so far, the RNC is survivable.

I have to say that so far, as I go about my daily life, the RNC down the street is hardly noticable. But that may very well be because I have it easy. I live no where near Madison Square Garden, and even though my office is on 34th street, I'm not in the "Frozen Zone," nor do I have to pass through it to commute.

The office is quiet. Desks are vacant due to absence of others whose commute would involve passing through the Frozen Zone and finding a way around any of the eight closed exits at Penn Station, which is only a problem if you are lucky enough to have a train or subway that will actually stop there this week.

The impact on me so far has been more of an air assault. The helicopters are so numerous that I no longer notice the deafening chop of their blades. They run constant surveilance in gaint loops over and around the city. Occasionally, it sounds and feels as though one is landing on the roof of my office building--and I'm 30 floors from the top.

There's also the NYPD Blimp. Yes, blimp. When I saw it bobbing along in the city sky last week, I assumed it was on its way to a Yankees game...every day...for 8 hours. Turns out it's a specially equipped detection device disguised as a blimp. From what I understand, it can literally eavesdrop on any conversation it points its Bionic Listening Equipment at. As a result, people all over the city are miming and charading elaborate conversations.

When I went out at lunch today, I noticed that, as I anticpated, security has spilled out of the Frozen Zone and made it to my block. If my building caught on fire and I had to flee, I'd only get as far as the lobby. The rest of our block has been cordoned off with those big metal barrier things that double as a nifty bike rack. I don't understand why. There are numerous openings in the "barriers" that allow you to still go wherever it is you want to go, you just must first pass through a bottleneck of pissed off people. (Apparently, Duane Reade has taken the same approach with their cashier system. They say "Form a line at each register" but what they really mean is "Stand wherever you want and fight with other customers to eventually get through, possibly suffering bruising or non-life-threatening injury.)

There are also a lot of cops everywhere. Some are on foot, directing traffic or just standing around. Others are on motorcycles, bicycles, or even vespas. (Ciao.) I think I saw a few yesterday on Razor Scooters. They're on horseback, in paddywagons, converted 2-seater NYPD golf carts popular among meter readers, and my favorite: the surges. The surge is when anywhere between 10-20 police cars roar through the streets in single file, sirens blasting, before suddenly and collectively parking all 10-20 cars perpendicular to the curb in a perfect line. Then the 20-40 cops get out of their vehicles under the watchful eye of all panicked bystanders who are, at this point, either taking off running and screaming, or lying face down on the sidewalk with a fresh load in their pants while saying their final prayers. The joke is, there's no emergency. This is only a test. So go change your pants and go about your normal business. There's nothing to see here.

I'm sure security is going to get tighter and stranger as the week goes on and Mr. Bush arrives. But so far, aside from a mild amount of trepidation and the typical amount of public urination, we're getting through it.

-------------------------
See for yourself. Click here, then click the camera for 8 Ave @ 34 Street or 6 Ave @34 Street (eerily void of typical traffic flow).

what IS it with penises in the park?

Yesterday I wanted to perform my usual Sunday ritual of eating a bagel under a shaded tree in the park. I decided going to Central Park was a Very Bad Idea because all the protesters would be there, interrupting my sleepy meditation and stomping all over the grass. So I went to the little river-side park instead.

I strolled around looking for the perfect resting place. I spotted a patch of shade beneath a tree and laid down my blanket. I kicked off my shoes, flipped open a magazine, and ate my gooey bagel as the breeze pushed sailboats up the river.

A short time later, my new friend Caroline joined me. We sat and chatted and watched the dozens and dozens of people wandering. The park was crowded and we decided it must be full of Central Park avoiders. Then a Little Old Man walked by, clearly prepared to sunbathe as evident by the smears of creamy white sunblock all over his face.

The little old man disappeared for a moment before returning on our side of the fence. He smiled at me, and I smiled back, because I am not completely a new yorker yet. He looked around wondering where to best set up camp, and I was more than a little disturbed that he chose a spot in such close proximity to Caroline and myself. And even then, he sat facing us, and leaned up against what I imagine is a very uncomfortable wrought-iron fence. Odd choice, I thought.

So Caroline and I chatted, pointed at cops, coast guard boats, and military helicopters all around us. When I turned my head to speak to her, I caught the most horribly unexpected glimpse of the Little Old Man's balls. Yes, his balls. My Little Old friend clearly chose to go commando and didn't seem to mind that I could see directly up his shorts.

I looked away and attempted to act unphased, though I'm sure my speech was momentarily disrupted simply out of sheer shock. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the L.O.M. adjusting his position to give me an even broader view of what dangled beneath his shorts.

Trying not to be rude for not looking at Caroline while I spoke, I forced myself to turn my head again. And there, not 6 feet away, was the L.O.M.'s penis, falling out of his very innapropriate shorts. And on his face, amidst what I'd still hoped was sunblock, was a very dirty grin.

"Hey, Caroline. Want to go see the dog park and--"
"Yup, let's go!"

I've never packed up my blanket so fast in my life. I don't know what it is with penises in the park, but really, I could do without. Dirty pervs.

***special news statement***

I want to lick Adam Vinatieri.

That is all.

Updates:
1) No, that's not a typo. Lick, with an L. As in, saturate with my tongue.
2) I was there that day, the day the photo was taken and Adam and my boys paraded through gusty Boston streets to the cheers of hundreds of thousands of fans. Except me, I wasn't cheering, because my lungs were being crushed by the throngs of people amassed in front of the stage. But I was there. Oh yes, I was there.

untitled story about my ass

I got a letter from the post office today. They wrote to tell me that my ass has officially been assigned its own zip code. I mean, I'd joked about this happening one day, but I never really thought it would. What you don't hear about in the jokes, however, is the fee associated with having a zip code for your ass. They want $79 a year to forward mail and packages. I can't throw that kind of money away right now, so I'm hoping to take them up on their 30-day grace period, in which time I may "reduce the size of your ass by 15% to nullify this agreement." I sure hope I don't let them down.

Meanwhile, as it turns out, the rest of New York appears to LOVE my ass. Now, mind you, I'm not saying this in an arrogant, self-inflated way. I really don't like the size of my ass, and would love to save my $79 by getting it down by 15%. But I am fascinated--FASCINATED--by the men in New York who comment on my ass on a daily basis.

For example, today in my 20 minute commute from the subway to my apartment, I was hooted, hollered, winked or whistled at by no less than 9 men. (No molestations today, thankfully.) And 9 is enough for me to safely say, with scientific accuracy, that it's never the white guys--not that I care. If the white guys are too busy hustling around in their brown loafers with their white polo shirts tucked neatly into their dockers, then so be it. I got the bruthas on my side now! They like my junk in the trunk!

So among today's cat calls there was a very entertaining and slightly unnerving moment when I approached an intersection but could not yet cross. Not only was my light red, but there was also a giant backhoe spinning erratically in the street, lurching without warning into traffic before reversing and pausing to dump a load of tar. On one pass, the driver of the backhoe dropped his bucket into the tar pile to my right, then looked up at me and smiled. Fully blocking two lanes of traffic, he proceeded to beep his horn. Until this moment, I had no idea backhoes even had horns. But evidently they do: very loud ones.

Mr. Backhoe Driver then drove over to where his buddies were, beeping at them and pointing at me. One by one they all put their shovels in the dirt and leaned on them, then turned to stare at me. I grew increasingly embarrassed, especially when the now backed-up traffic started honking in their displeasure for the delay. All they could see was an unmoving backhoe and a bunch of standstill men with shovels shouting many words in my direction in languages I didn't understand. (I really should have taken Spanish in high school.) I began to envision newspaper headlines like "Giant Ass Causes Gridlock" and "Behemoth Backside Buckles Backhoe." When the light finally turned green, I bolted across the street, where other young, non-white guys, having overheard what was said about me across the street, started licking their lips and making kissy sounds. This, I assure you, NEVER happened when I lived in Boston.

But is it flattering? More than a little. Scary? Almost. Any one of these guys could have watched me go five more steps into my apartment building where I checked the mail and received, you guessed it, the letter from the post office about my enormous ass. In fact, I should bring one of them with me when I dispute the charges. Nothing like a panel of kissy faces and gyrating hips to plead a case of inappropriate ass zoning.

elevators: manners and hazards

manners.

This morning when I got to work, a man about 20 feet in front of me was waiting for an elevator. There are six elevators in the lobby; one is for service only, another is being repaired. So now we're down to four elevators that serve up to and including the 27th floor.

So as I approached, this man was awaiting his ride. He looked over and saw me coming. He then strolled through the open elevator doors, and started pushing buttons--apparently the "door close" button was among them. I, mouth agape, took the two remaining steps toward the elevator and stuck my arm through the closing doors. Rude Elevator Man made the typical fake "sorry, didn't see you coming" expression, to which I gave the typical "yeah, sure, I saw you look at me" expression in response before pushing the button for my floor. He then realized that we worked for the same company and stood sheepishly in the corner with the "yup, I'm a real asshole" look on his face while I stood in front of the doors with the "yeah you are, I'm getting off now, ass" look on my face.

Now, when I see or hear someone behind me and I'm clamouring into an elevator, I turn around and hold the door. That's just what nice people do. Then the person says thank you, to which I respond "your welcome," and we have a nice, happy ride up in the elevator. Is that SO much to ask? I'm not saying hold the doors until you have a full load of passengers. I'm just saying, take the common decency to wait for the person you know who is RIGHT BEHIND you to get on the elevator.

Of course, the exception is when you actually KNOW the person right behind you, and they, theoretically, shagged the CTO in some corporate office scandal, and you are always cracking porno jokes behind her back, and you know if she gets on the elevator it will be painful laugh suppression torture for you, so you push the "door close" button with all your might and will the doors to shut before she gets on. As long as you don't make eye contact or acknowledge her proximity to the elevator, it's legal.

hazards.

Really, these elevators are already a tricky enough without some jerk making you stick your arm into closing doors. I mean, it's not all that irrational to think you could potentially lose that arm when the doors latch shut and lop it off with the greatest of ease. The doors don't always re-open with the arm trick. I've seen co-workers get completely squished as the doors slammed shut during an "Oh, I can fit" attempt.

So if you survive the entry to the lift, you then have to deal with the warp speed, rocket-like takeoff into the outer atmosphere that leaves your stomach somewhere in the lobby. Your hair flattens, your body mass collapses, and you wind up a puddle of flesh on the elevator floor. But not to fear--you re-form in seconds and your stomach will be up in the next elevator.

Assuming you come out of that okay, you then have to learn that just because the elevator doors are re-opening does NOT mean the elevator has actually reached your floor yet. In all likelihood, you're a good 8 inches short of flush when you go to make your first step. Amateur riders will trip and stumble, but the more advanced riders know to wait the extra second or two until the ride actually stops. Only then is it safe to exit.

As for going down, that has its issues as well. First is the game of elevator roulette that must be played due to the lack of light or sound to signal which elevator will fetch you. The result is a sudden, barely audible sound that turns out to be the door furthest away from you opening. You then have approximately 8 nanoseconds to get to it before the doors close and you miss your chance. If you should be lucky enough to make it, you then suffer the dramatic ear-popping as the ride moves down at roughly the speed of light, opens its doors somewhere near the lobby (give or take a few inches) and spits you back out, dizzy and confused, into the hall.

Who said work can't be fun?

sidewalk rage

I've always been an aggressive walker. I tend to believe it's my father's fault. When we were little, he was a sidewalk bulldozer, traveling at a swift gait and knocking over anything and anyone in his path, including old ladies and small children (like us). He also had a tendency to leave us many steps behind, and when we complained how his distance ahead increased our risk of kidnapping, he'd simply bark over his shoulder, "Walk faster," without ever breaking stride.

So early on I was forced to move creatively and strategically across flows of foot traffic, something I figured played into my "law-breaking" driving skills years later. But now that I'm back on foot, I must contend every day with obstacles on the sidwalk that range anywhere from puddles of dog piss to wet cement to small, left-behind children.

It has revived a belief I've long held that people on foot should be equipped with airhorns to be used like horns in a vehicle. Walkers should also have rear-view mirrors so when they, for example, have a stroller wide enough for three screaming children and they are taking up the entire sidewalk, they can see me fuming behind them and pull over to let traffic pass. Without mirrors, an airhorn would suffice nicely, so I may subtlely hint that it would be nice if they could get the hell out of my way.

I know that this sidewalk rage isn't just me. I've seen it in action. I've seen the good, the bad, and the ugly. I've watched as nannies "pull over" their slow-moving toddlers to let faster walkers pass. I've seen the mindless wandering of a person whose dog's leash is stretched across the entire width of the sidewalk, causing most walkers to either hurdle or limbo the hazardous cable in a simple desire to keep moving.

The same dog owner, two minutes later, will completely abandon a steaming pile of dog crap out of a combined carelessness and lack of preparedness, ignoring the (uninforced) fine of $250 for not picking up after a dog, leaving the steaming pile there for someone--who's probably already having a really rough day--to step in it. With no grass in sight to wipe the rancid shoe, victims either drag their soles along the sidewalk like a bad moonwalk impression, or find an unsuspecting curb or stair to wipe it on, when all the while, if I'd had an airhorn, I could have honked to either stop the irresponsible dog owner for a berating or warn the unsuspecting victim of the impending danger.

I also think walkers should signal stops and turns. There's nothing like hustling along in a crowd at 4 mph when all of a sudden someone stops. You get a 10-person pileup as the sudden change of velocity dominoes through the crowd. Newspapers are dropped, coffees are spilled, and moods are ruined. And, like on the road, the idiot up front is completley oblivious to all the damage left in their wake. It shouldn't take a license to walk, but if it did, these people would most certainly have theirs revoked.

If we needed licenses, then we could have walkers insurance, and walkers education classes where students wear sandwich boards saying "Earl's Student Walking - keep back 10 feet." We could have walking police who cite walking violations when they aren't at the walk-thru lane of Dunkin' Donuts. And only well qualified walkers, like myself, would be allowed to carry the airhorns that keep the rest of the pedestrians in line.

I know. You think I'm crazy. But just remember...it's my father's fault.

So like, she like, won.

Last night, like many other people, I was watching the Olympics on TV. I was glued to the women's gymnastics, the one sport that never fails to bring feigned high-intensity media drama that exists only on the television and not in real life. Every other sentence starts with "As a girl in a devistated Russia..." or "In a poor Romanian village..." Whatever. Just show me the uneven bars and shut the hell up. Thank god for the Mute button.

Anyhow, I'm watching and it's down to the last rotation. I eagerly await the competition, and during a commercial break I decide to look up (on the internet, of course) how tall Svetlana Khorkina (aka, Ostrich Girl) is. She seems to tower over other gymnasts with her long neck--I mean legs--but I know she can't possibly be all that tall. Turns out she's 5'5". I wanted to compare that to the tiny Romanian I became a fan of: Oana Ban. She's a mere 4'6". For the hell of it I checked Carly Patterson, a very median 4'9". And right there, right next to her face, was the unignorable, suspense-ruining headline "Patterson follows Hamm with another all around gold."

After yelling, screaming, and cursing that I accidentally saw the result online two minutes before I would have seen it on TV, I decided to watch anyway. Surely I was in for a good performance. So I did, and I saw the "Texas dynamo," the "next Mary Lou" stay upright on a 4" piece of wood. Amazing.

So she wins, people clap, Ostrich Girl cries, blah blah blah. And eventually the news lady, who was thankfully NOT Elfie f-ing Shlaegel (Elfie? Elfie? Come on now, please, what kind of a name is that?), rushes over to Carly Patterson in proper Olympic style: microphone in hand, overly dramatic questions firing away before the athlete has even caught her breath. This always annoys me, but this time what annoyed me more was the answers. "Carly, you just won gold. How do you feel?"

"I'm just like, wow, like, I just like, won the gold medal. I don't even like know how I feel right now." I was HORRIFIED at how this girl, this child, was speaking. She must have like, said "like" like, 42 times in 6 seconds. Now, I know it happens. "Like" is a frequent word out of my own mouth, but you damn well better believe that if someone stuck a microphone in front of my face so I could tell the world how I felt about a gold medal, I'd switch to Non-Like mode before I spoke.

Yeah, I know, I know. She's only 16. Every 16 year old girl in America speaks this way now, and she's no different. But that's exactly my point. Are they like, teaching this in grammar lessons now? Does the Blue Book now have a chapter assigned to Proper Use of the Word 'Like' in which students are instructed to place "like" before every major adjective, adverb, and verb, or in place of commas? What is like, going on here??

What's worse, non-Americans are watching this interview with distraught looks on their faces as they try to translate these strange little syllables that occur 6-8 times per sentence. "Habib, go get my dictionary. What means this 'like'??" And Brits just shake their heads, thinking "first they dumped our tea, now they are ruining our language."

Yes, maybe we are. But that's what makes America great. You can like, totally butcher the language, and like totally sound like an idiot on television but like, we don't care, and we'll like, still totally give you a gold medal anyway. Oh and by the way, like nice dismount.

confessions of an internet addict

Most people know that I spend a lot of time online. It's what I do. It's who I am. Many of you come to me when you need to research something that you cannot find on your own because you know I can find it. Or there's the other crowd of you (you know who you are) who are now trained to find local doppler radar maps so Barb can be warned of incoming thunderstorms.

Last night I had a chat with my roommate about being a neurotic worrier. She mentioned that many days she just can't even go anywhere because little things worry her, such as whether or not New York City buses still take change, or if you have to have a metrocard. I said "that's the difference between you and me. I too am a neurotic worrier, but I use the internet to find answers. The internet is a wonderful thing."

For example, tomorrow I have to rent a car and drive to LaGuardia airport to pick up my mother, sister, and aunt. This trip makes me very nervous on many different levels, so I started researching it LAST WEEKEND--a full two weeks before I need to make the trip. After reserving my car online, I researched the terminal lists to find my family's airline, then looked at maps of the airport layout, driving circles, and parking lots. I looked up parking rates and hours. I looked for directions to the airport and investigated major highways and bridges, which led me to worrying about toll collections because I have no idea what the tolls are or if I will have enough $1 bills with me, or perhaps a fistful of quarters will do. So then I thought an EZ-Pass would be EZ-er so I looked up the Fast Lane stuff for MA (because I already have my non-refundable $27.50 transponder) to make sure it works in NYC and NJ toll booths, then called the Mass Pike people to see if I could re-activate my FastLane transponder, which they said I could, but the real problem is that it takes three days for it to become active in non-MA toll booths, which is NYC, which is precisely why I re-activated the stupid thing in the first place.

Me: "How will I know if it's working out-of-state? Can I check online or something?"
FastLane guy: "We can't monitor the out-of-state activity. You just have to try it."
Me: "So...to see if it's working I have to drive through an EZ-Pass lane and if it fails, I know it's not working? And then I get a ticket for blowing the toll?"
FastLane guy: "Yes ma'am, that's correct."
Me: "Did you just call me ma'am?"

The point is, I get very nervous when an answer is not on the internet. This is incomprehensible to me. It's unsettling. It's "destablizing." So lacking an online option, I decided instead to just check the weather again.

I have a sequence of websites that are all bookmarked for easy access. I will go through the list repeatedly if a) it's first thing in the morning b) it's just after lunch or c) I am really, really bored. The sequence is this:
1) weather.com (including relentless search for current 100 mile doppler reading)
1a) any Local Severe Weather Alerts on weather.com
2) boston.com
2a) check price of RSA's stock to see whether all my options will still be completely WORTHLESS when I lose them Sept. 1
3) ny1.com
4) Petey B. (Boston meteorologist who, when on duty, writes the funniest weather descriptions known to mankind. Props to K-dawg on this find.)
5) back to weather.com (to compare it to Petey B., of course)
6) miami.com to read the latest Dave Barry columns, which occur daily lately while he is at the Olympics
7) earthlink.net to check my email, if any
8) weather.com again, just in case it's changed in the last 4 minutes.

When I'm done, I usually send some silly email to my sister like "my nose is itchy" or "I like cheese" to which she responds "k." Then I get up and crack my back, sit down, and start all over again.

just your average subway molestation

Only a few--a very select few--have heard this story. I basically only told it to people I believed would in no way report it back to my grandmother, because upon hearing it, she will immediately believe that New York IS just like what she sees on NYPD Blue and Law & Order. (But Prill, I promise, I am unharmed and this is just an isolated case of a crazy New York pervert.) Plus, I keep getting a reaction of "Why didn't you...." and I can only say, "Honestly, what would you have done?"

On a typical Friday afternoon, I left work with my co-worker, Erica, and we headed for the subway. A Friday afternoon subway ride in New York is comparable to a Friday afternoon commute to the Cape on Labor Day weekend: completely, indescribably overcrowded.

Erica and I boarded the train and were forcefully shoved in various directions by the 8,349 people behind us. My backpack (that I was holding in front of me) hit some lady in the ass, and she snapped her head around and shot a dirty look to whoever might be responsible. "Sorry," I said. "It's my bag." She smiled understandingly.

The doors chimed and tried to close as people's limbs reached through in an effort to get a place on the already completely overfilled train. Some squeezed on, and soon I couldn't move my arms or legs because of the crowd. I knew I couldn't reach over to hold on, but I also knew I didn't have to because even if we collided head on with another train and rolled over six times, I'd remain completely upright thanks to the sardine-packed effect of the passengers. I looked around for Erica, smiled, and without another word, I silently prayed that no one near me had B.O. or farted.

As we pulled away from the station, I became aware of the presence of some object in the vicinity of my ass. Knowing from experience this could be anything from a bicycle to a backpack to a four-year-old, I didn't really think much of it. The train continued to jerk and sway, and each time I felt a stronger presence of the object near my ass. I could not turn my head and look because I could not move, but I started to realize there was a distinct cupping action occurring and in all likelihood, there was a hand grazing my right butt cheek.

I decided to just ignore it. Incidental contact is just a way of life, and I figured the person probably didn't even know his hand was touching my ass, and maybe it wasn't even a hand afterall...

Wait. What's this? I begin to feel a slight tickle in the small of my back. I can't quite discern what would cause that sensation, and spend several long moments surveying my options. The tail or nose of a dog? Unlikely. The small innocent hand of a child unaware of its movement? Possible. Very very possible. So I chose to believe that behind me some little kid, tired and draped over her mommy's shoulder, was sucking her thumb, twirling her hair, and wiggling her toes, which were inadvertently finding the quarter-inch gap between my shirt and skirt and tickling my flesh.

Well, the "small child," realizing she could get away with this, decided to take things a step further. Next thing I know the intruder is on its way DOWN the back of my skirt. Every alarm in my head went off, and while I still could not rotate my head or body to see what was happening, I wrestled an arm free to reach behind me. Nothing was there. Whoever it was stopped. Irritated and disgusted, I pulled my shirt back down and brought my arm back in front of me.

Then it came back, its persistance and flexibility leading me to believe some pervert's finger was to blame. This time it tried going up the back of my shirt, and as I re-adjusted to reach behind me again, I imagined taking hold and literally breaking the hand of whoever I came in contact with. I debated yelling something over my shoulder, like "Get your filthy hands off my ass you dirty fucking pig" but due to the overcrowded nature of the train, and also to the fact that a lot of New Yorkers would not just stand by if someone was in trouble, I honestly feared that any commotion would result in someone getting hurt--smooshed against a wall or a rib cracked against a railing. So I said nothing, and as I reached behind me the pervert ceased. I left my hand there as protection, and looked frantically over my left shoulder, then my right, trying to see what asshole was behind me doing this. But I could see nothing. I even looked in windows and people's eyeglasses to try to catch a reflection of the groper, but I could see absolutely nothing.

Now, bear in mind that this has all happened in less than one subway stop--9 short blocks, a total of maybe 45 seconds or a minute. As we approached the next stop, I prepared for a quick turnaround so I could see and/or attack whoever was doing this to me, but I couldn't move until some people got off and space became available.

The train stopped, the doors opened, and I snapped around to find a big empty space. Whoever he was, he was gone. Long gone.

At first I was horrified. I ran over to Erica and told her what happened. (It was the first time she got a taste of the "real Stephanie" complete with colorful descriptors that begin with the letter F.) Then I grew angry. Then I became amused. In the end, I'm irritated that this asshole got away with his pervy fondling, but I know that I'm not hurt, not scarred, and there will be no permanent damage.

And now when other people's bags hit me in the ass, I snap around and shoot them a dirty look until I know it's really just a bag, because god help the poor fool who I ever catch touching me with his hands. He'll be one dead, bruised, sorry mother fucker.

power squats

I had an interesting conversation the other day with two brothers aged 21 and 22. We were sitting at the airport talking about the cleanliness of public restrooms. I said "You guys don't have to worry about a thing. You can get in and out without having to touch anything but yourselves. Girls have it a lot harder." They both started telling me that I must just be doing it wrong. Perplexed, I prompted them for more information.

Jordan: "I don't see what the problem is. Just put your ass on the seat."
Me: "Ew! No way! Do you know how disgusting that is?"
Jordan: "How bad can it really be?"
Me: "People PISS on the seats! I don't want to sit in someone else's piss!"
Jordan: "How do girls get piss on the seat?"
Me: "By hovering."
Jordan: "Okay, so put some toilet paper down first."
Me: "That does no good. It just absorbs the piss so you sit on pissy toilet paper instead of a pissy seat. Same thing."
Jordan: "Wow. That's gross. "
Me: "Yes, it is. So we just perpetuate the pissiness by always having to hover."
Jordan: "I don't understand hover."
Nate: "It's like an isometric squat."
Me: "Yes. Great for the quads and hamstrings."
Jordan: "Don't you hold on to something?"
Me: "No. The goal is to not touch anything. Just hover."

Admittedly, though, hovering is not always my choice of position. It depends on whether a bathroom is public or semi-public, the difference being this:
public: a place where any uncalculable amount of complete strangers with varying hygiene use the can
semi-public: a place where a controlled, closed set of acquaintences with visible, discernable hygiene use the can
For example, a bathroom at McDonalds is public. A bathroom at work is semi-public. Rest area: public. Birthday party at cousin's house: semi-public. You get the idea.

In public situations, by no means will my flesh touch the petri dish known as the toilet seat. Hovering is the only way to go to ensure that there is no contact with the germs, fungus, or droplets of piss on the seat. The toilet is then flushed by extending a foot to the handle and pushing. This is followed by a very thorough hand-washing with whatever soap may be available, and every attempt is made to open and close the main door with my feet.

In semi-public situations, I am often more trusting. I know or have passed in the halls the other people whose naked asses may or may not have grazed the toilet seats. I also make a habit of using the same stall every time, so as to reduce the number of foreign asses by increasing the number of my own. In these cases, a toilet seat paper provides sufficient separation and peace of mind.

But one must be quick and wise about using paper toilet seat covers. They come perforated but not separated, so small tugs must be made to tear the paper in the appropriate spots or the result will be much like the traditional teen (or Big Bri) prank of covering a toilet bowl with clear plastic wrap. Also, once the paper is laid on the seat, action must be taken quickly or the paper is likely to fall into the toilet itself, especially if any portion of it makes contact with and starts absorbing water. Paper toilet seat covers are no joke, and must be taken seriously.

In the end, the best preparation is to always have strong, well-developed quads, hamstrings, and abdominal muscles to perform the power squat. You never know when you're gonna need it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to pee.

hello & squeaky shoes

For a long time now, a lot of you have been telling me to publish the crap that I write. I just smile and say "maybe someday." Well, let's call this a first step. I'm still not feeling motivated enough to work hard for the rejection of a publishing attempt, and this seems like a reasonable compromise. You can read it like you always did, but so can anyone else who is foolish enough to stumble upon it, completely by accident, most likely while looking for porn. I don't have too much to tell you about right now, but I can tell you yet another shoe story.

A couple of weeks ago I bought a pair of white Ralph Lauren Polo sneakers. They were $20, and struck me as the perfect shoe for my everyday walks to and from the subway station. I was sick of walking in heels, and flip-flops proved extremely treacherous in rainy weather--once they get wet they refuse to stay on my feet. So the new sneakers have been doing the trick for about two weeks now, and while a bright white new shoe isn't always the best compliment for my outfit, I don't friggin' care. My feet are comfortable and I don't fall in the holes of subway grates.

So this morning I left the house to find--big surprise--rain. I opened my umbrella and headed west. I crossed the street, and as I strolled down the sidewalk I started to notice a strange sound occurring at regular intervals behind me. It sounded something like the labored panting of a french bulldog, so I was surprised to turn around and see nothing. No one was near me. So by process of elimination, I knew the funny noise was coming from me.

I wasn't aware of any intenstinal problems I might have had from my dinner of popcorn and a hershey bar (I haven't been food shopping in a while), so after a bit of thought, I decided the noise was coming from my left foot. I was urked to realize it was the sound of air pushing through water, because it meant somewhere on my new shoe there was a hole.

I continued walking, trying all sorts of adjustments to my footfall. I put the weight on the outside of my foot, then the inside, then tried landing on just my toe. But I could not control the squishy wet fart noise coming from my heel. I avoided puddles, but before long, my suspicions were confirmed when a cool sense of wetness overcame my sock and heel.

Eventually I got to the subway where I stood still (and quiet) before charging with the masses at 33rd St. I went up the stairs, bought my $1 muffin from the morning vendor, crossed the street, and went up to my desk. I took off the shoe to find that all sorts of problems and wetness had ensued, and the shoe was actually beginning to disintegrate.

I'm not quite sure what to do about this, if anything. I mean, I bought the damn shoes particularly to replace flip-flops in raining weather. I suppose I could try to return them, but I don't know if that'll fly with whatever 19-year-old sales girl is just working for another week to save money before school starts (although, usually if I compliment their acrylic nails, they are much nicer to me, and may actually make eye contact while ringing up my purchase and talking on their cell phones). Really I expected more from Ralph Lauren, and I'm thinking about calling him directly. I saw him on Friends once, and he seemed like a nice guy. Maybe he'll help me.

In the end, I've just laid the sock out so it will dry before quitting time. Then I can have squishy wet shoe farts all the way home, and get ready to do it again tomorrow.

serious fruit in the banana hammock

**Rated N for No One Should Have to See This**

There are traumas in the park aside from scary, agressive pigeons. Take, for example, the very skinny man who just removed his pants to reveal a very tiny, tropical blue-colored banana hammock. (Translation: a revolting, far-too-revealing speedo usually worn only by uninhibited Europeans in South Beach.) But is that enough? Does it stop there? No.

Not only is he a very skinny man wearing nothing but a banana hammock, but the bulge is HUGE. Women and men all over the park are unable to keep their eyes from it. Small children are running from it. When he stands up, it hangs. When he lies on his back, it, well, doesn't. It's a nasty, scary lump right in the middle of the park--a mere 10 feet from me--and I can't stop staring. It's like driving by a car wreck. I know it's wrong to look but it's just there, demanding attention. But is that enough? Does it stop there?

When a break in the clouds finally offered some sunlight, Banana Hammock Man sat up, spread his legs wide, and began rubbing sun tan oil all over his body. Some poor woman, not three feet away, had a view centered perfectly between the man's legs, and no doubt got a truly disgusting view of the lubrication. I say "no doubt" because she, much like myself, could not conceal her fascination with said act, and stared blatently at the man--or his banana--the entire time.

Now she's gone, due entirely to her repulsion, and he lies there, legs still spread and glistening in the sun, as people walk by pointing and snickering, saying "that's just wrong." But me? I just sit nearby and write it all down.

pigeon coup

New York City pigeons are a little too bold for my liking. On a normal day, I must walk hurriedly past them—or be walked hurriedly past by them—on the sidewalks. They move for no man, woman, child, nor dog. They simply aren’t scared.

One day last week I saw a little boy, maybe three years old, chasing a pair of pigeons the way my sister did as a child. With his arms spread wide, face full of glee, he released a war cry and stormed at the birds, stamping his little feet as loudly as possible for maximum effect. The pigeons, undaunted by the boy’s close proximity, merely took a small step to the side the way you’d expect an expert bullfighter to do in the manner of taunting the bull, a rather teasing “na-na, you missed.” The little boy, defeated in his quest, turned to his mother, drew a deep breath, and started wailing. The birdies weren’t scared of little Timmy. Timmy will spend 10 years in therapy for his self-esteem. The pigeons screwed up Timmy.

Meanwhile, pigeons in flight are a much scarier encounter than those on the ground. Not only are they fearless—they’re aggressive. You can be minding your own business, walking down the street, trying not to be hit by buses, taxis, and bicycle delivery guys, when out of nowhere a pigeon dives, swoops, and buzzes your head. If you’re lucky, you’ll see them coming in enough time to duck, usually to the amusement of other people on the street who are in fact laughing because they too have been assaulted in such a manner. Other times, you can actually anticipate the dive-bomb, like when a man walks out of a Chinese restaurant with a plate of rice, and foolishly dumps it on the sidewalk with no regard to his nearby fellow humans. In this instance, you have two options: 1) take immediate cover, or 2) hit the deck. The beasts swoop in from all directions, and if you’re in their way, they’ll take you down. After the threat has passed, it is perfectly acceptable, if not expected, to go beat some sense into the man who dumped the rice.

There are still some situations, however, in which no person can predict, prepare, or protect against the uprising of the pigeons. For example, as you lie nearly asleep on a blanket in the tranquil park, you may have no idea that a beady-eyed predator is about to peck off your baby toe. Or if you stop your weary legs to rest on a bench, you may not realize you happen to be seated near a favorite pigeon landing site, and may soon find yourself in a territorial face-off that you will, in all likelihood, lose in an attempt to keep your eyeballs from being pecked out.

So when you’re walking around trying not to get run over, mugged, or assaulted, just remember to keep one eye on the sky. The real danger comes from above.