Auto Erotica

Excuse me, I need a cigarette...

Today on Today

Asked by Meredith Vieira what advice she would give young girls struggling with similar personal issues (such as her own highly-publicized battle with an eating disorder) — and make no mistake, Meredith handed her a pre-packed uplifting answer in her question — MaryKateAshley Olson replied, "Uh, um, well, I just think, like, kids should really do a lot of exploring."

:Insert punchline:

Auction

My tender flesh was sold off for a measly $65 ... to my Superfly boyfriend. I was worried about the possibility of hearing crickets when the bidding began and secretly hoping a bidding war would ensue. Instead, a roomful of people stared at me — mugging and posing on stage — while the DJ read off the hilarious stuff I wrote on my "About Me" card and Superfly, K$ and Bob took turns bidding.

Gentle ego stroking and a free dinner together that benefits a fine charity. Couldn't have planned it better! (Except it wasn't planned.)

Hope you had a lovely weekend, too.

Tribes

Because no one seems to be reading my blog except me, I will post things that interest probably only me. So there.

My tribal ancestors include:

Mother:

Anishinabe/Ojibwa (grandpa's a half-breed!)
Super-aggro natives of the Great Lakes/Canada. Scalpers and obliterators of other tribes.

Jew (by way of France/Catalonia/Algeria/beating-feet-out-of-Israel)
Survivors

Jew (by way of Prussia)
Survivors

Clan Cameron
Super-warring Scottish highlanders

Father:

Irish
Fond of drinking, celebrations and brawling

English
Literate, high-minded royal hooliganism

Scottish
Super-warring sheepherders

Is it any wonder all that DNA filtered down into a girl called Trouble?

What are your tribes, and what do your ancestors think of you?

I *heart* Thanksgiving

Hello? Overeating, football, booze, family squabbles, and getting the Hell out of NYC for a few days? Of course I love Thanksgiving.

Even though I am of (thin) Native blood, I don't get my thong twisted about politics on this holiday (more so Columbus Day, which is bogus for several reasons). Genocide of several hundred years ago was senseless and tragic, and the effects are felt to this day, but Thanksgiving isn't about putting down the red man.

Speaking of cultural appropriation, genocide, and squashing pagans, I hate Xmas.

Anyway, jumping giblets, people, Thanksgiving is a much more meaningful family holiday than stupid Xmas, and you know it. People aren't stressed, bankrupt, and depressed on Thanksgiving. You see your family, you eat too much, you watch the game, and you rest your fat ass on the couch with your feet up on the coffee table.

Trouble's Family's Thanksgiving Traditions (We're All About Options!)

* Green bean casserole and broccoli casserole. Suck it up.
* Stove Top stuffing for the pussies, and the homemade PA Dutch style "filling" with the turkey guts and sausage in it for the rest of us. Mmmmmmm!
* Big, fat, roasted turkey and revolting-looking ham.
* Both the can-shaped and the berries-and-sticky-seeds cranberry sauces
* Roasted, mashed new potatoes and regular, white, lump-free mashed 'taters
* Potato dinner rolls
* Gewurztraminer by the barrel
* Pumpkin pie, chocolate cake, and my homemade biscotti (recipe available upon request)
* My dad gives a moving prayer, during which my stepmom tells him to hurry up, the food's getting cold.
* My younger brother shows up several hours after the dishes have been washed and put away, and will complain we left nothing for him.
* My dad will fall asleep in his recliner almost immediately after sitting down.
* Superfly boyfriend will fall asleep on the sofa immediately after sitting down.
* Phone calls from out-of-state family will trickle throughout the day.
* Me, Trouble Jr., and my stepmom will look at old photographs and talk about Jr.'s college plans.
* The pie and the wine won't make it, but the turkey and barely-touched ham will last into the next week, thanks to my stepmom's hypervigilant storage/freezing techniques.
* I will fall asleep halfway-through watching and (laughing my ass off at) The Ref.

Wishing you a warm and happy Turkey Day. May you be gobbled.

Chow!

Kung Fu Mahjong


Little did you know I've had a Mahjong card since 1998. I love this game. If you re somehow unfamiliar with mahjongg (or mahjong), it's a tile (or, sometimes, card) game similar to gin rummy. Massively popular in Asia and Miami Beach and good, good fun.

The movie reunites the hysterically funny team from Kung Fu Hustle, and the director of Shaolin Soccer, showcasing Yuen Qui, chain-smoking harridan and kung fu master, Yuen Wah, physical comedy genius, and the usual unlikely hero and pretty girls. There's a silly plot, cartoonish characters, and buffoonery aplenty. I can't begin to tell you how much I love this movie.

Right here, right now, I predict Mahjong will be the next trendy hobby, like knitting and bridge were in previous years. Mark my words.

In the meantime, Superfly and I are looking for people to play Mahjong with. Any takers?

McNabb

Woe is Eagles.

It's been a rough season for my beloved birds, and Donovan McNabb's season-ending ACL tear today is the nadir. *Sigh* All the bullshit surrounding stupid T.O., Westbrook's chronic injury, the devastating here's-your-ass courtesy the New York Giants...well, it's been tough to watch.

Speedy recovery, Donovan McNabb. A toast of Yeungs and Wings to the hardest-working team — and the other most loyal, green-bleedin' fans — in the NFL.

That Time of Year

Same cowlicked hair! Same pointy ears and nose! Same upside-down "V" eyebrows!

Although I am not a stop-motion Rankin-Bass creation who probably is gay and clearly is in the wrong job.

Could be worse! I know people who look like the Abominable Snowman, the Heat Miser, and the Burgermeister Meisterbergerot — not to mention a few Santas.

Am I the only one who sees Hermie and Rudolph's love-that-cannot-be-named as the real reason Molly the Dolly cried her ice cube tears?

Boobs

Fun bag!

I don't know what you did today, but I got a needle shoved through my nipple and radioactive dye shot through my right breast.

Yes, it was painful — thanks for asking! As long as they eventually decide that I do not actually have breast cancer, they can feel free to poke, jab and smoosh my jugs all they want. Twelve x-rays and two ultrasounds later, they still ain't sure. Oy gevalt. I was told I was an exemplary patient, even though I caused the nurse who was standing around, holding up my breast while it underwent ultrasound scanning, to laugh and "drop" my boob when I thanked her for her support.

Now, my boob never did anything to deserve any of this abuse. Miss Right and her brother, Lefty, just hang around trying to be as perky as double-Ds can be, most of the time. They've been extremely successful at the duties assigned to them by Nature (a. attracting men and b. feeding babies); what reward do they enjoy for their many years of fine service? It's appalling, really.

Which reminds me ... of another kind of boob: This one you'll find in any workplace, anywhere in the world. This boob is entitled. Not because they are brilliant, kind, giving, helpful, innovative, or merely useful; this boob is entitled just because. Usually they've been on the job quite a long time and are as entrenched as the funny smell in the stairwell. They tend to be complainers and often gossipers as well.

They are unparalleled morale destroyers, taking advantage of the company in every imaginable way and flaunting it in front of those who could never get away with the same things. No one in middle or upper management wants to be "the bad guy" that fired the employee who's been there a decade longer than them, especially if the boob in question is any kind of potential discrimination case. Behind their back, every person in the company despises them. Think they care? They do not. They take twice their allotment of personal, vacation, and sick days and get paid for it anyway. They spend all day, every day, on the phone with their friends or family members, complaining about work. They ignore their co-workers until it's time for their birthday or the holiday party, when they pull out the tiny bag of charm they've hidden up their ass all year long. Basically, this is a boob that fully deserves being poked, jabbed and smooshed (and then some).

My Superfly boyfriend works with a boob like this. Because of her antics and the devastating effect she's had on morale at his office, he was not permitted to be with me today (despite his overabundance of vacation, personal, and sick time) for my scary medical procedure. Instead, he got to sit in his office and listen to some fucking old twat complain on the phone all day about unfair it was, her having to be at work when her boiler is giving her problems/her corns hurt/she has bad gas.

I'm fine. Even if I do have breast cancer, it is so small and will be detected so early that zapping it will be a cinch. I'm handling it, and I'm glad to have Superfly in my life. He takes good care of me and my boobs.

Anyone have suggestions on getting rid of the boob at Superfly's work?

My Backpack Got Jets

Oh, damn. I never cared about Star Wars and I'm not sorry about it. Blah, blah it is a sacred thing in the minds of people of a certain age and a geeky inclination. For me, Star Wars is the Hokey Pokey.

But take a listen to this random rap song by some dude named MC Chris (love the retro "MC" thing, Chris, it really sets your vision, your talent apart from all the DJs running around, sampling their own farts into old techno tunes)and set to YouTube video by myriad mouth-breathers.

Still, it's pretty damn funny!

Bartender Wisdom

It was one of my favorite scenes: a nearly-empty bar, perfectly-poured Guinness, SportsCenter on 4 TVs, decent pub food and a friendly bartender.

For you single ladies out there; he's in his early '30s, good looking, intelligent, sweet, and a fireman. Also: Hoping he has a permit for 'dem guns!

So, naturally, as is my wont, I struck up a conversation with this hottie bartender. Not flirting, mind you, just passing the time and amusing myself. I certainly don't want to share anything about myself, but I'm just dying to know everything there is to know about this total stranger. For no particular reason.

I know, I know: get a hobby.

10 Beer-Nuggets of Wisdom from HB:

1. People gravitate towards the kind of people they grew up with. e.g. No matter how diabolical girls are who grew up in Staten Island, Brooklyn, and Queens, the local boys will choose them over someone nicer/saner/better-looking.

2. You know all you need to know about a person by knowing where they grew up.

3. Women who expect a man to give them the world, when they themselves have nothing to give, got problems.

4. Too many young people are trying to get into bars and such. They should have house parties and so on, like we did when we were kids.

5. Single girls in Manhattan are scary.

6. Guys in the outerboroughs are mostly blue-collar types. You know, cops, firemen, guys in the military, so on. Hard-working types.

7. These days its hard to tell when a girl in a club is a stripper or a hooker.

8. He gots no use for computers. They ain't real, and nothing good comes from it.

9. You can tell alot about a person right away by their accent. (He pegs me as being from Philadelphia. Close enough. He doesn't elaborate on what that might mean about my character.)

10. He does say I smile too much. I blamed the Guinness, but he didn't appear convinced. Smiling too much is a cover-up, he says. Damn straight, I say.

Now, I Don't Usually Do This, But...

Metroblogging? Ok, so I wrote a couple of posts for the New York City metroblog site over the summer. I thought it was a great idea, having a city blog, offering different voices and viewpoints under an umbrella of civic love.

When I say I am a writer, I'm not being cute. I am trained and educated in my profession, and I have more than 10 years experience in being paid to write. I am usually thoughtful about the things I write, especially those pieces that might be read by more than just my co-workers, friends and family.

My few posts stick out like a Harvard librarian might at a Jersey keg party. Other "writers" can't spell and have limited grammar skills. There is no flow to their stories, the point is hard to discern, and cliches tend to overpopulate. Thankfully, no emoticons or TXT MSG acronyms (so far), but you feel it's only a matter of time. I felt embarassed to be part of something so amateurish and useless.

I wrote a carefully-written (read: no expletives or sarcasm), suitably deferential email to the guy in charge of metroblogging, a guy named Sean Bonner. In my note, I suggested that the site would be much improved and might gain more credibility if an editor was installed -- at the very least a copyeditor. I was NOT angling for the job, mind you, just offering helpful, well-meaning advice.

The response was a big "fuck you" from Cap'n Douchebag. Which he followed up with a couple more emails, detailing why it didn't matter what the copy looked like so long as the site got hits, and plenty of innuendo about me sucking. Quantity, screw quality. You get the idea. And then he deleted my profile and posts from the site.

Believe me, my heart may never recover. Ya-a-a-awn. What was I saying?

Oh, yeah: Metroblogging. To their credit, I've seen worse.

Toil and Trouble

When tough times happen in your life, they don't typically send you a "Save the Date" card to let you know they are coming. No, stressful situations are ninjas.

The first one sneaks up on you and delivers a roundhouse kick to your head. As you grab your aching head, the second administers swift and punishing blows to your knees, dropping you to the ground. Everything happens so fast, you can't begin to react. The third ninja sits atop your crippled back, a giant sword in his hands dangling mere milimeters from your neck. Just as your thoughts finally collect into a primal scream, realizing your death is imminent, the ninjas vanish, and you are left to assess the damage, get to safety, and get help.

Only when you are in a safe place and nursing your wounds do you begin to think. The questions begin with Why? Why Me? and they spiral from there, until you are either immobilized with depression or galvanized into action: The ninjas did not defeat me.

I have a lot on my mind. Between the trepidatious excitement of success at work, to the devastating shock of rejection, to the confidence-shattering events and occurrences in everyday life and in personal relationships, I can't focus on one feeling long enough to absorb its deeper meaning.

Talking does not always help matters. Mulling things over does not always provide clarity. Sometimes you must lie very still and hope the ninjas don't see you.

Car Trouble

On assignment!

I was yelling, "Sweet Jesus!" as this picture was taken...by Superfly!








(click on the title of this posting to read the story, sillies)

Only 32?

HowManyOfMe.com

There are: 32 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?