Rhymes are not always accurate.

Whoever came up with the saying "Liquor before beer, you're in the clear. Beer before liquor, you've never been sicker" was full of shit.

The meanest thing I've ever said is...

"Man, The Diary of Ann Frank doesn't hold a candle to Project Runway."

- Mary Ann, 2008

Nostalgia sucks.

While walking home tonight, an ex-boyfriend from four years ago wandered into my train of thought for no apparent reason. I was listening to the Beastie Boys on my iPod and the next thing I knew...BAM! There he was right in my stream of consciousness.

I got to thinking about heartbreak and what exactly constitutes a broken heart. This boyfriend in particular broke my heart. Matter of factly, he is the only one that has the privilege of earning that title. And man...did he break it good. Nice and good. He might as well have ripped out the organ like Robert De Niro did in "Frankenstein" while attacking Helena Bonham Carter's character. That's what it felt like at least (disclaimer: This boyfriend did not look like a gimped up Robert De Niro).

Anyway, when I got home I looked up "heartbreak" on Wikipedia. There is actually a pretty extensive entry on the subject. They even have a list of symptoms (I had 18 out of the 20 listed after the aforementioned break up):

A perceived tightness of the chest, similar to an anxiety attack
Stomach ache and/or loss of appetite
Partial or complete insomnia
Anger
Shock
Nostalgia
Apathy (loss of interest)
Feelings of loneliness
Feelings of hopelessness and despair
Loss of self-respect and/or self-esteem
Medical or psychological illness (e.g. depression)
Suicidal thoughts (in extreme cases)
Nausea
Denial
Fatigue
The thousand-yard stare
Constant or Frequent crying
A feeling of complete emptiness
Feelings of being sad
Feeling of emptiness

However, my point is this: Wikipedia does an excellent job of summing up heartbreak by pin pointing how much it sucks. Kudos Wikipedia. You've done it again.

Parting of the Red Sea version 2.0

A few weeks ago during my usually non-exciting work commute to North Sydney, I had a genuinely unique experience…well, unique to some people, primarily the types that can be described as “extremely bored.” Typically, I wander off into my own thoughts, listen to my iPod and watch the world go by, specifically the traffic on the Harbor Bridge, but that day, something else caught my attention. The man next to me was petting the hair of the woman sitting in front of us. Of course, I gawked, open-mouthed and completely amused by what I was seeing. My thoughts ranged from “Why is -?” and “What in the he-?” I was too confused and/or excited to complete a sentence.

A few moments later, I noticed that the woman being petted was having a bad, if not unusual hair, day, and that the man petting her head was in fact, her boyfriend. I only figured out the boyfriend part of the equation because he moved to the seat in front of me to six next to her once the train emptied out.

But back to her hair. I would say it was mostly unusual, not bad per se. It was as if she had parted her hair all the way down the length of her head. As a result, she had a perfectly formed part starting from the crown of her scalp all the way to her where her hair line ended. I should have taken a photo, but I was too mesmerized with out ridiculously perfect her part was. I was also amused as she kept running her hand through her hair, but only to have it fall perfectly back into place with the awkward part.

About five minutes after I noticed this lady's hair debacle, her boyfriend told her why he had been molesting the back of her head. He was noticeably embarrassed by her hair’s decision to be an asshole and not follow its regular routine of…well…just hanging there. He kept trying to fix the problem and she sat motionless, letting him pull and tug and try his hardest to get rid of the part. It took everything in my being to not pipe up with “Stop it! This is just like Moses parting the Red Sea! Look how PERFECT that part is! And it goes all the way back! And may I say, you have a lovely scalp – what products do you use?”

Now I will say that this scary hair issue by no means trumps other events/terrifying displays of humanity (such as the thong) I’ve seen on public transportation systems (at the end of the day, this lady just had a shit hair day, plain and simple). The New York MTA is still the reigning champ of holding my amusement, and I honestly miss all the weirdos and freaks riding on the subway every day, such as the Hispanic woman who defied convention and plucked her chin on a crowded Downtown F train, or the British businessman who fervently picked his nose for half the island of Manhattan on a Downtown 6 train.

Also, please take note of the photo I have included: Was Moses really of African-descent? Let's discuss!

Sips: "I bet it tastes like compromise."; Me: "I don't find that very funny." (originally posted March 29, 2006)

The title of this entry really has nothing to do with the entry itself. That small exerpt is from a conversation I was having about Snapple. Apparently, the British are not schooled on the most Jewish drink in the world, so I was giving a lesson plan. Don't worry Sips, you'll get to try it properly upon your arrival.

So onto the rest of it:

I always considered myself an observant person. Actually, that is only half true. I discovered that human resource hiring managers love to hear a potential job candidate say that, so I would always toss that little gem out during my job interviews, with the end result being H.R. smiling enthusiastically and offering me the job at some point down the road. However, I learned two days ago that I am somewhat observant, but only when it comes to noticing extremely gross things about strangers and people I know.

On Monday, I was sitting on the V train on my way home. I had gotten on at 53rd and Madison, so my journey had just begun. At 47th Street, a very attractive gentleman entered my train car, and I was immediately drawn to his excellent choice of suit and tie combo. But within seconds, I noticed something odd. He kept scratching his nose.

Now I'm not talking about the type of scratching you get from a tiny itch or the type of incessant nose knocking you get with a coke addict. I'm talking about the type of scratching you see when someone sticks their entire index finger up their nostril and proceeds to move said finger around. At first I thought I must be hallucinating. No man wearing that suit and that particular tie could possibly be displaying this horrible habit in such a public place. I looked around at other passengers hoping to match a set of eyes that saw what I was seeing, but alas, everyone was oblivious.

This man kept his finger in his nose all the way from West 47th Street to West 4th Street, and I shit you not, not one person took notice except for me. At some point, my mouth must have been hanging open out of the sheer ridiculousness of the whole scene, so for all I know, I was the weirdo on the train, as far as the other passengers were concerned.

I'm still baffled by the events, obviously since this happened on Monday and it is now Wednesday and I'm still thinking about it. This man was well dressed: nice camel colored wool coat, tailored pin stripe suit, silk tie, very proper and VERY British. His hair was slightly messy, but in that way that only British men can perfect. And then he had to ruin the whole image by sticking his fucking finger up his nose. I'd like to write him off as a sociopath, but frankly, I think he either knew that no one but me was noticing and was willing to take the risk, or he simply just really enjoys picking his nose. I've also batted around the idea of it being part of some hidden camera show, so if any of my friends abroad see me on BBC 1, BBC 2, or Channel 4 looking like a typical New York asshole, my apologies.

It was after this train ride that I realized what a dirty city New York can be. The train itself covered in spit and loogies, coffee cups and unidentified liquid, and now there is a good chance that some of you might find boogers hastily stuck on the seats and handle bars of the 2nd Avenue-bound V train.

Happy riding.

50% Attractive (originally posted June 12, 2007)

On Friday night, I headed to the East Village to see Bovine Homecoming play at Mo Pitkin's. My good friend David is the bass player in the band, and I figured it would be good to catch up since I hadn't seen him since I got back from Paris.

The show was great, I had a couple of drinks, and headed home. Then it happened. At the corner of Avenue A and East 2nd Street, a 20 something year old man walked past me and said "You're kinda cute." I stopped in the middle of the intersection.

Kinda cute? What the hell does kinda cute mean? Like I'm only 50% attractive? What does kinda mean percentage wise? 25%? 75%? I would think that saying kinda cute accompanied by a shoulder shrug would quantify to 25%, while just a straight forward kinda cute (no shoulder shrug) at least gets me to the half way mark. 75% would be achieved with "you're cute" and a full on 100% would be "daayum girl, you is hot." Granted the vernacular may changed, but overall it's the same.

In my complete disbelief that I was only deemed kinda cute, I spun around and yelled "Kinda cute?! I wouldn't even give you 10% marks!" Thank god the majority of America is perplexed by simple math, because the man looked at me with a confused stare and continued walking up the avenue.