Hit that spot.

Start reading Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs while listening to Amadou & Mariam's Dimanche à Bamako the next time you board the crosstown bus.

Miss Stacia’s Hanukkah Wish List: The Christian Edition

For some reason I think Mama and Papa Jones will have trouble throwing down for:

The Metal Bible: I’ve been saying for years that it would be beneficial for me to give the Bible a once-over and you can’t beat an edition that lends you teen-punk credibility while transforming God’s word into a handy tool for striking down sinners on the subway platform.

The Jesus Dashboard Dazzler: You would think this item would be totally useless for a car less, Jewish city-dweller, but the thought of sticking this sucker to my work computer and monitoring the resulting confusion and unease makes me think it would be worth the $7.95.

A Chastity Ring: I know it’s a little late for this, but I’m willing to go Born-Again-V for the privilege of donning a sweet wedding “placeholder” and throwing a promise ring ceremony complete with laser light show. Even Mitzvahpalooza didn’t have one of those.

N.B. Read the article on the growing popularity of chastity rings in today's Times. You won't be sorry.

All Hail King Howard

I’ve always felt an allegiance to Howard Stern, “king of all media,” champion of strippers and "retards" alike. Although many refuse to accept or acknowledge his talents, Howard is one of the most successful entertainers in history. He is one of the few in the business who speaks from brutal honesty and truly does what he wants, sometimes to be funny, sometimes for the sake of making a finer point, sometimes just to be contradictory for the fuck of it – it really doesn’t matter. The man sticks to his instincts – perhaps all you can rely on in the business of causing controversy – and rides them for dear life through a sea of midgets, crackwhores and 40-year-old virgins. The Robert Crumb of talk radio, Howard has an eye for the freakish, the perverted and the intriguingly disturbing. He’s simply trying to bring his circus together and will finally get to do so, under a bigger tent with no FCC restrictions, this coming January. I have been waiting for this since the days of my crap-ass Long Island commute and I’m not the only member of the infamously warped Jones family who has been counting down the days.

The media blitz that inevitably trumpets upcoming celebrity projects irritates me, even if the attention is lavished on someone I adore (last month’s suffocating coverage of Sarah Silverman spoiled just about every good joke in Jesus is Magic), but I will probably end up reading every last article on Howard and his Sirius debut. You should start with this week’s excellent profile in New York Magazine while I ex today off the calendar and attempt to rationalize a $300 purchase in anticipation of the triumphant return of “Anal Ring Toss.”

See What Dazrazzle Sees

This past Thursday, the sublime Dazrazzle and I attended one of the last performances of See What I Want to See, a two-act play based on the stories of Ryunosuke Akutagawa, at the East Village’s Public Theater. The production starred, among others, Idina Menzel, who won a Tony as the Wicked Witch of the West in Wicked and played Maureen in both the Broadway and recent film productions of RENT. Although it made perfect sense, Daz and I were quite startled to have an A-grade celebrity sighting at the show and as a shameless media/gossip junkie I began to compose a mental checklist immediately upon recognition for my very first Gawker Stalker entry. Friday morning I sat down at my desk at 8:30 on the nose and drafted a succinct summary of the encounter:

I was standing outside the Public Theater last night around 7:45 talking to a friend about RENT, the movie, waiting to see one of the final performances of See What I Want to See featuring Idina Menzel (Maureen from RENT) when Rosario Dawson walked past us and into the theater to support her co-star. My friend had just finished dispensing her opinion that "Rosario was obviously the weakest voice in the cast." Smooth timing on that. The big-screen Mimi was simply dressed in jeans and knee-high shearling boots and has an absolutely beautiful face. She was also sporting funky black hipster frames à la Colin Meloy and a chic, short haircut. She was very laid back and friendly and seemed to know a lot of people working at the theater.

I left out the part about Daz’s constant hyperventilating (“Stacey, I’m still a bridge-and-tunneler. I’m not used to this!”) and our hushed bathroom gossiping about the absence of Jason Lewis (only to find Miss Dawson at the end of the bathroom line - again, the timing...). Those tidbits I planned on reserving for the elite members of my blog readership circle. Turns out that my Gawker posting may be viewed only by the eyes of Miss Stacia fans as well because Gawker’s server keeps rejecting my damn email. So much for my Gawker Stalking dreams.

A few words about the show: Daz and I bought tickets the day of (for only $25! God bless the undated student ID…) and ended up with partial-view seats that were actually pretty amazing. The theater is a high, open space with a rectangular stage, flanked by the audience on three sides. Daz and I sat stage right, second row and our view was blocked only by a slim and fairly navigable support pole. Until the start of the second act that is.

The two acts opened with Idina and her lover in traditional Japanese robes seductively singing, purring and groping through numbers called “Kesa” and “Morito” (referring to the lovers’ names). Each song opened with the title character fondly describing to the audience the night on which he/she “kissed my lover for the last time,” and built to a striking climax in which passion and life peak and die in the same instant. These happened to be my favorite numbers of the show, partially because of the bewitching melody and flawless vocal performance of the actors, partially because of the passionately executed, sexual choreography (Side note to Idina: I’ve never seen anyone perform on his/her back with such impressive range. Bravo.). While singing, Kesa and Morito entangled their bodies on top of two deep rouge curtains that hung from the back corner of one side of the ceiling and draped forward diagonally across the stage, underneath the actors' twisted bodies. The effect of the fabric was quite dramatic, suggestive of bold, simplistic Eastern aesthetics when hung, and fluid as a bloodstained river when yanked down at the end of each act’s opening song. Too bad Daz and I were caught behind the curtain at the beginning of the second act. Hence the true nature of the partial-view classification:




The blockage only lasted a couple minutes and was probably even preferable to the raunchiness of Kesa and Morito’s forbidden liaison for the Daz who, unlike her crude companion, tends to get a bit squirmy around such displays. But most of the partial-view crew was less than thrilled by the crimson partition, however temporary. As the curtains were hoisted to the ceiling in front of us during intermission Daz’s flamboyant and overly social neighbor cracked a groan-worthy, “Instead of See What I Want To See, they should call this play, Can't See What I Want To See.” Har har har.

The rest of the night was chock full of the usual amusements including a barrage of quips from Daz about her heritage (“I feel ashamed. What Jew hasn’t seen Fiddler?”), her out-of-control Law and Order addiction (“I think I recognize that guy from Law and Order! Oh my god it says here the other guy was on Law and Order too! I’ve totally seen that episode!”), and her uncontrollable disgust at one actor’s inability to control his body’s various secretions (“He spits on EVERY syllable Stacey.”).

To be fair: The spitting actor – who also starred in both Mighty Ducks sequel blockbusters, D2 and D3 – could not get a sound out without projectile spitting all over his audience and co-stars. Not to mention the disturbingly sweaty (as in dripping onto his partner’s bare chest) sex scene. Poor wet, slimy Idina.

That's pretty fucking big.

Once upon a time I teased the existence of photos comparing the world's largest banana to Sally, the office Barbie doll. After months of twiddling my thumbs in ignorance, I finally figured out how to free these glorious images from the undeserved isolation of my cellphone memory bank for your viewing pleasure. I recommend you take a step or two back from the computer, take a moment to really get a handle on the size of your average Barbie doll, and revel in how a simple girl ever wielded a fruit this large.

Mon Frère, L'Artiste

Waiting to sign papers with mom and dad at the bank, Adam excercises his creativity in a loving portrait of his oldest sister:

Welcome, Miss Stacia

Attention Faithful Readers:

I have recently undergone a name change, anticipating a future career in pornography in which the name "Dominique Dero" might be quite useful. So say "sayonara" to Miss Dero for now. You shall meet her again on her rise to lovemaking fame.

Sincerely yours,
Stacia Jones

The College Man: Heartfelt Birthday Wishes

Left on my Voicemail (very sleepily) at 4:09pm:

Adam: Heeeey Stacey………. I just woke up……..happy fucking birthday.

Birthday Transit Playlist

Crafted to induce ecstasy on the short trip from my cupcake-laden office to my much-anticipated dinner at The Red Cat.

“These are the Fables” – The New Pornographers
“Reno Dakota” – The Magnetic Fields
“Touch The Sky” – Kanye West
“Extraordinary Machine” – Fiona Apple
“Chicago” – Sufjan Stevens
“The Denial Twist” – The White Stripes
“Good Day” – The Dresden Dolls

You Live in a Zoo

My afternoon phone conversation with the lovely lady who birthed me:

Mom: What was I doing seventeen years ago today?

Me: Tell me…

Mom: Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! (grunting labor noises)

Me: That’s nice mom. Except I’m twenty-three.

Photo of Coworker Flashing Devil Horns at Wedding Party Instantly Validates Onion Article Addressing "Metal Hand Sign Abuse"

"If your head is neither banging nor thrashing, you should not be throwing the sign..."

Weddings are stupid.

Unless you’re my little sister and you want one (Rachel, we’ll discuss this later.).

Personally, I’d rather take the money that would have been spent on an excruciatingly frilly, impractical, one-time-wear-only dress, food that looks better than it tastes, thousand dollar flower arrangements that die the next day and a DJ who will inevitably play Gloria Estefan’s version of “Turn the Beat Around,” and take a month-long vacation somewhere fucking awesome. Like Greece. Yeah.

To seal the legality of the affair, the fiancée and I will pull together a jolly quorum – the fam, good friends, and maybe a cute pet or two (I can’t deny my mother the joy of dressing Shayna for the occasion) – and saunter over to Town Hall to sign some papers. When I push through the doors of the building (in a white mini-dress?) I hope to exclaim something along the lines of, “Let’s do this!” The whole thing will take ten minutes. Then everyone will head over to the bar for pitchers. No vino allowed. It’s my wedding and everyone will drink Black and Tans.

Oh, and absolutely no little kids. At all. Not at the ceremony, not at the party. Sorry, but you’re gonna have to leave the criers at home. You popped ‘em out, so now you’re responsible for figuring out what to do with ‘em while the rest of us have a good time.


N.B. I am fully aware of the possibility that in the future, love will dilute my cynicism. But it's highly unlikely.

The Halloweenies

Sort of Awards. Sort of Not. I use colons. You’ll get the idea.


Courtesy of your favorite 80's redhead.

Best Male Costume: Richard Simmons. The Tae Bo tape looped at the party and Mr. Simmons' real curly fro lent this masterpiece its authenticity.

Best Female Costume: Ummm, Peggy Bundy.

Best Duo Costume Idea: Double Dare Contestants. Complete with “DD” t-shirts, elbow and kneepads, helmets with cups on top (for catching random slimy objects), little red flags and homemade GAK.

Best Lesbian Couple Costume: Martha and Ellen. Daytime TV, back-to-back! Ellen sported a suit with white sneakers and Martha passed out “prison bars” (carefully plated mini Snickers on toothpicks).

Best Non-Gay, Gay Couple Costume: Cop and Jailbird. Two random guys (both) named Dan show up at the same party, one dressed as the punished, the other as the punisher. Sheer coincidence? Or a hot "chase" waiting to unfold?

Most High-Maintenance Couple Costume: Bacon and Egg. Costumes made out of foam with hole cut-outs for the head, arms and legs are hilarious to look at. And SUCK to wear.

Best Group Costume: The Nina, the Pinta, The Santa Maria. Traveled with a spandex-sporting Christopher Columbus.

Most Creative Homage: Hunter S. Thompson, post-suicide. Hunter and I probably passed about 4,000 “Fear and Loathing" fans over the course of the night and only the homeless guy in front of the deli on St. Marks and A called out in recognition. “Hunter S. Thompson with a bullet in his head! Genius, man!”

Predicted Costume Hit of the Year: Napoleon Dynamite. Vote for Pedro.

Actual Costume Hit of the Year: Hasidic Jew. Vote For Schlomo.

Ratio of Hasidic Jews to Napoleon Dynamites spotted over three-day period: 4:1. If men use the same costume choice logic as the majority of women in this city (dress to get laid), this means New Yorkers assumed your average rabbi gets laid more than the freakishly charming, monotone high school nerd.

Most obvious reaction to the Peggy Bundy Costume: Putting your hand in your pants. Hint to the men of New York City - try harder.

What to call Peggy when you can’t quite put your finger on it:
“Jersey!” (Not far off.)
“Long Island!” (On any other day, so very true.)
“The Nanny!” (Most embarrassing to hear screamed at you from across Avenue A.)
“Marge!” (Too much weed dude.)

If the stiletto fits...

There is no one who loves Halloween more than yours truly, Miss Deroextoradinaire. I am the kind of girl who begins to contemplate costume possibilities in August and meticulously assembles the entire ensemble by October 1st. I’m the kind of girl who scours the Internet for tutus and swan stuffed animals to piece them together in a detailed and surprisingly recognizable reproduction of Bjork's swan dress. The kind of girl who seriously frets over the way her jet-black eyebrows interfere with the boldness of her red Peggy Bundy bouffant.

With Halloween falling on a Monday this year, there’s no telling when the most sensational celebrations will hit the streets of Manhattan. As far as I’m concerned we’re on the brink of a three-day holiday weekend. This city-snob has even agreed to spend the better part of her Saturday night across the B-Burg bridge (which goes against her party instincts), so it must be Halloween. The Dero has already been shed in favor of a campier, trashier persona. See you when the incessant libido dies and the birth control runs out.

Oh AL!!!!

Dream a Little Dream

Tara McPherson documents heartache in a color we can all understand.

Behind the Scenes: The Colbert Report

Who knew my little Dazrazzle wielded so much power in New York broadcast ticketing offices? After securing us seats at a taping of the historic but increasingly uninspiring Saturday Night Live (not even guest host Napoleon Dynamite could save this puppy), my favorite social circuit board squeezed one of her juiciest contacts for four tickets to newly sprouted satirical news show, The Colbert Report. Colbert is truly a rare talent with the comic fluency and monster cajones to successfully helm his own brand of caustic current events commentary, but although the series shows much promise, it was the taping experience itself that provided last night’s oh-so-priceless moments.

Five highlights:

1. Standing on line to get into the studio in front of the guy that invented the "jump to conclusions mat" in the movie “Office Space.” It took our collective pride as privacy-respecting, non-celebrity-worshipping New Yorkers (lie to yourself Dero, its okay) not to turn to him and say “Jump to Conclusions Man, that movie epitomizes the lives we’re currently living.”
2. Lisa Loeb's bladderific declaration. As the bespectacled folkie emerged from a black sedan in front of the studio building, (effectively ruining the “big surprise” that she would sing five bars - of hmmm, I wonder what song - to complement one of Colbert's jokes) she declared quite loudly in the face of Daz’s younger brother, Francis Xavier XXIII, “I have to pee so badly I can’t hold it anymore!” See America, C-Level, one-hit-wonder-penning celebrities are just like us!
3. Stephen Colbert’s entrance. We got our first taste of the manic anchor as he bolted into the studio, halted center stage facing the audience, and pushed off to complete seven perfect turns in succession, spotting like a prima ballerina. When asked to recall what song was playing during this Fame-worthy entrance, my girl J-Faust replied, “Sorry man. I really don’t remember. I was busy being dazzled by his turning.” To which Daz added, “Totally dazzled. I imagined it was Waltz of the Sugar Plum Fairy.” Note to Colbert’s mother: Those years of tap dance training you put little Stephen through really paid off. Note to Stephen: The middle-school beatings were worth it. Every pre-teen girl’s juices flowed for that lone male in dance class.
4. The pre-show audience question-and-answer segment. Before entering the studio the audience was advised to formulate “funny and creative” questions to ask Stephen before the taping. The best question, and the one I wish I’d asked (later to be used as a response by Colbert to the unbearably lame inquiry, “What’s the funniest question you’ve ever been asked?” ) went something like this: “One time on the Daily Show you made a comment about how you like to sexually harass your interns. I have my resume here with me now and I was wondering if you would hire me.”
5. The way Colbert refused to pronounce the hard “T” at the end of word "Report." The postulated commentary from Bill O’ Reilly (or “Papa Bear” as Colbert has him lovingly nicknamed) on this technicality: “The Colbert RAPPORT? Fucking French bastard.”

Learning with Asterik's Music Monsters

Asterik Studio's family of musical ogres, creatures and freaks, imagined for a recent Bumbershoot Festival print series, immediately conjured memories of my very favorite childhood learning devices, The Letter People. Used to impart the basics of sound and syllable to five and six year olds, the monogram-sporting Letter People and their goofy, inflatable effigies were each assigned a letter-oriented trait and related song to help kids learn the alphabet. By the end of my first year at Chestnut Hill Elementary it was clear that Miss A said “A’choo” and Mr. T had Tall Teeth.

I can’t help but wonder what would have happened had my pleasantly plump Kindergarten teacher used Asterik’s Music Monsters to lay a musical foundation as well:

MR. WRIGHT: “Alright class, repeat after me. Mr. Iggy Pop Pioneered Punk Rock.”

CLASS: “Mr. Iggy Pop Pioneered Punk Rock.”

MR. WRIGHT: “Does anyone know what Mr. Pop is famous for?”

JOHNNY: “His punk and hard rock innovation and crazy stage antics?”

MR. WRIGHT: “That’s right Johnny! But class remember, just like with matches…”

JOHNNY: “Don’t cut yourself with broken bottles in the name of rock n’ roll without parental supervision?”

MR. WRIGHT: “You’ve got it! Alright Michael, play that vinyl…”

PLAYS “SEARCH AND DESTROY”

MR. WRIGHT: “ Now repeat, Ms. Mavis Staples is a Singing Soul Sister.”

CLASS: “Ms. Mavis Staples is a Singing Soul Sister.”

MR. WRIGHT: “Now who is Mavis Staples? Jenny?”

JENNY: “Mavis Staples is a soul and gospel legend, once a member of pop group The Staples Sisters.

MR. WRIGHT: “And can you name one of The Staples Sisters’ number one hits for me?

JENNY: “I’ll Take You There!”

MR. WRIGHT: “You got it Jenny! Hit it Mike!”

Office Obscenities

This afternoon on my way back to work from the bank I ducked into a deli for a healthy snack and was assaulted by the largest banana I had ever laid eyes on. My coworker (shoot-the-duck) Vannessa has often bragged about a banana she purchased in the pre-Dominique days that was “so large it was obscene.” Certain this banana would trump any former obnoxiously phallic fruit brought back to the cubicle, I humbly doled out two quarters to bring my find back to the girls.

Obscene really was the perfect word for this freakishly engorged gorilla favorite. Measuring almost eleven inches in length and about three inches in “girth” at its widest, the yellow shaft promised to be a full mouthful for even the most accommodating lady. I chose to cut it into small pieces for consumption to discourage gawking stares. Forget eating the thing, even holding it while standing at my desk was embarrassing, prompting flushed emails to my sympathetic female coworkers reading, “I love that Mike walked by while I was showing Michelle my large banana.”

Or maybe it was the fact that I was taking camera phone pictures of the thing side-by-side with Sally the office Barbie doll that triggered my embarrassment. I was just trying to give my lovely blog-reading audience a proper sense of scale.

How to nearly kill yourself in eleven days.

Part I:
Party yourself sick with Miss Overindulgence.

9/14 – Rollerskating at the Roxy. Fuel up on margaritas and Mexican food. Lace up skates, skitter onto the rink and aim to take an innocent skater down with you on first fall. Feed the tank with two more Coronas while watching perfect coworker “shoot the duck.” Find inspiration in an Alicia Keys song and allow ballad-stimulated stylistic overconfidence to take you on a scathing ride on the wooden slip-n-slide. Medicate any injuries with Corona, without regard to the inevitable morning hangover.

9/15 – Kick off CMJ w/ The Billy Nayer Show @ the Knitting Factory. Meet up with German festival companion and metal connoisseur extraordinaire. Get balls (literal or figurative, whatever’s available) blown off by The Billy Nayer Show’s freakish rock fables and Dr. Seussian proclamations of love. Wish for dad who either plays the Autoharp or is willing to grow out a six inch long black beard. After drinking a few pints, allow embarrassing lack of stamina, still in the growth stage, to force exit before headliners Of Montreal take the stage.

9/16 – CMJ: Coco Rosie, Supersystem and !!! @ S.O.B’s. Confront early feelings of exhaustion and illness with The German. Opt not to drink any beer. Decide to establish a Franco-hip-hop cult in Coco Rosie’s honor. Vow to figure out what exactly this means the next time there’s liquor in the system. Graciously award extra rock-cred points to all those who make it to the close of !!!’s super-late, super-sweaty set. Follow greasy set with greasy food, no matter the time.

9/17 – CMJ: Rock n' roll poster show. Cream pants while approaching Jermaine Rogers, Justin Hampton and EMEK at their exhibition in the CBGB’s gallery. Chat with Hampton about New York pizza and Jermaine about the “awesome” interview on his website. Resist temptation to smuggle EMEK's Distillers poster , Jermaine's Morrissey and Hampton's QOTSA from a wall covered in a dizzying array of kick-ass prints. Miraculously escape the gallery purchaseless. Reward willpower with Hold Steady show at CBGB’s main stage. Glimpse glowing beacon of Hampton CMJ poster(just like the one he’s selling next door for $30) stapled to the club’s overpapered walls. Revel in good fortune and poster-collecting sentimentality while pulling an authentic Hampton screenprint off the walls of the most famous punk rock club in the city. Drink about six beers waiting for the Hold Steady to bore your tired ass to death. Drunkenly leave prized poster on floor of the club and curse the Yuengling gods.

9/18 – Mets vs. Braves at Shea. Secure third free bobblehead of the season (Willie Randolph, SCORE!), but still don’t get to see Pedro pitch. Watch the Mets run over the Braves in just over two hours, but forget to put life on the line with jumbo stadium hot dog. Tempt fate with raw bar and three-course seafood dinner at pop’s expense instead.

9/19-9/21 – Work crappy job. Try to speed-read book for book club. Do laundry, scrub the tub, gym obsessively and watch a lot of Iron Chef. Attempt to take a quick breather before…

9/22 – Dinner at Blue Smoke. Begin drinking at 6:30 and continue drinking upscale BBQ joint’s fine house ale until the close of the meal at around 10:00. Sample 60 percent of the appetizers on the menu and 40 percent of the entrees. Calculate later that you have consumed almost an entire pig in one sitting. Follow said gorge with requisite brownie sundae. Roll home to retire with intense pain from block of meat in stomach. Contact the rabbi and consecrate yourself a newly Kosher Jew.

9/23 – Kick off New Yorker Fest w/ readings by Stephen King and Michael Chabon. Note correct pronunciation of Michael’s last name for uninhibited use in future conversation (shay-bawn). Wonder how King’s mousy voice is so effective at churning your guts in terror and suspense. Simultaneously gag and beam at the King/Chabon mutual love fest, prompted by inevitable “influences” question from the audience.

9/24 – Orgasmic Insanity: The Pinnacle Day.
Start with the New Yorker discussion forum on “Anarchy in Animation.” Instantly fall in love with the voice of Aqua Teen Hunger Force’s Meatwad. Watch a ten-year-old-boy flabbergast the panel with the most intelligent question of the afternoon. Silently take back criticism of parents who allowed ten-year-old son to attend a forum featuring the dirty mouths of Trey Parker and Matt Stone. Vow to never again miss a new episode of Southpark and to watch The Iron Giant along with anything above ten-year-old might suggest.

Join line of indie nerds in Times Square for “Stage to Studio” discussion mediated by the New Yorker’s pop encyclopedia Sasha Frere-Jones. Hide head in hands every time the nebbish journalist flashes Wu-Tang sign at the RZA (3-4 x’s). Nearly piss yourself as the RZA nearly pisses himself over Steve Albini’s producer-as-gynecologist metaphor. Ignore Ani Di Franco. Go home. Order the Wu Tang Manual on Amazon. Move Ghost Dog to number one on your Nextflix list. Buy the new RZA/MF Doom single on iTunes. Try to find a pair of the RZA’s boxers on eBay so you can fall asleep at night with even the ass-sweat of the genius Wu Master under your pillow.

Wave goodbye to opening act Brendan Benson and the Shins as you struggle to pull together last minute crew for overpriced White Stripes concert. Use lollipop sticks to hold up your eyelids on the train out to Coney Island. Smoke for the first time in two months while running on fumes. Trip out Woodstock-stylee. Climb inside your skull and reevaluate your entire life against the soundtrack of raw blues riffs and considerably improved drumming. Snap out of coma to acknowledge Meg’s ever-adorable, if atonal solos. Try to avoid pushy, explosive drunks fist-pumping to “Seven Nation Army.” Curse the day the White Stripes became a full-fledged stadium act. Click heels together and repeat, “There’s no crowd like an indie rock crowd.”

Ride train directly to Blue and Gold and take advantage of the sales like mama taught you (pitcher=cheaper than pint). Drink until Jack White appears to you in fringe and fedora, telling you to “run along home little doggie.”

9/25 – Beginning of the end. Welcome yourself to at least a week of recovery. Miss Overindulgence: “Has your liver ever tried to eject itself through your esophagus? It isn’t pretty.”

Part II:
Casualties of War: When overplanning kills your plans.

Wallace and Gromit (9/25): Curse of the Were Rabbit Premiere: Fell to the illness/Red Sox. Detox was crucial at this stage in the game and baseball on (the Sox were on ESPN?). W&G joins Corpse Bride, The Beat My Heart Skipped and Broken Flowers on the “if it will eventually go to DVD, its sadly not a priority” list.

Deerhoof at Northsix (9/28): Fell to the illness. Best way to beat the chills isn’t in a crowd full o’ hipsters.

Katherine’s Birthday Bash (9/30): Fell to the Red Sox. The Red Sox, a medium-rare blue cheese burger, and many, many pints of Sierra Nevada. Sometimes these things are beyond human control.

Across the Narrows (10/1): Fell to the illness/Red Sox. Resisted Brooklyn-fest because of lingering sickness. Exploited the liver for Varitek at neighborhood frat-fest instead. Should have been sitting on the Green Monster for the ridiculous price of the Coney Island ticket, or at least somewhere where the view of both TVs wasn’t blocked by un-tucked button down shirts and Yankee caps.

The College Man: Dealing with Real Life Issues

Adam calls up my parents yesterday:

Adam: “Dad, my watch is broken.”

Dad: “So you’ll get it fixed when you’re home over Thanksgiving, what’s the big deal?”

Adam: “Well it’s not a big deal, it’s been broken for a while – it’s basically just jewelry. But my phone just died too and now I can’t tell the time.”