summer's here, the freaks are out.

Today, for the first time since last summer, I took a stroll over to my favorite little park for some R&R....and sun. Along with a friend, I laid out my blanket, and nestled in for some lazy summer afternoon lounging.

After about 20 minutes in the sun, sweat was beading and pouring down my body. The weathermen did say mid 90s, but I hadn't believed them.

Well, as I lay there talking to my friend, this little old guy in running shorts strolled up onto the grass and sat down, leaning up against the little iron fence behind him. I had a flash of familiarity, pondering for a moment, but dismissed the possibility that this man was the one I was thinking of. That is, until he spread his legs and pulled out his penis.

I kid you not, it's the SAME guy from last year. I knew it the second I saw him. And he has to go and flash me on my first return to the park?! What is WITH this sicko!? And just like last time, I turned to my friend and said "Okay, yeah, so that guy totally just pulled his dick out of his shorts. This is a family place!" Next time, I'm gonna throw food at it so the pigeons peck off his pecker.

I can't help feel like this is some sort of groundhog's day. "Look folks! Penis has a shadow! 6 more weeks of summer!"

my friends the spammers.

So, like the rest of the world's email account holders, I have been receiving a lot of spam lately. For a while I had the spam filter on, and things quieted down. But then I started job hunting again, and bouncing my prospective employers with a less-than-friendly reminder not to spam my ass, so I had to turn it back off. So now that the spam is rolling back in again, I have taken a new approach with it: keeping track of the funniest auto-generated titles.

• My buddy Josh Childs sent me one with To sign go stoneless perceptible as a subject. I liked this one because I think it's brilliant for anyone (or anything) to make "stoneless perceptible" a phrase. If I use it, it sounds brilliant, and if people try to figure out what I mean, they get confused, believing I must be even more brilliant if I get it. So when someone now asks me "How's work? How's that idiot boss of yours?" I simply respond, "Oh, you know. He's the same stoneless perceptible."


• Homegirl Joanna Hall sent me one about my shady past patriot petersburg. It was one of those word plays that confuses my overly syntactical mind. Shady past? Shady patriot from the past? Petersburg the shady patriot from the past? I assumed it's about some guy named Peter Sburg who was at one time impotent, but now thanks to the cheap prescription offers in the email, is no longer in the shady past, but is rather a sexual patriot. That must be it.


• Edwin Hubbard seems to know something I don't in his email entitled High octane Stocks desecrate willie. The first thing I thought was, "Ow. Poor willie." It can't feel good to be desecrated, by stocks or otherwise. And high octane stocks?? Damn. Poor willie. But I do wonder...whose willie are we talking about? Is it Edwin's? And if so, why is he advertising his own desecration?


• My favorite pair of spam-mails were from Alberto Serrano, offering Love tabs that helps you stay on top, made funnier by the follow-up email from Andrew, correctly reminding me that Alberto said hi. How did Andrew know Alberto said hi? They must know each other. Or maybe Andrew was the one on top.


• And lastly, today's gem of the day, a quick chance to re-deliver my childhood: Beau McConnell's sweet offer of Pony Rides - 25 cents - 2 for 50! dredge bobbin. Now, I'm assuming that Dredge Bobbin is the horse's name. It sounds like something you'd hear over the PA system at the Kentucky Derby. "And they're coming around the bend! Neck and neck! It's gonna be a photo finish and...and!! It's Dredge Bobbin ladies and gents!" So what a bargain, 25 cents! And I assume I don't need any sort of membership card to get the special 2 for 50 deal. Beau really knows what a girl wants. Pony rides.

student loan blues.

All those years of being woken up at 7am on a Sunday morning by my father's pimped out stereo system blasting the Sunday Morning Blues Hour at a volume so high it would shake frames off the walls are finally paying off. With a little imagined bass, and a little saxophone, and absolutely no harmonica renditions whatsoever, I present to you my Student Loan Blues....

(BAH buh, BAH buh ,BAH buh, BAH buh, BAH bow now now)
When I went to school, I took out a loan.
I said when I went to school, I took out a loan.
And every month I pay it, and I cry and moan.

Now I'm back in school, takin' out more loans.
I said I'm back in school, takin' out more loans.
I got an education, but it's me they own.

Now the goddam feds, go and fuck with the rates.
I say those goddam feds, they gotta fuck with my rates.
Jumpin' it up two whole points, so I must consolidate.

The lady on the phone, she said "Girl, you gonna owe."
The lady on the phone, now, she said "Girl, you gonna owe. And you know."
And I said "Ho, I'm so low, but I gotta reap what I sow."

So she tells me the terms, drafts me for 30 more years.
I said "You gotta be kiddin', I'm in up to my ears.
I'll be a damn grandmother before the end is near."

So that's my story, and I know I ain't alone.
This whole country fulla debt, buncha graduates lettin' out a groan.
And the only way out is a shiny new headstone.
(BAH buh, BAH buh ,BAH buh, BAH buh, BAH bow waaaaaaaaw.)
Oh yeah.

"Must...control...fist...of death!!"

I'm having one of those "on the verge" moments. I'm either about to scream, punch someone, or write a lot. OOOoooooh am I MAD!!

I just had a meeting with my boss and 8 other editors. At this meeting, I presented to my boss the 3-page list of issues and complaints that I have compiled from the 8 other editors regarding a new online database we are about to unveil.

So I gave him the list, and distributed copies to the editors. Bossman started to read through the items out loud, one at a time, until he got to something that clearly confused his pea-sized idiot brain, most likely due to the fact that he shanks all responsibilities and had no context for the terminology on the list.

"Is this English?" he asked, laughing in mockery amidst my peers. I bit my tongue and tried to decapitate him with the strength of my dirty glare. "What is this improper syntax? What horrible writing. Can someone please help Stephanie re-write this so it's readable?"

I bit my lip, sighed, and rolled my eyes as I crossed my arms.

"I'll do it. Myself." I said, every word dripping with disgust.

There are many things that I am not. I am not a superstar athlete. I am not a high-ranking public official. I am not an accomplished attorney. But what I AM....what I AM is a writer. I KNOW my syntax. I KNOW my grammar. I do NOT need someone to re-write ANYTHING penned by my hand. THIS MUCH I KNOW.

Now I have officially HAD IT. I can ignore (while silently documenting) the improper stares at my breasts. I can ignore (while suspecting wildly) the alleged intra-office drug deals exchanged in mysterious brown envelopes. I can even look past the complete lack of management skills or editorial function. BUT DO NOT CHALLENGE MY WRITING!!

He's going down in a fiery ball of despicable, inappropriate fury. PERIOD.

the conversion.

People have differing opinions on what makes a person a New Yorker. Some say it's attitude, some say it's length of residency. By some standards, I'm there, and by others I'm not. But regardless, today I had a frightening New Yorker realization.

What was it that tipped me off? Was it the swift and agile grace I exercised when bolting for the subway as the doors were closing, knowing exactly how much time I had and when to turn sideways to slide in at the last second?

Was it the way I pointed without hesitation (and without slowing down) when a tourist on the street asked me which direction 32nd Street was?

Maybe it was how I didn't feel the slightest bit bad about plowing into and walking away from some idiot woman who stopped suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk, obstructing the flow of foot traffic so she could dig for her phone?

The culmination of all these things brought me to my moment. On my way to a 3-hour class after working a 9+hour day, I popped in my earphones to drown out the city while I jammed to various mp3s on the subway, which I rode steadily and around corners without the need to hold on. When I got off the train I checked my voicemail, and dialed a return call to my aunt. I was still on the phone with her, with one musical earphone still blasting Black Eyed Peas in the other ear, when I looked up through my sunglasses and ordered my Grande Java Chip Frappacino No Cream from the woman at Starbucks.

Fucking Starbucks.

But...at least I don't have an iPod.

itchy twitchy witchy

This could totally be one of those things that was only funny to me but...

Yesterday I spent the day cleaning and moving things and installing my air conditioner and trying to ignore the snow-like pollen that was falling outside (and actually accumulating into piles 6 or 7 inches high on the sidewalks). This is all very bad for my allergies, and even though I take and love my Allegra, you just can't fight dust elephants and New York car exhaust and other general ick that, when stirred up, makes me sneezy.

So after several hours of this, I turned on the TV to chill out. I watched a little Extreme Makeover, and when a commercial came on, I walked away to get a drink. For the gazillionth time that day, I scrunched up my face and wiggled my itchy nose, except this time it was perfectly synchronized with the familiar "dittle dittle dit" of Samantha's spell-casting nose in Bewitched coming from the television.

I laughed at the coincidence quite heartily for several moments, and then I sneezed.

street meat

In New York, there are two kinds of street meat:

1) The men and women of the city who receive stares, hoots, hollers, whistles, cat-calls, mental undressing, gropes, molestations, and sexual solicitations on the streets on a daily basis.

2) The "greek" lamb, chicken, or beef you can get with yellow or brown rice, onions, and white and/or hot sauce (all for just $3.75!) from a little metal shack on wheels located on the sidewalk every 2 blocks or so in busy corporate neighborhoods.

Today for lunch, I had a little of both.

First, the phone call with my typical lunch buddy who we'll call Enrique:
Me: (dialing.)
Enrique: "Yes?"
Me: "I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"
Enrique: "Is it lunchtime?"
Me: "Yes. I'm hungry."
Enrique: "Okay, where should we go today?"
Me: "I don't know. Where do you want to go?"
Enrique: "I want chicken from across the street. I saw someone get it, so I want it."
Me: "What do you mean 'across the street'? Where?"
Enrique: "You know, across the street. If you don't want it, we can walk. You can get a sandwich or some pizza. Do you want pizza?"
Me: "I don't know. What do you want?"
Enrique: "Chicken from across the street. Do you want that?"
Me: "I don't know. Sounds risky. I'm afraid of street meat?"
Enrique: "What?"
Me: "Street meat."
Enrique: "What are you saying? String beans?"
Me: "STREET. MEAT."
Enrique: "Treat me?"
Me: "S T R E E T. M E A T!!!"
Enrique: "Just meet me at the elevator."

So anyhow, Enrique and I got in the elevator, went down and outside, where we realized it's actually a bit chilly outside. But he pointed at the metal cart with orange panels, and the two soup-nazi-esque men coordinating orders.

"Street meat," I told him.
"Oh, is that what you were saying? You talk too fast. You left out the S."
"Um, I don't think I did, but whatever. Let's walk."

So we walk quickly around the block, where I decide that I too will try the street meat. This, for me, is a Very Big Risk. Due to various allergies and intolerances, new foods are very scary to me. But I decide to try it anyway, and chance the visit from the EDF. So we round the block, chatting, and that's when I saw the other street meat:

Enrique: "...so my wife then says that we should definitely look into the new apartment..."
Me: "WOW."
Enrique: "...and I am supposed to call the lady today and tell her we want it..."
Me: "That guy is HOT."
Enrique: "...I'm not sure if we can move right away or if we need to take a few more weeks..."
Me: "Holy SHIT. Did you SEE him?" (looking now over shoulder at delicious bald black man)
Enrique: "...because it depends on whether we can get out of our current lease..."
Me: "DAMN. He was FINE."
Enrique: "...but I think we will be fine if I just speak to the landlord...do you want chicken?"

And thus I ordered chicken on yellow rice, with onions (yumm), and white sauce/hold the hot. And I ate it. And it was tasty. And it's been approximately 48 minutes and there's no sign of intestinal disruption. YET.

But I still think I should have taken my chances with the delicious bald black man instead--no hot sauce necessary.