Trust Me, the B Train is No Better

I want to kill someone every day. I want to push someone down the stairs. I want to shove someone in front of a moving train. I want to stab someone repeatedly with a metrocard.

I really need to stop taking the subway.

I can't stand it when subway newbies decide to travel during my commute. A New York commute is serious business. We don't have cars, so our subway commute is all we have to call our own. And do we ever own it.

New Yorkers: If you're questioning my rationale here, ask yourself this: Where do you stand on the subway platform in the morning?

Any answer to this question other than, "any place I feel like it," means that you know what you're doing. And out of respect for this, I feel that everyone traveling via train between the hours of 8-10 and 5-7 should know what they are doing too. Or get the f*** out of my way.

At least 5 times per week, I find myself in one of the following situations:

1. Person in front of me can't swipe their metrocard properly... 25 times in a row.
2. Person in front of me dawdles down the stairs while my train is waiting to be boarded.
3. Person in front of me boards the train and stops dead, leaving no room for anyone else to board the car.
4. Person in front of me is the victim of many vivid homicidal fantasies.

This is why the Scientologists issue stress tests in the subway. Of course you're stressed. You're taking the subway. But frankly, what reasonable commuter has the time to stop and take a stress test? Maybe Scientology got this one wrong. Sometimes Tom and John just don’t think things through.

As someone who used to walk to work and avoid the train during peak hours, my new train commute is affecting me in exciting new ways. Never before did I realize how much I hate people. I am now unafraid to make my frustrations audibly known to my offenders. I have mastered the stink eye. I am full of rage. My iPod full of angry rock probably does not help.

Tomorrow's zen commute strategy: Air Supply and an iced coffee. I doubt this will help. Unless my coffee comes with a shot of valium.

Inappropriate Workplace Slogans

A funny thing happened on my way in to work today....

At my previous job, a few of my co-workers gave me some going away booty on my last day of work. I got some sassy post-its, a bottle opener, and a mug. All items are in my new office and make me nostalgic for the good/bad old days.

But the most used gift of the three is definitely the mug. I am a big tea drinker and chug down 3-5 mug fulls per day.

At the end of each day, I lovingly hand-wash my mug and tea press and return them to my cubicle. Until last night.

I was working late last night and didn't have the stamina for hand-washing. So I left my stuff in the kitchen sink for the cleaning lady to contend with. I figured I'd give myself a break, and just pick up my stuff in the morning.

But because I worked late last night, I was late to arrive this morning. And when I walked through the kitchen, I noticed that my mug was filled with coffee.

And holding that coffee-filled mug of mine?
The in-house counsel from Sony/BMG.

And on the mug?
A woman from the 1950's in a purple pantsuit, lounging on her settee, under the phrase, "Queen of F*cking Everything."

Nice choice of mug, buddy. I love a good female slogan on a male executive in the morning. Way better professional choice than the styrofoam.

Nailed!

Do you remember charades?

If you are one of my friend Sharon's bachelorette party attendees, you may have played mixed-company charades as recently as 2006. But for those of you who opt for more exciting things while in Las Vegas than playing drunken charades at 5am with strangers, it may have been a while since you last played.

But like riding a bike, charades is something that you don't forget. Slapping out words and syllable counts against your arm is not an act one forgets easily.

And I bet you even have some old standby moves up your sleeve.

Like putting a hat on your head as a "sounds like" clue for "that." You know what I'm talking about. And if don't, yeah, you can use that one next time you're in Vegas.

There are also some trademark moves that symbolize different types of careers. For example:

• Riding a bike, resting a box on your upturned, open palm, and ringing the doorbell. Pizza guy.
• Listening to someone's chest with a stethoscope and performing CPR. Doctor.
• Driving, honking and cursing. Cab Driver.
• And my personal favorite: typing, chewing gum, and filing your nails. Secretary.

I must now admit that if someone were to observe me at work for a few hours, they would most definitely translate my non-verbal cues into one definitive career. Secretary.

And to be fair, I do type for the better part of my day, and while I never chew gum, I am always filing my nails.

When I left my last job, a co-worker of mine asked the gang to go around and answer silly Melissa-themed questions like, "What was your first impression of Melissa?" (another Puerto Rican joined the office) and "What does Melissa do that really drives you crazy?" (nothing).
One friend was asked what I would bring if stranded on a desert island. Her answer was simple. A nail file.

It's not that my nails are Streisand-worthy daggers of buttah. It's more that my nails are easily controlled in the chaotic business world. And my file brings a much needed respite from spewing corporate jargon to potential clients.

I know that the sounds of nails being filed drives some to madness, but I don't really care. I guess I would be more considerate if anyone ever called me out, but there is a lunatic woman in our office always screaming into the phone who goes unchecked, so I doubt I'm causing any trouble.

I guess that constant nail filing could be deemed office inappropriate behavior for someone with a good career. But then again, so could blogging during business hours.

The bottom line is, you gotta do what you gotta do to stay sane throughout the day. If I was a super high-powered exec I would probably have something more business appropriate going on. Like a treadmill in my office. A treadmill made of nail files.

Liberty City

So after all this ranting and raving from Melissa, I have finally finished GTA IV. It took about a month of sustained play, but I am the king of Algonquin (and Broker, Bohan, Dukes & Alderney). I often got sidetracked going on the kind of killing spree that would make Dave Koresh proud, but I stuck to my guns (literally) and brought Nico Bellic to the top of the crime world. What have I taken from all of this?

1. I don't want that month back. So many times, we see a movie, play a video game, go to a concert, whatever, and say "I want that _____ [insert arbitrary amount of time] back." For example, the movies "Underworld" and "Blade: Trinity" (I guess I set the vampire flick bar pretty high), and almost any live theatre I've ever seen in my life. Not GTA4. Yes it took forever, but there is a pretty legit feeling of accomplishment. I actually wanted Nico to track that/those sonnabitch(es) down and exact revenge, Balkan style.

2. I should download some Fleetwood Mac. Of all the songs in the game, I never thought I would like the "Edge of Seventeen" best. There's even a punk radio station and some great rap/hip-hop, so I assumed those would be my favorite. However, listening to Stevie Nicks' shrill voice whilst slaughtering a pack of Slavs is therapeutic. Maybe other Fleetwood Mac songs are good. Shit. I actually saw them in concert with a friend once and didn't even like it as much as I did when set to me roaring through Middle Park East with an Uzi out the window of my stolen Turismo (Ferrari F40).

3. I actually know NY much better now. Sometimes when I am trying to figure out where to go, since playing the game that is, I actually envision the Map you use in the game in my mind, and zoom in from there. Pathetic? Yup. Useful as hell? Damn skippy. I think I hit rock bottom this morning when I accidentally told a co-worker that I enjoyed my bike ride through Middle Park last night.

4. Nico Bellic is my halloween costume (shotgun!). If I get a buzz cut and don't shave for a couple days, I can totally pull it off. Mrs. Blogtari can go as Lollipop Girl. If I continue being a fat ass, I'll have to go as Roman.

5. Now I know why they call it Liberty City. Because the game holds you hostage until you beat it, and the reward is regaining your liberty.

Long As God Can Grow It...

Once upon a time, I thought I was a theatre buff. Hell, I even spell theatre the fancy way. If that's not legit, then I don’t know what is.

Although I live in NY, I haven’t done too much to contribute to the Great White Way in the past few years. Maybe its because Broadway has become the place where American Idol and Dancing with the Stars celebs come to die. Or maybe its because I'd rather eat and drink the cost of a theatre ticket than acquire some sober culture.

So to ease my wallet while appeasing my inner play-nerd, I am planning to attend some Shakespeare in the Park this summer. But the best part is... the show I'm planning to see for free isn't even Shakespeare! WOOO HOOO.

Not only will I not be seeing this summer's selection of Hamlet (which is really quite lovely, but I've seen it 100 times), but I will be seeing my all time favorite musical ever.

HAIR!

OMG! I love HAIR!

When I was young, my parents took me as an impressionable youth to see HAIR at an outdoor theatre. I was instantly hooked. While the cast did not get fully naked (yes, HAIR is the naked musical), they did get naked enough for me to fall in love. I was probably about 8. And everyone knows that 8-year-olds can totally relate to anti-establishment, free-love propaganda set to music.

My parents owned the HAIR record and I played it so much that we had to upgrade to the tape. I was later given the CD as a Hanukah gift when I was in college. That's at least a decade of love for HAIR right there. And if you flash-forward to my present-day giddiness over HAIR in the Park, that's more than 20 years of love.

I don't think there are many other things that I've loved for twenty years. Maybe The Wizard of Oz (yeesh, I guess I really do like musicals). But I don't think there are many other things from my youth that I'm still into today.

My Little Pony. Nope.
The Free to Be You and Me record. Nope.
Matching tops and bottoms from Kids R Us. Nope.
That board game Payday. Nope.
Cracklin' Oat Bran. Maybe... Are they still making this?

I'm counting on HAIR to help me reclaim my youth. Maybe I'll bring some Cracklin Oat Bran in a Ziploc bag as a snack.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation...

I met a friend for dinner last night and needed to kill an hour before setting out to meet her. Inspired by my upcoming summer vacation (a week in Atlantic City over July 4th), I decided to make a vacation guide for myself and my friends.

And instead of wasting more time and creative juices, I thought I'd just repurpose my AC Guide here. And maybe inspire you to come see how the other side lives in Dirty Jers.

The Greatest Beach Vacation Ever!
Your Guide to Atlantic City

The Island (AC 101 for newbies)
Melissa’s parents were born and raised on the fair isle of Atlantic City, and she spent the summers of her youth on its fragrant shores.

Atlantic City is on an island with 4 towns that geographically range from schmanciest to shadiest. Not surprisingly, the further you get from AC, the better off you are. The towns are: Longport, Margate, Ventnor, AC.

Ventnor and AC are the only towns on the island with a boardwalk. Lucy the Elephant is in Margate. Rich stuff is in Longport.

Local Chow
The best subs in the world hail from AC. And if you don’t believe me, you’ve clearly never had one.

The Blogtari’s prefer Dino’s, the Margate sub outpost, because Melissa’s been going there religiously since birth. It’s also about 1/3 as crowded as its more famous AC competitor and they have YooHoo.

The best known sub joint in town is The White House. I am unsure about the YooHoo, so you may want to skip it. But like big city cheesesteak rivals Pat’s and Geno’s, I suggest you try both and see what happens.

Posh Dining
With the addition of The Borgata in 2003, fine dining came to AC. Your favorite restaurateurs (Wolfgang Puck, Bobby Flay, Stephen Starr) all have restaurants in the top casinos.

The annual Blogtari Christmas outing has allowed us to dine at some of the best spots, including Cuba Libre, PF Changs, Buddakan, Bobby Flay Steak, and Hooters.

Beach Bars
In the years before decent nightlife came to AC casinos, Jews from across the East Coast (OK, from outside of Philadelphia) flocked to a noble beach bar.

The Greenhouse has seen its fair share of nasty beach hook-ups. It’s 18 to enter, 21 to party, and right on the beach. What could be better?

Craving a poorly made Mind Eraser shot? The Greenhouse is where it’s at!

Clubby Guys
Again, thanks to The Borgata, nightlife is back in AC! Three casinos reign supreme in the nightlife department these days (sorry Mr. Trump).

The Tropicana

• 32 Degrees (bottle service vibe from Philadelphia)
• Red Square (Cold War bar from Vegas)
• Cuba Libre (salsa joint from Philadelphia)
• Providence (a new place I know nothing about)

The Pier at Caesars

• The Continental (best cocktail menu on Earth from Philadelphia)
• There’s also been a rumor that Rum Jungle is coming to the 4th floor. The website is not supporting this cause. This makes me supremely upset.

The Borgata

• Murmur (the chicks from The Hills partied here. Enough said.)

Gambling
Of course some folks head to AC for the gambling. Here’s a list of casinos listed in proximity to Ventnor.

• Hilton
• Tropicana
• Trump Plaza
• Caesars
• Ballys
• Resorts
• Taj Mahal
• Showboat


And over in Brigantine…


• The Borgata
• Trump Marina
• Harrahs

Shopping
For the ladies and the gentlemen who love them, there is some decent shopping in AC.

If you love buying discounted Coach bags from 1993 and ill-fitting slacks from Banana Republic, then the outlets in inner-AC is the place for you.

If you’re willing to shell out real dough for real products, The Pier at Caesars may be a better match. The Pier is a fancy mall with regular chains and high end shops. There’s also a candy shop for your Sour Power needs.

If you’re feeling naughty, why not pick up a novelty T with airbrushed boobs at one of the Boardwalk’s many fine retail establishments? Chase down your Puerto Rican flag towel with a soft serve ice cream and some salt water taffy and you are in Jersey Shore heaven.

Steve Sanders Forever!

Everyone knows that the lack of TV these days has hit me hard. I have no hobbies and no social life and so the lack of programming as of late is driving me to make weeknight plans.

But my husband has always been seemingly immune to TV schedules. He fills his evenings with crapbag co-ed sports teams (a win is all the more rewarding when your team stinks), XBox, and EBay. His contribution to the DVR is meager at best, and usually consists of obscure soccer games that he watches in fast-forward.

So you can imagine my surprise when I came home last week to find about 15 episodes of Beverly Hills 90210 on my DVR.

Now, I watched 90210 along with everyone else in the 90s, but CinS is a mega-fan. Did he give up when Scott Scott shot himself in the temple? No. Did he give up when Donna Martin finally graduated? No. Did he give up when the Noxzema Girl was executed? No. Did he give up with The Heights aired and "How Do You Talk to an Angel" burned up the charts? No.

CinS is hard core. He watched the shit out of 90210. And is doing it all over again.

We're now tuning in at some point during the horrible college years. It's all new to me as I stopped watching around the time when they left high school. But despite its newness, it's still really bad TV.

The acting is awful, the scripts are contrived, and the storylines are SOOOO PG. There was a very controversial episode where Steve smoked pot. It was like World War Three. Aren't like half the B-storylines in the 8:00 slot on ABC about pot these days?

I can't believe my parents wouldn't let me watch this show when it first aired. Unless season one was ten times more racy than the college years, I see no justification for this decision.

Yes, I was a late-comer to 90210 in its heyday. For the first 4 or 5 episodes, I wasn't allowed to watch Bev because my parents thought it was too mature for my delicate 13-year-old constitution.

I remember that all my friends were talking about how hot "Dylan" was, and I didn't know what a Dylan was. I only knew that he rocked some sweet sideburns.

I was at a friend's house one afternoon, and she had Teen Beat pictures of boys on her wall, including one of someone hot who had sideburns. I tried to play it off...

"Is that a picture of Dylan?"
"Uh, yeah. Matt Dillon."

Almost busted but not quite.

I did convince my parents that I could handle 90210, and even agreed to watch it with them so they could pull a human V-Chip if deemed necessary. They soon learned that their fears were unjust, and it wasn't long before I was watching Bev on my pink TV and gabbing on my Swatch phone.

My favorite 90210-er was always Steve. No idea why. I guess in my youth I was diggin on blondes with Jew-fro. This penchant did not carry over into Mr. Ziering's stint on Dancing with the Stars.

CinS loves Valerie. Until this last week, I didn’t even know who Valerie was.

I'm looking forward to the end of this run of 90210 on the Soap Network. I'm hoping that they will reboot, and start again from the beginning. I miss Brenda. And you know you do too.

Kat Von D(olphin)

Ah, summer. The time of year when lady feet and tramp stamps come out to play.

I've been noticing a lot of tattoos as the weather grows warmer and I saw one today that could not go overlooked.

I saw a woman wearing white leggings (a topic I refuse to discuss because it's just too easy) with a flash of aqua peering out to say hello. When I took a second glance, I noticed that the aqua was actually in the form of two dolphins, arced into an oval, noses touching in a kiss.

Wow. I think some hippie 15-year-old version of myself had a sticker of this design against a backdrop of mood crystals affixed to her bedroom mirror.

I can't possibly imagine a tattoo design more horrendously cliché than the dolphin. And I say this with authority. Because my own tattoo ranks third on the clichéd tat list: butterfly (long story, not as lame as it seems, I have no regrets).

And smack between butterfly and dolphin? Well, the men folk need to have their day on the cliché list, right? Right. And so, number two is, of course, Taz.

But back to the dolphins.

I remember several girls from my youth who were dolphin girls. These dolphin girls are like horse girls, except horse girls have usually had some experience with horses, which justifies their horse-infused locker decor. But dolphin girls, especially dolphin girls in suburban Pennsylvania, don't really have a leg to stand on.

Dolphin girls were always a little mystical. Like into tarot cards and crystal necklaces and doodling ankhs on their notebooks. Yes, I had a similar phase once, minus the dolphins.

I never really understood the connection between dolphins and the mystical realm. Maybe it's so mystical that a non-believer can’t comprehend. That must be it. I bet the chick with the white leggings and the pock marks could explain it to me.

But as groovy as dolphins are, I bet that kids these days aren't so into them anymore. With the mainstreaming of Goth culture (thank you Chris Kattan and your job at the Cinnabun for enlightening a generation), I guess dolphins aren't dark enough anymore to channel the rage of millenial youth.

So is the dolphin tattoo a cliche of the past? Will the dolphin bumper stickers slowly fade away? Will we need to embrace a new sea mammal as our homage to white trash?

Man, I hope not. Sea World will be a lot less fun for my nonexistant Goth kids.

The Last Great Marketeer

So it's nearing a week since I've last posted something. Why? I was busy being professionally fabulous at an industry conference. And now I'm exhausted.

After three and a half days of wining and dining clients and networking my face off, I'm ready for a long summer's nap. It did not help that it was 1000 degrees this week.

The best part about this conference was that it was in Times Square. I work by Times Square - so nearby in fact that I take the Times Square subway - but I generally avoid the Square itself. And I have no idea why.

Who doesn't like packs of pointy-elbowed teenage boys with mop-tops and braces wearing matching High School T-shirts? Who doesn't love the chaperones in matching T-Shirts, bringing a whole new meaning to "East Illinois Cougars?"

But tourists aside, I also love Times Square for its marketing potential. Perhaps this is because I am a marketeer who has executed some cool PR stunts in Times Square. But I think everyone loves free stuff, regardless of profession or personal ties.

I saw two great promotions in Times Square within two days.

The first was an Oscar Meyer Weiner event. Two Weiner Mobiles flanked the Marriott Marquis and a BBQ pit was set-up during the lunch rush. Hundreds of tourists lined up for free hot dogs and to snap pictures with the Weiner Mobiles. For some reason (yet to be googled), the signs calling patrons to the make-shift wiener shop called out the following: "Mario Lopez's favorite treat."

Really? Mario Lopez, of Saved by the Bell and Dancing with the Stars fame, loves hot dogs? Please people. The man is already in tights on Broadway, please to not debase his sexuality further by claiming a love of hot dogs. I don't think Major Slater would be too happy about this one.

The next day, an inflatable moon popped up on an island in Times Square. The moon was huge and had ties to Gatorade and Tiger Woods. I have no idea what this one is about. Is Tiger going to the moon with Lance Bass? Is Gatorade made with the electrolyte-rich blood of aliens?

As I write, I am so puzzled by these crazy promotions that I took the 30-seconds to google them. Reading about the actual promotions was far less interesting than I thought. Maybe Fruit of the Loom should sponsor the Naked Cowboy. Now that would be one heck of a Times Square promotion.

http://www.eonline.com/uberblog/b142132_mario_lopez_beefed-up_ride.html
http://eventdomes.wordpress.com/2008/05/20/gatorade-tiger-moonshot-challenge/

Whatcha Doin Sunday?

I swung by generic-NY-food-stuffs shop today on my way in to work to get some eggs. As I waited in line for the migrant short-order cook to whip up my breakfast, I noticed that I was A) the only woman and B) the only non-construction worker in line.

Curious.

What I found most interesting was the sheer number of construction workers ordering lunch items. At 9 am.

Now, I'm not union, but I'm pretty sure that these guys haven’t been on the job since 4 and are now ready for lunch. At 9 am.

And yet, one after the other, the lunch orders came in. Meatball sub, philly cheesesteak, chicken noodle soup, and the supremely manly macaroni salad.

As a person who cannot have lunch without at least having a cup of coffee to resemble a hearty breakfast, I was truly at a loss. In fact, I am such a breakfast person that I sometimes eat multiple breakfasts per day. These usually come in the form of a brunch that is scheduled after 2 pm.

As a woman, I've been eating brunch for years. My husband, on the other hand, had never brunched until moving to NY.

He actually used to berate me for brunching. "Spending $30 on french toast with goji berry butter is so awesome." That is until two things happened.

One: We saw Whipped. Most of you have probably never seen this wonderful film starring a fresh-from-Jack-and-Jill Amanda Peet. Whipped is about 3 dudes who all date the same woman. These guys are of varying degrees of awesome (stockbroker, hipster, sensitive musician) and always brunch.

Two: We saw the "bro brunch" episode of How I Met Your Mother. If you don't watch the show, you should find this episode on You Tube. "Eggs Benny Bro Style!"

Following these two critical movements in man brunch culture, my husband and his buddies started to brunch. Every Sunday they would meet at a local bar and gorge themselves on mini muffins, breakfast burritos, and bloody marys. Then their bar got too family-oriented, and when they couldn't drive out the families with top-volume profanities, they moved on to a new bar.

Since moving to the new bar, however, man brunch has grown sporadic. Instead of a weekly hair-of-the-dog rendezvous, man brunch is now a monthly occurrence. I find this depressing.

What went wrong? Is it because you need to pay for breakfast cocktails at the new joint? Is it because these guys aren't doing anything worthy of rehashing on Saturday nights? Is it because they'd rather play GTA4?

I don't know if I'll ever find out. But I'm hoping this post will cause a resurgence of man brunch. Because I like having the house to myself on Sundays to catch up on my bad TV. Oh yeah, and it makes my husband happy.

Someone Slipped Me a "Roof"i

OK party people, the summer is upon us. This means - for most space-deprived Manhattanites - you will be spending time on someone's roof.

For the unindoctrinated, there are two kinds of roofs and three kinds of roof get-togethers.

ROOFS

1. Giant apartment building with giant roof
2. Small apartment building with small roof that no one uses but you and your friends

ROOF GET-TOGETHERS

1. Planned evening party
2. Spontaneous afternoon BBQ
3. Tanning

It's only June 5, and already I've been invited to about a dozen roof scenes. We don’t have much to do around here without a summer share house.

I love hanging out on a roof - regardless of the time of day or occasion. There is something quintessentially NY about drinking beers against the Manhattan skyline. It's one of the few things I like about summer. (I'm a sweater)

But as much as I love the roof, there is always a small part of me that fears the consequences of drunken heights. Now, it may be that I've seen Vertigo and Saturday Night Fever one too many times (ooops. belated spoiler alert!), but there's a little voice inside that worries about accidental death and dismemberment.

I also may have seen The Rules of Attraction and Bachelor Party too many times, because I also fear that someone may decide to leap off the roof one sunny day. Alcohol is a depressant after all.
OK, this post has taken a turn towards the macabre. Let's pep it up a bit.

My favorite part of my own roof (it's of the giant variety) is that it gets zero sun during my waking hours. As beatific as the skyline is, it comes with a lot of shade. Especially between, oh, noon and 5pm. So in order to get sun on my roof, a series of adventures must be had.

The sunny part of the roof is unpaved, covered in painful smoldering stones, and next to a very loud generator. To reach this idyllic spot, you must drag a 70-pound lounge chair from the sun deck area across the rocks. Or, you can be smart like me and buy some chairs from Target.

But the adventure does not end here. This spot on the roof is monitored. That's right, cameras are everywhere. And apparently, the building’s management is not interested in insuring its tenants against burning coals. So once you are finally settled in, someone may come and bust up your party.

ACTION! SUSPENSE! CONFRONTATION! MORBID THOUGHTS!
Welcome to my summer.

HELP! My DVR is Empty!

It's that time of year again. Those barren weeks when Fall TV has ended and the Summer goo has yet to begin.

Now that Bret snagged Ambre, Flav returned to his Baby Momma, and The Hotness has completed the American Idol media tour, I have nothing to watch. Well, almost nothing.

I am watching So You Think You Can Dance, which I love even more than Idol (yes, that is possible), but the fact that it's not yet on twice a week is shredding my soul to bits. And besides, one reality show does not a full DVR make.

So, I decided to tune in to the inaugural episode of The Mole on Monday night, and I have to say that it is quite awesome. I never watched The Mole the first time around (I was actually anti-reality TV back then), and never really understood the premise. If you are like me, read on...

In a nutshell, all the contestants work together as a team to earn money from challenges. The Mole is out to sabotage the missions.

The players go all over the world doing crazy stunts and messing with each other's heads. It's a little Amazing Race, a little Survivor (the Richard Hatch years).

The craziest part of the show is how they handle eliminations. Its a very matter-of-fact, objective process. The contestants take a quiz that asks them who they think is the Mole. The person with the fewest correct answers goes home.

And now that we're all up-to-speed on the inner-workings of The Mole, let me say for the record, that I want to be on this show.

I would kick ass at The Mole! I am not graced with athleticism, so I would blow every challenge, and people would think that I am the Mole. I am a sneaky bastard who befriends people easily, but doesn't really like anyone, so everyone would want to form an alliance with me. I am a normal person - not the overweight dude or the old lady - so my Moleyness would be discreet enough to be a producer's choice. I am also full of sass and have a Middle-Eastern last name. I'm a shoe-in!

Here's a sample of my "confessional" style interviews filmed after the show.

"I knew Dina would want the chocolate cake, so I ate it all in front of her. I
told her that I have a condition that requires the anti-oxidants from cocoa. She
is putty in my hands...."

"Eduardo asked if we could form an alliance. I told him I would, but only if he promises not to form an alliance with anyone else. If he did, he'd find out I have an alliance with them already."

"Bobby has a crush on me. I'm using this to my advantage. Tomorrow I'm
bearing cleavage for the traditional East African Suck and Blow ritual."

"I really hurt myself falling off that greased watermelon. I may have
sprained something. But the pain is worth it! Now Kristy thinks I'm the Mole.
Probably because I was drunk."

Watch out ABC! Best Mole contestant EVER coming in '09!

Detox

I've been feeling pretty gross lately and have decided to detox. No more crap. No more booze. No more late nights. No more being awesome.

I feel better already.

I'm planning to be on a junk hiatus for several weeks for two main reasons: A) to fit into a dress I'm resurrecting from the college era for a friend's wedding in 2 weeks, and B) to enjoy my week at the beach over the 4th of July without feeling like a disgusting monster while half-naked.

In my quest for health, a recurring thought keeps entering my mind: Kinoki Foot Pads.

You may have seen these beauties advertised on late night TV - no doubt while you are up being awesome, binging over jalapeño potato chips dipped in bodega tuna salad. (no? just me?) They are magic pads that you put on the bottom of your feet to "suck out" all the toxins in your body. In the morning, the pads are a nasty brown. As you wear the pads over time, you see less and less brown because there are less toxins in your system.

Oh wonder of medical science!

I don't know how many toxins I've got running around in here, but it seems like I should get rid of them. Maybe my entire problem is toxins. Feeling exhausted every morning. Feeling bloated and nauseated. Feeling grumpy and homicidal. It's all about the toxins!

An alternative to the foot pads would be some kind of detox pill that will ultimately make me shit my brains out. This does not sound pleasant. I'd much rather put a sticker on my foot every night before I go to bed. And so would my cubicle mates.

Oh Kinoki Foot Pads. How do I want thee?

I did some investigating this afternoon and it turns out that the Kinokis are a scam! Can you believe it! There is some chemical in the pads that turns them brown when they get wet (from your sweaty toxin-filled feet). Then they leave a sweat-blocking residue so it looks like you're getting less and less toxins on the pad each day. BASTARDS!

But if you think about it, isn't this is the sweetest scam EVER? Who came up with this shit?

"I know, let's make something that people think is magic!"
"Yeah! We'll make them think it has healing powers. They can stick it on their body!"
"Oooh! They can stick it on their feet."
"OMG! Their feet! Sick! But wait, doesn't it have to do something? People aren't just going to stick things on their feet just because we tell them to."
"We'll tell them that Asians put stuff on their feet. People will do anything if they think that Asians are doing it. Asians are healthy and magical."
"True. But wouldn't it be cooler if the sticker would like, change color or something? Like those diapers?"
"Yeah! But it would be even cooler if it changed color one day, and then didn’t the
next. Like it was actually healing you."
"Oh man. We're gonna be so rich."

Dr. and Mrs. Kinoki. Shame on you. Shame, shame, shame.