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

Non-drowsy formula, my ass.

I M SO SMRT oh my god. After like six bottles of champagne. Six bottles. We bought two bottle of champagne, and I was like, are you sure we only need one carton of orange juice? Sure, only one carton is all we need, said The Boyfriend and The Rachel. Just one carton of orange juice.

Then we started drinking and then the Bill came over. Then we drank more champagne. And so we ran out. And so the Bill and I, we went bac to the liquor store. Yes it is Sunday, but there is a liquor store that was sent to us directly from heaven above to provide us with alcohol on Sundays. They are open on Sunday and yet, closed on Saturday. I must remember that. (ed. I mean closed on Tuesday.)

The Bill and I went to get more champagne. There are bottles of champagne available for, if you can believe it, eight dollars and ninety nine cents. Or something like that, anyway. So we bought two more. And then we went back to the Klaus. And then we watched the Princess Bride, and then we watched ike the end of Charlie's Angels Two where Demi Moore slobbers all over Cameron Diazes face. And we kept telling Rachel to do the booty dance but she refused. So then the Bill went out and he was going to get another bottle pf champagne, but I said, "The Bill, why would you go out to get one more bottle of champagne when it would be just as easy to go out and get two bottles of champagne?" So he did. Went out and got two bottles of champagne, that is. And then we debated, Bill and I, over whether or not Aston-Martins are intrinsically and aesthetically better than the BMW Z-series. I said the beemers won. He had doubts.

Also we had an extended discussion over the relative benefits of the uncircumcized penis, and whether or not each of us would circumsize our children. It was a remarkably grown-up conversation given the glasses of champagne we had had. I think the cut-dick conversation was a while ago.

Also everyone got backrubs except like me and Bill and also Bill felt me up. Everyone had a good time except I think that everyone wanted Lion to show up, but she could not because she lives in Denver now. So we all cried, except we did not actually cry. I think we all just thought tears.

I am trying very very hard to eliminate typos at the moment. I think I should win a prize that has, like, spines and gold stuff on it, for the amount of no typos I am making. I rule. Seriously, yo. Rule.

Oh, also? We had like six bottles of champagne? And the one carton of orange juice? It was so much more than sufficient. We still have like a quarter of a carton left. Also it was the Immunity Defense orange juice so it totally had like vitamins in it. WE R SO HLTHY.

This is an example of why AIM saves my life every day. If I did not have my tremendously entertaining friends to talk to, I might fall over and die.

Neff: I've just written the best congrats-on-your-pregnancy card ever!
Ful: Really?
Ful: What does it say?
Neff: "Dear [Friend],
Neff: Please accept my congratulations on your proposed infant of this coming August.
Neff: However, I must remind you that under the terms of our 1997 wager, and in recognition of your dreadful performance during that wager, your firstborn child - the aforementioned infant due August - devolves to my care.
Neff: As a friend, I can only assume that your failure to date to propose terms of surrender is an oversight.
Ful: I am so mind-bendingly impressed that you just used the word "devolves."
Neff: That said, given the financial constraints imposed by my burgeoning career as a supervillain - to which the addition of childrearing expenses would be frankly paralysing - I propose a compromise settlement under which you would retain the child itself, while I would retain naming, aerial, and mineral rights.
Neff: I hope this proposal meets with your satisfaction and that we will therefore not require recourse to battles either legal or mercenary in nature.
Neff: All my best to you and to your husband, and again: congratulations. I look forward to hearing from you.
Neff: Isn't that the best card ever?!
Ful: That is,
Ful: hands down,
Ful: without a doubt,
Ful: the BEST CARD **EVER**.
Neff: Thanks!
Neff: I'm very pleased with it.
Ful: You should be.
Ful: It seems like there should be something you could DO with that card,
Ful: other than just send it off to one friend.
Neff: I'm going to file it away in case any of the rest of you get knocked up.
Ful: I don't think I'm going to.
Neff: Possibly not.
Neff: But you know what they say about the future!
Ful: What's that?
Neff: It's full of big pregnant fags.

I started off my day the New Yorker way! With several successive catastrophes! First I was witness to a group of people who seemed to be unaccustomed to any of the myriad uses of the Metrocard -- or, indeed, with its primary function as access pass to the subway, either. I stood at the back of a long line and watched them slide their cards backwards, sideways, and upside down despite the helpful advice from actual local residents, and then I listened to my train arrive and depart again, without me. When I finally got in to wait for the next train, I leaned back for a few minutes of quality time with my crossword puzzle book.

Leaned back into a freshly-painted pillar. A pillar without "Wet Paint" signs. My shiny black jacket is pretty well hosed, and my brand-new-not-even-a-week-old-bought-them-to-wear-to-Fish's-book-party jeans? There is high-gloss dirty orange paint right down the middle of my ass. I am intensely displeased about this turn of events, but rather than wallow in painty misery...

TOUR TIME!
I popped by the new apartment to pick up the lease last night, and while I was there I took a few snapshots with my li'l cell phone camera. First, a highly detailed floorplan. (Note: floorplan is not actually highly detailed, and is in fact massively skewed and not-to-scale.)
Here is the living area, as seen from the front door, and also as seen from the dining room area. The bathroom is here, right next to the bedroom. This the the bedroom looking back to the living area! And of course, here is the kitchen.

WHEEE! Please excuse the blurriness of the pictures -- they did come out of a cellphone, after all. Oh, and the guy wandering around in some of the pics is our new landlord. Who said that we can repaint! I am pretty sure you can guess which room I think needs paint the most. And the entry comes full-freaking-circle. Oh yeaahhh.

I am not a nice person when I move. When I have THAT MUCH to do, all of my scattered thoughts join forces for once, and I tend to go into "Just get it the fuck done" mode. Kind of like when the Power Rangers assemble into the MegaRangerNinjaDinoMonster With Power-Chop Action Arms. A slightly more old-school reference, and one more suited to my leonine nature: When I get this stressed out about moving, my brain totally pulls a Voltron, combining the disparate Lions that make up my usual activities for the day and forming them into one giant, ultra-powerful robot focused on one thing and one thing only: change of address cards.

The upshot of this is: be patient with me. I am not going to be a lot of fun. I know this ahead of time. Last time I moved I ended up getting into a screaming match with a cop, if you recall. At least this time around, we have hired movers -- but that means that everything actually HAS to be done beforehand. None of this shoveling crap willy-nilly into garbage bags the day of the move.

In return for general patience, I promise that this time, I will not get into a screaming match with a cop.

Unless they really deserve it.

To celebrate going out and buying a brand new, most insanely comfortable 17-inches-deep you will not even believe how wonderful it is, I repeat brand new bed, my soon-to-be-live-in-BF and I went out to dinner.

Bed shopping makes you hungry.

Rather than wax poetic over the entire meal...oh, who am I kidding? I am going to wax poetic over the entire meal. A pitcher of bellinis with blood orange puree. An artichoke salad with red onions and a little lemon juice. Pea-and-proscuitto bruschetta that reconfirmed my desire to create an entire bruschetta menu for my catering company. A cheese plate with a) Coach Triple Cream goat cheese that very literally melts in your mouth like butter, b) Fontina, and c) an incredibly strong unpasteurized cow's milk cheese that was completely amazing, all served with brandied black cherries, black truffle honey, and apricots with chili peppers. A raw fennel, bottarga, pecorino, and mozzarella pizza. A proscuitto and arugula pizza with possibly single-molecule thick proscuitto. And then the desserts. Oh my. The desserts get their own paragraph.

First a tasting flight of fruit-infused grappas (pear, fig, and currant). Espresso. And, of course, the gelato. He had a caramel gelato that you could taste the almost burned flavor in that was amazing. Then there was the olive oil and sea salt gelato that was unbelieveable. Then the rice gelato with apricots what was mind-blowing. And then. Then there was the last one. The one that I really could have skipped the entire preceding two paragraphs for.

The avocado gelato.

I have never tasted anything like it...unless, of course, you include a perfectly ripe, precisely seasoned, rich, creamy, perfect perfect perfect avocado. It was absolutely rapturous. I could eat that all day every day. From now until doomsday. There and back again. Avocado gelato. You need to eat it.

Go. It is MUCH less expensive than you might think. Go to Otto. On 8th St and 5th Ave, in Manhattan. Mario Batali, you might have heard of him? Right. Go. Otto.

Also, while you are there? Get some avocado gelato for me, would you? Thanks!

p.s. The waiter totally wanted to be the meat in our sandwich. Discuss.

Me: Hi! I am in a car. What are you doing?

Taydo: J is getting a tattoo! Where are you going in a car?

Me: Tattoo? Of what? Where?

Taydo: He is getting the 2 headed dragon on his leg colored.

Me: I am so jealous!

Taydo: I'M not! I am getting pierced though!

Me: YOU ARE NOT!!!! REALLY?!?

Taydo: 2 in the upper right ear.

Me: Oh, just your ear? Never mind about my enthusiasm.

Taydo: Well where do you think I would get pierced?

Me: Somewhere more interesting than your ear, you pansy.

Taydo: Fuck off, ass monkey.

Me: At least do a tongue or a nipple, you asshat.

Taydo: No.

Me: That is why you are a twelve year old clothes wearing asshat. Love you!

Taydo: you dont have anything other than your ears done! hookers who live in glass houses should not throw pumps.

Me: I had my tongue done twice, thank you.

Taydo: Oh. well that doesnt make you less of an ass monkey.

Me: BF says I can't text you anymore because it is too irritating.

Taydo: Tell him he's an ass monkey too.

-------------------------------

I use the above text message conversation to illustrate the fact that Taydo said the gayest thing ever, what with that "hookers and pumps" line. And also that he is a pansy.

Buy a shower curtain pick out paint colors move bedroom boxes downstairs disassemble desk wash couch cushion covers to remove other cat pack up pots and pans change address at work get more boxes buy deep-pocket sheets meet up with the landlord on Wednesday sign the lease pay a bazillion dollars pack up bathroom stuff doublecheck with the movers change address at a million places online look up mattress disposal move roommate's stuff over change address at loan office sweep and mop bedroom arrange for a car to transport computer and cat pack up hanging clothes buy mom's birthday present wrap TV in bubble wrap cancel gas account double check cable appointment call about bed delivery time get shower curtain rod change address at bank shop for king-size comforter wash dishes pack dishes look into buying new dishes fall over dead.

Of course, you realize that is only the abbreviated list.

P.S. my toes hurt a lot, and I have bruised something that oughtn't be bruised.

Tuesday night, I spent approximately three hours trying to solve the "TEXAS+GREAT=STATE" math problem I ran across in the Nov. 21 entry over at The Real Bryan Adams. Three hours. And then I thought that I had mixed up the order of the words in the problem so I switched them, and spent an hour trying to solve it that way. And I still could not manage. Then I tried to look up a solution on line (unsuccessfully), and I have spent probably another two hours, if you add up all the spare minutes I have devoted to thinking about it here and there, working on it since. Since I assume I can actually still do simple math, that comes to...3+1+2=Six hours! Working on one stupid fifth-grade math problem. And I have yet to find a solution, which makes me think that I am irretrievably stupid. Stupid math problem. About stupid Texas. Sheesh.

Things about the hot that I like: No jacket. Skin everywhere! Sunshine. Muscle shirts. Walking into an air conditioned building. My new aviator sunglasses. Evening rain.

Things about the hot that I do not like: Sweating. Sneezes. Being out of an air conditioned building for too long. Overwhelming humidity. Pronounced scent of urine at certain street corners...and subway stops.

I want to eat a great big hamburger. And a extra double thick chocolate shake. And an avocado. And watermelon, the non-grainy kind. Lemon bars. A German Chocolate cake. Sweet tea.

Also there are two days left until we have our new apartment! With our new bed! And new sheets and a new shower curtain! We picked up keys and signed a lease and paid a bazillion dollars just yesterday. And we walked around the empty space and I think I may have giggled a lot. In the interim, my current living room is filled to capacity with boxes, and my old mattress is lying flat on the floor, which made me feel like something had gone very wrong indeed when I woke up in a blind panic at about 3 am last night and realized that the windowsills were above my head.

Also, why are numbers so often written as three (3) or ten (10)? Is that to help people who do not know how to read figure out what is being discussed? I would imagine that if they cannot read the context, knowing what number of things is being mentioned will not help much. But could, I suppose, provide entertainment for the casual observer, watching an illiterate person trying to fill in nouns like a Mad Lib. "(9)...Monkeys! Monkeys....licking a...stinky, um...bottlecap!"

Furthermore, why in holy hell would Judge Reinhold's parents name him Judge? Honestly.

It is my last night in my old apartment. This is weird.

The books have come out of boxes, the dishes have come out of newspaper, and the cat has come out of the closet.

No, really. She spent a lot of time hiding in there.

This is my first morning in the new place, and I fucking love it. The movers had everything out of the old place in 45 minutes, and into this one 45 minutes later, making that the very best $320 ever spent in the history of the entire universe. A few friends came over with beer last night, including the inimitable Shiv and Little Owl. We unpacked boxes, shuffled furniture, washed couch cushions, and made guacamole. The bed (a.k.a. Fluffy Marshmallow Land) was delivered, and cable was hooked up. Then my boy and I collapsed into a short nap at 7...and woke up at almost midnight.

Last night, it felt like I was going to sleep in a hotel. This morning, I woke up at home.

You would not believe the sheer volume of items I have run through the dishwasher over the past two days. Every single pot and pan and dish and glass and kettle and mixing bowl and cutting board and utensil and fan blade in the house. In they go schmutzy, out they come sparkling. I will never get tired of that. At various points of the weekend, I was seen looking around for increasingly esoteric random things to put in the washer, just to have another chance to pour in more Cascade.

Also yesterday, while my Boy was a) at work and b) in Queens retrieving his own stuff, I had something like twelve hours in the apartment, alone. If I have your phone number, expect to be receiving more phone calls from a boy slavering to hear another human being's voice.

Today I am rocking a new outfit, by the way. Assembled from clothes I have had for years, mind you, but in a whole new combination. Dark grey Garbage t-shirt, "Shut Your Mouth" emblazoned on the front in sky blue dots. Lighter grey short-sleeve button down, open. New jeans (yes, even with the paint stain on the behind). Black leather wristband with chain, and new aviator sunglasses. I felt like the coolest kid on the train today. Which, might I add, was an EXPRESS train that took seventeen minutes to get me from 7th Ave in Brooklyn to Herald's Square. Rock the fuck ON, yo.

Because I believe that lists should come in threes or fives, presented below are five lists of three.

(NOTE: the following lists have been edited as of 5:23 pm, making them unfortunately lists of four. But Fish's wisdom is not to be denied.)

Foods of which I would like to become a supreme conoisseur:
1) White pizza.
2) Stuffed French toast.
3) English dairy products.
(4) Rehoboth.)

Actions I enjoy:
1) Snapping open my aviators with a deft flick of my wrist.
2) Removing my jacket with a simple shrug of my shoulders, and catching the collar in my hands.
3) Spinning a two-pound coin (clumsily) between my fingers.
(4) Rehoboth.)

Sensations I enjoy:
1) Breaking open a completely intact over-easy egg yolk in my mouth.
2) Kneading ground beef with my hands.
3) Tasting garlic in the air.
(4) Rehoboth.)

Words I like:
1) Susurrus.
2) Apropos.
3) Regaled.
(4) Rehoboth.)

TV People with whom I would like to lunch:
1) Sydney Bristow.
2) Captain Jean-Luc Picard.
3) Alton Brown.
(4) Rehoboth.)

Over the course of my recent move (you may have heard that I moved? No? Well, I did.) I found lots of things that I did not know I had any more. Case in point: during high school, I was part of a creative writing club. Eventually I got tired of hearing people read poems about the blackness, or about wine-red blood or blood-red wine and the vampire in their soul. So, in an effort to shake things up a little bit, pure innocent junior-year me wrote the following untitled poem about the creative process of writing a poem.

I feel the urge upon me, a primal need to create
I must pass my legacy on to future generations.
Power courses through my body -
Stimulates me -
My mind hardens, grows,
Thick with ideas
Throbbing, pulsing in tune to gentle fingertips
Slowly coaxed, the concept forming
Tension builds thoughts ache for release
words tease each with new pleasures
i lick my lips but they're licked by another
one who has taken over
one who dangles the ecstacy of a perfectly turned phrase
images that tantalize
burning with intensity
i feel the end near
suddenly
the final words
in a sweet
mind-numbing
gush
darken the page
leaving me gasping
trying to pick up the pices
As the one who emerges from the catacombs, all unbidden
returns to hide again
Safe --
He will be remembered.

I think that my new phone is dying, I need more bookshelves, and I would dearly love a brownie right about now.

I think I can only deal with one of the above problems at the moment.

If you are very clever, you will guess which one.

If you are not very clever, I will just tell you: I am going to buy a brownie.

(Maybe if everyone behaves themselves, I will put up another poem someday. It probably will not be as metaphorically dirty, though.)

My horoscope told me that Venus was going retrograde, withholding her powers of beauty from everybody. (Note: Do not schedule any plastic surgery before Venus comes back in June, says the horoscope.) Retrograde. And yet, I decided to give myself a haircut this morning. You know. Before I had any coffee. Or quite woken up at all, really. So I should not be surprised that the right side of my head is cut about half an inch higher than the left. I probably missed a spot in the back, too. I should also not be surprised that I'm breaking out all-the-hell-over, nor that the brick-red dress shirt I am wearing that looked so fetching in the mirror does not, in fact, even remotely begin to look right with the rust-brown undershirt I have on beneath it. Also, I am fat and I do not think that my deodorant is working properly.

Perhaps I can construct a transparent box inside which I can travel, and I can smear the surfaces of my box with Vaseline for that oh-so-important soft-focus hazy glow effect. Or maybe I can just make everybody I know wear Vaseline-y glasses.

If you do not have a boyfriend who works in a restaurant and who will bring you ribs, gourmet cookies, and about a million dollars worth of tuna tartare for your lunch...well, I suggest you go out and get one right now. Not mine, though. He is already taken.

I am dirty for these ribs, yo.

I just had a conversation in the bathroom with my CEO while I was washing off excess rib sauce from my fingers and he was peeing. (Side note: Conversations with someone while they or you are peeing have always felt, to me, to be intensely awkward and are not recommended.)

At the conclusion of the washing and the peeing and the talking, he said "All right, see you later!" to which I replied "You too!"

See you later. You too.

Why. Why do I say these things. "Have a nice flight!" "Thanks, check-in counter lady. You too!" Sigh.

It is nine thirty ay emm on a Tuesday morning, and I am at work. Now, this might seem like small potatoes to most of you workaday types, but to a computer programmer such as myself and the other developers in my office, 9:30 in the morning is a pretty fucking stupid time to be awake, much less have the expectation of rational, coherent, logical thought necessary to do things like write code.

Nevertheless, yesterday we were informed that, after four years in operation, my company is issuing a formal Time Policy. The non-programmers of the office decided that 9:30 to 5:30 were our standard hours, and any deviation from this must be approved by one's supervisor. The developers, on the other hand, tend to follow hours more like 11-7, but it seems that nobody asked us. Being the very good employee that I am (naturally!), I was in at 9:30 on the dot...and the supervisor with whom I would have to discuss any scheduling abnormalities? Nowhere to be seen. Surprise!!

To make matters more interesting, this morning was also my building's semi-annual fire drill. Five minutes after I got here, blearily slurping my first gulp of coffee, the alarm politely goes off and everyone gathers in the stairwell, as instructed. And then the REAL alarm goes off, reverberating back and forth up and down the stairwell: "BLAAAAAAAAAAART. pingping. BLAAAAAAAAAAART. pingping." And we just had to stand there, directly underneath the speakers. Not moving up or down the stairs, as this was only a drill. Standing there. Just taking it. Let me tell you, to a non-awake boy who is just having his very first sip of caffeine, that undoubtedly qualifies as cruel and unusual indeed.

However, horrendous as the fire drill may have been -- it was tailor-made to allow the suits to notice my prompt arrival. My instinctive smile and brief "hello" may even have convinced them that my brain was functioning; another plus. And to top it off, I am OUT at 5:30 tonight, yo. Oh-You-Tee out!

For now, though? I need a new cup of coffee.

Just seen: a Banana Republic hot-dog-cart umbrella. "Banana Republic! Cold Drinks! Banana Republic!" the umbrella proudly proclaimed, set against a tasteful taupe background with a subtle coffee-colored pattern.

Because when I think Banana Republic -- I think boiled meats.

I spent a large chunk of yesterday with John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt stuck in my head. It was only dislodged by application of continuous repeat of the Final Fantasy theme song (DUH nuh nuh nuh NUH nuh nuh nuh). Today, seems like I have a song I have not heard in years stuck in my head. First sung by Paul Dinello, that genius of a comic actor from Exit 57, and later Strangers With Candy. Presented here in all its we-managed-to-rhyme-Jesus-with-prosthesis glory, is

Since I have little-to-nothing to do while I sit in my office all day (starting, as I may have mentioned, much earlier than I might generally like, blarrrrrgh), I read a lot. Now, mind you, I do not read things like books while I sit, nigh motionless, at my desk. I have to surf the web, trolling for interesting content to brighten my otherwise pointless day.

"Interesting content" usually consists of reading all of the articles on Slate, scrolling through CNN, and checking my e-mail about 25 times a day. Looking up clothes on Armani Exchange and Abercrombie, reading my dose of web comics, looking up recipes and reading treatises on egg poaching technique.

Then, I will study guides to Jazz-Age Slang. I will look up the provenance of random words. I will read my daily dose of blogs which I shall not link here as they are all linked, handily, just off to the right there. I know a little bit about Zan and Jayna and a lot about fluffy mackerel pudding. I play Zuma and Crossword, and I watch a lot of movie trailers. Lately I have been reading about paladins, and I always spend a tremendous amount of time on AIM.

The topics of study today, however, are as follows: paint colors, and the naming thereof. And, naturally, "You Can't Do That On Television".

You remember that show, right? Moose? Barth? What do you think's in the burgers? Opposite sketches? Alasdair?? My research on this topic has turned up an interesting fact: although I did not realize it at the time, being but a pre-teen and all. But in retrospect? I think it is safe to say that I had something approaching a crush on little Alasdair. It was not a crush exactly, but I think I definitely had a stronger appreciation for him than was merited by his acting ability alone. And just in case you do not have the time to crawl all over that site: All growed up and attending SlimeCons. I wonder how long it takes to drive to Ottawa...

For some reason, the new favorite activity in the office is throwing paper airplanes out of our 26th-floor windows. Then, everybody crowds around the open window and roots for the paper airplane. They cheer them on as they loop away, and shout happily when they miss running into adjoining buildings. And then they all go "awwwwww" when they lose sight of it, or it crashes into the ground, or a passing bird, perhaps.

I have yet to join the ranks of airplane-tossers, (I never was the type to crowd round when there was a fight in middle school -- I do not think I will crowd round for an airplane either) but this does give some indication as to the level of activity 'round these parts.

Last night, two important things happened.

First, I won a contest based on my musical acumen, which, if you know me at all, you realize is a preposterous thing. I know so little about music, people regularly stare at me, slack-jawed, when I admit that I, for example, have no idea who, say, Wheezer is. (Wheezer? Weezer? Case in point.) I never listened to the radio, and until I was in college my music collection consisted of Garth Brooks tapes, They Might Be Giants CDs, a Bert and Ernie 8-track, and the cast recording of Camelot. So asking me something about music is akin to asking Helen Keller about movies.

Nevertheless, during intermission for a wonderful play last night, I answered the question: "Who would you pick to be the new lead singer, to fix Van Halen?" I hemmed and hawed and complained that I know nothing about music. My handsome Patchesboy told me in no uncertain terms that whatever I put down, I was going to win anyway because I always win that kind of thing. I disagreed, but then inpiration struck.

Peaches, yo.

And when it came time to read the winner, they went through the top five (including my boy's pick of Sebastian Bach), out of which a winner would be selected -- but when they got to my Peaches, which was the third name they read, the female guitarist stopped everything, grabbed the rest of the entries, and declared me to be the pre-emptive winner! Because she liked Peaches so much! Hooray for Peaches! And hooray for my new CD that I won! Wheee!!

Also the second thing that happened last night was after the show, our mob was wandering the east village, and suddenly we all noticed -- it was here. The time was upon us! It was, most definitely and undeniably...FLEET WEEK!! Sailors everywhere, in tight white sailorpants and those jaunty little caps. We happily gawked as we walked down the street, and I think that our eyes may have popped just a little bit when we saw the sailors forming a mere backdrop for the two trucks full of hot firemen. It was clearly, as one person put it, a porno waiting to happen, and as another said, something out of a 17-year-old's wet dream. Either description was equally apt, I think, but in the manner that these things tend to not, no wild Chi-Chi La Rue orgy broke out.

Well. Not where I could see one, anyway.