Monday, September 28, 2009

Best. Cake. Ever.

Via Cake Wrecks (linked at right) -- they feature awesome cakes, too, by the way, not just wrecks -- and the proud creation of a place called Jet City Cakes. WILL YOU LOOK AT IT. You could get my ass down the aisle again if you promised me THIS CAKE:

Oh My God. I might cry. I also want to know the freaky deakies who ordered this vision of perfection because they are going on my Christmas card list.

Thursday, September 24, 2009


Friday, September 18, 2009

Love Happens, Does It?

Irritant of the moment: Love Happens. This is one of those movies that promises to underwhelm and otherwise annoy from starlit beginning to predictable end. Oooh so sad singles (she chooses bad, BAAAD, and his wife died, weepy weeps) bump into each other and through average moments of wine-sipping dating they somehow (gasp) fall in LOVE. Because Love Happens. Is that a play on Shit Happens? Because A.) Outdated and B.) Cynical beyond any limit of charming…anyone? Anyone? Does anyone actually endure this shit for two hours anymore?

This is the type of movie that you allow to play in the background on TBS while you are trying to cook lasagna from scratch for the first time. All you remember is soft Aniston and yet another weird blond man that is somehow worth…an effort? Eckhart is really only compelling when he’s dialing up the crazy…and Aniston, for all her sweet, safe nothingness of late, could really do better. Really, Jen? There’s never going to be a Good Girl again? Because I don’t believe that the offers aren’t out there. What’s happening to you?

In the realm of ROMANTIC COMEDIES or whatever they are (since often they are not all that funny at all), the playlist on the HBO schedule tonight has inspired me to A.) Bash that idiotic, lazy-ass romcom Love Happens and B.) tell you that sometimes a stupid title and otherwise doofy romcom can really touch a nerve, touch it hard, and bring it up to a higher level than just Meh.

So, P.S. I Love You. What a fucking stupid title. It makes me want to stick a shard in someone’s eye socket.


When my mom visited over the Christmas break, she fully partook of my plentiful HBO on Demand selection. At the time, one of the many choices was P.S. I Love You, a movie I avoided for two reasons: (PS I love lists) A.) Ass Title and B.) Hilary Swank. Ever since I saw her eat a burger at the In-and-Out or whatever after winning her Oscar, she’s been nothing but a Maw of Death, nothing but teeth and saliva and hot jets of vomit.

So Mom chose it and I watched peripherally while simultaneously playing Rollercoaster Tycoon (shutup, it’s an addiction). I found Gerard Butler thoroughly annoying—he’s great when the script calls for MASSIVE OVERACTING but nuance is not his strength—and I was generally keeping up with the plot, getting the gist, and absorbing it superficially like so many romcoms before…until.

There’s a point in the movie when Swank’s character is faced with an imminent sexual encounter that she wants very badly but handles with terror, yammering, and a state of flustered panic that, while it was unspooling before my eyes, socked me full force in the sternum and made me hide my face. Mom, you may not have noticed, but the tears were standing in my eyes. Here’s the thing: My man didn’t die. I kicked him to the curb because he was mean as the devil and he undermined my self esteem at every cresting safe moment we ever shared. I dropped his ass 3 years and 6 months after I should have. But his familiar self, the good and funny man that I cherished so much, should not be denied or lied about. And his physical appearance? He was, to be perfectly blunt, the perfect, beautiful Manshape of my dreams. Some 4 months after our parting, viewing this scene, I totally understood Swank’s character’s reaction. In so many ways, on so many levels, I still belonged to him. Even though I surely wanted to attack some nice, anonymous gentleman and seek out that carnal perfection we all so crave, my heart quivered to shreds at the thought of it actually happening.

It is impossible to explain, I think. But in that moment that movie became more than a romcom. “How long has it been?” the friends ask. How long for what? Sex? Passion? Acceptance? Complete vulnerability? You might as well push us off the cliff, Hillary and I, for at that moment we met at a horrible crossroads. A crawling, searing spike of emotion and understanding.

Something tells me that the cynically titled Love Happens doesn’t have a moment quite like that. But hearing about it reminded me of an unforgettable moment of my own, I suppose, so THANK, as we say that the Grave. THANK for the memory.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Trifecta of Terrible

I am rereading The Road, which is not terrible, obviously, but is certainly not a summer day at Disneyland. I figured since I was already depressed, why not go ahead and watch Schindler's List (deeply upsetting Holocaust film), finish The Wire series (incredible show, but desperately real and grim depiction of inner city life in Baltimore), and read The Road (shockingly beautiful writing, but GOD, it could not get any worse in the realm of HORROR and DESPAIR). Yeah, I'm living the dream.

But the interesting thing I've realized as I've been reading The Road is that this time around Viggo Mortensen IS the main protagonist in my mind. I can see him as the desperate father and I can hear him speaking the lines--it is a natural fit. I was wary when I heard the news that they were adapting this novel to the screen. Not really because of Viggo, but if you've read the book, you know how hard it would be to transfer it to film. I've seen stills from the shoot, and he certainly does look the part--who knew Hunky McHunkerstein could transform into such a wretched, gnarled thing?--but it took this second read to realize that the casting is actually quite genius. If they do it right, this could be a galvanizing piece of art.

Anyway, not to encourage anyone to ride this particular Magic Mountain of Gloom in the same way (all at once), but I can't recommend these three works enough. The Road is hard to read, mostly for me because it seems so likely (not the nuclear war, but what would happen to the survivors--what we would become), but it is worth it. The writing gives me pangs of tearful happiness--the line about the mother with the lamp circling the earth knocks the wind out of me every time. The Wire--enough already! Get Netflix and watch this damn show! It is NOT all doom and gloom--it also has a whole lot of heart and a nice helping of humor. And, well, duh: Schindler's List. It was only the 2nd time I've seen it, and it holds up well. And I believe the film maintains its integrity right up to just before the ending. It would have been better if Spielberg had ended it just after Schindler first said he could have saved more...but he didn't, so you just have to wince and bear the heavy handed dramatics. Too bad. It's still a great film, though.


These South Park inspired songs were in my head all day. Especially the first. When you are at the bottom of the well and weeping in a puddle, all you can really do is Live to Win.

You’re the Best

Push It to the Limit (hilariousness ensues. This totally looks like some shit I would make. Minus chickens.)

Friday, September 11, 2009


Four months into my great adventure into the scary, sexy, exhilarating New York City, it happened. On the day of, and all the days and months that followed, I did not cry. My theory is that my mind built an impenetrable wall. How could anyone ever accept such a horror?

What I Remember:

Sitting at my desk and thinking "God, that's a lot of fire trucks running by, even for New York." Not long after, a friend from work tearing around the corner and yelling that the World Trade Center towers were on fire.

I remember running downstairs to see what was going on, seeing those two towers on fire, and running back upstairs to find out what happened. The phones were jammed, but my mom sent me emails to update me on what she knew from the national news. Terrorist attacks.

We kept running up and down the stairs to watch the buildings, watch the skies. There were people in the streets--literally in the middle of the street. All of that NYC traffic was sporadic and halting, because people were crowding the streets, staring downtown, watching.

I never saw either tower fall. I just saw the aftermath, running down after an email with mom, to see blank. Blank sky, smoke. My friend was screaming on the ground. What did I feel? I felt blank.

They kicked us out of the building because of its historic value (a target, so run). We had nowhere to go--no buses, no subway...good luck getting a taxi, but to where? In the chaos in the streets--so many people, so upset, in shock--I managed to get a hold of my mom for one moment on the cell. I lied, because I did cry when she asked me if I was okay. I said I was okay. I was not okay.

Meg let me come with her to her apartment on the lower east side. The only TV available was a Spanish station--all the rest were knocked out when the towers fell--so Meg had to translate what was happening. She told me how to get home--over the Brooklyn bridge and down 4th avenue.

I walked across the bridge. It was very quiet. When we reached the Brooklyn side, there were rows upon rows of banquet tables set up, hasidic Jews stationed and ready with fresh water for us to drink. I remember shaking, taking the water, thinking only of getting home. There were fleets of buses waiting. I boarded one with no idea of where it went. I overheard another girl asking someone where to go--she was going to Park Slope, so I followed her. The trains were running again in Brooklyn. I took the red line to Grand Army Plaza and from there I knew my way home.

Nothing terrible happened to me that day. I was scared--the spike of terror happened just outside the flatiron building, kicked out of the building, hearing the sound of jets overhead, and finally getting ahold of my mom. Not knowing what was happening was extremely terrifying. Nonetheless, I went wholly cold. I had my moment of trembling and tears, but I locked it up, shut it down, and kept moving.

What I Remember

It took many months (a year? more?) for the smell to dissipate. It reeked of burnt circuits, hot metal...and whatever you could imagine that smell might be. Going back to work, trying to play adult, like life goes on, like nothing has changed, couldn't negate that smell of destruction and horror.

My friends, their true and clear feelings, and the safety of their presence. Chris and Julia called me over to their building on the night of 9/11. We went to the roof and watched the floodlights and smoke. Chris could not stop crying. I remember looking at her and wondering what was wrong with me.

I remember going to The Gate, a local pub in the neighborhood, drinking and toasting in remembrance of the lost. I remember how raw it felt, having happened just weeks before, and I remember the camaraderie that was so quick, easy, and common in those days. I remember watching the concert for the 9/11 families and survivors, when The Who came on and the three of us were screaming and jumping and so fucking happy to be feeling anything other than hurt.

I remember this song. I lay on my bed at night, played it at 10 with hot, dry eyes. I did not cry. I thought about those walls of photos, "Have You Seen Him?," "My Mother Was In Tower 2," and in the arms of this song, thinking of nothing but those families.

I am not sure why it is hitting me so hard this year. Perhaps I am just too much in my own head these days. It is important to remember. That's enough, right?

Tuesday, September 08, 2009

2 Cute, with a Side Serving of Mouthsmacks

I tried to post this to Facebook but had to take it down. The first try was someone else's version, jacked from this original, which also had a dirty note in the "more info" section. Which made me hate both the person who posted it and YouTube. Why? WHY? Why ruin a cute cat video with stupidity and grossness?

I found this "original" version (I think, I hope) but I see that comments are still making the same lame joke. I hate all of you, stupid perv assholes. And, for the record, I HATE that word. Top of the list! Do NOT take that as an invitation to write it, please. Just enjoy this little freak and his goofy water sports.

Saturday, September 05, 2009

O Sweet Long Weekend

While chickens are by far the most amazing and beautiful birds, my heart has softened for one particular breed that dapples the sidewalks on my way to work every day. In my ever-present peptalk that accompanies the morning walk to the subway, I've found great comfort in the sight of these little tweets, so sweet I can barely stand how dear they are. I've been cruising the Internet, trying to figure out what the hell they are, when I finally depended upon my rusty memory banks to just guess what they might be.

As a writer, one of my most embarrassing weaknesses is not knowing the names of things: trees, flowers, general frickin fauna, birds--birds! I know chickens...even different types of chickens, kind of...but nothing else really. SO. One of the only bird names that came to mind was, finally, SPARROWS. Funny, since they play such a huge role in a great Stephen King novel (and HORRIBLE movie), The Dark Half. Who'd have thunk it? These twee birds carry the dead back to the underworld? Get out! How could they? As they are so unbelievably twee?

So I present to you the sparrow. Couldn't you just pop one in your mouth? They are small enough. I'll never call them "sparrow," though, because on my walks of anxiety and stress, I've already named them. Heretofore, let them forever be known by their true and shiny name: Sweetiebirds. I first thought of them as "tweetiebirds" of course, but the natural progression to "sweetiebirds" now seems inevitable.


I'd only ever seen them fleeing in terror of me as I walked the walk, but the other day had the pleasure of having them dive bomb Yasmin and I as we ate in the park. So I guess that the "taking the dead back to the underworld" thing makes more sense...yet. Lookit! How sweet is that face? You could kiss 'em or eat 'em--too sugary perfect for words!

And now, some random house pics. Because I could. Would. And will.

Thursday, September 03, 2009

The Week in Review


Undergoes her LAST wedding celebration this weekend. WOW, it's been MONTHS, girl, but finally we're at the end of it, yar? And the best part of all is the fact that your O Canadia friends will get a chance to celebrate your union, drink some red wine, and see your sweet face in person. YAY! Hope you brought a sickass dress, grrrl. PS. When the Yaz gets in her crazy, work-focused space (last day before the long weekend, praise, Jaysus) she pins up her hair and looks absolutely ELEGANTE. That's pronounced "el-ay-gaun-TAY."

(PPS note to Girl: Did you notice the back of "Red Dragon"'s head looks like Darth Vadar unmasked? Do I still think he's hawt? Yessss. SHAME.)

Hey, Let's Not Die Today

The Number 1 Advice to Visitors to New York City (and SHAMEFUL citydwellers who keep forgetting): Check Traffic When Crossing the Street, NOT Other Pedestrians. PAY ATTENTION. You need to understand that people are constantly playing dodge car here--and they absolutely do not care what happens to your sorry ass whilst you are texting, paying attention peripherally, and walking into traffic. SO. Watch the lights, watch the traffic, and don't trust it when someone else walks into the street--only YOU can prevent pancaking. THX.


I don't talk about work here--it's kind of a work-free zone, if you will--but I would like to make one general statement to the cosmos: Think of Others. I mean, before making decisions and taking action...consider the fact that it might totally jack up someone else's hard work, time, and general psyche. Just saying.


Not really work related, but definitely 5th avenue diaspora worthy: Ninth floor women's/handicap bathroom, 3pm, Thursday, a woman conducts a JOB INTERVIEW in the bathroom stall. Which everyone (needing to use the bathroom, hel-LO) in the hall can totally hear. Hey Bloomsbury intern, can you conduct your job interviews someplace more appropriate? Other than on the toilet? THX.

That Is Not My Problem

Been thinking it all week. So much inspiration. Riding the elevator one floor to the chorus of sighs? Not my problem. Cut you off crossing Broadway? Not my problem. Jacking the whole system and asking me to redo all of my hard work? Not my problem. Pancaked on 5th ave? Not my problem. And I'm kicking your dead, texting ass as I walk by, too.

Levi Johnston

Don't care if he's bitter, lame, immature, stupid, or half-lying. After all of the hideous coverage on the health care debate it's a sweet balm to hear such lovely stories about Ms. Palin. Are we so civilized that we can no longer call it as we see it? That bitch is fake. Straight up. Like you didn't know.


Have always loved turtles. Have always tried to make friends. PS. Turtles are not much for snuggles or keeses. Shocker, I know. But these pix make me so happy. SO HAPPY.


Ugh. My joy is knowing in my heart that this is the Trip of My Lifetime. I have time to make it as perfect as I can. I've wanted to go since I took an Art in Japan class when I was an undergrad. I want to see Tokyo with all of the neon and people. I want to sleep in one of those cubby hotels. I want to see the country and the beautiful Heian architecture. I want to visit Hiroshima and pay my respects, no matter how small, no matter how insufficient. If aliens were to visit and choose singular human habitations to experience, don't you think it would be at the top of the list? I do.

However, until I can save at LEAST $3,000 (more, let's face it), I can't do it. Maybe that vaycay to the tropical isle will have to come first. But it's a plan and it is going to happen.

All Good Things Happen in November

Stephen King's newest novel, Under the Dome, will release on November 10.

The Star Trek DVD will release on November 17.

As Leanne Rhimes would say, How do I leeeeeeve without you? I want to know!


Did you know that I'm not so much into it? Except for my freakass mix consisting of all kinds of wrong? So I have nothing new to share. So let's enjoy this!


Wednesday, September 02, 2009


I don't watch CBS news, but I was restlessly flipping around tonight and ran across this:

Watch CBS Videos Online

...which made me cry and cry. Though I'm wondering what he means by "distinctly Japanese"...? But the story about the dog still KILLS ME. Even if it is only half true.