There are no good bowling spots in Manhattan. And that’s a crying shame because bowling’s like Fridays, always good. You need to have a spot that’s fairly greasy, kind of smells like old carpet and sweat, keg lines that haven’t been cleaned since that smelly carpet was new, and you definitely need a toy claw grabber thingy. The bowling alleys I’ve been to in New York have none of that. They have blacklights, an hour wait for a lane, $8 bottled beer, and the closest thing to the toy machine is a condom dispenser. Bummer.

That is why I’m so excited I could spit lane grease that I’m going home to Rochester this weekend and hitting the alley. I can almost feel the warm, sticky bowling shoes already. My recent high score is 147 so I have to beat that. If only I had a purple bowling onesy with my name on it. That would surely increase my score. And increase my chances of being the coolest person in the world. I mean, come on. People tell me I’m cynical and cold about everything, but this is where I prove them wrong. Bowling makes me happy and my only complaint is that I can’t do it often enough. Hope your weekend will be as good as mine. Stars and strikes forever.

I haven’t had a good hair cut since ever, and I’m really debating dropping another 50 clams this weekend on another cringe-worthy coif. There was the one in college that resulted in me looking like a cartoon talking horse. That was pretty hot. Pales in comparison to the one where, after spending the whole afternoon crying about it, my roommate convinced me to go back and ask them to fix it. Receptionist’s response upon me entering salon: “Oh my God.” I like to refer to that one as my “beanie phase.” Oh yeah! Then there was the one where I decided to go to the Aveda Institute and have a student cut my hair, because they only charge $8 for those. I kid you not, three hours later I was still in the chair, the kid cutting my hair was crying, and the intructor who had to come over and fix it started using the word “layers” as if it were code for “Oops!!”

Recently I’ve been considering jumping on the bang wagon, but to be honest, I can’t tell if I’m just following a trend or if I really genuinely want to deal with them. Giant forehead aside, I suffered relentless torture my freshman year of high school because I still had bangs - bangs that started somewhere near the back of my scalp - and that was totally uncool. I spent a long time growing them out and now almost 14 years later they are cool again and I’m ready to jump back in bangs first. I actually asked my hair dresser to give me bangs about a year and a half ago. He must have heard “fangs” because what I ended up with was something along these lines. You won’t be surprised to learn I was slightly deterred after that.

After getting my hair cut extremely short a year ago, I’m well on my way to growing it back out. With 50 to 60 well-secured bobby pins I can put it in a pony tail. Actually, it’s more like a cat’s tail after it’s been chopped off by a lawn mower or something, but a cute little nub nonetheless. But after continually spending money on haircuts that just don’t look good, why am I still doing it? Vanity you little bitch, talk! I should just let it grow out on its own and wait until it is really long enough to do something with, but I was raised under very strict ‘get your hair trimmed up every two months or no one will ever love you’ guidelines. Split ends are the devil’s work.

Alas, I’m going to walk in there on Saturday and once again have no idea how to tell the hair stylist what I want. Even if I bring a picture, I know in the end it will still come out looking something like this. Maybe I should throw those 50 bucks towards a Flowbee and at least be responsible for my own mess. That’s pretty much the tag line for my hair from now on… “It’s a hot mess.”

You know those really meaningless but often touted characteristics everyone has like being able to put your foot behind your head, raise one eyebrow or being double jointed? I can do none of that, but mine was always that I have a stomach of pure steel. Pure, people. I can eat anything or do anything and I never get sick to my stomach. I never throw up. One time in high school my friend and I decided to pig out on macaroni and cheese and Kool Aid before cross country practice, and while she was vomiting elbow macaroni on the track, I was a speck on the horizon. I know, impressive right. It’s my pride and joy.

Well, crush my dreams and call me queesy because it’s all over. Thursday night I was struck with a stomach bug. A vile, relentless beast that kept me hunched over the toilet all night and well into the weekend. Whenever someone tells me they had to “run to the bathroom” to throw up I always think they are a big liar. I’m like, nobody gets hit with the pukes that fast, c’mon. How wrong I’ve been all along. You know that general feeling of repulsion you get from looking at Carrot Top? Well, this was Carrot Top, Bottom and Middle hitting on you at a bar. What am I going to pride myself on now? I can’t even touch my toes.

When I was finally feeling well enough on Sunday to strip off my oily, slick, now burned pajamas and take a shower, I still kind of felt like that kid who sat in front of me in Calc II in college (which I did take Eugene, thank you very much) who always had that ring of freshly fallen and lightly grease-coated dandruff around the collar of his tee shirt. Kind of not so fresh. But I had promised Justin I would go to the Guggenheim to watch a screening of his friend’s movie. So I threw on some big earrings to downplay the eye bags and off we went.

The Guggenheim is already a fairly intimidating space, so that by itself was making me feel like the girl who eats lunch alone in her car. Wait, I’ve totally done that before. But on top of that the screening room began to fill up with all these beautiful and perfectly dressed hipster girls. Adorned in short, flowery dresses with dark tights and lovely high leather boots, they sashayed in, skinny legs and all, like the only thing they’d ever thrown up was perfection.

For some reason the anger just started to well up inside me. My cheeks started to feel hot. Why am I stuck in these pants I bought in COLLEGE and a winter coat that’s missing two buttons and the other two are hanging on for dear life, with my hair plastered to my face from two-day-old bed head, and my stomach retching at the thought of food even though I am starving? And the bitchiness just burst forth, uncontrollably, and I spat out, “Maybe I should have dressed up in my short dress and my little booties!,” emphasizing “booties” by making my voice into a high-pitched squeal. Justin just stared at me and said, “What is wrong with you?” Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe it was just me being sick, but I think it was that my self-esteem just won’t be the same from now on, without being able to say, “Oh yeah? Well I have a stomach of pure steel. Pure, people.”

… Silver lining? After the movie we snuck on the staff elevator to the seventh floor and walked out into the middle of the El Greco to Picasso exhibit, which we then got to view for free. Dressed to kill? Maybe never. Scrappy? Always.

Recent Lower Third on a popular news channel. Won’t say which one, but probably don’t need to.

Is “Climate Change” Real or is it just Mother Nature?

They put climate change in quotes, that was not my edit. Yep, they claim that global warming is a hoax, and that more importantly than anything else, they are going to refute those pesky climate change rumors. I mean, it’s not as though global warming is based on any scientific research and legitimate findings. Oh no. And on top of the fact that global warming is some bleeding heart liberal tall tale, they are going to uncover Al Gore for the fraud that he really is. How can he take credit for his environmental work and um, I guess his voiceover work on An Inconvenient Truth when he has such a high electric bill! And have you seen the cars he drives? Yes America, listen to the truth, a VEEEERY convenient one. Don’t worry about global warming, it’s just a made up story! Like dinosaurs or evolution. You there, don’t put down that can of aqua net. Let that glorious cloud of CFCs raise up like our freedom. It’s a liberty cloud, not pollution silly!

My only question is, if global warming doesn’t exist, why do Al Gore’s SUV or high energy bills matter? Shouldn’t that point be moot if the answer really lies in mother nature’s bag of tricks? Aaaah. Ya got burnt! Not from a whole in the ozone layer though, no no no. This will probably be up here for a week before I completely freak out about getting fired and take it down. Oh well, then I can lay out in the sun all day long with no sunscreen and no responsibilities and think about the polar ice caps…staying exactly the way they are.

Took a cooking class this weekend at The New School. It was called something like, “Feast for a King: Greek/Cypriot Cooking.” The class was a mix of middle age couples (aka. obnoxious sexist hacks, but we’ll get to that later), young single women, several Greek women and Justin and myself. Our teacher was from Cyprus and a total nut, so of course I loved her.

She was teaching us about pitting olives and one of the middle aged dudes - doesn’t matter which one, they were all the same - kept giving her a hard time time, saying, really patronizingly (is that a word?) and condescendingly, as she had a heavy accent and English clearly wasn’t her first language, “Deeeee-pitt-ing. You mean, deeee-pitting olives.” Forget the fact that I think he was wrong, he was just being obnoxious. This is also the same man who later gave her a hard time when she said she taught two cooking classes at the New School a year, one in the Fall and one in the Spring. He thought it was a real riot to keep saying, “It must be hard for you to have to be back to work again in OCTOBER!” and something hilarious like, “How do you find time to do it all, working two whole days a year?” Actually, I’m giving him too much credit, he wasn’t even being a little funny, pretty much just insulting. Near the end you could tell she had enough so she just turns to him and says real slow, “You know what? You are DEEEE-pitted from my class. Don’t come back.” She was awesome.

She also totally mocked this girl who told us all she worked for, “Starbucks Coffee International” (couldn’t she just say Starbucks Corporate?). When teach was showing us how to make Greek coffee, Starbucks says, “Oh yeah, I know what Frappe means.” And my new found love says to her sarcastically, “Ooooooh, sooooorry Starbucks girl. Who am I to dare make coffee in front of you? What else can I do wrong?” Totally called her out for being kind of a show off and I loved it.

Anyway, the class was pretty much run…wait, run is not the right word. The chaos was pretty much loosely structured into breaking us up into groups and each group made one dish. The basics were lemon chicken, lamb orzo stew, a filo custard concoction and olive bread, which Justin and I made with one of the Greek broads. She was great. She did not stop talking the whole time, and was kind of bossy (even though sometimes telling us to do the wrong thing), I didn’t care, because she was so freaking nice and wanted to tell us all these great Greek cooking tips. The food came out perfect, but of course I have to dwell on the negative. It’s what I do.

All cooking and food related issues aside, I was kind of bummed at how people reacted to Justin and I taking the class. Let me just start by saying that he signed us up for the class as an anniversary gift to me. So yes, he did it because he thought I would love it, which I did, but he wanted to go too. In fact, it was his idea and his purchase. However, when we got there, we got a mix of comments from the middle aged bitches about how they were sure Justin had plenty of better things to do on a Saturday night, yet I was just looked at like, “Give that poor girl more ouzo.” Then, throughout the class, the cooking assistants, who were all women I might add, kept literally putting their hands on Justin’s shoulder and giving him this sympathetic look as they said, “You look bored. Are you okay?” What the dusseldorf? We’re still doing that? If a young couple shows up for a cooking class on a Saturday night, it must be that the chick is dragging the dude kicking and screaming the whole way? Well, I think that’s kind of sad. I don’t think I’m jumping to conclusions when I say I think we were both enjoying ourselves and wanted to be there. Maybe they see a lot of couples who do not share in the fun? I don’t know, I thought it was kind of uncool. You want to know what was cool though? Our teacher. Damn, I think I might have mentioned that already. Plus, we got totally bombed on ouzo and wine. Not really celebrating my Irish heritage with a Greek meal on St. Patrick’s Day, but I made sure to go out afterward and get belligerent and sloppy, to get in touch with my roots. As I sloshed whiskey on people at the bar, yelling, “This is milk to me, baby!” I appreciated that I had a stomach nice and full of a gourmet Greek meal, olive bread included, to soak up my ancestry.

I’ve realized that I’m a total sucker for a good unconventional buddy movie. Euge’s latest post talks about one great recent example, so i’ll leave the discussion of Black Snake Moan to him. Some of my other favorites include My First Mister, Rushmore and Lost in Translation.

You know, platonic love stories that happen between two unlikely candidates. I love the restraint and talent it takes to make a movie where the plot doesn’t take the totally obvious and cliche route and turn into a love story. I mean the falling in love kind. I’m into the exploration of other kinds of love. Ones that don’t inevitably end in the bumping of uglies. I guess friendship would be the word I am looking for here. I enjoy movies about friendship. Good ones! Not Bad Boys II or Rush Hour X. Oh please, by the next Rush Hour Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker are most definitely going to be bumping uglies. I can see the script now… “I love you! Do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth?”

What I really wanted to mention by bringing this up is that I recently saw a great example of the kind of film I’m talking about, and I’ve had no one to discuss it with, because I don’t know anyone else who’s seen it yet. The movie is Half Nelson and I watched it on video a few weeks ago. I have a newly developed crush on Ryan Gosling now because of it (who I think before this I had only seen in The United States of Leland and, cough, Murder by Numbers. No, I didn’t see The Notebook.) It was the kind of performance where if he looked at anything - an orange, a cigarette, a piece of trash - I wanted to start crying. The guy could teach a class in perfecting “sad eyes.” It was that kind of movie, so maybe you have to be in a certain kind of mood or long term depression like myself to be affected by it. But he got me nonetheless.

It’s a story about Gosling, the city high school teacher by day, drug addict by night, and his friendship with one of his students, Shareeka Epps. I’ve never seen her in anything else, but damn she’s cute and a good actress. I do know that when she won an Independent Spirit Award this year she was introduced as Shakira Epps, and had to correct them when she got on stage. Why are people so stupid? Wait, topic for another discussion. Anyway, the dynamic between these two in the movie is dynamite. I mean, their combined cuteness is powerful enough to kill a man, so I’m sure that helps. But something about their interactions, be it good dialogue, be it sad eyes, be it well-timed soundtrack cues, left me feeling touched and sad and happy all at once. They have a way of conveying that, “I just get you” feeling to each other with only a glance.

Speaking of the sound track, it was all done by Broken Social Scene, another plus for the movie. When I think of a band doing a sound track for a movie, I think of them actually creating new pieces for that particular purpose. This wasn’t so much that, as the movie just using a bunch of old Broken Social Scene songs, and only Broken Social Scene songs, which I already have a personal emotional reaction to. So throw that into the mix and this thing is really ripping my heart out of my chest.

My only question, and please correct me if I’m being a total maroon here, is why Half Nelson? I just can’t quite figure out the meaning of the title. Is it a metaphor for wrastlin’ moves, saying that drugs will put your ass in a half nelson sleeper hold kind of deal? And if so, why not go for the full nelson? I mean, I don’t think drugs really hold back their full force of ruining your life because they don’t want to strain your delts. If you know what I mean, and clearly you don’t. Err, or I’m retarded. If I can’t get what the title means, then perhaps I’m in no position to be discussing the movie in the first place. But it’s a little late for that now isn’t it? It’s snowing and cold and disgusting out so I guess I’ll curl up this weekend with a stack of buddy movies and practice my sad eyes in the mirror. This weekend is going to rule.

I’m always really impressed with people who post good photo blogs. Not just the ones where they post pretty pictures they took because they are an artist. Riiiiiight, just like I’m a “writer.” Oh Internet, you give us all such a false sense of self-accomplishment. No, I mean the photo blogs that tell a story or display an event in someone’s life, and do it in a way that I really feel like I get a sense of what was going on (don’t get me wrong, the captions help). And I’m a total lurker, and happy to admit it. I’ve seen the birth of plenty of strangers’ babies through flickr. There are days when my boredom knows no bounds.

However, it got me thinkin’. And I might only be thinking this way to make myself feel better for sucking at this particular skill set. But, what do these people give up in the moment in order to provide the web with pictures and captions from all their major life events? I just think about what it’s like when I’m doing something fun, or eventful or entertaining with friends and loved ones, and I think to myself, “wow, I’m having a really nice moment here. I should take a picture to remember it.” I reach for the camera, and POOF!! the moment’s gone, because instead of just living it and enjoying it I had to call it out and ruin it. I’m not talking shit, I’m just wondering if it’s worth it to document all this stuff rather than just experience it. You must know when you are taking a photo that people are aware of the camera and I feel like that changes the authenticity right there. And you must be aware when you take it that your intention is to post it somewhere with a witty caption, and wouldn’t that distract from being in the moment? Oh who am I kidding, I’m just pissed that I can’t capture anything on film (um, er, memory card?). People who say photographs steal your soul are right, if I’m the photographer. I could steal the soul of a lens cap. But if I could I would probably be ruining everyone’s fun time left and right so I could snap away, and force people to look at everything me and my friends did at the bar on Friday night and post my life FOR ALL THE WORLD TO SEE. Validate me, Internet. You complete me. .

I had one of those extremely rare and highly coveted “nice” moments on the train to work today. This blind guy got on with his seeing eye dog and sat across from me, and next to this young hipster dad and his hipster baby. I’d say she was about two. For the next few stops I got to enjoy the sensory pleasure of the blind man hugging his dog, who was staring down the guy sitting next to me, who was eating a toasted peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Meanwhile hipster dad was lifting his daughter up by the knees so she could hang from the handrail above, while she exploded in giggles every time and her little white stomach popped out.

It was nice. The smell of peanut butter that I know the dog was salivating for, the sound of the train conducter, to whom I know the blind man was listening intently, the sound of the little girl laughing, which I know her dad was enjoying, and the sight of the man hugging his dog, even though he had no idea the dog was paying more attention to a sandwich. Made me even more thankful that I have sight at all. Most days on the subway don’t make me thankful for much at all, except maybe for that fact that I have a car to take me away from this city when I need to escape.

And later I saw a guy at the pharmacy who was buying a pregnancy test and a box of condoms. Covering all the bases I suppose. I hope he wants that pregnancy test to come out negative, otherwise the condoms are probably a bad idea. First time I ever saw a guy buying a pregnancy test. Really made me feel warm and fuzzy on the inside. Just kidding! The train ride filled me up on the warm and fuzzies for the day. Of course as soon as I got to work and heard that someone was trash talking me that all turned brown and died inside. Yep, it’s a Tuesday.

Last year there were two pretty major movies released around the same time about magic, or the dark arts, as we like to call it. The Prestige and The Illusionist. Now, to put it as plainly as possible, if The Prestige is about the dark arts, the The Illusionist is about the dark farts (No no, that’s not a good thing). I can say that definitely now, because after this weekend I’ve seen both of them, and The Illusionist may be the worst movie I saw all year, while The Prestige was by far one of the best.

Of course, this is only my opinion. If you ask the girl I work with about The Prestige, as I did a few weeks ago, she might tell you plainly, “I thought it sucked.” Hmm, concise little whipper snapper that one. So really, maybe I’m totally wrong and I have absolutely horrible taste in movies and The Illusionist is some complex, misunderstood piece of mastery that my tiny brain cannot comprehend, and The Prestige is the poop-mobile upon which I’ve been riding through a web of self-lies. Ya know, like maybe what I see is green isn’t what you see is green. But the only green I see is the green of envy within which I’m shrouded for those who are lucky enough to not have sat through The Illusionist.

I saw The Prestige back in November and I loved it. I thought it was well-done, the plot twist was extremely impressive to me (not to work girl, who “figured it out in like 10 minutes” ugh) and it stuck with me for days. It also had some really cool ACTUAL magic in it. Also, the main character’s name was Alfred aka. Freddie, and come on, how cute is that. The main character’s name in The Illusionist is, ahem, EISENHEIM. You want to know what gets stuck in my head everytime I hear it? That song that goes, “John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt! His name is my name too!” Your name is not my name, friend. And it only got worse from there.

The plot was pathetically weak, the acting was the opposite of magical (throw in the towel Ed Norton!) and there weren’t even any magic tricks in it. It was Ed Norton making stuff appear and disappear, but without ever exposing what he was doing in the end. Unless they did explain that part and I just dozed off and didn’t notice. Totally possible. I’d actually like to think that’s what happened, because I don’t want to believe that movie was really that bad. You can’t just have a plot based on someone who makes people appear out of thin air, and hints the whole movie that it’s a trick, and um, I don’t know, is called THE ILLUSIONIST (and just so we’re totally clear, that is defined as something that deceives by producing a false or misleading impression of reality) and then doesn’t say ANYTHING at the end about how he was doing it the whole movie. What the hell???

Also, when the “chief inspector,” who spends the movie trying to solve the little mystery, figures out the plot twist (I’m using twist really, really loosely here) there’s absolutely no reason for it whatsoever. He’s just kind of standing there, and he’s all, Eureka, I’ve got it. You have to have a clue spark a realization like that!! I’m not a movie maker, but I at least know that. I’m kind of in shock over how bad this movie was. Jessica Biel owes me 10 bucks. Yeah, I know I didn’t see it in the theater. That’s what my pain is worth. But on that note, I totally recommend The Prestige. Of course, that is unless you are too cool and have any sort of taste in movies at all.

I feel like this site has become a bit vapid lately. Probably on account of me rambling about pointless crap. You wanted to know what I had for lunch today, right? Well stay tuned, all that and more. Careful!! You’re awfully close to the edge of your seat there. I’m in a pickle though, because I have a hard time bringing myself to write about anything substantial in my life because 1. Then I would have to think about said topics and I like to not do that. and 2. Even though there is a total of three people who read this, I have a hard time delving into my issues and displaying them for all to see. I have a hard time squeeking out anything more than, “Fine” when asked how I’m doing. I mean, how I’m really doing. So I kind if stick to talking about food, shopping and diarrhea. Problem is, I don’t really want anyone coming away from reading this (even though in the end it’s ultimately just a little outlet for myself) thinking, “Well there’s five minutes I’ll never get back.” So in order to remedy this, and bring you something to really get you thinking, I’ve decided to talk about my toilet seat. Blam-O! Get ready to fall asleep at your computer have your mind blown. ugh.

The toilet seat in my bathroom broke the other day. I won’t say how it broke, only that it wasn’t me that broke it. I swear. But the thing is cracked straight through on one side. At first I was all, whatever no big deal, now this thing will just have two cracks on it when I sit down. Little did I know that the problem would be when I stood up. That bastard pinches the back of my thighs so bad when I do so, kind of in that eyes watering from having the little hairs on the back of your neck pulled way. I mean, toilet time is my quiet time, I don’t need the stress. Plus, it’s not like it is a seat that is avoidable. I am going to have to sit on it. And no, I’m not going to squat in my own home, especially in the mornings. Girl’s got to rest a bit in between getting out of bed and getting into the shower. Are you sensing the deep philisophical life lesson yet? No? Good, there isn’t one.

I went online to order a new one. Found the exact model. Received an email a few days later saying it’s discontinued. Awesome, why are you still selling it on your website? The email tells me the best thing for me to do is call their 1800# so I can, wait, let me get the wording right here, “get further assistence in finding alternatives.” Okay toilet salesman, do your best. The conversation that followed, which I had at my desk at work surrounded by co-workers, while flipping through the options on the website, went something like this.

Toilet Salesman: “Do you want to stick with a model similar to what you’ve been using?”

Me: “um, ok.”

TS: “May I reccomend the Bemis 200 SLOW. The lid will never slam!”

Me: “That one’s like $40 more dollars than the one I have.”

TS: “I see. Well do you know if you’d prefer an open front of full circle seat? Wood or plastic? High gloss or matte finish? Chrome, nickel or plastic bolts?”

Me: “I’m not sure, what’s the difference?”

TS: “It’s really a matter of personal comfort.”

Me, feeling really uncomfortable about talking to a stranger on the phone about my potty preferences: “Um, can I just get this $12 one?”

TS: “Excellent Choice!”

Well, I got another email today from them. Turns out the Bemis 544 is also discontinued. Double awesome, as the bruise on my ass turns from a gentle violet to a dark aubergine. Maybe they should sell toilet seats that the company still makes. Just a thought. So I totally quit them like a new year’s resolution and hit up Home Depot. Let’s hope this one shows up, because it’s not as cool as I thought it was to ride the subway with a donut ass pillow.