seeyouinhell's Xanga

Friday, April 27, 2007

Fri, 27 Apr 2007 13:56:22 GMT

File this under TMI

I spotted a friendly co-worker leaving the restroom this morning as I was about to go in. She told me that it was out of service because Facilities is busy working on a faulty toilet. We have another “wheelchair only” bathroom on the floor, but they’re currently doing construction in that room. So I asked her, “Does this mean that there’s no other ladies room in the office?” She told me that she was headed to another smaller one on the other side of the floor and she invited me to tag-along.

I took her up on her offer and we chit-chatted on our way there. We were gossiping about our COO stepping down, and how it was more than obvious that he was the only source quoted in the Post’s article about his resignation. But as we neared the other restroom, I was totally ignorant of what I was getting myself into.

Women have always visited bathrooms in packs since time immemorial. So even though my biology dictates that I should engage in this female group activity, I was also born with acute “bladder shyness.” Basically, it’s really hard for me to pee in the company of others. And for some reason, this lifelong condition didn’t dawn on me until I opened the door to the bathroom stall. I started to panic in my head and think to myself, “Christ, I hope I can pee now!”

Although she was able to follow through on her urge to pee, I sat there quietly and awkwardly in my stall. As I privately cursed my sense of timing (why the hell did I have to bump into someone on the way to the bathroom?), I also tried to conjure up imagery of Niagara Falls and leaky faucets to get some…any…type of flow going. But even mental b-roll couldn’t help me, because in addition to being “bladder shy,” I also can’t pee under pressure. Incidentally, that's also the reason why I can never give a doctor a decent urine sample. So even after she wrapped things up and left, I couldn’t get anything going for a few minutes.

So now she probably thinks I’m some sort of “bladder shy” weirdo or worse. I shudder to think of the implications. Do I have to look for another job now? Fuck.

Thursday, December 28, 2006

Thu, 28 Dec 2006 12:41:12 GMT

Even though I missed the holiday window, I'm breaking my xanga hiatus to bring you this amusing SNL clip. It has Phil Spector-syle music, cultural satire, and a 1960s aesthetic...practically everything I love!

View here. And sing along here.

Also, let's have a hand for Darlene Love. I didn't even know that she was still alive, much less that she was still singing like a twenty-something.

...Maybe SNL has won be back.

Monday, July 24, 2006

Mon, 24 Jul 2006 16:12:08 GMT

Doing anything tomorrow?

“I don’t want to miss a thing;” those are words Asperger’s-afflicted songwriter Diane Warren rendered cliché in an Aerosmith song. Incidentally, those words also encapsulate my obsessive devotion to random television programs.

Although Larry King no longer even cares about the names of his guests, I always watch CNN every weeknight at 9 PM. Because if I missed "Larry King Live" a few weeks ago, I would never have caught Larry grilling the two biggest closet cases in Hollywood, Kevin Spacey and Bryan Singer, about the sexuality of Superman. I imagined those two nervous nellies breathing a collective sigh of relief as Larry followed "What about the gay rumors surrounding..." with "Superman?" and not "you two?"

It's also the same reason why I watch Sylvia Brown on "The Montel Williams Show." Sylvia's psychic intuition basically sounds like it was authored by some eighth-rate Fantasy Fiction writer. For instance, whenever you think she's talking about the Magical Kingdom of Narnia, she's actually referring to heaven. And I'm always amused by Sylvia's candor. Like when she frankly tells a despondent guest that her missing sister is dead, all the while starring blankly, curling her tongue and digging the freakishly long fingernail of her index finger into her forehead. And then she'll do a half-assed attempt at consoling that guest by relating some metaphysical mumbo-jumbo double-talk. But I guess my fixation on "Sylvia Brown Wednesdays" is most eloquently expressed by sound bites of this random girl on YouTube.

This has been the same motivation behind my loyalty to "The View." I don't particularly care for the panelists (except for Joy Behar) or the show format, but I know that if I miss an episode, I risk missing a moment in daytime television history. I’m eagerly awaiting the "Hot Topics" segment that turns ugly and prompts all the ladies to pull off their earrings and scratch at each other like cock-fighting chickens. There's no way to be certain which day that will be, but I want to be there when it happens. ‘Cause I know that shit’s going down like Hamlet.

I was there for the ladies' recent encounter with Sandra Bernhard and it was well-worth it. And even though I missed the show when Star Jones announced her departure, I know I'll definitely be there when Debbie Matenopoulos, the original deposed co-host, guest-hosts. Maybe that tragic finale I foresee will be sparked by Debbie’s return. And just in case it is, I’ll be tuning into “The View” bright-eyed and bushy-tailed…waiting for the games to begin.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Wed, 03 May 2006 12:28:39 GMT

A love/hate, but mostly hate, relationship.

Like I said before, when it comes to VH1, the trendy-chic makeover ain’t fooling me. I can see passed the smoke and mirrors of its “hip” new show line-ups to its innate lame core. —Oh, but that reminds me of something that I forgot to mention that really pisses me off about “Best. Week. Ever”. As you well know, I was never a fan of the show…ever. But the program was officially “dead” to me when the stratospherically overrated David Wain did a segment on the show. He was covering a party at Sundance when he spotted Paris Hilton and shamelessly fawned all over her. He got her attention by shouting, “Paris! Paris! I’m with ‘Best. Week. Ever.’! We love you! You’re the patron saint of our show!!! (Chorus repeat x2)”

Excuse me?

Paris Hilton should not be respected like Arrianna Onasis, pitied like Jade Jagger, or even ignored like Kimberly Stewart. Rather, Paris should be perpetually mocked, derided and ridiculed. Even “Best. Week. Ever.” should know that. She’s famous for doing absolutely nothing; the only thing that she ever had going for her was her wealth, and that’s why she was able to buy her fame. She should only be so lucky to be the “patron saint” of some hyped basic cable show. The fact that “Best. Week. Ever.” voluntarily aligns itself with Paris Hilton only proves that it’s a sell-out program which peddles a lot of bull shit. And I’ll never forgive it for initiating that obnoxious trend of creating Single. Word. Sentences. For. Emphasis.

…But as I was saying: VH1 surprised me with “so noTORIous,” and they may have done it again with “Can’t Get A Date.” It’s a clever show, being deliciously honest yet sincerely well-intentioned and constructive. Bottom line is, I like “Can’t Get A Date.” Maybe—just maybe—I’ll lighten up on VH1 from now on.

My Mothership Has Landed

At last, my cooking idol Nigella Lawson is coming to the Food Network! This is a long overdue event that I’ve eagerly anticipated for years. I’ve been starved for this woman’s television presence ever since the Style Network no longer aired re-runs of British Channel 4’s “Nigella Bites.”

I heard the good news when Nigella appeared on Thursday’s “Today Show” and prepared her “Bang Bang Chicken” recipe. “Bang Bang Chicken” is like one of those vintage dishes that people hardly make anymore, like “Floating Island” or “Baked Alaska.” I actually made Nigella’s “Bang Bang Chicken” on Saturday, but I adapted it by replacing the chili bean sauce with a mixture of chili garlic paste and hoisin sauce. And of course, I used Quorn’s “naked cutlets” in place of chicken. I call my version: “Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) Chicken.” It was delish.

The Riverkeeper

For years, Joan Rivers has been one of the “friends in my head.” Over the weekend, I came across a New York Times article of hers that proves she’s truly earned her keep in my imaginary social circle. She contributed a piece entitled “Revenge of a Temp” to the Sunday Business section. After reading it, I could just imagine me and Joan conversing over dinner at some old, stuffy midtown restaurant. We’d exchange temp horror stories, like I’d tell her about one of my bosses who was a prick and actually had the last name “Work.” And she’d tell me about the boss she “thought was an idiot. I went to lunch with a friend and didn't know he was in the next booth. He overheard what I said about him and fired me.” Oh Joan darling, you hang the moon.

Random Thoughts

Why is Vanessa Williams getting off scot-free for doing all of those Proactiv infommercials when Cher was raked over the coals for doing an infommercial a few years ago?

Unlike Barry Manilow and Neil Diamond, my generation has yet to give Burt Bacharach his due as an American musical institution. Wake up, people! This man single-handedly transformed the landscape of popular music.

Why can’t women’s designer underwear be sold in packs like men’s designer underwear? It would certainly be more convenient, cost-effective and, above all, FAIR. Sexism rears its ugly head yet again.

Have you noticed that talk show hosts no longer “go to the audience” for questions and comments? This was a standard practice during the era of “Donahue,” “Sally Jesse Raphael” and the first ten years of “Oprah.” Where has it gone?

Wort surnames I've ever heard: Goodenough, Cockburn and Manlove.

Monday, May 01, 2006

Mon, 01 May 2006 13:46:05 GMT

May Xenu strike me down!

I just can’t stop cruisin’ for a bruisin’. I know that this is a stale topic, but I still want to share my thoughts about Tom Cruise’s interview with Diane Sawyer. ABC Primetime delivered yet again. Although it was obvious that Team Tom screened all of the questions and had final cut approval this time, that doesn’t mean that the interview didn’t have its moments.

Let’s just say this: As someone who doesn’t know Katie Holmes from a hole in the wall, even I could’ve done a better job pretending I know her. At one point, Diane asked Tom: “So what do you love about Katie?” He stuttered and stammered his way through a response that haphazardly started with, “…Well Diane, she’s like you.” I’m sure if Tom hadn’t replaced his publicist in recent months, Diane Sawyer would’ve surely retorted, “What the fuck? How is Katie like me?” Anyway, the best he could come up with was that he just loves Katie’s habit of sticking her tongue out when she smiles. But coincidentally, Katie’s fans also celebrate that same exact attribute of hers …only because she’s filmed and photographed doing it all the fucking time.

But I’d like to momentarily put all of this animosity aside and personally extend my belated congratulations to Tom and Katie on the birth of “their” daughter: Blanket Holmes-Cruise.

A House Without A Home

I routinely peruse the real estate section of the New York Times online. Obviously, I’m in no position to own property. But nonetheless, I search the house market in Brooklyn Heights and dare to dream. I once had my heart set on living in Carroll Gardens, my mother’s neighborhood, but that community has since become infested with hipsters. And after witnessing the drama of selling my grandmother’s federal colonial home, I have set my sights on Brooklyn Heights. I’ve determined that I would rather live amongst old money than reside with self-entitled transplant yuppie motherfuckers who are subsidized by their parents. But I digress…

So during one of my regular searches, I noticed a listing for Cranberry Street. This immediately caught my eye because Cranberry Street is the Brooklyn Heights street featured in Moonstruck. After looking at the accompanying picture, I put two and two together and realized that the Moonstruck house is for sale!

In true stalkery fashion, I’ve actually admired that house in person for years. I’ve loved it not only because it was in the movie, but because it’s located near the promenade and it’s situated on a corner. The house also manages to pull off a Mansard roof really well, and believe me, that’s hard to do.

No Eve Harrington’s Here

Last weekend I caught Martin McDonagh’s play The Lieutenant of Inishmore with assorted acquaintances. The play was like a Voltaire-style cultural/political satire, but I believe it would’ve had more resonance had it been produced over a decade ago. It was filled with long-winded dialogue that made it needlessly long. The characters constantly talked circles around each other, and their conversations often seemed like mere showcases for clever Irish witicisms. But I was somewhat amused in the second act when a particular character turned into a one-man Greek chorus and constantly bemoaned, “This story just keeps getting’ worse and worse!” In short, I think that two hour play could’ve been condensed into a one-caption political cartoon.

The play was staged at The Lyceum, and last time I was there I saw the original cast of Proof. I don’t think The Lyceum has seen a building renovation since the 1930s. The women’s room is the size of a pantry and, as usual, there’s always an infinite parade of ladies waiting to use it. And while everyone’s on line, the ushers relentlessly yell, “Okay, ladies! The show’s about to start! We’re going to lock the bathrooms!” I actually managed to use the facilities during intermission, but when I made it there, a few ladies started to take the ushers’ threat seriously. As soon as I locked myself into the stall, a handful of busybody theatre-goers piled themselves into the diminutive lavatory. The fact I could still hear the ushers yelling already gave me a fierce case of bladder shyness, but now I had company. And things only got worse when a few of the women tried to chat with me, an anonymous stranger occupied in a bathroom stall.

All in all, my favorite part of the play was when I was waiting on the ticket line and spotted Michael Musto biking down West 45^th Street.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Tue, 18 Apr 2006 16:37:19 GMT

Just in case you were wondering...

Here's what Bobbi Kristina's been up to these days.

Now it's too late for her. With her mother running around the house wearing nothing but a mink coat and uggs, and her father "being Bobby Brown," we all saw this coming. 'Twas only a matter of time.

Eh, at least I can throw my own "caption contest" with this one.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Mon, 17 Apr 2006 13:36:14 GMT

No denyin’ it

Much like Canada is to the US, VH1 has always been stigmatized as the lamer version of MTV. But in recent years, VH1 has endeavored to turn their image around by capitalizing on all things pop culture and finally acknowledging the existence of black people. VH1 thinks it has finally “arrived” with “Best. Week. Ever.,” but in my opinion, this is yet another lame wolf in sheep’s clothing for VH1. Since “Best. Week. Ever.” relies heavily on celebrity cameos for its commentary, the show’s humor never goes for the jugular. And for as cute as a talking head like Chris Jericho is, he is still in no position to school me in pop culture. Not to mention, that “Best. Week. Ever.” is really just a shameless vehicle for VH1 to promote its other shows like “The Surreal Life,” “Celebrity Fit Club,” and “America’s Next Top Model” reruns.

In my humble opinion, the destination for a sarcastic, television “week in review” is “The Soup,” on E! Just like its predecessors “Talk Soup” and “The What The? Awards,” the writing on “The Soup” features a cruel, ruthless, painfully true brand of humor that “Best. Week. Ever.” so obviously resists. But perhaps it’s the self-deprecating humor of “The Soup” that I find most endearing. “The Soup” is not above recycling clips of E!’s “news” magazines and reality shows to illuminate viewers about their own network’s spirals into lameness and pathetic television.

But VH1…and Tori Spelling too, for that matter…may have at last won me over “so noTORIous.” But what’s my beef with Tori Spelling, you ask? Well several years back, I was watching an episode of E!’s “The Gossip Show,” when one of the gossip columnists related a tale of Tori’s altruism. One evening, Tori had been dining at a 5-star sushi place in LA. When she exited the restaurant, she came across a homeless individual loitering outside the building. Moved by his/her situation, she went back into the restaurant and re-emerged with $100 worth of sushi for the homeless person. Her publicist confirmed the story.

Now I don’t know about you, but if I were poverty-stricken, destitute, and hungry, the first thing I would want to eat is sushi. Especially $100 worth of sushi. And if I couldn’t finish all that sushi before it went bad, that wouldn’t be a problem. Because as a homeless person, who either lives in a box or leapfrogs from shelter-to-shelter, I have easy access to refrigeration. Tori’s father may be the richest man in television, but I guess he could never afford to give her common sense.

Anyway, the moment I probably fell for “so noTORIous” was when Tori’s friend complimented her fake eye lashes by saying, “They make your eyes look less buggy.” I quite like the show. As a matter of fact, I like the show so much, I’m not even loathe to admit it. For instance, its mockery of Scientology fell only a few degrees short of the banned “South Park” episode. And the show’s clever sight gags and narrative tangents are reminiscent of the comedy of “Family Guy.” I’m also rather amused by the fact that stock 80s television actress Jeanetta Arnette plays Tori’s manager “Ruthie Rose.” Who’d have thunk that Miss Meara from “Head of the Class” would turn up on “so noTORIous?” Not me.

This bandwagon is getting crowded…

The Mets and their fans are always shortchanged. No local networks ever broadcast from our stadium on opening day. We’re stuck with a tacky ballpark in Bumblefuck, Queens. And we’re forced to pay for an exclusive Yankee network in our cable package.

But the Mets are currently in first place, so this means that my beloved baseball team is slowly and reluctantly being embraced by a city that has disowned them every year. Throughout the tri-state area, [formerly] clandestine Met fans are emerging from their closets and letting their true blue-and-orange colors show. And ex-supporters are cheering them on, behaving as if they never defected to the Yankees.

But even during a time like this, Met fans still have to put up with a deluded media that belittles our team’s well-earned success. Even though the Mets have won 9 out of 11 games so far, most critics still have the nerve to dismiss them as a “flash in the pan.” Meanwhile people are still keeping hope alive that the Yankees, who are virtually DOA this year, will make it to the World Series. The Mets’ 7 game winning streak was downplayed, while the Yankees’ 3 game “sweep” of the Kansas City Royals was trumpeted like it was the second coming. But not once did anyone ever mention that the Royals suck, have always sucked, and have only won 2 games this season.

Anyway, if I could admit that VH1 and Tori Spelling has “done good” with “so noTORIous,” then the public can certainly admit that the Mets truly are amazin’ this year.

Monday, April 03, 2006

Mon, 03 Apr 2006 13:04:23 GMT

If you see something, say something.

In another instance of being a day late and a dollar short, I blew my chance of contributing to Gawker Stalker. I’ve regularly seen celebrities in my travels, but they’re usually New York fixtures like Woody Allen and Sandra Bernhard. Otherwise, I’ve come across more low-profile figures, such as Fisher Stevens, Michael Imperioli, Hope Davis, and Geoffrey “Elvin from ‘The Cosby Show’” Owens. Michelle Williams (and later, Heath Ledger) used to live next door to my grandmother, but if I were to ever report them, I would be acting more like a treacherous asshole than an anonymous gawker. And besides, even in that case, what could I say? “I saw Michelle Williams and Heath Ledger living next door to my grandmother.”

But on Friday afternoon, I finally had a celebrity encounter that was worth telling people about: Josh Hartnett and Scarlett Johansson. Christian and I were having lunch at Bubby’s when we saw them. I know celebrities commonly eat there, but I was expecting the usual “Upper-West Side yuppie family” crowd. But sadly, my sighting was never published because there was another Gawker-savy diner in my midst who also recognized them and beat me to internet access. Here’s what they sent in:

I saw Scarlett Johannsson and Josh Hartnett at Bubby’s. she didn't seem as "voluptuous" in person as described in the press. Granted she has curves, but she has a small frame, Jessica Simpson-esque. She wore a short sleeved sea-foam sweater & 2 headbands.

YAWN! God, do you think (s)he could have been more Scarlett-oriented? Why even mention Josh if you’re not going to dish about him? Here’s what mine would’ve looked like:

Spotted Josh Hartnett and Scarlett Johansson dining at Bubby's on Friday afternoon (31 March). I was never 100% convinced they were a couple until I saw it for myself. Josh walked into the restaurant with a rumpled-up script in one hand, looking his usual hot-and-scruffy self. Petite Scarlett looked well, but she was wearing some huge, horrid nose jewelry that was actually wearing her. The two were initially seated at the table next to ours, but La Johansson asked the hostess to relocate them to a booth.

Yet another reason to invest in a Blackberry/Sidekick.

Shitney Houston

I’m sure the newspapers have already written their obituaries for Whitney Houston, but that doesn’t mean they’re not currently charting her decline. Last week I read a provocative, revealing article in the Daily News about the [allegedly] sorry state of Miss Houston’s life right now: “Houston, you've got a problem…crack!” I’m writing this as I listen to “Saving All My Love For You” and think of happier times…

Should you organize the intervention, or should I?

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Wed, 22 Mar 2006 15:13:13 GMT

Just one of them days

That a girl goes through

Monica, I couldn't have said it better myself...

My stint at Zomba ended abruptly on Monday when Vanguard called me that afternoon and told me it would be my last day. At first I was relieved, but then I was a little unnerved that this money boat has run out of steam. So I'm in between temp assignments and, as always, I'm searching for a real job. My placement manager, Andy, actually offered me a position right after he gave me the news. But it was a permanent administrative position in the New York offices for the American University in Cairo. I was never "sold" on the job, but what really made me say "no" to it was that it requires travel to Egypt. Talk about a dealbreaker...

It reminds me of the story my mom tells of how she was offered a lucrative position that required her to relocate to Kuwait where she would educate local children in English. Even though the money was appealing, she never accepted the job becuase it was way too good to be true. She was right...a few months after she refused the job offer, the Ayatollah led a revolution in Iran.

But I actually consider this time off somewhat of a blessing. At least I can take care of my mother and keep her company. And I can finally get things done that I haven't been able to do for a while. For instance, my eyebrows need to be groomed like whoa. I'm so tried of constantly tweezing them. Between working and commuting, I haven't had any time to visit a place I trust. My luck, if I were to stop at a convenient salon near Zomba, I would walk out of there looking like a perpetually suprised cat.

Rhymes with Clay

So all of us Clay skeptics have finally found that elusive smoking gun--or flaming gun, tee hee--in the form of these webcam images. Sure, they could've been faked...but the moon landing could've been faked also. And if the images are real...first of all: Double ewww! Second of all: Here's solid evidence that the only thing Clay would ever french on a girl are her braids. Face it, Claymates! He plays for team homosexual, so quit holiding out hope that you could be "the right girl" he's still looking for. This development even surpasses the amusing, but easily dismissable, John Paulus tell-all.

Good thing Clay Aiken didn't discover the webcam years ago; if he's as fond of the device as I think he is, he could've gone the way of Justin Berry.

Dreaming of Dreamgirls

T minus 275 days before Dreamgirls hits the big screen, starring my very own Golden Calf, Beyonce Knowles. The filmmakers' decision to cast Beyonce as "Deena Jones" was spot-on. Beyonce has the sufficient talent and personality to bring the performance to life. And as much as I love her, I know that she's also capable of the shadiness the role necessitates. I was convinced of this ever since I saw her on "106 & Park," when Michelle tumbled off stage and she and Kelly continued to perform "Soldier" without a care in the world.

My one reservation with the film was the casting of "Effie," particularly since "Effie" single-handedly delivers the legendary showstopper, "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going." I was nervous when the producers announced that they wanted to select an "American Idol" contestant for the role, and ultimately they did...Jennifer Hudson was cast as "Effie." I'm sure Fantasia Barrino would've been the ideal choice, but I'm glad that they did not go with Kimberly Locke. As I recall, Kimberly has a delightful voice but I know she definitely can't pull off the vocal acrobatics for a song like "And I Am Telling You..."

I hope it turns out well, but I know Jennifer Holliday is a hard act for any "Effie" actress to follow. However since that song takes the listerner on such a topsy-turvy, emotional rollercoaster, it might actually do most of the work for Jennifer Hudson. I remember being ten years old and attending a performance of Dreamgirls at the Westchester Broadway Dinner Theatre. I heard an an anonymous, unknown actress belt out the song and I was still wowed.

Friday, March 17, 2006

Fri, 17 Mar 2006 10:34:57 GMT

The Drunk Leading the Drunkity-Drunk

So last night, I guess you could say I celebrated St. Patrick's Day a little early. I don't usually hit happy hour that hard on week nights, but I suppose I was inclined to since yesterday felt like a Friday to me. After 6'30, Christian and I headed over to XES. Although we're looking for another "after work" place, XES will do for now. They have a 2 for 1 special between the hours of 4 and 9, and their drinks are very affordable considering they're made with good liquor. It's also conveniently located just one block from my office. The only problems with XES is that it's impossible to find a seat or get the bartenders' attention on Friday nights. Obviously that's a problem with a lot of places, but when it comes to XES...it's getting less "cute."

Only a few minutes after I show up there, I see my favorite female impersonator Hedda Lettuce. Christian was encouraging me to approach her, but I never did. Had she not been chatting with two other guys, I probably would've personally told her how much I love her work. That, and I was too shy...or sober. After my third Stoli Orange and Sprite, I'm sure I would've tried to engage her. But sadly, I shall never know for certain...Miss Hedda disappeared as quickly as she appeared. At least in Friendsterville, we're "friends."

We were drinking and being merry for much of the evening; in between socializing with random people, I watched their assortment of music videos (one of my favorite pastimes). After we staggered out of XES, we headed over to Sette. Incidentally, Sette was last year's venue for Christian's birthday and we wound up with the same waiter. We weren't in bad shape at the restaraunt, as we were able to coherently communicate our orders. I wasn't "forget my purse" drunk, but I'm surprised that I even had the presence of mind to remember my lunch bag in addition to my handbag. I'm actually kind of impressed with how conscientious I am of my belongings when I'm under the influence. However, I did discover that I was "break my glass" drunk during our meal.

I made my way to Grand Central and boarded my Metro North train. I actually fell asleep and was really fucking lucky when I awoke to the conductor announcing "RYE!" Suprisingly I didn't wake up in freaking Stamford and I actually made it home.

Which brings me to now, I'm at work. I'm not hungover, but I did wake up at 4AM extremely thirsty. That was after I had a nightmare about being in a carjacking. I went downstairs to the kitchen and drank anything that was potable. I went back to sleep at around 5 or so.

Today's St. Patrick's Day, which means it's also Pedestrian Hell Day. Pedestrian Hell Day actually rolls around twice a year, the other time being the Puerto Rican Day parade. Since I have two parades in my ethnic background, you'd think I'd go to them. But I actually avoid them like the plague.