PacMan Attacks!!!

I can only pray for the day I'm witness to this in person.

Your St. Patty's Day Pot Of Gold

It'll take a few pints of Guiness to erase that vision from your mind, I know. Just stick with the good stuff and leave the green beer to the frat boys, dear readers.

Thx Hoobie!

One Outta Three Ain't Bad

The last few times Accuweather forcast snow, well, let's just say their inaccuracy was off the radar. Imagine my surprise during lunch when I stepped out to an actual snowfall. No worries, I thought, as I carefully and quickly manuevered to and fro my favorite lunch spot in my new suede knee-high Calvin Klein wedge-heeled boots. The snow squall was bound to pass soon, like the freak bursts The Manfriend and I encountered on Sunday passing over the Brooklyn Bridge.

The sidewalks greeting me in the West Village when I left work told a different story. Not wanting to ruin my new CKs, I searched under my desk for a replacement footwear option. Shoes accumulate under my desk like mad. I always keep a pair of flip flops handy for the forgotten mani/peddie lunch appointment and since 9/11, there's always some sort of a comfortable shoe I can walk the few miles home in if need be. Since I've made it through the crunch of Planning Season (much like accountants have late night after late night during tax season, media professionals have a similar hell that lasts a couple of months), I've been cleaning up my office and get back to some sense of order by purging wayward magazines, forgotton holiday rep gifts and the sea of shoes collecting dust under the desk. Just the night before, in fact, I brought home my gym shoes and wellies.

Unfortuntately, my only remaining options to commute home in were a pair of red leather Marc Jacobs boots, beforementioned flipflops or black leather four inch stacked wood wedge heels. I opted for the heels and slowly (oh so slowly!) made my way through the unshoveled sidewalks of the West Village to the F train and to my apartment in Carroll Gardens.

There were only a handful of storefronts in either the Village or Brooklyn that saw fit to shovel their sidewalks. When I passed 3rd Place (which by the way was quite beautiful - it's amazing how a layering of snow can completely transform the city's look) I knew I was home free.

Third Place, Brooklyn

And the shoes? They'll soon dry. According to Accuweather, we're in for a warm up. Which means the shoes will likely return to their comrades under my desk within days.

You Couldn't Pay Me To Do It....Again

Twelve years ago tonight, when I was but a wee Freshman in college (Jesus, has it really been that long?), I did something utterly stupid and yet, incredible. A once in a lifetime kind of thing. As in, no way in hell would I ever do it again.

I 'did' Times Square on New Years Eve.

Normally I avoid that stretch of the city like The Plague. Unless there's orchestra seats involved, you won't find me within a ten block radius of Dante's eighth layer of inferno. Back then though, my love affair with New York was still in it's courting phase and I seized upon any opportunity to discover more about where I would come to call home.

From the moment we stepped outside Penn Station and pushed our way through the throngs of tripping Phisheads (Phish used to have a lock on the annual Madison Square Garden New Year's Eve show. FYI, Chris Rock is this year's headlining act.), I knew we were in for a wild ride. Realizing there was no better way to make it to the ball dropping than by hoofing it, we stocked up on 40s purchased with fake IDs and claimed our spot in the street just outside the barricade that surrounded the 'official' Times Square Rocking New Year's Eve.

Back then, I had no idea where I was. I'm pretty sure it must have been between Broadway and Sixth Avenue around 40th Street. When we first got there, our group spread out on the pavement like we were at a picnic. There were drinking games and all the usual college festivities (read: drugs). We made friends with newcomers and counted down the hours until the real fun was to begin.

Fast forward to about 11:15 or so. Our group is now crammed up against one another and swaying with the crowd. People are pissing where they are standing or against any building or semblance of cover they can find (damn those 40s) as all the surrounding businesses smartly shuttered their doors and pulled down the metal guards. Bottles were flying through the air and what cops were visible were trying, in vain, to coax a couple of jerk offs down from the roof of some poor fool's car.

It was chaos. Insanity. Incredible. I loved every minute of it.

I wasn't even sure we'd know when the ball itself was dropping as we didn't have a clear vantage point of the main area. In fact, at that point, I didn't even know WHERE Time's Square was. But all of a sudden, the chaos transitioned into elation. The sway of the crowd began moving in tempo with Auld Lang Syne which thousands and thousands of people were now singing along to. Total strangers were hugging and kissing. Everyone was ecstatic. I've never felt a surge of kinship like that.

Not even a minute later, chaos returned. Angrier, uglier and more brutal this time. Now, you had thousands and thousands of pissed off people trying to get out of a tiny space. People were drunk, had to pee, didn't know where they were going. Cops were suddenly everywhere and pretty briskly going about their business.

We ended up dancing the night away at Phoebe's in the Village.

Every year since, I cringe when I see the shots of Times Square. Well, cringe then smile. But no. You couldn't pay me to do it again.

Oh Marc, Say It Isn't So

Apparently the newly blue hued locks, posing nude in Out and his on-again/off-again/on-again love affair with boy toy Jason Preston aren't the only recent brainfarts of Marc Jacobs. Rumored for months and officially announced today, is the cringe-worthy news that Victoria Beckham, aka She of the Robot Tits, will star in this Spring's Marc Jacobs campaign.

Vuitton would have been the better choice but who are we to decipher MJ's inner workings. This is the man who single handily created Grunge, appalled the industry by sending an "Attack of the Pod People" down the runway a couple of years back - which in turn begot the voluminous fashions gracing every female retail outlet for the past four seasons and has managed to charm and delight Anna Wintour for half of my life.

But Posh? Seriously? I don't want to like her, Marc. I have refused to buy into her campaign to be THE IT GIRL in America. I don't even lust after her lust worthy hubby.

If she's your new muse, I'm not so sure I can continue buying into (and acquiring far more than I can afford) the irreverent attitude the Marc Jacobs line has represented. I hung with you through the whole almost-bordering-on-creepy Dakota ads, but this...this may just be too much.

For now I'll keep mum until the ads are inevitably leaked, but consider yourself warned.

My Favorite Halloween Gaud

Ever since the Manfriend and I began our long distance relationship (he lives across the Hudson in Jersey), I've been able to observe Suburban Life. One thing that particularly tickles my funny bone is the ornate and increasingly idiotic ways people decorate their lawns. Don't get me wrong, I've seen all kinds of crap crammed into the the 10x12 lots my fellow Brooklynites call front yards, but the lawns of this particular part of Jersey continue to amaze me.

Granted, some homeowners have clearly taken pride in doing up their yards with beautiful mums, scarecrows and plump pumpkins resting on stacks of hay. And then there's just plain tackiness. I'm talking about those people who smother every form of landscaping with that horrid green or black faux spiderweb stuff. Also, when did the dangly icicle Christmas lights mutate for other seasons?

But I save my utter disdain for the worst of the suburban decorating set, and I use that term loosely. I'm speaking of course about those lazy homeowners who deem it appropriate to throw some 6x4 blowup character on their lawn and call it a day. When I first saw these appear circa the Christmas of '00, I knew in my gut the damn things would be taking over otherwise respectable looking communities for which a driver's licence is mandatory for survival.

Upon spotting one of these hideous incarnations, I point with glee from the passenger seat of Manfriend's hybrid. The spiders are just stupid. The witch, mummy and vampire squished into a pumpkin doesn't get my fur up like the giant gaudy Shreks, but I save outright laughter for the mentally deranged product at the top of this post: Elmo hugging a pumpkin stack.

It's genius lies in it's simplicity and resourcefulness. I mean come on, could it be any more obvious how the damn thing was invented? Some factory spit out a deformed batch of Elmo/Snowman figures and the brains of the operation had himself an aha! moment: Lets just dye 'em orange and smack some silly jacko-smiles on each ball creating a whole new product for Halloween. The executives at Wal-Mart will love 'em!

While I've only spotted two to date, I practically make the Manfriend stalk the streets they're on and have made a mental note of the addresses. Why? Christmas is right around the corner! I am dying to know if they have the matching originals. Care to bet?

Boys Will Be Boys

When the producers screwed up my new favorite Weatherman Chris Allen's green screen, he reverted to classic adolescent form.

Dude's from Kentucky. Go figure.

Thx Dlisted!

Finally!

I've been on pins and needles the past couple of weeks with fingers and toes crossed hoping for the happy outcome announced today: Mr. Met has been inducted into the Mascot Hall of Fame!

I'm sure Mrs. Met and the lil' Mets will all be on hand in that neon orange and blue atrocity (whose days are numbered) in the near future to pummel overly eager fans with t-shirts to mark the occasion.

Congrats, Mr. Met. You've earned it!

Thanks Google!

Working in media, I am the recipient of all kinds of gifts from sales reps. Most are mundane - Godiva, books, beach towels, etc. A few have stood out: American flag lapel pin from Tiffany's (right after 9/11), Brita from Fast Company (their 'green' issue) and you always take meetings with golf reps in hopes they bring such bad ass umbrellas that even hurricane gusts won't flip those suckers inside out.

Today I received a promo gift that made my inner child light up. The literature says "When you build, think big. #1 in Global Search. #1 Worldwide Reach. #1 Online Video Community: You Tube. Google has your building blocks. Together, lets snap things into place."

Accompanying this was a sack of oversize Lego's.

Love me some LEGO'S!

Screw working. I'm off to play with them now...

The Hoff Has His Moment

After hearing Howard Stern blast the trashtastic crooning of our beloved Hasselhoff on last night's America's Got Talent Finale, I have been trolling the internet to find video of this most compelling bit of entertainment.

The 2:20 and 3 minute marks are my favorite parts.

Enjoy!

Is There Anything Better Than The Site Of This After A Long Trip?

Well, yes...there's this:

I've had my luggage lost twice before; once on a return flight from Miami and once while in Europe. Both times paperwork was easily filled out and a reunion with wayward bags occurred within 24 hours. The Miami misplacement even landed me a boyfriend (who's since gone the wayward way himself).

Now when I tell you Iberia Airlines sucks the sweat off a dead man's dick, it's the most polite way I can communicate how I feel about this company's customer service.

There were two stages to my latest European Adventure: London and Pamplona. My friend (the ex-Soviet) is currently living in London. I was to fly there to see him and spend a day or so hanging out in the capital before we flew to Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls.

Stage I: London Lovin'
In Stage I, American Airlines was my ride. There were no issues whatsoever with AA. In fact, I heart AA merely for the ride home to New York on which there were about 50 or so African refugees traveling with us. Due to their special dietary concerns, the crew was unable to serve us the beef entree and we had to make due with chicken. The chicken would've been my choice anyway, but when the profusely apologetic attendant agrees to comp you and the funny, Chipolte-craving, Hawaii-bound handsome Marine seated next to you on his way back from Iraq free drinks, you jump at the chance to milk her empathy for all it's worth - in this case two chardonnays and two Amstel Lights respectively. Between the engaging conversation and quick catnap, seven hours never flew so fast (pun intended).


Stage II: Pamplona Party
Stage II consisted of the X-Sov and I attending the annual San Fermin Festival in Pamplona, Spain. While the goings-on which occurred there are worthy of a solomente post (upcoming once X-Sov sends digital pics), the pertinent part is that we flew to the fiesta via Iberia Airlines, Spain's national carrier.

Pamplona boasts an airport smaller than the American Airlines baggage claim area at JFK. It only has two 'gates' which open to a big parking lot you walk across to the small plane which deposits and whisks passengers to and fro Barcelona, Madrid and Ibiza. X-Sov and I arrived the standard two hours prior for an international departure on Monday, July 9th. We were the first to check in for our flight and I placed my black rolling suitcase on the check in scale. We then checked his bag and my additional piece of luggage.

Our flight took off as planned for Barcelona where we were slated for a five hour layover. The layover extended to seven hours. Once we finally boarded and were all belted in, the captain came over the loudspeakers and announced that due to the late timing, we were not going to be able to land in Heathrow as planned due to the "curfew" the city enforces. [OK - what the fuck, one of the busiest international airports shuts down at 11:30pm???] No problem, the bags are on board and wherever we end up landing, we'll just collect and head our way back to Westminster.

Upon landing in Lutin (WTF? WhereTF?), we head to baggage claim. Mind you it's now about 2am BST. This tiny shit airport is already basically closed down, as is the Tube, trains, etc. Bags start spilling out onto the conveyor belt. I happily pick up the second bag I checked and X-Sov retrieves his. Funny - shouldn't my black suitcase have come out first as it was the first one to be placed on board?

...

20 minutes later I ask one of the baggage guys if there was another truck of luggage we're waiting on. There is not.

FUCK.

I approach the crew and explain my situation. The place where I'd fill out the necessary forms is closed down - not to mention we're at THE WRONG AIRPORT. And, I'm leaving for the States the next morning. (er, in a few hours). I hear them out and will speak to British Air once at Heathrow in the am. (Iberia and BA have some sort of a partnership. The plane and crew we flew from Barcelona from were actually BA, not Iberian).

A few hours later I am helpfully informed by a BA agent at the customer service counter "You're looking at a nightmare." I'm then informed that my best course of action is to wait until I return to NY and file all necessary paperwork to initiate the process of returning lost luggage which I took an hour to do after landing at JFK with the American Airlines desk who also seemed to represent Iberia, British Airways and the like.

It's four days later and here's where we are:

1. After three separate calls to British Airways I've finally been informed that it's not their problem and they, while partners with Iberia and despite being the actual carrier I flew in the second leg of the return flight to London - um LUTIN, have nothing to do with the process.

2. After spending hours on hold over two days with no one answering the Customer Service help desk at Iberia, I finally get a human on the line and although they have my flight info, the bag's ID number and the case file from American Airlines, I am haughtedly then angerly informed that they will not help me as I filed forms with American Airlines. She spat out that I should go to JFK and start the process again. When I protest and respectfully suggest that their London agent speak to AA's London agent as this was their fault for losing the luggage in the first place, the punta hung up on me. Seriously. Bitch hung up on me. When I called back and got her supervisor, he was just as nasty. Fucker.

3. Thank God for American Airlines. Even though they have nothing to do with all the bullshit that went wrong, they're looking out for me like the Embassy would. The NY office is now working with their London office to stalk the Iberian assholes and try to retrieve my wayward bag. They've also gently hinted that it may come to simply getting a check (worth about 1/3 of what the value of the items I can remember are packed in there - some of which are irreplaceable), but they'll do everything in their power to resolve this as quickly as possible.

Bottom line? It's good to be home. God bless America and God bless AA.

Hell Yeah!

One of my magazine reps sent an email last week asking if I'd like to take a Trapeze class. Hell Yeah! was my first thought. Last night was the day of reckoning. Walking up to the site, my heart was pounding loud enough I was sure the trainers could hear it. As I climbed the two story tall ladder with the wind whipping off the Hudson River, what the hell are you doing was the only thought running through my mind. Once on the platform and all 'chalked up' I got into position. Luckily the guy up there was not the sentimental sort. Tough love was the only thing that was going to get my petrified ass to defy logic and grab at a pole just out of reach, bend my knees and 'bunny hop' off the platform and into the air.

In all honesty, the first time he yelled "HEP!" (meaning GO), I couldn't do it. Then I thought - come on Z! You're all the way up here and when else does an opportunity like this come along? Holymotheroffuckballs...and I was off!

At this point Tough Love yelled at me to bring my legs up over the bar. "That's not going to happen!" I decreed as in the wonder of it all, my knees came up to my chest and up over the bar. I released my hands.

I'm doing it! OH MY GOD I'm actually DOING IT!!!

After a few runs, I learned that I'd qualifed for "The Catch". This involves getting your timing exactly right - first swing forward you need to get your legs up and over the bar, on the swing back you need to release your arms, next swing forward you need to trust a complete stranger with your life and limbs.

OhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygod...

Can we do that again? (Did I also mention the dude was smokin hot with abs and forearms of steel???)

Totally something I'd do again.

Wedwatch 2007: Animal Luvin'

Mr. Alifi of Sudan was woken by a strange loud noise the eve before Valentine's Day. He ran outside to discover its source only to find Mr. Tombe getting some loving from Alifi's goat.

The Juba Post reports Alifi as saying: "When I asked him: 'What are you doing there?', he fell off the back of the goat, so I captured and tied him up."

Naturally! What else should you do upon discovering some dude boinking your livestock?

Alifi then consulted The Elders who advised he not bring the man to police but to instead settle the situation in a most practical manner. They gave Tombe the animal and charged him a dowry "because he used it as his wife."

"As far as we know they are still together," Mr Alifi said.

Justice served and apparently everyone's a winner. Except maybe the goat...

Source: BBC

Stupid Idea Of The Day

ABC is seriously considering putting a sitcom on primetime based on the annoying-ass-cavemen in the Geico commercials.

According to TMZ, "the show would revolve around three pre-historic men who must battle prejudice as they live their day-to-day lives in modern Atlanta."

Excuse me, I just vomited in my mouth a little...