Happy Halloween!

The inspiration for my costume this year.




I miss dressing up the house in all the Halloween finery I collected over the years (especially the funny dia de los muertos stuff I picked up). I miss trick-or-treaters and stale mini-size candy.

Halloween in NYC is different. At the magazine where I gleefully toil, we are encouraged to come to work, on a Tuesday, dressed in costume. This fills me with joy. Almost as much as having three bylines on the site at one time! Almost!

A toast of ghoulish grog to one and all on All Hallow's Eve. May your Halloween 2006 be frightfully good.

Boo!

I'm Trouble and I Approve This Message

Democratic elections are extremely important. TV and radio ads (positive, negative, or supposedly neutral) used in campaigning for political office should be banned. 100% banned.

If you want to be elected to public office, you need to work you way there the old fashioned-way. Make yourself known to your community by your work for that community, work that benefits the community more than your political connections or upward-mobility. Engage in public debates with your rivals. Put your money where your big mouth is.

The current system, so coddling of scandal, secrets, and utter disdain for the American people, must be uprooted, shook out, and carefully replanted.

My name is Trouble, and I approve of this message.

Here is What I Think

I think Joe Buck needs to stick to baseball commentary.

I think The J-E-T-S are looking pretty good. I'll never cease being an Eagles fanatic (a couple of losses don't faze me, bro) but for Superfly I shall consider rooting for dem Jets once in awhile. NEVER the Jints. I mean: NEVER! Besides, the Jets got one talented receiver that doesn't bring down his team with ridiculous prima donna antics.

Too bad about the Mets. I think it's really a shame.

I accompanied Superfly to a motocross race in another state, for which he was taking photographs, not racing. I think that I like motocross about as much as I like having the flu.

I think Fiji water is my crack/smack/bump/mallomars. I hoard it and selfishly refuse to share it.

As we were driving through Connecticut, I think I invented a new term for people like Paris Hilton: Whoress. If you see that word somewhere else after today, let those thieving bastards know they owe me proper credit, or a case of Fiji water.

Tee Many Martoonies

Oy. Vey.

There's a girl at my work who is really pretty, super funny, and very nice. She's confident and exceptional at her job. Totally the kind of girl you wish was your BFF.

For our departmental luncheon, we descended en masse on a retro diner, where our fearless leader insisted each and every person have four shots of (wicked awful) tequila over the course of the meal. Witty repartee flew back and forth, up and down the table, and this girl was the Zinger Queen. Our fearless leader, frequent target of those zingers, challenged her to a fifth shot. Of course, this girl was not backing down. She stood up, tilted the shot glass toward our leader in toast, and slammed it back, to enormous applause.

Guess what? She lives in my 'hood! Last night, she and her boyfriend met up with me and my Superfly for Sangria and fajitas at our favorite Mexican restaurant for a little something I like to call...a couples date.

Anyway, I challenged her to a round of really good Cazadores reposado tequila shots (strictly scientific purposes, natch) and she and he downed them and proclaimed it whiskey- or scotch-like. Once our new friends were well-lubed, we lured them back to our place with promises of Amstel Light, Corona, and karaoke.

So, as if this girl wasn't close enough to being dang perfect, she's got a great singing voice. Did I mention she's skinny and has awesome hair?

I'm not jealous, really. I have no current plans to stalk her. Instead, I wanted to put this "out there" as balance for all the negative crap I post on this blog.

I met someone who is really cool, Superfly and I have friends in the neighborhood (finally), and I totally dig where I'm working. Totally.

Boy-ar-dee do I have a motherfucker of a hangover. I don't remember 1/3 of the night. Luckily, Superfly didn't have anything to drink beyond the Sangria, so he's filled in the blank spots (with plenty of ridicule and teasing)for me. On the other hand, he took me out for breakfast and supplied me with Fiji water and V8.

I know you are all people of high moral standing and are much too mature to ever get shit-faced drunk (at least, since college), but I'm wondering if anyone out there has a "hangover ritual". I do.

* If you aren't in black-out mode, drink some Gatorade before going to sleep
* As soon as you wake up--before getting out of bed, if possible--drink about 8 gallons of water and a few Tylenol. Advil will not work.
* Have a greasy breakfast
* Take a super-scrubby shower and brush the Hell out of your teeth
* No polite way to say this, so: take an epic poo
* Many people swear by "hair of the dog", but I don't find it helpful. You're better off drinking the bloody mary without the vodka. All that potassium and vitamins!
* Water, water, water. It's better if it's not cold.
* Naps are your friend
* Work up a sweat, by whatever means strikes your fancy. Yes, this is after the shower. Trust me.
* Drink one can/bottle/glass of regular coke

For whatever reason, this works magically for me. What's your secret to escaping the hanging?

Top 10 Reasons I Love Autumn

10. Boots
9. Yummy sweaters
8. Seeing all the beautiful and bizarre outerwear choices on NYC streets
7. Dogs in sweaters
6. Down comforters and snuggle-on-the-couch blankets
5. Leather and Suede
4. Seeing Fall foliage on road trips with Superfly
3. Wearing all-black and jewel colors again--down with pastels!
2. Fresh apple cider and incredible Fuji apples
1. Halloween

What did I miss?

Read All About It

Here.

New Addition!

Superfly and I have a new addition to our little family: a darling all-black kitten we adopted from the North Shore Animal League. Out of our love for all things Hawaiian, we named her Kalia, which apparently means "beauty".

The 8-year old grey cat living in our pad was rather surprised to hear and see the little noisy fuzzball cruising around his house. Not aggressively, mind you, he just seems flabbergasted.

We are proud kitten parents, and you shoulda seen Superfly in his chair, cradling a pouf of noodled-out, purring black fur. Precious!

But then I made dinner and my boyfriend found a decrepit inchworm in his salad. Now that we're put off food for awhile, we have more time to play with silly-billy gumdrop kitten and her indignant older brother.

There are lots of puppies, dogs, kittens, and cats looking for good homes at North Shore and every other shelter in existence. Think it over!

Promotional Events are Fun

Your intrepid friend attended a promotional event covered by the magazine for which she interns. Accompanied by the super-cool photographer and dressed in a reasonable facsimile of high-class duds (thanks to a "Attention customers, the store will be closing in five minutes" frenzied trip to Century), I breezed into the facility and commenced eyeballing the freebie tables, the other attendees, and the objects of my journalistic intention.

And oh, mama, were those objects spectacular. I couldn't take my eyes off of them. You seen one roomful of greaseball suits and their stripper girlfriends, you seen way more than you ever wanted. I did avail myself of the Veuve, to be sure, but was otherwise unmoved by the luxury freebies or the aggressive flacks hired to shill for them. These objects are meant for billionaire eyes, and they are the absolute zenith of their industry. These objects stir awe in the most jaded of hearts. I got closer than 97% of the people at this soiree to these products, thanks to my decision to befriend the people closest to these products.

I talked to the security guys, the set up guys, the greaseball suits' assistants. Instead of approaching the shiny, bleached, waxed, and Botox'd invitees who threw attitude all around, I approached the weirdoes, the darling older couple, and the awkward foreigners. That's how I got my story -- the real story.

My first byline at this magazine.

I could plotz!

Another Personal Failing

I hate waiting for anything. The longer I have to wait for something, the less interested I am in having it. Yes, I do know that's rather childish behavior. Wanna make something of it?

This problem extends to all kinds of mystery, suspense, and surprises. That is; I can't stand them. I'm no fan of CSI shows, cop shows, lawyer dramas, or soap operas. All that manufactured drama, all that waiting and waiting and waiting for information. I know many people enjoy suspense and delight in the tense, breath-holding drama of it all. For me it's too stressful with too little payoff. I am a big fan of comedy--especially the slapstick kind. The immediacy is the draw there--along with the yuks, of course. Why should I have to work for my entertainment? Sheesh.

I know several people who will say surprises are their absolute favorite things, that they are sad when their special days do not involve the element of surprise. My usual reaction to surprise is panic of the "Hit the deck!" variety. I find most surprises are the unwelcome kind (with the notable exception of my Superfly boyfriend's masterful use of cunning subterfuge in the planning of my birthday).

I would be amiss not to point out that some surprises aren't perpetuated by anyone that's out to get you or by someone who loves you yet enjoys sneaking around behind your back: When surprise is a natural phenomena, I say it's a-ok. For example, say you dig your winter coat out of the closet, dust it off, and put it on. You reach in the pocket and find a $10 bill and a Metrocard with some rides on it. This kind of surprise RULES.

Superfly posits that my personal failing regarding suspense, mystery, and surprise is really all about me not trusting people. He's pretty smart, ain't he? I think I'll keep him.

How do you feel about waiting, suspense, mystery, surprises, and/or trust issues? Care to share your greatest or worst surprise, ever?

My greatest: Realizing it's true that love will find you, no matter what your circumstance.
My worst: Realizing someone you thought you knew and you thought loved you is more than willing, able, and ready to ruin your life, with tremendous gusto.

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

Bleah.

I have the flu. The kind that sucks all the energy out of your body and then tortures you with brain-melting fever and teeth chattering chills at the same time. The kind that makes your hair stand on end. The kind that makes your boss and co-workers plead, "Yes! Please go home sick!" The kind that makes strangers give you a wide berth when you lurch down the street.

I like to call this type of influenza Ebola. You know: the deadly virus wherein all your bodily fluids shot projectile streams from your body's every orifice. And then you die.

I won't die, but it sure does enter the realm of possibility when you spend all day in the bathroom and all night sweating your balls off and shivering.

I blame Bob, who surely blames Charlie. Poor Superfly stands no chance.

Bleah.

Schoolhouse Shooter

Awoke this morning to find on CNN, FoxNews, and every other media outlet on TV an aerial view of an Amish schoolhouse in Lancaster, PA. Amish men, women and children stood outside under the wind and noise of helicopters and corralled away from onlookers and press by armor-suited police.

Seems a truck driver by the name of Roy stormed the one-room schoolhouse early this morning, let the boys and some adults go free, took little girls (in grades 1-8) hostage and barricaded himself inside with them. He shot and killed three of them, shot and critically injured seven more, and then turned his gun on himself.

The police chief in Christiana, the close-knit Amish community just East of Lancaster, said Roy's wife came home and found him gone and gibberish-laden notes left for her and their children. Something about a beef dating back 20 years. Cops believe he chose the Amish schoolhouse because it was nearby and because it lacked the security of public schools, but have no other ideas as to Roy's motives in this horrific attack.

I'm here to take care of some business and observe Yom Kippur. I just found out at my doctor appointment that a "worrisome" cyst exists in my right ta-ta requiring rather immediate attention. Superfly is here, too, because he's a superfly boyfriend. We are shocked, aggrieved.

My step-mom works at a hotel roughly one mile from the site of the shooting and observed the police and emergency vehicles speeding by and helicopters zooming overhead. Usually, there's tour buses and heavy tourist and outlet-shopping traffic to complain about, or gripes about people from New Jersey.

Today she sat on the sofa all day in her work clothes, silently watching up-to-the-minute coverage of the shooting. She's lived her whole life in Lancaster County and probably thought she seen it all when it comes to the Amish when 'Witness' was filmed here in the '80s. She's the kind of woman who never sits still, least of all silently.

This senseless tragedy--especially the accompanying media onslaught--is the last thing Lancaster's beleagured Amish community needs. Government and developers relentlessly push for their land; disease, attrition, and farm accidents decimate their population, and encroaching modernity threatens their way of life. A lunatic acting on a twenty-year old grudge in shooting Amish schoolchildren is just too much.

Leave the Amish alone. Let them grieve in peace and go research your stories at Roy's house, get your quotes from his wife and the police. Don't take photos of crying Amish mothers or the grisly schoolhouse. Don't invade Christiana in your efforts to get some kind of "scoop". Don't be despicable.

We're headed back to NYC tonight, to a place where it is perfectably acceptable to be despicable. Just don't bring that shit to Lancaster, it doesn't belong.