1600/crunch-berries.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiQIPsDHcz9oLZE51PgsyE930jrs2BTj4oMGjpr0Pv167OnurcGmAp1xfLdUSqc4hWPXhU8B6TcndsrRyKGLCdcnNWlYDETtLId1ZMn-rQ9OY9vZE_2Od6kWufVm_rhMBwVFM_mARdsT_W/s320/crunch-berries.jpg" width="227px" /></a></div><u>Calories (without milk):</u><br />
<br />
Crunch Berries: 100<br />
GoLean Crunch: 200<br />
<br />
<u>Calories from Fat:</u><br />
<br />
Crunch Berries: 15<br />
<br />
GoLean Crunch: 40<br />
<br />
<u>Sugars:</u><br />
<br />
Crunch Berries: 11g<br />
GoLean Crunch: 12g<br />
<br />
<u>Sodium:</u><br />
<br />
Crunch Berries: 190mg<br />
GoLean Crunch 140mg<br />
<br />
<u>Iron:</u><br />
<br />
Crunch Berries: 25% of US RDA<br />
GoLean Crunch: 8%<br />
<br />
<u>Thiamin, Riboflavin, Niacin, Vitamin B6:</u><br />
<br />
Crunch Berries: 25%<br />
GoLean Crunch: 0%<br />
<br />
<u>Folic Acid:</u><br />
<br />
Crunch Berries: 100% (stunning, really)<br />
GoLean Crunch: 0%<br />
<br />
<u>Total Carbohydrates:</u><br />
<br />
Crunch Berries: 22g<br />
GoLean Crunch: 36g<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYArPLO3-hjeGwOBqfqiStkr9c4_waT9mfz3yxb_xjIjUn0utGlvFByL-rCIx08WUg6bxLSwFkOrt3Ns33D9AOOq9BzTNOUD6YnBpg2pae2JGTCkKHkdJvcA-_Uur8gz4ijCViYUESdiIz/s1600/Kashi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYArPLO3-hjeGwOBqfqiStkr9c4_waT9mfz3yxb_xjIjUn0utGlvFByL-rCIx08WUg6bxLSwFkOrt3Ns33D9AOOq9BzTNOUD6YnBpg2pae2JGTCkKHkdJvcA-_Uur8gz4ijCViYUESdiIz/s1600/Kashi.jpg" /></a></div>In summary, GoLean Crunch was slightly better on sodium, and turned out to have more dietary fiber (8g, to 1g for Crunch Berries), but other than that seemed to be a worse bet. True, it also has 9g of protein, to only 1g for Crunch Berries, but if I want protein for brekafast, I'll just eat eggs - not that crappy sugar cereal with no vitamins. (Yeah, I know the Cap'n Crunch people just spray the vitamins on with some sort of chemical spray that's like Miracle-Gro for kids, but who cares? It's still vitamins.)<br />
<br />
This seems a worthy victory for kids everywhere who are screaming in the cereal aisle for Apple Jacks and Lucky Charms, and being forced to eat Honey Nut Cheerios instead. Suck it, weird cartoon bee, who's your daddy? That's right, bitches, Lucky the Leprechaun.<br />
<br />
Anyway, Happy Easter - I'm off to find some Easter eggs --- at the bottom of my cereal bowl.Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-46435639300703679302011-04-04T17:37:00.002-04:002011-04-05T08:11:43.135-04:00Bethenny Never Shuts Up<div class="MsoNormal">We have to take a detour today, and divert from our originally scheduled topics. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had initially thought I’d write about our weekend in Sag Harbor, which included buying something called “Fat-Ass Fudge” from a chatty Yenta who told us she has previously been a psychic. She kept saying things like, “Want to taste my fat ass?” and “I’m a fudge packer.” I’m always game for sweets with a touch of the supernatural, and Neil is a magnet for the marginally insane – so it could have been quite a post.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzFmTX_xlk4iOe-dkPwqMCmNXMTCJtlWt_uzFgFFuFUJkOwQT_tsr4jacsTvBGT3rMn9CRaTKfAddiug0HXIfYuNFNYq0O5wWB287S4XMncu_gYiQN4YZ6AST95qvfk4DrC3XUNSf3gKFf/s1600/FatAssFudge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="88" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzFmTX_xlk4iOe-dkPwqMCmNXMTCJtlWt_uzFgFFuFUJkOwQT_tsr4jacsTvBGT3rMn9CRaTKfAddiug0HXIfYuNFNYq0O5wWB287S4XMncu_gYiQN4YZ6AST95qvfk4DrC3XUNSf3gKFf/s320/FatAssFudge.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Then I thought about reporting on our dinner with Suz, in a post entitled “My Favorite Macedonian.” It would have allowed me to share the story about how I got her to order cuttlefish at the maiden restaurant of Top Chef Season One winner, Harold Dieterle. It also would have given me the opportunity to riff on Macedonia (you’d only know it if you were a dork who played Risk as a kid; it was a Balkan nation-state located in what now comprises parts of Greece, Albania and Yugoslavia. The dialect is similar to Russian and other eastern European languages….See, we can laugh and learn all at the same time.) I love it when people tell you they’re from places that haven’t existed since the early 1900s. I had a paragraph on Persia that would have killed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, lo, a request from an old friend in Boston came through during dinner. Could I please write about </div><div class="MsoNormal">Bethenny? Have I not written enough about Bethenny, I asked Neil, and Suzette of Macedonia? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Apparently I have not.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Here goes – but, I swear, this is the last time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Because writing about Bethenny means giving her more attention and more ink – and that’s all she’s really about. Plus, it means writing about Bravo, and that’s starting to tweak me a little bit, too.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNCl9wSbdw5561ISJabhlMF4j1tpDI17acVNqvZDF-83NkMvPnjxrwTjuvIR7HRiTTjoWg3ks4df5xqLs9zSAovmN9TLXbC4tmdWk-Z3yGJ9m8w852y7dk4N72Pd_6XckUh4mt7RnUQ3mL/s1600/Bethenny1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNCl9wSbdw5561ISJabhlMF4j1tpDI17acVNqvZDF-83NkMvPnjxrwTjuvIR7HRiTTjoWg3ks4df5xqLs9zSAovmN9TLXbC4tmdWk-Z3yGJ9m8w852y7dk4N72Pd_6XckUh4mt7RnUQ3mL/s320/Bethenny1.jpg" width="291" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">To catch up those of you who might be unfamiliar with the princess of self-promotion, eye-rolling, hysterics and sugar-free pre-mixed margaritas, Bethenny is Bethenny Frankel – old friend of a friend of an old friend of mine (so confusing, right? That needs a map: Eric -> old friend -> her friend -> Bethenny. <span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span>.) After years of apparently plotting and scheming to get on television – sort of a modern twist on Lucy Ricardo, without the Cuban bandleader or the actual talent – Bethenny first graced our televisions as a contestant on The Apprentice: Martha Stewart. Which turned out to be as welcome as “Law & Order: Trial By Jury” or “CSI: Toledo” and bombed after a single season.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She made it through most of the season based on drive and unadulterated ambition, but it was clear that her motivation for doing the show was now to emulate Martha’s success as a gracious hostess or home economist, but rather to build an empire of product and personage through television.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She returned to the collective consciousness on Bravo, cast – almost in the Sophia Petrillo/Carla Tortelli-like supporting role of comic second banana – in the inaugural season of “The Real Housewives of New York.” Neither married nor non-working, she was clearly not a “housewife” by definition. “Real” is arguable. She reeks, however, of New York City, with the accent and the quips and the incessant eyerolling, made all the more comic by the fact that some might consider her to resemble a resident of Who-Ville.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yet, despite not having been disqualified from the show on the very terms of its existence, she actually thrived there – creating just enough drama to cause a comfortable level of hostility among the women. As the series progressed, she moved further and further towards the center of the conflict that seems to define the franchise: trumped up arguments between wealthy women of the local ethnicity (OC: blonde; NY: Jewish; NJ: Italian; Miami: Latina; Atlanta: African-American; Beverly Hills: plastic surgerized.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhApOHANm9jq8q-DW2vevi3kjgMKKZ8O5PgfbrD0MD3uzkTsiVK4R_P4m6Cqy5AXRHWHHmS7pmMHnulnixL7UE67Leg9OAY5mpJ_kg1igB2osHynLTIsG5GswdbgaoW9BUh0BUE_bk2_u_F/s1600/Bethenny+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhApOHANm9jq8q-DW2vevi3kjgMKKZ8O5PgfbrD0MD3uzkTsiVK4R_P4m6Cqy5AXRHWHHmS7pmMHnulnixL7UE67Leg9OAY5mpJ_kg1igB2osHynLTIsG5GswdbgaoW9BUh0BUE_bk2_u_F/s320/Bethenny+2.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">We all should have seen her own franchise coming. Augmenting her reputation with a series of books and products about food and nutrition, she’s become her own brand: Skinnygirl. A series of books that tell women they can be fun, flirty and thin, basically by eating a little bit less of whatever they want – provided it's “natural” – she then branched out into consumer packaged food with Skinnygirl Margarita. It’s a bottled, “just-open-and-serve” concoction that taste less like a party drink and more like a linty old Jolly Rancher you fished out of your pocket during a three-hour meeting at work.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In season one – Bethenny Getting Married – the cameras followed her as she got, first pregnant, then married (I know at least two women who’ve done this and neither got a show. One, however, got fired. Now she works for a company that cans fish. THAT’S a TV show.) Bethenny’s beloved is a cute – if doltish – guy named Jason who acts like he’s sort of above it all, but you can tell he relishes every moment on camera. <br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The current season, Bethenny Ever After seems to involve her turning 40 and crying a lot. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Get in line.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Personally, I hope they keep changing the title every season. I can’t wait for “Bethenny Going Through Menopause.” That kid’ll be about 15, and Jason will be over it. I’m looking forward to watching her work her way through two or three bottles of Skinnygirl between some serious door slamming and a hot flash.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The instant fame of Bethenny – indeed all the Bethennys – in fact, all the “Bravo-lebrities” who’ve made getting on television more an act of will than one of talent, can be traced back to one source: Andy Cohen.</div><div class="MsoNormal">You may or may not know Andy – but in New York he has become ubiquitous. This spring, every pay phone and taxicab seems to bear an advertisement for his late night gabfest with the “Bravo-lebrities.” According to the ads, in which he appears to burst through a sheet of paper, he’s “tearing up late night.” I suppose that sounded a lot better than “prancing across your TV screen.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">OK – it’s not that I don’t like Andy. When he did the “Watch What Happens” reunion shows of Top Chef and Project Runway he was a pretty decent moderator. It was sort of nice to have the programming executive who put these shows on the air interacting with the casts. Plus, he clearly watched and enjoyed the shows, so you got to experience it through the eyes of a genuine fan.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Also, I used to see him out in New York and, objectively, he’s an attractive guy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidP8-W_CFdj_ZxwcCWSTqF4fxHrZdsYkrCXPK6jIJ1SkRBbzYKRkziSAIL05iZZWR9xwZzHKfSTJwj38n8b19GKOiYuBfcl9Lc5vr7SW2ncMeFn9jK5aHyJHfuzGqZR_FfdPQs5E_QGyjP/s1600/andy_cohen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidP8-W_CFdj_ZxwcCWSTqF4fxHrZdsYkrCXPK6jIJ1SkRBbzYKRkziSAIL05iZZWR9xwZzHKfSTJwj38n8b19GKOiYuBfcl9Lc5vr7SW2ncMeFn9jK5aHyJHfuzGqZR_FfdPQs5E_QGyjP/s320/andy_cohen.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">But when he moved from occasional host into a weekly late night slot, something weird happened. He became all affected and juvenile – with weird facial expressions and catchphrases like “the Mazel of the week” and “Tweet Me.” With the perpetually-hoarse-Brenda-Vaccaro voice and the fawning all over his guests, it’s like watching a show hosted by the girl who sat next to me in eighth grade homeroom.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tweet this.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I really want to end here – because I think this post is seriously fucking funny – but I think I need to take my medicine and at least do a little self-discovery before I retire the laptop. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This post was the most inspired I’ve been in weeks, and flowed the most easily. Yet it is clearly fueled by jealousy. MY OWN SHOW PEOPLE. Where are the legions of fans lobbying for me to be the new voice of late night? I’m one part Chelsea Handler (a little bawdy), one part Andy Cohen (a little too gay..ugh, I know- but so true) and maybe one part Bethenny (blind ambition.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Still, if you want to laugh along with someone struggling with work and middle-age while exhibiting the personal judgment and cultural taste of a drunk 16 year old girl…I’m your man. </div>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-20380332618200314412011-04-02T09:38:00.000-04:002011-04-02T09:38:34.239-04:00You Say It's Your Birthday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGF_IxNzTpTrhRHRHa8A6XMRnrA5WBAFpzU9s9x34H-fnoPU7Hy0dNmKle-ObIaXFSNlLBP9ZSq2HzecUw1NI-xpFkbmXIjk66xyuhV8KuwtNWkcGC3PHhOFBuecmgviBlf8Pmz3CwlMja/s1600/1999.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGF_IxNzTpTrhRHRHa8A6XMRnrA5WBAFpzU9s9x34H-fnoPU7Hy0dNmKle-ObIaXFSNlLBP9ZSq2HzecUw1NI-xpFkbmXIjk66xyuhV8KuwtNWkcGC3PHhOFBuecmgviBlf8Pmz3CwlMja/s1600/1999.png" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I know all my readers think we live some sort of fabulous, glamorous life, like a real life version of Sex and the City, so I hate to burst your champagne bubble and tell you that the only party we went to this weekend was a three year-old’s birthday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not that there wasn’t alcohol (with a house full of children, clearly that’s a must) – but my days of partying like it’s 1999 ended in, well, 1999.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Besides, if you’ve been reading this blog at all, you know a family event can be fairly amusing – particularly with my family – though I’m sorry to inform you that our story does not end with someone leaving in tears, in an ambulance, or with a lesbian.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There’s a first time for everything.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyhow, Neil and I arrived in the burbs <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>shortly after 2pm on Sunday – which always requires readjustment for us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the company includes – indeed, is dominated by, grandparents and children – the event usually forces me to surrender brunch and dinner to some sort of hybrid Frankenmeal served around 4:30pm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or – as I like to call it – Happy Hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirclfYbh7UCMvD9Wb-WQM93-_i0tnLi6hmz52JOdxlq8svWYpW6Iyc-IDZiHapvjY3SXUj04DvMcSu32QovPYuUfVUdya6oa5wfcxT_qw8vgxV0YvbEacJ1KmokT5dp5bYIQDs6mOAZWhV/s1600/cake403.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirclfYbh7UCMvD9Wb-WQM93-_i0tnLi6hmz52JOdxlq8svWYpW6Iyc-IDZiHapvjY3SXUj04DvMcSu32QovPYuUfVUdya6oa5wfcxT_qw8vgxV0YvbEacJ1KmokT5dp5bYIQDs6mOAZWhV/s320/cake403.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Thus, we generally arrive just as I’m about to pass out from hunger, and eagerly scarf down a glass of wine and some baby carrots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently, having a houseful of children means all your food must be petite, precious, and aptly named.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I found my mother perched on her usual kitchen stool, merrily slurping down a glass of white wine and not helping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This continues a decades long tradition of my mother and sister arriving at each other’s homes and behaving like a guest – much to their mutual chagrin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My stepfather was in his usual position, pacing behind her, and if he weren’t bald when they married six short months ago, he would be by now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My dad, meanwhile, was the designated photographer, and was skittering around the house snapping photos of the kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His partner was sitting off to the side looking miserable and thinking about how soon they could leave without being rude.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Moving swiftly from kitchen to table and back again, my sister was putting out food while my brother-in-law served drinks, and together they greeted their guests – many of whom were friends from their neighborhood, or old friends from their respective childhoods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s so weird to me – Neil and I each only stay in touch with a handful of people we’ve known since high school or college, and many of them live far from New York.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, my sister and brother-in-law still hang with people they’ve known for years – and I see how that shared history can be comforting – which always strikes as being like a scene out of some Ben Affleck movie set in Boston.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Except, instead of everyone working construction in Southie, they all work in finance or do pilates and drive around in SUVs the size of Rhode Island.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Meanwhile, my nieces and nephews are growing up so quickly it’s amazing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The eldest is finally past the shy stage and marched right up to me, gave me a hug, and told me about her new Justin Bieber poster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s nice to see that – though not yet seven years old – she already understands our family tradition of women falling in love with gay men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon she’ll be drinking Scotch in the Village and looking for her second husband.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ5ccWSERKS9myI85l1V2OWRkivnKAxwZuJPnoUudJiixzxdakY6oWt9vS3XJHcGfp_cJhZYYI9twhFSj3DTrTlW42ipppVDYpYec9F2v_aMsYchAOgS7mm56W5L86m4vmd4GdpIqB1mXs/s1600/Winehouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ5ccWSERKS9myI85l1V2OWRkivnKAxwZuJPnoUudJiixzxdakY6oWt9vS3XJHcGfp_cJhZYYI9twhFSj3DTrTlW42ipppVDYpYec9F2v_aMsYchAOgS7mm56W5L86m4vmd4GdpIqB1mXs/s320/Winehouse.jpg" width="194" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">She was also wearing a royal blue sleeveless sequined dress, an outfit that was only missing backup singers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Her sister managed to make it through the afternoon without shedding blood – her own or that of another child – which was reason enough for celebration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The birthday boy seemed oblivious to the fact that all the attention was for him – which is a personality trait I cannot relate to at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was just happy that there was a Thomas the Train cake and a clown.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh yes – the clown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two, actually.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One surly guy who looked more like a caricature of a hobo than a clown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He blew up balloons, mostly in the shape of swords with hilts –though that’s not what they looked like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One girl put the tip of a "sword" in her mouth and I nearly lost it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So sweet to see her re-enact the night her parents met.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The other “clown” there was a girl wearing pigtails and a pair of pants with a cowskin print on it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She did magic, but it was all dime-store stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If she had any real talent she would have been able to make her cameltoe disappear.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If you’re getting the impression it wasn’t a festive event, you’re totally off-base.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was actually quite amusing – and certainly the high point of a week that also included:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 38.05pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 38.05pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Flight delays in both directions, including flying through thunderstorms.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 38.05pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 38.05pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Trying to figure out what those stupid talking twins are saying, and why they’re so popular</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 38.05pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRT_Cg2uDeNRJwihiIHMPoelLqVYd0iMGc3Od-wtdAJt1erPy1X5ZcsjtZNID35ZNexBHgHb6dUlypYOYivR_lB5pmYXdjALbnkPhpeNGQUWo0fId-5xWjDOFRfqfM37e7nIu3odVwnZmU/s1600/QEII.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRT_Cg2uDeNRJwihiIHMPoelLqVYd0iMGc3Od-wtdAJt1erPy1X5ZcsjtZNID35ZNexBHgHb6dUlypYOYivR_lB5pmYXdjALbnkPhpeNGQUWo0fId-5xWjDOFRfqfM37e7nIu3odVwnZmU/s320/QEII.jpg" width="231" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 38.05pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Attempting to get invited to the Royal Wedding, and possibly ending up on Britain’s most wanted list (who knew the Queen was so sensitive about Wall comments on her Facebook page?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, her aura of accessibility totally screams that she wants strangers to call her “Liz” and offer to escort her to the nuptials by offering something stiffer than Prince Philip.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 38.05pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 38.05pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Hallucinations that most of the aforementioned actually happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gotta stop hanging out with Charlie Sheen.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Warlock out.</div>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-40818936652105767802011-03-27T07:09:00.001-04:002011-03-27T07:09:49.425-04:00A Visit with Aunt Crazy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzi74dxI_WILpF_I2HFaZOBWEPiBXpdsqYaPVvWeoH3P38OadB7bVWVC-ifTyGiA3JqIc96Utoz53FLt_LfwxAE8PQjmwRnNiTqemHrzdaaMiNWgfAyF99eUd6UF5Cq2kgp1rm7olKd59l/s1600/Aunt+Crazy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzi74dxI_WILpF_I2HFaZOBWEPiBXpdsqYaPVvWeoH3P38OadB7bVWVC-ifTyGiA3JqIc96Utoz53FLt_LfwxAE8PQjmwRnNiTqemHrzdaaMiNWgfAyF99eUd6UF5Cq2kgp1rm7olKd59l/s1600/Aunt+Crazy.JPG" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">This week began with a special treat – one of those moments where you truly understand the term “blessing in disguise.” In order to address some client needs, I unexpectedly needed to travel to a city where my old pal – let’s call her <a href="http://crazyauntcrazy.blogspot.com/">Aunt Crazy</a> – resides. While my meetings had all the charm of attempting to perform root canal on oneself using an old paper clip, a quick text to Aunt Crazy revealed that she was available to get me suitably sloshed before I returned to the airport to head home.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Aunt Crazy and I worked together years ago at a company who was long-recognized for its superior technology solutions, but is more recently notable for having lost a billion dollar lawsuit which it foolishly permitted to proceed to trial, since everyone knew it was going to lose. We both left the company around the same time, when it became clear that unmarried women and sarcastic gay guys don’t get promoted past a certain level no matter how hard they work, or how well they perform. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVGLbJaw9XFrTVWrOIEptEJwiVtgSznfwtfJ9fTnnIWPNuZcQ4EMx0UKOiKjgReIyY-oX7LgG6DEmIcPzSYxt7ATfbf1RplvEQhz1hgqXtNjKBXxELbbEQluhwdrzVXuIycEl_xbvjmOcH/s1600/Brad+Womack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVGLbJaw9XFrTVWrOIEptEJwiVtgSznfwtfJ9fTnnIWPNuZcQ4EMx0UKOiKjgReIyY-oX7LgG6DEmIcPzSYxt7ATfbf1RplvEQhz1hgqXtNjKBXxELbbEQluhwdrzVXuIycEl_xbvjmOcH/s320/Brad+Womack.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">A lesson to all you kids singing show tunes and reading People (mostly for Royal Wedding coverage and the photos of hunky moron Brad from the Bachelor) – as well as the girls who hang with them: unless your career plans include creating a media empire, you can take your work seriously and do it well, but you should also make time for important things like soap operas starring people a generation younger than you, spending plenty of time at the gym, and picking up boys. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, those last two activities are the same thing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyway, to return from that tangent, Aunt Crazy (who earns that nickname simply by virtue of hosting an annual Oscar party where the guests wear black tie – from the waist up – and sweatpants) picked me up on a random street corner, after circling the neighborhood for half an hour trying to find me. This point becomes more ironic when she finally arrives and the first thing I notice on her dashboard is a GPS. Perhaps, like me, she programs in the destination, then proceeds to ignore the device, either by talking on the phone, blasting the radio and singing along to Sugarland songs, or yelling at the damn thing, “That’s not the way I want to go!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When we finally sorted out logistics, Aunt Crazy and I had a blast – we had some snacks at a local tapas bar, caught up on all the people we used to work with, and discussed our mutual desire to start a family. (Not with each other.) Aunt Crazy is looking to adopt, while Neil and I continue to discuss the idea of having children. We commiserated over the challenges – whether it’s the ready availability of two children for a single woman (Aunt Crazy wants a matched set, so they’ll have someone to confide in when she inevitably drives them nuts), or Neil’s concern about being too old, or my irrational concern that my hair-trigger midlife crisis will spin out of control if I have to face my own mortality through the eyes of my child.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL1OOmJ9g_uFYxI8i29fInGZWn1wtQCmGxMNEAOxtf42QeDiqOcyI87eQAv5Qcs3qb-cTPpPlO3Ob5awCJ5ICGHz959BPkienQTzvF0X1fOGnWQHcccncumGnbJvl-oaZ80XtVqZ1XiBFK/s1600/Sour+Patch+Kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL1OOmJ9g_uFYxI8i29fInGZWn1wtQCmGxMNEAOxtf42QeDiqOcyI87eQAv5Qcs3qb-cTPpPlO3Ob5awCJ5ICGHz959BPkienQTzvF0X1fOGnWQHcccncumGnbJvl-oaZ80XtVqZ1XiBFK/s320/Sour+Patch+Kids.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Too quickly, though, I had to head out to the airport, saying goodbye to Aunt Crazy for another three or four years. Unfortunately, shortly after arriving, my flight began to post a series of successive delays that kept us on the ground until well after 10pm and limiting my dinner choices to foods that can be purchased at a newsstand. I’d love to tell you that eating a bag of Sour Patch Kids for dinner brought back great memories of college, but it’s just not the same without the drugs.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And, of course I arrived home way too late to watch Pretty Little Liars, so I got up at 6am the next day and turned on the DVR. I’d love to say the season finale clarified things for me, but all it seemed to do was confirm that Ian did, indeed, kill Allison – providing no twist or other compelling narrative – and otherwise create a bunch of confusion on loose threads, but which don’t quite add up to a cliffhanger. Plus, they killed off Ryan Merriman who never really got to show the acting range that one can only truly exhibit with his shirt off.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thus starved for entertainment, off we trekked to see the very first performance of Broadway’s “Sister Act” – adapted from the movie starring Whoopi Goldberg, by the Whoopi Goldberg production company (see, lesson in paragraph three of this blog, kiddies.) Our expectations were high, as the show is hot off its run on London’s West End (though this is no longer an arbiter of class – and hasn’t been since Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber sent us dreck like Starlight Express. If I want roller skating in my musicals, I’ll skip that for Cheyenne Jackson wearing cutoff denim in Xanadu – for more than the obvious reasons.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You could feel the anticipation and excitement in audience, teeming with every homo in the tri-state area who could get his hands on a ticket. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7QYK3-kee0ioIF_oRSDG7_mje544avFJlhCsQGRrzHMQb7tMQlea3kxkFb7W0N4Dj6L7YTbQS7GnHEW-5KlH4giD7E_1vdkapxrcer2qR9wVMrhg4SygSSbb4WMo_RI07gWUOwtxkl9Rm/s1600/Sister+Act.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7QYK3-kee0ioIF_oRSDG7_mje544avFJlhCsQGRrzHMQb7tMQlea3kxkFb7W0N4Dj6L7YTbQS7GnHEW-5KlH4giD7E_1vdkapxrcer2qR9wVMrhg4SygSSbb4WMo_RI07gWUOwtxkl9Rm/s320/Sister+Act.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Sadly, dear readers, I can’t fully recommend the show – a bloated two-and-a-half hour commitment that has too-few moments of real joy and rapture. The stage is entirely too large for the activity on it, and the staging is – with the exception of tow numbers, a fantasy dream sequence and a solo power ballad – unimpressive. The choreography is hokey and line-dance-y; the jokes are really corny and obvious, and the book is – with the exception to two lines – very weak. The star, Patina Miller, lacks the glory notes in her upper register to pull off the songs, which is sort of OK, since most of the music is unmemorable. Pacing is uneven, particularly in the first act, which takes just over an hour to accomplish a slow set up that needs to be done in half the time, and with more energy. It’s too long a sit to get to what the audience came for: those singing nuns from the movie. Still, the second act moves a bit more briskly and, despite the generic music and some wacky capers that are lifted right out of a Keystone Kops sequence in a 1920 nickelodeon, the energy and uplift at the end gets the crowd applauding and generated a standing ovation.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I imagine there’s a enough good will for the movie – and for Whoopi – as well as enough of a curiosity factor, to goose advance sales for a few months. And even though the show played in London, they made some changes, so there’s no reason to think they won’t further adjust it through previews.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Other than that, it was a relatively quiet week. We went out for Pookie's birthday. We did a little shopping. I've been looking for a pair of jeans since Christmas - which seems crazy since I have almost 20 pairs and half of them I bought through Gilt Group - but I really needed a pair that I bought in real time. Buying online restricts me to designers and brand I already know, and even then I'm taking a guess that the weight and texture of the material, and the actual color, will work for me. Actual shopping permits the assessment of critical questions like: "Does the fit accentuate the musculature of my thighs, or make me look crammed into a sausage casing?" and "How cute is my butt?"</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I also needed to find a few shirts, and spend some time in a fitting room praying to the fashion gods for the end of gingham. Yes, I like how it looks on me - but if I buy one more gingham shirt I'm gonna need some red shoes and a Scarecrow.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0kKSj_Xmz6DbN4uoV7iQFu46Tp46npAJUyiXmbeDNxK1cZ0ei9OwW2lr4rgPLhJpZbPshKxVOe6IQf64tj2sW10hq-7C5kQ8k9OlZJ0PXnvETPeKAkn-PuQQuTGhvxgGj3_exIPHIatZW/s1600/Hong+Kong+Supermarket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0kKSj_Xmz6DbN4uoV7iQFu46Tp46npAJUyiXmbeDNxK1cZ0ei9OwW2lr4rgPLhJpZbPshKxVOe6IQf64tj2sW10hq-7C5kQ8k9OlZJ0PXnvETPeKAkn-PuQQuTGhvxgGj3_exIPHIatZW/s320/Hong+Kong+Supermarket.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">We decided to spend what was left of Saturday afternoon downtown, and started by going to Chinatown. The weather has gotten a little colder and wetter than it was the past two weekends, but we couldn't sit inside and watch television. So instead of watching frantic crowds of Asian people trying in vain to dodge a nuclear holocaust, we figured we'd watch them fight over oyster mushrooms.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If you've never been to the Hong Kong Supermarket, I can't say I recommend it. It's perceived as being this sort of ethnic food superstore, but it isn't terribly large. I suppose it claims to offer an authentic experience because all the pushing and shoving and jostling seems to re-create the effect of riding the subway in Tokyo. The fish all had cloudy eyes and were piled high atop trays of ice, and the produce all looked a little wilted and forlorn. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I expected a market of largely exotic and relatively fresh, foods - but beyond the stacks of squid and some rather pale pumpkin chunks, the remainder of the store was as a much a paean to consumer packaged foods as any Safeway. I'm not exactly sure how to end communism, but I'm fairly certain it involves using high fructose corn syrup.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD-i8Q04lyp00jjVD86LIoJiYzhvs_wu85cmHWEZMqFWsMq4YGaeaUUMGOdyjlLbHV5qMsNWDTxBnic93ua6qv7PCcR9ZFp2zLe70a4ObaB05GqURGKIrUfsWUaAuGeYRRoW5BKvjZ3uyX/s1600/Panda+cookies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD-i8Q04lyp00jjVD86LIoJiYzhvs_wu85cmHWEZMqFWsMq4YGaeaUUMGOdyjlLbHV5qMsNWDTxBnic93ua6qv7PCcR9ZFp2zLe70a4ObaB05GqURGKIrUfsWUaAuGeYRRoW5BKvjZ3uyX/s320/Panda+cookies.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyhow, I wish I had some sort of profound observation or lesson with which to close. But I don't. The closest I can offer is a cautionary tale picked up at Hong Kong Supermarket: Politics and sarcasm aside, those little cookies with the Panda faces - politically incorrect though they may be - are delicious. If this is China's answer to Teddy Grahams, we're going to be in serious trouble when it gets to the big stuff.</div>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-14665847490740265942011-03-14T22:00:00.001-04:002011-04-03T09:24:42.907-04:00The Groundskeeper's Willie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUF1FvsyfP3BecY0klBIBodJQhgQKJMaNlxRptRPesL9iFBzFT74pFN7NuqQs5g6TNdWRk9RHvFw2z2wKGTa1Mih81rWO1Wxp9DynvOwNUEEB13YsdwdmTAgdhTDicUgcqyVANnzJ_SorR/s1600/throw+pillows.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUF1FvsyfP3BecY0klBIBodJQhgQKJMaNlxRptRPesL9iFBzFT74pFN7NuqQs5g6TNdWRk9RHvFw2z2wKGTa1Mih81rWO1Wxp9DynvOwNUEEB13YsdwdmTAgdhTDicUgcqyVANnzJ_SorR/s320/throw+pillows.bmp" width="320" /></a></div>I realize my blog has become a near-permanent obsession with my mid-life crisis, but can I just say that you know you've reached middle age when you have this conversation:<br />
<br />
Husband: "How do you like the throw pillows?"<br />
<br />
Other husband: "They look nice on the bed. Aren't they from the sofa in the living room?"<br />
<br />
First husband: "Yeah, I'm all about trying new things."<br />
<br />
Trying new things? I can still remember when "trying new things" meant cycling down a volcano or jumping out of a plane or doing body shots off a go-go boy's abs. When "trying new things" means the temporary relocation of home accessories, you are middle-aged.<br />
<br />
(By the way, if you want to know when you're gay - it's when you're a man talking about throw pillows. The whole sex part is beside the point.)<br />
<br />
However, it's always nice to take a vacation from your own mid-life crisis to watch someone else's, so last night Neil and I went to dinner at the home of some relatively new friends. We don't know them well, so stopped along the way and picked up a nice spring flowering plant. We figured, you can never be sure if people drink (though, if they didn't, we probably wouldn't be going back) - or what they like - and home decor is either too specific ("Oh. Art Deco. How...ummm...lovely.") or too impersonal (think: scented candle or picture frame. To me, the picture frame is the gift card of impersonal gifts. It says, "I refused to put any thought into this, whatsoever.")<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPdCN-h1vdxJABYYU2CEhdmgxuT6V1P4oTY7e-iQUaQQcXy6_jbYJ7b8J3S0z93faj_R078fPSqy8GWVv8tuwsTsbMzbHAUOuXisKiZRhyIBTglrQ5QK_YiFwRZwQQnk8VEKIO-S5vX5pV/s1600/fritos-706376.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPdCN-h1vdxJABYYU2CEhdmgxuT6V1P4oTY7e-iQUaQQcXy6_jbYJ7b8J3S0z93faj_R078fPSqy8GWVv8tuwsTsbMzbHAUOuXisKiZRhyIBTglrQ5QK_YiFwRZwQQnk8VEKIO-S5vX5pV/s1600/fritos-706376.jpg" /></a></div>If you've never arived at the multi-million dollar home of new acquaintances bearing nothing but a potted plant, and then find out within five minutes of arriving that it is the also host's birthday, I can't really recommend it. I felt like we showed up in boxer shorts, eating Fritos (which is how we would have spent the evening, otherwise.)<br />
<br />
It was, however, a thoroughly enjoyable evening - even if the guest list could have been pulled directly from an updated version of an Agatha Christie novel. To wit:<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Our hosts</em></strong>: an eyeglass manufacturer (don't chuckle - there's serious dough in that business) and a real estate broker (can we say it? When did everybody become a Real Estate broker? There are now almost as many shows about real estate brokers as there are about chefs - and the vast majority of the people watching them are in a one-bedroom fourth-floor walk up, eating Frito's on the couch.) <br />
<br />
<strong><em>A single friend</em></strong>: There's always one, right?<br />
<br />
<strong><em>A straight couple on their second marriage</em></strong>: You know the drill, right? He's become a metrosexual at fifty-ish, with the black cashmere sweaters and the closely-cropped hair. (I'm sorry, but if I see one more straight guy in a pair of $300 jeans, a knit pullover and blazer, getting his nails buffed, I'm going to barf. What's hip about a straight man dressing like he's trying to pick up a 19 year old Mexican boy?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB6W4tq-4plFWcJtRtw10cc6d8wTxANZ-54VfMmYFMr2QbTVIL_ANuePyw09nU8aN8P0l8MTqroE6aCiCep0gMMY7vBNBgng8YWxunUzPeVRxbN4QRF795xTrRIDKqjvBalMADLJkfxwaZ/s1600/heathers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB6W4tq-4plFWcJtRtw10cc6d8wTxANZ-54VfMmYFMr2QbTVIL_ANuePyw09nU8aN8P0l8MTqroE6aCiCep0gMMY7vBNBgng8YWxunUzPeVRxbN4QRF795xTrRIDKqjvBalMADLJkfxwaZ/s320/heathers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>She - the wife - is, of course, adorable. I can't help myself around the pretty girls. I am completely drawn to every Heather (80s reference), Betty (90s reference), and Mean Girl (00s reference.) Who wouldn't be? The prettiest girl in the room is always the most fun - and the most powerful. She's got a pile of money to spend and always dresses like she's headed for a red carpet-worthy occasion. You know these girls married for love the first time, got a kid or two before figuring out Husband No. 1 was fucking his secretary, his masseuse or a 19-year old Mexican boy, and got out - still young enough for a healthy dose of pilates, spinning and vodka to tighten and tone the body and land Husband No. 2. <br />
<br />
Ladies - life lesson here: he may not be gorgeous, but he's relatively good-looking, and you can forgive a lot when you're wearing Manolos and shuttling between a house in town and two acres in East Hampton.<br />
<br />
And trust me when I tell you that you can have sex once a week with a person you're not particularly attracted to. I like to call that "my 20s." And no one ever gave me shoes or real estate.<br />
<br />
They also brought their <strong><em>fourteen year-old son</em></strong>. <br />
<br />
To the gay dinner party.<br />
<br />
Can I say I felt a little Awk. Ward.<br />
<br />
I know - I homoeroticize everything or make everyone gay - but this kid is gay, gay, GAY. You can say I'm reading too much into the sibilant "s"s, or that I don't know much about today's teenagers - but I have to believe that a fourteen year-old boy who watches Project Runway and likes clothing design and draping is less interested in getting your dress off, and more interested in putting it on.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>The lesbian couple.</em></strong> Not the motorcycle-butch kind, or the lipstick-edgy-sort-of-punk-rock kind - they're the sort of sporty-athletic kind. One is a tennis-playing lawyer who likes to travel; the other works in real estate and was a little more withdrawn - playing with the dogs and helping in the kitchen.<br />
<br />
The kitchen.<br />
<br />
Wow - ok - so this is where it gets a little weird. (I know - 'cause it wasn't weird enough already.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWBUh34rbXzp1w6DronbH5mYoDwLYd6fNFSkeQUvO-WD0NZv6Y4wjfPC3Cvzv106fSSAUD9Hz-azZCLCpnwlG0kVllp7wCBqC4sY2su6HK_9ph2N8L-c15TvuiWsR5pM8hGjleGWITunde/s1600/houseboy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWBUh34rbXzp1w6DronbH5mYoDwLYd6fNFSkeQUvO-WD0NZv6Y4wjfPC3Cvzv106fSSAUD9Hz-azZCLCpnwlG0kVllp7wCBqC4sY2su6HK_9ph2N8L-c15TvuiWsR5pM8hGjleGWITunde/s1600/houseboy.jpg" /></a></div><strong><em>The houseboy</em></strong>. I'm not even sure how to start describing this. The first time they mentioned him, Neil and I got the impression a college kid - maybe 19, 20 - someone who spent the summers with them working around the house. I pictured a kid doing landscaping and light housework in exchange for getting to live in the Hamptons for the summer; probably gay.<br />
<br />
I did not expect someone closer to thirty than twenty who was going to make me forget I was married. This was a man - not a kid - impossibly good looking in jeans and a henley and a whole Abercrombie thing going on. Taking the semester off from school, he seemed more house manager than "kid you hire for the summer to cut the grass." Neil and I will spend most of our Sunday morning joking about him, but either one of us would secretly and eagerly trade our eastern European cleaning woman in a heartbeat.<br />
<br />
Though - truthfully - I wonder how I'd feel about sharing my house with my husband and another man. I remember that relationship mathematics of any number higher than 2 always - ultimately - yields the wrong answer. You might be able to work your way through the equation, but can't get to the QED. At first it sounds kind of hot; then it sounds kind of liberated; then it just seems scary, because the singularity of just having that one other person that you are in love with - and who is in love with you - seems so inviolate. That the issue is less the sexual intimacy than the emotional intimacy of 2 - just you; just one other. A relationship is like a secret; only two people know it; only two people get it, and it loses its potency in numbers; dilutes its strength.<br />
<br />
I know - all this is really none of my business.<br />
<br />
Besides, I probably need to stop entertaining myself by sitting in the corner with the pretty girl in the expensive shoes, making fun of people.<br />
<br />
Yeah. Like that's gonna happen.Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-12241083869378059802011-03-06T10:04:00.002-05:002011-03-06T10:04:53.631-05:00This is not an upbeat postIt’s hard not to wince when he orders a beer twenty minutes before noon on a Tuesday, even though he’s already told me he’s been up since daybreak, struggling with the inconveniences and delays of modern air travel. We haven’t even reached cruising altitude before I know that his connection through Atlanta began in Panama City, where he buried his father. Or that it won’t end until long after we land in Albuquerque, somewhere in rural southwestern Colorado. With a snack box of raisins and canned chicken salad splayed out on his tray, I know, too, that much more probably separates us that the nineteen-inch width of seat 21B.<br />
<br />
<br />
So I stifle the wince and forgive him his beer.<br />
<br />
Travel does funny things to your brain; to your sense of observation and perspective. Ten years ago I was both an inquisitive and acquisitive person, curious and extroverted, eager to collect new friends, and stories and experiences. But a decade of airlines and airports, delays and degradation takes a toll; you begin to shut out and shut off – hidden behind an iPad or a laptop; powered up and shut down. It is simply far too easy to become weary, restive, defensive of every clattering, cumulative intrusion from the outside world that amasses, like email on my Blackberry.<br />
<br />
The noise is too noisy, cacophonous and disparate.<br />
<br />
Until it isn’t.<br />
<br />
Recently, it has become impossible not to notice. My travels take me to places like Idaho, where budget cuts and education reform initiatives have resulted in protests, violent and non, from walk-outs to vandalism of the state superintendent’s car. In Wisconsin, the legislature has fled to prevent a quorum that would force a vote stripping unionized workers from collective bargaining. I’m mixed on unions – their record of achievement and their general merit – but I know this: we are seeing the second unprecedented period of economic growth in a decade; with markets and corporations increasing profit and productivity, while jobs disappear and real wages decline. Even when the economy shrank, jobs and payrolls shrank exponentially more. Taking away the right of workers to bargain collectively will make them isolated and helpless – the easier to abuse.<br />
<br />
Much has been written about the decline and disappearance of the middle class, to the point where it’s become political theater – something we talk about like global warming or entitlement spending, but don’t really address – even though most of America is aware of the problem. It’s too easy to preserve the conflict as a political wedge – and too hard to fix it – so instead we argue about it in the papers and polling places while our home values stagnate, while our kids don’t go to college, or don’t finish, and we wonder, waiting – will it be China? When? Surely we can’t continue this way forever without the consequences coming due.<br />
<br />
We could be having a different conversation – one that examines the real system issues burdening our economy. It is clear our budget is deeply, deeply red, and our state are broke – but ending critical programs, eliminating jobs and taking away protections long-attributed to creating a middle class say something so dark about our values it is hard to do anything more than glance at it, lest it be too painful to believe. The gains we’d get a so meager, and our other problems so massive, that it seems both petty and mean.<br />
<br />
Last week I went to Florida, where I stayed in a hotel on the beach undergoing renovation. Vacationers have returned, even if home values haven’t, and the glimmers of sunshine in the Sunshine State are more than meteorological. In a section of the lobby, one morning as I was answering email, I sat not far from where the catering manager was interviewing job applicants. Person after person sat there, barely-masking the desperation in their voice, hoping for a job delivering trays or washing dishes. Not kids; not college students – adults, grateful for a chance to earn a paycheck. I left feeling profoundly sad.<br />
<br />
Every day, every place I go, I watch my clients – public school districts, public colleges and universities, educational programs – struggle and beg for money. I will be the first to cite chapter and verse on the need for reform in our public education process – better teachers, more technology, greater accountability – as well as a need to refocus the dollars we do spend on programs and investments that have been proven to work, rather than protecting legacy interests and structures. But the cuts we’re seeing now are senseless and random. Worse yet, that we are not embarrassed at the demonization of our public education system is shameful. I may see places where it is hard to get rid of bad teachers, or class size requirements that make no sense as they force 22 kids into separate classrooms with separate teachers. One of those teacher may be incapable of handling half that many; and the other – twice as much.<br />
<br />
But never in ten years have I worked with a client who didn’t care about education. Who didn’t see it’s role as absolutely critical to economic and social development. Who wasn’t 100% committed to dedicating their life to making countless lives better.<br />
<br />
Today I’ll visit a client whose program is in danger of being shut down. She has four kids, and a beautiful grandbaby. She is finishing her dissertation. If her program is eliminated, I can’t imagine where she’d go...hers won’t be the only job eliminated…and I just can’t bear the thought of a great educator winding up in a hotel lobby, begging for a job making coffee.Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-10409842886198718122010-12-31T09:57:00.002-05:002010-12-31T19:54:25.658-05:00You Mean Like Laverne & Shirley?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTeljVQI_OAAmeybgPyjis0fvOPbaV0pkq4hwRIP87KLJiWhpTtlDYcp4BFVQzBDpPGMeb-fAOjM0qfS2roh11b4GkcFPVnlGMTpdZEEt-1VfRDbZ5MPHCmrpIvDTd1V-RvumZ3Ox33GjW/s1600/white+christmas+in+NY.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTeljVQI_OAAmeybgPyjis0fvOPbaV0pkq4hwRIP87KLJiWhpTtlDYcp4BFVQzBDpPGMeb-fAOjM0qfS2roh11b4GkcFPVnlGMTpdZEEt-1VfRDbZ5MPHCmrpIvDTd1V-RvumZ3Ox33GjW/s320/white+christmas+in+NY.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I’d love to begin this posting with a pastoral scene of New York City blanketed in snow. Silver bells and Christmas lights and all that shit. <br />
<br />
<br />
Or a country lane in Sag Harbor. Sitting in the window seat watching the flakes fall, while the tree twinkles in the living room. Neil fries up latkes and bakes gingerbread in the kitchen, and through the speakers we are implored to have ourselves a merry little Christmas.<br />
<br />
<br />
“WHERE ARE YOU???!!! WHERE???!!!” Reverie of a silent night evaporates as Neil shouts down his cell phone. It is two days until Christmas – Christmas Eve eve – outside Bush Intercontinental Airport (named for the father, ironically, since it’s the son who was the true false Texan. Poppy was always more New England than New South.) Neil is trying to locate his parents and just as his frustration reaches a boiling point I spy them gliding down the pick-up lane in their Caprice Classic. It’s as if all at once the entire reason for the GM bailout has come into full view. I don’t need to see the “God Bless America” sticker in the rear window or the old sheet covering the back seat to realize that if the Tea Party were an automobile, it would be pulling up in front of me right now.<br />
<br />
<br />
We’ve discussed Neil’s parents before (here) but, as a refresher, they left the Bronx almost 40 years ago and they still tawk like dis. His mother cracks me up – she’s disdainful and misanthropic – and basically everything I love about Neil. His father is sort of brilliant, in a mad scientist sort of way – he’s the type of guy who can properly use words like “inveigle” and “ossify” in casual conversation, but uses his son’s name and the dog’s interchangeably. <br />
<br />
<br />
I’m girding myself for a snowless Christmas that will begin with Mexican food in a strip mall and end with an argument that lasts until New Years. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUaOsV_PxBq_bCa8Lg_MYMUhrJqKtixaKfZzCtEbBR4iJk0Tq_jrLDuFzrxbmAdOHrQXMjTXfPYBFvfNRj2AOMQ88NsqcWaEhtXMljWk9TcHnPEHDgWm4U51_JPR2H27FqwUAxdfZwW4a/s1600/Los+Cucos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUaOsV_PxBq_bCa8Lg_MYMUhrJqKtixaKfZzCtEbBR4iJk0Tq_jrLDuFzrxbmAdOHrQXMjTXfPYBFvfNRj2AOMQ88NsqcWaEhtXMljWk9TcHnPEHDgWm4U51_JPR2H27FqwUAxdfZwW4a/s320/Los+Cucos.jpg" width="120" /></a></div>It’s hard to imagine no one’s ever written a carol about this.<br />
<br />
<br />
On Christmas Eve, I finally drag myself from bed at 8am (9am Eastern time) – where I’ve been for the past ten hours. I’ve fallen back to sleep half a dozen times over the past four hours, and no longer have the capacity to force myself to stay in bed. It’s apparent I’m not going to get away with sleeping through the next five days unless I come down with malaria or chronic fatigue syndrome. (BTW, Carrie (of Carrie and Steven. From L.A. Keep up!) just got diagnosed with Kronick Fatigue Syndrome. This is sort of an inside joke, but is also funny if you know that every woman in her family is descended from the dervish; literally, they are a blur of activity and emotion and energy and junk food. They subsist on a steady diet of anxiety and Rice Krispie squares.) It’s also funny because not only is she stuck with some trendy yuppie fad disease, but she caught it a decade and a half after the fad was over. The only hope of making this cool is figuring out a way to make it 1993 again.)<br />
<br />
<br />
The house is abuzz with activity; coffee has been made and drunk and there is talk of a second pot. Bagels and English muffins and an assortment of breads are on the counter. The dog is contemplating Eggs Benedict. (On our last visit, we spent approximately 70% of our time in grocery stores – mostly picking up samples and squirreling them away to feed the dog – an animal that gets more demonstrable affection than my husband or his sister. This is not a judgment. The dog is the grandchild they may never have; scraps from the H.E.B. are the toys and candies they’ll never spoil a toddler with.<br />
<br />
<br />
I pad into the living room, bracing myself for 4 days of conversations about what our next meal is going to be (This is not a one-note conversation, by the way. You can discuss more than WHAT you are going to eat next. You can discuss WHEN you are going to eat it; WHERE you are going to eat it; WHAT specials the restaurant may be having; WHAT your favorite menu item is; WHY the regular prices are highway robbery; WHICH waitress is slow and lazy and which is nice. Truthfully, if you begin shortly after breakfast, you can keep the conversation going right up until that slovenly, slatternly waitress brings you your overpriced entrée.)<br />
<br />
<br />
(At 4pm.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxb-dvkdRdF5rVCOYzYXnFrO8n64xzFmTIuChm-195-4ieIz5QhePwPyf63XLIjym9mgniqFGL3MgXifXL7VeaxaifbMmO2QTFHMQfhudu50fYobdrJDN_cPf9VUporJd-ZaxQQkL6UlLH/s1600/houston-airport-terminal-map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxb-dvkdRdF5rVCOYzYXnFrO8n64xzFmTIuChm-195-4ieIz5QhePwPyf63XLIjym9mgniqFGL3MgXifXL7VeaxaifbMmO2QTFHMQfhudu50fYobdrJDN_cPf9VUporJd-ZaxQQkL6UlLH/s320/houston-airport-terminal-map.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>We will also shortly begin discussing when we want to leave for the airport – four days from now. It is hard to ascertain what this conversation is actually about: something simple – such as making conversation, or more complex – such as apprehension about driving to the airport, or downright Freudian – such as implying that we’re always welcome but why the heck are we staying so long.<br />
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Which, quite honestly, is the struggle I am having with this trip. I’m going to warn you now – this is the part of the story where I am come off as less than sympathetic and somewhat selfish. Yes, we see my family on average of once a month in some form or fashion – but because they are local, each dosage is a four-hour experience; the filial equivalent of an aspirin. However, because Neil’s family is 1500 miles away, visits are immersion experiences, closer to radiation treatments. When they come to NY, they stay in a hotel (they’re always welcome with us, but the reality is the second bedroom is set up as an office, not a guest room. And the first bedroom is symbolic of a conversation we’ve managed to avoid for 6 years and there’s no point in facing it now.) <br />
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In Houston, we stay with them – in a spare room with a trundle bed that, last Thanksgiving, I pushed together while all four of us were setting up the room. If I were looking for a way to stall the chatter and small talk, I’d found it. In any event, trips to Houston are a 24/7 experience. To continue the analogy, it’s the family visit equivalent of chemotherapy.<br />
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Anyway, the truth is that no one comes out of this story looking good – least of all me. I knew we were headed to Houston for one of the late year holidays, and was sort of hoping that it would be Thanksgiving. Last year was perfectly fine – and you can sort of manage a Wednesday-to-Sunday between college football, extreme overeating, and mall shopping in a way that the days mostly evaporate. Plus, I’m not that attached to Thanksgiving. As far as holidays go, I love it: four days off of work; everybody takes the same time off so you can’t really fall behind like you do on vacation. But I’m not particularly attached to any Thanksgiving tradition. My mother has hosted it for years – but we no longer go to Connecticut like we did in the 80s and early 90s; she sold the house I grew up in almost 7 years ago. It’s basically just a big meal, an experimental side dish gone wrong, and waiting for someone to spill red wine so I can get blamed for it.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqfYDflhy5RAmSVEM2Iy8LXFR_ssX8Kv4hg4QdF7Va-7kydwmeVnExFrYaHAo1urhign7W8Y1JFi5-cJb5ZVfwgV4GN7wX4YeO6WSpF7CNsPDvkNPi4N55Aj8gTq1_7hOFpc6MPD6KhFG6/s1600/gun_family_christmas_20091218_1079066365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqfYDflhy5RAmSVEM2Iy8LXFR_ssX8Kv4hg4QdF7Va-7kydwmeVnExFrYaHAo1urhign7W8Y1JFi5-cJb5ZVfwgV4GN7wX4YeO6WSpF7CNsPDvkNPi4N55Aj8gTq1_7hOFpc6MPD6KhFG6/s320/gun_family_christmas_20091218_1079066365.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is NOT my family. I hope it's not yours, either.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Christmas – somehow – is different. My sister has made Christmas Eve for almost ten years and it is tradition. It is also the one day a year I get to see my entire family together in one place behaving relatively nicely to one another. My sister isn’t particularly relaxed, but she’s rarely particularly relaxed, and she generally finds a way to enjoy herself; she love-hates doing it. It’s a total inconvenience, and half the guest list could easily be flushed, but she loves having her whole family – crazy in-laws, lesbian DJs, inappropriate boyfriends, stray loners, new husbands, bad parents, occasional drug addicts and mean gay lovers – in one place. <br />
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It is also tradition to visit Neil’s aunt and uncle in Westchester on Christmas Day. There is always a pile of presents and too much food, and his cousin not getting engaged to his girlfriend for the eighth year in a row. There are Catholics and half-Catholics and Jews and Jehovah Witnesses and a belly dancer. And too much wine. And seven-layer dip – of which at least three layers may have come from ingredients that were appropriated from his aunt’s Subway franchise. <br />
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And it’s fun.<br />
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So, with all the family we have in New York – it just seems wrong for us to go to Houston. Every year I hope – in vain – that we can figure out a way to fly them up to New York; then everyone can be together and no one has to make any hard choices. Negotiators would call this a perfect solution.<br />
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Except the travel is inconvenient and the airports are crazy at the holidays and a million other reasons that aren’t reasons – and also are reasons – all at the same time.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8a-YyNVofZ6D8x6X2elsQIBRjU6cK-R4yjauy_lHJb9OnorhtcaTNuN4XdgMABc2134FUlhqEBihpRreyo8ig2cc1XQn5N6DnSxwjpBJF3TloiSNi3U8pSz_WhTXNZWgAmonObyQgBher/s1600/Elliott+Gould.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8a-YyNVofZ6D8x6X2elsQIBRjU6cK-R4yjauy_lHJb9OnorhtcaTNuN4XdgMABc2134FUlhqEBihpRreyo8ig2cc1XQn5N6DnSxwjpBJF3TloiSNi3U8pSz_WhTXNZWgAmonObyQgBher/s320/Elliott+Gould.jpg" width="240" /></a>So, as autumn wore on, we kept skirted by the issue of the holidays and not making any decisions. “What are we doing about visiting your family?” Became the conversation I started without us ever really finishing. We did it as a drive-by. After the question was out there like an opening ante, I offered, “Well, the problem is that my mother just got married.” This was negotiating by implication. Translation: “We skipped Thanksgiving last year. Also, my sister was with her in-laws last year. My mother will expect that, if she can alternate, then we can alternate. Plus, Mom just got married, so I’m sure she has some Walton’s Mountain vision of a family Thanksgiving where she can show off her constipated graciousness and mediocre cooking skills. She’ll get to show off how much she “enjoys” entertaining by beaming as my step-dad carves the turkey and stifling her frustration or hiding a grimace every time some onion dip hits the floor or a child behaves like, well, a child. We’ll be force-marched through saying what we’re thankful for and in a few short hours we’ll be freed into the frigid night, left with nothing but heartburn and gratitude that the turkey was, in fact, completely cooked, the yams not covered in rainbow covered marshmallows that she didn’t realize were fruit-flavored, and Elliott Gould isn’t dead (all Ghosts of Thanksgivings past.)<br />
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To be fair, that opening bid didn’t leave Neil much choice but to raise with, “Well, we’ve never gone to Houston for Christmas.” This is more a statement of fact than a position, but the implication is obvious. On several hands he added, “My sister keeps talking about how much fun that one Christmas was.” One needs to be careful of statements like these. I’m sure – if I tried – I could find a Thanksgiving from that last ten years in which no one got yelled at, the meal was largely edible, and no one left in an ambulance. But statisticians wouldn’t call this a trend.<br />
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Through passive-aggression – here we are. For six days. (By the time we booked the tickets, the schedule and prices weren’t terribly accommodating, so we’re in for a Thursday-Tuesday marathon.) And the reality is that this is my fault. My attempt to double-down on a strategy that got me Thanksgiving while betting that he wouldn’t want to give up Christmas has resulted in a visit that is longer than many of the vacations we’ve taken. And, feeling caught between my mother and my spouse (can anyone relate?) I failed to say what I wanted, which was that I could take or leave Thanksgiving, but didn’t want to miss Christmas.<br />
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So I will spend Christmas Eve quietly, trying to keep my pouting unnoticeable. We will go to the mall with my father-in-law, where we will appropriately express horror at the price of everything, and Neil will become increasingly frustrated with his inability to figure out a gift for either of his parents, with having waited until Christmas Eve to go shopping, and with the holiday in general. I will try to comfort him be reminding him that his mother has never been abroad, and that for several years I’ve been saying we should send them to Rome so that – before they die, they can see something older than each other.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiuPbs4JgAj3IDB1nFA7m4OQErkXUpMofRhNoWPDttvIQIW_xLW_mNfUlm-zBPEENM1-ANDcMmYdpdJh-AePZmFVAOlsMq_ZdTuePzlcseLP9Y7eQvKTtkPVc0QFDOIXsMidwwvZ2iwwXB/s1600/apportionment_jpg_800x1000_q100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiuPbs4JgAj3IDB1nFA7m4OQErkXUpMofRhNoWPDttvIQIW_xLW_mNfUlm-zBPEENM1-ANDcMmYdpdJh-AePZmFVAOlsMq_ZdTuePzlcseLP9Y7eQvKTtkPVc0QFDOIXsMidwwvZ2iwwXB/s320/apportionment_jpg_800x1000_q100.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Driving home from the mall (with gift cards) the radio reports the 2010 census information, highlighting that the population increase in Texas will result in a net increase of four Congressional seats, while New York will lose one, potentially two. Now, I am aware Texas has long surpassed New York as the second-most populous state, but driving through the sameness of the streets that comprise “The Woodlands” – a mobius strip of cul-de-sac upon cul-de-sac, development after development, where the condos and townhomes and ranch houses and McMansions are separated into planned “neighborhoods” – I wonder: Who the hell lives here? <br />
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It’s not just Houston and its cookie-cutter suburbs – which struck me as tedious long-before I knew Neil, when I used to travel here on business and figured the only reason the city grew was because there were jobs in the oil and gas business. It’s San Antonio with its cheap tourist attractions and general lack of industry or culture. Even Dallas and Austin – both of which I actually enjoy – still leave me puzzled. I think of Manhattan; the energy of the city and its unlimited options; the ability to do anything and be anyone you want to be; of the beach towns on Long Island, the bedroom suburbs, the mountain cabins of the Catskills – so much culture and nature – and it just confuses me beyond belief. In a world where there are so many choices – about what kind of life to have; what to participate in – it seems like so many Americans would politicize and proselytize about the American spirit than actually exercise it. I guess it’s easier to just sit at home, feel superior, then turn on Two and Half Men and microwave some pizza rolls.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJU8stdEmIyOv3z10ZddCG9YTtX8BQ2ks4kyzBZMH05r6KLsCn24DKoXvsNCRdD9ZThiYbdRp6QYiULlDJj5xq_juvOHFDaI4ZgNKOXPSUP-rrnBGbDKXIsiLXajMofdg1rqBttsP2sgxS/s1600/summertimepic_sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJU8stdEmIyOv3z10ZddCG9YTtX8BQ2ks4kyzBZMH05r6KLsCn24DKoXvsNCRdD9ZThiYbdRp6QYiULlDJj5xq_juvOHFDaI4ZgNKOXPSUP-rrnBGbDKXIsiLXajMofdg1rqBttsP2sgxS/s320/summertimepic_sm.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I avoid actually commenting on the news, since politics and current events run the risk of completely derailing détente. We spend most of our visit sitting around the living room television where the only deviation from Fox News will be home improvement shows, anything involving midgets or Hitler, and the occasional classic movie (which is ordinarily a safe bet, but at one point, when I stop at “In the Good Old Summertime,” starring Judy Garland, I wonder if I’ve committed the entertainment equivalent of showing up at dinner in an evening gown.) <br />
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Fortunately, the pending snowstorm on the east coast is dominating the coverage, as we are otherwise subjected to year in review reporting that will include the election of Scott Brown, the November election and its “refudiation” of the Obama agenda, and the continuing transformation of Sarah Palin from the ignorant accidental governor of Alaska – who by virtue of John McCain’s cynicism, good messaging, and general good luck – has managed to become a true cultural phenomenon despite any actual knowledge, experience, accomplishment or even any particular affection for American government. I always wonder why people like her want to be part of the political conversation if they disdain it so much? <br />
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And no year-end news round-up would be complete without the lame duck session of Congress, particularly the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell – sure to cast a pall over the living room. (Besides – what would I say? Other than the fact that I see it as a huge civil rights victory, my only other reaction is to reminisce about being 25, living in Washington, and getting to hook up with military guys suffering from low self-esteem. DADT may have been discriminatory, but it landed me a few dates that were totally out of my league.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZlTLtaVl8Yvna0RDRfg73AXdwD2qLU7duZacj5Z88ebyWiI678L5p5arYMr8V_88rLRb8IagCFZJkg7YGIBWlmDVgykFYCMzBX_pqJ_RDRnwJ3cagb2M3iZYqOE63iYJRVbCVf6XGpbh0/s1600/bruseels+sprouts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZlTLtaVl8Yvna0RDRfg73AXdwD2qLU7duZacj5Z88ebyWiI678L5p5arYMr8V_88rLRb8IagCFZJkg7YGIBWlmDVgykFYCMzBX_pqJ_RDRnwJ3cagb2M3iZYqOE63iYJRVbCVf6XGpbh0/s320/bruseels+sprouts.jpg" width="250" /></a></div>Christmas Eve dinner is a delicious pork tenderloin and Neil’s Brussels sprout dish with cannellini beans and parmesan – and the big excitement of the evening will be when the oven goes out in the middle of a rain and wind storm. (The stove top, interestingly, is gas – but the oven is electric.) The circuit breaker is outside, and at least three of us will venture out into the monsoon and attempt to flip the circuit back – which will prove impossible, though – thankfully – only the oven worked off that circuit so everything else is working. Dinner will be finished on the stove, and the conversation will center around relief that Christmas dinner is Italian food – sauces and pastas and things that can largely be made on the stove top or using electric appliances. If it had been a turkey, we’d be screwed. <br />
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I awoke on Christmas morning no more optimistic than I had gone to bed. As I head into the living room, however, there is a pile of presents under the mantle (decorated with garland, but there’s no tree.) After everyone’s awake and Neil’s sister arrives, we begin to open presents – and I’m stunned to find a sizable stack with my name on it. Scarves and shirts and housewares for the homes I share with their son and brother. And the final present was a book from Neil’s father – directly from his personal library. And so my Christmas really brought a miracle; of a touching gift from my father-in-law, of actions – more demonstrative than words – of being welcomed, included, and made a part of this family. And in that moment my dissatisfaction and frustration and selfishness evaporated, replaced by contentment and peace and no small amount of embarrassment at missing my family, when I was already with family.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYGIpIOgfk_2NhKhwm9mFSEsIKUg1HRnpjaEJp3RP782GxZ2cCIrfnviHnDIrJd-2W0jBqZG-3H1nWgil3Suo2P0YyVJk7SXchmhf4ut_rFKnfucngRU8A-ECyGJ8QZnMvahG9pnVZZJku/s1600/laverne-and-shirley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYGIpIOgfk_2NhKhwm9mFSEsIKUg1HRnpjaEJp3RP782GxZ2cCIrfnviHnDIrJd-2W0jBqZG-3H1nWgil3Suo2P0YyVJk7SXchmhf4ut_rFKnfucngRU8A-ECyGJ8QZnMvahG9pnVZZJku/s320/laverne-and-shirley.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I will need to remind myself of this later, when a neighbor arrives for dinner and I am introduced as Neil’s roommate. And friend. I know they don’t have the vocabulary for what we are (actually, I’m sure they know words like “boyfriend” and “husband” but lack the ability to use them in this capacity) – but I couldn’t help making mental comparisons to Bert and Ernie (Sesame Street’s subversive same-sex couple) and Laverne and Shirley (I always thought their affinity for “Boo-Boo Kitty” and “Scooter-Pie” was code.)<br />
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Oh, and there was one more miracle. As we sat down to dinner – the eggplant parmesan that had been prepped in advance (thank god) and reheated in an electric skillet, the Italian meats that boiled in homemade sauces on the range – my mother-in-law boasted about the great deal she got on the sausage because she found it in the section of meat that’s close to or just past its expiration date. For nearly forty years I’ve been looking for an effective way to curb my appetite on the holidays and I think I just found it. Meanwhile, when my sister-in-law suggested that this might not be critical dinner table conversation – or one that you’d want to share with a table full of guests, the response that followed was, “What? It tastes just as good and no one’s getting’ sick.”<br />
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Really, that woman cracks me up.Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-57331266275741878132010-12-11T10:48:00.001-05:002010-12-14T15:53:20.894-05:00The Kids Are All Wrong<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKxcrnjNBtlZ0SsavHGCbiyv2kZleuqrauKyNMO8XXc3VdaqyYY40fuOwIUm7l_dATaVdYUsHOsQKigzSx6RlhtT117zItI_5QSkMUQgk4e0DhczqilEUtm5RCyBKkepKlmWfVtNVPwXi_/s1600/carlahoot-206x300.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKxcrnjNBtlZ0SsavHGCbiyv2kZleuqrauKyNMO8XXc3VdaqyYY40fuOwIUm7l_dATaVdYUsHOsQKigzSx6RlhtT117zItI_5QSkMUQgk4e0DhczqilEUtm5RCyBKkepKlmWfVtNVPwXi_/s320/carlahoot-206x300.png" width="218" /></a></div>Okay, okay, okay. The din of demands from my tens of readers has finally pulled my bloated carcass away from the dish of Christmas Candy (Holiday M&Ms, natch...the first, and still the best, though the Butterfinger Bells are pretty awesome, too.) For the next hour I have turned my back on the seemingly endless stream of email and paused the DVR in the middle of last week's Top Chef All-Stars (oddly, despite the insane talent, I still find myself rooting for the daffy Carla Hall (Hootie? Hoo!) and the misanthropic yet somehow lesbo-chic Jamie Lauren (who, while at Absinthe, was serving some of the best food in San Francisco...the bay area's loss is L.A.'s gain.)<br />
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Speaking of L.A., since my last post (Ha! Ha! - yes, that post from, like, two months ago) I was briefly in L.A. (and mostly Anaheim, which is to L.A. what Krab is to Crab: so close, and yet so far away.) I got to catch up with the fabulous Malcolm and Julie (who, when in New York, dine with Mick Jagger, but can't seem to scare up a D-lister when I'm in L.A., so I brought along the fabulous Carrie and Steven. We went to Gjelina, since Steven had been training for a triathlon and was looking pretty smokin', and Carrie couldn't tip the scales at 100 pounds of you gave her a 50 pound barbell to hold on to. I figured too much wine, flatbread pizza, and grilled pizzas would do the trick - which it did, if the trick were having a fabulous evening.<br />
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But, really, the fall hasn't left much else to write about. Should I report the domestic drudgery of tweaking the touches on a second home we bought - fully furnished and detailed to the nines - at a price that would have been way below market even if it were empty? I'd write about popular culture, but it seems to have gotten as boring and middle-aged as I have. Seriously: Modern Family; the return of Cher to the big screen; the return of Winona Ryder to the big screen; Jennifer Grey's dancing (with a delicious blond boy; ok - that sort of got my attention). <br />
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Anything that hasn't been ripped straight out of 1987 is a trend so overdone, overstuffed, and just plain over that I can't even muster a scintilla of interest. Vampires, "Real" Housewives, Harry Potter, Katy Perry (totally hot and talented but over exposed), Jon Hamm (totally hot and talented but passed overexposed so long ago that the next stop after MadMen is the center square.) I'm even starting to get worn out by Glee; it's so damn earnest that I'm half rooting for Kurt to get bored with his wobbly-Warbler and get into a little rough trade with Karofsky. Anything for a little less sweater-vest and a little more heat.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-xX-gJfK6omwaOA9tMVr0aDkZy24jSrYbxddSI4bC6eingYPkyORyUPg4YX6b1d1_buT52t_NbgSVJsRTlidaVhauvC2Q16rWBCu8bkvQYSfaWzHbWEggDVauRGiB7Phyphenhyphen-KlX6RDBO0TE/s1600/karofsky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-xX-gJfK6omwaOA9tMVr0aDkZy24jSrYbxddSI4bC6eingYPkyORyUPg4YX6b1d1_buT52t_NbgSVJsRTlidaVhauvC2Q16rWBCu8bkvQYSfaWzHbWEggDVauRGiB7Phyphenhyphen-KlX6RDBO0TE/s320/karofsky.jpg" width="320" /></a>The problem with the cannibalization that's created in a copycat culture is perfectly encapsulated by one show: Skating with the Stars. Here is a show that makes its genesis (the previously referenced "Dancing with the Stars") look like High Art. At what point do we simply draw the line and say, "No!"? I'll say this, if Serena Williams and Emmanuel Lewis start playing mixed doubles on prime time, I'm taking up reading again.<br />
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Seriously...why not just let it all go to hell and air Celebrity Hoarder-Rehab with the Stars. We can watch Lindsay Lohan come down off of smack in a houseful of cats and old lettuce. Throw in a midget or a vampire and you've got a hit.<br />
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I was reminded of this last night, when Neil and I went to a holiday party down in the East Village. <br />
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Wow, you think - the East Village. It's so New York, it's so downtown. It's so edgy and late-night and alternative.<br />
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Nope. Not anymore. <br />
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The party was at David Barton Gym - across the street from a Starbucks (the national emblem of overexposed, replicated tedium), and down the block from the worldwide headquarters of J.Crew (nice clothes of good quality, yes; creative and edgy: NO.) Back in the day, David Barton was the impresario of gym/club culture - the place where you spent your days getting the body you needed to live the nights you wanted to live. His wife, Susanne Bartsch (who, the story goes, had all the money) was a fixture in the New York club scene.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwG3XzC9L0pzWGA2TaMw1B9DhhEIrlSH3tChdsQOO-YZ0t2R2vL5DSDAp_iIriDqDEGDFDJK_jr9jEojDf8szEJhnFs1H7YAUAErJpu59hsqJkhRr7IeiYQD94T_XAH2_AD_t2dsZKNQFt/s1600/club+kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwG3XzC9L0pzWGA2TaMw1B9DhhEIrlSH3tChdsQOO-YZ0t2R2vL5DSDAp_iIriDqDEGDFDJK_jr9jEojDf8szEJhnFs1H7YAUAErJpu59hsqJkhRr7IeiYQD94T_XAH2_AD_t2dsZKNQFt/s320/club+kids.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>You've seen the folks that populated that time and place. The Club Kids. Richie Rich, James St. James, Michael Musto, Amanda LePore. You remember them from the movie Party Monster, from episodes of Sally Jessie Raphael and Donahue from the late eighties when they'd come on tv, dressed like a psychedelic frog or a sequined Big Bird, ears and noses misshapen with stage prosthetics; completely over the top.<br />
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If we were reinventing club culture for 2010, you'd get my attention. It was never my thing - and still isn't - but at least it would be something new; or something old re-imagined as something new for this time; this place. But it's not. It's not 24 year old assistants or hair stylists or aspiring artists or aspiring anythings expressing themselves artistically. It's the same old club kids, now club grannies, pushing 50 (or more) made all the more freakish my plastic surgery - wearing the same outfits from 20 years ago.<br />
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There's something deeply disturbing about a middle-aged woman made up like an elf and wearing a tablecloth from a pizza place. A 50 year old man in a tight red suit using an oversize candy cane as a walking stick. Three people completely covered in crocheted yarn - like it was a metaphor for the knitting that would be appropriate to their age. My 64 year old mother (sorry, Mom) could have whipped them into a nice sweater vest for those Glee kids.<br />
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Speaking of Julie (which I was, like, fifteen paragraphs ago. Pay attention.) she suggested (back when our daily highs were still in the 60s) that I write about the election. <br />
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But how? How long will it take to describe your disappointment in a president you voted for haltingly (having far preferred his primary rival, the fabulous Mrs. Clinton - who's looking haggard and hoarse and horrible and is, despite that, the closest America will get to Margaret Thatcher and Golda Meir - and we should be ashamed that we let our national narrative of her stand in the way of a job she would have been terrific at.)? <br />
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How ironic that we elected the first black president and he's turned out to be so colorless.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGTditcfQbqtKC1CyoRp71CJUDT1PEe9YC7W82QqwoWb4IWTePXeirtBJITmKbgEH1RebV7X-UP9af5AuYZNVaKKUynY8M0q1dzvZRFS5q2AQz4SAEttawEtuCNeIvx9YMFKA_9dI_LwOT/s1600/decision+points.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGTditcfQbqtKC1CyoRp71CJUDT1PEe9YC7W82QqwoWb4IWTePXeirtBJITmKbgEH1RebV7X-UP9af5AuYZNVaKKUynY8M0q1dzvZRFS5q2AQz4SAEttawEtuCNeIvx9YMFKA_9dI_LwOT/s320/decision+points.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>You know it's bad when you find yourself in a hotel fitness center at 7:15am, watching George W Bush on the Today show telling Matt Lauer some revisionist history of his presidency, which ranged from juvenile indignance to shocking incompetence, and find yourself sort of missing him.<br />
<br />
Because he stood for something. Because you can argue with someone who has an opinion, even if it is misguided or wrong or ill-informed.<br />
<br />
But I have no idea what this presidency means. What does it stand for. Even Clinton managed to clothe "stuff I can get passed" in a narrative about restoring the middle class. And even he managed to take tough stands for the things he believed in; even if he paid a price.<br />
<br />
Here's the difference - and here's why I think Obama will end up being more like Carter (a smart, well-intentioned man with great capacity for many things, but lacking in the leadership and theater that's required to be President) than like Clinton; why I think that - unless we get an amazing economic rebound in the next 12 months - he's toast.<br />
<br />
When Clinton made the calculated decision to do what was right, even if it cost his party their majorities; they did so fighting - passing the budget bill with tax increases, in 1993, by the Vice President breaking a tie in the Senate. He took it done to the thinnest of margins, while Obama, presiding over the opportunity to leverage the economy to justify a massive plan to stimulate spending, rebuild our infrastructure, and provide a safety net for healthcare, instead split the difference and gave us not enough stimulus, not enough jobs, and a plan that could have been politically popular but got so nicked away and neutered, that it lost some key provisions that made it worth doing in the first place.<br />
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Not that I found myself so inspired by the choices in the mid-terms. We all knew this was going to be an "eat your peas" presidency - with a lot of things we needed to do now, even though the benefits could take years to materialize, or because they were unpleasant but prevented a more unpleasant alternative. That's part of the reason it's such a shame we've forgotten the importance of electing people who are smart; who are experienced; who understand the issues better than we do and who know both the answer and how to get it through Congress.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt4RabnioRVxcTy-9s1AVv-lNfD2KO74V-Q5a0o9AE8GTpUU8oRnuag0nYMxnYKo6q8vDQFE_HWwMktyQDcXX63Kzbo8bxFMBXfZjHakp68xnSZbDwj2yC93Pkf0I51DlX_LDlPRbVbc-9/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt4RabnioRVxcTy-9s1AVv-lNfD2KO74V-Q5a0o9AE8GTpUU8oRnuag0nYMxnYKo6q8vDQFE_HWwMktyQDcXX63Kzbo8bxFMBXfZjHakp68xnSZbDwj2yC93Pkf0I51DlX_LDlPRbVbc-9/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>Instead, our culture of narcissism (which, of course, spawned blogs like this, so I'm self-aware, if hypocritical) means that the public at large thinks that the best answer to everything is "change!" And not just "throw the bums out" but "let's replace them with people like us." Apparently we're in a phase where the electorate is turning to "relatability" as a key determinative factor, without asking if these people are smart or capable enough to address the daunting slate of problems needing resolution. Do we really want folks willy-nilly tackling unemployment, the economy, defense, the deficit, when their most recent job qualification was being a talk show staple and possibly a teenage witch? Sabrina for President!<br />
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(OK, I know she lost, but still - the fact that she - along with a cohort of equally unlikely crackpots - got as far as they did, is a national embarrassment.)<br />
<br />
So, where does this all leave us?<br />
<br />
Why is change so troubling in one area - politics - where I long for some grown-ups to come along with boring stolidity and competence to get things done; and so stultifying in another - politics - where I long for something new?Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-82667993203431609432010-11-03T10:25:00.000-04:002010-11-03T10:25:44.441-04:00Nice TryHas anyone seen the new Nutella commercial? Where the mom serves her kids Nutella for breakfast, spreading it on multigrain toast, or, "even a whole wheat waffle."<br />
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Nice try. I can wrap Cotton Candy around a carrot and it's still crap.Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-39987849174788663802010-10-09T10:36:00.000-04:002010-10-09T10:36:34.884-04:00Middle Ages<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZajyL1VCsv8PmRa22Te3bqF70wXtRVOMxpDAF6amsNnXjNkQavTIYB1O-c6nVLy98C4FQefIaa5pgOZEIWXLlk7xswd4XLzdSs6-nhcJXyejb3RmKSR3NuhYf-jcYELTbJPkoVSJvHDF/s1600/Second+Marriage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZajyL1VCsv8PmRa22Te3bqF70wXtRVOMxpDAF6amsNnXjNkQavTIYB1O-c6nVLy98C4FQefIaa5pgOZEIWXLlk7xswd4XLzdSs6-nhcJXyejb3RmKSR3NuhYf-jcYELTbJPkoVSJvHDF/s320/Second+Marriage.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Warning: this post risks becoming sentimental.<br />
<br />
I woke up middle-aged this morning. <br />
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<br />
I don’t mean I feel older (I don’t), or look older (I do.) I don’t even mean I am older (I am. See my last post.) However, I feel like I’m turning a bend in the circle of life.<br />
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<br />
Yesterday my mother got married. Well, re-married. In the office of a town clerk down the block from my sister’s house, on the rainiest day we’ve had in months (not an omen) with my nieces and nephews screaming in the background (also, not an omen), my mother became someone’s wife – or ex-wife – other than my dad’s. <br />
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The truth is, my sister and I couldn’t be happier. As of yesterday morning, my mother had been separated from my father for 24½ years – seven years longer than they were married. Divorced, in the mold of second-wave feminism, not necessarily militaristically, but defiantly, she lived as if there was nothing an unmarried woman couldn’t do.<br />
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And she was right. She raised two kids, and sent both to college and grad school. She survived cancer, a brain tumor, and a hip replacement. She taught for more than thirty years, got an advanced degree, and became a principal. So who would have guessed, in her retirement, co-habitating with her boyfriend of three years wouldn’t be enough. That she still wanted the brass ring (ahem, diamond wedding band) – marriage. <br />
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Perhaps this is another hallmark of second-wave feminism – that the generation from which it spawned still has a vestigial attachment to marriage as an institution. Or maybe it’s the same as the argument I make about my own right to a same-sex marriage: that there is something just different about marriage. Anyway, this isn’t that kind of column. Moving on.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkufS6d1WbLbxsB_92FtDKs2i8jQxsrjS-hQJ55i3ER0lGC01qVc2vHLKN-h_OD7G4Ddc6hvP36Rt6Obhe6-IFy7GGLl956hXrbomIRm-wB7lrg2p829sBfFghN-zcxNvwZQw1kIdvhULZ/s1600/bradybunch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkufS6d1WbLbxsB_92FtDKs2i8jQxsrjS-hQJ55i3ER0lGC01qVc2vHLKN-h_OD7G4Ddc6hvP36Rt6Obhe6-IFy7GGLl956hXrbomIRm-wB7lrg2p829sBfFghN-zcxNvwZQw1kIdvhULZ/s320/bradybunch.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>We really like our new step-dad by the way. It’s weird calling him that, though. It’s not like we’re the Brady Bunch. <br />
<br />
It is nice that they share so much in common. Like travelling, sitting around, and listening to my mother talk. Plus, now that she has a new last name, I can always deny we’re related.<br />
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<br />
After the wedding, we went for lunch at the Jolly Fisherman – an old school seafood restaurant. You know the kind of place: the bread basket is a trough filled with breadsticks, saltines and oyster crackers; everything smells like chowder and Lemon Pledge, and the dinner rush is from 4 to 6pm. <br />
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I needn’t describe the food, most of you have been somewhere like this on a three-day summer weekend, with a client, or while visiting your grandparents in Florida. However, I do need to mention that, towards the end of the meal, my uncle went sheet-white (almost blue, actually) and rigid (note: this is not the place to make a joke about the ability of an 82 year-old man to go rigid.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEx09aIUY3lFcRQlugsg6t-jkMYHqiSewJpzkMaPBoxxD-KC_bGtFS3C2RYP4flbm1US8-xEvvp7-CwU5jm2M5j2TGaKY9TTaOE-5IaTz9ynfiHd-rkWe0mFPEjopcrmk4JRVlBPpHbxx/s1600/In-An-Emergency-Call-911-10664.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEx09aIUY3lFcRQlugsg6t-jkMYHqiSewJpzkMaPBoxxD-KC_bGtFS3C2RYP4flbm1US8-xEvvp7-CwU5jm2M5j2TGaKY9TTaOE-5IaTz9ynfiHd-rkWe0mFPEjopcrmk4JRVlBPpHbxx/s1600/In-An-Emergency-Call-911-10664.jpg" /></a></div>Did you know it can take 15 rings for 911 to answer the phone? I called from my cell, to near disbelief, while the restaurant had the same experience from a standard land line. Note to self: never require medical attention at the Jolly Fisherman.) When they finally answered, and agreed to send an ambulance, more than five minutes passed before I had to call again (better response time) and within two minutes nearly a dozen fire and EMT workers converged on The Jolly Fisherman.<br />
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<br />
We directed them to my uncle (which, to be honest was pretty necessary. With the lunch crowd that was present, it really could have been anyone. Not surprisingly, the restaurant staff greeted the EMTs like old friends. I think they left with half a dozen friend shrimp each.)<br />
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<br />
Anyway, he was conscious, but they gave him oxygen, took his vitals, and whisked him off to the hospital where he spent five hours in a hallway before finally getting a room. It was a horrible way to end a beautiful day, but you never know what the experience will do for him. When he had his heart condition 20 years ago, my uncle – a life-long racist – got a black roommate with whom he got along famously. They got on so well, I think he may have voted for Obama (but, probably not.) Maybe this time he’ll get to know a Latino other than those who’ve married into the family.<br />
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By the way, I’m sure I’m totally going to piss off at least half the family by writing this (the other half are seriously cracking up.) I got pretty well shunned after the Bar Mitzvah post. Still, as much as some of my relatives would probably wish I’d stop writing about them, they may not realize we’re wishing they’d stop departing our joyous family events ambulances.<br />
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<br />
<br />
Anyway, when the crisis had passed, we headed out to Sag Harbor to finally occupy the house we bought several months ago, but which had been rented until Sept 30. We unloaded a truck full of Costco supplies, as well as the contents of our storage unit, and worked well into the night. And, this morning, Neil and I woke up to a sunny October day.<br />
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We walked in to the village and got coffee, strolling past old whaling houses and churches and beautiful homes. After breakfast, I headed out for a run – passing a neighbor walking her dogs as the sun streamed through the trees. <br />
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And in those first few minutes of my run, I finally “got” the suburbs. I finally understood why people moved there. It wasn’t just about kids, or schools, or safety. As I ran, I passed porches and lawns and cyclists and kids. The local high school had its Homecoming Parade. I loved the peace and quiet; I loved the feeling of community – even though we’ve lived here all of eight hours. When I came home my husband was walking around the pool picking up leaves, and when he saw me he looked up and told me how happy he was, and how much he loved me.<br />
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For the past five or six years, I’ve felt – sometimes keenly – that I was aging. But it was a restlessness – a feeling of loss or regret – that “never-being-nineteen-again-ness” that makes you realize that you’ll never look a certain way again, or have the luxury of turning your life completely upside down and starting a new direction without significant consequences. But just as the desire and recklessness of my twenties passed into the ambition and restlessness of my thirties, something is coming with the approach of my forties. Some sense of achievement and contentedness – it hasn’t settled in yet, it’s just starting – and there’s still plenty of fight and desire and ambition left in me, but something’s coming.<br />
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Something.Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-23678475185369817052010-10-07T12:52:00.000-04:002010-10-07T12:52:25.477-04:00Birthday Blog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzgGQrqs74qWy5sbAeov_iJqpg41kH78s_zFesA7c9PSszRdzcU5-MiC3fp6_vHBnmEFkN2YYxhjEVyTpfYjfC2pOQEV2WRgNFPPRr_eqoepu-nprwpWfkcrrK9sjE2hQVkogIoLhkW44n/s1600/cake403.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzgGQrqs74qWy5sbAeov_iJqpg41kH78s_zFesA7c9PSszRdzcU5-MiC3fp6_vHBnmEFkN2YYxhjEVyTpfYjfC2pOQEV2WRgNFPPRr_eqoepu-nprwpWfkcrrK9sjE2hQVkogIoLhkW44n/s320/cake403.jpg" width="268" /></a></div>OK, we clearly need to talk about my birthday – and Neil’s – but before we do, there’s something I need to get off my chest.<br />
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What the fuck is going on in politics?<br />
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<br />
I’m sorry, I thought we hit a new low when nine Republicans stood on stage in 2008, seeking their party’s nomination for President, and fully two-thirds of them claimed not to believe in evolution. Seriously – serious people vying for the most powerful leadership position in the world, disclaiming something every third-grader knows, simply to pander to an ignorant population of Republican base voters. Rather than use the moment for leadership, to remind people that they can believe in God, and religion, and science (Darwin did), 6 of the 9 decided, instead, chose the low road.<br />
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I never realized I’d look back on that day, nostalgically, with the rise of the Tea Party. Rememebr the Boston Tea Party? That quaint event you learned about in American History – way back in elementary school? How the colonists, outraged by the taxes and injustices wrought upon them by Merry Old England – where they had no representation in Parliament – threw tea into Boston Harbor as a form of protest?<br />
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Somehow I’m failing to see the parallel between colonial America and the would-be Senator from Kentucky, who’d like to dismantle the Civil Rights Act. Because the best way to celebrate our heritage of going to great lengths to protect against unfairness and injustice is to let private business discriminate against Blacks. Sounds reasonable to me.<br />
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Or the Senate candidate from Nevada, who stands shoulder-to-shoulder in the history books with patriots such as Nathan Hale and Patrick Henry, for her courageous stand to eliminate the Department of Education. Nothing says freedom like ignorance, poverty and an utter lack of opportunity.<br />
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I think my favorite, though, has to be the Senate candidate from Delaware, though, Christine O’Donnell. Here was a clear pick-up for the Republicans. Mike Castle – experienced, well-respected, accomplished – would have won by at least 5 points. Instead, they ended up with a nutjob, whose outspoken against masturbation (you just lost men, ages 18-80, and any woman whose ever ridden Space Mountain.) And she may be a witch.<br />
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You know how I know.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYoaToe0uX2IPOl0mdGTr8LWpHewgwvJ88jCbdv1YmEYCoTwcPrW5c5Bp9oAghC1ehbPE_K6tFv4ffYOt6VIoC0lh96dL7diAEk5nRXez19gpc6QwzqszEBYvuVspCX51vX2WRiYvQ-4Dr/s1600/witch.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYoaToe0uX2IPOl0mdGTr8LWpHewgwvJ88jCbdv1YmEYCoTwcPrW5c5Bp9oAghC1ehbPE_K6tFv4ffYOt6VIoC0lh96dL7diAEk5nRXez19gpc6QwzqszEBYvuVspCX51vX2WRiYvQ-4Dr/s320/witch.gif" width="320" /></a></div>Because she has a commercial where she starts by saying, “I’m not a witch."<br />
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In the Nixonian tradition of “I am not a crook,” the Clintonian recitation of “I did not have sexual relations with that woman,” we can now add, “I am not a witch” to the political canon of me-thinks-thou-doth-protest-too-much.<br />
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If it were just electoral politics, I could chalk it up to the silly season that approaches every other year, to fill the yawning gap between Labor Day and Thanksgiving with something other than Halloween candy and the fall premiere of tv shows, 90 per cent of which won’t exist by Christmas and which all seem to inexplicably include Jenny McCarthy or someone from Friends. But it’s not. It’s also current events – which brings us to: The Mosque At Ground Zero.<br />
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Don’t you love the way I wrote that? It sounds like a title for an old Hardy Boys mystery, or maybe a romance novel with some shirtless, swarthy guy on the cover ripping the gown of a lusty, busty maiden. The Mosque At Ground Zero.<br />
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<br />
Or maybe an attraction or concert venue. The Theater at Madison Square Garden. The Inn at Little Washington. The Mosque At Ground Zero.<br />
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<br />
But no, The Mosque At Ground Zero, was nothing nearly as fun. It was another ugly, racist, small-minded chapter in our cable-news-driven shout-o-rama.<br />
<br />
Let’s set a few things straight.<br />
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The Mosque At Ground Zero, was not intended to be a mosque. It was a cultural center, on par with the Jewish Community Center on 76th and Amsterdam. Among the characteristics of this proto-house of worship are a swimming pool, ceramics classes, and a snack bar. <br />
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Nothing says God like nachos.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_yySaV5bHsLV-gtl0wvmF0t0b2a5pKRwi59U-V5qofOKsx8lGgBGtCPcZ1Y3Wujlii43kBAu0fb9Pp-K1LduAoedVMSpgFUL_6mzE3cyhcItxJ7CEnBoPM09yZ_gn4BGkuPntqDGiJDzu/s1600/Mosque.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_yySaV5bHsLV-gtl0wvmF0t0b2a5pKRwi59U-V5qofOKsx8lGgBGtCPcZ1Y3Wujlii43kBAu0fb9Pp-K1LduAoedVMSpgFUL_6mzE3cyhcItxJ7CEnBoPM09yZ_gn4BGkuPntqDGiJDzu/s320/Mosque.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Additionally, the Not-A-Mosque-At-Ground-Zero was NOT AT GROUND ZERO. What is at Ground Zero is a hole in the ground with a future office building and museum under construction. The Not-A-Mosque was located several blocks away, two storefronts over from a “Gentlemen’s Club,” in a former Burlington Coat Factory. Are suddenly finding hallowed ground in places that once hawked 50%-off-underwear? And can we all agree that only in America could people be offended by expressions of free religion, but not the boobs-in-your-face bottle service happening 200 feet west?<br />
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I’d like a side order of tits with my self-righteousness.<br />
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And so, dear readers, if you’d like to give me a gift this birthday, let’s pledge to end the hyperbole. Can we please end the era of The Mosque At Ground Zero simply because it sounds more inflammatory than The Cultural Center Down the Block from a Strip Joint? Can we stop taking umbrage every time there’s an opportunity to twist the truth into a sound bite, just so poor dumb people in flat state will send a check to Rand Paul or Fox News, or some other entity that needs it a lot less than a steel-worker or nurse with an eighth grade education.<br />
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Oh, and whoever got me what I wanted for my last birthday – thank you. I know it came almost a year late, but a Senate candidate who’s an actual witch. Yay. The gift of fodder.Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-91577468703009833272010-09-12T19:14:00.001-04:002010-09-12T19:23:15.787-04:00Adios<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSIdLTctvDZjr_Tlz6E0FcyfgCHh2NpBpT9H2r_Y7DMxBY2plAoOB7JfWMawp27Ej1ZZhqvsT_CFEw2JEH3ITwm8u8jMrhsRNoQpKkKONX4L0oIRKuxJe0LapysGAdsyRRuJSuDKP2ReQY/s1600/Barcelona.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSIdLTctvDZjr_Tlz6E0FcyfgCHh2NpBpT9H2r_Y7DMxBY2plAoOB7JfWMawp27Ej1ZZhqvsT_CFEw2JEH3ITwm8u8jMrhsRNoQpKkKONX4L0oIRKuxJe0LapysGAdsyRRuJSuDKP2ReQY/s320/Barcelona.jpg" /></a></div>I didn't need the twelve year old on the local news to tell me that it's raining - I can see that perfectly well from the window in my soul. (Ha! As if I have one.) And the one in my living room, which is where I'm sitting on the first day since May 17 not to reach 70 degrees (OK, so the local news girl-fetus teached me something.)<br />
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But it's the perfect weather to finish the story of our trip - which we left off just as our floating homotel docked in Barcelona.<br />
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We departed the ship in a flurry of hugs and kisses and basically whole bunch of middle-aged men totally queening out. Really, getting off that boat must look like the end of the Miss America pageant, which strikes me - in retrospect - as odd because I remember feeling like a Vietnamese boat person grateful for dry land.<br />
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Anyway, we dropped our bags at the hotel and went out to explore the city.<br />
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Here's a hint: loafers without socks is a poor, poor choice for exploring Barcelona by foot. It may have been a fashion plus, but it was a comfort minus as we tumbled over quaint, narrow cobblestone paths that shredded my soles to ribbons. After exploring La Rambla and the gothic neighborhoods in the Old City and the Raval, we rode the subway to Parc Guell to see the Antoni Gaudi architecture.<br />
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Maybe I was just tired and cranky and tired of hobbling round like I just hung out with Kathy Bates in Misery. It's possible. It was about 450 degrees and I was getting frustrated with the fact that, even though everyone understands Spanish when you speak to them, they insist on responding in Catalan, an unholy blend of Spanish and French that basically sounds like you're talking to a drunk, retarded Charo. So we headed back to the hotel.<br />
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Do you really need to hear that the hotel room that was definitely going to be ready by 2pm was still not available at 4? Are you so mew to this blog that you don't know the type of grace with which I handled this situation?<br />
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Our complimentarily upgraded room was lovely.<br />
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After dinner with our friend Mike (who had been on the cruise with us, working through his Men of All Nations coloring book - tonight's country, Cuba! - which came in handy since the waiter only spoke Catalan) we headed home and crashed, hopeful that tomorrow would help us understand why everyone we know seems to love Barcelona so much.<br />
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Why is it that I spend my vacations in churches and museums - two places I never go to at home, and which I don't exactly associate with "leisure time?"<br />
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In truth, the cathedral we visited first on Friday was gorgeous - large and impressive with apses and stained glass and biblical scenes. We followed it with a visit to the Picasso museum, where a retrospective of his earlier years was spectacular. Only by looking at his work chronologically can you see the work that shows him learning his craft in the style of the impressionists and neo-impressionist who preceded him. You can see him becoming great - experimenting first with factors such as color, as he begins to explore the boundaries of his art and express himself in a way that began the last important movement in the art world. You see him move to shape and shadow and ultimately the abstract movement he became synonymous with - a precursor to the violence of Miro and the surrealism of Dali.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi65cH3MATcNpsO4_WqpZfcfOxf92_rrjlfMt5IsFGlzXRHqfY79EHuisAiKAEVscIkW6Wt1pX892IEgbi8AtS1AEYAsSt7TjvL1S4YY4GguXQOP1bQblgqnfu61xxP6th7ksfzg_DCzc2S/s1600/PIcasso.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi65cH3MATcNpsO4_WqpZfcfOxf92_rrjlfMt5IsFGlzXRHqfY79EHuisAiKAEVscIkW6Wt1pX892IEgbi8AtS1AEYAsSt7TjvL1S4YY4GguXQOP1bQblgqnfu61xxP6th7ksfzg_DCzc2S/s320/PIcasso.jpg" /></a></div>And then you begin to understand Barcelona, and with it, Spain itself. The most important country in the world in the very late 15th and early 16th century - from the art and music of the Moorish period, to the Ferdinand and Isabella and Columbus period of exploration. But Spain lapses into the shadow of Europe as the later explorers were Dutch and English and French; as the Northern Renaissance highlights the contributions of the Dutch and Flemish painters; as the reformation era spotlights Germany and France, and ultimately - by the late 1500s, the age of Spain and the Spanish Hapsburgs recedes to over two centuries of British and French dominance. Yet, in the early 20th century, Spain re-emerges as the birthplace of the last great movements in art and architecture before the modern era of pop, revival and homage.<br />
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So now, we're liking Barcelona. After the museum, a glass of wine ('natch) and a dinner at a tiny restaurant called Pla, on a narrow dead-end street in the old city.<br />
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On our last full day in Barcelona we took the train out to Sitges and hit the beach. A combination of Provincetown and Puerta Vallarta, Sitges is a charming beach community with a narrow strip of sand (chairs, 5 Euro) and plenty of places to buy an ice cream cone, fried potatoes, and expensive jewelry. You know, whether it's Rehoboth Beach, Delaware or the other side of the planet, I can't figure out why every gay beach resort pairs speedo clad muscle men with caloric snack treats. <br />
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Which pretty much serves as the tagline for this trip. Too much sun, too much skin, too much ice cream. <br />
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When we return, it's back to America - whatever's left of it.Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-9524192074728395612010-09-08T11:40:00.000-04:002010-09-08T11:40:13.710-04:00Float Your Boat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQppyY_bGZQDl3-WG-KN2xdUNz3PbJ6u2Il4b3nqi_a2XrSMbG8tR226NfKC0GdZIYF9EPaR0KGclZ0S_vsCY4snmjQxPoViN7ra0GClM3tThY2IB6jJEpNhVfENOwJ9JJ81nbyMMd33SJ/s1600/thomas_english_muffins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQppyY_bGZQDl3-WG-KN2xdUNz3PbJ6u2Il4b3nqi_a2XrSMbG8tR226NfKC0GdZIYF9EPaR0KGclZ0S_vsCY4snmjQxPoViN7ra0GClM3tThY2IB6jJEpNhVfENOwJ9JJ81nbyMMd33SJ/s320/thomas_english_muffins.jpg" /></a></div>Monday, August 23, 2010<br />
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I took my last work call in the kitchen, hastily toasting a low-fat English Muffin (bleh) and assembling some low-fat cheese and full-fat Genoa salame. Not exactly what you want to consume mere hours before spending 10 days floating around the Mediterranean amid the harshest critics imaginable. But my body needed food and I couldn’t bear the thought of peanut butter and jam.<br />
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I hadn’t really scheduled myself for this call – and the truth was I needed more than the 7 remaining minutes I had for it – but the message got across and the client got everything they needed to get them through Labor Day. Including, God help me, a number to call the cruise line.<br />
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Yes, folks, for those of you who’ve been faithful followers since the start – we’re back at the blog that started it all…the Atlantis Mediterranean cruise. From Athens to Barcelona – on a ship the size of a sideways skyscraper, more than 2,500 middle aged homos from around the globe (and 2 lesbians) will stuff themselves into nominal amounts of spandex, pour themselves voluminous amounts of liquor, and desecrate the holy lands of at least three cultures.<br />
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And once again, I’m blogging it all – every bad tour guide, tweaked out muscle boy, and repetitive meal – cause as they say in Steel Magnolias: If you don’t have anything nice to say, come sit by me.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtWRwIk6mYmdCK0p79WQa5ZfrxHhYBiH6zh4ymMbJ8C4TU9Xs6uVDJ2tBZFo57aAmQnqf3nH1owQb4v_TbVsreWxSeREKiAtRHMlJ3SohN9tDtlmObffZnib4QiDzrJ8JIiJm0fjiZKRqY/s1600/Avion_Air_France.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtWRwIk6mYmdCK0p79WQa5ZfrxHhYBiH6zh4ymMbJ8C4TU9Xs6uVDJ2tBZFo57aAmQnqf3nH1owQb4v_TbVsreWxSeREKiAtRHMlJ3SohN9tDtlmObffZnib4QiDzrJ8JIiJm0fjiZKRqY/s320/Avion_Air_France.jpg" /></a></div>This year’s adventure starts at Kennedy airport, after two solid days of rain and nine solid months of travel. I’ve been so burnt out at work, actually dream about ways to position our software while I’m sleeping, and come up with financial models when I run. <br />
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The fact that I needed a break – and that I spend too much time in airports – couldn’t have been more evident where the fact that Air France gave away our Business Class seats nearly drove me around the twist. Not that we weren’t sitting in in Business Class – just that they moved us from row 4 to row 9.<br />
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I don’t know if it’s all the years of using miles, or charm, or luck to get an upgrade – but this year (after last year’s uncomfortable 9 hour journey home. In coach. In a middle seat. On Continental. I sprung for the real deal – paying, for the first time ever, for business class seats. If my mother knew, I’d not only get dis-invited to Rosh Hashanah, but I might be kicked out of Judaism completely. (You need to meet my family to know that we’re experts in getting more than we paid for and still, somehow, feeling wronged. It’s an art.)<br />
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Maybe it was that I picked those seats specifically – not a bulkhead – not the last row where you don’t recline all the way or you spend 7 hours smelling other people poop or hearing the flight attendants make coffee. Whatever it was, I wanted row 4 and I was beginning to become as irrational and unhinged as I sound right now. <br />
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I’ll spare you the rest of the tale – which doesn’t really make me look worse (as if that were possible) but is repetitive in a way that forces me to see the “crazy” myself – and since we’re just starting this vacation, I think I’ll avoid the self-loathing until at least Naples, where the combination of pizza and 6 days of liquor should have me pretty well worked up into a cheesy froth of insecurity. Suffice it to say, we were seated in row 4 before we boarded that plane. <br />
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You don’t spend half your life in airports and not learn a thing or two.<br />
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Karma’s a bitch, though, and our flight – which was scheduled to arrive at 6am in Paris, connecting to a 7:20am flight to Athens, sat on the ground with a delay of nearly an hour and a half. As the wheels left earth at 6:02 pm I turned to Neil and said, “I hope they’ve got another flight to Athens.”<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd6RXNk2PD6aUxmbp0ITXsrup1KrgOMVIZir0FrVDIDEdV31Teo3ZcPN2jToifXgKIsJrNpSDE5wkOcq2WDmtSeyKR_KDo000ekcA0jrqkwlyzXiZZ3erwyg12KtNnl-dGzyD9TEj1_Vc5/s1600/degaulle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd6RXNk2PD6aUxmbp0ITXsrup1KrgOMVIZir0FrVDIDEdV31Teo3ZcPN2jToifXgKIsJrNpSDE5wkOcq2WDmtSeyKR_KDo000ekcA0jrqkwlyzXiZZ3erwyg12KtNnl-dGzyD9TEj1_Vc5/s320/degaulle.jpg" /></a></div>I knew they did – I checked it before I booked. Two in fact –but the last thing you want to do is leave your travel to chance when you’re catching a cruise ship. I attempted to relax through 2 episodes of The Simpsons that I’d never seen, a rather entertaining viewing of Shrek Forever After, and enough brie to require a stent. Still, the time passed fairly quickly and at 6:48am as we stepped into Charles De Gaulle I looked at my husband, with all the tenderness I could muster, and said, “Move your ass.”<br />
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Tuesday, August 24, 2010<br />
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We walked in a way that bordered on running – past the throngs of overnight fliers arriving in Paris. Past the Africans and Americans and Pacific Islanders. We sailed past gate after gate. Through automatic doors and up and down escalators. We passed passport control (thank you Priority Line), down moving walkways and through crowded thoroughfare. We made it through security in less than 2 minutes. Sweating through our clothes and feeling both depleted and rather proud of ourselves, we arrived at the departure gate at 7:11am (and 48 seconds.)<br />
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And they wouldn’t let us board the plane.<br />
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Oh, it was there. And they hadn’t closed the doors. And they hadn’t cleared it for departure. But they had closed the flight – and nothing I could say (and certainly nothing I could say in English) was going to change their minds. Once again, given an opportunity to make a spectacle of myself in an airport, I chose this time to limit myself to a few grunts and groans, and went to customer service where we received rebooked seats on the 10am flight. We retired to the lounge for whatever meal you eat when it’s 8am in Paris and 2am in New York. I’m not sure what you call it, but comes with a cookie.<br />
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2:15pm<br />
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We finally slept on the second flight. Arriving at what would have been 1 am for us wasn’t really a stretch – but after nearly three hours cooling our heels at DeGaulle, we were out shortly after we hit our seats on the Athens flight – meaning we nearly missed our brush with royalty.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgJ_BWTf1uBs6UgwDW0WGBKPvClqdmIpy-Pk42lAaFrEVtfDybOCq2L5Hkhq75cwJrTpaKltuWV9DI8R8xVhCmrdYEfm8_n_TzMcuKgDoQjDmri0lvokmPAozq8W3PoP9QPLJa39gEz6fg/s1600/QueenMargretheII.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgJ_BWTf1uBs6UgwDW0WGBKPvClqdmIpy-Pk42lAaFrEVtfDybOCq2L5Hkhq75cwJrTpaKltuWV9DI8R8xVhCmrdYEfm8_n_TzMcuKgDoQjDmri0lvokmPAozq8W3PoP9QPLJa39gEz6fg/s320/QueenMargretheII.jpg" /></a></div>Apparently, the Queen of Denmark was on our flight – which came as a total surprise, since she was so unassuming. If it weren’t for the security detail who leapt from row 5 to escort her off the plane and into a Volvo (aren’t those Swedish? Does Denmark make a car?) we never would have known.<br />
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It’s embarrassing – I have an advanced degree in European History and I can’t remember if I knew Denmark had a Queen. I’m still not even sure if she rules, or is more of a figurehead in a Constitutional Monarchy, like Great Britain. Still, I’m not too troubled by it – I’m about to spend the next week and half with so many queens, that one more is really just a rounding error.<br />
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But, can we just say – for a minute – how cool it is that the Queen of an entire country flies commercial – and with a connecting flight. Could you imagine the American president going to Copenhagen through Paris? On Delta?<br />
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Even Oprah don’t fly commercial anymore.<br />
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Athens. Tuesday, August 24. 4:30pm. <br />
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The Athens-Piraeus Cruise Terminal is hot. And crowded. We have to clear passport check, submit health forms, clear Israeli immigration (3 days before we even get to Israel? If the US INS could pull this off we wouldn’t have that whole racist Arizona-immigration law thing where the police can now pull you over simply for looking Mexican – which means with my dark skin and affinity for guacamole, I can’t go to Arizona anymore.) Between the hoards of people crammed into too small a space, and the whole atmosphere of being processed from one station to the next, I begin to wonder if this is what it was like to be gay during the Holocaust. You know, without the Louis Vuitton luggage and the genocide.<br />
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Everywhere we turn we’re looking for familiar faces – friends we’re hoping to catch up with, people we might recognize from last year. I see a guy I once went on a date with in Washington and another who looks familiar put whom I can’t quite place (did we…? No. Not possible. Right?) Neil sees his little friend who worked last year’s cruise…then friended him on Facebook. Mmhmm.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP3CYM7bcKh1nELg2Pd0sG8OLjGSrxulGZ3SgZFqgqSEEXOOI-MIJpetSmDQZelGiTp8wo-3Xti-XH74RDIOWY4V2tXycoh-10BCToXFFojRTchCqAH6DZKe8NyYFZm0fxyHQiBMTZp5AA/s1600/celebrityequinox3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP3CYM7bcKh1nELg2Pd0sG8OLjGSrxulGZ3SgZFqgqSEEXOOI-MIJpetSmDQZelGiTp8wo-3Xti-XH74RDIOWY4V2tXycoh-10BCToXFFojRTchCqAH6DZKe8NyYFZm0fxyHQiBMTZp5AA/s320/celebrityequinox3.jpg" /></a></div>When we finally board I head straight for the shower, having barely slept in 29 hours, while Neil changes clothes…then we head off to explore the ship. It’s a different boat than last year, though the same cruise line and the ship looks and feels exactly the same – a minor adjustment here and there, and we find ourselves in a life size version of that puzzle from Highlights magazine for Children – where they show you two pictures side-by-side and you have to spot the difference.<br />
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Otherwise, it’s like a big game of Old McDonald: Here a bear, there a bear. A couple. A thruple. A minor porn star.<br />
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At the welcome party, once again we’re moving before we even realize it. They’re pouring the drinks heavy and pushing doubles – the reason for which becomes apparent after we comment how much less crowded the party seems compared to last year: on a ship built to accommodate nearly 3,500 – our group is just over 1,700 – about a thousand less than last year. And here’s where I need a soapbox:<br />
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Last year, within a month of sailing, we get an email from Atlantis, asking us to refer a friend, and – if they book, they’ll get 50% off. Now that’s a lovely gesture, but the referrer got nothing – other than a vague allusion in the email that, maybe, we could split the discount. <br />
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Yeah, that’s not an awkward phone call. “Hey there! You should come with Neil and I on the Atlantis cruise – they’ve cut the price from $4,000 to $2,000 – but you should give us $1,000 for getting you such a great discount! Wanna come!”<br />
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Last year, I found Rich Campbell – the President of Atlantis and I called him on it…and he swore it was a one-time thing and that they NEVER give discounts. So, when we decided we wanted to come again this year – different itinerary – and we wanted to see Israel and Barcelona – we signed up nearly a year in advance for the “absolute best discount you’re going to get.”<br />
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So – of course – with the economy still in the toilet --- and with Atlantis having booked ten cruises this year, including back-to-back Mediterranean cruises, attendance has suffered. The atmosphere is fine – it’s not like we’re missing a thousand extra people – but it really burns my toast that folks who waited until last month got the same cabin for nearly half the price. Worse yet – Atlantis sent out emails offering the folks who signed up early a shipboard credit and some perks – and we never got the email.<br />
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So, you know I’ll be saying something to Rich again this year.<br />
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After the cocktail party and some dinner, we totally crashed around 10pm, only to find ourselves awake at 3am – thoroughly jetlagged. Neil went out to explore, but wasn’t really gone long – if there were evening activities, they had mostly died down.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjRfzYxnXiBW7CrrBGD4aU1AWbT6fXK694GoN6kIRSmPPAX2RYdY-oB_RGht1ByP_UKtisGsMMPANrtHUMglBTGFdZLsNzDyJXkBb2lQQuuvxX3IUfCDJaS1ZM18FfAKNY8j_hBvkT_4q/s1600/Equinox+Gym.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjRfzYxnXiBW7CrrBGD4aU1AWbT6fXK694GoN6kIRSmPPAX2RYdY-oB_RGht1ByP_UKtisGsMMPANrtHUMglBTGFdZLsNzDyJXkBb2lQQuuvxX3IUfCDJaS1ZM18FfAKNY8j_hBvkT_4q/s320/Equinox+Gym.jpg" /></a></div>Western Mediterranean. At sea. Wednesday, August 25. 10:30am.<br />
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Once again, our first full day is spent at sea, and once again the gym is the business place on the ship. I’d sarcastically comment on the dissonance of going on vacation, only to do everything you do at home – but since my own day began with a trip to the gym, followed by a breakfast of fruit and egg whites, I can’t really find a good place in this glass house from which to throw a stone.<br />
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By noon we’ve settled into lounge chairs and are surveying the crowd. In addition to some friends from back home, we see an old housemate from Fire Island – here with his boyfriend, as well as a notorious alcoholic I went to college with and who once hooked up with a friend of ours. Plus, this cruise still draws plenty of guys from Washington, D.C., meaning I’m constantly seeing people I recognize but can’t really place. What I find really disturbing is when they look like they haven’t aged a day. Because there’s nothing more fun than revisiting your 20s as a bald guy approaching 40.<br />
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The highlight of the afternoon is the Dog Tag Tea Dance, and I wish I could tell you that the reality of this event is more tasteful than it sounds. The idea is to dress in military garb (why do so many gay gatherings revolve around costuming?) which is generally translated as one of the following:<br />
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• One piece of an actual military uniform (as in, just the pants. Or the shirt.)<br />
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• A military-themed speedo<br />
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• Military-themed underwear.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6CDQ4KH7jY-MSFEx9s_Pi3FOT56gNiM-rLs4w70twrHX7OMq1-vEFbu0dK6rD9YQHHmClsC9BtLwLu2g3hkCh7qE8I1y5A1fDUm32Ig-0kNtA7QhaLYWw6n3oookoHbcC0sMu5F6K8Zz-/s1600/Gay_milt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6CDQ4KH7jY-MSFEx9s_Pi3FOT56gNiM-rLs4w70twrHX7OMq1-vEFbu0dK6rD9YQHHmClsC9BtLwLu2g3hkCh7qE8I1y5A1fDUm32Ig-0kNtA7QhaLYWw6n3oookoHbcC0sMu5F6K8Zz-/s320/Gay_milt.jpg" /></a></div>The outfit gets paired with a dog tag, worn on a chain, and adorned with a sticker colored to correspond to one’s sexual availability. Red means “coupled,” while yellow apparently means “coupled, but we don’t really care about each other enough not to have sex with random people we meet on a cruise. So, we’re willing to engage in behavior that pretty much guarantees we either won’t be a couple by the time we hit Barcelona, or that at least one of us has low enough self-esteem not to care.” See – this is why we need colored stickers – because you can’t fit all that on a dog tag.<br />
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So, by now you’ve figured out that green means “Available,” though there is also an option for “Double Green” – two stickers, which apparently means “Don’t even introduce yourself, just stick your hands down my pants. I mean speedo.”<br />
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No wonder people think cruises are romantic.<br />
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We indulge in a couple of cocktails and some dancing, while we try to scope out some guys for our friend Mike, who has resorted to a pair of green stickers. It really is such a mystery to me how there can be some really great guys out there who can’t seem to find someone – especially when there are so many people going contently coupling off and going through life with a yellow sticker.<br />
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10pm. Deck 5. Blu.<br />
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OK – I wanted to try this restaurant last year. It’s not the main dining room, but the up-charge is less than the other “specialty” restaurants. It’s a more organic, simpler menu, with lots of grilled dishes and my New York Strip is a little tough, but otherwise quite delicious. <br />
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Plus: We made new friends. I love new friends. After the age of 30, you really don’t make too many new friends unless you’re a hooker or a Mormon. Yet, so far we’ve made friends on both cruises. <br />
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Mike and Patrick are actually friends of Mark and Todd (whom we’ve written about at least three times and, honestly, if you haven’t caught up by now I’m not going to bother. It doesn’t really hurt the story, so just keep reading.) We met them last October when we went to see Mark and Todd in East Hampton, but are just getting to know them on this cruise. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU0R7c0lhUOPMMWo0HJXzI7uevTm4cZctsUMwhO07V_zxXzUeX4gxzM9mQkLhn6i_Weycn2MNM3aYWeSalv8hit-FmFumEO_RZzn6DZcmeGZ4w9AWUuTfUExyZfhHosIAoJOmHIRqJcdKY/s1600/blackberry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU0R7c0lhUOPMMWo0HJXzI7uevTm4cZctsUMwhO07V_zxXzUeX4gxzM9mQkLhn6i_Weycn2MNM3aYWeSalv8hit-FmFumEO_RZzn6DZcmeGZ4w9AWUuTfUExyZfhHosIAoJOmHIRqJcdKY/s320/blackberry.jpg" /></a></div>In a weird way, they’re us. Mike is in a high pressure career where he’s constantly working and he’s already spent a fair portion of their trip on the Blackberry. Patrick leaves his work at work, and is more detailed about the house. When we met them in East Hampton last year, they had thrown a party. Apparently, five hours before the guests were about to arrive, Mike went out for a run while Patrick was up to his elbows in party-prep. Plug in Eric for Mike, Neil for Patrick and New Year’s for last October, and Neil and I could tell the same story.<br />
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After dinner, we opt out of “Fanta-Sea” – the evening party (they really should just call the parties: Green Speedo, Blue Speedo, Red Speedo, White Speedo and Oh, Fuck It, Just Come Naked.) We’re tired, still adjusting to the time, and it’s nearly 11:30. We’re going to need to get up at 6:15 to disembark at 7:45 for Jerusalem.<br />
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So, I’ll bid you Shalom and see you tomorrow.<br />
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Jerusalem. Thursday, August 26. 8am.<br />
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We had a little sideshow getting off the boat, since the immigration cards we needed to leave the ship only had a stamp for me – not Neil. Bracing ourselves to try and explain that Neil was neither a terrorist, a Muslim, or even a fairly decent Catholic, we got the situation rectified fairly quickly and joined the private tour we booked. Ten of us boarded a bus for the Holy Land.<br />
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“GUYS! Now I am really serious about this…” began virtually every sentence for ten hours. Spiritually, this woman was the sister of last year’s Egyptian guide, leaving me to wonder that if we left peace in the middle east up to the tour guides, we’d probably have a treaty – but in order to achieve it we might all have to spend endless hours on a hot tour bus eating sketchy falafel and getting yelled at.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLCa7Orfywsqhd3AhLfa1Pc6lushx-giIxGEXYfZoIh9NT6LKc3quv-wfI4vo7Yx2hndIZY_484LEXyPf6fQ7MpaGbAWx0_P3mq8f27FH_XYODxbuX-tKsRczLP6hSfroWKtVO3DLBHqu-/s1600/Dome+of+the+Rock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLCa7Orfywsqhd3AhLfa1Pc6lushx-giIxGEXYfZoIh9NT6LKc3quv-wfI4vo7Yx2hndIZY_484LEXyPf6fQ7MpaGbAWx0_P3mq8f27FH_XYODxbuX-tKsRczLP6hSfroWKtVO3DLBHqu-/s320/Dome+of+the+Rock.jpg" /></a></div>If Egypt was dirtier and more disappointing than I expected, Israel was far more wondrous. Until you’ve seen it, it is easy to wonder why so much has been made of such a small strip of land. Once you’ve seen it, however, it overwhelms you in a way that’s hard to explain. There is, quite frankly, something inspiring about being in the presence of such intense purity of faith. Quite unlike the fundamentalist Christians of the American south, or the ornate testament of the Vatican, Jerusalem somehow manages to seem less dogmatic and doctrinaire. Perhaps there’s been a resignation of sorts among the people who live there, and those who visit, that despite the rhetoric associated with the geopolitics, ultimately they’ve accepted having to share Jerusalem. <br />
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In the span of a few hours we witnessed a bar mitzvah at the Wailing Wall (the last remaining structure from the destruction of the 2nd temple,) a mass at the Church of all Nations (built in the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus was arrested) and a daily incense ritual at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (where the last 3 of the 14 Stations of the cross are located), including copts (an Egyptian sect that predates Islam), Armenians and Franciscan friars. The doors of the church are guarded by Muslims – handed down through the same two families for generations.<br />
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It is difficult not to comes away awed. And also wet. From the sweating. Ten homos who were bemoaning a day without the gym quickly changed their tunes as every stop seemed to require trudging uphill or up staircases in ninety degree heat. And I know at least one person was thinking that if they were dragging a wooden cross with them they might be able to add a little upper body conditioning to their cardio. If I get back to New York and Equinox is offering a group fitness class called Jesus Journey or Crucifixion Cardio, I’m cancelling my membership.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Pdy_8tbd9umbqk2yqZVBxcmjNOKNfI29QfLcWpCqzbmBcjuSbS5PZRokbWZRZIeP7Poy3cfTJzGyFJaJb3O0dM1Bpzm8zi1L4KoHEtqLdWkVf_O27dEgFXEX5BeRhCldVKlmLjn2Wqnl/s1600/hotel-montefiore-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Pdy_8tbd9umbqk2yqZVBxcmjNOKNfI29QfLcWpCqzbmBcjuSbS5PZRokbWZRZIeP7Poy3cfTJzGyFJaJb3O0dM1Bpzm8zi1L4KoHEtqLdWkVf_O27dEgFXEX5BeRhCldVKlmLjn2Wqnl/s320/hotel-montefiore-6.jpg" /></a></div>When we arrived back at the boat, we put our feet up for a few hours then rallied to head in to Tel Aviv for dinner and a night out. A friend recommended the restaurant at the Hotel Montefiore, and I can confidently recommend it to you. Decorated with simple modern touches – white walls and ceiling; dark wood finishes, palm fronds, leather arm less chairs and benches – it could have been any trendy restaurant in TriBeCa or South Beach. The clean look was accompanied by a menu of clean flavors, largely inspired by French Vietnamese and Mediterranean tastes. <br />
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Neil started with “small ‘noms’” – an array of spring rolls filled with shrimp, pork and vegetables. His entrée, a duck confit with fig and caramel sauce was surprisingly savory – the sweetness bringing out the flavors of the duck without going too far into sweet or gamey. I began with a classic pho, chock full of herbs like cilantro and mint, along with jalapeno pepper, glass noodles and sirloin. I could have made a meal out of a larger bowl of that soup – though I’m glad I didn’t. My whole roasted branzino was simply grilled with capers, lemon and olive oil, and adding a touch of salt gave me a meal that I could devour from head to tail without feeling bloated or guilty. <br />
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After dinner it was nearly midnight, and we eschewed the local dance club for the 12:30 bus back to the ship. The ride was nearly an hour and we felt we didn’t need to wait on a line and pay a cover charge just to dance shirtless with the same queers we’ll be dancing with our next two days at sea.<br />
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And since we have two full days at sea coming up, I’ll leave you here, since I know there will be plenty of antics to report tomorrow….<br />
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Western Mediterranean. Friday, August 27, 2010. 9:15am.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbtjTObfMdCct1SbPSl8LkJWOHXIHWmxxGkUufBXhZeVP86KZustGf2vod2zYX1bjBqDzrbzuHhj8TmnWhQh1-wRhY17IZDtIj4zH8_yHbYGR3xWW_e7NHODzSV3KXfCxloQt-8H3UY274/s1600/the+wall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbtjTObfMdCct1SbPSl8LkJWOHXIHWmxxGkUufBXhZeVP86KZustGf2vod2zYX1bjBqDzrbzuHhj8TmnWhQh1-wRhY17IZDtIj4zH8_yHbYGR3xWW_e7NHODzSV3KXfCxloQt-8H3UY274/s320/the+wall.jpg" /></a></div>We got a late start on Friday – sleeping off the exhaustion and alcohol of the middle east – though as we compared our visits to Jerusalem and Tel Aviv we wondered whether the whole peace process needed less fundamentalist religiosity and more vodka. Everybody we met in Tel Aviv – Israeli, Arab, American, European – was friendly and open. And drunk. Hillary Clinton, take note. Hey – during her presidential campaign we all saw the B-roll of her doing shots with John McCain on Armed Forces Committee junkets. Girlfriend needs to break out the leftover champagne from Chelsea’s wedding (the bottle the groom’s family didn’t take home for Rosh Hashanah) and get some drunk Hebrews and Palestinians to get down to business.<br />
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Where the hell was I?<br />
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Oh, yeah. The cruise. <br />
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We’re also stalled this morning because we are already weary of the breakfast buffet. Somehow, the staggering sameness will actually make the staggering sameness of our routine at home seem fun by comparison. I simply can’t face another plate of cut up pineapple or half a grapefruit with a big red grape in the center. I can’t navigate the omelet station. I can’t dispense Froot Loops from a bin. <br />
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We reserve chairs at the pool, head to the gym, and – finally – go eat. Between the gym and the egg whites, actually, the only sign we’re actually on vacation is the floating skyscraper we’re aboard.<br />
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Meanwhile, the afternoon brings a déjà vu of a different sort – a repeat of last year’s entertainment. Wednesday had the rip-off of Project Runway; today had “Are You Smarter than a Straight Girl?” Since there are 1743 gay men on this boat, and only 4 straight girls, I’d say the answer to that question is clearly, “No.”<br />
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You know, I realize that not everyone on this boat is a repeat Atlantis customer, but they could really use some innovation and updating on the program. The same ship, the same team, the same use of venues, the same events – even the same questions in the trivia competition. The only thing different is the entertainment. And, seriously – last year we had a nice musical show, Pam Ann, and Patti Lupone. I’m sorry – but Courtney Act, the Austrailian Idol contestant who got kicked off as a man but made it to seventh place as a woman – is not great entertainment. Neither are the comedy stylings of Shawn Pelofsky – a cheap Barbra Streisand look-alike who isn’t funny. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTXFb_Rx_GcU1KpINiE4m2BWEGvKRbZ1V_oFlERg6fS0USAm8GSKF0324x3tgojZymQkbhOWuJywCPD7QgVwRPnu5ValNAF3ymrqncyyjQwDVjNXznBH2Y4h0eGr_T0dU4KVwubzYfLS5v/s1600/erasure_39a_338x400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTXFb_Rx_GcU1KpINiE4m2BWEGvKRbZ1V_oFlERg6fS0USAm8GSKF0324x3tgojZymQkbhOWuJywCPD7QgVwRPnu5ValNAF3ymrqncyyjQwDVjNXznBH2Y4h0eGr_T0dU4KVwubzYfLS5v/s320/erasure_39a_338x400.jpg" /></a></div>And the ship’s headliner: Andy Bell from Erasure – which would have the potential to be a HUGE draw. If it were 1987.<br />
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Still, the liquor flows freely and we slid easily from tea dance (shirtless dancing with drinks at 6pm) to cocktails (shirted cocktails at 8pm) to dinner with Jaime and Tom, ex-boyfriends to each other and new friends to us, from New York and Denmark, respectively. Oddly, though, when we were seated at the main dining room, we ended up with a tagalong – Leo from Boston – who somehow got routed to our table (despite our indication that we were fine being a party of 4.) <br />
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Alright – I have been bound and determined on this trip to be charming and smiling and friendly. As a reaction to all those mean, superior, disdainful gays who think they’re too good for everyone else, I feel an obligation to be kind and make sure that my general attitude of superiority doesn’t get in the way of someone else’s joy on an expensive vacation. Besides, that’s what this blog is for.<br />
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But it is pretty awkward to be seated as a four, only to find an extra person seated with you. Or sort of with you. They sat Leo at the table next to us – alone, but not – and everything from his meal selection to the service happened about ten minutes ahead of us. And, not only did he refuse an opportunity to excuse himself as soon as the mis-step was noted, but he was difficult to engage our draw out during the meal. So, after trying several times – I just gave up. Sorry – but it’s been hard enough to leave my Blackberry off; I’m not in the mood for that much personal growth this week.<br />
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Somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea. Saturday, August 28, 2010.<br />
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A time change sailing west resulted in Neil and I being up early – and since we resisted the late night party that kept our friends dancing until 6am – we had the gym to ourselves at 9am. We followed our workout with a departure from the breakfast buffet and tried Brunch in the dining room. I’d like to saw it was markedly different from the ordinary breakfast – but it was largely the same omelet station with a different backdrop. Well, that and the totally random assortment of foodstuffs: spinach and meat lasagna, right next to smoked salmon and cream cheese, next to French fries, next to marinated mushrooms next to waffles. <br />
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I’d love to say the afternoon included a ceramics class, or an opportunity to learn about marine biology, but it was really just laying around nearly naked – with small strips of spandex covering my naughty bits, while I fried in the sun, splashed in the pool, and started drinking at 5. By 7 we were dancing, and by our 9pm dinner reservation we were tanked.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi73OJ6mbDtkTzYRjf2jpHCFbDrcppDLausRwrpLpDkNDoLgPb5nymmZGael6xaPp-tT-8VyFCMzSnhyphenhyphenIOxHWVUMO6VqyWMIoFz0U3yagconb2mnEupapSvmPz6-uuXZZqRXpVkqx2laVRT/s1600/silk_harvest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi73OJ6mbDtkTzYRjf2jpHCFbDrcppDLausRwrpLpDkNDoLgPb5nymmZGael6xaPp-tT-8VyFCMzSnhyphenhyphenIOxHWVUMO6VqyWMIoFz0U3yagconb2mnEupapSvmPz6-uuXZZqRXpVkqx2laVRT/s320/silk_harvest.jpg" /></a></div>If you are ever aboard a Celebrity Cruise – please avoid the Silk Harvest asian restaurant. Imagine, if you will, a series of La Choy frozen appetizers, thrown in a deep fryer and covered with packets of sugary duck sauce from the Chinese takeout place. That meal would be better – and more authentic – than what we ate.<br />
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But I was tanked and surrounded by cute boys, so who cares?<br />
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Messina, Sicily. Sunday, August 29, 2010<br />
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Picture it. Sicily. 2010.<br />
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I’ve been waiting all week to use that line. We took a bus from the port in Messina to Taormina (which Neil keeps calling, “Tiramisu”,) a medieval village high above the Mediterranean. Wandering ancient streets we visited churches and a Greek theater, then settling in an outdoor café where we dined on homemade pasta with eggplant and tomato, along with pizza topped with spicy salame.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-SBkASgvHcviqLjVMp6ohNpT-vopW_XtyejMboy-8FtX5cO1k_Cha1S7AdGc8-vO4uuvaBdk7D57VI5UxUYgq9lWJqMjPwJax1xt86jlmMTBeH9vzJ7c-XY7-fGme8F3GKEilmzArNNL-/s1600/Sicily.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-SBkASgvHcviqLjVMp6ohNpT-vopW_XtyejMboy-8FtX5cO1k_Cha1S7AdGc8-vO4uuvaBdk7D57VI5UxUYgq9lWJqMjPwJax1xt86jlmMTBeH9vzJ7c-XY7-fGme8F3GKEilmzArNNL-/s320/Sicily.jpg" /></a></div>It was a short day, and there isn’t really much to tell – particularly if I want to get to the good ports – so I’ll fast forward a bit. We got back on the ship around 5pm; went to the gym; went to happy hour for cocktails and dancing; then went to dinner with our new friend Ron (who has a home near our place in Sag Harbor), Mark and Todd (remember, I’m not going to remind you who they are. Pay attention.) and Mike and Patrick. <br />
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God – my vacation has the same predictable repetition as my life. I’m so fucking boring.<br />
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Naples, Italy. Monday, August 30, 2010. 4pm.<br />
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This is where it gets fun.<br />
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OK – I’ve done the standard sight-seeing of the Amalfi Coast, and last year our cruise stopped here so Neil got to see Capri, Sorrento and Pompeii. I suppose we could have taken a guided tour to Herculaneum. Or gone back to Capri, maybe spent more time shopping or went swimming out to the Blue Grotto. <br />
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Instead, however, we took Mark and Todd up an offer to rent a car from the Naples train station and drive up the coast to Ravello, a small Cliffside town set above Amalfi with a spectacular view of the sea. We disembarked around 9:30am, where a hundred cab drivers immediately descended upon us – all wanting our fare. I suppose these cruises are usually a feeding frenzy of fat Americans who only want to come to Naples and eat real pizza. Today, however, they got 2000 homos whose daily carb consumption is the equivalent of half a breadstick – many of whom have arranged tours. <br />
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So, I’m trying to be empathetic since the ride to the train station – a distance we’ll cover eight hours later, on foot, in fifteen minutes – cost 30 Euro.<br />
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The train station is your basic nightmare. Total chaos, no signage – in a word: Italy. We manage to find a National rental car counter and arrange for a car, and somehow weave our way through the streets of Naples to the autostrade.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjxnoGyjWZRxKZTB68mJ63Y8Nqgp8ybC9vkYQKzckYpw0dljW37Q-jbFEnf5FdPD2rPU5xBU4lyj5IMSawwj3Cb3vG9R3HAzq8VZl1Q1ZvMz4paMQA4goo-rGGpR-8S7sjWs_UqU4Ho-GP/s1600/Ravello.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjxnoGyjWZRxKZTB68mJ63Y8Nqgp8ybC9vkYQKzckYpw0dljW37Q-jbFEnf5FdPD2rPU5xBU4lyj5IMSawwj3Cb3vG9R3HAzq8VZl1Q1ZvMz4paMQA4goo-rGGpR-8S7sjWs_UqU4Ho-GP/s320/Ravello.jpg" /></a></div>The coastal route to Ravello took us almost to Salerno, then along the Amalfi drive where the height of the cliffs, the pitch of the turns and the lack of a shoulder had Neil basically scratching at the windows and chewing on Xanax like they were candy. But it was worth it: when we finally parked outside Amalfi and walked up the hill to Ravello (no cars permitted in the town) we found ourselves in a charming village with a central square, two historic villas with museums and grounds, and narrow cobblestone streets filled with shops. It was like Colonial Williamsburg. But nice.<br />
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After wandering through Villa Rufolo and taking photos of the sea, we strolled down a side street where I found some amazing wines that we shipped back to New York. Neil, meanwhile stumbled into a tiny restaurant while I paid for the wine, simply to use the restroom. Next thing I know we’re seated at a table for two, waited on by Netta – whose father originally ran Compo Cosimo (he was the eponymous Cosimo) – which has been covered by the Washington Post, the International News and Observer, among other publications going back at least three decades.<br />
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Compo Cosimo serves produce fresh from the garden out back, and a pomodoro salad of room temperature tomatoes, lightly bathed in Olive Oil and salt, and served with a smattering of basil and a hunk of cold Italian farmer cheese, was complimentary and delicious. Neil and I shared a dish of baked ziti and a scallopine of veal in marsala sauce that ranks among the best dishes I’ve ever eaten (I’ll place it in second place for now – wait until tomorrow!) And despite the lack of room in our collective stomachs, we somehow managed espresso and both tiramisu (the best I’ve ever eaten – hands down) and lemon cake (not bad – the lemon was divine, the cake, a little too crumbly and – somehow – too dry and too wet at the same time.)<br />
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After lunch we walked through the Villa Cimbrone (which boasts a hotel once occupied by Greta Garbo. Ravello itself has been home to numerous writers, artists and personages – including D.H. Lawrence who wrote parts of Lady Chatterly’s Lover here.) The claim to fame of the villa is its grounds, which include numerous gardens and a wide variety of foliage from Hortensia to a variety of Roses, as well as many masterworks of sculpture. An overlook faces the Mediterranean with busts of several gods, while a hidden grotto offers a famous marble sculpture of Eve. There’s a David here, too, which probably explains why we’ve randomly seen at least three other gay couples – only one of which is from our cruise.<br />
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How do we know they’re gay? Well, when you see two middle-aged men who are 40, but look 30 – those are gays. When you see two people spending $200 on lunch and $400 on table linens – those are gays. We two men strolling together down a European street share a serene, smiling expression that says, “I bet my co-workers are spending their summer vacation buying some fat kids a box of taffy at Ocean City or listening to them scream their way through DisneyWorld.”- those are gays. <br />
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We returned to the rental car we left at the bottom of the hill to find a parking ticket. We’re betting the Italian police aren’t going to be able to find us.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY5bQ0dMUYw-srijTMeFezPvtiKALyKNRXUsXt5Ev5ikqoZup4kO2aJ8CKf1_8OafePkdxiyiExDSGntOhOC6z8nLFH-l7sicgkGCYy_6YuvL5VANFSEF2yY9_WI2EPSFguDymoAJYNakz/s1600/Ravello_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY5bQ0dMUYw-srijTMeFezPvtiKALyKNRXUsXt5Ev5ikqoZup4kO2aJ8CKf1_8OafePkdxiyiExDSGntOhOC6z8nLFH-l7sicgkGCYy_6YuvL5VANFSEF2yY9_WI2EPSFguDymoAJYNakz/s320/Ravello_2.jpg" /></a></div>We bid goodbye to Ravello - with its terraced hillsides and bountiful produce and sweeping views of the Mediterranean, and headed back to Naples (this time through the mountains: more Xanax for Neil.)<br />
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I can’t even remember what the afternoon party was – they really should just call them all “Vodka and Speedos!” but I do remember dinner. A dozen people dining at someplace called Silk Harvest.<br />
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Imagine Chinese from the mall food court. Now let it sit for half an hour so it’s served at something near room temperature, with the shine that only industrial cooking oil can produce when it congeals. That was our dinner.<br />
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Considering that half the group was already experiencing stomach trouble, this was not a positive development (although, I have to say that the one thing I can’t figure out about the gays is that we’ll put our mouths in just about any orifice of the human body, but won’t touch a La Choy Spring Roll. WTF?)<br />
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I would tell you more about the evening, but I don’t really remember much. Our friend Mike took a break from filling in his Men of All Nations coloring book, and we were joined by two new faces (Peter and Patrick – a couple whose unfortunately alliterative names makes them sound like characters from a fable, but they’re actually really people). I spent most of my time sitting next to Todd and being snide (why stop doing what you’re good at), or traversing the table to sit between my friends Jaime and Jamie (who, sometime during the course of the evening had their names (which are not spelled alike, but sound alike – making them homophones as well as homosexuals) pre-pended with adjectives so we could tell them apart. I’m not exactly sure who got their name preceded by the word “New” and who got tagged with “Lickable” – but I’m not sure either would be taken as a compliment in the cold sobriety of morning.<br />
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Rome. Tuesday, August 31, 2010. 10:30am<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjiGFSayv6MPcDzyR2c19KFkzZnjfY5s2eTYyobcO_awoPKZ5n6Hs1cm_hVx2Yswe-LZNlxOgJJ-ldCKhoJZ6J7cNAWFo99ZpBRLftjQt5GQZi_08_U0rMChBO0NwvRKoIVMP0dBy8FALI/s1600/Fontana+del+Papa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjiGFSayv6MPcDzyR2c19KFkzZnjfY5s2eTYyobcO_awoPKZ5n6Hs1cm_hVx2Yswe-LZNlxOgJJ-ldCKhoJZ6J7cNAWFo99ZpBRLftjQt5GQZi_08_U0rMChBO0NwvRKoIVMP0dBy8FALI/s320/Fontana+del+Papa.jpg" /></a></div>Best. Day. Ever.<br />
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It did not, however start that way.<br />
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Our day began with Neil opting out of the excursion. Having experienced stomach difficulties across three continents and five countries, Neil was no longer willing to venture more than 10 feet from our stateroom. Slogging back to bed, he released me with a quick, “Have Fun.”<br />
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Fun is NOT what I was having with Mark, Todd and Mike as we sat outside the McDonald’s in Civitavecchia, the port city that serves as the gateway to Rome. Our ride from Fontana Del Papa had not shown up at the pre-arranged time, and we’d already killed over an hour exploring the village, drinking too much coffee, and wandering into a drug store that offered a cream that promised, if I rubbed it on my stomach, it would shrink. <br />
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I’ve been around long enough to know that the only kind of cream that changes the size of your stomach is whipped cream. And it changes it in the other direction.<br />
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Finally, a middle-aged woman in Italy’s equivalent of a Ford Pinto comes put-putting up to the McDonald’s and whisks us 20 minutes north to a 16th century farmhouse (Note to self, when filling out the US Customs re-entry forms, I will justify stating I was not on a farm or in the proximity of livestock, by thinking of this place as a charming olive grove. And assume that I hallucinated the horse.)<br />
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In all honesty, Fontana Del Papa was gorgeous. Gorgeous. A stone farmhouse set among groves of olive trees. In addition to Assunito and her family, the farm is home to birds, cats, dogs and an old horse. It’s so fucking charming I actually saw the German Shepherd grooming one of the cats. The cook, who was to be our teacher for the day, was right out of central casting. Seriously, everything was so much like a cross between a late 90s Meg Ryan film and a cartoon, that I would have been willing to believe the whole day had been cast by Disney if it weren’t for us four homos and the kid with Downs Syndrome playing guitar.<br />
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After a tour of the inn and the grounds, the true purpose of our visit began: a cooking lesson. You’d think it’d be hard to take a cooking lesson from an old Italian lady who speaks about 6 words of English, but it’s surprising what you can accomplish with pointing, grunting, and an unlimited supply of wine. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtk_ehcJtiej6lYl-KpfiCuqvRazBANv26bUEWKDsp63yCtByRE_maNesnQIKhFI3Vdd4cjZ8NtUGKOWMXso5d0OeN2QsliwvCNjDYrj5vOCwZUDEKF2Jrj-cEyRG3jsIQP3kR5CKEeF42/s1600/Fontana+del+Papa+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtk_ehcJtiej6lYl-KpfiCuqvRazBANv26bUEWKDsp63yCtByRE_maNesnQIKhFI3Vdd4cjZ8NtUGKOWMXso5d0OeN2QsliwvCNjDYrj5vOCwZUDEKF2Jrj-cEyRG3jsIQP3kR5CKEeF42/s320/Fontana+del+Papa+2.jpg" /></a></div>We chopped herbs and sliced vegetables and rolled dough. We made bruschetta and an apple cake and two veal dishes (involtini and scallopine.) We made homemade pasta with ragu. For two hours we bounded around the kitchen laughing and drinking and making relatively easy dishes that we can impress company with for years.<br />
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And then we ate. <br />
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Boy did we eat. Bread and pasta and meat and dessert and more wine and coffee. It all made me wonder why Americans place so much stress and pressure and intensity on their lives. Why our days have less pasta and wine, and more anemic salads in plastic bins eaten during conference calls and powerpoint presentations and company reports. It made me so happy to be there – and so very very very sad about my life back home, which feeds my soul in inverse proportion to this meal and the process of creating it.<br />
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At the end of the day, fat and tired, we bid farewell to Fonatana Del Papa – though I rescued the remaining apple cake to share with Neil, whom I so desperately wanted to share the day with. I hurried to the room, but he was nowhere to be found, so I headed toward the pool deck where I suspected he might be resting in the sun.<br />
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And there I found him – holding court amid a throng of friends old and new. And, to soothe his stomach – a cocktail in hand. Still, you can’t really get mad at Neil – he’s too damn cute. So I offered him some cake and sat down to tell him about our day.<br />
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I will say that the upside to his convalescence is that it gave us an excuse to skip the evening’s entertainment – the White Party. Basically the last big hurrah on the ship – a party where everyone is supposed to dress in white, but the costumes are more outlandish – and more revealing – than any of the other evenings. We did do a drive by, which was actually when I noticed that the entire sailing could have been called a White Party. I don’t think we saw more than a dozen African-Americans on the entire cruise, and outside of the occasional gaysian (an asian boy who is more West Hollywood than Far East) – not many Asians either. Further, with a few exceptions, most of the people we met were from New York, DC, San Francisco, LA and Miami. It really would be nice if the Atlantis crowd shook a little of the urbane sophisticate out of their targeting and exposed us to some homos from places where people still eat butter.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggjH2t5ZQ0P71NOfSWw5MQiBqEFSas8mN6nN-KxbttBzq4TNSyRKg3vxUjkPRuO2xnKPSAvDOlSLLiQSoeFiabCEx2_AKw9AYIycycA7i9zTsixJl03VhZps6dJddju4FLRgpInx93q8Tu/s1600/Aix.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggjH2t5ZQ0P71NOfSWw5MQiBqEFSas8mN6nN-KxbttBzq4TNSyRKg3vxUjkPRuO2xnKPSAvDOlSLLiQSoeFiabCEx2_AKw9AYIycycA7i9zTsixJl03VhZps6dJddju4FLRgpInx93q8Tu/s320/Aix.jpg" /></a></div>Aix-en-Provence. Wednesday, September 1, 2010. 6pm.<br />
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The last day of the cruise always seems to be the day with the best shopping. I guess they want you to have one last splurge before your see your stateroom account.<br />
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We took a shuttle into Aix – a university town not far from Marseilles – and basically couldn’t keep our credit card in our pocket for four hours. We bought stuff for the new house; stuff for the old house; stuff for the nieces. We bought lunch. We bought pastry. We bought sweets form a French candy store (which is pretty much like my crappy candy store at 78th and Broadway, but the whole language difference made it seem more adventurous.)<br />
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I loved spending the day alone with Neil – just talking about our house and our lives and getting a chance to communicate with each other in a way that doesn’t involve cell phones or yelling into other rooms. When we don’t have to yell past his laptop or my preoccupation with work. When we aren’t traversing the day-to-dayness of the cleaning woman, the insurance agent, or the mail.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO-Zs7UBzsmHlx1ipE3jYUVQEdyVoUAHLfDhp0ypMhjwFuuJgN3x8w-zCQuYNcqyluCJnoudI78wP-x4OhPBb5bsensOyW2hMxqyLYH2bMSXr6N2syqh2yH8L4pOZNnxY6lpY-OeuXkbZR/s1600/Neil+Aix.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO-Zs7UBzsmHlx1ipE3jYUVQEdyVoUAHLfDhp0ypMhjwFuuJgN3x8w-zCQuYNcqyluCJnoudI78wP-x4OhPBb5bsensOyW2hMxqyLYH2bMSXr6N2syqh2yH8L4pOZNnxY6lpY-OeuXkbZR/s320/Neil+Aix.jpg" /></a></div>I love knowing exactly what stores he’s going to want to stop at; which he’s going to wander into. I love knowing the colors and the patterns he’ll pick out for linens, or which knick-knacks will appeal to him. I know, a nanosecond before, when a joke is coming – or when his face is going to burst forth in a grin – or when a snarky comment is about to launch in my direction.<br />
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These moments make the rest of life bearable. Those awful days when you can’t get off the phone and the email piles up. The long flights, small planes and bad food. The frustrated clients and disengaged co-workers. I do it all to know that someday, some months later, in the streets of a medieval town or the backyard of our house, he’ll turn his head and smile at me like he’s the happiest guy in the world.<br />
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And that’s pretty much it. We left Aix and sailed for Barcelona. We had one final drink and said good bye to the friends we came aboard with, and those we made. We exchanged numbers and email addresses and promised to share photos on Facebook.<br />
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We’ve got four days in Barcelona – but that’s another post – another time. After four weeks off, I need to pace myself.Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-72810681212797873552010-09-06T19:52:00.000-04:002010-09-06T19:52:54.332-04:00No Sex…and a City<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga9aYS_YWwAn6anJu6s2biGCUpBToQ6MX2m8KexlICqfBrg3DIPs4aftGvRVutHB9YlduqmJsa1M8sHCTOp9Xjw7KEh2iwg2g4yeDDnKDdZXYDpdJZRXP_7b0IRp7ZaumyL7yD3RjpDdOL/s1600/Bazooka+Joe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga9aYS_YWwAn6anJu6s2biGCUpBToQ6MX2m8KexlICqfBrg3DIPs4aftGvRVutHB9YlduqmJsa1M8sHCTOp9Xjw7KEh2iwg2g4yeDDnKDdZXYDpdJZRXP_7b0IRp7ZaumyL7yD3RjpDdOL/s320/Bazooka+Joe.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Okay, okay. I know you’re all wondering where I’ve been. My tens and tens of fans must be disappointed – verging on heartbroken – forced to find equivalent humor in Bazooka Joe comics and Senate Judiciary Committee hearings (Elena Kagan – smart like Yoda, looks like Shrek? And also Yoda. Discuss.) The Facebook updates have dried up and there’s been nary a posting all summer long. Vacationing in the south of France, you ask? Mais non. Summering on the vineyard with the Obamas? No, again. Frolicking on Fire Island with the boys? <br />
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Much as I’d love to regale you with stories of long, lazy days filled with leisurely drinks and maybe a little languorous sex, the truth is I’ve spent most of my summer traveling the country in the service of my job. The good news is there’s much to do --- which is also the bad news, which is probably why that queeny flight attendant who trilled goodbye before sliding down the hatch to safety has become something of a folk anti-hero. <br />
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That’s right, there’s so much work I had to trade boys for Boise; instead of making ha-ha, I’ve been going to Omaha; I’ve..oh, brother…I’m out of bad puns and out of practice.<br />
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Clearly, television is rotting my brain – which is how I spent whatever down time I had this summer. So, for my first foray back, I’ll catch you up approximately 834 hours of mediocre television you may have missed this summer – hereby allowing you to clean out that DVR just in time for fall.<br />
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Let’s use a top ten list, folks. It’s more fun that way.<br />
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And now, without further ado (since you waited over a month, and all you’re gonna get is warmed over TV recaps) – Summer 2010’s TV Top Ten list:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7WuyQrTyz1c7MR5NhhaoQGbiH0f-39BL90Npd9jsEzuO341DbHaeebOquEw9-RqtAC5kDNDUwgVCuj254dr_28PIBErS5imOxR9ipj4Lb1seX4gkP05r2k5CPcmHRtPGkk4eP9Jby-cZY/s1600/Emmys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7WuyQrTyz1c7MR5NhhaoQGbiH0f-39BL90Npd9jsEzuO341DbHaeebOquEw9-RqtAC5kDNDUwgVCuj254dr_28PIBErS5imOxR9ipj4Lb1seX4gkP05r2k5CPcmHRtPGkk4eP9Jby-cZY/s320/Emmys.jpg" /></a></div>10. The Emmys<br />
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Ok – technically they haven’t happened yet. Well, as I’m writing this they haven’t happened. But I’m on a plane and won’t be able to post this for two weeks because we’re going on a cruise – yes, the same cruise we did last year which started this whole blog – which I managed to keep up with until a month and half ago when it all fell apart – and, yes, I will be blogging the cruise – every bad tour guide and great meal from Greece to Israel to Italy to Spain (we’re taking a cruise of countries that are bankrupt; either financially or morally.) So – Yes – by the time I post this it will be after Labor Day and the Emmys will not only have happened, they’ll be forgotten. But – whatever.<br />
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Can we just – for a minute – talk about Glee vs Modern Family? Yes, Modern Family is going to win. It’s a relatively pedestrian family sitcom of the type Hollywood used to churn out by the dozen every fall. Except they stopped churning somewhere around 1994 and the supply dried up – having given way to stern, emotionally barren male law enforcement or military officers or lawyers paired with tough-as-nails women barely concealing scars-from-the-past as they use the latest in cutting edge technology or good-old-fashioned shoe leather or the military industrial complex to deliver justice or avenge a death or find some lost kid in New York-Los-Angeles-Las-Vegas-Miami-wherever. (I should like these shows more – they’re basically some totally fierce chick I’d go shopping with and some totally hot guy I’d hook up with hanging out in a city I’d totally live in and working at the kind of job I spent 20 years training for, rather than selling expensive software to broke schools.<br />
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But I digress.<br />
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Don’t get me wrong – I like Modern Family. I think it’s clever and funny and the performances are terrific. But the hullabaloo surrounding it strikes me as grading on a curve, a little. It’s just been so long since we had a crop of family comedies that were worth watching that we forgot how much fun they could be. (And I still think the show is giving itself too much credit simply for having a gay couple with an Asian kid.)<br />
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Meanwhile, Glee – though occasionally dampened by warmed-over plotlines retread from Soap Opera 101 (Quinn got pregnant at 16; Mr. Schuester’s wife faked her pregnancy) – is truly original; breathing life into musicals, a genre that has been lingering on life support for nearly 50 years in movies, and has never been successful in television. But the fact that’s it made music work on TV isn’t the only reason to root for it. Consider this: Glee manages to have fun while embraces it’s characters – and their flaws – even if it rationalizes them; Modern Family (and virtually every other comedy on television, mines its humor at the expense of its characters. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaesbVlCCvNYEkxz18QGfSXh9sV8nuUMcAmwx6l55s704NvMxNPAfz5eVW4SuN9QKl0ReVyEB_kSQzTiqzUuD2cRQvCoTdleZ4ID2iaqQkyWD0Q9-lrHyAuzEyI-Vz79tHyfMppCixnyAd/s1600/Weeds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaesbVlCCvNYEkxz18QGfSXh9sV8nuUMcAmwx6l55s704NvMxNPAfz5eVW4SuN9QKl0ReVyEB_kSQzTiqzUuD2cRQvCoTdleZ4ID2iaqQkyWD0Q9-lrHyAuzEyI-Vz79tHyfMppCixnyAd/s320/Weeds.jpg" /></a></div>9. Weeds<br />
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She’s back. The doyenne of disaster. The mistress of misfortune. Fresh from having watched her middle child murder her drug-kingpin-gubernatorial-candidate husband’s campaign manager (who was a castrating bitch), Nancy Botwin (Mary-Louise Parker) is on the run – on the road with her kids and her brother in a tale that’s seen her survive the financial ruin of her first husband’s death, run a drug cartel, marry – and play a role in the murder of – a DEA agent, torch her home, and tangle with the Mexican mafia.<br />
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8. Big Brother<br />
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I can’t help it…I get sucked in every year. I can’t figure out if it’s the dumb straight muscle boys who spend the whole time working out, the girls with a 38 bustline and a 37 IQ, the bitchy outcasts, or just the backstabbing – I can’t take my eyes of the stupid challenges, the showmances, and the soporific pleasures of Julie Chen (never has live television been less riveting, or – oddly – more).<br />
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This year, I’m rooting for Britney. Any bitchy blond chick from Arkansas whose entire personalilty is one big sarcastic eye-roll is my kind of girl<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmrW106v9vcxyfcGLI76zCpO0QVzSgxnbzq6RXiQz1PG_eoBOaWABbxHxPsTvStVwx2GZH5uOH8jh52a0YbJb2dgHHcc201jVqh6GZHLBzdELSOzRSHIkSsIQoFsJNr7ERJSy_aKs4WzkF/s1600/project-runway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmrW106v9vcxyfcGLI76zCpO0QVzSgxnbzq6RXiQz1PG_eoBOaWABbxHxPsTvStVwx2GZH5uOH8jh52a0YbJb2dgHHcc201jVqh6GZHLBzdELSOzRSHIkSsIQoFsJNr7ERJSy_aKs4WzkF/s320/project-runway.jpg" /></a></div>7. Project Runway.<br />
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One day, you’re in, and the next…you’re out. Heidi Klum, that dominatrix of design, is back (and so is her figure. Thank God she had that Baby Seal.) Duking it out for $100,000 (and a title that hasn’t produced a single designer anyone’s ever actually bought clothing from) are the usual parade of freaky gays, nelly gays, one cute guy, one straight guy, the token lesbian, the bitchy girl who is probably going to win and the nice girl who probably won’t.<br />
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Tune in to watch Michael Kors continue offering a stream of try-hard quips (“She looks like a Jewish transvestite serving pancakes at an Amish funeral. Am I right?”) or the deadpan criticism of Nina Garcia (“She. Looks. Strange.”) And you never know which superstar with flimsy fashion cred (Natalie Portman? Sheryl Crow? LeBron James?) is going to stop by to add nothing to the conversation.<br />
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6. The Next Food Network Star<br />
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Ok – it’s already over, so there’s no suspense here – but this oft-overlooked step-sibling to Top Chef gets better each season. With challenges that actually challenge the contestants both to cook and remain calm under pressure, the show nails the reality of having to perform an actual task on live television. There wasn’t really much suspense that Aarti and her south Asian Aarti Party was going to take it all – it became pretty obvious about halfway through – but there’s no better way to wind up a weekend than to watch newbies fumbles in front of the camera to the withering glare of Susie Ferguson or the firm adjustments of Giada De Laurentiis (you can skip Bobby Flay and his smug self-righteousness and Bob Tuschmann and his uncle-y kindness. This show is all about the women.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5IrvPvSXD89hp_9x3fCcF46-UqSBOI9XrpkuR2plSv2We1ZhJ2EqL-pj_XxXX81jpveRZC2XcYYpAWQre9slCmJhycIU6EIf-N4cQ5XvMXuPwLPORvKIIqHqQKXHTfewLym4nSfsPzdZi/s1600/kathy_griffin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5IrvPvSXD89hp_9x3fCcF46-UqSBOI9XrpkuR2plSv2We1ZhJ2EqL-pj_XxXX81jpveRZC2XcYYpAWQre9slCmJhycIU6EIf-N4cQ5XvMXuPwLPORvKIIqHqQKXHTfewLym4nSfsPzdZi/s320/kathy_griffin.jpg" /></a></div>5. Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List<br />
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Yes, the show has clearly lapsed into a little self-parody as Kathy gets a pap smear on camera. But if you can keep your lunch down through an entire episode about her vajayjay, you’ll realize she’s the most fearless comedienne working right now – willing to say anything, do anything and go anywhere for a laugh. It’s brave work – and between her and Chelsea Handler – the spectrum of live comedy is pretty dry and almost entirely dominated by X chromosomes. And don’t say Dane Cook. ‘Cause he’s over. <br />
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And he’s a dick.<br />
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4. Mad Men<br />
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Yeah, I jumped on that bandwagon, too.<br />
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3. Top Chef<br />
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Can I just say how much I love this show? With each passing season I like it more and more…maybe it’s because Padma keeps sharpening her edge (“Too much salt?” says, Kelly from Colorado. “Uh, yeah,” says Padma, in a tone that read: “Duh.”) No longer with child, but full, fleshy and gorgeous – week after week she’s showing up that joyless Kelly Choi (she of the half-smile). And Gail Morris is back – with the analysis that says, “I liked it, but it was just a little closer to medium than medium rare, so I’m going to stab you with my shrimp fork.” Would it be a surprise to say that I can’t wait for her to host the new “Top Chef: Just Desserts?”<br />
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What is it with these food shows – once again it’s all about the lady judges, since Tom Colicchio seems to have lost his edge (perhaps it’s back at his no-stars Colicchio & Sons on Tenth Avenue, occupying the vast cavern of doom that once was craftsteak – a concept that was built for Vegas, if ever there was one, and where it thrives – go figure.) Meanwhile, there’s nothing wrong with Eric Ripert as a judge. But he’s so nice. I want to see my contestants cry when they use marjoram instead of oregano or overcook the sea bass. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY7WHZXF6feb5ts_vffSiBspWFpNPQmYAJL0MclA2MvCLbJUDzBzxjg1ETVbDTppdxjrljbd7z-1rqohBm_O51HRA56F_KK-Wb3WatUm6YxAScznYv5ysB7rGhhW6hknqD7oxmD32xEbyq/s1600/Pretty-Little-Liars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY7WHZXF6feb5ts_vffSiBspWFpNPQmYAJL0MclA2MvCLbJUDzBzxjg1ETVbDTppdxjrljbd7z-1rqohBm_O51HRA56F_KK-Wb3WatUm6YxAScznYv5ysB7rGhhW6hknqD7oxmD32xEbyq/s320/Pretty-Little-Liars.jpg" /></a></div>2. Pretty Little Liars<br />
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If you were waiting for any confirmation that I am a fourteen year-old girl – here it is. My FAVORITE new show of the year – by a mile. Five girlfriends spend the night together in Rosewood, Pa. Ali – who knew everyone’s secrets and was the glue holding them together – disappears. Fast forward a year later and the girls have drifted apart, but they renew their friendships when they start receiving mysterious text messages from “A.” <br />
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Who is “A”? And how does he or she know that Em is kissing Mya, when she once kissed Ali? Or that Aria and her family went to Iceland for a year because her dad was hooking up with a student and Aria knew – but her mom didn’t? Or that Spencer steals her sister’s boyfriends? Or that Hanna used to be fat (this is a crappy story line, which is probably why they hit her with a car in the mid-season finale.)<br />
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This show answers the important questions, like:<br />
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Whatever happened to Holly Marie Combs after Charmed? (She got fat – and less funny. And isn’t a witch.)<br />
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Why does Chad Lowe not work nearly as often as his brother? (He only has one facial expression. Wide-eyed melancholy)<br />
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Can you show lesbian kissing on ABC Family – at the 8pm hour? (Yes, indeed.)<br />
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AND<br />
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Will Eric fall in love with any show featuring Laura Leighton? (Yes, indeed.)<br />
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I cannot emphasize enough the importance of this show, to our time and to our culture. The economy may be in tatters, the environment falling apart, and our political culture poisoned and paralyzed by partisanship and paranoia – but you can see four hot teenagers in cute outfits try and figure out if they girl they blinded is sending them threatening texts every Tuesday at 8. (Pretty Little Liars returns in January. I’m serving popcorn.)<br />
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1. The Real Housewives.<br />
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This show is not first because it is good. This show is bad. Very bad. It says the most awful things about our culture, and I’m actually ready to begin a campaign to get it off the air. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1WlPzVqJEguGI-__f0i5qVkadplHXU2cbCfdq4g-x0se2Zf-p9t2sJKFZlrGOGDaeZQb-qIHrT9sGSS0sondvAZrbjS3ZlWS2ahoOl4YeyFBbC96tlzC2GyD4UlCVdFuW5MgkuvO4q2SS/s1600/danielle-staub-cop-without-a-badge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1WlPzVqJEguGI-__f0i5qVkadplHXU2cbCfdq4g-x0se2Zf-p9t2sJKFZlrGOGDaeZQb-qIHrT9sGSS0sondvAZrbjS3ZlWS2ahoOl4YeyFBbC96tlzC2GyD4UlCVdFuW5MgkuvO4q2SS/s320/danielle-staub-cop-without-a-badge.jpg" /></a></div>If early summer brought the Real Housewives of New York, mid-summer brought us New Jersey. And late summer is bringing us the all-new Real Housewives of D.C. – complete with the anorexic chick who crashed the White House state dinner.<br />
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This show is horrible. It’s mean to women and insulting to the intelligence of adults. And children. And domesticated animals.<br />
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Once a cotton candy confection of a show about sort of ditsy women who spent too much money and occasionally argued across southern California or Manhattan, the show now actively seeks out women who hate each other and goads them into prolonged catfights. Every “scene” is either an argument, or a conversation about the argument, or a rehashing of the argument. There is no longer anything authentic – or even authentically artificial – about the show. Find four or five women, figure out how to make two of them hate each other, then spend every moment of air time picking at the scab.<br />
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Most of these women aren’t even housewives anymore. The husbands of the few who are still married no longer want anything to do with the show, and many of the women are now separated or divorced. Which doesn’t make them housewives. What it makes them, apparently, is singers. Kim from Atlanta, the Countess from New York, now Danielle Staub from New Jersey. <br />
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When did cutting a demo replace making purses as the back-up plan for single middle aged women?<br />
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It’s become a perfect formula – find a bunch of women who aren’t getting laid, and throw in a bunch of cameras, some liquor, and a fight. Insert name of location. That’s why I call it…<br />
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No Sex. And a city.Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-67574748640088223472010-07-02T10:30:00.000-04:002010-07-02T10:30:57.064-04:00Fast Rude<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3GXS3FQwPhEGYEB0_E2KYqJzud07J9kFFqlvY_Uvlmz9XqGW2cVJiUUACpGD-WIMqjpBXWxX_4CO3n4QnC3mBzqB8HHnDNxM3AHrtnmiqiuJb4-iqkVw9utFMsCSPhjz3MW9EKeN8teyL/s1600/starbucks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3GXS3FQwPhEGYEB0_E2KYqJzud07J9kFFqlvY_Uvlmz9XqGW2cVJiUUACpGD-WIMqjpBXWxX_4CO3n4QnC3mBzqB8HHnDNxM3AHrtnmiqiuJb4-iqkVw9utFMsCSPhjz3MW9EKeN8teyL/s320/starbucks.jpg" /></a></div>OK...I know this is a topic that's been written about to death. In the business pages, in the culture pages, blah, blah, blah. But I need to add my voice to the ever-growing chorus singing about how much Starbuck's sucks. (Heh heh...Starsucks. I'm gonna use that.)<br />
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Remember when the person who made your coffee drink wore a clean green apron, freshly ground the beans, andtook their time making your drink? You spent $4 on coffee, and felt a little ripped off, but - mmm - that first sip of warm foamy milk and dark coffee with a light char. Delicious.<br />
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Now your drink is made on the 21st century equivalent of a manufacturing assembly line. Some 4th grade drop out presses a button on a contrpation that seems to have sprung right out of the Jetson's kitchen and voila! your drink has been mass-produced. The milk is burnt and thin, or lukewarm because it's been on the counter for a while. The coffee is charred and unpleasant. And it's slapped down on the counter while your name is bellowed. An experience similar to the DMV. Service with a snarl.<br />
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I wish Peet's (the best location is on Sunset, in West Hollywood) would come to New York. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8XtG8naCXDRa4C223FpzlzYjyip0wcAnrpsu26PcIYFsdBW0AbdzN_SygFCfyyTX0XgUXJ0l5ZccEiBi4kYRLrFfT69E-5zM3CoD_rhA4dvH-PnzFSnoRaDVeYPC55pezohq22xa4gggs/s1600/Mac+Tonight.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8XtG8naCXDRa4C223FpzlzYjyip0wcAnrpsu26PcIYFsdBW0AbdzN_SygFCfyyTX0XgUXJ0l5ZccEiBi4kYRLrFfT69E-5zM3CoD_rhA4dvH-PnzFSnoRaDVeYPC55pezohq22xa4gggs/s320/Mac+Tonight.png" /></a></div>Anyway, I let the "barista" (what fancy words we're giving the button-pushers) try a second time (let her earn that health insurance!) and took my coffee. Strolling home, I passed the building on our corner - which spent about 3 years redoing the lobby. It's the home of Real Estate agent to the stars, Brian Lewis. You may have seen him proseletyzing on LXNY or Open House NYC, with his smug grinning pieface. (You can't miss him - he looks like that cartoon piano-playing moon, Mac Tonight, from a late 1980s McDonald's campaign.)<br />
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Ugh. Brian's specialty is pricing homes well below market value simply to move them fast. It hurts the owners, but he gets a reputation for pushing a lot of volume, so what does he care. The economics of real estate brokerage is pretty simple. The average commission is 6%, split between the exclusive listing broker (seller's initial broker) and the broker who brings the buyer to the property. The seller pays that commission, and it is often negotiated down to 5%. The brokers split it; then each splits the commission with their agency.<br />
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So, let's do the math. If you list and sell a home for $1,250,000, the total commission is $62,500 (5% of $1.25mm). Each broker takes $31,250, then splits it with their brokerage, and brings home $15,625. If you reduce that price to $1,000,000, the total commission is $50,000. It's split between the brokers, then split with their brokerages, and each broker takes home $12,500.<br />
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That deal just cost you $250,000. It cost your broker $3,125. And it may be the difference between selling your house in a week or two and selling your house in 3 months. Assuming the difference is 10 weeks, the broker only earns $312.50 per week (about $60 per day) if he lists it at the higher price. His incentives and yours are not aligned. <br />
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Anyway - math lesson aside - the point is that pieface makes his coin underselling your home. Meanwhile, he's on the co-op board of his, and to improve it's value, they undertook a very lengthy and expensive renovation which appears to have done nothing more than refurbish the lobby.<br />
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Oh, and they renamed the building. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVyMqVojq6KPX4R4Nh6zErvogP2TirRKfBcAsZHmgZXcUzUNGPCTFmvPnunxvcrs4Ijww_4G0ebACrSYIa6VoQlTA-PMEEfTqUsYvmTFGt0pkrejVGNxphJS8Cex_UdXSLkzBxDwwUlqXf/s1600/del-monte-creamed-corn-626-p.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVyMqVojq6KPX4R4Nh6zErvogP2TirRKfBcAsZHmgZXcUzUNGPCTFmvPnunxvcrs4Ijww_4G0ebACrSYIa6VoQlTA-PMEEfTqUsYvmTFGt0pkrejVGNxphJS8Cex_UdXSLkzBxDwwUlqXf/s320/del-monte-creamed-corn-626-p.jpg" /></a></div>The Del Monte.<br />
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Why would you name a building after canned vegetables? I guess it's ok if your main occupant is a canned ham. (Or canned fruit.)Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-81877521199110240432010-06-30T10:51:00.004-04:002010-07-02T10:07:37.233-04:00Taste the Rainbow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMYTW7aCcJttCXFb-1-QeGiTQwBFtKg9ZavAg2DWyOllSlrlXYRsWVwS0AIG8-t0xfEyi3jZyHJTCbkH4sqNv1TIlRiNfKgHSGGE7jQygYNgtpIqt_UqSdY-JVWeD9vk-6KI4hoeHKXlmo/s1600/bedazzler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMYTW7aCcJttCXFb-1-QeGiTQwBFtKg9ZavAg2DWyOllSlrlXYRsWVwS0AIG8-t0xfEyi3jZyHJTCbkH4sqNv1TIlRiNfKgHSGGE7jQygYNgtpIqt_UqSdY-JVWeD9vk-6KI4hoeHKXlmo/s320/bedazzler.jpg" /></a></div>My cousin texted me last week, asking me to blog about a practice he’d recently heard about: vajazzling. Now, if you think I’m going to devote a section of my blog to an exceedingly odd process of body decoration…<br />
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OK, this is too twisted not to comment on. Vajazzling is, um, how to describe this? Vajazzling is when a woman covers her Ho-Ho in a sparkling array of colorful sprinkles. <br />
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OK, seriously – how can this be fun for anyone? Are the lady parts really so uninteresting to look at that they require being painfully adorned with sequin or glass crystals? I know I’ve never shown much interest in that particular anatomical feature, but it’s not because it needed to be decorated like a cheap Mexican restaurant.<br />
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And I can’t believe this is painless. I don’t know if they get implanted with some sort of stapling device like a Bedazzler, or an adhesive like a hot glue gun – but it can’t be comfortable. And what about for guys? Does any man want to trade a soft landing for a shot at road rash? Ladies – if this is what turns your guy on, let him suck on a Christmas ornament and rub his dick with sandpaper – but don’t turn your hoo-hoo into a kaleidoscope.<br />
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Call me old fashioned, but I’m perfectly satisfied with plain old sodomy.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGjAi27ro78-Zbd5Ifd8XZGsLk_NGu6Wr8HvJ9KSlZhIE4trRbrYWG4NKT-eFawdHjUQpwV-LVkUzNTvV6jkH9WrKtwEG_4Bqd88VMQnfjdcFCuWng7ZNqKMVGo4J_Y8TGqGjIvVl9mWY5/s1600/Viceroy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGjAi27ro78-Zbd5Ifd8XZGsLk_NGu6Wr8HvJ9KSlZhIE4trRbrYWG4NKT-eFawdHjUQpwV-LVkUzNTvV6jkH9WrKtwEG_4Bqd88VMQnfjdcFCuWng7ZNqKMVGo4J_Y8TGqGjIvVl9mWY5/s320/Viceroy.jpg" /></a></div>Anyway – I have lots to tell you all from the weekend, but first – a quick review. I was out in California last week and got to visit the <a href="http://www.viceroyhotelsandresorts.com/santamonica/?cmpid=GL_VSM">Viceroy Hotel</a>, at the edge of Santa Monica, just barely out of Venice. The lobby is done in that very retro-70s-updated thing that a lot of the Morgans properties (the Mondrian) have done. All very baroque and patterned with the white leather and the very lounge-y, lounge-y thing going on. It works – but only in Florida or southern California . It helps if everyone around you is pretty, under 30, and gorgeous. <br />
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The hotel is right across the street from the beach (and a restaurant called <a href="http://www.caporestaurant.com/">Capo</a>, which I ate at about 2 years ago, and has the honor of being one of the most expensive places I ever ate. It was good, but not good enough for the prices they charged. Skip it, and go up the block to <a href="http://www.chezjays.com/">Chez Jay</a> – a true “dive” – still around from the 50s. It’s an Italian seafood restaurant – you can smell the garlic from the street and practically envision Sinatra and Dean-o sitting in a booth holding court and drinking scotch.)<br />
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Anyway, we ate at Whist, in the Viceroy. A limited menu, but superb, with a focus on fresh fish. My sea bass was excellent - well-cooked and flavorful - and one of my dinner companions had the halibut, which he said was equally good. He was a little fart-y the next day, but he blames that on the beet salad, so maybe skip that and get the burrata, which is served with a bread salad and cherries. Not cherry tomatoes, but actual cherries. Yum.<br />
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We sat outside, in a pool area filled with little nooks and private seating areas. It’s a total L.A. experience.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM0IcBVLQfw1DlJE2G_nDzBYqdXJoJbcMJw58XJm0pjiCidD67fBPzbvd6B9lzAzpCpDOxcNVn3WRZX7mL5vN-qv-PsjkmoNxQ0VdlpcAjEIcBVdWbCXmWUN2fwtyUHx328uJefKOwhJ97/s1600/gay-pride-parade-fairy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM0IcBVLQfw1DlJE2G_nDzBYqdXJoJbcMJw58XJm0pjiCidD67fBPzbvd6B9lzAzpCpDOxcNVn3WRZX7mL5vN-qv-PsjkmoNxQ0VdlpcAjEIcBVdWbCXmWUN2fwtyUHx328uJefKOwhJ97/s320/gay-pride-parade-fairy.jpg" /></a></div>I arrived home to a busy weekend: Saturday we had a graduation party for Neil’s cousin’s son up in Westchester, and Sunday was Gay Pride.<br />
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We took the Metro-North up to Katonah for the graduation party. I thought it was a little weird that they threw the party on a Saturday night – wouldn’t the kids want to be with their friends, rather than family? I associate Sundays with family celebrations – but, what do I know? This particular cousin is a Jehovah Witness, so maybe they don’t go out on Saturday nights? Or they get up early on Sundays so they can go knock on doors? Whatever – I just hoped there was alcohol, otherwise it was going to be a long night spent nibbling on cheese and sneaking off to send text messages to my girlfriends.<br />
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Fortunately, when we got there, the place was awash in liquor. Unfortunately, the hors' d'euvres consisted off one vegetables tray with some ranch dressing and a small bowl of Tostitos Scoops. For 25 people. For 2 and a half hours. By the time dinner made it to the table, Neil and I were plastered.<br />
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<br />
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He spent most of the night talking to his late uncle’s first wife, as well as her sister who was wearing what appeared to be a one-piece bathing suit with a pair of shorts. Oh – and high-heeled sandals with rhinestones. Really, the only accessory she was missing was a bowl of fruit on her head.<br />
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I spent the night talking to his cousin’s daughter’s boyfriend’s parents. They were very nice, and are clearly close in age, despite the fact that, in appearance, he seems to be 20 years older than she. She meanwhile, kept talking about several guy friends that she spends time with, leading me to wonder if there are a lot of gays up in Columbia County (she could totally hang with the ‘mos) or if she’s getting a bit on the side. This idea amused me as I continued to get drunker and drunker.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcH7DI__JyejFQPVIFE2KwMMsfsVMgT9u7xPXb-dkcWVadMpsC1TAg-LNua4cDdQsK44TVymTQUwrPvTpg69r1GQvEinM-yINB7Q8jtyHPW9mBdiB_gaCkBw1xwrxeEN2MEhcLbP8vPOC6/s1600/foil+grill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcH7DI__JyejFQPVIFE2KwMMsfsVMgT9u7xPXb-dkcWVadMpsC1TAg-LNua4cDdQsK44TVymTQUwrPvTpg69r1GQvEinM-yINB7Q8jtyHPW9mBdiB_gaCkBw1xwrxeEN2MEhcLbP8vPOC6/s320/foil+grill.jpg" /></a></div>Oh – and have you ever heard of people barbecuing with aluminum foil on the grill? I’m not talking about wrapping fish or corn or something that might be too delicate for the grill, but hot dogs, hamburgers and chicken. The result was that the fat didn’t burn off onto the coals, but pooled right there under the food, resulting in an effect similar to boiling. Or poaching. Barbe-poaching. Everything grilled in its own fat. <br />
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And before we ate, a group prayer was conducted. I don’t really mind brief, overt displays of religiosity like this. I really respect people who have that kind of faith – they seem to have a sense of peace about them (those who haven’t let it slide all the way from peace into self-righteousness, indignation or smugness.) I just wish they had prayed for a better meal. (This isn’t entirely fair: the pasta salad – which was basically penne, basil, tomatoes, mozzarella, garlic, salt and olive oil – was outstanding.)<br />
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Fortunately I had a bag of licorice in my bag for the ride home.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq6azQLPZRf2ux_hLGmd2xbrz4CdLA0bCWFJFrn-nkhu_ZL1nOOUqx4aIP0-8ii4_zDg0kVO68nDy2Ts8M0dbhE2WKX7xzIdJ8PGJrkHdsT-HgqG8GCG8wAvP2hPfDj1Kf-7xEneKhnMfi/s1600/gay+pride.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq6azQLPZRf2ux_hLGmd2xbrz4CdLA0bCWFJFrn-nkhu_ZL1nOOUqx4aIP0-8ii4_zDg0kVO68nDy2Ts8M0dbhE2WKX7xzIdJ8PGJrkHdsT-HgqG8GCG8wAvP2hPfDj1Kf-7xEneKhnMfi/s320/gay+pride.jpg" /></a></div>On Sunday, we celebrated Gay Pride – or, as I like to call it, Gay Shame. I’m sorry – but this thing just feels like a relic to me at this point. I don’t really like parades to begin with, and don’t really need to stand on a hot, humid street corner watching Dikes on Bikes and four hours of clubs and organizations like the Gay Dominicans from Yonkers. Plus, the city gets overrun with a bridge and tunnel crowd, you can’t get around easily, and a bunch of sweaty, tweaked-out freaks is not my idea of a good time.<br />
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<br />
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Still, the boys wanted to get together for brunch, which seemed harmless enough. Neil and I both had such a hangover that a Bellini or two was just what the doctor ordered (seriously, it’s only a matter of time before I’m forced to re-name this column: Mean Gay Drunk.) Another friend of ours stopped by briefly – long enough to tell us about the party he went to on Governor’s Island the night before – a new event for Pride week. <br />
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Apparently, “everybody” was there. “It was like they took all the gay boys from Fire Island and combined it with all the gay boys from the Hamptons!” This sounds like a riddle. What do you get?<br />
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<br />
<br />
Ummm, I don’t know? In island full of the same obnoxious drugged out middle aged homos I ignore on non-holiday weekends?<br />
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Oh no! I’ve missed the gay social event of the season. (Ack. Ugh. Wretch.)<br />
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But, after brunch, a trip to the parade was, dispiritingly, inevitable. We managed to hang out for half an hour or so, then head over to some party the guys had gone to the previous year.<br />
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<br />
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This was the strangest party I ever attended. It was in a very nice apartment in the West Village, and, in the midst of cocktails, crudite, and a very nice cheese plate, some boy was getting tied up and stripped.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgol7WatIhd20Ov8Em4gboDksuHWjn2MnGRI4Ab9X4rE-0SXYfKqw95ifTUyoz87ptdCHXYLmjkimyicuEwbDzAaJIfuKiYb0U5vv7YKnB0MYDxwLXhttFacGUQGQYwd7XLovzpTrBlZDrv/s1600/colt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgol7WatIhd20Ov8Em4gboDksuHWjn2MnGRI4Ab9X4rE-0SXYfKqw95ifTUyoz87ptdCHXYLmjkimyicuEwbDzAaJIfuKiYb0U5vv7YKnB0MYDxwLXhttFacGUQGQYwd7XLovzpTrBlZDrv/s320/colt.jpg" /></a></div>Ok, look. Now that I’m married and almost 40, a sex party isn’t my thing – but I’m not shocked by them. And it’s not like I might not find it an appealing novelty if I were younger and single – but this wasn’t even a sex party. It wasn’t like some <a href="http://www.coltstudiogroup.com/">Colt</a> or <a href="http://store.falconstudios.com/index.cfm">Mustang</a> video – all dark and porn-y. It was someone’s apartment living room, with a naked boy in rope being groped desultorily while the rest of us sort of ignored it, except when we were debating the relative wisdom of eating the grapes.<br />
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So, another weekend down. I hope you enjoyed the stories, because experiencing it – let’s just say I wasn’t Vajazzled.Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-27144463496918836512010-06-25T14:05:00.002-04:002010-07-02T10:10:34.706-04:00Family: Old and New<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt17q9H9UAIVWK9wnEics_uzFDvRfZjMuHz1TWTGigq_sRfIKLbBLmrhNDb1mHSia14BsPXf2xmGD_Ej8R0b85cuzGWs9ADCcEpGUU2ot1uaM5YSws0501Z638jf40gJmxYKHb_doqMfk_/s1600/florida.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt17q9H9UAIVWK9wnEics_uzFDvRfZjMuHz1TWTGigq_sRfIKLbBLmrhNDb1mHSia14BsPXf2xmGD_Ej8R0b85cuzGWs9ADCcEpGUU2ot1uaM5YSws0501Z638jf40gJmxYKHb_doqMfk_/s320/florida.jpg" /></a></div>Can we all agree that Florida is the weirdest state?<br />
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I know - West Virginia is shaped like a bunny rabbit and California has that whole $19 billion budget gap and Louisiana has the weird French form of government and can't seem to escape disasters headed towards it from the Gulf. But Florida - hanging-chad recounting, orange-growing, DisneyWorld family vacationing, weird Republican-turned-Independent-and possibly-closted-gay Governor Florida pretty much takes the prize.<br />
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(One plus for Florida: Coconut Patties. Sweet, chocolatey, airport-gift-in-a-yellow box Coconut Patties.)<br />
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So, it's appropriate that I had a weird week in Florida.<br />
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I should have expected it when my flight landed on time, only to pull within 20 feet of the gate and stop. Apparently, if there are thunderstorms, they can't tow you in or extend the jetway. So you get an extra hour of recycled air on a plane that was so old I think I saw Amelia Earhart in the cockpit.<br />
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But I'm not here to slam Florida, with humidity so intense I was sweating simply sitting still. Or the models sunbathing nude at our hotel (take that, Marriott Courtyard.) Or the number of Indian casinos popping up along I-95.<br />
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I'm here to tell you about going to dinner with someone who was my best friend in college. Someone I haven't seen in almost 16 years.<br />
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After I graduated, I moved far away to go to Law School, after which I moved again. I also didn't come out of the closet until after college. As a result, I lost touch with a lot of my high school and college friends, and sort of felt awkward re-connecting with them; your like changes a lot after coming out.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTx0iJkbPdTtDxhHYAqeSgM-zA_t2UA-gbvq-RxAb1O4YlHwKTwUThrQ4ENmivMuGjbnXp2oLrQfgyfY3hoF5jdoEYy2FQCz1DOWsrLtvDnig1P15NImmwwhEQTu7cylLg_GqfRCrNz0i7/s1600/Chad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTx0iJkbPdTtDxhHYAqeSgM-zA_t2UA-gbvq-RxAb1O4YlHwKTwUThrQ4ENmivMuGjbnXp2oLrQfgyfY3hoF5jdoEYy2FQCz1DOWsrLtvDnig1P15NImmwwhEQTu7cylLg_GqfRCrNz0i7/s320/Chad.jpg" /></a></div>But Facebook has put me right back in touch with a lot of people from a time in my life that was pretty much lost to me. It's not that I don't remember that time in my life, but I have very few people I can reminisce with. So Facebook has been a total gift from that perspective- and, while many of the re-connections have been superficial, a handful have been really meaningful. This was one of those.<br />
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Chad and I spent most of my junior and senior year hanging out. In addition, I spent two consecutive summers in his hometown - Miami - and countless days with his family. Dinners, barbecues, afternoons at the pool - I can't even fathom how much time I spent with them; it was a surrogate family.<br />
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It was weird to walk in to a restaurant and come face to face with my past. Other than his sister - who obviously looks different at 24 than she did at 8 years old - I would have thought it was 1994 again. And they welcomed me as if no time had passed at all - which initially made me feel ungrateful and uncomfortable; guilty for letting relationships lapse. <br />
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That was quickly replaced by feeling totally at ease; that's the thing about family --- time may pass chronologically, but not emotionally. I was reminded, again, how kindness is such an incredibly important and largely undervalued attribute. I was really moved.<br />
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<div style="margin: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeC1aB7RmH2MMOpR32CizRklJDuUEf-YRLFWPyvpFrZlx2gwAEmeJghlbGc_rCTSnC9tX_L78X2RZvwv0ehiK1VwSLMF_T_7X7fg6TCgRrOus3z7eEqmypgQIvYRwE7cLsPkQx1846OyN2/s1600/batman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeC1aB7RmH2MMOpR32CizRklJDuUEf-YRLFWPyvpFrZlx2gwAEmeJghlbGc_rCTSnC9tX_L78X2RZvwv0ehiK1VwSLMF_T_7X7fg6TCgRrOus3z7eEqmypgQIvYRwE7cLsPkQx1846OyN2/s320/batman.jpg" /></a></div>Meanwhile ... did you know that I am related to Batman?</div><div style="margin: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0px;">Also, Spider-Man, Supergirl, and a Disney princess - all of them alter egos of my neice who turns four on Saturday. She managed to cycle through each of these personas in less than hour last Sunday afternoon, experiencing a fluency with multiple personalities that only a true psychopath could appreciate.</div><div style="margin: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0px;">Can I just say? My sister - who is no stranger to self-martyrdom, really does deserve more appreciation. Pretty much every family holiday falls to her. Neither of her sisters-in-law have kids; Neil and I live in Manhattan, which everyone on Long Island finds inconvenient (I don't know why - the trains come here dozens of times a day, we live near 8 different parking garages, and we're in a nice neighborhood. I know the argument is that, since everyone lives on Long Island, it's less of a schlep, but -it's not like we haven't offered.)</div><div style="margin: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0px;">Anyway - between Mother's Day (which her mother in law covered this year), Father's Day (which she pretty much always gets) and Christmas (written in stone - my brother-in-law invites more people every year, to my sister's growing chagrin (she sort of loves it.))</div><div style="margin: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0px;">Still, it can't be easy when it's always your house, your expense, your mess. </div><div style="margin: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0px;">We try to help out however we can - entertaining the kids (which we love doing anyway), cleaning up after ourselves; bringing loads of gifts. But it's really all a gift to us. I know everyone thinks their kids/grandkids/nieces/nephews are the cutest/smartest/whateverest - but we feel a pretty special pride in being uncles. I love seeing how smart and articulate the eldest is becoming. She's so sharp and intuitive, you almost can't wait for her to get older because she's going to do really special things. And her sister is so brazen - brave and funny and demanding of attention - there's a stage in that kids future. And the baby (told you - he'll be "the baby" til he's 40) - can a 2 year old be possessed of charm? Meanwhile, he's so attached to his sister he just randomly says her name if she ventures more than 5 feet away from him.</div><div style="margin: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0px;">Wow - sentimental post. I need to go to a diner and send some soup back...I'm losing my edge.</div>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-15086766231532571262010-06-21T14:40:00.002-04:002010-07-02T10:11:16.903-04:00Do You Know Who I Am?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXXUahiAxxn0vD07K3NyAOfXfV38_i-8y-G__nk_2z-nxBO8YTOZ1E39qIsLd5eU_wOifDKC7EWRqRSm1wyfx5pK7HFHQwS4CbNf9xy2ujE_wV_rtuHEdkeruSapuQXI1F8QX9RSm826-e/s1600/duane+reade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ru="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXXUahiAxxn0vD07K3NyAOfXfV38_i-8y-G__nk_2z-nxBO8YTOZ1E39qIsLd5eU_wOifDKC7EWRqRSm1wyfx5pK7HFHQwS4CbNf9xy2ujE_wV_rtuHEdkeruSapuQXI1F8QX9RSm826-e/s320/duane+reade.jpg" /></a></div>Clearly, the end of times is coming.<br />
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I was in a Duane Reade on Saturday and the guy behind the counter was polite and actually hurried to provide assistance. In Manhattan, this is the equivalent of finding a Leprechaun riding a Unicorn. Something's up with Duane Reade lately...the stores are cleaner, their new line of branded products is pretty good (beware the brownie bites at the checkout stand - pure evil in a delicious chocolatey square.)<br />
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But we can't dwell on the DR - we've got too much to cover today.<br />
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First, I need to tell you about the funniest job interview ever. No not me - I love my job (which will remain my official position as long as my boss and co-workers read this blog, but has the advantage of actually being true.) <br />
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My friend, ummm, (this nickname thing sucks.) Let's call her, Croquette.<br />
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You see, Croquette is one of the thousands of New Yorkers whose youth evaporates as the enthusiasm of their 20s rapidly slides into the bitterness and alcoholism of their 40s with a single bitter career move known as working for a large law firms. You know these places: operating under a string of surnames that could only possibly belong to long-dead white protestants who once owned a completely different kind of slave (or, more recently, possibly-still-alive but totally fossilized old Jews who are descended from slaves and we should know better - shame, shame!) These law factories are responsible for the fact that virtually everything you do these days is front-ended by a process that requires you to give up your legal rights (that little pop up window that you simply click "Agree" to everytime you purchase a new Apple product? Congratulations, paragraph 384(b)(7)(ii) requires you to name your child Harold. Even if it's a girl.)<br />
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Anyway, Croquette has had enough, and she's getting out.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOliQUp26MIE3_FMFClNm9n2vhJiaLVLvdl5qRAqEk9ghhyfwhqkCMSl4Qfxj_D-ZGQ-e6PcyLKl4r7cwx_BgBKGbu7roZ81bB8B5ufTrx81f5m2QbPGevpk_jlz8BywPYIweqSJHmEegh/s1600/law+firm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" ru="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOliQUp26MIE3_FMFClNm9n2vhJiaLVLvdl5qRAqEk9ghhyfwhqkCMSl4Qfxj_D-ZGQ-e6PcyLKl4r7cwx_BgBKGbu7roZ81bB8B5ufTrx81f5m2QbPGevpk_jlz8BywPYIweqSJHmEegh/s200/law+firm.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>So, finally, she dedicated at least 15 minutes (which was billable to a client because she was sort of thinking about them while she was pursuing a career change) to updating her resume, her linked in profile, and reminding herself that she didn't go to Princeton and Georgetown to work a pole, or a corner, even metaphorically. The result was an interview with a storied New York firm of Surname Surname (not their real name).<br />
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Be not confused, dear reader. Despite bearing the names of rich white people, this is not a law firm, rather a financial services firm - though the difference in life or lifestyle is negligible. This would not be a trade up.<br />
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Still, an interview is an interview and it's always good practice. So Croquette took the day off, put on a clean black conservative suit (of which New Yorkers own several dozen apeice) and headed over to their offices.<br />
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You'd imagine a firm this sophisticated would have a crack HR process for recruitment, especially since their turnover is so high. Yet, Croquette had to talk to three people before she found someone who had any clue why she was there, or what she was interviewing for. I suppose this wouldn't have been so trying, if the people who kept coming by to figure out who the hell she was didn't keep leaving her in a small HR office. In the dark. <br />
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By the way - her name isn't Croquette, but it's not exactly Jane Smith - the fact that they didn't even know who she was is inexcusable.<br />
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Finally, someone figured out who she was and took her through a labyrinthine venture to a conference room where she was told to wait and, if anyone asked why she was here, to just say she was there for "a meeting." Apparently, these oblique instructions would be enough, as a company which attracts some of the most talented financial minds in New York probably doesn't employ people who would have the slightest curiosity as to who the "meeting" was with, what the "meeting" might be about, or why this girl no one's ever seen before was attending it (not to mention, where she came from.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxcRL1ufgeaeWveuQz95LiSOFWJlEJjoiY25iW2yFqkAme5pwXSUZ5vQmVe0Hc7wpqjeoYo8Pdacv90ZJGL43J24uooCh1fQ1lBepzAHNRoGuwS0cEJDX04G2pWgI2kd7J6fzgdFsyWjR_/s1600/unemployment-cartoon.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ru="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxcRL1ufgeaeWveuQz95LiSOFWJlEJjoiY25iW2yFqkAme5pwXSUZ5vQmVe0Hc7wpqjeoYo8Pdacv90ZJGL43J24uooCh1fQ1lBepzAHNRoGuwS0cEJDX04G2pWgI2kd7J6fzgdFsyWjR_/s320/unemployment-cartoon.gif" /></a></div>So, clearly, at this point Croquette has figured out she's interviewing for a job not yet vacated by its-soon-to-be-previous occupant. And the story could reasonably end here. But, it would be incomplete to omit that, despite accepting these circumstances (and the knowledge that should would NOT accept a job here under any circumstances,) Croquette inquired about using the restroom. To which the HR lady asked, "Can you hold it?"<br />
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This is the point in the story where, if it had happened to me, I would have peed on the conference table. And left. After getting them to validate my parking.<br />
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I guess it really is a rough job market folks.Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-32101052127360888972010-06-21T14:08:00.000-04:002010-06-21T14:08:07.755-04:00What I'm Learning at the Airport Newsstand1. Fergie slept with rich men for cash (The Globe) - Who doesn't?<br />
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2. Cher's new life-threatening condition (National Enquirer) - what happened to the old one? Did it stop threatening her life and move on to collecting Hummel figurines?<br />
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3. Cops shoot two-headed bigfoot (Weekly World News) - Great. Another story about Cher.<br />
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4. Los Mas Sexy (Mira!) - I can't understand this magazine, but the shirtless soccer players are cute.<br />
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5. Glee Secrets (Us Weekly) - Yeah. Here's a secret: one of the guys is straight. Shhh!<br />
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6. Drugs! Lies! Secret Lovers! (Star) - Oops. Cher, again.<br />
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7. Who's Gay and Who's Not (National Enquirer) - Ummm, me.<br />
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And - on the cover of Architectural Digest: Cher's New Hollywood Home. Guess those drugs, lies and life-threatening illesses are paying off.Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-59506307179734443642010-06-04T11:40:00.000-04:002010-06-04T11:40:04.853-04:00New informationAn avid and engaged reader has pointed out that Jennifer Hudson has a Grammy and several other music awards. In the spirit of open dialogue, we at Do This New York welcome such feedback, and - as always - invite our readers to start their own damn blog :)Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-42425791780158709472010-06-04T09:29:00.001-04:002010-06-04T09:29:19.909-04:00Now I've seen everything...diapers that are designed to look like denim cutoff shortsErichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-57931860405376452482010-06-04T09:19:00.001-04:002010-06-04T09:19:22.026-04:00Watching Regis and Kelly at the gym; Is it a good idea to have a regular sequence about firefighters grilling out when most people shouldn't play with matches? And how did Katherine Heigl go from being a 27 year old blond to a middle aged brunette? Lose the short sweaters.Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8823267367347848272.post-32019190997984300442010-06-04T07:30:00.000-04:002010-06-04T07:30:33.248-04:00Long Weekend<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWAsib-tv38qsyCHDtAPWfCsUuSdydJweCrXduKNb95U99GptXFasymMzxzXVP1ljlpz-qbeXgvsdryteLKeS03FnugfMdSC9wGMc51zxc650HYR8u88VyrYmOUYgxtZE6FldoF2S3HEPD/s1600/Sex+and+the+Ccity+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWAsib-tv38qsyCHDtAPWfCsUuSdydJweCrXduKNb95U99GptXFasymMzxzXVP1ljlpz-qbeXgvsdryteLKeS03FnugfMdSC9wGMc51zxc650HYR8u88VyrYmOUYgxtZE6FldoF2S3HEPD/s320/Sex+and+the+Ccity+2.jpg" /></a></div>For those of you not native to New York, you may be harboring an impression of us fostered by the narcissistic navel-gazers of Seinfeld, the chatty, pretty Friends, and the cosmo-swilling (and near-menopausal) gals of Sex and the City (skip the movie, by the way, I don’t even need to see it to tell you it’s awful. I work blue, and even I want to vomit at the line, “Lawrence of my labia.” It’s an insult to those of us who can work the word “cocksucker” into a business lunch and get away with it.)<br />
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Nevertheless, it’s worth remembering that New York is equal parts queens (as in, $400 designer shoes and weekends in South Beach) as it is Queens (as in $4 plastic shoes and the end of your life in Miami – which is in “Flah-ridda.”) If you’d like a real-time illustration of this dichotomy, you’re more than welcome to ride the Long Island Railroad with me and Neil out to Hampton Bays.<br />
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Our weekend was actually fantastic – we spent most of Saturday doing our own thing – gym, errands, etc., then met up at 3pm to see a movie. While I tend to be a pretty big fan of Nicole Holofcener (<em>Friends with Money</em>), I didn’t really love her latest film, <em>Please Give</em> – which opened to generally strong reviews. Catherine Keener, whom I ordinarily like, turns in a performance that is striking in how cold and remote it is for an actress who is usually very relatable. I found her character whiny and her story lacking any real conflict or drama. Oliver Platt and Amanda Peet do a good job playing people you don’t really like or care about, leaving the audience the choice of relating to Amanda Peet’s boring sister, a sullen teenage girl, or a mean old woman.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7X2Crg-LPwTUxEuGu7lF4bnKNnN6xeMfu_YvupNH8OVDBWl7RYLe_NuGfZvjhiTy9uebCM3iqvTqGPJzz4JzKFGXB0pKTRVjtp4xsY2nlvqz22xC7S302BwqUoeO54k5lP4xYW5tkMFIG/s1600/PLEASE-GIVE1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7X2Crg-LPwTUxEuGu7lF4bnKNnN6xeMfu_YvupNH8OVDBWl7RYLe_NuGfZvjhiTy9uebCM3iqvTqGPJzz4JzKFGXB0pKTRVjtp4xsY2nlvqz22xC7S302BwqUoeO54k5lP4xYW5tkMFIG/s320/PLEASE-GIVE1.jpg" /></a></div>I chose the old bag. <br />
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Saturday night Neil whipped up a tender braised veal shank with crispy polenta and Brussels sprouts while I got silly on red wine and the season finale of House (no one in television turned in a stronger performance this season than Hugh Laurie. No one. From the premiere, where he struggles with both his drug addiction and his isolation, to the final episode where he faces the degree to which his injury and addiction have crippled his ability to form any real human connection, his work was funny, vulnerable and brave. An actor playing a character full of tics and tricks could easily rely on those to create an illusion of character. This season, Laurie threw them all away, and turned in a bravura season as a result.)<br />
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While Saturday, with a mix of sun and clouds, was conducive to indoor activities – Sunday and Monday promised to be sunny and hot, so Neil and I threw a few things in a bag, picked up some colorful sugary treats for the kiddies (and Neil) and jumped on the train to see my sister, my brother-in-law, and the kids.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_lraQA2FbnmXqNfxtZZmiLKrDju6WfsK5CfBPVFS31-Eo5NPftLTJyHaynGibAouqQiu1ckaYpChM-UShXtl2q6gkACFE-QPq3qlgOy7C10rgrNKw0IE9mrL6RSPWGQaZhKDVSJAXjupv/s1600/hamptons+gross.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_lraQA2FbnmXqNfxtZZmiLKrDju6WfsK5CfBPVFS31-Eo5NPftLTJyHaynGibAouqQiu1ckaYpChM-UShXtl2q6gkACFE-QPq3qlgOy7C10rgrNKw0IE9mrL6RSPWGQaZhKDVSJAXjupv/s320/hamptons+gross.bmp" /></a></div>The 9:40 train hits the stops for Jones Beach, the Fire Island Ferries, and the Hamptons – so it was packed with daytrippers toting their beach detritus, fussy children, and various intoxicants. In a testament to it always being five o’clock somewhere, several young ladies on our train were brown bagging it well before 10am. Really, is there anything more attractive than an overweight bottle blonde huffing a 40 in her acid washed denim skirt and a black wifebeater. And speaking of wife beaters, I must have wrong when I said that Dep and those creepy tattoos that go all the way around your bicep were on their way out. Apparently good taste never goes out of style.<br />
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The upside is that it was easy for my brother-in-law to spot us when our train pulled in – Neil and I being the only people who didn’t look like we’d appeared in a movie whose title ended in “…Gone Wild.” <br />
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The kids were all in great spirits when we arrived. My eldest niece is really smart and articulate and she’s outgrowing a period of shyness – it used to take her a while to warm up when we visited. Her little sister is a total ham – a little less wild than she used be – but with a lot of charm and feistiness. And the baby (who, I am afraid, may wind up being called, “the Baby” until he’s 40) is clearly in his terrible twos – fussy and difficult to please – but when he’s well-behaved he’s an angel.<br />
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We had a quick lunch, then trooped off to the beach where we joined my brother-in-law’s family.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgatA19k5Mo9EG8YODoHkNxHK9f1SJ7MVh2iHDXdVwNieLXZotjfNasCioS-wlrL90qZZlXbgjKRgoqmEmiRHphi1ukbKA2CReAsedNNJ2I7zFr3THQXpGxNu_hOIboNY0__HKCT-51M_ij/s1600/crazy+family.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgatA19k5Mo9EG8YODoHkNxHK9f1SJ7MVh2iHDXdVwNieLXZotjfNasCioS-wlrL90qZZlXbgjKRgoqmEmiRHphi1ukbKA2CReAsedNNJ2I7zFr3THQXpGxNu_hOIboNY0__HKCT-51M_ij/s320/crazy+family.png" /></a></div>Can I just say, here, that I have a hard time when I set out to write about family. It’s easy with my own family – they know me, and realize that sarcasm and snark is just my way. Also, they know they’re crazy and damaged and easy marks. And Neil expects that my treatment of him is fair payback for his endlessly reminding me of my terrible crimes which include an inability to wash a fork the second it leaves my mouth and wanting to take him on vacation. <br />
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But with in-laws, it’s harder. It’s not your family and you’re only privy to the crazy by association; it’s someone else’s to own. Thus, if those posts come off as a bit subdued, understand that I’m not holding back, I’m trying to be respectful – since I never apologize for jokes. (OK, I did once, which is where I learned this lesson.)<br />
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Suffice it to say that every family has its own crazy..<br />
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Well, almost suffice it to say…I can skip over my sister’s mother-in-law without commenting that if you’ve ever lost anything in your life it’s probably somewhere in her living room, because she’s also the most generous hostess you’ll ever meet. You could show up on her lawn with 27 friends, and she’d invite you all in and feed you. And I can skip his sister who got divorced from the gay guy because that’s my mom’s story, too – and when a woman gets married thinking it’s forever, only to find out that her husband’s a cocksucker – it does some pretty fucked up things to you.<br />
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(BTW – I told you I could get that word in.)<br />
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(Also BTW – I know most of my audience is, at this point, wondering if gays are really randomly 10% of the population, or if it’s just my family spitting them out like logs out of a flume ride.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe1FytZ7_VHPRlQuPnw7VhC_qZeqbxUrkmNtQeO9B0s7GlWru4eJbXegac977qYSKW_lPUUKO8gGZOOY0vfeIwlWXHstiQfUp6Dm4PES8thS4nAdtqwscrN2aZGvc0UV-UDapKWj9dg8oV/s1600/cougar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe1FytZ7_VHPRlQuPnw7VhC_qZeqbxUrkmNtQeO9B0s7GlWru4eJbXegac977qYSKW_lPUUKO8gGZOOY0vfeIwlWXHstiQfUp6Dm4PES8thS4nAdtqwscrN2aZGvc0UV-UDapKWj9dg8oV/s320/cougar.jpg" /></a></div>But there comes a point where you can’t just gloss over someone because they’re someone else’s family, and you just have to take the gloves off. I found that line this weekend.<br />
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This is what we will call The Cousin Barbara Rule.<br />
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Cousin Barbara is one of those random relatives that somehow shows up in the middle of your life almost without explanation. She’s the daughter of the grandmother’s brother (making him a parent’s first cousin) – relatively close by blood, but remote in the experience of your life.<br />
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Everyone has one of these – I was nearly a teenager when my father came home one night ready to introduce us to a whole slew of cousins we had never heard about . It appears my grandfather, who I always thought had one sister, apparently had another. They hadn’t spoken in years, so when her daughter – my father’s first cousin – reached out “wanting to connect with family” (a phrase that generally follows a divorce or precedes a request for money), we got new cousins.<br />
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So, much as Cousin Diane got drop shipped into our lives in 1983, so did Cousin Barbara arrive. (Cousin Diane was her own packet of crazy. Recently divorced (told ya), with a live in boyfriend who she finally married, like 23 years later, and three kids. One was an aimless administrative assistant with dreams of becoming a country singer (because all great country singers come from Long Island), one was an aimless student who’s now married and – wait for it – might be gay, and the third was just aimless and I’m too tired to try and find words to describe her. All I remember is hair and teeth. Whatever. They were crazy, but they had a boat. That was fun.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBcYwKz3oh83IhGRKKYMHI5DxZcftfq72S3LZ0zuJDH_nWMvSTzRw0wjsGoc5_misLWb2jLMSTOs7R1dmgABe5755Cwy_2ddzqzrwEdZifwx4ZGGxTtGxBMS1tghHPGivC3CvgNQ_WuWN5/s1600/old-lady-smoking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBcYwKz3oh83IhGRKKYMHI5DxZcftfq72S3LZ0zuJDH_nWMvSTzRw0wjsGoc5_misLWb2jLMSTOs7R1dmgABe5755Cwy_2ddzqzrwEdZifwx4ZGGxTtGxBMS1tghHPGivC3CvgNQ_WuWN5/s320/old-lady-smoking.jpg" /></a></div>Return to actual topic: Cousin Barbara. Cousin Barbara – recently divorced (natch, but her ex probably wasn’t a homo, so she’s not winning Queen for a Day with this crowd unless he’s in prison), she’s just moved back to New York after many years in Miami (Flahridda) and Charleston, South Carolina. I can imagine her in Charleston about as easily as you can imagine Barack Obama wearing a full length evening gown and belting out the State of the Union address to the tune of “Cabaret.” She sports that weird hair style where the top layer of her hair is blonde and the bottom layer is brown, so it’s all very half-and-half – like a vanilla/chocolate Dixie cup that you used to get from the ice cream truck. She might do something in photography, and she might have kids – it’s hard to tell; not because she doesn’t talk about herself – she does that incessantly – but because the thickness of the accent and the thickness of the cigarette smoke creates a distancing effect. I find it easier to simply let myself be soothed by the scratchy scratchy scratchy quality of her voice. <br />
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Anyhow, we came to get some sun and play with the kids – which provided a convenient excuse for escaping further conversation with Cousin Barbara, who had begun to remind me of Faye Dunaway in Barfly, without the bar. We dug a big hole, then fed the kids chips, then dug another big hole, then fed the kids Goldfish, then took a nice long walk. For a popsicle. I don’t eat sugar and bread for weeks at a time so I can visit these kids who never met a carb they didn’t like.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCezQfcpENUKdrOqVqUfPmomXUVYuC_y4MTzGIM7QDbf-MQdMhEUWI2Gh56NFM6UTR4gI42UY4HlnQjiaGgmGoZRlJereU9alIhY97ODU9S107KdRbeYXTT9MdidYq_RSy59RgLXLL5GPb/s1600/barbecue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCezQfcpENUKdrOqVqUfPmomXUVYuC_y4MTzGIM7QDbf-MQdMhEUWI2Gh56NFM6UTR4gI42UY4HlnQjiaGgmGoZRlJereU9alIhY97ODU9S107KdRbeYXTT9MdidYq_RSy59RgLXLL5GPb/s320/barbecue.jpg" /></a></div>Anyhow, all that snacking made us hungry, so we hurried back to the house to shower and change and get drunk enough to endure dinner. As mentioned, my brother-in-law’s mother is always prepared for an extra guest or 12, and a cookout at her house is an endless parade of food. Corn, beans, cole slaw, pasta salad, potato salad, macaroni salad, regular salad. Virtually everything’s the same temperature because it’s all been on the kitchen counter for somewhere between 20 minutes and three weeks. Except the food off the grill – rapidly defrosted steaks (in case there weren’t enough burgers), 30 burgers, turkey burgers, lamb chops, sausage, hot dogs – piping hot and served in such voluminous quantity you can barely stand by the time the cupcakes, cake, pie and fruit land for dessert.<br />
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It should have come as no surprise, 6 hours later, when my niece woke up unable to sleep and making heaving sounds, which woke my brother-in-law, who then spent a good bit of time throwing up his guts. <br />
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You know, between the Thanksgivings that manage to include a screaming match before the turkey’s even out of the oven, the Christmas Eve’s where my sister runs around taking care of everyone else while my parents snack on cheese and shrimp like they’re actual guests, and the number of family events that have included vomiting (Cooper’s birthday, this Memorial Day, and virtually every Christmas since my sister got married) – I wonder why we even show up at family events anymore. Though, I will say I’m pretty lucky…I really love these people and if they weren’t so absolutely batshit crazy I wouldn’t have anything to write about. Who the hell wants to read a blog about normal people who marry heterosexuals, dress appropriately in their 40s and don’t leave early to cruise the bars.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifJZdWDiPbgxQiGvgUFAMhkyLFumivYZytbz3tPYDI_oofEMz8vrTTyMnK9sNrlxGzTtMidNC3Cfn6w4gPtSFfxUznMlqTs6RI0spU6qyfNjljHOdjhdAaeI0Iya5CvdvyyG957fCY31xF/s1600/boating-new-york-city-cc-281x400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifJZdWDiPbgxQiGvgUFAMhkyLFumivYZytbz3tPYDI_oofEMz8vrTTyMnK9sNrlxGzTtMidNC3Cfn6w4gPtSFfxUznMlqTs6RI0spU6qyfNjljHOdjhdAaeI0Iya5CvdvyyG957fCY31xF/s320/boating-new-york-city-cc-281x400.jpg" /></a></div>We took the train back early Monday morning, having avoided Sunday’s daytrippers who were sure to have been sunburnt, drunk, and in the mood for a hate crime. The train was relatively quiet, and after we got home we had a quick breakfast and headed over to the park to rent canoes and row on the lake. Then we checked out the renovation of the old Limelight (a church which was turned into a nightclub and was the heart of the Club Kids scene 20 years ago.) I miss the Limelight – I miss all those clubs from back in the day – Tunnel, Bedrocks, Club USA, Twilo, even Roxy – all gone and replaced by Boobs-in-your-face bottle service by almost-hookers and a bunch of rich stupid finance guys who played high school lacrosse, barely managed a C average through college and made a mint torpedoing the American economy with derivatives and other financial weapons of mass destruction.<br />
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The renovation is neat – they’ve got some interesting food stalls and boutique shops (or outposts of boutique shops around the city) – but the navigation is pretty weird (if you’ve ever been in the Limelight, it’s a maze.) Plus, it messes with your head to see someone serving gelato in the corner where you used to do blow.<br />
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And that’s all for now folks. Lincoln (as in, Nebraska) awaits … I’ll talk with you all from the prairie.Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10025354280022139268noreply@blogger.com0