Ugly Betty

What a great show! I love it! Two thumbs up!

If you missed it Thursday night, you can check out the premiere episode on the web somewhere, probably. Look: I spend all day building webpages and attaching links and don't feel like doing it at home, mmkay? Suck it up.

America Ferrara isn't ugly. Who knows where they found this actress, and I can only imagine how adorable she is in real life. On the show, her hair is frizzy, she has braces, she wears goofy glasses, and she has zero fashion sense. She lucks in to an EA job for the Editor-in-Chief of a (very obviously) Vogue magazine clone, Mode. Lots of intrigue, hilarity, misunderstandings, and tender moments ensue.

Vanessa Williams as a catty striver! Gina Gershon as a slurry, buffoonish Donatella Versace-like creature! All models and other skeletarts portrayed as slutty bitches!

Did I mention I love it? Sure, I'm interning at a magazine as far removed from fashion as possible (and I wouldn't have it any other way), but from what I heard from the masochists who do work at fashion mags, this show's dishy view of nepotism, back-stabbing, intern abuse, and ingrained lunacy is rather spot-on.

I love that "Betty" is normal and happy that way. The character is plucky and determined, sweet, creative, and the kind of person you'd die to work with and/or be your BFF. And not just because she would have unfettered access to fashion glory.

Now I feel guilty for not providing links. Please, just watch the show. 8pm Thursdays. What else you gonna watch? Survivor? Please.

Hedgehog Caught Up in the Rat Race

People who really have no business staring at other people like they are weirdos stare at me constantly. I mean, random men and women of all stripes and plaids on the subway, peering incredulously at me as if I just sprouted a second head. Seeing that this happens in NEW YORK CITY, home to the rarest weirdos in existence, makes it oh, so much worse.

This has happened throughout my life, wherever I lived, and however I looked. When I had a mohawk in high school and this morning on my way to work = same response.

Before you start assigning personality disorders: none of the therapists I've seen ever concluded I was paranoid, narcissistic, or delusional. On the contrary, the universal clinical opinion seems to be that I am "attractive". Which is fine, but most of the time the looks I get are more like "Freak!" rather than "Hey baby!". I'm not making it up, in any case. In fact, it sometimes happens when people I know are around me and can verify the incidents. So there.

I think I'm pretty normal: Average size, shape, and appearance. I don't dress in wild fashions anymore, it's all about "Business Casual" these days. My size, shape, and appearance are, sadly, pretty nondescript. Sure, red hair and big boobs get attention no matter what, but it's not like I'm slinking around in slutty clothes and jiggling. As if! The hair I wear up in a sloppy ponytail, the boobs are fully covered.

Whatever it is, it's very fucking irritating. I never want to deal with it, so I walk around in my own little world, listening to my IPod and avoiding eye contact with the people clearly trying to stare me down, or people doing double-takes in my general direction.

"I AM NOT AN ANIMAL," I long to scream, "STARE AGAIN AND I SHALL GOUGE YOUR EYES OUT!"

Those of you who know me may be scratching your head at all this. It's not everyone--it's every third or fourth person. Anyway, I'm not friends with people who gape and gawk at total strangers in an exaggerated fashion on the street or in the subway.

"There's just something different about you, Trouble," is something I've heard often enough. Nothing wrong with being different, to be sure. Though, whatever "different" quality or vibe or whatever-the-fuck it is that prompts this response...I don't want it. I'm not an attention-whore, anyway, but this is the kind of attention even celebutwats don't want.

It's not:

My perfume or any B.O. issues (handled!)
My voice, posture, or attitude (I'm usually silent, standing in 3rd position/walking, and projecting complete indifference)
My clothing, hair, or makeup (all understated)
My figure (carefully hidden under layers of drab colors and fabrics)

Here's your chance to weigh in: Tell me what you think makes me such a hedgehog in this rat race!

Well, Hello!

Blogger forgive me, it's been six days since my last post.

My fabulous internship is going very well, thank you! Working at a prestigious joint has its benefits, like membership in the company health club! Woot!

A big shana tova shout-out to all my heebs, yo. You, written in the book. Apples and honey. Raisin challah french toast for all! With berry sauce!

Superfly and I had a breakneck weekend of zooming to CT on Saturday for a race to photograph, then back to NYC for a concert, then straight-on to Lancaster to sleep, just to wake up and drive to MD for another concert, and--finally--right back to NYC.

That rattle and hum in the car? A broken exhaust. Sounds expensive? Darn tootin'.

I'm tired. I got a beer to drink. Smell ya laterz.

What About the Ring Around Uranus?

By the way, except for getting trapped in the hallway with the snack machine like the dirty diet cheater I am, I had a sensational first day of interning. No coffee-fetching or endless photocopying at this job (thank you, all that is holy!) and the people are all very nice--even at the marble and gilt HQ, where I went to get my ID badge. All in all, my life rules at this very moment.

Back to the newly-discovered ring around Saturn: I've had quite enough of my planetary beliefs being shattered this year, thank you. Pluto, not a planet? WTF? Mars not at all like we thought? Ice on other planets not really ice? Ok, that's enough. Don't even get me started on the faked-moon-landing controversy. Is nothing sacred?

Contemplating the nature of the universe and all the wonders therein is not for the nostalgic, the weak of heart, or me. I have enough perspective--gained from right here on Earth--to keep me on the straight and narrow.

So I ask the newswire readers, the science and science fiction geeks, and all related weirdos to please lay off publishing every little comet fart as news. Some of us need plenty of warming up to "news" about the universe. Save your news feeds for really important things, like space travel mishaps and life discovered on other planets. Anything less you go ahead and publish in the appropriate nerd journal.

With all the natural disasters happening on this planet, we've already got a full existential freak-out dance card.

On that note: Stop Plate Tectonics!

Quasimodo

How do I like to celebrate my first day on the job? With a spectacular allergic reaction, of course! Ta Da!

I awoke to a red, swollen eye and head-to-toe hives (a personal favorite). More because I worried about the Quasimodo eye thing being pinkeye, I went to the ER and called off my first day of work. Sigh.

After a remarkably fast visit to the same Brooklyn hospital I visited via ambulance a year before (for hives + can't breathe), I checked in with work and assured them I was fine and the grosteque look wasn't catching. Good Lord, I have to take an ID picture! GAAAAAAH!

Two things you should know about allergy medicine: Regular Benadryl will knock you the fuck out and non-drowsy Benadryl will give you mad jitters. Tavist and other allergy (lodatrimine) meds dry you out and make you all cracked-out and dizzy. Prednisone is a great relief at first, but the weight gain it dumps on you will make you curse the drug's inventor. With all the meds, the relief is a bigger gain than the side effects a loss.

As most people already know, it's allergy season. Carry tissues and sinus meds with you to work. If you're like me and prone to hives and such, also carry Benadryl and your Epi-Pen. I also recommend you give your place a good cleaning (with basic, non-perfumed cleaning products), dust, and dig out/clean your humidifier. You'll need it soon.

Stupid Things to Which I am Allergic:

Insecticide and Bug Sprays of all kind
Stinging/biting insect bites
Antibiotics
Various Food Additives
Other common chemicals

Any other sufferers out there? Got any tips or suggestions?

Today's Young Lady

Myspace profiles by females tend to fall into two categories: soft core porn or sparkly do-dads. For the longest time I thought only girls in their teens and twenties did the whole check-out-my-photospread-of-me-in various-slutty-outfits-making-"come hither"-glances-I-copied-from-my-boyfriend's-Maxim-thing. I was wrong, very wrong.

Many did not get the memo about the "slut stamp" tattoo or hear the many pleas from the fashion experts not to outline your mouth in darker colors than your lipstick, or to not wear sparkles and miniskirts after age 35.

I fought this finding-our-inner-slut thing with my girls when it came to the dolls, clothing, and related accessories marketed to very young girls, called Bratz. Fostering an appreciation for all things related to urban, ethnic hootchies does not in any way sound like a good idea. (With all due respect to said hootchies, it just ain't right for elementary-aged kids.) I never thought I would being pushing Barbie, saying, "Look at this cool outfit! And Barbie has a job!" But when faced with characters who lack ambition beyond being the DJ's girlfriend, bringing out the big Barbie guns was completely necessary.

Much was made in the media about all of the above and more (stripper fashion, porn stars as role models, etc.) and guess what? Urban high schools now find a little problem with their oversexed students. Do I think it's only the girls? No, stupid. Boys need re-programming, too, especially if they think women are accurately represented in porn.

With every girl doing the Ho-bag thing these days, what's a rebellious teenager to do? A suggestion: get attention by making real contributions, being a good, kind person, and having pride and confidence in abundance. Modesty. Mystery.

A good rule of thumb? Do the precise opposite of whatever Paris Hilton is doing.

Now, back to myspace and the skank parade.

Kearsed?

Jevon Kearse is out, probably for the season, thanks to his injured knee.

I watched every moment of Sunday's game against the hapless NY Giants, but I still can't pinpoint the play that turned the game. Sure, McNabb's premature celebrating and trash talking was in poor taste, aggro-boy Akers shouldn't have missed that easy field goal, and the fumbling and bumbling typical of the Giants somehow infected the Eagles, but damn.

The Eagles owned that game. No one in their right mind thought the Giants would win! Yet they did, overcoming a 24-7 deficit by sheer dumb luck and carelessless on the part of the Eagles.

And now Kearse is out and Westbrook fighting to stay in (also knee). Last year, plagued by injury and distracted by loudmouth sideshow acts, the Eagles had one of the worst years, ever. In Houston, the old birds appeared to be in control, handily taking the Texans to first down conversion school. Hope springs eternal, they say.

It just sucks that the opening game at the Linc, against Division rivals NY Giants, had to be such an absolute embarrassment. No one should lose to the Giants--they are terrible.

By the 4th quarter I'd yanked off my Eagles ballcap and game shirt and chucked it at the TV in protest. Superfly just shook his head in sympathy (he's a Jets fan) and wisely said not one word about the Eagles sucking.

I did find an Eagles fan club here in Brooklyn (so I can leave the house in my gear without getting pummeled by NY team fans) and they found a Philly-friendly bar that has Yuengling on tap and on special with hot wings during Eagles games.

Next week--redemption in San Francisco.

Little Intern Trouble

We hear someone starts an internship with a prestigious online magazine tomorrow morning. Let the kegstands begin!

Celebrity

When reading about the unfathomably stupid things most young celebrities do and say, I always have the same thought: "Boy, am I glad I wasn't a celebrity when I was in my late teens and early twenties."

Think about it. For anyone reading this who is in that age category now, try not to take what I'm about to write personally and try to appreciate the perspective of a decade's worth of therapy and personal growth, thanks to the choices I made when I was your age. Ok? P.S. Everything gets much better. Be patient.

19-25 are our stupidest years. We are convinced we've got it all figured out, know how to live our lives all by ourselves, thank you very much. We are blind to consequences and committed to having our own way at any cost.

We binge drink, engage in reckless behavior of all sort, our selfishness and stupidity makes us the most undesirable mate a person can imagine. Yet youth and beauty tend to override this, and we engage in a series of unwise couplings and drama-filled uncouplings that, thanks to our immaturity, wrecks our jobs, school, and friendships.

Think back to the 22-year old version of yourself. Would you be your friend? Now imagine your 22-year old self is an actor, a musician, an heiress, with all the accompanying papparazzi, vicious gossip, and untoward scrutiny into your life.

Before you even start, I'm not in any way offering up a pity party for the likes of Paris Hilton or Nicole Ritchie. They are stupid and hypocritical--if you whore for fame you can't complain.

Here's the deal: Answer these burning questions (in the comments)

1. What would you have been famous for at age 22?
2. In which downward spiral would you have fallen? a)drugs and booze, b)political activism, c)hookers and/or sex scandal
3. Describe your comeback

Extra points for decade-appropriate references.

WOT Favorites: Diane Lane

Men love Diane Lane. Must be the unbeatable combination of beauty, brains, and low-key sensuality. Anyone who saw "Under the Tuscan Sun" or "Unfaithful" and was not moved by Diane's performance is a total wonk. She routinely makes the other actors in her films look like high school theater geeks yet endears with her understated charm and sly intelligence. Men love Diane Lane because she is a gorgeous, perfect woman. I love Diane Lane for a different reason: she reminds me of my older sister.

My introduction to Diane Lane was in 1978. I was a 10 year old, skinny little white girl living in an all-black neighborhood in downtown Denver, Colorado. I had three loves: Sean Cassidy, the show Solid Gold, and Dance in all its glorious form. When not getting hassled and beat up at school for being a white kid in band and in the gifted/talented program, I choreographed disco dance routines for the easily-distracted kids in the apartment complex and played "Charlies Angels" with my friends Danielle and Sun-Ah, or got my hair conrowed by my older sister.

A movie came out that year called "A Little Romance"--my older sister read all about it in her teen magazines. She ran into my room one day with a Seventeen that featured 13-year old Diane Lane, the star of the movie. "You look just like her!" she said, jabbing the picture. I looked at Diane, looked at my phenomenally goofy face in the mirror, framed by the thickest, waviest hair you've ever seen and said (and probably snorted), "Yeah, right. And you are Brooke Shields." This earned me a whomp with the magazine, not because I disagreed with her but because I knew darn well she was feverishly crushing on Brooke's co-star in "Blue Lagoon", Christopher Atkins. Nevertheless, I kept looking at Diane's picture, made my sister take me to see "A Little Romance", and prayed I'd grow up to look like pretty Diane Lane.

Meanwhile, my older sister was the coolest kid at her school. Sure, she drove a total hoopty, but she was a tennis champ and most popular white girl, ever. She was always drawing perfect replicas of cartoons and groovy album cover art for her friend's book covers and the phone rang constantly with her billions of friends. Plus, she is beautiful has a Farrah Fawcett-wattage smile and had killer feathered hair at the time. Every boy, girl, man, woman and pet had an aching crush on her. My friends were in awe, wondering how we came from the same gene pool. She was never stuck-up or mean to anyone, unless that someone was mean first, then--watch out!

She remains fiercely loyal and protective of those she loves and habitually roots for the downtrodden, the underdog and the aggrieved. She has the best jokes, but will allow anyone to take credit for them, enjoying the laughs by proxy. She is creative, funny, kind, goofy, and worshipped by all. She is a goddess who won't allow you to call her a goddess. I am not alone in believing she could do any damn thing she wanted to if she chose, including ruling the world, but she keeps her ambitions hidden deep within.

Today she is a mom of three rowdy, sports-crazed boys and has a personal training business. I can just see her, stepping out of her minivan at the school with a bag of cleats and pads, stopping hearts for blocks with her unbelievable beauty and poise--in sweatpants, no make-up, and a ponytail. She brushes off the inevitable compliments and jealousy without a second thought, just as she always has. She does not allow people to hang their petty bullshit on her.

I see so much of my sister in Diane Lane, and vice versa. At least, how I imagine Diane Lane is in real life.

Except for a couple of tankers like "Must Love Dogs", Diane Lane's made mostly inspired choices in her film roles. She rarely makes the tabloids and always looks beautiful and elegant on the red carpet. Her personal life (marrying Tarzan Highlander Christopher Lambert and having a child, divorce, marrying younger man and son-in-law of Barbra Streisand) is usually discussed in interviews as an aside, rather than the point, as is usually the case with most young, beautiful actresses. Interviewers tend to fawn over her, which she tends to pooh-pooh.

Diane now co-stars in "Hollywoodland" and, despite the inclusion of Ben Affleck, I will certainly see it. Adrien Brody has no chance up against veteran scene-stealer Diane Lane, that's for sure. I'll have to call my older sister after I see it, see if she still thinks I look like Diane Lane.

Here's Diane's Wiki, for more information on her brilliant career.

For All You Jints Fans...

E-A-G-L-E-S!

Yes, And Tommorrow is September 12

The Battery Tunnel appears about 10 miles longer and 50% more claustrophobic when you are parked in it, in bumper-to-bumper traffic on a Sunday night. 1010Wins informed us the Presidential Motorcade was preparing to drive several blocks in downtown Manhattan and "Freeze Zones" were necessary to ensure the President's security. Funny, I thought the idea was to honor the heroes of 9/11.

All of FDNY and NYPD lined the streets around ground zero, presumably so none of the protestors or (I wish) snipers could get at the President. All manner of politicians were also in town, to get some face time in an election year. Ick. I have a few ideas on how the Bush Administration can really honor the people who lost their lives on 9/11/01: How about funding for the rescuers who continue to live and who have developed severe medical problems? How about that whole Iraq thing? How about censuring Ann Coulter, and others with the temerity to exploit people's grief towards their own ends? How about not harnessing your resources in efforts to debunk conspiracy theories and not planting false "news" stories in the foreign press to support your botched and indefensible version of What Really Happened. Come on, Dummy: everyone knows you could pick up Osama bin Laden any time you felt like it, and that you'll feel like it when it gets closer to 2008.

I don't say these things out loud because doing so aggrieves my Superfly boyfriend.

So in the tunnel we sat. The kid in the car ahead of us got out and peed. The SUV on our right carried Paris Hilton-wannabes headed for Chelsea/Meatpacking District, surely. Someone would honk (frustration? time-passing whimsy?), and it would be repeated up and down the tunnel. If it wasn't for the Klieg lights and the camera-every-inch-of-the-tunnel, Superfly and I would've spent the time making out. Instead, we listened to the radio, mocked the people around us, and wondered if we'd make the concert at all.

At last, movement. Slow going the whole way through downtown and an unbelievable police and TV crew presence. Circus! I wondered where the Clown in Chief was staying and eventually decided I didn't really give a fuck. Onward and Uptown!

Keali'i Reichel is a well known and much-respected Hawaiian musician and ambassador to Hawaiian Culture. He puts on kick-ass show, too, complete with a slew of hula dancers. This is not your uncle's backyard luau, people. The only cheese in this event was some of the Aloha shirts in the audience--the music is beautiful and evocative, the dancing sublime. And sexy! I'm guessing many in the audience scurried back to their apartments and got their horizontal hula on. I'm just saying.

Our favorite Hawaiian musicians, the Aloha Boys, play Hunter College on September 23. Join us, won't you? Can't think of anything more enjoyable post-Rosh Hashanah shabbos, can you?

the Mooch

Don't get me wrong--we've all had our moochy moments in life, for example, when the girls/guys are at a bar and you run short on dough, one of your friends will cover you. "I'll get you next time," you say, and you mean it. Or in the case of your schmoopie, one of you probably has or makes more money than the other. Mooching in the name of love happens when the two of you want to do something, go somewhere, or buy something that's only possible for one of you to afford. In these instances, the mooching gets worked out one way or another and no harm/no foul (hopefully).

I'm thinking instead about the dedicated Mooch. We've all known them and many of us are beguiled by their wily charm and taken in by their sad hard-luck stories. These are people who breeze through life on the expectation that someone will take care of them, look out for them, tend to them, provide for them. There's no planning ahead, no making arrangements, no consideration for other people--their existence is winging it.

I can think of about a billion examples, but here's a recent one: A strange woman showed up at the site of an event to take place two days later. She was dropped off by an airport taxi with just a backpack. She knew no one there and wasn't exactly invited to the event to begin with. Someone emailed her about sending a sample of her handiwork to the event and, she claimed, "I just didn't think I could ship it in time. So I brought it."

The kind hosts of the event asked where she was staying. No hotel, can't afford it. The host called some friends and found her a place to crash. She hasn't eaten and has very little money. Food and beer are provided. All weekend long she's tended to by strangers who befriend her and include her in all their holiday plans.

Meanwhile, I'm freaking out. Who does this? Who flies, uninvited, to an event halfway across the country with no money, no hotel, and knowing no one? Superfly recommends I calm down, so I do. This woman somehow knows I am the least friendly person she'll meet and so follows me and tries to engage me in conversation. Superfly wisely points out it has nothing to do with me and I've no right to judge, yadda yadda. I still want to throttle her.

I can't help it if I think bad behavior should be nipped in the bud, not rewarded. Sure, it says more about the wonderful spirit and generosity of the people who know they are being used but are cool with it. You bet your ass I wish I was more like that. I'm getting there--even my therapist says so!

Seriously, all I did was frown at this person and shut down her efforts at small talk. The last dedicated Mooch I encountered (who owed me money and fucking stole from me) had his schemes exposed by me with great fanfare and a bullhorn to all the girls he was playing, his employer, and the police. Oh, and then I rear-ended him with my minivan (years later)--but that was an accident.

Life is adventure, that's for sure. But it doesn't hurt to put a little planning into your adventures lest you end up taking advantage of nice people, or end up dead.

And if you see an angry little redhead wherever you happen to be throwing down your Mooch, expect an ass-kicking. Or a very serious frowning, anyway. Sheesh!

Lazy

While I tend to a terrifying AWOL problem I invite you to check out the Erudite Bouncer's post for today--it's rawther kick-ass.

Music

Tired of regurgitated '80s flotsam and American Idol jetsam? Long for inspired songwriting and real musicianship, as you stare at your acres of jam band and one-hit-wonder CDs? Want to shake the dull "ooncha-ooncha" roar of electronica out of your brain pan? If your answer is, "Where do I get it and I'll take a dozen", then I invite you to check out 16 Horsepower.

The band actually broke up last year, leaving behind a catalog of bone-rattling roots music and legions of ardent fans. Their lead singer now is with an outfit called Woven Hand (Playing the Warsaw in New York October 6). In the interest of full disclosure, I'll tell you that much-obsessed about lead singer, David Eugene Edwards, is someone I've known since jr. high. His older sister and my older sister were pals and Powder Puff Hockey teammates. Dave and I dated here and there during high school, but mostly were just friends hanging out at the punk kids table. Anyway, you always knew David was bound for musical glory--he was obsessed with music, went to all the concerts, wore the coolest Brit-punk gear, and wrote "PUNKS (sic) NOT DEAD!!" in my yearbook. Although, I did those things and I am not a rock god. There goes that theory! Don't you hate when people blog about their friends in the biz and/or how they knew such-and-such before it was cool? Too bad!

Anyway, D.E.E. and his buddies formed a heavily U2- and Nick Cave-influenced band (Bloodflower) our senior year of high school. I attended their first show, at an old railroad depot. It occurs to me I might have been the first groupie. (No, not the going down on the roadie kind of groupie--instead, I was the slack-jawed and mesmerized kind who tends to obsess about things like the story behind the lyrics story.) I was also at the Warlock Pincher's first show, reporting for my college newspaper, but that's an entirely different blog.

Bloodflower moved out to San Fran for a minute, then came back to Denver. Pretty sure there was a Denver Gentlemen and some Slim Cessna Auto Club action before 16 Horsepower came to be. Guess what happened then, kids? You got it! They became HUGE in Europe. Just like the Backstreet Boys. Ok, maybe not so much.

I heard about the Europe thing from my friend Caroline, who at that time had a fabulous job tour directing for high-profile British businessmen visiting Russia. To everyone who made fun of her for majoring in Russian at Bryn Mawr, I say: Take that!

Anyway, Caroline was amazed at the transformation old Dave Edwards underwent and at the hysterical crowds waiting for 16 Horsepower to take the stage. She stayed, and she's a fan, too. The last time I saw them in person was in the late '90s in Denver, at the fabulous Gothic Theatre. I stood there in all my gigantic pregnant glory with David's parents and sister and marvelled at all the reverent navel-gazers in attendance. The band was friggin awesome.

Enough random trivia. Check out their CDs, their website, and their myspace and enjoy the pure genius that is 16 Horsepower. Hey, Marty? Got a Virgin Radio link?

Whither Summer?

The Labor Day Lament. The last mad dash to the beach is over; we resolutely refused to let Hurricane Ernesto ruin our trip to the Chesapeake Bay, with its furious wind and drenching rains knocking out power lines and tying up traffic on the Bay Bridge almost all the way back to Bay Ridge.

We were there for Superfly to photograph an outrigger canoe race, more so for the friends, the post-race luau, and the Aloha Boys. Yes siree, the aloha spirit was alive and smiling during the deluge as locals offered up space in their homes for racers who traveled from as far away as Toronto and who had all planned to camp near the (now submerged) race site for the weekend. Our inimitable host, Slicko, announced to the shivering assembled, "The pig's in the roaster and the beer's been tapped. Let's party!"

Of course, the sun did not emerge until the morning everyone left to return from whence they came, but the race went on (with some adjusting for high tide and raging water) and the legendary luau was simply moved indoors. A good time was had by all and a more fitting end to summer I cannot imagine.

I wanted to paddle, but wisely chose not to. After the hip hop dance class debacle I need to give the overenthusiastic embracing of new workout opportunities a rest. My fucking back is killing me, again.

Time to pack up all the whites and candy-colored summer clothes for another long, hard winter and break out the stiletto boots for some polish and new heels. Time to gather up my things and head back to New York. Time to reunite with friends I haven't seen in, like, forever, and say "so long!" to my awesome friends in Amishville:

Bobulah: Next time a drunk hootchie tries to traumatize you, just tell her MTV is outside looking for local ladies. Then flee.
K-Money Millionaire and Pinky: Keep escaping Reading as much as you can and definitely keep on letting poseurs and hootchies know what's up. Boriqua!
Star: Hope the new wheels get you where you want to go, you dirty pirate.
Adam, Alem, Skittles and everyone at the Lodge: NO DANCE MUSIC! "Freebird!" "Oh, no, not Trouble!"

Superfly and I will be back before you know it. Not that any of you bastards will miss us, anyway. That's fine, we have friends in New York who like us better, anyway.

Two last thoughts for today: GO EAGLES and COME ON, INDIAN SUMMER