More Shameless Self-Promotion

I am now, officially, one hundred percent published. I guess this means I should start thinking about graduating or something.

One Fish, Two Fish...

... three fish, six fish, a frickin' dozen fish. I just don't understand it. I've spent the better half of the last month trying to keep my fish from dying. Now I can't keep them from multiplying. Damn live breeders.

Jésus, The Passion of the, Book II

...When we last left our heroes they were trying to get an outdoor table at lunchtime on a Saturday at Stephanie's on Newberry St. while waiting for Monanna to arrive from Portsmouth.

Which was fine. There was a killer wait so it gave us time to a) wait for Monanna, b) make fun of all the poorly dressed Bostonians, and c) make up fun nicknames for Mon, like "Little Miss Slut-Slut" and "Saltfucker", which of course we planned to use liberally.

As it was, by the time our table was ready (an hour later), Little Miss Slut-Slut hadn't showed up yet. The hostess graciously sat us at a two-top she'd turned into a three-top. Shortly after we ordered and were drinking our sangria, who strolls up but Wham Bam Dawson. And who is in tow? A really buff (but kind of short) Bolivian wearing a soccer jersey and grinning madly. Oh joy. She brought the sailor along. Ahoy, thar, Jésus! Blimey, we ain't got you a seat!

The hostess comes running over. To give us an extra chair, perhaps? Nah, she just politely (and by politely I mean as if I'd just shat on her foot) said that we weren't even sitting at a three-top; she'd merely done us a favor since we'd waited so long by turning the two into a three and there was no way she could make it a four. And then she walked away! Did she offer us a solution? Another table perhaps? A two-top for LMSS and the Brazilian? Nope. She just walked away.

So Mon took the chair and the sailor sat on the ground. Our waiter came up to us, completely nonplussed. Ahoy! You maties want to order some chow? There was no offer of a seat. Which was just as well because it was easier to ignore the sailor on the ground while we pumped Little Miss Slut-Slut for, um, information. Turns out, she couldn't find her friend at the Hong Kong so she left and stumbled upon another bar where she met the Mexican sailor (in full uniform) and some cops. Long story short (too late) she leaves her purse at one of the bars and by the end of the night decided she was tired and wanted to go to bed. When Jésus offers to take her home she is completely incapable of remembering where she lives and insists she needs somewhere to sleep. Obviously the answer is Portsmouth, New Hampshire. So away they went!

I graciously buy the sailor lunch (he only orders clam chowder and an iced tea) because he got my Monanna home relatively safe. After lunch he returns the favor by offering to drive us to Cambridge. He follows us into Mon's apartment where he gets to meet her gay linguist roommate, Tim (ahoy Tim!). Tim informs us that the bar called him (of all people) to tell him that someone named Monanna, who they hope he knows, left her purse. Jésus graciously offers to take us there. Now, Tim could have, but Jésus is being nice. All things beginning to be sorted, Jésus asks what we are all doing today. Making dinner and going out is our response. He has, at this point, say 5pm, made no move to go back to Portsmouth. He must have nothing to do. A few awkward moments later, Wham Bam Dawson invites him for dinner. Ahoy, he accepts! Apparently this man has nothing else in the world to do.

Now, at this point, I'm not quite sure if this little Ecuadorian knows what he's getting himself into. We are making dinner, but we aren't a bunch of guys hanging around grilling steaks. No, we had artichokes, and pureed leeks and caulifluor, and Tim was able to pull of an impromptu cheese platter with no less than eight cheeses although he sent us out to the store because we absolutely positively had to have a hard Basque sheep's milk cheese or the platter would be ruined. Ruined! Oh, and Larry insisted on making strawberry rhubarb glaze for the ice cream. Jésus slept until it was dinnertime, which was great because we could mock him openly. Not that we weren't mocking him (and Mon, of course) openly when he was around. It's just a felt a little better about doing it behind his back.

Meanwhile two more guest arrived, Andy the gay biologist and Bob the gay literary theorist. Jésus emerged from the living room (ahoy!) to a bunch of queers munching on cheese and looking at soft-core porn. Well, actually we were looking at the website of the club we were going to, Manray, and I was trying to find men for Andy (who's been a bit hard-up lately, if you ask me). We also passed the time by mocking Rainbow Frite, our supposed "hostess" for the evening, who looked like the hideous offspring of Divine and a Care Bear. Shortly thereafter, Mon asked us if we were going to change.

At that moment a flicker of light sparked behind Jésus's dim, dim eyes. Gay men. Clubbing. Rainbow Frite. "Um, are you guys going to dress up in women's clothes?" Bob got very indignant. But it was apparently a valid question because, um, Jésus was making no move for the door. That is, um, he was going clubbing with us.

The club was ok. There were no drugs, which bothered Tim an awful lot, and there was a horrible drag show and it was ostensibly not gay night. I drank a lot of overpriced, watered down drinks from over-skinny over-tattooed 19 year old heroin addict bartenders who refused to flirt with me even though I was stylin'. By the end of the night I think we were all actively ignoring the Columbian lap-dog that had been following Little Miss Slut-Slut around all day. Apparently he had no where better to be than hanging out with a bunch of gay men in a cheesy 19-and-over club in Cambridge. He watched the entire drag show with utter fascination.

I won't actively bitch about having to sleep on the floor because Jésus was still around but, um, I had to sleep on the motherf*cking floor because that goddamn sailor was around! But, the killer was the next morning. We're all sitting around, having coffee and getting ready to go to Sunday brunch and I'm praying, just praying that Jésus will finally leave. In the middle of a discussion on terror activity in the Sudan, another one of those rare flicker moments happens and Jésus leaps up (ahoy!)

He ran to his phone to make a call. You see, apparently Jésus had some sort of authority role in the military and one of his 18yo underlings was waiting in the Manchester airport because he was having flight issues getting back to base. He was waiting for Jésus, as his commanding officer, to come to the airport and sort everything out. They were supposed to meet Saturday afternoon. The same afternoon he'd been following us around aimlessly without a care in the world. Get that, kiddies? He spent twenty-four hours lounging around with a bunch of queers doing nothing particularly exciting without anywhere else to be. Except, um, HE HAD SOMEWHERE ELSE TO BE! Somewhere very IMPORTANT. Some poor kid had to sleep in an airport because Jésus (ahoy) wanted to give his little sailor some more attention. He spent an entire day annoying the ever-living shit out of me, and HE HAD SOMEWHERE TO BE! Now, we've all thought with our dicks before but this one, this one takes the cake. It's no wonder he's currently in a custody battle with his ex.

But perhaps I'm griping a bit too much. He did provide me with much entertainment. Not as much as Wham Bam Dawson, perhaps, but enough. As it is, Little Miss Slut-Slut is visiting me this weekend and my boyfriend is away. So if you know any sailors I could hook-up with so she's forced to sleep on the floor, you can pass them along. Karma will thank you.

THE END

P.S. I love you Monanna. You're my number one monkey...

Happy Earth Day!

Well, here in New York, it's a beautiful day for Earth Day; it's warm, balmy but with a nice breeze. Perfect day to poison pigeons in the park, which to me is the best way to celebrate the Earth. The faster we drive those hideous flying rodents to extinction the easier I can sleep at night.

But if you don't find poisoning pigeons particularly pleasant or pacifying, I suggest you indulge in the latest culinary craze: offal. Yes, what better way (um, besides wanton distruction of rock doves) to celebrate the Earth and all it has to offer than by eating, um, all it has to offer...

But if that doesn't pique your interest, and you don't like picking up hypos on the beach with your bare hands, you can merely passively relish in the fact that the Earth is actually getting cleaner and cleaner. Now, this doesn't mean we have to stop trying to do better, but looking at the numbers is reassuring. And we don't have to irrationally worry about our environment. It just means that, while we should always remember Mother Earth, we also need to keep in mind what everyone knows and no one wants to admit, Kyoto just sucked.

It's 4/20...

... do you know where your bong is? Of course you don't. It's National Smoke Weed Day and you've been stoned to bejesus since you woke up so you probably can't even find your dick right about now. You've spent the day pouring over old dog-earred copies of High Times and trying to figure out what's so special about 420 (answer, it doesn't fucking matter). You'd listen to Sublime but your only CD is stuck in your burnt out iMac, so you probably had to settle for Phish or some Dead on cassette. You thought you'd get creative for lunch, which is how you ended up with the ham, broccoli and Easy Mac sandwich. And you still can't find your bong.

Anyway, you're not alone and that's not a bad thing. Neither is that short-term memory loss. Turns out scientists (God bless them) are constantly finding wonderful new and improved uses for cannabis, some of them involving, um, memory loss.

Jésus, The Passion of the, Book I

(Note: All names have been changed to protect the guilty, and really we are all guilty of something.)

It all started out like a normal weekend; a long bus ride to Boston. The boy and I were staying at the Westin in Copley on Friday and were planning to stay with Monanna on Saturday. We met up with Mon at a friend's for meat-on-sticks, awkward sexual tension between Mon and Francis and the Sox game. Then we met up with Andy at a place called The Purple Shamrock, the coochiest frat bar I've ever been to, filled with lite-n-spikeys, hemp necklaces and the absolute worst wedding band I'd ever heard.

Monanna and Andy left to meet up with another friend and Larry and I went back to the hotel for some, um, pinochle. Our plan was for Monanna to pick us up at the Starbucks on Boyleston at noon the next day. After a relaxing evening of, um, pinochle, we hauled our luggage to the 'Bucks and waited, a little worried because I couldn't get ahold of Mon on her cell. Knowing her all too well, I figured she'd passed out from partying and had overslept. Reliable she is but on time she is not. No matter, I had my caramel macchiato and a good view of a bunch of overweight men trying to build the finish line for the marathon.

Sometime after noon a 'Bucks employee comes up to us and says, "Excuse me, are either one of you Larry or Michael?"

"Why, yes," we say, "We both are." He hands us a phone. Apparently we have a call. At Starbucks. I'm beginning to feel like a celebrity.

Larry fields the call. It's, of course, Monanna. She left her cell phone and purse at a bar last night and didn't have my phone number. Or her money or ID. She'll be about an hour. She wants us to meet her on Newberry Street at Stephanie's for lunch. The Starbucks employee is hovering over us as if the second we get done with the call we're going to bolt down the street with his phone.

Larry gives the phone back and looks at me intently. "I really wish you'd talked to her." I ask why. "Well," he replies, "Apparently she woke up this morning in a hotel room. With a sailor. In Portsmouth." Beat. "New Hampshire." My first thought was not, 'Oh my God,' or 'How did this happen?' or 'What was she thinking?' No, my first thought was, 'well, this one's new.'

I immediately call Andy: "Um, what did you do last night after we left?"
"Monanna lost her earring so we spent a half hour last night looking for it, then I went home. Why?"
"Apparently that's not all she lost."
"Excuse me?"
"So where did she go after you left?"
"The Hong Kong, I think."
"By herself?"
"Yes, why?"
"So you have no idea how she ended up in a hotel room with a sailor in New Hampshire?"
Pause. "Excuse me?"

Larry and I are now left to ponder a few things: Exactly how did Mon (aka Wham Bam Dawson) end up in Portsmouth? If she had no purse, how was she getting back? And how did she think she'd get to us in an hour? And when she did, would she have transportation to get us to Cambridge or were we going to have to drag all of our luggage through the T? And how did the Starbucks employee know exactly who we were?

However, I am quickly distracted from our predicament by the sight a few tables over. I point it out to Larry, who cries a bit too loudly, "Holy shit." A sixty year old bald queen is sitting at one of the tables. He is wearing brown loafers, checkered golf pants, a navy mock turtleneck and Andy Warhol glasses. This, in and of itself, is not a "holy shit" moment. However, sitting on the chair next to him is a My Buddy doll, wearing brown loafers, checkered golf pants, a navy mock turtleneck and Andy Warchol glasses. I kept waiting for Catherine Zeta-Jones to freeze time and hand me a picture phone. At this point there were no words to describe how my weekend was turning out.

As Larry and I strolled over to Newberry, we had no idea what was in store for us...

More Shameless Promotion

In all my ferver over Ben Jelen and not getting my ass whooped, I failed to plug yet another sensational singer-songwriter, this one of the double X variety. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Christina Abbott!

You haven't seen her on MTV, Conan or YM. She's not quite as pretty as Ben. And she's not quite a pianist, either. But maybe you've seen her around the City. Maybe you've seen her in Connecticut (go Black Rock!) Maybe you've seen her at a gay club in Queens in one of the most awkward double blind date thing-a-ma-do-hickies of your entire life (really, I just don't want to get into it). Wherever you may or may not have seen her, you should definitely check her out. Her bluesy, folksy acoustic guitar stylings well worth your while, with or without her band.

Tuesday. May 4. Alibi Lounge. Be there.

Yellin' Fer Ben!

Every now and then I feel obliged to expose people to new things. Today, in the spirit of the Third of the Month, I'm going to expose you to the hottest new WB-themed emo pop pianist (hee hee, he said pianist) to hit the airwaves since, oh, the last WB-themed emo pop pianist. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Ben Jelen!

Why should you buy his album, Give It All Away? Not because he's pretty (he is). Not because he's been featured on TRL, Carson Daly, Craig Kilborn and YM magazine (he has). Not because he's got tremendous talent writing and performing (he does). And not because he's cut a kick-ass track from Hedwig and the Angry Inch (he did). No, you should buy his album because my co-worker, Sonya, will kick the ever-loving shit out of me if I don't actively support his career and quite frankly I like my ever-loving shit exactly where it is. And at least the album is actually worth buying, unlike, say, Neon Nights, so I don't feel that much pressure to recommend it.

Chokeless Chicken

So I tried to get the chicken to celebrate the Third of the Month. He wasn't having any of that... But he did do the Moonwalk for me.

By the Power of Greyskull!

So I got into work late today because I happened to catch Masters of the Universe on HBO this morning and was sucked in. It was such a bad movie but it has that kitchy nostalgia that makes me go "awwww." And there's a stellar cast, too. Dolph Lundgren as a vaguely dim but well-cut He-Man being flogged by Star Wars style light-whips. Hot! (Mel Gibson would've been proud.) Then there's Frank Langella as Skeletor and Meg Foster as Evil-Lyn. Oh, and let's not forget about Courteney Cox. Yes, that Courteney Cox, making her motion picture debut. I wonder why nobody ever asks her about that in interviews.

I will admit, however, it brought up many memories. He-Man was in integral part of my childhood. I still have the He-Man and She-Ra Christmas Special on VHS, where two little Earth kids teach Skeletor the meaning of Christmas. I owned, I kid you not, every single He-Man action figure, vehicle and fortress, as well as the first series of She-Ra (until they got a little too girly). The first A that I got on an essay in college was about He-Man (I'd post it, but my computer died on my last week and I can't remove the Sublime CD that's stuck inside so I'm pretty much screwed).

And then, the best moment of my adolescent life was when I got to meet Skeletor. No, not the cartoon, although if I'd met a cartoon I'd probably be living a lot closer to Bellevue right about now. I met Alan Oppenheimer, who did the voice of Skeletor. When I was 18 I saw him play Cecille B. DeMille in Sunset Boulevard (with Betty Buckley) and asked him to sign my playbill as "Skeletor." Not only did he do it, but he did the Skeletor voice, unprovoked by me, and said "I'll get you He-Man" and then did the Skeletor laugh. I think I pissed my pants. Best day of my life.

Thank you, Mr. Oppenheimer, wherever you are.

From the Mouths of Babes

So I was riding the 6 train around midnight last night and there were a couple of young girls, maybe 7 or 8 years old, in their Easter best, amusing the rest of the train with their loud antics. Their young mother was sitting across from them, attempting to get them to quiet. But they were having none of that. At one point, they began to do one of those hand-clapping, rhyme games ala "Miss Lucy Had a Steamboat," etc.

It kept getting funnier and funnier as the other riders began to stifle full-on guffaws. At one point, their song went like this: "My mom drinks too much alcohol / Now she's peeing down the hall." I laughed out loud. The mother, visibly disturbed, asked through awkward laughter, "Where did you hear that?"

The girl looked her mother right in the eye and without missing a beat answered with a smile, "I made that one up myself."

Size Does Matter

Well, at least if you're a walrus. A recent study has found that mammals that live in colder climates tend to have larger baculi (penis bones) because a greater chance of insemination might provide an evolutionary advantage, as opposed to animals who live in more temperate climates and where physical prowess is a more desired trait:

Longer penis bones may ensure that the male's sperm is inserted closer to the egg, says Ferguson. So a well-hung male is more likely to succeed in becoming a father.

And it's also refreshing to see a prominent and (arguably) reputable science journal use the term "well-hung."

Go Huskies!

Being from Connecticut and having two UConn alumni for parents, I've always had a warm spot for UConn basketball, especially the women. I was senior in high school when Rebecca Lobo led the women through an amazing undefeated season and barely defeating Tennessee in one of the best women's basketball games I've ever watched. A girl I carpooled with and sat at my physics table, Kate, was a huge fan. I think she got to touch Lobo at one point and I had to hear about it for weeks. And that was back when the men hadn't won in, like, ten years or something.

But this year, to have the men and the women win back to back is just pure bliss. Connecticut's had some crappy times lately, what with the government cancelling the Comanche, Chris Dodd acting like Trent Lott and our pig-nosed, heinous governor in the dog house, it's still nice to know that we can excel in something...

A Fool And His Money...

... might be enough to bring about the apocalypse. Or something.

A floating temple of light in the sky? You know, as wacky as it sounds, I'm all for jump-starting peace in the Middle East. And if it brings about the Second Coming then at least I don't have to worry about paying back my student loans.

Happy Third of the Month!

I can never believe how fast the Third of the Month sneaks up on you. It seems like only last month it was the Third of the Month and we were all busy relishing in the beauty that is ourselves. And a lot's happened since then, most of it spendiferous. But the weather seems to have gotten a bit colder, so you probably want to try to stay warm when indulging in your wonderfulness. I indulged in my wonderfulness by bettering my personal space via fishtank cleaning. My fish seemed to have stopped croaking (he says while jinxing his pets to an early grave) and so I figured I'd treat them with another water-refreshening, a few more bubbles and a hearty extra helping of din-din.

But now I'd like to shift gears and share a little cheery, Third o' the Month story with you, something that happened to me this week. I was judging a middle school science fair and one of the darling little groups did a project on how unbelievabley filthy the streets of New York are. And as one of their sycophantic props, they were giving out moist towelettes! I was so excited to see that the youth of our nation are conscientious about sanitation and personal cleanliness. They'll be all set when they finally discover their inherent wonderfulness and can join us all in celebration.

Yet as I head off to a Third of the Month party, I entreat you all one more time to be good to yourselves, love your body and your mind and your spirit and never, ever forget that you can never go wrong with plaid.

The Bane Of The Cell Phone

If you only listened to hot Welsh actresses, you might be convinced that mobile phones are a good thing. But then you'd be wrong. They can be the source of tremendous anxiety. I entreat you to attend the tale of mobile technology gone awry...

Last night I needed to call the boy because I'd told him to meet me at my apartment at 8:00. But I realized I wasn't going to get there on time (not because I was running late or anything; I was drinking heavily at a bar and didn't want to stop). However, I'd left my cell phone at home. Now I've been seeing him for nine months. I must call him at least four or five times a week. But have I ever learned his phone number? No. I just press speed dial. So I tried to call him from a friend's phone, trying to pull his number from memory because I've seen it a bunch of times. But alas, it was all for naught. Every combination of numbers I tried was wrong. So I figured, hey, I'll call another one of my friends because someone has to have his number. But could I remember anyone else's number? Ha! The only numbers I could think of were my parents' and Pizza Park. This was not good.

But wait! I may have forgotten my cell phone but I remembered my PDA! So I scan through the address book. Is there anyone in there even remotely connected to my life? No. And why? Because everyone who is important is in my cell phone! My dermatologist? Yeah, she was in my Palm. Some guy I met at a conference (I think) last year? Uh-huh. My boss's parents' phone number in Denmark? Yeah, that one was there too. Anyone who might have the phone number I need? Nope.

I managed to get a hold of Christy who gave me Tim's number who I interrupted at work in the middle of an important project (who told me he would text it to me as soon as he could and to which I kindly had to explain to him that if I had had my phone and was able to receive a text message I wouldn't have needed to call Tim in the first place (he's British so he's not really "on the ball" all the time)) so I could get a hold of the boy and tell him I was too drunk to meet him. By the time I'd finished I was sober and pretty much ready to leave the bar.

Now if I weren't capable of programming 500 numbers into my cell phone maybe I would have memorized this fairly important phone number...

To Serve Man Is A Cookbook

So I just signed the copyright agreement for my first paper and you know what that means; I'm a legitimate, published scientist. Granted, I'm the seventh author of thirteen but I wrote a paragraph or two and generated a figure. Go me.

Next step: first author!