After having done some "retooling" (I wish I could insert an appropriate Tim Allen joke here, but thinking of him gives me nervous gas), I've - again - changed the address of my new blog.

Follow me here:

Fast Hugs

Well, it's been a long time coming.

The photo above* manages to visually describe the following items of sentiment:

My appreciation of maintaining a job (albeit an amazing one).

My daily commute.

Slicing out time blocks to continue researching for and writing sketches and a script.

A lack of companionship.

My oft-daily trips to the gym, low-calorie diet, and the consequential loss of almost ten pounds.

An addiction to my brand new Powerbook G4.

The unlined notebook I continue to fill with endless ideas and long-term goals.

My newfound appreciation of fleece.

All that has lead to a minor collapse of youth, one in which has resulted in what I once feared:

Feeling like an Adult.

(*...And, subsequently, posing as a gay thirty year old, although it's not as easy as you think when you wear a stained hoodie the color of grape soda!)

I actually feel responsibility now, which doesn't mean that I look back on old entries (in the non-internet world, that means "memories") and feel a potent dosage of the heebie jeebies.

There has been an inevitable maturity in the way I perceive friends, family, neighbors, and strangers. I'm still only a kid - and a kid at heart, luckily, despite the grossness of the phrase - but I've been forced to shed any remaining layers of extroverted childishness for solid polos and fancy jeans. And I don't mind it. I especially don't mind it because I am still, on a day-to-day basis, allowed to wear my Vans and my hoodies and can talk about doing what I want in life.

But I just have to act a little older now, a little more grown-up with a tad more recognizable sense of independence.

It's not a problem, by any means, as much as it is a bit dissapointing.

While that all may or may not have made sense, the time has come for me to bid farewell to the three people who read this blog. It's been a pretty neat tool in keeping in touch with my pals ("The Toothbrush Kidz," as we originally titled it after melting toothbrushes onto our arms), but the time has where I feel it appropriate to pursue my goals through methods that feel slightly more "developed."

Thanks for reading and appreciating the last four years of my life, most of which was basically a day-to-day ode to manic depression, Bea Arthur, and Mexicans. Nonetheless, the last year or so of entries proved to be more of a hardened forway into actual writing, even if it meant donating all my time to revising a 500-word piece alleging Fergie of The Black Eyed Peas to have more penis on her face from surgery than extracurricular activity.

On that note, sweet dreams. I'll be around, likely checking out others' journals on a regular basis.

And I'll be back to lure all of you (one, two, three!) to what I hope to be a multi-platform website incorporating a blog, essays, pictures, videos, and tasteful nudes (of my dog).

Best,
Eliot

P.S. You won't get me that easy:

So you think you know me?

Read on, twinkletoes, read on.

*



Who's this lovely lady?

A. Les, a mean, socially-stunted former boss
B. Helen, a bus driver
C. Wes, a salesman for mustache creme
D. Shelley, Professional Children's Entertainer
E. None of the above



What makes this picture so scary?

A. This man's spleen is about to burst
B. This man is an English teacher
C. This man is wearing heels
D. This man is a professional mime
E. This man is only half a man



Of whom does this photo of my beloved dog, Emma, remind me?

A. Richard Simmons
B. Telma Hopkins
C. Nala from The Lion King
D. Jesus
E. Terry McMillan



What's so special about these kids?

A. They came from the ocean
B. They're all Chinese
C. Our president hates them all
D. Their faces look like the backs of their heads
E. I want to adopt each and every one



The photo below demonstrates my hatred for what natural occurrence?

A. PMS
B. Summer
C. Syphillis
D. Obese babies
E. Robots



Which is not a recurring item in Jackie's art?

A. Pubic hair
B. Deformation
C. The Alaskan landscape
D. Ill logic
E. The birthing canal



How did Mary break her leg?

A. While volunteering at the Special Olympics
B. While participating in the Special Olympics
C. While looting a meat distribution truck
D. While dancing in the rain
E. She didn't break her leg - she just walks "funny"



Who is my favorite Golden Girl?

A. Dorothy
B. Blanche
C. Rose
D. Sophia
E. Stan



Which of the following isn't true of Alice's cousin, Homer?

A. He's pursuing a career in law
B. In the picture above, he is seventeen years old
C. He is in an "internet relationship"
D. He's performed interpretive dance for strangers. In a hotel room.
E. He wears jeans



Of the following comedians, who is the most annoying/least talented?

A. Margaret Cho
B. Ant
C. Elayne Boosler
D. Caroline Rhea
E. The cast of Mad TV



Which New York "landmark" do I put the most energy into avoiding at all cost?

A. Mamma Mia
B. The Naked Cowboy
C. The New York Post
D. Chelsea
E. Dr. Zizmor

Will I create another quiz like this one if my job becomes any more demanding?

A. Yes
B. No
C. Carnivore
D. Velcro pajamas
E. Fart soup

"...It's as if the entire Gulf Coast were obliterated by a -- the worst kind of weapon you can imagine."

"My attitude is, if it's not going exactly right, we're going to make it go exactly right. If there's problems, we're going to address the problems."

"In order to make sure there's less violence, we've got to get food to people. And that's a primary mission, is to get food to people. And there's a lot of food moving."

"Now is the time to love a neighbor like you'd like to be loved yourselves."

"I'm not looking forward to this trip. I got a feel for it when I flew over before."

"We got a lot of rebuilding to do. First, we're going to save lives and stabilize the situation. And then we're going to help these communities rebuild. The good news is -- and it's hard for some to see it now -- that out of this chaos is going to come a fantastic Gulf Coast, like it was before. Out of the rubbles of Trent Lott's house -- he's lost his entire house -- there's going to be a fantastic house. And I'm looking forward to sitting on the porch."




Source: Wonkette

In an update of my original piece about Miss Penny Crone, this morning's shennanigans are well-deserving of an update:

Today, Penny visited a candy factory in New Jersey (like Willie Wonka with underpaid minorities!). First, she asked a young factory worker to bite off a piece from her candy necklace...

...



Then, she picked up an enormous bucket that was being filled to the brim with Smarties and, out of absolutely nowhere (you could tell that nobody saw this coming), she picked up the bucket from its bottom and began POURING CANDY INTO HER MOUTH like a truckload (and, thus, all over the floor).

THEN (!) she flashed the camera a wide smile, her mouth and tongue FILLED with white candy (now in powdered form).

And THEN (!!) she started pulling excess Smarties out of her bra, nearly flashing tit on morning television.

Amid mass chaos, they cut away while she was babbling to a shot of the anchors who truly frightened and horrified. Pure gold.

Even my dad said that it's like she has "dementia, but no one seems to realize it."

Or care, Dad. Or care.

Most people engage in some sort of activity that energizes them each morning in preperation for the day ahead. Some drink coffee, others take a long shower, some hit the gym or go for a run. Until recently, my morning routine involved nothing more than some sit-ups and a bowl of cereal. But beginning about a month ago, I found myself spending each morning glued to the television between around 7:30 and 7:45. It's precisely 7:38 AM that has become my "appointment television," the time during which I watch Good Day New York religiously, five days a week. GDNY, a locally-produced morning show that, somehow, manages to equal on a low-budgeted, local-news scale, the saccharine, lame quality of network competition Today and Good Morning America, wouldn't hold my interest for a moment if not for one reason, and one reason alone:





Mention Crone's name to any New Yorker, and they'll likely respond with a lip bite and a smirk that says Best. Inside Joke. Ever. A woman who, many would agree, seems to have been a fixture on New York's local news since its inception, Penny Crone is probably best known for her "commanding" presence. And by "commanding," I mean "loud, shrill, and butch." In the past few years, I'd initally caught some of her reports on both WLNY/Fox 5 and WCBS/2 and only marveled at how much she seemed to lack as a TV News reporter. Instead of reporting a story, Crone (whose audibly harsh surname is especially appropriate when followed by the dainty "Penny," a childish name reminiscent of a Cold War-era comic strip...or a pet guinea pig) somehow combined the chutzpah of an investigative reporter with the balls-to-the-wall, I'm-gonna-get-you-sucka machismo of Bea Arthur in Maude (that very much includes the voice, too).

And therein lies the beauty of Penny Crone. In other words, watching Crone report a story was, in itself, a laugh riot as she managed to take the super-serious -- murders, criminals, and other dark tales of a nightswept gotham -- and unintentionally suck out the substance by diverting all attention to her quasi-threatening presence, her booming metallic bark, and a urine-colored buzzcut more dykey than a fanny pack sale in Northhampton.

But that was then.

Somewhere along the way, perhaps as an incentive for dropping Crone from the network for about five minutes, Fox 5 made her the morning feature reporter on Good Day New York (although I'm still not quite sure who profits here). What this means is that every morning at exactly 7:38, give or take a minute, all of New York has the chance to bear witness to some of the most actively uncalculated, mentally harrowing, mad awkward moments on television. I <3 NY.

Since the first time I saw Penny Crone in a multi-colored nylon body suit and face paint, sadly attempting to flirt with a very, very gay member of Cirque du Soleil, I was hooked. This was bad TV at its best, and likely too good to last.

I've since watched almost every day.

I've faithfully watched every morning as Penny rushes -- literally running -- in and out of frame, trying to fill three minutes with far too much content while, for instance, visiting an Italian meat shop in Newark (and flirting with the elderly butcher and his grandson, leaving both visibly confused), drumming with Senegalese tribes in a multicultural off-Broadway show (and flirting with a young African man who spoke little English, but was left visibly confused), and cheering with a Bergen County group of adolescent cheerleaders while donning fake pigtails and a white miniskirt (!), before getting in the act herself, only to be dropped to the floor by five girls (and, consequently, flashing us nothing we'd like to see, thus leaving us confused and, perhaps, a tad nauseous).

Watching Penny Crone "in the field" is much more than watching a car crash in slow motion. What happens when Crone makes passes at a blank, rigid governmental dog-trainer before she reveals him to be a former CIA agent, is more like God shining His light on all His children to prove that misfortune comes in many, many forms. Four seconds is a common time lapse in the world of Penny Crone -- four glorious units of silent situations during which nobody -- neither Penny, her interview subject(s), or the desk anchors with whom she communicates over a split screen (but whom she can never seem to actually hear) -- seems certain as to who actually controls the situation. What makes dead air so enjoyable when it falls under the helm of Capt'n Penny is that she immediately chooses to fill it with, if not awkward flirting, one of two solutions: a loud, gruff "YEAH, BABY!" (entirely separate from the context of Austin Powers...or anything else for that matter) or a misdirected reference to the Yankees. For example, the same day I wrote this, Penny spent the morning at a used auto parts shop in the Bronx where she was encouraged to damage cars for fun before they met their own respective "natural" deaths. Suddenly, before barely cracking a windshield, Crone squatted, held out her bat, and yelled into the camera, "Yo, guys! Do I look like A'Rod?" Naturally, what followed were those precious beats of dead air, which was only heightened for me by the fact that she was wearing what may have been a smock. Why? Who knows, but that's The Magic of Penny.

It isn't a secret that local news is, to a degree, somewhat of a sham. Anchorman brilliantly pointed out that after the 1970's, content rarely matters as much as do personality and programming. The people who deliver the stories, be they about our president's politics or how he spends his six-week vacation (because, boy, does he need it! "MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!"), have become enormously important to the whole show, as has the pattern and flow of how we are fed that which the producers decide are valid, air-worthy stories (three words: babies, dogs, and babies). Fox 5 is regionally notorious for employing scare tactics and MTV-style editing while delivering an unequal amount of stories that "matter" and those that, simply, don't. On Good Day New York, hard news has never been the main focus, and although there have been feature reporters on the show as far back as I can remember, someone at GDNY decided, at some point, that it was time to award Penny Crone the opportunity to capture the places and characters that make our area so colorful. Although it gives people like myself the chance to marvel at the genius of such harmless, inadvertent disaster (I literally gawk until I realize I should close my mouth), the same person who made this choice also forgot that Penny Crone, herself, is a character. She's a bumbling, shouting buffoon whose lack of self-realization (just watch her hands shake and try to convince yourself that it isn't an offshoot of vertigo) makes for an irreverent several minutes of television that make me never want to leave New York.

In an age of states assigned colors, I'm afraid that the rest of the country just wouldn't get the accidental splendor that comes each and every time Penny Crone participates in a "human wheelbarrow" race on live TV. In a way, it almost makes sense that The New York State Shields (I'm sorry, who??) awarded her with this year's honor for "Integrity In Journalism." Clearly, they must have caught the segment where Penny interviewed volunteers for a dog shelter and wrapped up everything by asking a burly, unattractive man if he was, in fact, up for adoption. Because that's the kind of technique they don't teach you in journalism school.

Is Penny Crone the best reporter in New York? By no means.

Is seeing Penny Crone in a sarongue and baseball cap my idea of some guilt-free, delicious television? The answer, in her very own words:

"YEAH, BABY!"

Having returned home for an extended amount of time has forced me to recognize that I am, in fact, once again living in suburban St. James, New York, the town to which we moved eastward after a short time in my mom's native Queens.

I'm completely here, laughing at the crazy neighbors, including both the not-actually-Southern transplants next door with American flag paraphenalia from driveway to backyard, people who, without guile, play "God Bless The U.S.A." at full blast on the outside speakers come Saturday mornings. I 'm entirely devoted to avoiding eye contact with Old Ed down the street, the old man who for years has looked furious, jerecurl-length lnosehairs and tube socks in tact, a gnome of a man who once asked me if I was, in fact, the "nice Jewish boy" several houses away. He's right, though - how should he recognize me if he can't see my horns?

My friend, Avi, took the train in from Manhattan for the weekend. Always able to maintain a calm disposition (which, surprisingly, only seemed to form after he gave up pot), Avi was more than willing to engage in a low-key weekend that involved barbeque, Italian ices, Sunday at the ocean, and the first full season of Arrested Development. However, the highlight of the weekend may have been the glorious hour we spent stupified, watching a low-budget clip collection of my sister's Senior Prom, a deliciously decadent journey into the world of what it means to live on the cusp of intellectual independence while surrounded by "Toughies" (future apprentices to mechanics) and IAPs or "Italian American Princesses" (future hairstylists exclusively employed between Long Island, Queens, Brooklyn, and New Jersey).

The night before, I'd admitted to Avi that my original plan was to bring him to the places which I dare not go, but only for the sake of gracing him with the presence of people who helped shape my youth. A Jewish enclave of suburban Philadelphia, where Avi attended high school, likely had nothing on the characters he would have met: grottos, packed like concentration camps, with a sea of girls whose tall, wet teased hair is as dark as their black asspants and platform heels; muscleboys sporting the homegrown phenomenon that is the "Gotti Cut", rowdily picking out which "fuckin' awesome" girl (she being Most Caked in Foundation) deserves to fondle the chain that lies upon their waxy orange chest ["you know what I'm sayin, guy/chief/boss/bro?"].

For Avi and myself, I'd planned a scheme during which we would spend thirty minutes at all the bars (all named after a midget once mistaken for a leprechaun by a beer-bellied frat boy within the walls of that particular establishment) whose names I'd heard tossed around on bad radio commercials and by Ginger, the lady who cuts my hair. Hurricane O'Malley's, Napper Tandy's, Flogging Molly's, Shamrocks, and Caroll O'Connor's (one of these things is not like the other!) all sounded incredibly tempting for a one-night outing by two snarky urbanites equipped with a digital camera and the will power to say no to Coors Light on tap.

Luckily, however, I realized that the joke would have lost its flavor after five minutes in a place like Napper Tandy's. Yes, we'd secretly be laughing, appalled and confused, by people like those with whom I went to high school and, unfortunately, spent the greater part of my adolescence trying to impress. Five minutes would be more than enough before we'd easily become one of two things: bored or nauseous.

Recently, I was tipped off to websites where I would find two former classmates who helped arrange my outlook during and now on my teenage years. Despite its awful cliche, it is very easy to blurt out, "Some things never change" when coming across pictures such as these.

BEWARE: HORRIFIC, GRAPHIC IMAGES MAY CAUSE REPULSION OR THE INABILITY TO EVER AGAIN TAKE THE QUEENS/MIDTOWN TUNNEL EAST.


Apparently, attending college for four years outside of Long Island did not guarantee "Matty Z" (right) the opportunity to be told that blond highlights on blond hair on pale skin will not make you look attractive, especially when pasty. Neither of the parties shown seem to understand that signaling the camera with strangely grotesque, yet unconsciously sexual gestures will prompt others who aren't them to take pity.


Forever a class act, "Matty Z" proudly posted pictures from a night during which he and his goomba pals hired a stripper - and, boy, is he pretty! - to make his penis move while seated on the same couch where his grandmother sits, week after week, babysitting his younger sister.


Nice choice, boys. You really lucked out with this one.
Heidi Fleiss + Rhea Perlman x Hugh Grant = The Lady Grinding On Your Genitals.
Congratulations, fellas, but take my advice: Go Asian.


Ah, "Ma Dukes" sits poolside, contemplating whether to spend the evening out at (I kid you not) Molly Blooms (intentionally lacking apostrophe) with Matt and his friends, or if she should just lay low for the night, instead not neglecting her younger daughter until 2:00am, at which point a stoned and drunken "Ma" will ride a bicycle to Taco Bell at 2:00am, but not before crashing into a telephone pole and breaking her ankle. Or so the story goes.


MB (upside down), whose older sister went to NYU years before he would pursue a career in personal fitness/gay porn (?), was the kid who, in sixth grade, first informed me of Loveline, the Dr. Drew/Adam Corolla vehicle while still in its infancy as a late-night radio show. MB caught my ear when he started relaying the stories he'd heard on-air, and how much experience he actually had, even at 12, with female masturbation, kink, and kama sutra, all of which were only mere concepts to me. He was that good.


I guess there's that irresistable charm that's never gone away. MB was The Most Popular Kid In Eighth Grade, I distinctly remember, as for years he dated Meaghan Hickey, a bombshell of a ho who, ever since I'd known her, possessed eyebrows made of CaRtOOnS! She penciled in her eyebrows, which never really made sense to me, but apparently it was a big hit among the bambinos. Of course, maybe it had something to do with the fact that her dad was arrested and jailed for murder, which, considering he owned the area's major waste disposal company allegedly connected to mob crimes, slightly made sense. (OMG, HE'S LIKE TONY SOPRANO!)

When all is said and done, only time will tell how long these anecdotes of unique suburban material will last. I could barely stand looking at another souped-up royal blue Mustang during senior year of high school (especially when it belonged to Stephanie Mangino, an anorexic IAP who planned on modeling "as soon as [her] braces came off.") The pizzerias around town are often better than in the city, but is it worth it to have to listen to the entire album of Billy Joel's The Nylon Curtain every time I feel like a slice? How many times can I drive by Auto Rite-Aid, a mafia dig in which I've never seen anyone enter or leave (although the tall red gate in the back, plastered with the sign "Beware of Dogs," is often placed in front of rabid Doberman Pinschers waiting to help you...get an oil change?) before it stops becoming a point of reference for out-of-towners?

Possible places to call home in the future might include Astoria, Ditmas Park, Park Slope, or the Upper East Side. If the Don can sniff me out there, it will be at that point during which Northern California will forced to make way for one jaded New Yorker.

Between the middle of high school and my senior year of college was a period of time my during which friends and family will gladly agree was my "Homeless Stage." Without having to lay out the definition for the term, highlights include:

Homeless 2000, a backyard festival at Alice's house during which we were required to not wear shoes. Party activities included lighting things on fire, a neighborhood-wide scavenger hunt for garbage (we found a dilapidated volleyball net and a can of propane!), and races.

There was that short - very short, albeit for the sake of irony - amount of during during which friends bought me the generic gray Velcro sneakers from WalMart. I sported those shoes with pride before facing the realization that these sneakers were almost exclusively for the developmentally challenged, thus blackening the humor in the joke and leaving me laden with guilt. Give me your Mexican midgets and obese children, but spare me the retarded, as they live on a land of vulnerability onto which I dare not tread.

Before graduating high school, Alice and Jeff "surprised" me on my birthday with an ugly suitcase that was laid out to rest by a family several blocks westward, as well as a piece of wood. Not quite sure where to find the charm in these gifts, I immediately allowed my compulsive mom to send these items off to the same death as originally planned. There lies a fine line between being cheap and being ironic.

Sophomore year at NYU threw my fashion sense far, far off the scale of what fell between looking homeless and mental. Unfortuntely, I spent most of 2002 drowning in the latter, the year of my first (and last) foray into the world of D.I.Y. clothes-making:



Something I'm not so crazy about? Dressing like a clown. Like an actual clown.

As of today, I'm anything but a Brooks Brothers, Seville Row type of fella. On the other hand, I've "cleaned up my act" a little bit.

Nearly gone are the days when I proudly pegged myself an "obese hobo manbaby dinosaur." But do I still wear sweatpants that I found lying in a gym locker for a week before I swiped 'em, washed 'em, and realized they were The Most Comfortable Garment In The World? Hell yes I do. Does gripping the neck of a bottle cheap pink champage sound that much better than sipping a stingy, sour ale to have a good time? You know it. Is the tee shirt in which I sleep night after night a tattered, barely-there bellyshirt customized by yours truly after receiving it as a freebie several years ago? Damn right, it is - and I ain't about to throw it away! (Although I'd never let my friends see me in it, either.)

There are reasons why I'll never let myself say goodbye to the silly little hobo that lives inside my soul. Things that are handed-down or torn to perfection and nestled into a safe nest of comfort, no matter how naturally repellent they may be to others, are truly priceless, no? They say that when life hands you lemons, you make lemonade.

Let me rephrase it for you:

When you find a 70's-era canvas on the street, propped up against a couch about to be destroyed (or adopted by immigrants, no doubt), you don't just drive by.



You pick it up, hang it on a wall, and let that creepy elderly gaze of pity wash over you like the awful banana-colored background does the WASPy subject's canary yellow hunting blouse.

As I raced for the train this morning in an actual suit and tie, with my usual tote bag and an extraneous plastic one advertising the DSW Warehouse filled with a change of clothes and an oversized posterboard straight out of a junior high arts and crafts class, I made it just in time to sit down in the one car that was without air conditioning. So I started to cry. A little bit.

I was on my way to interview for the NBC Page Program, a highly-respected but low-paid job in guest relations at NBC (read: giving tours to fat Southern families who all wear the same colored tee shirt so as not to get stolen away by the "Black Muggers") that often leads to jobs within the network. But as someone who spent eight months interning at Conan and a full season at SNL, it feels quite unfair to have to even interview - this being my second one, made ofa panel of both employers and possible employees. We were seated in an Apprentice-like setting, where we were asked to go down the line one at a time, answering the generic "hard-nosed" questions about risks, misinterpretations, leadership roles, and all the other terms you'll find in the inspirational artwork sold at your neighborhood Office Max. For fair terms, the first person asked the question was changed every time we began a new round.

Midway, we moved onto a mock debate in which we were to pretend there was no one in the room but us seven graduates, all vying for the same salary position at NBC. The question, thrown at us like a steak to seven rottweilers, was about NBC's role in the shaping of a successful future in programming (current trends, chances of survival, etc.). I, of course, attempted to begin the debate by speaking like a fancy "media watchdog," ranting somewhat articulately about the saturation of infotainment and the heavily blurred line between reality programming, documentary, and the consequential non-division between reality and fiction.

"Eliot, we're gonna have to cut you off--"

What a douchebag I am. What a fucking douchebag.

I felt like such an asshole for inadvertently being that kid who doesn't shut the fuck up and therefore, taking time away from the other kids who were foaming at the mouth, ready to give a bullshit answer, too. But it didn't take long before someone started ranting about how they "enjoy the fashion shows and concerts" on The Today Show (she was from West Palm Beach and graduated from University of South Florida, thus the move to New York being "the biggest risk [she'd] ever taken") and somebody else considering the enormous success behind a program as "outside of the box" as Queer Eye for the Straight Guy that I didn't feel so bad anymore.

One girl, the quiet one at the end who didn't say a word for the whole interview, finally got her chance to spend her two minutes (no more, no less) describing why she'd do the best possible job in the program, but nobody was really listening, including myself.

Then all of a sudden, I heard the word "prostitute," and my ears perked up.

This nameless girl, with the face, body, and wardrobe of a Gap model (that means she was pretty by catalogue standards with an overall boring personality), began to demonstrate the promise she'd employ in such a program by relaying a mock tour of where she used to work while attending Georgetown University in Washington.

"Welcome to HIP," she said, "otherwise known as Helping Independent Prostitutes, because 'streetpeople' are still people."

Less than a dozen of us sat, jaws agape, staring in amazement at this idiot/genius disguised by a searsucker blazer.

"If you'll notice on your right, there is a bowl of free lubricant samples, as well as the complimentary flavored condoms on your right..."

And she only continued!

Finally, as she wrapped up her speech, she proudly displayed a smile that said I knew I could do it! And in the style of Miss Mary Roach, she capped the laughably awkward situation by handing out an article she'd written at Georgetown about HIP, only before then beginning to distribute to the four adult panelists - nope, there's no twist here - complimentary flavored condoms.

Mary Gallagher, a woman with a grimace like a gargoyle (oh, and also the HEAD OF HIRING FOR THIS SPECIFIC PROGRAM) yelled among our outbursts (we being me, yipping like a girl scout), "I'M GOING TO ASK YOU TO NOT PASS THOSE OUT!"

Whether or not I get the job is now irrelevant, of course. All I need to get me by in life is my new tall tale to share about the Georgetown graduate with a penchant for handing flavored condoms to potential employers.

Fall into the Gap, indeed, dumbass.

What happened to pretty girls?

While East Coast "prettiness" has congealed in the form of an homeless, anorexic midget, tabloids and television would have you thinking otherwise.

It seems that the nationwide desire to be an attractive girl has all but collapsed, as one look has swept through age, ethnicity, and appearance, having gone across the board as the girly-girl's absolute ideal. And it all started with Beyonce two summers ago.

During the point at which "Suicide Girls" were becoming an alternative inspiration for the insipid ripoffs by Avril and friends (no matter what she may say, never let a hairdresser from Long Island tell you that she wears checkered Vans because she likes "the look"), Beyonce ruled the charts land with "Crazy in Love" off Dangerously in Love. And justifiably so, as the song was one of the best pop songs to come along since The New Radicals or Third Eye Blind [sic]. But just as important, in this age of Video Before Song, was the fact that singing "Crazy in Love" was one of the most beautiful women to magically lighten her skin since Ms. Michael Jackson.



Beyonce Knowles, popping out from all sides, marched in one hell of a line straight into our hearts and nads, not even stopping when her ambigious boyfriend rapper sets aflame a Monte Carlo left behind from The Dukes of Hazzard set. Beyonce's skin, sweetly sunkissed into a light cocoa brown, detracted nothing from her amazonian body - the ass, thighs, breasts, lips, eyes, and hair, all of which made her a post-millenial Marilyn Monroe that throttled the shoulders of Kate Moss until she fainted of "exhaustion." Skin tone and racial implications aside, no one could resist The Beyonce, the shimmering beauty who single-handedly made everyone forget, if for a mere moment, about the term "heroin chic," or at least the Eyewitness News' "investigations" into the subject.

But, naturally, everything went terribly wrong.

Beyonce continues to this day to be an international star of ravishing beauty. I can tell you that, in person, one must question whether the asses of babies were taken and sewn into her lovely cheekbones to serve as precursors to the glowing, knowing smile.

However, other girls -- both celebrities and non-celebrities -- tried to emulate Beyonce's "look." Unfortunately for everyone else, everyone's favorite stars [again, sic] somehow assumed that going blonde and bronzing one's skin enough to camouflage into a citrus grove, would be cute. Sexy. Hot.

And although it was and is a truly disgusting look, celebrities have taken a cue from Beyonce, albeit the wrong one, and have now morphed into a raceless ambiguity where looking "hot" means looking like you're not necessarily opposed to giving head to nightclub owners in Tampa for a smidge of yayo.

Who's guilty?

Christina Milian, whose song "Dip It Low" had enough of a killer hook to make it a viable, fun pop song without her needing to shed her image of the cute, vaguely-sexy urban girl with class for the ho-bag with the incontainable vagina.

Kelly Ripa, trying to combine the best of all possible worlds -- anorexia, ghost white teeth, peel-away orange skin, motherhood, and loud noises escaping her throat - never fully understood the charisma held by Beyonce, and in trying to emulate her, only failed miserably, accidentally looking "too black" when trying to contrast her skin tone against a lemon yellow background. My advice: take it easy and set aside your "hope." And your "faith." ...Somebody fucking cancel that show. [Footnote for Alice: She's on a show called Hope & Faith, thus the wordplay. Hey, not everyone's as media-savvy as I, nor as bored.]

Sarah Jessica Parker, who somehow was titled "cute" by those who felt sympathetic to her "former work" (look closer and tell me that's not the traces of a mustache) needs to wake up to the fact that Sex and the City was her saving grace, but spending a week in a tanning bed living chamber before being named Co-Asshole in Cargo Pants alognside Lenny Kravitz dressed as Marlo Thomas was the wrong move. Where'd she go? Seriously, whether or not Joss Stone did, can, or will sell "white jeans" to anybody who can draw the line between dressing ironically and not, the fact still remains that we are forever more likely to see Kim Catrall's genitals before ever seeing Sarah Jessica Parker try to hawk up anything "khaki."

As much as Ciara tries to emulate Beyonce, she is rumored to formerly own a wee "wee wee!" ...What's that noise? Oh, it's the HERMAPHRODITE ALARM! WEE-OOO, WEE-OOO! BORN WIIIITH! A PEEENIIIIS! IN A VAGIIIINA! (I'll leave her alone on this one because, on all accounts, being born with a ding-dong in your king-kong is cool enough to send you above and beyond the top of anyone's shit list!)



1991
Mariah: Wahhh! I'm biracial!
Mariah's "people": You're whiter than Jessica Hahn! Now get out onstage and INSPIRE!

1998
Mariah: Yay! I'm divorced! I've been "set free!" I'm like a...a...butterfly! Oh my God, I've gotta write that shit down!
Puff Daddy: Yo, Mariah - show 'em some cootch!

2001
Mariah: It's my first movie, and I get to play a biracial singer who is forced in to singing exclusively white music and becomes vaguely flirtatious with Da Brat. You. Will. Love IT. Oh, and I'm a ho, in it, too.

2005
Mariah: I'm 'emancipated!' So is my voice! And if you look closer, you'll see that my album cover isn't actually a picture of me! It's a digital compilation of Beyonce Knowles, Barbie, and Linda Evangelista! In real life, I'm actually a robot made of sixteen tits and the robot from Short Circuit 2!

In closing, the number one culprit in the case of Beyonce Knowles being a healthy standard of beauty for dumbass chicks who can never pull it off is...

STACY, THE DINOSAUR FROM THE BLACK EYED PEAS!

Evidence: As a former member of Wild Orchid, a failed girl group from the mid-nineties in the vein of ...Wild Orchid, Stacy was white. White, white, white. But when Wild Orchid disbanded (and who could forget that fateful day?), and Stacy couldn't get enough hours from the Fuddruckers in northern Orlando, she decided to, once again, pursue her dream of tarnishing a music group and helping to advance the attractiveness of girls who may be trannies. Sadly, The Black Eyed Peas' ode to "all things bad," "Where is the Love?" was played in heavy rotation on the radio during the same time frame as "Crazy in Love." Stacy Ferguson, or "Fergie" as she is referred to by her bitches (and her manager, hoping to disguise her Protestant background), immediately began to incorporate Beyonce-isms into her appearance, although by age 28 - and with an assload of cosmetic surgery (literally, an assload) - it didn't do her too much good.



Stacy Ferguson jumped on the Ugly Train*, and to the advantage of the beautiful Beyonce Knowles and the often-scary Christina Milian, Kelly Ripa, Sarah Jessica Parker, Ciara, and Mariah Carey, everything came full circle.

Sometimes, even dreams can't conjure up images so bizarre, so disgustingly awkward, they make you drip a few drops in your pants.

But the reality is that now - now - is the time at which I've consciously decided to step into adulthood. I have a pseudo-job, I'm paying for health insurance and a credit card and a cell phone bill and weekly train tickets and Metrocards. I'm being asked what I "do." What do I do? I'm spending my nights at the gym and watching The Sopranos. I'm losing faith - so much and so rapidly - in my friends, learning that the only people in the world on whom I can count are my immediate family; three people. These are the only people whose weaknesses haven't turned them into mushy cliches lacking general respect and appreciation of genuine friendship. I've grown somewhat weary of immaturity of consequence. I'm contagious to rush hour, always pay no attention to the facial expressions worn by the droves and droves of commuters who make Life ("The Daily Grind" - grossest term ever) seem so boring, so precalculated and formulaic. I'm devising lists that contain responsibilities that are necessities rather than "voluntary" (read: educational) demands. I'm writing for myself, constantly coming up with ideas and plans and subplots on which direction I've chosen to steer my life...notebooks full of sketch and script ideas, TV shows to pitch, live acts to create, characters to devise, but all is somewhat swept aside for what is a frighteningly unforseeable future.

But there's that limbo. There's so much limbo; everything feels like a long, long awkward phase of which I'm entirely cognizant. Everyone I know seems cognizant of it, too, but perhaps not as bothered as myself. Insurance and assurance are two different things, but I'm not sure if anyone I know has had an easy time finding either.

*

In other news, it turns out this man lives in the same town:

Despite having two, maybe three local friends, the unspeakably ubiquitous SUVs, and the lack of an actual car (made up for by a 90-minute commute, both ways, making for a consequential 12-hour work day), I am quite happy having moved back into my parents' house. There are ways to skate around the realities of actually living on Long Island -- the malls, the traffic, and the void of any reason to even imagine "meeting somebody" -- while in pursuit of "the good things."

However, on my birthday last weekend (who doesn't know what "two ducks in a row" means at this point?), geography and weather played the main factors in what made Saturday and Sunday delightful for all. A lovely afternoon homewarming brunch on Carmine Street reminded us what summer in New York actually feels like, and when charm is overstepped by pit stains appearing in places beside the pits. Trapzing through Soho, Nolita, and Chinatown and into Pearl River (a two-floor bonanza of beautiful Eastern garbage), completely soaked by the first of the afternoon washouts, was bearable with both friends and the sweetass find of a personal fan! Dinner at Zen Palate proved to be delicious, although I'm still reluctant to the use of the word "gluten" in describing a delicacy. Bailing on the rooftop bar to which I've tried to attend three times unsuccessfully in the past year, a reasonably huge number of friends came and went and came and went from Sahara East, our beloved hookah bar off East 11th Street.

At one point, however, a friend of a friend joined us. It wasn't actually necessary to learn the inidividual's name, as we pegged him to be a "Bobo" or a "Jono" based solely on the fact that he appeared in the subdimension where twentysomething looks very much like sixty. The pins on the backpack (which never came off his shoulders), the receding hairline, and the voice should all have been clear signals that I was about to receive the best birthday gift ever.

And I did.

If you can imagine what people looked like on the first season of The Real World, combined with what teenagers looked like on PSA's from the 1987, you still wouldn't be able to clearly visualize what the two other friends of friends of friends looked like upon entering the bar. As they walked in, I gawked in amazement, but then nearly soiled myself as they sat at the opposite end of our table. "Desiree" and "Leon," as I named them (although Jackie's pegging the girl "Janice" was more than fitting, as well) were decked out, head to toe, in what were equally the best items they could find in the clearance department at TJ Maxx. In South Carolina. Sixteen years ago. Desiree even wore "nail polish on her lips," according to Jackie.

It's too difficult to actually portray the genius that were this fearless foursome (including their friend, Alex, inargubly schizophrenic to some degree), but I'll leave it at this: not mere moments after Desiree entered the scene, she stood up to an entire mash of strangers (that being our entire table) and asked, "So who here knows Kevin Bacon?"

And we laughed and laughed and laughed.

Because she was referring to the pop culture phenomenon, "Six Degrees [of Seperation from] Kevin Bacon."

Because Desiree, as it turns out, is clever.

And isn't that the greatest gift of all?

Tomorrow begins my life as an adult, as it will be my first day working under MTV at Spike TV in Times Square.

I've spent the last several weeks - between graduation and the start of my job - admiring the lazy days of early summer/late spring, an activity reserved for the very young, the very old, and the unemployed. And me, thanks to a lovely interim.

Last weekend proved to be such a whirlwind (yeah, I said it!) that only now do I have the opportunity to post pictures from the SNL afterparty thrown on the rink of Rockefeller Center celebrating the season finale of the show's thirtieth season.

Camillia managed to get a confused shot with this dude, who apparently stars on The O.C.. Whatever, my question is: how does one person manage to be so physically attractive? One might think it scientifically possible until they were to meet this guy.

While I somehow attempted to remain fancy and mature, nothing was about to prepare me for the next person I was to meet. There were plenty of interesting characters present -- Philip Seymour Hoffman, Donald Trump, John C. Reilly, to name a few - but all I really cared about was this old man, who either crashed the party or once played Uncle Angelo on The Golden Girls. Or both...

Although "Angelo" could care less about dopey ol' me, I had some pretty girls by my side whom he, without a moment of hesitation, attempted to seduce into a mass slow dance. And it worked! (NOTICE THE EXALTATION IN HIS FACE! EFFING PRICELESS!)

Luckily, when he wasn't watching, I slipped in myself...from the back!

Things I'll Miss Most About SNL

Seeing Paul Scheer everywhere!

Hella gay trysts!

Talkin' Cock with Finesse Mitchell (By "talking," I mean "talking about his")

Saturday Night Stress!

Danny Pleacoff: Future Producer, Current Smoothtalker, and Full Time Representative of Forest Hills, Queens (plus, he's a "little bit psychic")...Lohan dug his shit...

Aaaaaaaaaaaaand things like this, when even a song as played out as "Baby Got Back" can make Mr. Michaels dance.

Items not included and thanked in photos: Leo Allen, access to scripts, Seth Meyers' stomach, other interns, candy, Maya, cocaine binges, Stories About Cosby by Kenan Thompson, The Food Emporium afterhours, car service, Dan Aykroyd, Yonks, 8H, The Ice Queen, ice cream, Constatine vs. Rudolph, and "rubbing" Justin Timberlake. And, finally, my love to Carmine, Virgil, Ruth, Chris, and the Calfiornia Pizza Kitchen. Without you, I wouldn't have eaten deliciously cold leftovers for free.

Oh, and P.S. For the record, Lorne Michaels held the door for me! What's that smell? Oh yeah, POWER!

I'm officially no longer a college student. I will not be held down by the chains of academia, nor will I be gently caressed by the hands of the sheltered urban existence that is New York University.

Luckily, NYU knew the best way to keep their students from realizing the unemployed black hole of depression in which many will soon find themselves: by making them think they are magicians (or at least for the time being):

Washington Square Park was entirely taken over by NYU on Thursday, May 12, 2005, for a ceremony that would turn out surprisingly organized and elegant. Between the gardens, the fountain spurting on cue, and the efficiently short speeches, a two-hour ceremony in which over 10,000 students received their respective degrees ("Shirley M. Ehrenkranz School of Continuing Professional Studies, let me hear YOUUUUUU!") seemed to fit the bill perfectly. Even Mikey enjoyed it, without once having to light up a cigarette! (Okay, maybe once...)</i>

Preceding the all-university commencement were the scattered college-specific graduations. Gallatin's, held the previous Monday at the Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center, was a much less engaging ceremony, albeit a fan favorite seemed to be Professor Stephen Duncombe's featured speech in which he balanced the meaning of reality and the need for our generation to "make" that reality with an ambigious verbal execution of the Bush administration. It was lovely, and even a few Republican fatties walked out. (If you want to "support our troops" so fucking badly, here's my suggestion: shoot the president and see what happens! The magnetic ribbon shit ain't working!)

Despite my having the head of a fucking bobblehead doll, we are undoubtedly some pretty cute Jews. My mom's a happy lady, too, although by the looks of it, there was a long line at the bathroom and she was more than ready to hold it until we got into Queens.

Caitlin, Mikey, Dan, and their families joined mine following the ceremony for a lunch at the chi-chi Blue Water Grill in Union Square, technically a "social event" by the restaurant's standards, organized entirely by yours truly. It was about time we all pretended we were as rich and ostentatious as those with whom we've spent four years. Of course, it was hard to behave that way when the waiter spilled clam chowder on Mikey's mom's jacket. Vicki O'Connell, Michigan's sassiest and most adorable citizen by far, could actually care less as the same thing had happened earlier that week at another restaurant. BWG took the liberty of washing it while we ate and serving us champagne on the house, as well as five complimentary desserts, despite the fact that Vicki would nonchalantly whisper to my parents and I that the coat was "nothing but an old Liz Claiborne. I was going to throw it out anyway."

This was the second chance in one week for Mikey and I to really "put on the Fancy," as we were invited to a private party at The Tribeca Grill a week earlier for a graduation party. Ryan Doyle, by far the most charmingly Southern Californian kid to ever come from New Jersey WASPs, was thrown a party by his parents in the private "Upstairs Lounge" in which we -- mostly the small circle of friends formed in Hayden Hall our Freshman year -- were allowed to isolate ourselves into a corner table filled with free champagne, gourmet hors d'oeuvres, and the opportunity to shmooze with adults.

We chose the champagne. And the hors d'oeuvres. And some more champagne (it was an open bar!)...

One of these things is not like the other... (You can probably tell my the paisley pattern.)

Alex, the Stern School of Business grad with whom I lived freshman year. Despite a weakness for the smell of cold, hard cash, Alex is one of the warmest, most affable people I've ever met, and anyone who knows him will say the same thing. Plus, he's somehow mixed his Italian lower-middle class upbringing with the 'Prep School Ghetto' mentality so well that he gets away with it every time he utters a Biggie Smalls verse. Fondest memory: When he nearly died on shrooms on a deserted island -- and I fucking MISSED it!

Steve, the New England smartypants with a killer smile, a motorcycle, and more hatred for city dwelling than anyone I've ever met. Having received a degree in teaching history, Steve's next stop is as a counselor in a Northeast-Canadian hiking program. Fondest memory/Greatest Memory of All Time: Returning to our room late one Saturday afternoon to confront him with the news that, a night earlier at our friend Lauren'shouse party in Montclair, he had sleepwalked into her parents' room at 7:00am in the morning and deliriously urinated on their new leather recliner while they screamed, "What are you doing?" (For the record, he'd had no clue of the incident. And they threw the recliner out.)

Mikey, the only best friend of mine who can hit me and get away with it because it hurts so little. A spoiled brat and walking dictionary, Michael is quite likely going to be the first famous zoologist/freelance writer hybrid to attract a gay following. Although the smile in this photo is genuine, his usual attempt at "beaming" involves a lift of the upper right part of his lip and a facial expression that says, Someone farted, it wasn't me, and I hope to God that the guilty party dies a horrible death because it's MAKING. ME. SICK. I call him "Smiley," he calls me "Jewbag," and I remember nothing of our friendship before two years ago, except that he accompanied in choosing The Golden Girls over homework in our first semester at college and that I hated him the first time I met him. But now I love him. And I don't hate him as much, either. Fondest memory: The hardcore buttsex. Hard-CORE.

Ben graduated a semester early and immediately secured a job at The Mercantile Exchange where, to the best of my knowledge, he throws hundred dollar bills at dudes and ladies in ties and says, "Buy! Sell! Buy! Sell!" Possibly one of the most intelligent people I know, Ben adopted a box turtle, basically waiting for it to die, but his caretaking saw the little thing live way beyond the life expectancy of anything to come from Canal Street. Fondest memory: Ben, a drunken mess, pissing off my window sill while I took a picture that, after developed, ended up a "wee" bit too revealing. (That means you can see his PENIS!)

Appropriately enough, one of my most lasting memories of attending NYU will remain in the form of a "celebratory tool." Instead of waving a flag or simply cheering, Gallatin students were given items that, somehow, truly brought together everything I learned and experienced in my college years. What better way to send off "the best four years of my life" than throwing a fist in the air and waving, to and fro, my very own...

Yesterday, my friend Camillia and I were discussing how older men are drawn toward younger women. When he hypothesized her being hit on by a somewhat leery SNL cast member who acts quite fond of the younger set, I, at one point, asked if he'd ever "put the moves on [her]" before.

And maybe, just maybe, this may be the reason that, for the past two years, I've only heard "I Love You" from my family and best friends. Perhaps I'm merely unlucky or mopey when it comes to someone "putting the moves" on me, but even when I try to exude some sort of confidence, any attempt at functioning as an affable, desirable, attractive (?) person...*

Look closely enough, and you'll see that, despite how hard I try, time only stops for me when Tootsie Rolls come out with a Sour Apple-flavored lollipop! It's GREEN!

My nature proves that maybe I'm a little too old and a little too young in disposition to actually find someone who'd want to be with me besides my crazy, beautiful, fucked-up friends and my crazy, beautiful, functional family. I've got plenty of manbaby in me, but I'm also teetering a little too far into the behavioral realm of senior citizenship, as well.

This isn't to say that I'd prefer to be a boring, balanced twenty-two year old whose existence was comprised of bars, beer, hook-ups and recreational sports. But even as a slightly eccentric, reasonably neurotic, unfailing idiosyncratic one-man "silly festival," I'm grounded enough to know that I DESERVE IT, TOO. Five out of my seven closest friends are in functioning, realistic relationships, and the closest I've recently come to something as simple on a crush was on a janitor! A jantior!