Biscuit: Tasty Doesn't Get You A Date To The Prom

It has come to my attention that my diary has officially died. I'm sorry about that. Hold on.

Me: (puff puff), (puff puff)

Diary: (cough, cough, spit out water, sit up blearily)

There. Back in action.

Besides, I think it might be a touch harsh to declare the Royal Bedchamber all the way DEAD. We did just have a little thing called the HOLIDAYS, you know.

Speaking of which, I went to California and saw a zoo and a few whales and some roller coasters. I managed to not fight with my family the whole time, which was my own personal Christmas Miracle. Amen.

I gave out earrings, Barbies, baby clothes, movies, CDs, books, bottles of Bailey's, a brush made of pure badger hair, and some crystal. I got shirts and chocolate and DVDs and a candle chandelier for my bedroom and fucking insane champagne and the single sexiest set of pots and pans ever, thank you very much Mr. Sexy-Ass Boyfriend. I love cooking in them already and in addition to being imprinted with the name "Jamie Oliver" on their bottoms and Sta-Cool™ handles, they also came with Official Jamie Oliver Tongs.

Also I got an entire book written specifically about me and my personal horoscope that my aforementioned sexy-ass boyfriend snuck around and called my mom and my sister like 20 times to get my specific birth time for. He's so insanely good, it's sick sometimes. Seriously: can there be a better present for a narcissistic Leo?

Now I am back at work, although I do not want to be. I have a Clue Game to work on so that I might buy a new computer. I can only type that bit while I am here because I do not want my computer at home to hear me discussing its own retirement, or "redundancy," as they say on The Office, which just so happens to be one of the DVDs I received and which is also fucking funny.

Flexible and I went out to dinner last night at a place called Blue Ribbon. I had been there once before, and had some obscenely good treats: herring in cream, and escargot bourguignon. I know it sounds weird, but they were both amazing.

So I wanted more herring last night. Apparently the chef was...not happy with the herring? So, sadly, no herring was to be had.

I never thought I would ever be sad about a lack of herring. But you know.

So we ordered up a few different appetizers. Unfortunately, I do not think we made the best possible choices, in terms of both taste, and...well...health. After we got home, poor Flex and I spent the entire night tossing and turning and trying to ignore our stomachaches and raging heartburn.

I guess that just goes to show. Seems that steak tartare, escargot traditional, oxtail marmalade with beef marrow, duck confit, a bottle of wine, three cups of coffee, a glass of port, and a gigantic serving of chocolate chip bread pudding, should not mix.

That lesson should have been clear to me the moment I realized that our appetizers were raw beef, oxtail, bone marrow, and snails.

Neighborhoods in New York City are curious things. They can encompass, in the larger sense, a great swath of city blocks and apartment buildings and can be a few miles on a side (such as "Park Slope"), or a neighborhood can be as small as the radius of one block, spreading outward from one's bedroom. These smaller areas tend not to have clever names, aside from "my neighborhood," but they are just as likely to have a distinct personality as the larger ones. For example, it might be just as common to hear someone debating the merits of Astoria vs. Park Slope as it might be to hear an argument re: 5th Ave between 6th and 7th St vs. 12th St and 7th Ave.

All the different neighborhoods have their supporters and detractors. People who fancy Burberry might be partial to one of the Upper Sides. People who fancy muscle queens might be partial to Chelsea. Some people dislike the feel of being anywhere north of 14th St. in Manhattan, and take it as a point of pride to never venture above it. Still other people might think that Astoria's streets are somehow disturbingly ill-proportioned in a manner that defies description but nevertheless creeps me...er...them out. Park Slope is too cutesy. Midtown is too busy. Carroll Gardens is inexpensive and pretty. Carroll Gardens is cheap and too far from the subway. Everyone here has opinions about all these places, and plenty of beliefs regarding the inhabitants of those neighborhoods as well, as if living in an area automatically brands you with a specific personality just like the guy-next-door's. There is really no way to tell what neighborhoods are better than any other, really.

All that being said...Williamsburg fucking BLOWS, dude. It blows SO MUCH that it just made me say "dude." (Not that I do not say "dude" in casual conversation, and probably more often than I might like to admit, but I usually try to avoid it in my WRITING for pete's sake.) I cannot even begin to express how pleasant it was to get into Manhattan today, after spending the night in Flexible's temporary-for-the-month-of-January digs. In Manhattan, I can actually take two steps without being confronted with a dirty hipster in Converse hightops and a hundred dollar haircut. I can look at the side of a building and not see stickers for someone's mopey, disaffected little band of hipster guitarists. Political statements are not stenciled on every square of the sidewalk, and silhouettes of Che Guevara do not adorn each mailbox. People wear actual clothes on occasion, and not just a rotating collection of ironic retro t-shirts, thick black emo glasses, and a newsboy cap. (I would also like to note SWR's remarkably astute comment that the civic planners for Williamsburg apparently appreciate the pattern of "Loft, empty lot, crack den, deserted warehouse, loft.")

Ahhh, Manhattan: Or really any neighborhood that is not Williamsburg, actually: you sure are a sight for sore eyes.

P.S. If you are from / live in Williamsburg, please disregard the above. You are all lovely people and I think that your horrid little corner of my borough is quite lovely as well.

Check it.

In the vein of amusing ways to amuse oneself with amusing google.com, the above link (brought to my attention by the Neff) just may represent the most amusingest.

APPARENTLY, one cannot swing a dead cat without hitting: a couple of newlyweds, a would-be witch, a boxer, a synchronized swimmer, a yard sale, a Web designer, some new noodle emporium, a ghost, a pub, a lawyer, a marine, and Helen Keller. Among other things.

Helen Keller, people. I have to say, both Neff and I were flat astonished at the sheer number and variety of things that may be hit with cats.

The dead swung kind, at any rate.

I have had such issues with age, of late.

First, I just got an email from my mother, asking if I was planning to attend her sixtieth birthday party. Now, I have been perfectly aware that my mom is 59 and a half. Somehow, this never translated in my brain as "Mom is about to be 60," however. This explains several things, though, primary among them being her meltdown at Christmas, when she cried after opening all of her presents. Apparently, she hated everything she got because she felt that she only received 10 different kinds of lotion, and we only bought her lotion because we thought to ourselves (ourselves being my sister and I), "I don't know what to get for mom! Oh well. I'll buy her lotion. She's old and old people like lotion."

She has since realized that not only did she specifically request each and every kind of lotion she received...well, she is actually rather fond of it all as well. Does not seem to stopher from having an age-related panic, though.

Then I found out today that I have been wildly mistaken about the age of my co-workers. I have assumed that everyone in here is about five years older than I am. Oh-ho, not so! Actually, the lion's share of us are all within about six months of each other, which I find rather hard to wrap my mind around. They all SEEM so much older than I am -- and either that means that I am immature, or I actually look a lot older than I think I do, neither of which pleases me.

At the same time that I realized how young everyone here is, I also realized that I could not, for the LIFE of me, remember just how old I am. Am I 26? Am I 27? I spent a good fiftenn minutes not being able to remember, until I actrually sat down and did the math. It was awfully disconcerting.

You know what I think, though? I think I am so confused because of when I went out on Friday and one of my friends told the waiter it was my birthday and I got pie with a candle in it and everyone sang to me. I think it has thrown off my internal calendar completely. So please, whatever you do, stop singing Happy Birthday to me. If it happens much more, I am going to be certain that I am 79 years old by next week.

Step One: Read this.

Step Two: Get angry about it.

Step Three: Send your first Letter To The Editor.

"I'd like to express my horror at the article you published today, under the title of "Wild Howard's Muppet Shriek." Based on her characterization of Howard Dean's rally speech, it sounds as if your reporter was merely describing events heard second- or third-hand, without having actually viewed it herself. Your reporter's hyperbolic rhetoric seemed something more suited for the Weekly World News than the New York Post. Personally, I felt that Dean's speech was full of excitement and enthusiasm -- just the qualities required at a rally, one might imagine -- rather than anger.

I also found the choice of sources interesting. Not only are we left to wonder who the "therapists" mentioned in the photo's caption might be, we're also expected to believe that Republican strategists, GOP pollsters, and conservative talk show hosts are the fairest source for reactions to Dean's speech. Nowhere does the article mention any Dean supporters who may have actually been in the crowd, and perhaps realized what his actions truly represented: that of a man who was passionately encouraging his supporters."

Step Four: Laugh excitedly and tell your friends you feel all "activisty."