A Truly Black Friday

In Long Island, a temporary Wal-Mart employee was trampled to death in a Black Friday stampede as he opened the doors at 5 a.m. That same day, two men shot each other dead at a Palm Desert Toys R Us.

Isn't it ironic that during this time economic experts are referring to as the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression...and during this time when terrorists have descended upon Mumbai, India in a crusade to kill mostly American and British tourists...and during this time when Bangkok area airports are shut down and in danger of losing billions of dollars due to unruly anti-government protesters....that people are killing each other in a quest for material bullshit? Are people really so blind to the world around them that they can't even see the dying person they're stepping on and over to get to the plasma TV aisle?

Our society is sick. People don't even know exactly what they're lining up outside of these stores for. They just know there is stuff inside that may cost less than it did yesterday - and they've decided they need it right now. Never mind the fact that not once in the history of supply-and-demand have retailers ceased to sell things to people who are willing to buy them. "Get it while it lasts!" Well, idiots, "while it lasts" is "as long as you're willing to pay for it."

Meanwhile, these same people sit down at elaborate Thanksgiving Day dinners with their families, going through the motions of the holiday with their yada-yada-thanks. They bow their heads and they pray...right before they line up outside of Best Buy.

Brad and I spent Thanksgiving with my mom, sister and niece. I went out the next day with my mom, as is tradition for me...at 3:00 in the afternoon. And I got some great deals no one was harmed for. On Saturday, when Brad and I went TV shopping, there were plenty for sale. Sure, some of the best deals were sold out - but guess what? There are more on the way. Because in America, there's ALWAYS more to be had.

It will be interesting to see if these sales carry on next year in their current form. Retailers with a conscience may choose to discontinue the practice. But more likely, they will make feeble attempts to safeguard themselves against this sort of bad press, still feeding the frenzy of old-fashioned holiday greed.

Merry Christmas.

Economic Woes

As the Dow falls, the unemploy-ment rate rises, and the housing bubble bursts, even the most optimistic are now throwing in the towel and declaring the recession we already knew we were in. Let's face it - compared to this, 2001 was a party. So as the economy fizzles...how are the wealthy coping?

Times are tough for them, too.

On Friday, I received a special email from Heidi Says, a women's designer boutique in Pacific Heights that caters to the fashion-whipped and Amex-equipped. In short, this email thanked me for my patronage, letting me know how rewarding it is for them to "play a part in [my] quest to be well-dressed." My God, I feel like together, we've been curing cancer. But see, Heidi recognizes that current times are trying. Hubby may not be getting that big bonus this year. How can one possibly continue to keep up old habits?

Heidi understands. And that's why Heidi is now not only willing to match prices on their items I find elsewhere (a, by the way, totally basic retail courtesy) - they may even grant me a discount to buy it from them instead! AND (drumroll please), if I make a purchase of $400 or more between now and December 24th, they will grant me a $100 savings. $100! That's 25% off or less! Wow. So what they're telling me is that during these hard times, they are joining the legions of retailers who have, for years, held holiday sales in the name of Black Friday. I'm speechless.

It doesn't stop there. Signs of the wealthy's suffering are hitting even closer to home. When out for a walk with Brad and Moby the other night, I noticed that one of the neighborhood houses already had Christmas lights up - gross! When I called this to Brad's attention, he informed me of a deal the Christmas light installers are extending to the community.

Time out: Yes - there are companies that hang your Christmas lights for you, except that they call it an "installation" so that they can charge you a lot of money for an otherwise simple job for Dad.

Apparently, if you have your installation done during the month of November, they will grant you a significant discount. Now, this is quite a pickle for the wealthy. On the one hand, their portfolios are dwindling and they could really use the help. On the other hand, lights up before December? Now everyone is pointing at you as the tacky people who don't respect Thanksgiving.

It's unclear how the wealthy are going to weather the storm. But the generous boutique sales and premature decorating are early signs of the apocalpyse. I'm bracing for the worst.

Fresh Squeezed O.J.

READER ADVISORY: My apologies for the below to any of my USC alum friends (yes, I admit it - I have some).

I actually used to want to go to school there.

On Saturday, Brad and I went to the Stanford vs. USC football game with our friends Ryan and Xin-Hua. For those who have been living under a collegiate sports rock, Stanford hasn't had a good football team since...well, I'd say really since the 1992-1993 team we fielded my freshman year. Sure, there was a Rose Bowl bid in 2000, but it was kind of a charity case. In any case, we're still not good. But we're closer to good than we've been in years, thanks to Jim Harbaugh and no thanks to Buddy Teevens and Walt Harris. And perhaps more important, we beat USC last year at the Colisseum, 24-23, snapping their 35-game win streak at home. Anyone who cares even a little bit about college sports knows that USC ranks right up there with the most hated teams everyone wants to see cry, along with Duke and Notre Dame. So we wouldn't dare miss even the most remote opportunity to see history repeat itself - which it totally did not, by the way - despite a nice F-You sequence at the end of the game.

Suffice it to say, Palo Alto's IQ dropped precipitously yesterday when all of the Trojan fans descended onto the Stanford campus. One particular Trojan tool sported a red polo shirt, whose popped collar (of course) revealed the word "FRAT." No, it did not indicate which brotherhood he was with. It would have been much like me wearing a tshirt that said, "WOMAN." Dumbass.

And then there were the middle-aged geniuses sitting in the row behind us who felt the need to call every play of the game, question every coaching move, and make every Captain Obvious statement possible. One gem: "They are only running the ball. They could pass as well." It is true that running and passing are the only two ways I know of for a football team to score, but I appreciate them reminding us all of that fact.

Finally, what the hell is wrong with USC's female fans? What is with the ho-tastic outfits, donned by those of all ages - including the 50-something in the plaid, thigh-high miniskirt? Was she an ex-Song Girl? Gross.

Oh well, at least we'll always have this guy. And they'll always have THAT guy.

Yes We Did

Last night, America shed a legacy of shame that has permeated the country’s conscious-ness for more than 200 years. We now find ourselves on a forward trajectory of pride and hope, and that is because Americans have proven once again that ultimately, we will rise to fight against that which is wrong and enact the change that we know is right.

The election of Barack Obama as the nation’s 44th President – 44 years after passage of the Civil Rights Act – is a powerful symbol of this change. But to be clear, what Americans have really risen up against is years of failed and fraudulent governance that has soiled the fibers of this great country, and rendered it crippled in the world landscape.

Still – what millions of Americans will remember when they think back to that historic moment on November 4, 2008 when Barack Obama was named the next President of the United States – is that it was then that the consciousness of this country was permanently shifted. And it wasn’t shifted just on the west coast and in New England – it was shifted nationwide in a demonstrative vote for change that this country has never seen before. While his 349 (and counting) electoral votes still number fewer than Bill Clinton’s decisive 379 in his 1996 victory, the overwhelming message they cast – that the American people are both for a new regime and against an old regime – is unprecedented.

I told my friend Kerry this morning, when she asked about my feelings on the election, that her young children – just coming of an age when they can recognize who the President is and what that means – have an opportunity we never had. They will see the most powerful leader in this world as a non-white man, influencing their global view in ways we can’t even imagine.

Is racism dead in America? Of course it’s not – because crazy zealots will always exist in the subculture. But let’s take this opportunity, as people of all colors, to stop using racism as a crutch to hold up a negative status quo. Let’s take this opportunity to move forward.

It’s a new day.

"Ho"lloween

When did Halloween become the day of the year that females of ALL ages transform themselves into total sluts? When did nurses and policewomen become "naughty?" And when did '80s pop star turn from lace gloves with rubber bracelets and wide belts into booty shorts and teeny tank tops? I think it says it all that I recently couldn't tell the difference between a Halloween costume store window display and a XXX shop.

No, seriously, I don't even know what these chicks are dressed as these days. As Brad and I walked around on Halloween night, we spotted teenagers exposing more skin than a Maxim magazine cover, and some adult women who just looked slutty. Of course, then the reasonable question becomes whether or not that person is in costume or just skanky. It really can go either way.

Little girls have always enjoyed dressing up like they're older than they are. But when did little girls pretending to be women become little girls pretending to be women who are dressed like little girls? Case in point: Rainbow Brite adult costume. I'm not sure how many people can identify this as Rainbow Brite - but we can all identify this as "ho"riffic.

Look, I love a costume that makes me look more pretty than scary. But the old stand-by "racy" costumes of playboy bunny and french maid are now just downright prudent. For God's sake, I shudder to think what today's version of the genie costume looks like. But I'm sure she's wearing daisy dukes (and by the way, this girl's parents must be really proud).

Meanwhile, we live in a society obsessed with "family values." Here's a family value for you: don't let your daughter leave the house looking like she just slid off the pole under the auspice of it being Halloween.

Until next year...Tricks and Treats.

The Dentist

Why is it that when you go to the dentist, the hygienist insists on trying to engage you in active conversation that requires your frequent response? When you walk in, why does she start lofty discussions beyond, "Hello, how are you?" Instead, she wants to know your life goals, and your point of view on the birth of the universe. And then as soon as you begin to formulate your thoughtful answer, she shoves a hose in your mouth.

Then as you're choking on the hose and fighting death to force out a few words to complete your thought, the hygienist mutters incomprehensible nonsense through a surgical mask and waits for you to speak again. Your eyes squint as you try to understand her - and then drool pours out of the corner of your mouth as you try to respond in a way you think might answer her question.

But she doesn't notice the drool. And now it's streaming down your chin and neck, and into your shirt. When she finally notices what's happening, she reacts erratically, shoving a towel into your clothing to stop the damage. But her sudden movement knocks the hose out of your mouth, shooting a dreadful combination of water and saliva into your eye.

Hygienist: "Oh my God, I'm so sorry, are you okay?"
Me: "Mmmwwwwo!"
Hygienist: "(Laughing) Oh good, okay, not so bad."
Me: "Grrrrr."
Hygienist: "What's that?"
Me: (Silent anger)

After she's drenched you, she initiates the scraping of the teeth. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard and feels just about as pleasant. You want to hear anything other than the sound of this scraping, but guess what - she's concentrating now - really hard. And she's no longer speaking to you. So you don't even get the pleasure of listening to her mumble through her mask. The scraping is making your ears burn, and you're staring up at the ceiling, from which a TV/DVD combo player is hanging. On the wall, you notice a shelf with videos of all of your favorite shows. You briefly wonder why all of this is in here - and then you answer your own question when you see the headphones hanging on the other wall next to you. Ah, someone thought it would be nice for patients to be distracted from the discomfort of dentistry with real entertainment.

You look at your hygienist and look up at the TV - look back at the hygienist and again up at the TV. You suspect she's gotten the hint when she stops scraping. And then she lets out a sigh and resumes.

#$^#@$^#@!@#$%!!!!!

This Invisalign I was punked into getting better be worth it.

Workin' 9 to 5...What a Way to Make a Livin'

Well, that was brutal.

First week back on the job - I (thank God) started on a Wednes-day as not to have a heart attack working 5 days straight for the first time in 9 weeks. By Thursday, I was exhausted and could think of nothing more than the weekend. How am I possibly going to survive this? I must immediately begin devising a plan that involves not working and amassing income.

Anyway, enough about work - that's depressing - especially since now, I find myself staring at young women dressed in Lululemon looking happy during commute hours, and wondering why I'm not with them. Instead, let's talk about a phone call I received earlier this week:

RRRRING!
(Pause)
I think to myself, "Should I answer that? It's 7 pm on a weekday - probably a telemarketer."
RRRRING!
(Pause)
I rationalize, "Oh what the hell, I'm not busy. Let's see what they want to sell me."
(Answering the phone)
Me - "Hello?"
Caller - "Hi, I'm calling from Gallup Poll Research..."

I tune out everything else he's said. This is AWESOME. I am finally being polled by Gallup. After years of reading these polls and wondering who the $%^#$@ the people are they're talking to, I finally get to share my two cents. It's about time! Yes, sir, I DO have an opinion about this year's election, and I AM happy to share it with you! In fact, might I introduce you to my blog, sfinthecity.blogspot.com...

Me - "Oh, hello!"
Caller - "Yes, I'm conducting some research on attitudes towards drinking..."

WHAT? This is not about the election? I don't want to talk about drinking. I want to talk about Obama and McCain and his ho-bag of a wife, Cindy (she only became a ho-bag when she disparaged Obama for allegedly voting against military funding that impacted, amongst other soldiers, her son)! I don't want to talk about beer. Call someone else to talk about that. Come on, ask me about the election!

Me - "Uhuh."
Caller - "I just need to ask you some questions to verify that you qualify for the study."
Me - "Okay."
Caller - "How many adults over the age of 24 live in your residence?"
Me - "Two."
Caller - "And am I speaking with one of them?"
Me - "Yes."

Okay, this is not too bad. I still get to answer questions about myself, and I can see that this is going to lead to me sharing my opinion on something. That'll do. This is good.

Caller - "Okay, now I need to speak with the person in the household with the more recent birthday."
Me - "Ummm..."

What the hell kind of question is that? Does he mean he wants the person who more recently celebrated a birthday, or the person who is the youngest and therefore was more recently born? Damnit, either way, that's not me.

Me - "That's the other person who lives here."
Caller - "And I'm guessing that person is not available..."
Me - "No, he's not here right now."

Okay, surely, he will keep asking me questions and I can shape the outcome of his research.

Caller - "Yeah, that happens to me a lot. Maybe I'll try back again later. Thank you for your time."

Click.

Is it really possible that I just got rejected and cut off by someone whose job it is to phone people at home and interrupt their evenings...and I'm upset about it? That's kind of...pathetic.

I'm still waiting for my return phone call.

Home, Sweet Home

Dorothy said it best:
"There's no place like home."

After not leaving LA yesterday until 6:30 p.m., then having to slog over dreaded Hwy 152 to pick up our car, housed in our friends' Menlo Park garage (thanks, Alexander and Sheryn!), we arrived on the Jackson St. scene at about 2:00 a.m.

In addition to the comfort of our bed last night, I enjoyed waking up to the quiet of a street that lacks doormen, a synogague, and a Hebrew School that doubles as a Fallout Shelter. I walked without fearing for my life as drivers waved me through the crosswalk. And upon first sighting, our neighbors engaged us in a 10-minute conversation about our trip, the economy, and the beautiful weather. Admittedly, I was initially confused by the sound of the word "Hello," but thankfully managed to contain my surpise. To cap it all off, we even ate Mexican food for lunch that exhibited actual flavor.

Now before you go thinking I'm a New York hater who must have been miserable for the past 9 weeks...not even close. I shed a single tear every day I'm not at Exhale Spa. And the phrase "back to work" still sounds like something other people do after the weekend...not me. Don't get me wrong - I like my job - and all of you there even more. But given the choice (and I can say this with certainty now), I'd opt out of the whole work thing in a heartbeat. Believe me, in case you're not sure: It is entirely possible to fill each and every one of your days with plenty aside from meetings and "30,000 foot views."

So what's next for this blog, now that I don't have the bad fashion of Salt Lake City and the questionable meat of South Dakota to feed me (no pun intended) the world's easiest material? Well...if you know me at all, you know I have an opinion about anything and everything, and I'll continue to express that here, likely on a weekly basis. As I sit now watching CNN, I can already see that Hillary Clinton's post-campaign bouffant she calls a hairstyle may be a key topic. Or perhaps I'll delve into the new porno, "Nailin' Paylin," whose lead star described herself as a "mattress actress." Come on now, that's just clever.

Until then, thanks for reading - and stick with me!

Goin' Back to Cali, Days 8 & 9 - Carson, CA

Home with Mommy - dreading the last 400 miles from LA to San Francisco...sigh. Stalling at my sister's, eating bbq and cake.

Goin' Back to Cali, Day 7 - Henderson, NV

Taking the day off, enjoying a relaxing stay in Henderson (complete with brisket and matzo ball soup). Yum.

Goin' Back to Cali, Day 6 - Henderson, NV

Brad told me we were driving 530 miles today - but he can't read his own writing. So when I found it odd that we didn't appear to be near our destination, yet my driving shift was supposed to be nearing its end, he showed me his directional notes (because Hertz is too lame to have provided us with a navigation system to DRIVE ACROSS THE COUNTRY) - and yeah, his notes said 570. I cannot tell you how much farther 40 miles seemed right then - it was sort of a low point.

But now we are in Henderson with Brad's parents, just outside of Vegas. We are positively thrilled to be somewhere familiar and very close to California for two nights!

Entering the state of Nevada was a somewhat unusual process. There's a mandatory checkpoint at the Hoover Dam, and we were ready for a thorough question-and-answer session: Where are you folks coming from? Where are you heading? How long have you been traveling? You know, some normal questions that might actually be useful information for government security to ask before allowing a vehicle to cross into one of the nation's highest security regions. Instead, I pulled up to a stop sign, rolled down my window just because it seemed like the right thing to do...and the government official, standing about 7 feet from the car, gave us a cursory glance and waved us through.

WHAT?

That's our nation's sad attempt at security? I mean, at least humor me and ask if we packed the bags in the car ourselves.

Okay, time out for a second. I just looked up at the news, and apparently, the Colorado Center for the Blind is teaching blind teenagers how to drive. Because, you know, teenagers are such good drivers with their full sight available to them.

God help Darwin.

Goin' Back to Cali, Day 5 - Albuquerque, NM

(At a Texas gas station, Moby decided he wanted to drive - no, seriously - we didn't put him in that seat.)

Today, as we drove further across Oklahoma into and through Texas, something strange stood out (aside from what was, at least until very recently, the largest cross in the western hemisphere - an honor you really should just let a city have without going after it, no?). Gas prices were below $3/gallon for the first time I can remember seeing in...well, in a very long time. And as we passed sign after sign at stations displaying prices as low as $2.85, it hit me that this just isn't fair. It's not unfair because in California, we pay more than just about everyone else in the country for gas - no, I get that. It's unfair because Texas gave birth to the man who led us into this oil crisis in the first place, and yet in his home state, they pay less than the rest of us! Frankly (and my apologies to the Texas natives out there), I think Texans should have to pay $6/gallon until they properly apologize for the atrocity known as our president.

Meanwhile, what has happened to the 2008 presidential election - which, thanks partly to the aforementioned, has shaped up to be one of the most impactful in our nation's history? Specifically, what the hell is the McCain campaign doing? I don't even say that from a partisan point of view. Seriously, I'm going to take a step back and be as unbiased as I possibly am capable of, and say his entire campaign staff needs to be fired. From the folks "leaking" to the press that their new strategy is to turn the page on the economy and focus on Obama's character...to whomever is giving Sarah Palin a microphone at rallies; some heads need to roll.

First of all, someone needs to get Palin up to speed on the actual strategy of the campaign (which again, I realize, is pretty much impossible to identify at this point). Last Friday, she was talking the big talk about swooping down on Michigan for more campaigning when she was politely informed that the McCain campaign had decided to cease efforts there. That was just days after she agreed with Obama's sentiment about launching cross-border attacks into Pakistan from Afghanistan - something McCain has mocked repeatedly. (In their father-daughter interview with Katie Couric, McCain did his best to clean up this most recent Palin gaffe.) Earlier this week, Palin suggested that she'd really like to revisit the Reverend Wright controversy, despite the fact that McCain himself has declared it "off-limits." At least she got the go-ahead to revive the months-old, laid-to-rest William Ayers connection.

Oh, for the love of God, someone get this woman a newspaper so that she can join the rest of us on today's date.

So while McCain and his cohorts are condoning (by not responding to) shouts from crowds at rallies that Obama is a "terrorist" and they should "kill him," McCain himself is simultaneously issuing statements that he doesn't support such "inappropriate rhetoric." But let's make something very clear - McCain doesn't support these statements simply by not making them himself - but he is happy to have others do the talking for him.

Look, I obviously am a huge Obama supporter. But I'm making simple and fair observations here. Little quips like, "That one!" are meaningless to me, hardly rooted in racism and simply indicative of McCain's grumpy old (losing) man nature. But it's vicious lies, and irresponsible and dangerous mischaracterizations that fuel negativity and hatred in this country, that make me shake my head at the botched McCain campaign. It doesn't even seem that McCain WANTS the campaign to go there, since he could easily have taken it down that road in last night's debate, and really didn't. So I just wish he'd show some of the backbone he is careful to remind the nation he has as a Vietnam Veteran and former POW, and substantively denounce the despicable actions of his camp.

Until the next debate...

Goin' Back to Cali, Day 4 - Oklahoma City, OK

I didn't know what to expect from Oklahoma City. If we weren't driving through and staying the night, I'd surely have forgotten the city even existed. I don't say that just to be mean - it's true. So I decided to really examine the city and highlight what I've learned:

1) Carrie Underwood hails from Checotah, OK.
2) Troy Aikman is from somewhere nearby.
3) Church is really, really important.
4) But yet, the adult superstore is bigger here than I've noticed since being in South Dakota. (What is it with the traditionally Native American states?!)
5) Furthermore, they like to gamble a lot.
6) Church + XXX + Gambling = "You call it abortion, we call it murder."
7) University of Oklahoma is home to more National Merit Scholars than any other school in the country. (Take that, Harvard. I'm kidding, we all know this claim isn't even remotely true.)
8) P.F. Chang's has very good food.
9) P.F. Chang's has extraordinary service.
10) Oklahoma City is messing with my mind.

Now, on to more important things.

Why is John McCain attempting jokes during a debate that many believe to be critical to his ailing campaign? Has no one told him he's not funny? Seriously, if Brad were running for president, and was up on stage in front of millions of viewers making bad jokes that no one understood, I would tell him. It's time for Cindy to come clean and tell her husband he is old and awkward and no one gets it. She might also remind him that he's ruining her chances of moving into an eighth house and getting more camera time to show off her latest Botox treatment.

In fact, let's altogether scrap the third debate between the senators in favor of Michelle vs. Cindy. Did you see the icy exchange between those two on stage post-debate? Yikes. This is where the real story lies. Maybe this is what Palin meant by "putting on our heels and taking off the gloves." Or whatever she said.

Tomorrow, it's a new time zone - and hopefully, new food options.

Goin' Back to Cali, Day 3 - Memphis, TN

I have a question for you.

Why do you need fireworks year-round?

On the way from Asheville to Memphis, we passed numerous fireworks superstores. No, not the little stands that go up in June and come down in July. I mean big stores that specialize in fireworks. But I can only assume since they remain open that they get a steady stream of business.

So I ask again...why?

Here are some scenarios under which I might suggest setting them off:

1) The Dow hits 10000 again.
2) After all that church-going, Jesus actually shows up at your house.
3) Inauguration Day - like, no matter who wins, it's a celebration of sorts, right?
4) "My kid made the honor roll at Memphis Middle School."
5) It's just a fun way to light a cigarette in tobacco country.

But I digress.

When we arrived at our hotel in Memphis, we were greeted with typically friendly, southern hospitality - and a suited-for-a-country-song story about the hotel registrar's dog:

Me - "Checking in, last name Ramey, R-a-m-e-y."
Hotel Dude - "Very good, here you are."
Me - "And I have a dog as well, I'm not sure if you have that there..."
Hotel Dude - "Of course, no problem, ma'am. What kinda dog you have?"
Me - "Oh, he's a mix. Maybe Lab and Akita, could be some Chow..."
Hotel Dude - "Oh wow, that is great! Where'd you get him?"
Me - "The shelter."
Hotel Dude - "That's the best. My sister got both of her dogs that way. I got a dog, too..."

And here comes the country song, translated directly from the story that followed from him:

"Brother found my dog in a dumpster,
Left out behind a McDonald's.
Got my dog outta the dumpster,
Gave him to me did Ronald.
My dog had been run over by a car,
And had a messed up leg.
Me and my brother drove far
To the hospital for Dr. Craig.
Now my dog walks on three,
Instead of the usual four.
But you know, I love him so much...
Maybe even a little bit more."

What do you say to that?

We finished the night off with some excellent Memphis barbecue . And tomorrow, it's on to Oklahoma City. Many thanks to anyone in advance who can send me some thoughts on what could possibly be interesting about this destination. (No points for college football or basketball, since we will not be able to see either.)

Goin' Back to Cali, Day 2 - Asheville, NC

Ah, back on the road - that old, familiar feeling returns so quickly. Driving a few hundred miles every day, crossing our fingers for a decent food stop, checking into a new hotel every night, and unpacking and repacking the car...oh, it's the only way to travel.

For the route back, we're only hitting "major" cities since there are no extended stays at national parks or other points of interest, and the South scares me too much to veer far off the beaten path. So far, things are going well - albeit some strange encounters and experiences at last night's Sheraton.

If any of you ever travel with your dog, you know that some hotels provide you with fun doggy packages upon check-in. Usually, we're talking anything as small as a couple of treats to make the welcome more pleasant; though Kimpton Group hotels provide toys and treats and all sorts of fancery for their "VIP" guests (these are the canines). W Hotels will even make sure your dog has his own bed, and walk him upon request.

Sheraton is a Westin hotel like the W, but the lines of distinction are pretty clear - particularly when it comes to dogs. Last night, upon check-in, I had to fill out and sign some forms that promised Moby wouldn't pee on the walls, poop on the floor or bark all night. After doing that, the woman helping me proudly reached behind her into a cabinet, and pulled out what she called, "a special package for our VIPs." Oh yay, fun - a cute little bag - I bet it's stuffed with some goodness Moby will enjoy.

Fast forward 10 minutes. Brad, opening the bag, says to Moby, "Let's see what we have!" (Yes, it's normal to talk to your dog.) And after rustling through some tissue paper, he pulled out...a surgical glove. Pause for confusion. Then he reached back into the bag and pulled out...a second surgical glove. He removed the tissue paper and shook the bag. Out fell...a paper dog tag.

Now, let's review just so that I can make sure you get this straight. The Sheraton provided us with surgical gloves, apparently to give Moby a proctology exam; and then a paper dog tag that would smudge and tear within 24 hours. And they put it in a cute bag, as if that would somehow disguise the super shitty "gift." (Although I have to admit, I have done this before - gotten a really cute and oddly expensive bag at the stationery store for a gift I knew just wasn't that great - hoping the bag would distract the recipient, and at least look good to others who may never know what's actually inside.) But come on, surgical gloves?!?

No, seriously - I have to presume this was their attempt at a poop bag. Brad and I discussed, and it's all we can come up with. You put on the gloves, your dog poops, and you pick it up. Now, what you do with the gloves at that point is where things get fuzzy for me. Do you try to slip one glove off and around the poop, like a bag of sorts? How do you avoid getting poop on your hands? Do you walk around holding it until you find a trash can? There are just far too many things wrong with this method.

Suffice it to say, we threw away the welcome package - thanks, but no thanks. And moments later, the party next door started.

You know the sound of a bunch of girls standing in a circle dancing, with a different girl going into the center of the circle and doing some sort of bootylicious move that elicits high pitched squeals and "Woooos!" That's what was happening in the room next to ours - until 1:00 in the morning - when we were ready for bed and had the hotel shut down Total Request Live.

It was actually a great night's sleep, until we woke up to learn that the elevator wasn't working - and we were on the 7th floor. Not a huge deal if you don't have enough luggage to, oh, last you for two months. Yeah.

But after all was said and done, we made it out of Richmond safely - which was all I really wanted. And to turn that frown upside down, we discovered a chicken and biscuits chain called "Bojangles" that truly may have been some of the best fast food eating I've ever had. I'd Yelp it if I didn't think that was just a little bit weird, and might seriously call into question my other reviews.

And now, here we are in Asheville. No surgical gloves, no Dance Dance Revolution (DDR) and we're housed on the first floor.

Goin' Back to Cali, Day 1 - Richmond, VA

It's been a few days since my last real post, so there's lots to cover here.

First, let me just say that I am so glad Mary J. Blige was once an alcoholic drug abuser with serious man problems who has since found love and the lord, because that really has helped her write and perform some great songs. Please don't lose all the drama, Mary. We need some of it for the music.

On a less pleasant note, the hot water our NYC building didn't have beginning on Thursday never returned. Thank God for Exhale Spa, so that I could actually take a hot shower yesterday. I suppose the timing of our departure couldn't have been better. I mean, it only could have been better if our landlords had actually informed us they expected us to be out by 11:00 this morning, and the housekeeper was coming at 12:00, and new tenants were moving in at 2:00. But yeah, other than that, our timing couldn't have been better.

All of the Manhattan stars aligned before our departure, creating the perfect storm of lunacy. In addition to not having any hot water in our building for the past couple of days (which led to the notice posted on the door being vandalized by angry tenants), we met an awesome crazy man on our way to dinner last night. I made the mistake of too openly admiring his dog:

Me - "He's so cute!"
Crazy Man - "What about the dog?"

Um, whoa.

The man went on to spend 30 minutes talking to us about his desire to cross-breed more Labs with Great Danes; his intent to work at Google so that he could take his dog to work (I didn't have the heart to tell him that's a Bay Area thing only); the great book he was working on that "could be bigger than Harry Potter," and enlighten us about the "PGA" - that's "Pretty Girl Alert" - that he makes use of to try to meet women. (I, by the way, am proud to say I set off his PGA.) He raved about chamber music and ballroom dancing, and informed us he runs up to 140th and Riverside Dr. every morning to swim 2 miles at 6:30 a.m. That extreme physical activity, um, was not apparent. But kudos to him. A Cal alum, he started to disparage Stanford alums as "pretentious jerks." It was awkward when he discovered we're both pretentious jerks.

Ah, I'm going to miss these crazies.

But alas, we made it out of New York alive - shitty American SUV and all. No, seriously, I can't believe people buy American cars. We drove out here in a Subaru Tribeca. It was awesome. It appeared too small to accommodate us and all of our stuff, but true to Japan, it was small and amazingly efficient. Now, we're tooling around in a Chevy Trailblazer. And true to America, it's large and totally inefficient. We could hardly figure out how to cram everything in the vast interior of wasted space, and after poor Moby was clobbered by a suitcase and a duffle bag, we pulled over 3 minutes into the drive to fix it - then pulled over 5 minutes later to rearrange entirely, after heading the wrong way on the Hudson Pkwy. Honestly, when the rental car company requested options for this vehicle, they sprung for a steering wheel and tires. That's it. On a positive note, the lack of ammenities is a great theft deterrent, since the car already looks like it's been stripped.

New York now seems like a long time ago, since we are now officially in the South. How do I know? We stopped at one of MANY Chick-fil-A restaurants (thankfully, it's not Sunday), a drink option was sweet tea, and the woman I ordered it all from called me "Baby" and "Boo Boo."

God bless this place.

Last Night

I know I said I'd post today, but my procrastinated packing has made that...not true. But don't lose faith and please come back!

And for those who are wondering...

Yes, I thought Sarah Palin performed better than expected, given her Miss Teen South Carolina performances of late; but she still didn't answer the questions, just stuck to the five talking points she'd been taught...and still is woefully unqualified for the job.

Stay Tuned

Late night at Mary J. and catching up on a replay of the debate. Tomorrow, expect to hear about all of this.

The Sign

"To All Tenants:

Please be aware that on Thursday, October 2, there will be no hot water for the entire building due to necessary boiler maintenance. We apologize for the inconvenience."

Really? I'd say an inconvenience would be no hot water for, oh, 4 hours. This is more like a day for which I'd like a refund.

Not cool.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

There comes a time in the dating cycle when you have to meet the parents. For most people, this represents a big step worth preparing for. Maybe you wear something a little nicer than normal; if you're a guy, perhaps you shave; or some simply brush up on current events in anticipation of mature conversation.

Well, I want to know what the guy who dined next to us tonight with his girlfriend and her parents did for their first meeting.

Allow me to set the scene for you. We're at Gotham, one of Manhattan's best restaurants. This is an establishment where the servers are not content to simply brush the crumbs off your table with a butter knife before bringing out your entrees - oh, no. Any droplets from, say, foie gras jus that can't be brushed aside, are actually covered with an additional table cloth - to shield you from the shame of the mess you've made. Brilliant.

About an hour into our meal, a girl - maybe 21 - walks in with her parents. I'd guess they live in Gramercy Park, as they're too loose for Uptown, but too white and wealthy for anything much edgier. Mom looks like Talbots sponsors her closet; Dad looks like only repeated viewings of the movie American Beauty (and subsequent daydreams about being Kevin Spacey's character) keep him lucid enough to maintain his really boring job on Wall St. Their daughter is experimenting with a soft goth look. It's a little '90s, like when Drew Barrymore had overplucked her eyebrows and was wearing dark lipstick.

20 minutes later, in walks Shaggy - on a bad day. Shaggy has allowed the sides of his goatee to grow out long and pointy. And he looks like the type of guy who would have gone to Lilith Fair back in the day (if he were old enough), where he'd pretend to be really into women's lib so that he could pick up the chicks who weren't lesbians.

Shaggy is greeted by his actual name (which I shall henceforth refer to him as) , "Charlie," with a great deal of excitement from...Dad. Clearly, this is not their first meeting. But yet, I can't figure out why Dad can possibly be excited that this guy is dating his daughter. Then I consider my aforementioned inkling that Dad hearts Kevin Spacey in American Beauty. And it becomes clear - Dad is getting his weed from Charlie.

Upon closer examination, I realize that Charlie has brought a book with him to the restaurant. Ah, an intellect! I wonder what he's reading...so I lean in a little closer.

Oh...My...God.

You know how when you were younger, you learned to make your own book cover? Maybe you made it out of a paper bag. Really cool kids would rip the original covers off their text books completely for this purpose. Well, Charlie had fashioned his own book cover - only it features a naked woman sprawled out like the latest issue of "Dirty Girls Who'll Do Anything" magazine. It's sitting on the table - right next to the salted butter.

Now, just in case you're thinking that somehow, no one else at his table noticed the book...

After five minutes pass, Charlie gets up to go to the restroom. He takes his book with him. Yeah, I don't know either. As he leaves, Mom and Dad comment on this, chuckling. Like, "Oh, that Charlie - he just loves to read!" Shortly thereafter, Charlie returns with the book in hand, and again places it face up on the table.

W-T-F.

Dad is joking with Charlie, urging him to drink more wine...Mom is asleep with her eyes open...Girl just sits across from Charlie, occasionally saying something uninteresting.

Could it be that some parents are so desperate to marry off their daughters, they'll take anything that comes along? Are expectations really that low? Is the truth that the Girl could do no better?

We left before these questions could be answered. So I'm going to maintain good faith and wish Girl and Charlie a happy future together. Maybe love is blind after all...and illiterate.

Going Postal

As many of you know, I studied Urban Planning in college. And while, no, I'm obviously not putting that academia to use professionally, I still find it fascinating. I love public transit and green space and mixed-use dwellings; and something as simple as a beautiful boulevard makes my eyes twinkle. So now that I find myself in New York - the city of all cities - you can imagine I've been looking around to see how they keep the gears greased on this well-oiled machine. And the answer is...

They don't.

I am flabbergasted every day by the inefficiencies of a city that should...just KNOW better. And I can only conclude that New York's refusal to make improvements that even the most junior of cities have long implemented is a reflection of New Yorkers' obstinance and inability to admit that somewhere else, there is a better way.

Case #1 - MTA (The Bus):

I never thought I'd actually ride the bus in New York. It seemed like such an unnecessarily ghetto alternative to the brilliant subway system, and besides...way too complicated to learn. But after just a few days, it became apparent that the bus is actually pretty essential, and very easy to use. It's the most effective way to cross town, since the subway basically just runs north-south. And unlike San Francisco's Muni, the buses run very frequently and the lines actually make sense. For example, the M86 actually runs along 86th street - what a concept - whereas San Francisco's 1-California runs along California west of Steiner, but on Sacramento and then Clay east of that street! Poor SF tourists.

In fact, the only thing about the bus that isn't great and actually totally sucks is the loading system. Here's where San Francisco gets it right (although we lose tons of money this way): You have a pass? Get on the bus - even through the back doors if it's really crowded. Getting off the bus? Only use the back doors. It's simple and it's quick. But not in New York, my friend. You will only get on the bus through the front doors - don't even think about another entry. And when you do get on, you will dip your pass into a machine, magnetic stripe pointing down and to the right (yes, numerous people will screw this up). That is because everyone's pass - a Metrocard - can cover them for totally different time periods and/or dollar amounts. So simply flashing it to the driver doesn't indicate to him or her whether or not it is valid. How...precise. And oh, we do have to wait for everyone who wants to exit at that particular stop to get off before we can get on.

Repeat this process EVERY BLOCK.

Case #2 - Sanitary Engineering (Garbage):

In most cities I'm familiar with, there is a specific day of the week that garbage is collected for each neighborhood. And while in the old days, we all had our own garbage cans and there was no recylcing, cities countrywide have since begun to provide residents with official garbage and recycling bins. In my mother's neighborhood in LA, for example, she has more city-provided cans than a single home could possibly ever need.

However, in New York, things are...different. Every night, garbage lines the streets of the city - primarily in bags. Only a few blessed buildings have a couple of official receptacles, and those are small. Thus, they overflow with a messy mixture of recyclables and refuse on a daily basis. Gee, I wonder where the rats and the stench come from?

Case #3 - Going Postal (USPS):

Last week, I tried to purchase some stamps - something I haven't done in a really long time, because frankly, I send all of my mail from Google, and have done so for the past six years. On the rare occasion I do need actual stamps, I avoid the post office by getting them as part of my ATM transaction. In fact, the last time I remember going to the post office was to sort out our temporary mail forwarding for this trip, and prior to that, it had to have been many, many months.

Well, apparently, New York ATMs aren't equipped with stamps. (Is this just a Wells Fargo thing? I honestly don't know.) And the news stands only sell single stamps. Finally, desperate to avoid a New York post office at all costs, I even tried going into a Mailboxes Etc. type of establishment, where they had a 50% mark-up on stamps. On principal alone, I could not buy from them. I mean, is it even legal to mark up government goods? It's not even a "fee" like a check-cashing store...oh, never mind.

So I was forced to go to the post office - and it was as bad as I thought it would be. There were no stamp machines, except for a single one that was broken but didn't have a sign indicating such. Apparently, a postal worker had hung a sign on it, but her supervisor made her take it down - because God forbid they should provide people with actual information. I stood in a 1/2-hour line for a 27-second transaction. I actually witnessed people "going postal." No, really.

Why, New York, why? You could take a page out of any city's book on these matters. And if you simultaneously figured out a way to shorten the line at Duane Reade, people might actually smile.

I said "might."

The Last Week

It's hard to believe, but our last week in New York begins today. Next Saturday, we'll be hitting the road again, this time dropping south (but not nonsense Mississippi/Alabama kinda south) to make our way home.

While I can't say I'm excited to go back to work (come on, you wouldn't be either), I do feel like our time here has been well spent and the expiration date is appropriate. The weather is starting to rear its ugly side (spitting drizzle and blanketing the city in heavy humidity with zero sunshine); my month-long workout pass just ran out, relegating me to a 7-day package; and my unlimited month Metrocard laughed at me when I swiped it today (Really, is it necessary for the reader to say, "Insufficient Funds?" It's not like I bounced a check - geez.)

This week, we'll be squeezing in as much as we can to make the most of our time. Amongst the significant planned activities are:

-Finally catching the documentary "Trouble the Water," about Hurricane Katrina.
-Dining at Gotham Bar & Grill.
-My final spa treatment (sniff).
-A second trip to Di Fara Pizza with a group too large to actually be seated.
-Mary J. Blige featuring Robin Thicke at Radio City Music Hall.

Of course, I'll work in the usual exercise, hair appointment and mani/pedi. But then we'll be packing up, loading another SUV (sorry, Earth), and bidding goodbye to Ben and his friends. Bittersweet, indeed.

As I reflect on the highlights (Barneys!) and lowlights (Pigeon Lady), it's certainly been an amazing 5+ weeks so far, not to mention the 2 weeks that preceeded it. But for any who are wondering what the answer to that lingering question in the back of your head may be...

There's no $@T%$@^$!#) way we're moving here. Ever.

California, here we come!

And I ALSO Have a Bracelet

Well, well, well. Guess who decided to show up at the debate after all. Turns out participat-ing in the year-in-the-making event probably was a better idea than handing the nation's mic over to your opponent for a solo act, huh dumbass?

With McCain's pathetic little stunt out of the way - which was kind of like Britney Spears' VMA appearance last year: first painfully awkward, then just forgettable - the main event did not disappoint. As expected, McCain took every opportunity to call out Obama's "inexperience," and Obama reminded us all that McCain still doesn't understand the economy and loves the '80s. While Obama was not always velvety smooth, sometimes just muttering, "That's not true, that's not true," he never lost his cookies like McCain, who was actually visibly shaking at times. The truly classic moment, however, came when after McCain shifted into trademark downer gear with the tragic story of a fallen soldier whose bracelet he now wore, Obama rebutted with, "I too have a bracelet..." Oh...my. I half-wondered if the camera would zoom in and reveal LIVESTRONG bracelets on both of their wrists.

Brad and I watched the debate unfold out at a bar in [shudder] Times Square - again. It seems we are in with this 21st Century Democratic Leadership group in New York, and they like to host all of their events in touristy bars. At least it's centrally located?

Now you should have gathered after reading my posts by now that New Yorkers are intense and scary. But the only thing more intense and more scary than a New Yorker is a New Yorker with a cause. Do NOT cross these people. The chairman of the committee, upon getting on the mic to introduce the event and a New York state assemblyman in attendance, actually threatened to shut the TVs off if we didn't hush. Really? Really, you think the best way to further the cause of this group is to prevent us from viewing the debate we came to see? Really, you think you can actually get 500 twenty-and-thirty-something New Yorkers with Obama on the brain, the next hook-up in sight, and a cocktail in hand to be quiet? Bold.

Brad had a work event that ran until 8:00 last night, so unfortunately, we had to meet there. "Unfortunately," because in my attempt to secure a table for us (which did not happen), I arrived around 7:50. With Brad not arriving until 8:30, that left me with 40 insufferable minutes to dodge the left-leaners of Wall St.

7:51 - Walk the floor. Check upstairs, circle the room.
7:53 - Go to the bar, get a drink.
7:57 - Test-sip drink and pay.
7:58 - Re-circle the floor, inquire about empty seats that are saved.
8:00 - Find a good standing spot. Check Blackberry, text Brad.
8:01 - "Hi, are you a member of the organization?"
8:01 and 6 seconds - Foiled.

"Srini" worked for a hedge fund. Surprisingly, he does not like this whole economic meltdown. Srini likes to use lots of big words, like "partisan" and "earmarks." He does not count on my political acumen. Srini is equal parts enthralled and terrified.

Enter "Rick," Srini's friend. Rick also "does investments." I question Rick about the fragility of his job. Rick appears nervous. Thankfully, he has a beer in one hand, and a vodka tonic in the other. When I ask Rick why he has two drinks, he explains he doesn't want to have to wait in line at the bar again so soon. I observe that Rick has only had about three girlish sips of his beer. Okay, Rick.

8:15.

Rick - "If I offered you this drink, would you take it? I mean, as a girl, would you accept a drink from a guy you'd just met, if he was already holding it?"
Me - "No, that's weird. Aside from it probably being tepid by now, I'd have no way of knowing you didn't put something in it."
Rick (to Srini) - "Dude, I TOLD you."

8:20.

Srini - "Is our talk totally boring you?"
Me - (Looking up from Blackberry) "What?"
Srini - "Our conversation - is it boring you?"
Me - "What are you talking about?"
Srini - "Banking, investments, you know, mrmrmahrmmrmrrrrrmmblah..."
Me - "Yeah, that's not interesting. But carry on."

8:22.

Srini - "What do you do?"
Rick - "Are you an actress? Is that a total sterotype?" (Seemingly, Rick did not hear me earlier when I said I GREW UP in LA, but LIVED in San Francisco...with my husband.)
Me - "No, I'm in Ad Sales. At home in SAN FRANCISCO, everyone either works for Google, is in banking, or does consulting."
Srini - "Google...I always hear so much about how great that place is...WAIT, you work at Google?"

(Rick still thinks I live in LA. Meanwhile, Google-talk has Srini very entertained. Excellent, I've just bought time.)

8:30.

Me - (Spotting Brad walk through the door) "BRAD!!!!"
Brad - (Surprised) "Wow."
Me - (To Srini and Rick) - "This is my husband, Brad."
(Obligatory handshakes)

8:31.

(Srini and Rick exit stage left.)

I continued to witness variations of this experience throughout the night. One particular guy didn't seem even the least bit interested in the debate, but understood that by being at the event, he appeared politically active (and therefore attractive) to a girl who'd had two beers. I'm not sure if this guy should be hailed for his game, or the girl hung for her stupidity - but in a 10-minute span of semi-whispers (as not to disturb actual debate watchers), this dude acquired her legitimate phone number and what seemed to be a committment to "meet up later." And then he was out - no doubt debate-party-hopping. Donkey, elephant...he didn't care.

Yes We Can, man. Yes We Can.

Political Exhaustion

Shocker - up late as a result of debate-viewing and associated revelry. I'll have plenty of thoughts on that tomorrow. Please check back!

Lunatics (A.K.A. The Teddy Bear Incident)

So I was talking to my good friend TP today (who, as a Michigan alum, was none too pleased by yesterday's blog photo), and he had some suggestions for future posts. Since I trust his input (and more importantly - did inadvertently disparage his and his wife's alma mater), I've decided to take his opinion to heart - especially since Manhattan provides such easy bait for this particular subject matter.

Let's begin with today's trip to the spa. As you all know by now, I frequent Exhale Spa on an almost daily basis to exercise. And if you're turning up your nose or making snarky comments to yourself about this, might I remind you it is not my fault the best sculpting and cardio classes in Manhattan happen to take place in a light-filled oasis scented with lavender candles. Anyway, today I indulged myself with a facial and massage as part of a "7-day restorative package." Because sure, having not worked for almost 7 weeks, it seems fitting to restore some things. With a class at 11:00 and treatments at 1:30 and 3:00 respectively, I had a lot of time to observe some of my favorite Manhattan lunatics: The Socialites.

Socialite #1 is about 35-years-old. She moves in a deliberate and percocet-induced stupor. After disrobing completely at her locker (and believe me, not in a stripper-porn kind of way), she moves into the bathroom, where she proceeds to turn on a sink and slowly splash handfuls of water onto her torso. I do a double-take, confused by what I think I'm witnessing. She's still at it, not the least bit troubled by the throngs of women moving around her, wielding yoga mats like weapons. Wow. She is taking a bath. In spite of the fact that she is mere meters from numerous available showers that could surely be as efficient, and certainly more effective...she continues. Very well, that's one less foot disease to be concerned about.

Socialite #2 is about 50-years-old. I first encounter her as I'm sitting in the lounge, enjoying a cup of tea after my massage. It's quiet, and there's no need to change that by talking. But here she comes:

Socialite (dressed like it's 40 degrees out - it's 64) - "Hello."
Me - (Looking up from magazine, swallowing hot tea) "Hi."
(I'm hoping for continued silence)
Socialite (Smacking on gum LOUDLY) - "Mrrmmmhmmm grumble blah mrrrm." (This is all I hear)
(More of her nonsense talk to self continues)
(I'm getting irritated)
(Socialite gets up and runs out)
Me - (Thank God.)
(Socialite returns)
Me - (Shit.)
Socialite - "Did anyone come in and ask for me?"
Me - (WTF?) "No."
(At that moment, a therapist walks in and asks for The Socialite)
Socialite - "Oh HI!!!"
Me - (Please leave.)

Remarkable observed lunacy was suspended until Brad and I went to dinner tonight, at a neighborhood spot called "Popover Cafe." Not coincidentally, they serve popovers, and all sorts of regular foods made with popovers - popover burgers, popover pot pie, popover tuna melts - you get the idea. The restaurant is downright kooky, with it's bizarre design theme that combines french country, post-modern minimalism, and...teddy bears. Teddy bears line the windows, sitting on top of booths. There are plain teddy bears, teddy bears dressed in outfits, expensive Gund teddy bears, cheap Walgreens teddy bears, Build-a-Bear teddy bears...I think I even saw Teddy Ruxpin. It's really weird. But who doesn't love a popover?! So we sit and act like this is a totally normal dining environment.

About 15 minutes after we arrived, a group of three 60-year-olds walked in (two men, one woman). I noticed that the man bringing up the rear of the pack was moving extra slowly, eyeing the windows. After what seemed like an internal deliberation (and the hostess had left), he awkwardly stumbled towards one window and grabbed a teddy bear. He then walked to his table, where his dinner mates were still in the process of seating themselves. He clutched his teddy bear tightly. When his friends finally saw it, they looked pleased. He placed the teddy bear in the fourth seat at their table, and after sitting down just briefly, he got up and moved stealthily towards another window - taking a second bear! He went back to his table and gave the original bear a date, seating them side-by-side. This has officially moved past a little eccentric to totally psycho. And just when I thought he was done, he's up again - lunging over a table full of women towards a third bear! I look back at his table, and the woman is now holding one of the bears, splitting up the bear date. He walks back to his table and sits down, holding this bear tight to his body. And this is how the [6] of them ate their meal.

Now, I'm not one to judge - okay, I am, but I give myself at least 10 seconds before doing so. I observed this group closely and carefully. And I can tell you with certainty not a single one of them was mentally...challenged. I mean, at least not technically. I can also confirm that no one was suffering from some weird overgrown child disease, whereby perhaps a 6-year-old just appeared to be a baby boomer. These were standard issue 60-year-olds, who apparently just loved stuffed toys. Unfortunately, we didn't stick around to see if they returned the teddy bears to their rightful spots - or absconded with them.

Just another day in The City.

"Time Out, Time Out!"

Raise your hand if you are sick of this election and feel like the campaigning has dragged out for an inane amount of time. Yeah, exactly. And now John McCain wants to take it to the sidelines to deal with the economy - you know, that thing he said was "fundamentally strong?" Nice try, gramps.

I'm sure this new-found desire of McCain's to focus on the economic crisis has nothing to do with the fact that he has slid in recent voter polls to 43% vs. Obama's 52%, ostensibly because no one trusts the multiple homeowner to understand the ills of those dependent on actual paychecks. And I'm sure his suggestion that Friday's debate be cancelled is completely unrelated to fears that he will be over-matched, and challenged to answer questions he could gloss over before in favor of the war topic.

First of all, please tell me what kind of president is incapable of balancing both market challenges, however extreme, and preparation for a debate - simultaneously? It's like being a college student and asking your history professor to extend the paper deadline because you have an econ midterm the same day. I mean, really, it's not exactly a "one thing at a time" kinda job - so seems like now would be as good a time as any to prove to the American people you can freakin' multi-task.

Second of all, does McCain really think that anyone's dumb enough to see this transparent move as an attempt to take the higher road and put America first? Okay, sadly yes, plenty of people are dumb enough. But these are the same dumb people who respond to commercials suggesting that Obama likened Sarah Palin to a pig - so if I were McCain's campaign manager, I'd make sure we were blanketing tv screens with as many more hyperbolically false anti-Obama ads as possible - not SUSPENDING them!

And third - oh, hell - third, can we just go ahead and hand the presidency to Obama and cut out all the formalities? Because seriously, if he can't win this thing under these circumstances, the election is officially rigged.

I suspect McCain will soon also propose that we push Election Day out from the first Tuesday of November to, say, next June. That should give him enough time to dig in on the economy, wrap it up, put a nice bow on it, and rocket back up in the polls - right? And as an added bonus, it'll give the Palinator more time to learn about important things, like the world and stuff.

Thankfully, in T-minus-29, W will be on-air to lay all of our concerns to rest. I'm so glad we have a president who's totally in control and really knows what he's doing and will make it all okay. It makes this whole 2008 election thing seem like not even that urgent or anything at all.

Prime Time

Before I get started, I just want to make sure everyone is aware of the news sweeping America tonight:

Clay Aiken is gay.

I know, it's shocking. The Ellen Degeneres haircut really had me guessing. Now, on to the real scoop.

So we have a situation in our apartment that I've failed to reveal thus far, perhaps because I've been in denial - perhaps because I feel a deep sense of shame. But my heart is heavy with this dark secret, so here it goes...

We only have basic cable.

There, I said it. I'm talking basic to the extent that the "cable" part of it includes just CSPAN and TNT, with CNN only sometimes showing up. So I am very well briefed on politics (just ask me to pronounce Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's name) - but even beyond world affairs and the presidential election - I'm talking the politics of Manhattan's 12th district. And I'm all caught up on back episodes of "Charmed." But I haven't been seduced by VH1's brilliant adult programming or HGTV remodels in nearly 2 months. And poor Brad...ESPN is but a long-ago memory, only occasionally resuscitated via iPhone.

Our prime time tv-viewing has sunk to the depths of "Dancing with the Stars," a show I vowed never to watch, and whose title casts a VERY wide net - now I know why. Ted McGinley (yes - that Ted McGinley who played the neighbor on "Married with Children") is tripping himself across the stage as he impersonates someone impersonating the quick-step. He is oddly confident in his stiff, rhythmless movements, making bug eyes at the crowd. In contrast, Warren Sapp looks like Justin Timberlake. This is so awkward.

Meanwhile, celebrity chef Rocco DiSpirito has just been applauded for how vastly improved he is from last night. Funny, since I was just thinking it's a bit strange that he spent half of the routine sitting in a chair off-stage. Excellent strategy.

Who knew that an apartment would list cable as one of its ammenities given the availability of 10 channels (mind you, at least one of them is in a non-English language)? I'd be upset there's no flat-screen, except why on earth would I want to see Susan Lucci's horrendous botox in high definition??

OH MY GOD. Is this a cruel joke? Is Kim Kardashian really dancing the mambo to a karaoke version of "Baby Got Back?" And is she coyly pretending she doesn't know how to shake her booty? Girlfriend, you had a SEX TAPE. Shut up and move.

Not cool, vacationrentals.com. Not cool at all.

David Blaine (and other associated crazy-ass white person nonsense)

Yesterday, Brad and I cut through Central Park on our way back from the bad shopping experience described in the previous post. We came upon a spot that we were certain only weeks before had been a mini children's amusement park, but now was a vast open space with a stage and cranes and a couple of dudes suspended upside down from them. There were people gathered around watching. And then it hit us - David Blaine.

For those of you who somehow may not know who David Blaine is, he considers himself to be a magician - an illusionist, even. Sadly, people rally around him in support of this ridiculous notion. But the reality is that David Blaine is nothing more than one of our world's most classic idiots - the "crazy-ass white person."

Now before you decry this post as racial, I ask that you consider (in addition to the fact that my husband is white, and I therefore have a pass to say whatever I want about his people) that throughout history, white people have made repeated attempts to demonstrate to the world that they are somehow invincible. Examples include Evel Knievel, who sought to prove that no dare was too devilish for him; Dean Karnazes, who ran 30 miles from San Francisco to Half Moon Bay in the middle of the night, and hasn't stopped running since (no, like, literally); and now David Blaine, whose stunts aren't even interesting - just stupid.

Why must the whites endanger their lives to feel as though they are truly fulfilling them? Whereas the rest of us are content filling each day with such joys as spending time with loved ones and otherwise socializing, eating, exercising, shopping, watching television...the list goes on and on - crazy-ass white people are content only to cheat death, stare it square in the eye, and mock it until it bites them in the ass (RIP, Evel Knievel). Believing only they have unlocked the secret of happiness through nonsense activities, the mere average-intelligent amongst us know that at least one secret of happiness is sustaining life.

David Blaine has been advised that this most recent "stunt" of his - a 60-hour inversion elevated above New York City (mind you, not a magic trick - not an illusion) - may lead to blindness, life-threatening elevated blood pressure, stroke, and of course, when he plummets to the earth if he makes it through the 60 hours, death by falling crash. He seems to believe that "there are ways to override these dangers." Fine, let's pretend I accept that. But even if there are, WHY do you want to try? Really, there are far more interesting and even at least initially fun ways to risk your life (just ask George Michael). I hear heroin is a blast at the start. And fornicating with hookers...quite a rush. But hanging upside down with a catheter for waste disposal and a tube for drinking, for more than 3 days after a one-week starvation? That's just retarded.

But alas, presumably, he'll survive - again. The news will be abuzz - he may even supplant Sarah Palin as the top Google search for a day. And then there will be the Oprah appearance (because as much as I love Oprah, for reasons I don't understand, she loves to indulge the crazy-ass white person). Then, silence. 2-3 years will go by before we have to hear anything about him again, during which he'll be plotting his next boring, inactive, moronic thrill. And - if we're lucky - by then, a new crazy-ass white person will have exploded onto the scene.

Fingers crossed.

Tight Man-Pants

Why are this man's pants so ill-fitting?

No, seriously. I think we need to dedicate some time to this. See, you probably can't tell by the photo, but these are narrow-weave corduroy pants, circa 1977 - and I'm pretty sure they're cut for a woman. Note the elongated rear and full thighs, complemented by a slight taper at the ankles, beyond which the pants do not reach. The only explanation for this level of catastrophe is gender misappropriation.

I've witnessed a lot of terrible men's fashion in New York. Perhaps you recall my Almost Famous post, which featured a seemingly straight man carrying a purse - moment of silence for that one. But today was special. See, today, Brad and I spent a bit of the afternoon doing some men's shopping. And it seems that the root of this New York male fashion problem is actually the New York stores.

We started out at Bergdorf Goodman, which boasts an entire building of men's clothing. Stuffy and overly formal upon entrance, I quickly ushered Brad to the second floor. Voila! Zegna. Who doesn't love those beautiful cashmere sweaters, perfectly cut trousers and...mink fur-lined car coat? Does that say $7,500? Well, at least the fur is on the inside for warmth, not the outside for "fashion." Oh, how I'd soon be eating those words...

Witness Exhibit B. Up on the third floor, just meters away from the man trying on a gold rope bracelet to match his necklace, it hangs unassumingly amongst a sea of regular jackets. It features a face-engulfing fur collar and enormous fur cuffs that look and feel more like permed hair than any sort of animal. The body of the jacket is a ravaged and distressed brown suede. At $8,000, it's a steal. Brad offered to try it on to show you all, but when I discovered it was locked onto the rack and would require assistance, we decided the shame of anyone thinking we seriously liked this frock was far from worth it.

This scenario played out over and over as we moved through the store, until finally, we found an escape route. "To Barneys," I said. Brad agreed, remembering the luck he had the last time we shopped there.

But sadly, Barneys was plagued with the same problems! Sure, there were no pimp bracelets and permed jackets, but there were $800 sweaters - and not much else.

Sigh...is it possible the most wearable fashion for men in this city may actually lie behind the underwear-clad male Abercrombie model who stood at the store's entrance beckoning passerbys this afternoon? I mean, sure, the tshirts are all stamped with some ridiculously played out phrase or dirty mantra, but I bet you won't find any absurdly weird fashions inside.

The man with the purse...the fella here with the tight pants (which upon second look, perhaps came from Abercrombie when they were doing that whole "throw-back" look)...these are merely victims of a city that doesn't know how to dress its men.

The Big Apple

Earlier this week, I had a bit of a meltdown about all things Manhattan. Brad took that as a sign that maybe we should get out of the City for a day (I have to say, I didn't really understand why people kept asking/suggesting/beg-ging we leave the City at least one weekend - got it now, folks - thanks.)

Most people had suggested we go to the beach, but we just never got around to it. And seeing as I'm from LA, Brad's from Miami, and P Diddy had accidentally left us off his White Party invite list, we decided to pass on the basis of great enough familiarity with all things sand and sea unless something truly spectacular was going on.

With fall approaching, many others had also suggested apple-picking. (Silence.) Yeah, I didn't really get it either, but found the prospect of dressing in theme and leaving the honking, swearing and defensive walking behind for a day to be very attractive. To Middletown, New York it is!

So this morning, we boarded the bus at the Port Authority Station for a very smooth and easy ride about 45 miles northwest of Manhattan. Everyone was happy; no one was singing badly, raping an instrument, or preaching their version of the gospel for money; and the only stop we made before our destination point actually woke me up with the smell of something familiar but just a little bit off (turns out it was an outlet mall). After a 1-1/2 hour ride and a 10-minute taxi, we landed at Soons Orchard.

Soons Orchard (which also houses a country store) is a delightful place where apples and pumpkins are pressed into everything, gardens shine brightly with flowers, and children frolic in the sunshine. The orchard is staffed by a friendly young woman who educates you on the varieties of apples available, and how to pick them. It's as pleasant and straightforward as it sounds. See a sign at the end of a row of trees? Those apples (named on the sign) are ripe for the pickin'. No sign? No picking. And caution tape, coincidentally, means the same thing here as it means everywhere else.

About 45 minutes into our eastern fall experience, we hear a familiar, squawking cacophony:

NY Lady - "What's wrong with these apples?!?"
Orchard Staffer - "What do you mean?"
NY Man - "These apples are no good, they're a mess!!"
Orchard Staffer - "Where did you pick them from?"
NY Lady - "Right over there!" (assume gesturing)
NY Man - "Yeah, right up there with all the apples!"
Orchard Staffer - "The row with the sign?"
NY Lady - "Near the sign! Gah, pfft, right up THERE!!!"
Orchard Staffer - "If you're pointing to that third row, there is no sign. Those apples are not ready for picking."
NY Man - "You told us we could pick these apples!"
Orchard Staffer - "I told you to pick the apples marked by the signs at the end of the rows - not all of them are ripe - those rows do not have signs, and therefore you are not supposed to pick them."
NY Lady - "Well, what are we supposed to do now?!"
NY Man - "This is ridiculous..."
Orchard Staffer - "That's why we mark the rows."
NY Lady - "Unbelievable! These apples stink!"
Orchard Staffer - "That's because they're not ready to be picked. Would you like another bag for..."
NY Man - "No! We want some good apples!"
Orchard Staffer - "Then you need to remain in the marked rows..."

(This went on for a good 5 minutes or so.)

God damned New Yorkers, here we go again - can't even pick apples without verbally assaulting someone.

But these antics weren't going to ruin my day. Screw that. We came to pick apples and buy pie and maybe some other superfluous apple-infused goodness, and damnit, we're filling up this bag and taking home AT LEAST a boxed pastry!!

Back in Manhattan, the apples still taste sweet.

The Big Chill

Weather is a funny thing in New York. The meteorologists really take pride in their craft, creating seven-day forecasts with such zany taglines for the days as, "Looks Good," "Still Happy," and "Super!" These positive words don't even fit into the New York ethos, so the weather report seems like a great exercise in irony.

Well this week, lo and behold, there was a cold front moving in. This cold front would take temperatures from the high 70s to the low 70s or even [gasp] high 60s! Now, I'm thinking this is hardly anything to blink about. After all, the first day of fall comes Monday, and we're in a city where snow can fall as early as November. I shrug it off and don't panic.

Fast forward to this morning. I wake up in a hot sweat, kicking the blanket off the bed and muffling a heat-induced cough. I sit up and look around, half-wondering if our apartment is on fire. Then I realize that one half of my body - the half closest to the radiator - is significantly hotter than the other. I lean forward and touch the radiator, then jerk my hand back as it nearly scalds me. I lean back in and hear water bubbling through the pipes. Holy shit, is the HEAT on? I start fumbling around for knobs to turn this death-box off, but nothing. I'm desperate, gasping for air. (Strangely, during all of this, Brad is sound asleep - as is Moby.)

I get up and send an email to our landlords, explaining that there must be something wrong, because it's hotter than a drunk Jamaican in our apartment. Thankfully, I'm heading out anyway - and it doesn't look like Brad and Moby will perish - so I just hope they get back to me soon.

When I step outside, I see that people are dressed like a storm is a-comin'. Sweaters, hats, boots, scarves...one woman even donned gloves. It is maybe 64 degrees out, with a crystal clear blue sky boasting a bright, beautiful sun. I'm wearing a long but lightweight cardigan over a tank top, with jeans. By the time I make it three blocks to the bus, I'm already hot.

When I arrive at my destination (the hair salon), the cold weather is all the talk. The receptionist is wearing a sweater, scarf, leggings and tall boots. My hair-washer lamented that it was "freezing" this morning, and she needs to get a new jacket. Really? Really, you need a new jacket to shield yourself from the frosty 64-degree air? She goes on to say that in this "transitional weather," she gets sick very easily. Transitional? In San Francisco, we call this a perfect day. But apparently, in New York, this is hell. Coincidentally, my stylist complains that in the cold, New Yorkers get “really mean.” Because, you know, otherwise – they’re just so peachy!

Meanwhile, the landlords have emailed me back to explain that they are not surprised to hear the heat came on. See, these are very old buildings - and there's only one furnace from which all of the building's heat is operated. When the temperature drops below a certain point in that furnace room (which no doubt is a dark, cement-floored basement that gets A LOT colder than an actual apartment), it triggers radiator heat for every apartment. But because it's very common for apartment dwellers to get way too hot with this [antiquated] system, it is not uncommon to see windows wide open in the dead of winter.

Al Gore would be so proud.

Back on the bus ride home, I see more signs of the big chill. A woman across from me is not only wearing a scarf, but knitting a new one (and in a bit of a panic, I might add - like it's urgent she increase her supply of winter wearables). And I suspect the next time I go into Central Park, the ice cream carts will have been turned into mitten vendors.

In the meantime, I'm opening the windows, pumping the air conditioner, and dressing for Spring.

Once again…dumbfounded.