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Wednesday, August 09, 2006
LOSERMAN 2006
I will admit that reading about Lieberman’s loss last night brought me political happiness that I haven’t experienced since…since…ummm…good gravy when is the last time any of my candidates won anything?
Oh. Hillary 2000.
Ok. Worse yet, it isn’t even that Lamont is my guy. Seriously, the best I hoped for from Lamont was that he would present enough of a challenge that we’d forever be spared Loserman running for President. At least as a Democrat.
That he could actually remove the thorn in the elephant’s paw – as it were – wow.
But why do I despise Loserman so much…he was a Democrat after all and a Yalie for goodness sakes.
And to this question I committed a good twenty minutes of my pre-sleep thought.
And what it came down to in the end? Loserman’s a tool.
A pure unadulterated, unprincipled, unlikeable, boring, monotonous, creepy, flat tool. Like a screwdriver. With joints. That bend for easy storage, but also when you try to use it.
I spent four years very active in Connecticut Democratic politics.
I met Senator Dodd a boatload of times, New Haven’s Congresswoman Rosa and I are on first name bases, the mayor, alderman, other congressmen, President Clinton and Vice President Al Gore even – all present and accountable in the mid nineties Connecticut political scene.
But no Joe.
Joe was a no show.
And when I did the math today, I figured out why --- he had won his reelection my freshman year and consequently didn’t need anything from me or other CT democrats. So he needed not show his face to our events, or support other candidates or talk with democratic voters in anyway – at least not till 2000.
And even then what did Joe do?
Was it enough that he got the nod to be the national VP candidate? Oh no.
He had the hedge his bets. God forbid he choose whether he wanted to be vice president or Senator.
Even Sophie had to make a choice.
But in the end, he did choose. He chose Joe. (And on good days, Hadassah, by his side.)
His ill conceived bid for the presidency just four years later was yet more toolish self-promotion.
He could barely wear the shoes as the number two Democrat in the nation – he thought he was ready to be the top dog?
Please.
At every opportunity Joe has managed to jump up and down crying look at me, look at me no matter what the cost.
A united front to protect the sitting President? Not for Joe.
A single ticket going for one goal? Not for Joe.
Support his embattled Senate Majority Leader: Nope. Nu uh. No way. How does he spell teamwork? J-O-E.
So it doesn’t surprise me one bit that Connecticut democrats turned their back on the man that has continually thumbed his nose at them (once upon a time, us.)
I applaud Senator Dodd for standing on the podium beside Lamont today and shake his head at Loserman’s decision to run against the Democratic party.
But as for me, I’m not surprised. The tool did what tools do. Self-service.
Oh, and if he loses the general election, don’t think he find the fault to lie with the Connecticut electorate and seek newer pastures to hawk his stale wares.
And Joe, when that day comes, on behalf of New York, let me just say, we don’t want none and we don’t need none.
Now – all eyes on Rhode Island!
I will admit that reading about Lieberman’s loss last night brought me political happiness that I haven’t experienced since…since…ummm…good gravy when is the last time any of my candidates won anything?
Oh. Hillary 2000.
Ok. Worse yet, it isn’t even that Lamont is my guy. Seriously, the best I hoped for from Lamont was that he would present enough of a challenge that we’d forever be spared Loserman running for President. At least as a Democrat.
That he could actually remove the thorn in the elephant’s paw – as it were – wow.
But why do I despise Loserman so much…he was a Democrat after all and a Yalie for goodness sakes.
And to this question I committed a good twenty minutes of my pre-sleep thought.
And what it came down to in the end? Loserman’s a tool.
A pure unadulterated, unprincipled, unlikeable, boring, monotonous, creepy, flat tool. Like a screwdriver. With joints. That bend for easy storage, but also when you try to use it.
I spent four years very active in Connecticut Democratic politics.
I met Senator Dodd a boatload of times, New Haven’s Congresswoman Rosa and I are on first name bases, the mayor, alderman, other congressmen, President Clinton and Vice President Al Gore even – all present and accountable in the mid nineties Connecticut political scene.
But no Joe.
Joe was a no show.
And when I did the math today, I figured out why --- he had won his reelection my freshman year and consequently didn’t need anything from me or other CT democrats. So he needed not show his face to our events, or support other candidates or talk with democratic voters in anyway – at least not till 2000.
And even then what did Joe do?
Was it enough that he got the nod to be the national VP candidate? Oh no.
He had the hedge his bets. God forbid he choose whether he wanted to be vice president or Senator.
Even Sophie had to make a choice.
But in the end, he did choose. He chose Joe. (And on good days, Hadassah, by his side.)
His ill conceived bid for the presidency just four years later was yet more toolish self-promotion.
He could barely wear the shoes as the number two Democrat in the nation – he thought he was ready to be the top dog?
Please.
At every opportunity Joe has managed to jump up and down crying look at me, look at me no matter what the cost.
A united front to protect the sitting President? Not for Joe.
A single ticket going for one goal? Not for Joe.
Support his embattled Senate Majority Leader: Nope. Nu uh. No way. How does he spell teamwork? J-O-E.
So it doesn’t surprise me one bit that Connecticut democrats turned their back on the man that has continually thumbed his nose at them (once upon a time, us.)
I applaud Senator Dodd for standing on the podium beside Lamont today and shake his head at Loserman’s decision to run against the Democratic party.
But as for me, I’m not surprised. The tool did what tools do. Self-service.
Oh, and if he loses the general election, don’t think he find the fault to lie with the Connecticut electorate and seek newer pastures to hawk his stale wares.
And Joe, when that day comes, on behalf of New York, let me just say, we don’t want none and we don’t need none.
Now – all eyes on Rhode Island!
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
WHO'S CRYING IN HER SOUP NOW??
Should Lieberman win the primary, and my guess is that he will, are all the newspapers that are joyously calling the election for Lamont going to feel stupid or are they going to pretend they never did any such thing? And, on a sidenote, are they going to feel like idiots for falling for the whole "Daily Kos is all knowing and all powerful" again (see 2002, 2004)?
Who!
Should Lieberman win the primary, and my guess is that he will, are all the newspapers that are joyously calling the election for Lamont going to feel stupid or are they going to pretend they never did any such thing? And, on a sidenote, are they going to feel like idiots for falling for the whole "Daily Kos is all knowing and all powerful" again (see 2002, 2004)?
Who!
DRUDGE: LOSERMAN SAYS HE'S NO LONGER A DEMOCRAT
It's like when the Dixie Chicks "quit country music."
Sen. Joe Lieberman has conceded the U.S. Senate primary to challenger Ned Lamont but vowed to petition his way onto the November ballot as an independent.
It's like when the Dixie Chicks "quit country music."
Sen. Joe Lieberman has conceded the U.S. Senate primary to challenger Ned Lamont but vowed to petition his way onto the November ballot as an independent.
RICK BLAINE IS FUNNY
Very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very (DEAR GOD, MAN! Have you no billable work????!) funny.
Someone should get him a blog.
Very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very (DEAR GOD, MAN! Have you no billable work????!) funny.
Someone should get him a blog.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Sunday, August 06, 2006
CONVERSATION OF THE DAY
Peter: "She's not able to come to the home phone."
Me: "Why?"
Peter: She's not home.
Peter: "She's not able to come to the home phone."
Me: "Why?"
Peter: She's not home.
LIFESTYLES OF THE NC
I walked in on the valet reading PlayBoy. I told him to just give me the keys, I'd get my own car.
May have to burn the keys.
I walked in on the valet reading PlayBoy. I told him to just give me the keys, I'd get my own car.
May have to burn the keys.
BURNED, BABY, BURNED
I burned the shit out of myself today...pardon my French.
I decided to make some chicken parmesan --- you know, start to put a dent in my nineteen pounds of leftover chicken breast.
I put the first one in the oil, without incident.
In fact, I was worried that I hadn’t let the oil heat up enough, because there wasn’t much sizzle sounds.
Well, turns out...the oil? Plenty hot. Totally hot, screaming and writhing on my kitchen floor hot. I put the second piece in and the edge must have caught the side of the pan, cause when I let go, it plopped into the pan and sent oil flying at me.
OH GOD.
I grabbed at my fingers and started wiping off the breadcrumbs.
It burned so badly that it actually chilled me to the bone.
I screamed and stuck my hand under the running water.
Who knew that my building sent boiling water through the faucets?
As I stood there suffering, I realized that oil had also splashed my upper right arm. But the pain on my left hand completely trumped that burn.
The water was doing nothing.
Now, I read once that you aren’t supposed to put ice on a burn because it cools the area too fast.
Hmmm....yeah...you know, suddenly I am seeing absolutely no downside to “cooling too fast.”
I squeezed out some crushed ice and balanced it on my fingers.
Ahhhhhhh. Pain gone.
I actually managed to flip the chicken in the pan before the ice chips melted away.
Agony resumes.
I get more ice.
I put on water to boil spaghetti and stick the chicken in the oven.
I fill a plastic cup with ice and stick my whole hand in.
Much better.
I leave it there until I am one with the plastic cup.
Then it dawns on me, that while the pain of an oil burn is excruciating, it’s probably not a good idea to leave my whole exposed hand in a vat of ice.
We so don’t want to have to explain frostbite in August to an emergency room nurse.
I take my hand out and it is utterly numb. Except for the pulsing sting of my burn.
I can’t move my fingers and my hand is cold to the touch.
Ok...I can’t possibly be doomed to a life of choosing between the sting of burn or frostbite.
This is a job for the internet!
The first hit I get for “help oil burn fingers,” well, the first relevant one anyway...said that if the burn discolors or blisters, it’s probably a second degree burn and I should seek medical attention.
Dude. Who are these people?
This is why emergency rooms are overrun. Fricking cry babies and their second degree burns.
I glance at my upper right arm...uh oh...it is visibly blackened and slightly bubbling...hmmm...maybe I do need a doctor.
But...but...my chick parm is in the oven!
I read on and sift through the suggestions of applying breast milk and/or butter...ok...silvadine...but I don’t have any and my left hand can’t bend enough to drive to a drug store.
My burn finger is almost white and the other fingers are swollen and pruned from the ice soaking.
I opt for the “keep the burn area clean and dry” option. No more ice.
As my hand warms up, the pain gets worse.
I put in a movie (Flatliners) and try to take my mind off the pain.
Man, that movie sucks.
Kieffer is sooo much hotter now than when he was young.
And that Kevin Bacon hair....
I get caught up in mocking the movie enough to finish making lunch.
I so struggle with taking the chicken out of the oven.
“I can’t suffer another burn...I just can’t,” I say out loud to no one in particular as I grip the pan through the potholders.
I am spared.
My mother calls.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I burned myself.”
“How?”
“Frying chicken.”
“You have to put it gently into the pan or else the oil will splash you!”
Noooo. Really? Crazy. Better not do that then.
Oh. Wait.
Of course, it’s my mom, so I likely said something like “Ok.”
I haltingly ate my lunch through the pain of not being able to bend my right arm lest I anger the lesser burn and the inability to bend my left fingers.
Only 18 pounds of chicken to go.
Awesome.
I burned the shit out of myself today...pardon my French.
I decided to make some chicken parmesan --- you know, start to put a dent in my nineteen pounds of leftover chicken breast.
I put the first one in the oil, without incident.
In fact, I was worried that I hadn’t let the oil heat up enough, because there wasn’t much sizzle sounds.
Well, turns out...the oil? Plenty hot. Totally hot, screaming and writhing on my kitchen floor hot. I put the second piece in and the edge must have caught the side of the pan, cause when I let go, it plopped into the pan and sent oil flying at me.
OH GOD.
I grabbed at my fingers and started wiping off the breadcrumbs.
It burned so badly that it actually chilled me to the bone.
I screamed and stuck my hand under the running water.
Who knew that my building sent boiling water through the faucets?
As I stood there suffering, I realized that oil had also splashed my upper right arm. But the pain on my left hand completely trumped that burn.
The water was doing nothing.
Now, I read once that you aren’t supposed to put ice on a burn because it cools the area too fast.
Hmmm....yeah...you know, suddenly I am seeing absolutely no downside to “cooling too fast.”
I squeezed out some crushed ice and balanced it on my fingers.
Ahhhhhhh. Pain gone.
I actually managed to flip the chicken in the pan before the ice chips melted away.
Agony resumes.
I get more ice.
I put on water to boil spaghetti and stick the chicken in the oven.
I fill a plastic cup with ice and stick my whole hand in.
Much better.
I leave it there until I am one with the plastic cup.
Then it dawns on me, that while the pain of an oil burn is excruciating, it’s probably not a good idea to leave my whole exposed hand in a vat of ice.
We so don’t want to have to explain frostbite in August to an emergency room nurse.
I take my hand out and it is utterly numb. Except for the pulsing sting of my burn.
I can’t move my fingers and my hand is cold to the touch.
Ok...I can’t possibly be doomed to a life of choosing between the sting of burn or frostbite.
This is a job for the internet!
The first hit I get for “help oil burn fingers,” well, the first relevant one anyway...said that if the burn discolors or blisters, it’s probably a second degree burn and I should seek medical attention.
Dude. Who are these people?
This is why emergency rooms are overrun. Fricking cry babies and their second degree burns.
I glance at my upper right arm...uh oh...it is visibly blackened and slightly bubbling...hmmm...maybe I do need a doctor.
But...but...my chick parm is in the oven!
I read on and sift through the suggestions of applying breast milk and/or butter...ok...silvadine...but I don’t have any and my left hand can’t bend enough to drive to a drug store.
My burn finger is almost white and the other fingers are swollen and pruned from the ice soaking.
I opt for the “keep the burn area clean and dry” option. No more ice.
As my hand warms up, the pain gets worse.
I put in a movie (Flatliners) and try to take my mind off the pain.
Man, that movie sucks.
Kieffer is sooo much hotter now than when he was young.
And that Kevin Bacon hair....
I get caught up in mocking the movie enough to finish making lunch.
I so struggle with taking the chicken out of the oven.
“I can’t suffer another burn...I just can’t,” I say out loud to no one in particular as I grip the pan through the potholders.
I am spared.
My mother calls.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I burned myself.”
“How?”
“Frying chicken.”
“You have to put it gently into the pan or else the oil will splash you!”
Noooo. Really? Crazy. Better not do that then.
Oh. Wait.
Of course, it’s my mom, so I likely said something like “Ok.”
I haltingly ate my lunch through the pain of not being able to bend my right arm lest I anger the lesser burn and the inability to bend my left fingers.
Only 18 pounds of chicken to go.
Awesome.
Friday, August 04, 2006
HEY NOW!
It's all fun and games until bombs start falling on the Catholics.
The bombs destroyed four bridges along the main north-south highway in what had been the largely untouched Christian heartland north of Beirut and far from Hezbollah territory. With the road from Beirut to Damascus already cut at several points, this was the only practical way to bring in relief and other supplies from Syria, tightening the sense of siege here.
At the steep gorge here cut by the Fidar River, which runs down the mountains to the Mediterranean, dozens of Maronite Catholic residents gathered to stare in stunned silence at a 200-yard stretch of four-lane highway blasted into rubble. The supports for the bridges rose like cliffs at either end.
It's all fun and games until bombs start falling on the Catholics.
The bombs destroyed four bridges along the main north-south highway in what had been the largely untouched Christian heartland north of Beirut and far from Hezbollah territory. With the road from Beirut to Damascus already cut at several points, this was the only practical way to bring in relief and other supplies from Syria, tightening the sense of siege here.
At the steep gorge here cut by the Fidar River, which runs down the mountains to the Mediterranean, dozens of Maronite Catholic residents gathered to stare in stunned silence at a 200-yard stretch of four-lane highway blasted into rubble. The supports for the bridges rose like cliffs at either end.
BUT NOT GAY LOVE
Aiken's third album, "A Thousand Different Ways," will be in stores September 19. The new CD combines 10 cover versions of well-known songs from the '70s, '80s and '90s with four new songs, RCA Records announced Thursday.
Tracks on Aiken's new disc include Bryan Adams' "Everything I Do (I Do It for You)," Celine Dion's "Because You Loved Me" and Elton John's "Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word."
"This is an album of love songs, but they are about all different kinds of love. Romantic love, friendship, unconditional love," Aiken said in a statement Thursday.
Aiken's third album, "A Thousand Different Ways," will be in stores September 19. The new CD combines 10 cover versions of well-known songs from the '70s, '80s and '90s with four new songs, RCA Records announced Thursday.
Tracks on Aiken's new disc include Bryan Adams' "Everything I Do (I Do It for You)," Celine Dion's "Because You Loved Me" and Elton John's "Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word."
"This is an album of love songs, but they are about all different kinds of love. Romantic love, friendship, unconditional love," Aiken said in a statement Thursday.
KNACK LEAD SINGER HAS BRAIN SURGERY
Probably to get that damn "My Sharona" out of his head once and for all.
Probably to get that damn "My Sharona" out of his head once and for all.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
UHH...WHAT NOW?
A man charged with drunken driving from the passenger's seat has asked a judge to throw out an incriminating statement he made to a state trooper.
When D'Alessandro approached the vehicle, he said he found the driver, Lucas Enbacker, holding a large sandwich with both hands and he detected a strong odor of alcohol.
When the trooper asked why the car swerved, Pittman leaned across the front seat and said it was his fault, the trooper said. Pittman said he had briefly held the steering wheel while Enbacker was taking a bite from his sandwich, according to arrest records.
A man charged with drunken driving from the passenger's seat has asked a judge to throw out an incriminating statement he made to a state trooper.
When D'Alessandro approached the vehicle, he said he found the driver, Lucas Enbacker, holding a large sandwich with both hands and he detected a strong odor of alcohol.
When the trooper asked why the car swerved, Pittman leaned across the front seat and said it was his fault, the trooper said. Pittman said he had briefly held the steering wheel while Enbacker was taking a bite from his sandwich, according to arrest records.
SINCE THIS IS CONSIDERED BLOGGING THESE DAYS...
I've been listening to Murder (or Heart Attack) non-stop this week.
Don't know who it's by.
via AN
I've been listening to Murder (or Heart Attack) non-stop this week.
Don't know who it's by.
via AN
TAKE THAT SURGEON GENERAL
People who study exceptional longevity — the state of living to 100 or beyond — say factors like diet, exercise, health habits, social support and the ability to find meaning in life appear to play a role in getting people to, say, 85. But, some of them say, they suspect that genes play the dominant role in hitting 100 or above.
“I have no one that was exercising,” said Nir Barzilai, director of the Institute for Aging Research at the Albert Einstein College of Medicine, who is studying 400 centenarians. “I don’t have vegetarians. Nobody ate yogurt or anything like that. If you have longevity genes, well, lucky you. If you don’t, you know what to do.”
Although...since I have pretty crap genes (at least on my mother's side) I probably shouldn't be celebrating too much.
WEB HOST?
So...I got the domain name clareified.com for my birthday...I wanna move this blog there and be all cool and on movable type.
How the hell do I do that? Willing to pay reasonable fees for design/hosting...but needs to be done quickly...you know, haste is the key ingredient in impulse buys.
So...I got the domain name clareified.com for my birthday...I wanna move this blog there and be all cool and on movable type.
How the hell do I do that? Willing to pay reasonable fees for design/hosting...but needs to be done quickly...you know, haste is the key ingredient in impulse buys.
OH.MY.GOD.
Embattled Sen. Joe Lieberman is trailing businessman Ned Lamont by double digits in the race for the Connecticut Democratic Senate nomination, a new poll released this morning shows.
The Quinnipiac University poll gives Lamont a 54 percent to 41 percent lead among likely Democratic primary voters and is the latest indication that the three-term incumbent is in serious danger of losing the Democratic primary next Tuesday. A poll released by the university on July 20 indicated that Lamont held a 51 percent to 47 percent advantage over Lieberman.
Could Lieberman really lose this race?
It's no secret that I'm no fan of Joe's. And honestly, I do hope he is replaced by a more liberal Democrat...however, that's a very big if. I hope that the Lamont supporters really can run a general campaign that beats the Republican challenger cause I am going to be mad as hell if we lose a Connecticut Senate seat...and who knows, those sneaky guys may trot out Governor Weld to challenge Lamont!
or George Bush I...he has some Connecticut ties doesn't he?
Oy...this just feels like disaster...Stupid Lieberman. I blame yoouuuuuu.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
NO FRIENDS FOR DAWN IN THE ECB
"That's what they call a friendship in Bed Stuy...a guy who doesn't steal your bike."
- Chris Rock on 'Everybody Hates Chris'
First off, you should know that I didn’t get the training wheels off my bike till I was twelve years old.
I know that probably sounds late, but I had actually made remarkable progess since I was only allowed to ride my bike up and down the block when my mom could watch me. (Laugh, but the one time I snuck out when she wasn’t home, six guys tried to jack it. Fortunately, I was more afraid of my mom finding out that I lost my bike than of the thieves and managed to fight them off.)
Anyway, there were two things I was looking forward to when I went to college –natch three things – no longer having to wake up at quarter to six in the morning to go to schools that were hours away from my house by school bus, unlimited vanilla ice cream and riding to and from class on a bike! Just like in the movies.
I overindulged on the first two from jump street…not only did I wake up late every morning, I slept through all my classes when I got there – ah, but that’s another story for another post.
The bike was trickier…I couldn’t bring my kid’s bike to campus…even without the training wheels, but I couldn’t afford a new one.
It wasn’t until my second semester that I saw a white notecard tacked to the post office bulletin board (that’s what people did before e-bay, kids.) advertising a bike for twenty dollars.
I called the phone number and met the seller the next day.
I looked past him at first, wearing a faded sweater and dingy jeans…but I couldn’t look past the thin blue bicycle held steady by the three fingers left on his right hand.
I approached and said I was the girl who called about the bike.
He smiled at me (his teeth barely outnumbering the fingers on his hand).
I nervously handed him two crushed ten dollar bills and thanked God the post office was so crowded.
He told me that he had fixed up the bike himself and that it “runs good, no problem.”
It had wide U shaped silver handlebars, and a light blue paint finish – none of the gears matched the chain or the brakes.
I told him that I needed to try it out. Of course, my bike riding skills were a little rusty – so my friend Sam took the test drive for me.
“Uh…it’s ok…”she said hopping to a stop.
Three finger Willy told me to get on.
I did… but couldn’t really balance myself – so I squeezed the brakes, told him it was fine and walked my new bike home.
I went to the bike store and bought a forty dollar helmet and a twelve dollar lock.
I was ready to ride.
Well, there was a reason that Sam came hopping to a stop. While the bike rode fine, the brakes weren’t quite connected to the wheels.
And by “quite,” I mean not at all.
Stopping was a delicate balance of a long stretch of road, dragging the sole of one foot and yelling “get out of the waaaay,” at the top of my lungs.
And so, because it couldn’t quite stop when it was supposed to, I named my bike “Forrest.” After Gump.
I got a pretty phat job junior year and traded up to a brand new Huffy the following year.
Forrest was abandoned in the basement of my dormitory the summer before they demolished the building.
But in his honor, I named the Huffy “Jenny.”
Well, it’s shiny new bike time again.
Between Pretty Numbers and Kaz, seems everyone is on the bike riding kick…
I wanted in.
Kaz recommended a new “comfort seat” model.
So, I went to the store, plunked down the Visa and left holding a fancy new helmet, a forty dollar lock and a maroon Sedona Giant.
A couple of things have changed since I bought Jenny.
One: who knew that “kick stands” were optional (and therefore, ‘extra’)? WTF? How’s it ‘posed to stand? Two: who knew the water bottle holder was optional (and therefore, ‘extra’?) WTF? Where are you ‘posed to put your water?
And finally, and most importantly as I stood leaning my bike against the sidewalk and gasping for air, a mere three blocks from the bike store – who the hell knew riding a bike was so damn hard?
Why do I have such positive memories of gliding through Central Park during law school and popping wheelies through the ECB?
Of course, now that I have to ride in the streets or risk $55 tickets and a court appearance, I expend a lot more energy looking left to right and back to front for reckless car drivers, but it literally took me like 30 minutes to go a little more than a mile.
I rode from the store to my mom’s apartment and collapsed on her floor.
“Waaatttterrrr….waaattteerrrrr….and air conditioner…..and aiirr conddiiittiionner.”
“Well, who is out of shape?” she said serving me water intravenously and cranking the air up to high.
“Think the bike lady will take it back?”
“Uh…no…isn't that the dog lady?”
Indeed, my overriding image of the bike lady were the four pit bulls behind the counter – aptly advertised with a “Beware of Guard Dog” sign.
Scare- Ree.
Ok…so…how about I leave the bike here and take a cab home?
“Hell, no. You’ve already got a bike here!”
Fine.
Thrown out on the street by my own mother.
I hit the pavement –and then, when I immediately remembered – hit the asphalt.
I crawled home to the NC.
I mean, seriously, an old lady with two bags of groceries and a cane breezed right by me.
Needless to say, my ass hurts like hell and since the Mayor has strongly advised me to “avoid strenuous outdoor activity,” I don’t think I’ll be going out anytime soon.
Oh well…anyway, I guess I need to pick a new name for my bike.
Suggestions?
"That's what they call a friendship in Bed Stuy...a guy who doesn't steal your bike."
- Chris Rock on 'Everybody Hates Chris'
First off, you should know that I didn’t get the training wheels off my bike till I was twelve years old.
I know that probably sounds late, but I had actually made remarkable progess since I was only allowed to ride my bike up and down the block when my mom could watch me. (Laugh, but the one time I snuck out when she wasn’t home, six guys tried to jack it. Fortunately, I was more afraid of my mom finding out that I lost my bike than of the thieves and managed to fight them off.)
Anyway, there were two things I was looking forward to when I went to college –natch three things – no longer having to wake up at quarter to six in the morning to go to schools that were hours away from my house by school bus, unlimited vanilla ice cream and riding to and from class on a bike! Just like in the movies.
I overindulged on the first two from jump street…not only did I wake up late every morning, I slept through all my classes when I got there – ah, but that’s another story for another post.
The bike was trickier…I couldn’t bring my kid’s bike to campus…even without the training wheels, but I couldn’t afford a new one.
It wasn’t until my second semester that I saw a white notecard tacked to the post office bulletin board (that’s what people did before e-bay, kids.) advertising a bike for twenty dollars.
I called the phone number and met the seller the next day.
I looked past him at first, wearing a faded sweater and dingy jeans…but I couldn’t look past the thin blue bicycle held steady by the three fingers left on his right hand.
I approached and said I was the girl who called about the bike.
He smiled at me (his teeth barely outnumbering the fingers on his hand).
I nervously handed him two crushed ten dollar bills and thanked God the post office was so crowded.
He told me that he had fixed up the bike himself and that it “runs good, no problem.”
It had wide U shaped silver handlebars, and a light blue paint finish – none of the gears matched the chain or the brakes.
I told him that I needed to try it out. Of course, my bike riding skills were a little rusty – so my friend Sam took the test drive for me.
“Uh…it’s ok…”she said hopping to a stop.
Three finger Willy told me to get on.
I did… but couldn’t really balance myself – so I squeezed the brakes, told him it was fine and walked my new bike home.
I went to the bike store and bought a forty dollar helmet and a twelve dollar lock.
I was ready to ride.
Well, there was a reason that Sam came hopping to a stop. While the bike rode fine, the brakes weren’t quite connected to the wheels.
And by “quite,” I mean not at all.
Stopping was a delicate balance of a long stretch of road, dragging the sole of one foot and yelling “get out of the waaaay,” at the top of my lungs.
And so, because it couldn’t quite stop when it was supposed to, I named my bike “Forrest.” After Gump.
I got a pretty phat job junior year and traded up to a brand new Huffy the following year.
Forrest was abandoned in the basement of my dormitory the summer before they demolished the building.
But in his honor, I named the Huffy “Jenny.”
Well, it’s shiny new bike time again.
Between Pretty Numbers and Kaz, seems everyone is on the bike riding kick…
I wanted in.
Kaz recommended a new “comfort seat” model.
So, I went to the store, plunked down the Visa and left holding a fancy new helmet, a forty dollar lock and a maroon Sedona Giant.
A couple of things have changed since I bought Jenny.
One: who knew that “kick stands” were optional (and therefore, ‘extra’)? WTF? How’s it ‘posed to stand? Two: who knew the water bottle holder was optional (and therefore, ‘extra’?) WTF? Where are you ‘posed to put your water?
And finally, and most importantly as I stood leaning my bike against the sidewalk and gasping for air, a mere three blocks from the bike store – who the hell knew riding a bike was so damn hard?
Why do I have such positive memories of gliding through Central Park during law school and popping wheelies through the ECB?
Of course, now that I have to ride in the streets or risk $55 tickets and a court appearance, I expend a lot more energy looking left to right and back to front for reckless car drivers, but it literally took me like 30 minutes to go a little more than a mile.
I rode from the store to my mom’s apartment and collapsed on her floor.
“Waaatttterrrr….waaattteerrrrr….and air conditioner…..and aiirr conddiiittiionner.”
“Well, who is out of shape?” she said serving me water intravenously and cranking the air up to high.
“Think the bike lady will take it back?”
“Uh…no…isn't that the dog lady?”
Indeed, my overriding image of the bike lady were the four pit bulls behind the counter – aptly advertised with a “Beware of Guard Dog” sign.
Scare- Ree.
Ok…so…how about I leave the bike here and take a cab home?
“Hell, no. You’ve already got a bike here!”
Fine.
Thrown out on the street by my own mother.
I hit the pavement –and then, when I immediately remembered – hit the asphalt.
I crawled home to the NC.
I mean, seriously, an old lady with two bags of groceries and a cane breezed right by me.
Needless to say, my ass hurts like hell and since the Mayor has strongly advised me to “avoid strenuous outdoor activity,” I don’t think I’ll be going out anytime soon.
Oh well…anyway, I guess I need to pick a new name for my bike.
Suggestions?
Gibson: I am not an anti-semite
When later informed by his publicist that "anti-semite" means someone who hates the Jews, Gibson quickly retracted his protests with a simple "Oh...ok, then. Cause I totally hate the Jews."
When later informed by his publicist that "anti-semite" means someone who hates the Jews, Gibson quickly retracted his protests with a simple "Oh...ok, then. Cause I totally hate the Jews."
NOT SO RANDOM THOUGHT
Uhmm...you can never tell when knowing the words to "These Boots were made for walking" in French will come in handy.
Uhmm...you can never tell when knowing the words to "These Boots were made for walking" in French will come in handy.
WE'LL TAKE IT
With black creators giving more acceptability to the image, it is now starting to appear more often in television commercials as well. Most recently some variation of this character has appeared in commercials for Dairy Queen, Universal Studios and Captain Morgan rum.
But despite the popularity of such characters among blacks, the use of the image of big black women as the target of so many jokes is troublesome to some marketers and media scholars.
“It is perpetuating a stereotype that black females are strong, aggressive, controlling people,’’ said Tommy E. Whittler, a marketing professor at DePaul University. “I don’t think you want to do that.’’
However, I am so not feeling the New York Times' rampant use of the words "blacks."
Whassup wid dat? Mmmm hmmmm.
With black creators giving more acceptability to the image, it is now starting to appear more often in television commercials as well. Most recently some variation of this character has appeared in commercials for Dairy Queen, Universal Studios and Captain Morgan rum.
But despite the popularity of such characters among blacks, the use of the image of big black women as the target of so many jokes is troublesome to some marketers and media scholars.
“It is perpetuating a stereotype that black females are strong, aggressive, controlling people,’’ said Tommy E. Whittler, a marketing professor at DePaul University. “I don’t think you want to do that.’’
However, I am so not feeling the New York Times' rampant use of the words "blacks."
Whassup wid dat? Mmmm hmmmm.
