Sweden, you know how to make my day.

You know what's better than toilet paper embossed with a heart-shaped design? The names of places in Sweden. I like to see where readers of this blog are coming from, and apparently the folks of Karlskoga and Norrkping are fans.

This reminds me of the absolute euphoria I feel whenever I walk into an Ikea on a non-busy day. Speaking of, anyone want to take a field trip out to the Red Hook Ikea for some Swedish meatballs? The chicken strips are to die for too!

New catch phrase!

I'm currently staying with my best friend in a loft consisting of her and nine boys. It's pretty fun and kind of like I'm back in high school but my parents are super cool about me having friends of the opposite sex over late at night. However, I'm not living in some sort of weird orgy lifestyle - I sleep in the bed of my best friend since the second grade. It's about the unperviest thing in the world, so turn on your G-rated brains and stop being dirty.

Anyway, last night Emily and I stayed up until 5:30 in the morning talking about dudes and the same stuff we've been talking about for the past 20 years when we happened upon the best phrase ever. Complete disclaimer - Emily actually thought of this, but I'm hijacking her genius and calling it my own. I mean, I was clearly the muse in this situation. Without my physical presence she never would have had the creativity to think this up. And so, I shall introduce you to the best phrase ever invented in the history of the world and or space/time continuum:

"Your breath smells like farts."

ta-DA!

P.S. The picture included is of said best friend and me. We were most likely having another genius moment as this photo was taken.

Truf - Just because you scream into a microphone does not make you a comedian.

Speaking loudly into a mic doesn't make you any funnier either. I've learned this lesson again tonight after sitting through the SoundFix Comedy Night. I would like to pose a challenge to any comedian reading this. Try to do a routine that doesn't consist of the following words:

1. Vagina
2. Pussy
3. Cock
4. Asshole
5. Anus
6. Fuck

If you were really witty, you could keep all the profanity out. George Carlin is the only one who could use profanity in a clever way, so please, save us all a bit of time and don't try to rip off a legend. It's not that I'm offended by your language but more along the lines of being offended that I've wasted any time watching you perform such an uncreative act.

Start spreading the news...

Today marks the one week anniversary of my return to New York, and can I say, I'm still on a natural high being fueled by the fact that I'm surrounded by friends in the greatest city in the world.

Apologies for not updating the blog. I've been busy catching up with people, etc. Also, I'm currently crashing in a Brooklyn loft with ten other people, so it's easy to get distracted when you have a handful of people to play Nintendo Wii with.

By the way, I've become addicted to Nintendo Wii.

I promise to post more regularly from now on. And expect a lot of restaurant-related posts to come your way. I forgot how much fun it is to eat out, and of course, there are some fabulous restaurants in New York. I'm hitting up Tea & Sympathy tomorrow, so I'll be sure to give you my two cents.

Also, upon my arrival back in Manhattan, I reached the pinnacle of bourgeois - I had afternoon tea at the Plaza Hotel. It was probably the best afternoon tea I have ever experienced, so I highly suggest you check it out.

I never thought I would quote an Ozzy Osbourne song, but when the shoe fits...

I would say it's a sad day when I quote a man who once bit the head off of a live bat, but let me tell you - that's note the case. As of June 21st, I'll be a New Yorker again. A New Yorker in New York. That's right:

Times have changed and times are strange,
Here I come, but I ain't the same
Mama, Im coming home

Even though I hate that song, it's so true. At least those three lines. And yadda yadda yadda I watched The Osbournes on MTV when the show first premiered yadda yadda yadda. Geez...anything else you need to know? Fine. Fine. I like Robin Williams and STILL laugh when I watch Mrs. Doubtfire. So sue me!

Ahem. Moving on...

To all my New York friends, I will be back amongst you soon and I can't wait! Although I love you, my first stop is Chipotle for a burrito. You can meet me there if you want, but I won't be able to talk to you as I will be rejoicing in all that is Chipotle burrito. Deal with it. You knew the score a long time ago. If it came down to you or a Chipotle burrito...well...I'd have to think about it. Seriously think about it.

Regardless, I'M BACK BABY!

(and to celebrate, I've posted a photo of myself that may or may not have appeared on a Lower East Side bus stop in the winter of 2005.)

This says a lot.

More to come later...

Why NPR's "Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me!" might be the greatest thing ever invented.

For anyone that knows me, I'm terribly homesick. Perhaps it's more of a case of I really love where I'm from, but that doesn't really hold true for where I've ended up. Regardless, I get a massive high whenever I realize that I can export a little bit of Americana to my current end-of-the-world existence. And what is more American than National Public Radio?

NPR has been called "boring," "liberal," "REALLY boring," etc. There is even a blog entitled NPR Sucks. The author of this blog has apparently been receiving a lot of hate mail, so he has revised his stance: NPR News is what sucks, the rest of the programming is great. I won't start a full attack on this man, because frankly, I don't listen to NPR News, and as long as he doesn't talk shit on the program "Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me!", I fine with his opinions.

I first heard this program about two years ago at my friend David Herman's apartment in Borough Park, Brooklyn. David had made brunch for a group of us and we all sat around listening to the program - I think Tom Hanks was the guest that Sunday). I had never really listened to a radio program before, so I was shocked with how much I enjoyed the experience. From Carl Kasell's promise to record the trivia winners' answering machine message to Peter Sagal's quick jokes, I never get tired of this show. The majority of panelits are hilarious as well - Mo Rocca and P.J. O'Rourke are two of my favorites.

Since that brunch at David's apartment, I have had several other fond memories of listening to NPR, but they are priviate and unless you get your hands on my diary, you'll never know about it. Stop nosing around my business.

And among the numerous things I miss from America, NPR can be counted as one. Everything I read about Australian radio before arriving here has proven to be true, and that's not a good thing, so my NPR withdrawl was even worse than expected. I missed the humorous comments on current events and I missed the circumstances of which would allow me to listen to NPR. But alas, peer media has saved the day.


Perusing the live feed on my Facebook page, I noticed my old colleague Mike Dory, ex public relations professional/current brilliant grad student, had become a "fan" of NPR. I, of course, joined as well. And what did I find? Well, I'll tell you: I FOUND "WAIT WAIT...DON'T TELL ME!" PODCASTS! SWEET FUCKING JESUS I FOUND THE SHOW ONLINE!

I never thought I would be saying "Man, I'm so happy to hear Carl Kasell's voice, but I'd be lying if I denied that hearing that baritone was like peeing your pants while sleeping - extremely relaxing and one of the most calming experiences you'll ever have...at least until you wake up and realized you pissed yourself.*

* To clarify, I'm not a chronic bed wetter. The last time I peed the bed, I was 11 years old. I was having a dream where I was sitting on the toilet peeing, so I guess my body said "hey, why not?" and so I did. To this day, I have never felt more relaxed than the 10 seconds between where I was peeing the bed to when I realized I had actually peed the bed. Also, prior to this incident, I had not wet the bed since the mid 1980s. You can call my mother for confirmation if you don't believe me. I take great pride in flushing the toilet, so take that as my final response.

The Latest Adventures of the Holiday Inn...

That's right. I can speak about the Holiday Inn because I now live there. Yeah, you heard me. I live at the Holiday Inn in Sydney's Chinatown.

If you're thinking right now,"Man, that's about five steps away from being homeless," then you're right. But it's more like four steps depending on how much credit you still have left with American Express.

To my friends that live in New York, I have a little advice for you:

Don't ever leave New York. I repeat: NEVER. LEAVE. The grass, in fact, is NOT greener on the other side. I repeat: NOT. GREENER. And think about it - grass requires mowing. Stick to the concrete jungle. Less maintenace. And I mean that on multiple levels.

In the meantime, please send money and good wishes my way. I don't play an instrument, but if I can find some buckets in the maintenance closet at the hotel, I'll beat on those and take up busking as a part time profession. Seriously. New low folks. All-time new low.

El masturbation es malo. (originally posted January 11, 2007)

My new Brooklyn apartment is home to many things. Obviously, it's home to me. It's my place of refuge, blue bedroom walls and all. If I'm not clambering about the city or the neighborhood, I'm probably napping or reading in my room. It might be small, but it's got character.

When I moved into my new place, I painted my bedroom walls blue, with the exception of the brick wall. The color reminded me of a tapestry I saw in a house in Hempstead Heath outside of London, something that involved ornate flowers. It also reminded me of some kick ass eye shadow I bought in the ninth grade, and this is probably what actually compelled me to buy. Tapestries are for pussies. At this point, the walls have been decorated with an antique map of the London underground and two framed record albums: A limited edition Madonna Japanese import album and a Blondie record. There are also some various photos that have been framed, along with one of my diplomas. The journalism diploma is shoved somewhere amongst my book collection, still in the envelope the university registrar mailed it in. How appropriate.

The lighting in my room is perfect. It makes anyone look like have clear skin, which is something that I appreciate. It's as if the light fixture was installed just for me. Thanks unintentional mood lighting!

However, the best part of the room is the sound effects. Mind you, they aren't coming from inside my room, but instead filtering in from the apartments around me. Every Saturday and Sunday, I can hear one neighbor practicing his songwriting and guitar playing skills, and I have to say, he's quite good. He also has good taste in music, as he too has identified the one good Del Amitri song ever recorded.

The other neighbor starts every morning off by blaring various Mexican radio stations. I think it may be a radio alarm clock, as I can hear him slamming down on something and then the music/chatter suddenly stops. Also, this event occurs every day at the same time: 7:40 a.m.

The upstairs neighbor is, by far, the most entertaining/disturbing. An elderly man, he's most likely been smoking since the 19330s when he was born. His hacking is the most outrageous thing I've ever heard, both in pitch and length. It's actually quite amazing.

Today, however, the cough was not what I heard. Instead, I was awoke with the following:
¡Jesús!
¡Jesús!
¡Jesús!
¡Jesús!

AAAAAAAAAHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhAAAAAHHHHHHhhhhhh....

Yes my friends, the elderly Mexican man was spanking it. Jerking off. Mas-tur-ba-ting. Due to the fact that it woke me up, my reaction was slow. At first I thought, "What radio station is that?" Then "I hope he isn't dying." And then finally "Whoa, maybe he just saw Jesus...OHMYGODHEWASWHACKINGIT!"

Have you ever experienced a moment when you couldn't move? Your body was completely frozen in time. I imagine this happens to victims of crime, or witnesses to an accident. But I too have borne witness. And the auditory hell I was forced to endure of an elderly Mexican man waxing his pole is enough to put one into a comatose like state. I feel like for a short time, I knew what it felt like to be Terri Schiavo...minus the real coma and the bloodthirsty husband.

My roommate shared that the previous occupant of my room had heard the same thing. She too, had been disgusted, as I believe anyone would be. But to be fair, if he can keep up this sort of schedule, it would be nice to have a back up alarm clock in the mornings...

The mind altercating powers of fog. (originally posted January 14, 2007)

This morning, I had a New York moment, something I haven't had in quite a while. The last city-specific event occurred on the subway while Allison and I were heading uptown to see a movie. A man was playing a saxophone in the 14th Street and 8th Avenue station, and Allison made the comment that she loved old jazz standards. About .5 seconds after she said this, we realized he was playing the theme song from "The Family Guy." Only in New York we thought. However, this morning I had another one of these moments, this someone be somewhat more symbolic.

On Sundays, I work at the Lower East Side Tenement Museum. I started the job because I needed the second source of income, but now I do it simply because I love the job. But it's never easy to get up in the mornings on a Sunday, and today was no different. It was cloudy and drizzling outside, making it that much more difficult to give up the safety and warmth of my bed. But alas, it was not a decision whether I got out of bed or not, it had to be done.

Making my way to the subway was cold and quiet. I only passed about four to five people on the street. I assume everyone was either in church or asleep, or possibly in church asleep. The population of Brooklyn being hung over and in bed was more likely. The subway platform was the same. Desolate, with the exception of two pigeons, sparring over an abandoned bagel.

Once on the J train, the passengers, including myself, sat in silence. That early in the morning, it seems that no one has much to say. The day has just begun so any stories relating to what's to come are, well...yet to come.

One of my favorite things about the J train is the view you get while entering the city. Crossing the Williamsburg Bridge, one has the ability to see the entire island of Manhattan. I imagine it's how tourists feel when seeing the city for the first time, and admittedly, I still get the chills when I have this view. People who have never been to New York won't understand, but seeing that vast expanse of skyscrapers, capped off by the classic symbol of the Empire State Building is both terrifying and utterly exciting at the same time. It's as if you are part of something important, and no one else in the rest of the world can say the same. But this morning, the view was obstructed by fog, the type of fog that obscures everything around you.

I'm guessing we were probably over the middle of the East River, but I forgot I was in New York. The moment only lasted for about thirty seconds, and afterwards I thought that I could be in any city in the world, the only reminders of my actual location being the occasional Fung Wah tourist bus racing past on the bridge. But almost as if the city could sense the train's confusion, the fog cleared as we hit the coast of the island. And at that moment, the woman next to me began speaking in Chinese on her cell phone. A middle aged Mexican man walked into the train car, strumming a three stringed guitar and began singing in Spanish. All of the noise of the city was back as we entered into the Delancey Street station. Tourists on the train would have been unnerved, but living here, you come to depend on the noise. When it's not there, you lose all sense of direction, all sense of where you are and where you're going. For a brief second, the chaos that makes this city unique was captured in the first car of a J train.

Someone recently told me they would never come to New York if they could avoid it. I used to understand that sentiment, as the city CAN wear on you at times. But now I wonder if I can ever leave. I mean, where else can you find a jazzified version of a cartoon theme song?

My whole life fit into 9 boxes and 2 suitcases

It's official. Besides the fact that I still have four more days in New York, I have moved all my belongings, with the exception of two suitcases and my laptop. I now finally feel like I'm actually moving, and I’m finally starting to have the moments of complete terror and sadness that I’m leaving have begun to sink in. Thoughts like “What in the hell were you thinking Porch? Sydney?! It’s on the other side of the fucking planet!” to “You do realize you’re never going to see some of these people again, right? What were you you thinking when you decided to move?!”

I think I have the habit of making things seem better than they are when I’m about to lose something. Think about it: When you get out of a semi-not great relationship, you start to remember JUST the good times. I did this once with someone when we ended our relationship, and years later, I’m just now remembering that things weren’t always perfect, but for the first couple of years after we broke up, you would think we had the most picture perfect relationship ever seen. I think that’s what I’m doing with New York. Six months ago, I was ready to leave. I wasn’t happy with my personal life, work was still good and something to look forward to, but overall, I felt like I wasn’t really accomplishing anything outside of my job. Now don’t get me wrong. I have come to realize that I love New York. This city offers so much that you can’t find anywhere else in the world. When I’m ready to come back to America, I can see myself coming back here. But at the moment, I feel as if I’m leaving a picture perfect life, which isn’t really the case.

I think part of this is that I’m struggling with saying goodbye to the people I care about here. I put a lot of emphasis on my personal relationships with my friends, so knowing that I won’t see some of them for a very, very long time is heartbreaking. And honestly, there are some of them that I might never see again. There is no way to easily rationalize this, hence the tears.

My going away party is on Saturday night, and I’m expecting a somewhat bittersweet event. It will be great to have everyone out for one last “hurrah,” but at the end of the night when folks start to head home, I’ll know that the goodbye we have then might be the last one we EVER have. Here’s to the next month of my life, probably one of the most difficult of my life…

Truf: The international music section in every record shop smells like farts AND why I love strangers who openly admit to me that they farted

It is a universal truth that every international music section in every music store you have ever visited in the entire world smells like farts. Don't ask me why, but it's true. I visited Barnes & Noble today trying to find a copy of a very old school 1980s movie on DVD and decided to swing through the music section. This truth was very evident, might I say.

Also, this morning on the L train into work, a man openly admitted to me and the crowd around the two of us that he had farted. I'm pretty certain everyone noticed the smell, but honestly - who would say anything? But apparently this man does not live by this rule. Very plainly, he said "That was me. Sorry, my wife made chili last night." Everyone kind of giggled, except for me. I shook the man's hand and introduced myself. I just met my new hero. And his name is Garry Cartledge of Brooklyn, New York.

The beginning of the end.

As much as I like to use this blog as a way to write about things I see in New York, I should mention that after three years in this great city, I'm trading up. As of January 5th, I will be the newest immigrant to Sydney, Australia. My company is transferring me, and for the foreseeable future, I will be acclimating to a lifestyle of 300 days of sunshine. But don't worry New York: If I ever move back to America, you are the place I'm coming back to.

So, the beginning of the end has begun. In other words, I've started packing. I'm going to document this experience as much as possible (depending more or less on my laziness at any given moment). I'm officially moving out of my Williamsburg, Brooklyn apartment on December 14th, but most of my stuff will be sold/shipped/thrown out before then. I've decided to post some photos of the de-evolution of my bedroom from a place I love to just another address I used to live at. This is where the hard part, emotionally speaking, of moving starts to kick in. Three weeks from today, I will no longer live in New York. That's proving to be more difficult to rationalize than I originally thought.

I know exciting things are waiting for me in Sydney, but New York is addictive and only people that have lived here for a significant portion of time know this. Right when you think you're ready to leave, this place sucks you back in with something amazing. In the end, you catch yourself digging your claws in trying to hold on as tight as possible to a place you love because it's home.