An announcement

I don't want to brag or anything, but I'm friends with someone famous.

The multi-talented (and cute to boot) Gina is Editor of the newly-launched Gawker enterprise Lifehacker. If you're interested in all things techie, you should give it a read. Even if you're not, you should still give it a read, because you should try everything at least once. That's what my Grandma says. Congratulations Gina!

When it's not safe to answer the phone

In our younger, more foolish days, Heather #1 and I had a favorite past time – making prank phone calls.

These were the days before *69 and caller ID, or as I like to call them, the truly awesome days. We didn't prank boys we liked, well, not much. Mostly, we made up numbers, called them, and then fucked with whoever had the misfortune of being on the receiving end.

We had some favorites that we would do over and over. We would call and get what sounded like a mom, write down the number and hang up. When we had two mom numbers, we would call each one and do this, usually very late at night when we were hopped up on cola and cookies.

Mom: Hello?

Us: Mom?

Mom: I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number.

Us: Oh no! This was my last quarter! [Cue crying]

Mom: Are you okay?

Us: No. I'm stranded in downtown Schenectady with no money, and I need to be picked up. That was my last quarter. Can you call my mom and ask her to come pick me up?

Mom: Um, okay. What's the number?

So we'd give her the number of the other mom-type, then ask the time. When she told us the time, we'd say our mom was on her way home from work, and could she wait ten minutes to call? Then, we'd call the other mom-type and do the exact same thing. The downside of this was that we never got to witness the interaction. The upside? We could imagine it.

Our other favorite was less elaborate and much more funny (to us, anyway). We'd call a random number and when someone answered, we'd hold the boom box up to the receiver for a minute or two and then say, "Thank you for calling AT&T. How may I help you?" this confused people. Sometimes we'd say, "Thank you for calling AT&T. Please hold." And then play the music again. One woman asked every single member of her very large family who had called AT&T. One of those unfortunate family members was a teenaged girl.

I'm not proud of this, and it probably makes me a bad person, but once Heather #1 and I discovered this girl, all other prank targets ceased to exist. Even more so once we discovered her name. We called her for years. Every time we had a sleep over, we called her. We called her from pay phones in the mall. We called her while we were on vacation at the Jersey shore. Once she thought I was one of her friends, and talked to me for a few minutes. Sometimes we played music. Sometimes we told her to stay away from our boyfriend. Sometimes we told her we'd heard something about her at school. Sometimes we called to wish her a Happy Birthday. Sometimes we sang.

Thinking back, we probably scarred this poor girl for life. She probably went insane trying to figure out who we were, or why we were terrorizing her. And karma's a real bitch, too, because one night, Mrs. F, Heather #1 and I went over to Steve Nadeau's house while his parents were away. Mrs. F and Heather #1 both told their parents they were going to be at my house. A girl called Mrs. F's mother and told her where we were.

We never found out who made the call. And everyone got grounded, even though all we did at Steve Nadeau's house was eat pizza, watch cartoons and play with Willard, his pet rat.

On self-loathing

Sometimes I have one of those wow-I'm-like-a-total-yuppie-asshole-moments. I had one today.

My new Kenneth Cole bag arrived from Zappos and I immediately got to work deciding which pockets to put things in. After much deliberation, I put my iPod in one front pocket and my cell phone in the other. And then I decided I hated myself.

Boys roam too

When I was in Cape Town, Fix, Mr. Fix and I woke up on a bright and sunny Tuesday morning and drove out to the Winelands.

We started at the Fairview Wine Estate, where they produce a lovely little wine called Goats do Roam. Goats do Roam is quite good, and I know for certain that it is sold at large supermarkets in San Antonio, Texas and at Discovery Wines on Avenue A. We signed up for the master tasting, which was 30 Rand (about 6 USD) and entitled us to 8 wines and all of their cheeses. We got to work deciding what we wanted to try. Mr. Fix suggested a Merlot. I didn't want to try a Merlot, and tried to explain that I don't hate Merlot, or have anything against it, per se. I'd drink it if someone poured me a glass, and I'd probably think it was fine, but just fine.

"You know what Merlot is like?" I said. "It's like a really nice guy that you keep dating because he hasn't given you any reason not to, but you're really not all that into him."

Mr. Fix asked if I could please fit every wine we tasted that day into a boy analogy, and I did, for the first 20 or so. After that, it was kind of a blur.

Date with the Bond Trader last night? Total Merlot.

Update: After sharing my Merlot analogy with The Roommate, she came up with a couple of her own that I had to share.

Zinfandel: Closeted gay guy
Chardonnay: Really abrasive loud dude who abuses waitstaff

Next test, the risotto

The worst loss I suffered in The Breakup of 2003 was the loss of my favorite downtown Italian restaurant. When the ex and I decided to be "friendly," we reached a compromise; I could eat there, but not with a date. When we stopped being "friendly," I decided I needed to find a new Italian restaurant.

I wasn't born in Italy, but I'm half-Italian and grew up eating enough good food that I'm particular about it. I also get really, really pissed off when Olive Garden commercials come on. Last night, there was celebrating to be done. The exact reason for the celebration will be disclosed in a couple of weeks. (Can you handle the suspense? Huh? Can you? Is it killing you?) I checked First Love's whereabouts, and we made dinner plans. I wanted Italian. I'm not one to try a new Italian place until I've gotten confirmation from The Roommate that it's good, but sometimes a girl's gotta live on the edge -- so off to Basso Est we went.

I got the homemade spaghetti with beef ragout and pecorino cheese. It was delicious. The staff was friendly and efficient. Nothing on the menu was more than $17. All in all, good stuff. Plus, there was some excitement during dinner involving a drunken fella who looked exactly like Andy Warhol.

We were finishing up our appetizers when he entered the restaurant. The host tried to quietly usher him toward the bar, but there was nothing quiet about this clapping, yelling Drunk Andy Warhol. He fell into a chair at the bar and ordered a drink. I didn't see the drink being made, but what he ended up with looked like a quarter-splash of whisky or bourbon with a whole lot of water in it. It wasn't long before he spilled the entire drink on himself and decided he'd rather be sitting at a table, specifically the one right behind me. There was more yelling and clapping and I believe some incoherent sexual harassing of the bartender.

At this point, the chef had had enough, and emerged from the kitchen. Mofo is one big dude – I wouldn't mess with him. After requesting he leave, Drunk Andy Warhol stood up, and teetered dangerously close to my person several times. The chef had to escort him out and there was much arguing, and a little physical confrontation outside. Don't worry, no one got hurt. Drunk Andy Warhol attempted to come back in two more times while we ate dinner, but he was denied.

Good Italian food, reasonable prices and the drunken antics of Not Andy Warhol. I have a new favorite Italian restaurant. Finally.

He's right -- I probably will miss him when he's gone

Last night, as I was leaving work, I called First Love.

"Hey," I said. "I'm wiped out from work, so I'm skipping game night. I'll be there when you get home."

"I am home," he said. "Want to go out to dinner? We can go to the Mexican place around the corner.

"It's too early in the week for me to start eating bad food," I said.

"Well, we can go somewhere else, then."

"Okay."

We hung up. 10 seconds later, I called him back.

"Hey," I said. "I don't want to go out. Want to order in?"

"Sure," he said. "Want to watch a movie?"

"Okay. If I pick up wine on the way home, will you drink some?"

"If you get white."

"Okay."

"Christ," he said. "I feel like we're married."

When I got home, he was reading Craig's List Missed Connections.

"Cute guy on the 6," he said. "That's me."

A Saturday conversation with Mom

Mom: What are you doing tonight?

Me: I'm not sure. I was supposed to go out with the rape crisis girls, but it's really snowing and two of them live in Brooklyn. We might have to cancel.

Mom: Why don't you stay in and invite the Bond Trader over to watch movies?

Me: Because I met him online and he could be a psychopath. I don't even know his last name, Mom.

Mom: Well, it was just a suggestion.

Me: An insane suggestion. Do you want me to get hacked up and thrown in the East River?

Mom: Okay, okay. I guess that was a bad idea.

Some notes from the weekend

The Blizzard of '05 was the best thing that could have happened to me this weekend. I got my iPod all set up, and downloaded Green Day's American Idiot. I listened to it no less than 10 times in its entirety, because it's that good. I cleaned my room. I gave myself a manicure and pedicure. I plucked my eyebrows. I unpacked my sweaters and packed up my tank tops. I tried to watch Stuck on You and then gave up because it was that bad. I talked to a cute Bond Trader and made a date for Thursday. I have no idea what a Bond Trader does, exactly, but something tells me he'll buy me drinks. I cooked up a storm. I did The Roommate's Pilates DVD. I read Self Magazine. And Jane. I yelled at Jane Pratt. I played with the cats. I tried to read One Hundred Years of Solitude again, but got confused by all the Arcadios and Aurelianos and gave up. I watched Saturday Night Live. I got some sleep. I dropped a bottle of Chianti in Dunkin' Donuts. I called Fix in Texas and giggled when she told me about "that motherfucker who has the only green lawn in the entire development."

I love snow, more so than I did when I lived in upstate New York and had to deal with that pesky car business. I strolled through it to have brunch at Mara's Homemade with Petey. You should go. Try the Eggs Hussarde.

On being single

Dirty Holly: So it's good being single?

Me: Sometimes. Sometimes not.

Dirty Holly: How so?

Me: Well, my neck and shoulders are one giant stress knot right now. It would be nice to go home and have someone give me a backrub. By the same token, it's nice to not have someone stealing my covers or waking me up too early.

Dirty Holly: Well, if you had a boy it doesn't mean he would actually give you a backrub. Most likely you'd want one, but he wouldn't give you one, and then you'd get pissed.

Me: Good point.

Fun with search engines

I'm not one to discuss search terms that bring people to my site that don't involve the uterus, but this one was too perfect not to share.

Redheaded slut pics

It's also worth mentioning that I'm the #3 search result on MSN for fisting.

White Noise: the review

WARNING: Small spoiler alert for this post, big spoiler alert for the comments. Read at your own peril.

Last night, Linus and I saw White Noise, which has nothing to do with the novel of the same name by the brilliant Don DeLillo. Which is a good novel, y'all should read it. The film? Not so much?

Granted, we both knew this film wasn't going to blow our minds. The reviews have ripped it to bits, and rightly so. I'm not terribly deterred by negative reviews of fright flicks, though, especially in the post-Scream era of gore, where a film needs to be scary and funny and smart and also a giant unpredictable mindfuck in order for anyone to give it the time of day. We saw it because that's what we do. We see horror movies.

There were some good things about White Noise. There was Michael Keaton, for one. Who doesn't love Michael Keaton? I've missed him, and it was nice to see him again. The concept? The dead communicating with the living electronically -- voices popping up in the static and snow of our radios and televisions and being amplified and deciphered so messages from the other side can be delivered to loved ones. Michael Keaton's obsession, first with communicating with his dead wife and then communicating with everyone else's dead wife, is complex and believable. You're not quite sure if he's actually hearing voices, if he's on the brink of madness and seeking comfort in something that isn't there, or if something truly sinister is going on.

Well, something truly sinister is going on, and it made for some jump-in-your-chair-cover-your-face scary moments. For the most part, the whole movie just made me nervous. I was a wreck the whole time. You have no idea what's going to happen, but you just know it's going to be bad.

Then we got to the last scene. The wrap-it-up scene. The scene where we found out if all of the theories we'd had since the movie began were right. They weren't. They weren't even remotely plausible, and bear in mind I accepted all the supernatural gobbledygook as plausible. In fact, those last 20 minutes pretty much negated everything positive that came before it. Kind of like when the aliens show up in Dude, Where's My Car? and you're like, "Huh? This wasn't in the preview. What's going on here?"

As I tried to make sense of the end of the film, I started formulating questions for Linus in my head. Homeboy went to Harvard -- he knows stuff. When we walked out, I started in.

"So wait," I began. "Those three monster things at the end, what were they and where did they come from?"

Linus did not know.

"So what was up with the whole chronological aspect?" I asked. "I didn't get that."

Neither did Linus.

"So that whole EVP thing. Is that for real? They had a statistic at the end."

Linus gave me an "Are you kidding me?" look.

"I'm not asking if you have a home theater set up to record the voices of the dead. I'm asking if there are people out there who actually study that."

Linus, in his infinite wisdom, reminded me that there are people out there who study everything. We spent the next hour discussing where we thought the film was going, and how if we had been right, it would have been a much better film. Next up: Boogeyman and The Ring II.

Related links:
Michael Keaton's Fame Audit
Salon didn't entirely hate White Noise
Some facts about EVP (Electronic Voice Phenomena)

Laying down the law

Ring! Ring! Ring! or rather Vibrate! Vibrate! Vibrate!

I look down at my vibrating silver lifeline. The caller ID says, "Julie." I think, But how can that be? I've told her no less than 10 million times not to call while I'm at work. But the caller ID does not lie.

Once upon a time, I answered the phone. Several times, in fact. After having the following conversation each time, I imposed the do-not-call-while-I'm-at-work rule:

Me: Hello?

Julie: Are you still at work?

Me: Yup. Just like every other Monday through Friday until 6.

Julie: What's up?

Me: Uh, what's up is I'm working. Can I call you later?

Julie: Fine.

Yes, she's my best friend so I do allow her a certain amount of slack, if by slack you mean hitting the ignore button when she pops up on my caller ID during work hours. Today, though, I wasn't having it. So I sent her this text:

Julie, I will never answer the phone when you call me during work hours. Ever.

Her response?

Don't be mean. That's my way to get you to call me later.

I know what you're thinking, people. Why doesn't she just call me later? One reason and one reason only -- homegirl's nuts.

Finally

I've never been a morning person. Well, actually, that's not true. I had a brief stint during the fall of '98, but I decided I didn't really like it. I'll never be one who bounces out of bed with zest and glee, but I may have found a way to get myself moving in the morning.

Death metal. And Diet Dr. Pepper. It worked this morning, and I will repeat it every morning until it stops working. Hopefully, by that time, I'll have a boyfriend who favors morning sex. Because that always works.

More adventures in Duane Reade

Once upon a time, there was a little neighborhood drugstore called King's Pharmacy, right there on the corner of Avenue B and 2nd Street. One could buy power cords, tampons and macaroni and cheese. They had everything, including a friendly, efficient staff. Many of us in the East Village, or on the Lower East Side, came to depend on King's Pharmacy.

Then something happened, that something being Duane Reade. King's Pharmacy was no more. Suddenly, I couldn't buy cupcake pans with my shampoo. Or glitter pens with my black pepper. In short, my one-stop shop became a first stop on the way to an elsewhere that would have the things I need.

The lack of random products has not been as disturbing as the help and general management of the store, though. I've mentioned before that there is only one register opened. Ever. Since the other closest drugstore is Rite Aid on 1st Avenue and 5th Street, that Duane Reade is serving a lot of people. More often than not, I come in to find a line snaking down the hair color aisle, no less than 10 frustrated people on it.

Line problems aside, they seem to have hired the most incompetent people they could find. Like the older gentleman who does everything. In. Slow. Motion. And. It. Takes. So. Long. You. Want. To. Pull. Your. Hair. Out. Strand. By. Strand. Yeah, that guy. Then we have the woman who tosses the things you buy directly at you and screams "Next!" before you've even had a chance to nurse the wounds she's inflicted. Then there's the girl who is always attached to her cell phone headset, fighting with someone who is presumably her boyfriend, and saying things like, "Baby, I ain't gonna be played like that. You hear me? I AIN'T GONNA BE PLAYED LIKE THAT!"

The worst was last night, though. First, let me start by saying that the quitting smoking thing didn't really work out so well, and I don't want to talk about it. I gave myself three months before I turn 30 to do it. I only smoke at night, anyway. That said, I buy my Marlboro Ultra Lights at Duane Reade because they're about a dollar cheaper than anywhere else. So I approached the counter and told the nice young man that I would like a pack of Marlboro Ultra Lights. He stared blankly at the wall of cigarettes.

"The silver and white pack," I said. Again, he stares.

"Second row down," I offer. "On the right."

He walked away from the Marlboro section and started examining the Parliaments.

"No," I said. "Back where you were."

He walked in the opposite direction. I noticed the people in line behind me were laughing. I lean over the counter as far as I can and point.

"We don't have them," he said.

At this point, I started to lose it. Just a little.

"Yes you do," I said. "There are about 20 packs RIGHT THERE." Again I pointed.

"THE WHITE AND SILVER PACK," I said. "SECOND ROW DOWN. ON THE RIGHT. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, WHY CAN'T YOU SEE MY MOTHERFUCKING CIGARETTES?! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?" (Okay, I didn't really say that last part, but I thought it.)

Then, he reached for a pack of Marlboro Ultra Lights 100's. I knew we were getting close.

"Yeah, those," I said. "Except not the 100's."

Then I lost him again. NO! I was so close! At this point, I decided that whatever brand of cigarettes he offered me next, I was just going to take it and be done with it. It was a pack of Marlboro Lights.

"Fine, fine, just give me that one." He stared. "Just give it to me!"

So he gave me that one. I can guarantee you no one else on that line who had planned to purchase cigarettes even attempted it. I might have to assess the situation at the Duane Reade on Delancey, but I'm not getting my hopes up.

Exes and whatnot

It's ex-boyfriend week here at the cave. I've learned that when one is friendly with exes, and one has far too many exes, sometimes they all show up at once.

1. First Love is job hunting and apartment hunting in my fine city, and has been, and will continue to be, on and off of my couch until he's made other arrangements.

2. The Photographer has emailed to ask if I'd like to have our semi-annual get-together, wherein he informs me of the many things I have in common with Satan, over drinks. He would also like to borrow a book.

3. Favorite Ex checked in from Minnesota.

4. My most recent ex would also like to have drinks, to hear about my South Africa trip. I will probably leave out the story of making out with the cute South African doctor.

UPDATE: Apparently "I'd like you hear about your South Africa trip" really means "I'd like to see you naked and not do much talking at all," so that little outing has been cancelled.

5. Not an ex, but on a related note. Tall Guy checked in to see if my interest in dating had been rekindled. It has not. Mainly because I don't want any more ex-boyfriends.

Something to ponder over the weekend

Me: Now that I've taken a vow of celibacy, I can't seem to stop making out with people.

Curly: I wonder if the same thing happens to nuns and priests.

Premature ejaculation is my job

More on this later, but I just sent this email, in a professional capacity, and it cracked me up:

I just realized something that doesn't work timeline-wise. The one where she decides to dump No Touch starts with "Three dates and three premature ejaculations later" and there isn't really enough time for her to have had three more dates. Maybe we could change it to "Another date and another premature ejaculation later?"

Let's get engaged and ask the NY Times to run the announcement

Sent two days ago:

Dear Zach,

I am hopelessly addicted to your blog, and I think I kind of love you. Just thought I'd let you know.

- Jess

Received today:

Dearest Jess,

I'm hopelessly addicted to barbituates, and I think I kind of love gin. I'm not sure who's worse off between the two of us.

Thanks for reading, glad you like it, hope I continue to meet your expectations, and your blog is neato too.

- Zach

P.S. I'm not doing a post tonight. Too tired. You are the only reader or person on
the planet who knows this besides me. Cherish this exclusivity.

Now, on to the subject of real-life crushes. After seeing gym guy at the gym and Key Food two days ago and in my subway car this morning, I have decided that he needs to break up with his girlfriend, like, NOW. I will be informing him of this next time I see him. Okay, I won't, but maybe I'll muster up a "hi," because I've decided that the only way to find a guy in New York without commitment issues is to steal one from someone else.

Concerning the uterus

We have a lot of conversation about the uterus over here at blind cavefish, and one of my dear readers was lovely enough to send me a link he'd found to...wait for it...a uterus doll. And it comes with instructions! So you can make one yourself! And display it on your piano! Thanks Brian, you made my day.

Let the games begin

Fix is my little Jewish mother, always keeping an eye out for my soul mate. Now that she lives in Texas, her opportunities to play matchmaker are few and far between. She got her chance in Cape Town, specifically at the wedding, where many cute boys were in attendance.

Fix: How do you feel about long-distance relationships?

Me: How much distance?

Fix: Well, I only ask because we've known Axel for years, and he's a really great guy. He's single, too.

Me: Where does Axel live?

Fix: Germany, but he travels a lot.

Me: Um, that's probably a little too far.

Resolutions

Tales of my journey to Cape Town are stalled until I find my USB cable and upload my pictures. Instead, I'm going to talk about resolutions. With the pre-holiday craziness, post-holiday trip preparation and general work insanity, I forgot all about what I want to accomplish in 2005.

I started a list, which went something like this:

#1: Lose 10 pounds

#2: Finish the novel

#3: Get out of credit card debt

#4: Quit smoking

Then I looked at the little piece of paper tacked onto my wall, bearing my 2004 resolutions. They went a little something like this:

#1: Lose 10 pounds

#2: Finish the novel

#3: Get out of credit card debt

#4: Quit smoking

Clearly, this whole resolution thing hasn't been working out for me. Luckily, I got caught up on Miss Sheila's blog and decided to make some resolutions I could actually keep, via Michelle. Here we go:

#1: Get drunk and make an ass out of myself at least once every two months.

#2: Fully embrace handbag addiction, put all purchases on the Visa.

#3: Watch more TV.

#4: Scour entertainment sites for Britney news each and every morning.

#5: Obsess over boys who are bad for me.

#6: Eat more McDonald's.

#7: Use the snooze alarm frequently.

#8: Accept the fact that my bedroom will always look like 12 crackhead squatters reside there.

Happy New Year!

Some housekeeping

Miss me?

A word of warning: I will be assaulting you with tales of South Africa all week. Right now, I will only say this. It was a whirlwind of sun, sand, scenery, wine, friends, food, penguins, shopping, braais and cute boys with accents. I am tanned, relaxed and only a little jet lagged. Pictures will be posted either tonight or tomorrow.

I want to give big ups to The Roommate for posting even though she was crazed with work and tending to my sick kitty, who went into kidney failure and needed to be hospitalized for most of last week (If anyone knows anything about pet insurance, please, please enlighten me).

If you haven't done so yet, I strongly urge you to go vote for one Miss Curly McDimple and one Miss Sheila, who have been nominated for the BoB Awards. And if you are unfamiliar with these brilliant and hilarious ladies, I urge you to get familiar.

If Lifetime does not stop running promos every five minutes for Dawn Anna, the new movie that apparently contains no stalking, adultery with young coeds or murder, and therefore, none of my interest, someone over there is going to get hurt.

And now, it is time to dig myself out of a week and half's worth of work emails. More later.

Look Out Scorcese

I bring you another bit of Britney goodness...apparently she has a new letter up on her fan site, in which she discusses how great it was to co-direct her new video (and cleverly dress everyone in sweatpants from Juicy Couture! HER IDEA, y'all!). The best part, however, was the last bit, which I share with you here:

Speaking of, I’ve been working on writing and hopefully eventually directing a musical which makes fun of the whole Hollywood scene, which is appropriately titled "Hollywood".

On a different note, I have a new dog named Lucky and I just bought her a new dresser for her room. Yes, she has a room, which she shares with Bit Bit. For Christmas, they got a baby chandelier to go in it. It’s the cutest thing in the world!

Yes, she's writing a musical ABOUT Hollywood CALLED "Hollywood"....and the dog has a dresser. I bet it's bigger than mine.

The Roommate Checks In.

Hi loyal readers, Happy New Year! I am your poor substitute for Jess while she is in South Africa this week....the Strawberry Shortcake night light to her Aurora Borealis if you will...

Continuing the spirit of Jess' love/hate, sisterly adoration/lusty, flat-out-I-think-she needs-some-help interest in all things Britney, I offer you this
nugget from the files of Celebrity Justice (which sounds kind of like a weird new series on Fox):

A Canadian musician has struck fear into the hearts of Britney Spears' family. 25-year-old Daniel Lachance was accused of stalking the singer and her family, and even served jail time for the offense.

Lachance blames his troubles on the beard he used to wear "People in jail said, 'why don't you shave your beard? You'll look more decent,'" he told "CJ" in an exclusive interview.

"People think I look like a weirdo," he added, but insisted, "Kenny Rogers had a beard. I'm not a bad person."

For the full story, go here:

http://celebrityjustice.warnerbros.com/news/0412/31a.html

I like that he picked out Kenny as the paradigm of All Things Beard.