C-L-A-S-S-I-C

...and a little sad. The day Gilda Radner died, Steve Martin was hosting 'Saturday Night Live.' One of the original skits for that weeks show was trashed to make way for this vintage clip of Martin and Radner dancing like old-timey, glamorous Hollywood stars. Steve cried while introducing the bit.

Oh, I finished his autobiography, 'Born Standing Up,' today. The man has my eternal reverence.

730 Days

Today marks my two-year anniversary of living in New York City. I always feel pressured by myself to churn out some sort of sentimental gesture/diatribe on occasions like this for reasons I will never understand. So here it is, homies:

The first year of living here was the most monumental for obvious reasons; the initial rush that flooded through my system when I was catapulted into an entirely new and exciting living environment. The second year, however, is special and monumental in its own sense. The soot of the city has really sunk into my skin in subtle, yet distinctly New York ways.

I've noticed elements of my character have started to shift for both the better and worse. I've definitely become far edgier, cynical, and impatient. I can't walk down the street without getting tempted to push some slow pedestrian/tourist/geriatric into bustling traffic. I've become privy to swearing outloud in public to myself whenever I miss my train by a hair, spill coffee on my coat, or if I'm ignored while trying to hail a lit taxi. Of course, Tourette's syndrome is pretty common in these urban parts, so I don't feel too out of place. Along with becoming a cynical, angry, and impatient banshee- I've also been sprinkled with a bit of pretension.

For example, the other night I was hanging out with my friend, Jodi, and she was relishing me with the details of her weekend. At one point in her story, she told me that a friend and her "went to The Grocery Store on Saturday night." My initial reaction was, "Oooo, is that a new bar or club?" After guffawing tremendously, Jodi replied with a stunned, "No, no. We bought groceries at an actual grocery store."

While I'm not necessarily proud of the fact that I regularly hate on sluggish yet innocent pedestrians and swear over trivial things, I'm glad that the city has done its part in changing me. Perhaps it's part of settling into adulthood, or perhaps it's living 3,000 miles away from my entire family that has helped me establish my independence. Perhaps it's a combination of the two? Whatever the catalyst, I'm grateful for the fact that I'm now facing my life priorities with a newfound determination.

I've never been one to follow any sort of conventional path. Conventional paths are typically paved by society rather than the self. The only path I've ever been interested in going down in this life is that of self-actualization and happiness. I realize I sound like a new-agey, Buddhist-esque douchebag now, but so be it... it's helping me prove my point. ANYWAY, living here and brushing elbows with the wealthy families with their stocks, hedgefunds, Ivy League educations, and "keeping up with the Jones" attitude towards life has shown me what I never want to become. I've learned that happiness isn't about always obtaining what you want, it's about being content with what you already have. It's a simple thought, I'm certainly not the first to think it, but it's surprising how easy it is to forget.

That being said, I'm happy that I've managed to move to and stay in a city that I'm in love with through good times and bad. I'm happy that I started with no friends here and have managed to accumulate many. I'm happy that I have a regular coffee guy (Juliano) and a regular bartender (Lucy). I'm happy that I've maintained a job with employers that care about me and treat me like a member of their family. I'm happy that I have access to one of the best Goddamned public libraries in the country. I'm happy that I'm as entertained at a free comedy show as I would be sitting in an $80 seat at the Metropolitan Opera. I'm happy that I live on Park Avenue rent free at the ripe age of twenty-two. I'm happy about a lot of things. Mostly though, I'm just happy I mustered up the courage to move here a mere 730 days ago.

McSweeney's Glory

MY PET PEEVES.
BY DAN LIEBERT

- - - -

Women who breastfeed in public but then make a big show of hiding it as if I care.

Total strangers telling me what to do, especially square-dance callers.

Those pretentious phonies who say "pasta" instead of paste or "Boca Raton" instead of rat's mouth.

Itchy labels on bungee ankle straps so I itch the whole way down.

When my opera cape gets caught on homeless people's junk.

Waiters who recite the specials in a bored singsong voice as if they don't really care what I eat.

Bad art in motel rooms, especially bad performance art.

When a woman stands near me and people think her ugly baby is mine and it is.

Dentists who cram my mouth full and don't even ask me one question, though I've been practicing all year.

Big, conceited bodies of water, especially Lake Superior.

The depressing attractions at the Svenskfilmindustrie theme park, near Stockholm. (Actually, I may have dreamt this.)

When a can of cheap peas says "Pea Color and Size May Vary" and inside there's just one giant blue pea.

Halloween decorations in a hospice.

Distant calliope music at night tempting me to forget my duties and run off with the circus and to hell with her orgasm!

A "nature burger" with fake grill marks painted on it.

People who know way too much about the Merovingians or cheese.

Prank phone calls like the guy who called me selling light bulbs for the blind. Ha-ha. Very funny. You are sick, mister.

Barbecue restaurants with happy pigs on the sign.

Those foreign guys on the subway who pretend to read newspapers written in gibberish.

People on fire—they're always asking for favors, even if they hardly know you.

The way road signs talk to you in that stern, fatherly voice.

I never seem to meet those cheerful, uncomplicated women you see on tractor-trailer mud flaps.

When a lecturer takes a drink of water and doesn't offer us any.

I've been all over the world and have lived among every kind of culture and I can say, without any hesitation, that the most ignorant, rude, selfish, and self-centered people on earth are babies.

- - - -

You're Going to Have to Wait, Steve

Dear Mr.Martin,

It saddens me to report that I will have to delay reading your autobiography "Born Standing Up," because an even more fetching work of literature has upstaged you. It is my duty as a surveyor of all things intellectual and righteous to read Lance Bass's gripping personal memoir, "Out of Sync" the second it hits the shelves of Barnes and Noble. Imagine the experiences that struggling gay pop-star has to share with us and how we can all grow as a people by knowing about them!

I hope you understand,
Chelsea Ward

Feathered Bliss

Today was a crisp, clear, and deceivingly sunny Sunday. Though the sky was an overwhelming shade of azure and the sun was triumphantly beaming its glow everywhere, there was a palpable chill fiercely slapping against anything that dared to be outdoors. I have to admit, I love days like this- when the cold invigorates every pore, making the skin flush, the body shrivel up inside of itself for warmth, and the tips of your earlobes raw.

Due to my current level of anxiety, I decided to release some endorphins and take advantage of the Central Park Reservoir jogging path. I began to circle it as many times as my troubled thoughts were circling my mind. Lap after lap, the same concerns kept orbiting in my head, making my emotions dizzy. When one is in a confusing and painful situation, they tend to disregard whatever positive elements are in their realm. Just when my cyclical and cynical thoughts had reached a particularly redundant and wretched state- I saw the ducks.

Dozens and dozens of perfectly content birds bobbed around like buoys before me; they were still and happy staying in place. Here were these sublimely peaceful little avian creatures, able to fly, but content just wading in the freezing water. It amazed me that they were blissfully unaware of the urban chaos encompassing them as well as the man-made wilderness in which they were currently inhabiting. Some would quack at one another, some burrowed their heads into their bodies like tortoises, some seemed to be engaging in some sort of swim tag with their fellow ducks. This simple display of nature really grasped and inspired me.

Perhaps it was my particularly vulnerable state that allowed me to appreciate such a scene. Who knows what caused me to stop in my typically frenetic tracks and stare at those birds for as long as I did. Whatever the cause, I'm grateful for it. Without realizing it, those feathered folks encouraged me to lay my feathers on the tumultuous waves of thought in my mind, burrow my head into my body, and let all the anxieties take flight and migrate to another land.

Those Crazy Literate Fools

Area Eccentric Reads Entire Book

It's sad how topical this article is. Really, it seems nowadays that reading a book has become an obscure pastime. What a tragedy, indeed.

Middle of The Road

It sounds more like a search for novelty and thrill than for self-knowledge...But you have to admit that “I’m having a midlife crisis” sounds a lot better than “I’m a narcissistic jerk having a meltdown.”

-Richard A. Friedman, in an article for the NY times regarding the seemingly inevitable plight that many middle aged men grapple with.

Yummy!

My brother recently posted this as a myspace bulletin:

"So I was breezing through an old cookbook when I found a recipe for casserole of pigeons. Who the hell eats pigeons? Those things are like rats with wings. They might as well throw in a recipe for possum flambe or how about a nice sucker fish provencale. I'm going to go throw up. Uggh."

Well, for those that are connoisseurs of the disease-saturated birds, I believe open hunting season for them begins here in the wilderness of New York City in early fall. Ladies and gentlemen, get a bib and some ammo and let's do this!

Let's Get to The Root of The Issue, Folks

"Dental plan!
Lisa needs braces!
Dental plan!
Lisa needs braces!"

Oh Lenny. Oh Marge Simpson, I so know what you mean.

Two days into the New Year and I'm off to a great start. For the last few moments of 2007, and the first few moments of 2008 I was able to ring in a New Year with someone (for once) that I adore and care for very much. However, later that night while lying in bed, I was tossing and turning due to throbbing fits of pain all taking place inside my mouth. I was even inspired to write a haiku about it the next morning:

Nerve always throbbing
Root canal too expensive
Pain is so lousy

You want to know what's more expensive than one root canal? Three! That's right, after deciding that two days of unrelenting, skull crushing pain was a bit too much for a dose of Advil to challenge, I ventured on over to the dentist. One quick X-ray and it became evident that I immediately needed three root canals and that there's a massive infection above the dead tooth. It's always comforting to know that you're hosting a colony of pus bandits that desperately need to be excommunicated from your gums. The procedures began today and will pick up again come Monday.

I'm not really upset about the fact that an abscess tooth could've killed me. At this point, death would be lovely. I'm distraught because thanks to the fact that I have absolutely no dental plan, I will be paying around $5,000.00 (out of pocket none the less) for my friggin' teeth. Bye, bye Christmas Bonus! We hardly knew ye.

I may just have to turn tricks to pay for this. I will literally be a toothless whore if that's the case.