Sunday, December 31, 2006

Another Hipster Image

Aren't hipster just Clark Kent without the powers or desire to save the world?
Hipsters accident-prone, dorky nerds that are ironic instead of earnst like our good buddy Clark Kent.

Friday, December 29, 2006

A Broken Heart Lined with Silver

My best friend Anna bust into my apartment today. "Rachael, you're right! You're so right. Those stupid He's Not That Into You books are stupid."

"Yeah, I know."
"Sure, you know. Intellectually. In theory you know. But I know for real. Alright, so Matt and Sue dropped out of the music project."
"That sucks, man. I'm sorry. I thought they approached you about collaborating on your music project."
"Yeah, they did. Who cares. That's not the point. The point is that guy I'm not dating is going to collaborate with me on the project."
"Oh that guy who had an extra ticket to the Opera. You thought it was a date but then in an email he called you his 'Opera buddy.'"
"Yeah Yeah Yeah. That guy. We email all the time. And here is the brilliant bit. He's going to work on this music project with me which never would have happened if I wasn't so consumed with heartache over some other boy or boys. I don't even know anymore. I just know I don't want to love every again. If I was truly open to the possibilty of dating someone new I probably would have actually liked this dude despite him disgustingly wreaking of cigarette smoke. Remind me, Rachael to bring Febreeze to our meetings. I would have been completely destraught that our Opera outing wasn't a date, instead I could have cared less. The heartache I refused to move-on from has allowed me to find a creative partner. I creative partner I would have eightysixed because 'he just wasn't that into me' and by that logic I shouldn't have wasted my time. Rather, though I shouldn't have wasted my time with Matt and Sue--lovely as they are."

"Well, Anna, I'm glad I'm right again."
"Rachael, I'm glad I could prove you were right."


This Christmas was the first one I spent without my parents. I wasn't too bummed at first because I knew I'd still be celebrating Christmas Eve with my Dad's family. Then a week and half before Christmas the Parentas (that's not a typos it's the plural of my last name as in more than one Parenta.) canceled Christmas. Severly disappointed I moped around Brooklyn. My boyfriend Jack saw my dispair. He placed his index finger under my chin; lifted my head from my chest; looked into my eyes; and, said, "Rachael, stop with the self pity. You have it alot better than most people on this planet. You know what? We're going to volunteer at a soup kitchen this Christmas. Give back. Perhaps act a little Christ like this year."

"A soup kitchen?!" I exclaimed and questioned at the same time.

"Gotcha!" Jack retorted.

We laughed. He got me good. I immediately felt better. After the laughter subsided Jack invited me to Pittsburgh to celebrate Christmas with his family. In our 8 years of dating I've never once celebrated a holiday with the Kunderas. I had a bit of trepidation about it. Every family has their own way of celebrating holidays and I didn't know if I'd feel awkward and out of place with someone else's family.

Well, Jack and his mom went out of their way to recreate the Christmas traditions my parents and I have established over the years. Christmas morning we awoke in the Kunderas home and went downstairs to open presents. Surprisingly there were presents for me their from Jack's mom. I was really touched. She didn't have to do that. I opened them up. The first one was a sweatshirt. It had rainbow sewn on it. I have to say it was hideous, but I smiled and thanked her very much. The next box I opened contained plaid knickers. Again I smiled. Another box had buttoned down shirt with a lacy collar. She also bought me a rainbow beret. Jack was like, "That's awesome it matches the sweatshirt." There was nothing I could do but smile and say thank you.

After everyone had opened their presents Jack's mom suggested I go ahead and try on the stuff she bought me. I tried to politely get out of it. But she wouldn't take "no" for an answer. Jack smiled and asked "Does it feel like a Parenta Christmas yet?"

"What do you mean?"
"You know, clothes you don't like you're forced to try on."

Oh my god! It was the sweetest thing ever. Jack and his mom had conspired to recreate every Christmas morning I've ever experienced in my life. Every year I open presents from my mom. I tear open the wrapping to find clothes I never want to wear that my mom thinks I should wear. Then she forces me to try it on and show her how they look. I begrudgingly acquiesce to her wish. I wind up hating almost everything. My mom gets mad and she and I have fight. Mom says, "Fine, I'll return it all. Good I can get my money back." Then my Dad makes eggs and we eat breakfast.

When I realized what Mrs. Kundera was doing. I jumped to my feet and excitedly tried on the clothes. I've never been so happy to put a pair of knickers on. Mrs. Kundera and I didn't actually fight but she did pretend to get huffy. She agressively threw out tissue-paper. When she thought I wasn't looking she took the tissue-paper out of the garbage and placed it in the recycle bin.

No, it wasn't the same as spending Christmas with my own parents, but I did feel loved. I felt almost as loved as if I had actually fought with my own mother Christmas morning.

God bless us everyone.

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

I Have Only One New Year's Resolution

pictured above Charles Star, Saints Fan.

1. Find friends who root for the same sports teams I do. I'd like to avoid being mocked the whole care ride home when my team looses. I find it quite distracting as I'm trying to drive these people home from the game.
1A. If I don't find new friends make sure to buy Giants and Yankees jersies to wear at games I attend. Even though they are hideous. I don't appreciate the the other stadium people associating me with a team I do not like just because I seem to be in a couple. Women can vote now and pick their own sports teams.
1aI. Have sex before purchasing above jersies. Once worn I'm sure to never be touched again.
1B. Stop going to sporting events with only one other person who is male.
1B exception. If said male is hot and wants to have sex with me. Especially if said male wants to have sex with me despite my wearing a vile sports jersey.
1B exception 2. If the said male is my boyfriend Jack-- who better still have sex with me if I buy and wear a sports jersey.

Monday, December 25, 2006

Christmas Miracle Lesson

I went to the Giants vs Saints game at Giants Stadium Christmas Eve. By the fourth quarter the Giants were loosing by 23 points. I thought now is the time for a Christmas Miracle--the Giants coming back to win the game in the fourth quarter.

Later I realized. One person's miracle is another person's devastation.

If the Giants had come back to beat the Sains I would have rejoiced, celebrated, cheered, but the Saints fans would have been weeping.

Saturday, December 23, 2006

Cleaning Up My Act Reduex

I'm reposting the piece orginally entitled "I'm Cleaning Up My Act." I rewrote it for a reading I gave this past Friday. The topic for the night was "Inappropriate" and the piece was completely appropriate for said subject matter. I was kind of nervous about the reading because I was the only person on the show who was not a poet. Also the reading took place deep in the heart of Queens. My regular readers know that borough and it's people have foiled me in the past, however this time I didn't bike, and I had a marvelous time with marvelous people. The host and producer that night was a young poet, Christina (click on her name to visit her blog). The poets were great.

Feel free though to read the new extended version of "cleaning up my act" posted below.
Dear readers, I have recently given up performing inappropriate material or what we stand-up comedians call “blue” humor. Blue humor usually consists of what industry professionals call “dick jokes.” We use the label “dick” because these jokes commonly involve the human male genitalia. A joke is also considered blue if it consists of foul language. Frequently, these words only consist of four letters. You know like, F*@k or Sh%t. The part of my life where I use these words and tell jokes like, “I’m sick of men fucking with my head because I hate penis in the ear” are over. No more swearing and no more “dick” jokes. I can still use the word “dick” because I have it in quotes here on my paper. Also it’s a word that can be a person’s name. You know like, you’re such a Dick, Richard Peterson. You’re saying to yourself, “But, Rachael that penis in the ear joke is brilliant why the change of heart?” I agree that joke is brilliant. However, I can never tell it again. A life-changing event happened to me on December 1, 2006. I read an article by Jeffrey Zaslow. I don’t know who he is either but his work gets published so he must be important. According to this Zaslow character there's a whole movement brewing for squeaky clean, Christian, and family oriented comedy. It seems parents want to spend quality time with their children at the local comedy club. That makes sense. What better place to spend quality time with the kids than at a bar. And, you know how the young ones love to sit still and listen while adults talk non-stop for an hour and half to two hours. However, when these parents take their offspring to the alcohol establishment they don’t want to expose their kids to off-color humor (“off color” humor is another term for blue.) Parents aren’t alone with their desire to hear good old-fashioned comedy, the comedy of yesteryear. The wholesome comedy Americans enjoyed before Lenny Bruce came along and messed it up for everyone. People long for the non-offensive comedy of the past, like minstrel shows. According to Zaslow’s article the Evangelical Christians also want in on the comedy boom happening right now. (That's where Evangelicals and I relate.) These Jesus lovers want to experience comedy that represents their values; that they can relate to; comedy with a soul. I applaud this movement because Evangelical Christians have gobs and gobs money. And I would like a gob of money. Just one gob. I mean I’m not greedy. I don’t need all the gobs just one. And so, In light of this I'm jumping on the clean comedy bandwagon. I want a career and if I have to keep it clean I will. I don't think I'm selling out. I think these people are right. I agree comedy has become a gross out. How many times must I listen to male comics talk about the joys of masturbating into a sock? Answer: many many times. I can complain about it or I can change the world. That's why from this point forward I will only work clean. You'll never see me get up on stage and talk about how great anal sex is. I don't believe anal sex to be great and so I won't purport that it is just to be "edgy,” I’m a clean comic I don’t need to be edgy. I now have the Christ on my side as well as thousands of children. I’m no phony either; I walk the walk—a pain free walk. I live the life of a clean comic. I don't have anal sex. Why? Because I don't have a prostate. Perhaps, if I did have G Spot in my buttocks I’d be singing a different tune, probably a show tune. If you come out to one of my stand-up shows you won’t hear me talking about how I just couldn't stop orgasming with some guy's penis in my anus. Clean comedians don't have orgasms from anal sex. And, anal sex is dirty. And, when I write dirty I don't mean naughty like wearing leather, using a whip and having you call me Aunt Susie. I mean unclean, unhygienic, filthy. It's sex that deals in feces. No thank you, sir. I’m not a chimp at the zoo. That’s a one way road to UTIville. (Men, that stands for Urinary Tract Infection.) Further, I don't see how a man would enjoy giving the anal sex. Once the head of his penis passes through the sphincter of my anus that head might as well be floating in space. There's nothing there to stimulate it. And all of us adults know the head of the penis is the most sensitive part. That’s how I get away with not having to put the whole thing in my mouth and down my throat. And now the children have learned an important human biology lesson. How is anal sex fun for anyone? The problems go beyond the above-mentioned lack of stimulation. I don’t know about you all but my rectum doesn’t self lubricate unlike my vagina. Further, my anus has a rectum, which is a sphincter, and not an expanding vaginal muscle. This means whoever my partner is that night, or that morning, has to do a whole bunch of work to get that thing loosened up. Also, anal sex requires its participants to fork over money for lubrication that isn’t alcohol. I’ll tell you this, Jesus loved wine and I don’t think he’d appreciate you taking your hard earned money and throwing it away on Astro Glide-even if it was invented by NASA, when those funds could be better used to buy more booze. Once the rectum is finally prepared for the anal sex you have to have sex real slow and careful like. That doesn’t sound fun to me having sex like you’re a 90-year-old in a grocery store. I mean, when I have sex I want you to throw me up against a wall and give it to me, but my rectum can’t take what you want to give it. I could be wrong. People say that there are women out there who enjoy such sex acts. Fine, they can talk about how awesome anal sex is in their sets. They can work blue. But in my act I will always work clean and tell the world the negative aspects of anal sex. I'm sure people who aren't pure of heart, who lack values, who don't have the desire to play clubs filled with 7-year-old children would ask me, "How do you know you don't like it if you don't try it?" I answer those skeptics with, "I know that if I took a gun and shot my knee I wouldn't enjoy that. I don't have to try it. My knee is not bullet proof, nor is my anus." Rest assured America my show is one hundred percent family oriented. Your kids will leave my show not wanting to have anal sex. And you Christians will bond with me over the fact that I too would have fled Sodom and Gomorra with Lots’ family. So please contact me for bookings. I’d love to play your child’s birthday party, first communion, and kindergarten graduation. I can be hired as a special guest speaker for your teenager’s health class. And for those of you God has not yet blessed with children feel free to book me at your next church hootenanny.

Thursday, December 21, 2006

Jackie Wilson Holiday Season Role Model

In the above video Jackie Wilson sings his classic "Lonley Teardrops." We can see a man exceedingly happy to be depressed. Despite drenching his pillow in salene Jackie smiles, dances, and keeps the beat. I find it inspirational. God bless America in the late 50s. They really were the greatest generation. I have no idea what our forefathers were on, but we should dig it up and start taking it. I've never seen a person on prozac with moves like that.

Here's my advice to you all. If you're feeling blue this holiday season; if you feel alone and unloved--perhaps you're family has abandoned you this Christmas in order to attend some Jew wedding in Florida. Maybe you're eye-patch wearing grandfather has yet again ruined another family function, except this time with his health. Or, maybe your dad's cousin never called you back after you inquired about his Giants' tickets for this Sunday's Christmas Eve game. A game you thought about attending to distract yourself from the fact that Christmas has been cancelled this year, meaning no artichokes, no feast of the seven fishes, no butter cookies, no almost making your 8 year old cousin cry, no sparkling wine and peach schnapps (dont' knock it until you try it).-- So if your christmas has completely gone to shit this year try to get sympathy on the internet. Make sure you think only of yourself and what you're missing out on. Keep it all about you, and most importantly do what Jackie Wilson does-- DANCE!!!! Dance your sorrows away. You might be burning and crying but you'll still have a smile on your face. And that's what baby Jesus would have wanted for his birthday.
Also I'm doing a reading in Queens this Friday. It's at The Vault 90-21 Springfield Blvd, Queens Village, NY 8pm.
The topic for the evening is inappropriate. I know, it's crazy that I got booked for this show.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Budhism in Decemeber

December: a month full of celebration for Jews, Christians, African Americans, and Pagans. These four groups really dominate the cultural landscape this time of year. But what about the budhists? I feel they get left out in the cold--granted many budhists are so deep in meditation they don't feel the cold. For a Budhist they don't know if it's global warming or if they've almost reached enlightenment. I think that's pretty special and so I'd like to go against the grain this December and spotlight the Budhists.

A few months ago I had the opportunity to spend an entire afternoon with a budhist. Did you know that not all budhists are small asians wearing orange robes? Well, they're not. Some of them are big, burly, white and living right here in America. Some even live in Queens. I know, who knew?

I had run into this 30 year old Budhist at a comedy show. One thing led to another and the next thing you know I agreed to be the liscenced driver in the car so he could practice driving with his permit.

We took his parents' car for a spin upstate. I remember it was a Sunday because that was the day of the week the "I Love Jack" show ran in Williamsburg at 8pm. (Starting January 25, 2007 8pm it will run at bar/theatre in the East Village on Thursday--now there are no execuses for you not to go.) We arrived in New Paltz, ingested some calories saturated in trans-fats, drove around looking at some foilage, and then we headed back to New York City. On the way back we almost died when the Budhist drifted into the center lane at a spot another car occupied at the time. Thank God for horns. I used to think car horns were obnoxious. I see things differently now, maybe it's a little bit of enlightenment. We almost died again when a tractor trailer pulled out in front of us-- a mere 1/2 mile in front of us. Despite my calm but stearn warnings regarding the tractor trailer the Budhist didn't take notice until he had driven 3/8ths of that half mile. As the cliche-ists say, "No harm, No foul." Until of course there was harm. Traffic.

We hit traffic--figuratively. I looked at my watch and realized there was no way I was going to arrive at the "I Love Jack" show on time. We still had to bring the car back to Bayside, Queens. I then had to bike to the G train, wait for the G train, continue to wait for the G train, ride the G train, and then pedal to the locale. (Turned out the G train wasn't running that night. I didn't know that then.) I needed to be there ontime beause I'm the host and the producer. The comics are like sheep and they need a shepard. I am that shepard. I asked the Budhist if he'd drive me down to the show. To reciprocate I offered the Budhist a spot on the show. Now, I know the "I Love Jack" show was not well attended by audience but it's all I had to offer in return for the favor I was asking. I mean sure I had given up my entire Sunday to sit in a car and risk my life, but when I agreed to do that I had placed no strings on my favor. The Budhist hemmed and hawed offering up possible logistical problems like available parking. I assured him there was always parking available -- like I said it was a lightly attended show. In the end it seemed helping me out was too inconvenient for him so we just drove straight to Bayside. I wound up being two hours late to my show.

This is not the end of the story. I ran into him Saturday night and asked if he passed his driving test. Answer: No. He failed the road test. I laughed. I didn't laugh out of meanness. I just didn't know you could fail a NYC driving test. I've driven in NYC quite a bit over the years and I never knew that the NYC DMV driving test adminstrators have the option to fail those taking the test. Apparently, they do. Another lesson learned. I feel like that third eye is just ready burst from my forehead.

But here's the point. After not helping me when I asked for help. After not caring one bit about another human being's dilema. He wound up failing his driving test. That, my friends, is Karma!

I'd like to thank the Budhist for teaching me all about it.

Christmas Time in NYC-- 2 Years Ago

Two years ago my friend Ross visited this fair city during the holiday season. He took many pictures . I just found the disk of these pictures. So enjoy.Our photo journalist pictured with the tree at Rockefellar Center.

Monday, December 18, 2006


I'd like to add something to yesterday's rousingly successful blogpost.

I realized that I do get my fruits and vegetables in love. I have parents and some family and a handful of friends that are nurturing like a banana or brocoli. It's these people that afford me the luxury of having dessert. However, we must remember that even bananas have sugar and are full of carbs, and most vegetables are laced with pesticides, or of course a leafy one could betray you with a dose of ecoli. In the end no relationship is perfect but you have to eat.

Food Has More to Offer Than Calories

The major problem with self help books for women regarding love is the authors' presupposition that their readers have low self-esteem or hate themselves. These writers reason that self-loathing is the only motivation for why women date men that appear to be no good for women. This is why self-help books try to tell us how wonderful and awesome we are. I suggest that self esteem has nothing to do with the choices we make for dating; rather it's a matter of taste. Take the chipwich, or actually don't take the chipwich I want to eat it--so get your own. And yes, I do want the sugar intensive, saturated fat loaded ice cream cookie sandwich even though it's not good for me. Why? Because it's delicious. I love it. Eating them makes me happy. However, my reason has nothing to do with thinking I don't deserve a banana or some broccoli. I do think I'm worthy of fruit and vegetables, but I rather pay $2 for a chipwich in its non-recyclable plastic wrapper than pay $0.25 for a banana (These are NYC bodega prices.) Despite the fact that I'm lactose intolerant and the chipwich is going to give me gas. I still want my chipwich. When I purchase a chipwich for consumption I realize it's not just going to be happiness and joy, but there will be digestive discomfort and a possibility of a shortened life expectancy. But hey, no relationship is perfect. I will accept no imitations like the Toll House ice cream cookie sandwich. To the lay person it seems to be the same thing as the chipwich, but it's not. The Toll House product does not surround its ice cream with chocolate chips, the Toll House ice cream is inferior, and you can taste the chemicals they put in their cookies. You see, I don't just like the chipwich because it is bad for me. The Toll House cookie sandwich is just as bad for me but I won't eat it. My point: I've liked some guys who many other ladies considered "douche bags" or creepy. My affection for them has nothing to do with my opinion of myself I just have bad taste or perhaps Avante Gaurde taste. Maybe one day I'll really crave broccoli. It's possible. Years ago I loved fruit roll-ups now the idea of them nauseates me. But until the time comes where I prefer to spend time with fruit and vegetables I refuse to be condescended to by self-help books and pop psychology. Yes, I am worth anti-oxidants, calcium, and potassium but I'm not really interested in them right now.

Friday, December 15, 2006

This last week and half I've been sacrificing my brain cells and my dignity in order to save the world. That's right I've been reading Greg Behrendt's completely unresearched self help books "He's Just Not That Into You" and "It's called A Break-up Because it's Broken." I read these books so you don't have to. And you shouldn't. I feel my life and my writing has suffered. Two weeks ago when I was reading Tom Stoppard plays this blog was the touchstone of funny. Now look at it. I barely can compose sentences.

Since I began reading these books the subway has never been more scary. I fear the other communters might notice what I'm reading and throw me off the train. Last night a homeless man who had no shoes saw what I was reading and he got up and moved to the end of the subway car.

Greg is very condescending. He keeps calling the reader a superfox. Greg has never met me. I live with me and have lived with me for over 29 years every single day. I'm here to tell you I'm not a superfox and unless you mean super angry like a fox being chased by British fox hunters. I am not a superfox, nor am I superdeformed nor do I have a super birthmark on my face. I am just a lady living in Brooklyn who prefers baggy jeans but doesn't own a pair anymore.

The self help book should be called, "He's Broken that's Why You Just so Into Him." I love myself a broken man. One who is so awkward, shy and self loathing he can't possibly judge me for my faults. Sure I think I deserve better, but I don't want to be better. Unfortunately, broken men are just as judgemental as hot men who have their shit together.

I have to go bed. My point is I'm reading crappy pop psychology written by some stand-up comic and his wife all so that in 2007 I can rip the whole ridiculous philosophy a new asshole. Yeah, where's the self help book for that pathology?

Thursday, December 14, 2006

The Awful Truth

More proof that my mother is "Just not that into me" and is probably leaving me for other offspring. Last time I brought this topic up it was in reference to my mom not returning a phone call while she was vacationing in Florida during Thankgiving. Catch yourself up by clicking here.

The plot thickens in regard to my mother's un-auntly relationship with my first cousins (her brother's children.) My second cousin, Warren ( a second cousin is the child of your parent's cousin.), is getting married in Florida the weekend directly proceeding Christmas. I find this offensive and am not attending. My mother, however, is. Her reasoning for validating these highly inconvenient neptuals is that Elanor, Warren's mom (my mom's cousin) has attended everyone else in the family's weddings. I told my mom, "I haven't had a wedding."
My mom responded, "Oh yeah, I know I meant your cousins."
"But they're not your kids. I'm your kid."
"Well, uhh, umm." She continued to stammer. I can't believe she's seeing my cousins behind my back like this. My mom is probably going down to Florida not for Warren's wedding but to rendevous with my first cousins. I bet my mom has taken my cousins out shopping for winter sweaters and knee high socks. Well the joke is on you mom, global warming means we don't need winter sweaters any more. Ha!

Where's the self help book for when your mom leaves you for other people's children?

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

I'm no Amateur

This past weekend I travelled to Newport Center, Vermont to perform 40 minutes of stand-up comedy. After my set I received a sum of money for my efforts. I thought to myself that I'm once again a semi-professional comedian. Then I realized that the amount of money I've made from comedy sinced returning to the east coast has not been half my annual income. Since "semi" means half I have work to do. So I plan on trying to cut back on making money from other type of jobs. If I can reduce my income from non-comedy related jobs to double what I make from comedy I then can be a semi-professional comedian.

My first act: I will not show up to move computers tomorrow. If I don't show up they won't pay me. If the don't pay me I've just made that much less money from non-comedy activities.

Monday, December 11, 2006

I Correct People (A.k.A. "They" and "Them")

People say that imitiation is the purest form of flattery. I think people say that to get the imitator's goat. "No, no immitator my feelings aren't hurt by your caricature impression of me. I'm flattered you took the time to imitate me. I think it's lovely that I'm on your mind." The imitator smiles and says, "You're welcome." But on the inside the imitator says, "God Damn it! I wanted to crush you with my absurdist and cruel imitation of you. Foiled again."

Or people say, "Oh dear imitator that is awesome that you've taken my work and tried to pass it off as your own. You've given a rebirth to my career." The imitator again smiles, but on the inside "Ahh man! I'm going to have pay royalties aren't I."

I think the purest form of flattery is sincerely telling another person that they are beautiful, stunning, incredibley smart (though a bad speller), engaging, intentionally humogously hilarious, great company, and then you buy them things you can't afford. Going into hock for another person is definitely a pure form of flattery. Especially if you are not trying to buy their affection you just want them to be happy.

Friday, December 08, 2006

The Pet Shop Girl

Rocky's Adrian: Homely or Hipster before her time?

Thursday, December 07, 2006

An Attempt at Being an Edgy Open Mic Comedian

Monday Night I worked on my craft by attending an open mic. I sat and watched a young man, a fledgling comedian attempt to tell jokes. He said one that went something like this, "They should have another holocoust again and this time they should kill jews..." something something. I don't remember the rest. Honestly, that might have been the whole thing. I sat there and I thought I'm going to rewrite that little gem and make it a more precious stone. So here we go.

I think we should have a holocoust again but let's move it from Europe to Africa. And we'll replace the one group of white people annillating another group of white people with one group of black people annillating another group of black people. However, we'll keep the part where the world stands-by and does nothing. You kind of have to otherwise it's hard to have holocoust. And we can call it the Holocoust II: Genociding All Over Again.

Oh wait they already thought of that in Darfur. Shit! I knew I should have copyrighted the idea. Alright I guess I have to work on an idea for Holocoust III: Over Population Not a Problem Anymore, Suckers.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

Cleaning Up My Act

There's a whole movement these days for squeeky clean, christian comedy and family oriented comedy. It seems parents want to spend quality time with their children at the local comedy club. And it looks like Evangilcal Christians feel left out of the latest comedy boom. (That's where Evangelicals and I relate.) In light of this I'm jumping on the clean comedy bandwagon.

I want a career and if I have to keep it clean I will. And I don't think I'm selling out. I think these people are right. I agree comedy has become a gross out. That's why you'll never see me get up on stage and talk about how great anal sex is. I don't believe anal sex to be great and so I won't proport that it is just to be "edgy," because I'm a clean comic. I walk the walk I live the life of a clean comic. I don't have anal sex. Why? Because I don't have a prostate. If I did I might see the point, but I don't, so I don't. You won't here me talking about how I just couldn't stop cumming with some guy's penis in my anus. Clean comedians don't have orgasms from anal sex. And, anal sex is dirty. And, when I write dirty I don't mean naughty, I mean unclean-unhygenic-filthy it's sex that deals in feces. No thank you, sir. Further, I don't see how a man would enjoy giving the anal sex. Once the head of his penis passes through the sphincter of my anus that head might as well be floating in space. There's nothing there to stimulate it. How is that fun for everyone? People will say that there are women out there who enjoy such sex acts. Fine, they can talk about how awesome anal sex is in their sets. They can work blue. But in my act I will always work clean and tell the world the negative aspects of anal sex.

I'm sure people who aren't pure of heart, who lack values, who don't have the desire to play clubs filled 7-year-old children would ask me, "How do you know you don't like it if you don't try it?" I answer those skeptics with, "I know that if I took a gun and shot my knee I wouldn't enjoy that. I don't have to try it. My knee is not bullet proof, nor does my anus expand like a vaginal muscle."

Rest assured America my show is one hundred percent family oriented. Your kids will leave my show not wanting to have anal sex. And you Christians will bond with me over the fact that I too would not have anally raped Mr. Lott and his family.

Contact my mailing list above to book me for your next church function, cruise ship, or child's birthday party.

I Will Protect US

It's time to begin the war on Christmas everybody. Turns out that Christmas lovers and Bill O'Reilly both love Middle Eastern terrorists. It occurred to me this evening as I rode my bike through deserted Metro Tech in Brooklyn. It was after midnight and in the middle of the Metro Tech I saw a Christmas tree ablaze with white little lights. And all the non-Christmas trees were also adorned with these little lights. These lights use electricity. Electricity is made by burning oil. Oil comes from the Middle East. Middle Eastern countries fund terrorists groups, therefore Christmas supports terrorism. We must outlaw Christmas at once before we are all blown to smithereens. Down with terrorism down with Christmas.

Qwanza and Hanukka are OK they merely burn wax which only ommitts carbon and other toxins into the air. Hey, A Cancer riddled terrorist is an ineffective terrorist.

Happy Holidays.

Monday, December 04, 2006

What Does the King Crab do After we Eat His Legs?

My best friend Anna met me for a drink Saturday evening. She sat down at the bar next to me and said, "Rachael, I've figured it out. I have no legs."
"What?" I asked with no comprehension. There she sat with two legs dangling from a bar stool. I saw her walk into the bar. "Uhh. Anna, you have legs I can see them. I mean my night vision is bad but it's not that bad"
"No. Rachael, I have legs. Literarly I have legs. But metaphorically I don't."
"Anna, you haven't even started drinking yet."
"Rachael, as I walked over here I realized that some people in this world are born without legs. Or they once had legs and for whatever reason they don't. I have legs, but I don't have romantic love. It occurred to me that we can't have it all. Some of us have legs and some don't. I don't. I thought there are some people who've died who never had sex. I have at least had sex, I might never have it again, but at least I did it a handful of times, I liked it for the most part, I guess i'm now confined to this figurative wheel chair. It kind of sucks, but can I be greedy. I see people in NYC and other places who never married who aren't dating and they're fifty-something. I guess those people are using the big-stall in the public bathroom of life as well."
"So you're just giving up?"
"What's to give up. I've gone on dates, I've gone on things that turned out not to be dates, I've tried having one night stands they're a disaster. I've sent hams. It's all so exhausting. It's time I accept that if I'm going to play basketball it's gonna be in a wheel chair."
"Figuratively speaking."
"Right, a metaphor."
"Should I now describe you as my cripple friend Anna?"
"Nah, more like your legless friend Anna."
There you have it people, my friend Anna has no legs.

Friday, December 01, 2006

Bring me the Head of that Ass

Did you know Greg Behrendt the co-author of the relationship self-help books, He's Just not that Into You and It's called a Breakup Because it's Broken is a comedian? That's right ladies you've been taking advice about love from a God damn comedian. A male comedian at that. Which means he doesn't know shit. He's a comic therefore he's extremely self-centered he can't possibly know what other men are thinking. He only knows what he's thinking. And even then, really he's only thinking what he thinks other people might want him to think. Take the chains off girls. Live again. Take up the reigns of stalking once more. Begin anew your fantasies of love fullfilled. If he knew anything about other men he'd be a bartender. When a bartender writes a book about men and women worship that book like it's the bible. Bartenders listen, they observe and they get laid alot.

It's just like a comic to make it all about them. You can tell by the title of the first book,He's Just Not that Into You. The emphasis is on his feelings. His feelings are irrelevant. Most men aren't into you. I'm not saying your ugly or undesirable, it's mere statitistics. Most men don't know you or of you, so how could they be into you? Does this fact bother you? Of course not. There's a Johann Schmidt out there in the world who doesn't give a rats ass about you. He cares nothing for your feelings he never calls, nor does he ever remember your birthday--hell he never knew it. Are you pining afte Johann? Of course not. There are even men you know who not only aren't into you they can't stand you. (They may or may not have good reason.) Does it matter? No. Why? Because you aren't into them. And that's where this comedian has it all wrong. It doesn't matter if the guy isn't into you. You are into the guy or guys. You have romantic or sexual feelings for someone. There they are your feelings and you have them whether or not the dude reciprocates those feelings. If he reciprocates you feel good if he doesn't you feel shitty. But constantly acknowledging the fact that he doesn't like you back doesn't rid you of feelings. Nothing does but time and someone else who you dig. You could fuck your way from here to China and you'd still be thinking about the guy you like. You can drink gallons of tequilla and it won't go away. Did you ever notice when you're drinking you forget all about your money problems. You're job doesn't seem so bad anymore, but you never forget about the romance and/or the sex. It's why your friends keep hiding your phone on you when you all go out drinking.

My point. Fuck this comic who wants to strip you of your right to crush, and your instinctual need to love. You are not a fool for caring about someone even if it's a fool you care about. You'll get over it when you get over it. You might never get over it. You might marry him. You might kill him. Either way make sure you have a good attorney.

True I have yet to read either of these books. But I checked them out of the library yesterday and I plan to read them in preparation to wage an all out war on what prejudge to be crap.

i'm probably going to have rewrite this over the weekend.

Thursday, November 30, 2006

All I want is you

I know I have a reputation for being a hard ass. For being violent, guarded, and unsympathetic. And it's true, I won't deny it. We all know I'll punch you right in the knee cap. And if I could reach I'd puncture your lung with your own rib. But, beneath all the hostility, rage and all the yelling is a plain old sap. I'm like your great aunt Ester's shitty hard candy. That candy she leaves out in floral patterned dish on the coffee table in the living room. Each piece of candy is wrapped in a white wrapper with tiny pictures of fruit painted on it. That candy is hard on the outside. If you bite the candy it'll break your jaw. However, if you let the artificially colored and flavored teeth decayer sit in your mouth a spell. If you're patient. You'll discover my insides are gooey. Once you look past the facade, past the anger, and past my clothes you'll see I'm just a big old teddy bear of girl. Yeah I'm hairy--hairy like a bear. But maybe it's that hair that makes me believe in love. I have to because no one is going to sleep with a hairy girl unless they love her.

If you don't believe I'm like a hollywood hooker. A woman with a heart of gold, sans the hooking and sleeping around for money, I don't blame you. I've known myself my whole life and I've only just discovered I have the capacity to love, or at least appreciate the art of other people who can love.

I can't get this God damn U2 song out of my head. I'm not even a U2 fan.

Let's see if you guys fair any better. Because "All I want is you."

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

2006 Thanksgiving in Review

My boyfriend Jack and I were left to our own devices this Thanksgiving. My parents fled to Florida with some friends and Jack's parents don't celebrate Thanksgiving. Jack's dad is a freelance non-Indian Indian Chief and finds the holiday too painful. Jack and I decided to head up to my aunt and uncle's house in Westport, CT. My aunt's a good cook (you know she doesn't use cheeze wiz) and my cousins are pretty funny.

Unfortunately during the course of dinner Jack's feelings got hurt. See, I'm engaged to my friend James who currently lives in Oregon. James doesn't want to end up alone so he asked me to marry him when he turned 42 which will occur in nine years. My boyfriend Jack and I agreed we'd help James in his time of need. James has no problem if I continue to see other people after we're married. The whole thing just works out perfectly. A few weeks ago James mailed me a ring of engagement which I wear because I'm engaged and that's what engaged women do.

I wore my ring to Thanksgiving dinner. I told my family the good news that I was engaged. They all congratulated me and toasted my pending nuptials. They all fawned over my ring and kept asking me about the wedding. Jack began to get irritated. He had come up to celebrate Thanksgiving and all my family could talk about was James who wasn't even there. Jack with a couple of glasses of Chianti in him exclaimed, "The wedding is nine years away! Rachael and I are dating right now."
The family was like, "Oh 9 years. Rachael, are you serious about this wedding?"
I find this question flawed. Because I am in the mindset that I will marry James but I think it's alot of fun being engaged and so in that regard I'm not serious. Perhaps when the novelty of engagement wears off in 4 or 5 years I'll be more serious about it.
Anyway, this nine years away thing got my family all panicked. They asked, "Rachael don't you think that wearing the engagement ring around all the time will deter other men from ever asking you out?"
Jack got really mad and said, "Hello! I'm right here! I'm not detered. I'm here in your house! Celebrating the slaughter of people my father works for. Jesus Christ!"
"Jack, honey. Calm down. Let me handle this." I told my relatives, "I wasn't really meeting men before I had a ring. I'm thinking it's not the ring that's a deterent."
"Yeah, it's me you crazies!"
And that's when we stopped pouring Jack wine.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Single Another Word for Reject

I feel for my best friend Anna. She's single. And dating seems to be just a barrage of rejection. Rejection you don't even ask for.

Anna had met a young man a couple of weeks ago. They corresponded via email multiple times a day for a week. He then called. He said he had an extra ticket to see a motor-cross event and would she like to go with him. Anna thought perhaps this invite also doubled as a date. She wasn't in love with this man but he seemed nice enough, fit, funny, intelligent, and who doesn't love motor cross? So she accepted. After the motor cross they went for a drink with the would be suitor's friend who competed in the event. When the drinks were fully imbibed and convesation about the philosophies of motor cross exhausted all three of them went their separate ways. No kisses, no sex, just a hug good-bye and subway ride home.

Anna didn't know if she had just been on a date. Nothing sexual happened and when she thought about the invite she realized motor cross is kind of a nebulous event regarding a date. It's not like he asked her to go apple picking. So Anna sent the young man an email thanking him for the motor cross experience. He emailed back and wrote, "Sure thing. If I get any more opportunities to go see motor cross I'll let you know. You're my new motor-cross buddy." Her buddy. Well, I guess that answers that question.

They continue to email. It's not every day you make a motor cross buddy.

Monday, November 27, 2006

I Deserve a Proper Break-Up

Last week I called my mother. She did not pick up the phone. I left a message requesting advice on what to buy my orphaned cousin for her 8th birthday. My cousin's birthday came and went and my mother never returned my call. I wound up buying my cousin a 1/2 pound of milk chocolate. Kids love chocolate, and it's not like she's got parents to get mad at me for buying the kid candy. And as I always say if you can't have parents you might as well have chocolate.

But here's the thing? Why didn't my mother call me back? I think my mom is passive aggressively trying to break-up with me. Why else would she not return my call? I think she wants to start seeing other people's children. Which is fine. We've been growing apart of years now. We don't even live together anymore. And if she agrees that she doesn't think it's working and wants to end it after 29 years, I guess I can't stop her. But you'd think she'd have the decency call me back and break it off with me. After 29 years I think I deserve more than a phone call. I deserve a face to face break-up. Doesn't the many many vacations we traveled together mean anything to her? She's been to all my graduations and even my batzmitzvah. For Heaven's sake she gave birth to me. You don't just give birth to someone if it's not serious. I deserve answers. An explanation of why she "Just can't do this anymore." If it's because I refuse to have grandkids, fine so be it. The passing on of genetic material is important to her. And it's not so important to me. We have different priorities. Apparently, my mother (or is it my former mother how can I know if she won't call me) thinks grandchildren are so important she can't call me back.

A friend suggested that maybe she didn't get the voice mail message. "She is, after all in Florida, right now." Yeah, fine maybe she didn't get the voice mail, but she hasn't called me just to talk. We have a relationship where we call each other pretty regularly. Not every day, but at least once a week. I guess she's calling her new children now.

I bet you she's seeing her brother's three daughters. Yeah, my own cousins. The betrayal. They all have had mutliple babies the past three years. I wonder if my aunt and uncle know my mom is trying to steal their children and grandchildren from them.

OH GOD. Why won't my mother return my phone call? I can't believe it's over. I guess it's time to register with some online parent finder site.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

For Thanksgving

You know what's worse than your own family? Someone else's family.

Even though both sides of my family are peppered with lunatics they are my lunatics. I've grown up with them. I get them. They get me. We're all on the same page. The problem with lunatics you're not related to is you haven't grown accustom to them.

I agreed to attend Thanksgiving dinner at the parent's house of my friend Shari. This was several years ago when I lived in Portland. Shari's parents lived out in toothless, OR--otherwise known as the town of Mollala. Prior to our journey to Middle Oregon I purchased a bottle of red wine to give to Shari's parents. We arrive. I present my bottle of wine, "Thanks for having me."
Shari's mom makes a face as if I've handed over a bottle of castor oil and says, "Oh. Well. We don't drink wine." She then tries to give me back the bottle of wine. I feel weird and attempt to be gracious and say, "No. Keep it. Maybe you can serve it to company." She gives me a look that says, "Uh we don't hang out with aliens." Now you're thinking that these people are crazy Christians who don't drink. No. These people love alcohol-- as long as it's not wine. In fact I'm offered a beer or whisky, which I decline--I had given up drinking the night before (Long story for another time.) Well, to quote Lloyd Bridges in Airplane "I chose the wrong week to give up drinking." Shari's parents seemed horrified that I didn't want to drink. If not horrified very offended. I might as well have said, "You're blue eyeshadow makes you look like you've been punched in both eyes." Which I didn't say.

We sat down to dinner. One of the two side dishes served they called, "Brocoli Surprise." It was a sort of hazmat looking yellow goop with a few specks of green drowning in it, served in a glass pan. I declined. I might have been rude not to even try it, but I was not ready to die in Mollala by a Thanksgiving side-dish. I discovered later that the yellow stuff was cheezwiz. Just gobs and gobs of cheeze wiz enveloping five pieces of brocoli. Americans descended from Nothern Europe love the stuff. They like to dip their Wonder bread right in it. But I was raised by Southern and Eastern European Americans and though all these European Americans are white there are subtle difference in our cultures. For example, my people don't eat cheese spelt with a "z" that comes in a jar. Thankfully dinner ended.

It was now time for Shari's uncle to come over and do Jello shots with the whole family. You know the traditional Thanksgiving Jello shots. You remember when the Indians made a feast and the Pilgrims wanted to contribute to the meal so they went back on the Mayflower and got out the the gin and mixed it with Jello? Shari's family had trays and trays of them in the refrigorator, well not the traditional pilgrim Jello shots. The Mollala family used vodka. Here's where 60 year old people began to pressure me into doing shots. "Come on. They're just Jello shots. It's not like it's real drinking." My health teacher in middle school, when I learned about drugs and alcohol, never told me there'd be a time when retirees would try to force alcohol down my throat. Nancy Reagan didn't understand that just saying, "No" isn't always the most socially gracefully way to avoid inebriation. At this point I was willing to drink. However, I don't like Jello. I know. I know. What kind of American am I? That's the thing I'm not a real American I'm from New Jersey.

I longed for my home land where my lunatics lived and celebrated. The people who argue incesantly about directions. It is very important to my family you travel over the correct bridge, and make great time to your destination. I yearned for the people who only want the smallest pieces of cake. A sliver of cake. "NO! Half that!" Who then eat 10 cookies. That I understand. OK I don't understand it but it's comfortable. Instead, I was trapped with drunken strangers who hated me. Yes trapped. I had no car. I had only one working ankle. I could have tried to make a hobble for it, but I didn't know my way back to Portland. I surely would have perished in the elements. So, figuring I was already hated I took a nap on the couch. And when I write I took a nap on the couch I mean I pretended to take a nap on the couch. I "awoke" just in time to be driven home.

Monday, November 20, 2006

Earlier Each Year.

It's not even Thanksgiving yet and people are already correcting the way I spell Hanukah.

I say everytime you spell Hanukah with English letters you misspell the holiday.
My friend Allison posted on her blog that everyone who left a comment on that day's post would be rewarded with a compliment from her. She'd let each individual know what she loves about that person. I left no comment. I'm very uncomfortable with affection.

A Guide to New York Area Parties

I am very popular. I am sure this surprises none of you. Just look at me. Who wouldn't want to spend time with me? Exactly. One of the many reasons I'm so popular is that I'm a giving person. I share. Today I want to share with you the contrasts between types of parties. This way if you ever become even moderately as popular as I am you will know how to behave.

This weekend I attended two separate parties. Yes, that's right two parties. I don't know where I find the time or the energy. But I do. I must. My public needs me. That's why I try to stay fit. Saturday I attended a party thrown by my roommate at his new art studio. Sunday I attended a birthday party for my young cousin who ascended to the age of 8 years old. I now would like to share the differences between and adult party and a child's party.

1. --If you arrive fashionably late to an adult party you get there right when the party gets hopping.
--If you arrive fashionably late for an 8-year-old's birthday party, you miss the party.

2. -- A child's party is full of flashing lights, loud noises, and video games.
-- An adult party is full of booze, which makes loud noises, flashing lights, and screaming children excruciating the next day.

3. -- A child's party is full of rides which makes it exciting.
-- An adult's party is held in a yet to be gentrified area of Brooklyn. Where you must traverse darkened, deserted alleys in order to attend. Also very exciting.

4. -- An adult party makes you want to have sex.
-- A child's party makes you reconsider ever having sex.

5. -- A child's party has pizza.
-- An adult party has guacamole and chips.

6. -- At a child's party my grandfather likes to cry and declare that no one loves him.
-- At an adult party (family edition) my grandfather likes to cry while we all tell him no one loves him.

7. -- At a child's party the kids call my grandfather (who wears an eye patch) "patchy the pirate" to his face.
-- At an adult party we call each other whore behind one another's backs.

8. -- A child's party is filled with hope and excitement toward the future.
-- An adult party the attendees belt out Journey's "Don't Stop Believing."

Friday, November 17, 2006

Internal Come'on Monologue

Hey there cute boy sitting in the same coffee shop as me. You are cute. Do you think I'm cute? Do think the way I run my fingers through my hair is hot? The way my fingers stop at the top of my scalp and scratch? It's so animal of me. Grrr! How about the way I briskly take my hand from hair and inquistively examine my scalp in my finger nails. Yeah. Rrroar. And all the while I'm furiously writing in my journal. You like a multi-tasker like that? You know where else I multi-task? Uh huh, the library. Oh yeah, I'm a baby mamma--whatever that means but it sounds hot when I say it in my head. Ooo look. Now I'm drinking my hot apple cider and deliciously picking and prodding at the pores on my arm. That's right I'm not ashamed to bare my arms in public. You like that kind of confidence in a lady? a L. A.D.Y. Are you finding it hard to control the urge to come over and talk to me as I sexily stick my pointer finger in my ear and begin to dig? It's OK you can come over here. I don't bite. cuticles. And I don't stop a job until it's done. But you already know that. You've watched me for the last half hour continually tug at a chin hair until I finally ripped it from my person. Maybe we can get a drink sometime. We can sit at the bar as our hands tear the label off the beer bottles. Well mine will be a cider, but we can discuss that later. Yum.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

My Visit to the Doctor

I went to the doctor to find out why I've been so consistently tired lately. He asked me a bunch of questions. One question he asked was "Are you depressed?" I answered, "Nah. I haven't really cried this week." That's right people even comedians weep. It's not all ha ha all the time. Yeah, I cry and not just when someone like a nurse puts an adhesive bandage on a hairy section of my arm and then later I have to yank that adhesive bandage off. Thereby ripping hair out of my arm. No, that doesn't make me cry. That makes me swear like a South Park movie. But my crying isn't really the point. Let's just say I cry and leave it at that. Why go into my deep seeded sadness. None of you care. You just want the chuckles. You want my tears after they've been transformed into punchlines. Well, fine. Here you go then. Take my pain. Take it and use it for your own amusement. Who am I but a slave. Your blogging monkey. Clap your hands and I'll dance an internet jig.

The point is my doctor might care too much on being liked by his patients. After I mentioned the weeping he then asked, "Well, do you want me to give you something for that?" I declined because I don't think anti-depressants come in liquid form. Oh yeah, and I also think perhaps I should have someone diganose me as depressed before I start taking random drugs. I wouldn't even know what to order. He smiled, and said, "OK." and then cheerily like a buddy said, "You just let me know." Thanks, doc. Thanks for just taking my word for it. You know, because no one would lie to get their hands on some meds. Especially not a drug addict. They are always so honest. I think next time I go back I'll tell him I'm having trouble kicking H. Maybe he'll offer me methadone. Now that shit comes in liquid.

What do I Have?

For a couple of weeks I've been exhausted. I wake up tired and remain that way until I go to bed. Whether I ride my bike, teach an exercise class, do comedy, or just sit on my ass I'm tired. Today I go to the doctor to get an answer.

At first I thought I had mono. But the only person I make-out with is Jack so...Unless? Can you get mono from a toilet seat? Is mono more fierce than those paper tissue toilet seat covers?

Then I thought I'd developed anemia. I felt lighter. And well, iron does way more than pasta.

My fiance, James, told me about how he had lime disease. I did go hiking October 9th and I saw deer! At the time I tried to take a picture of the deer. I thought them so precious. Who knew they would kill me?

Someone suggested I had Lou Gerig disease. But that can't be. I don't play baseball.

Hopefully, my doctor has more to offer than a computer with WebMD access.

Monday, November 13, 2006

Calling Under The Influence

I think there is nothing more romantic than a drunken phone call. A drunken phone call where the drunk man making the call expresses his undying love for me. Or he declares his overwhelming attraction to me. It seems ridiculous because a drunk person can always take back their declaration the next day. They can blame their outpouring of affection on the booze. But there is something so vulnerable about a guy who needs a half a bottle of booze in him in order to open up. Call me crazy, but don't think you're special many people call me crazy.

My boyfriend Jack knows that I absolutely adore drunken phone calls. So every now and again he'll go out with his non-profit buddies after work and throw a few back. They usually play the drinking game where the participants sit in a circle and name impoverished countries in alphabetical order. If a person skips a letter in the alphabet or names a country that's not impoverished that person has to drink and then pay a dollar to the selected charity. (The charity is chosen and agreed upon by all playing game prior to the game commencing). It's always nice to see do-gooders try to relax and have a good time. "A" for effort. After Jack purposely loses the game in order to get completely trashed, he goes outside and calls me.

"Hey, Jack."
Slurring my name, "Rachael."
"Yeah, babe."
"Oooh. My head is spinning."
"Maybe you should sit down."
"OK...Oooh...No that's worse. The sidewalk is filthy...Rachael?"
"Where are you?"
"Oh really. Do you have some other guy over there?"
"Sure you do."
"No. I don't."
"What about your roommates?"
"Well, yeah, OK. Gene is home.?"
"You're such a liar. Why do you lie to me?"
"I do not lie to you."
"You just did. Oooh god. Too many shots of gin."
"Who the hell shoots gin?"
"Fine. Leave me then. Just because I like gin shots. I don't need you. I don't need anyone."
"I'm not leaving you because you shoot gin."
"Thank god. 'Cause I don't feel well. Will you make me soup tomorrow?"
"Aren't I romantic? I feel like i'm going to vomit...Hey...You know what. If I didn't feel like the world was going implode right now I'd ravage that hot body of yours."
"That's sweet."
"Hey Rachael."
"Hey, what?"
"Ahh nothing."
"No, What?"
"Well...awe love you." And then he quickly hangs up. Is he not the sweetest to walk on Earth? Hell, I bet you he's sweeter than men who don't walk. And even sweeter than men not on Earth.


You know you're over someone when you are no longer compelled to read their horoscope.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Overheard at O'lean's

Here's a conversation I overheard--took part in, whatever-- last week at a restuarant in the East Village.
Girl 1 (speaking of gentleman not present. said with a sort of sympathy): He's cute.
Girl 2: Yeah, I think he's cute. But, I'm wrong.

Thursday, November 09, 2006

This is 100% True!

Now, it's one thing for dead people to put out new albums-- Tu Pac, Nat King Cole, what have you. It is plausable that these dead men recorded songs prior to their death and money grubbing label tried to make an album out of it. It is entirely different when a dead person adds new friendsters to their account. It's very creepy when you log into friendster and are alerted to the fact that your dead friendster has just added new friends. Does the world wide web now reach the after world? And what does that say about the afterlife? It seems if dead people are still logging onto to friendster the afterlife is just as mundane and miserable as this life. And if friendster is accessable in the nether world shouldn't that be an option on your profile under "where do you live?" But I think a bigger question is who is friend requesting dead people? What's the point? The dead people won't be attending your gallery opening or birthday party.

I started thinking maybe she's not dead at all. Maybe she's part of the witness relocation program. Her whole, dramatic, highly publicized, untimely death was just a rouse to throw off the mob or corrupt, high-ranking, government officials. And after two years of hiding the lure of friendster was too strong.

Whatever the reason is I'm glad I didn't delete her from my friendster network. She might have thought I was pissed at her. You don't want to be on a dead person's bad side.

My Travel Song

Here is a live performance of my Japan Song.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

It's Official!

Last night I opened my mailbox and found a package from my fiance James. The package contained a mix cd and an engagement ring. I guess it's official James and I have begun our 9 year engagement. My boyfriend Jack was very impressed with the size of the stone. (If you'd like to get caught up on the story of James and my engagement click here)

My boyfriend Jack fixed the ring so it'd fit my finger. They say marriage is team work and I guess "they" are right. Who knew the team was made up of more than two people?

Monday, November 06, 2006

James Lipton I'm Ready for My Interview

People always ask me, "Rachael, what's your creative process? How do you come up with these briliant blogposts day in and day out." Well, it's not easy. It's a long and involved process. I'll share it with you now to help those youngster who are just starting out in the arts and need some guidance.

Step one, I come home after being out all night doing comedy. Sometimes I'm drunk other times I'm sober. But the main thing is that I'm exhausted. Exhaustion breeds funny. Or at least it breeds the belief that you are funny. That's why I'm glad that lately, I'm almost always exhausted. I think it has to do with a lack of calorie intake that stems from a mismanagement of my meager funds. I know one thing is certain when I was 7 years old, well fed, well rested, well exercised, I never wrote one blogpost.

Step two, I turn on my computer. I then check my email. I check my sitemeter (that let's me know how many people read my blog that day) I then read seven different Cancer Horoscopes for the next day.

Step three, I log into blogger.

Step four, I play vegas style solitaire. I win or loose hundreds upon hundreds of virtual dollars. And with each click of "deal" I tell myself, "No, really Rachael this has to be the last game." I proceed to play three more games.

Step five, I check my email and my sitemeter again.

Step six, I log into myspace and see who else is online. (Side note: I hate myspace. Socially, it's just like a high school except online and with adults. Which makes it just sad. That stated, it's an important part of my creative process.)

Step seven, I begin to write comedic genius. During this step I also repeat steps 2,

4, and 6. Sometimes in mid-sentence.

Step eight, I click "publish." I make sure that I never proof read my work before I publish. If my blog is coherent it looses that special, Rachael Parenta signature.

Step nine, I check my sitemeter again to see if anyone has just read the thing I just posted.

Step ten, I play more vegas solitaire.

So there you have it. My creative process. It's alot of work and it takes a great deal of time, but you know genius is 97% sweat 3% talent.

Sunday, November 05, 2006

You Can Teach an Aging Dog New Tricks (But Don't Call Me a Dog)

My grey hairs have not grown in vain. As I've grown older I have indeed grown wiser. This weekend I locked myself out of my apartment. ( that's the wise part. That's the "you still have alot to learn, kid" part.) I will admit that this is not the first time I've walked out of my apartment without my keys and shut a self-locking door behind me. However, last time I locked myself out I wound up in the hospital. In an attempt to break into my own apartment I climbed out the 3rd storie hallway window of my apartment building and grabbed onto the windowsill of my slightly opened bathroom window. I dangled 25 feet in the air and struggled to pull myself from my bathroom. I failed. I fell. I broke my ankle, had surgey and then had to walk with crutches for 5 months.

Friday night I decided not to scale a building. And you know what? I didn't break any bones. See, I'm learning. I think there might be hope for me.

Friday, November 03, 2006

The Use of Profanity to Muse on Religion

They say God helps those who help themselves. I say that's horse shit. If I could help myself I wouldn't need God. You wouldn't pay a doctor who gave you that line of crap. "Hey I'm a doctor. I cure patients who cure themselves." You'd tell that doctor, "To go fuck himself." What I'm trying to express is if God wants fans; if God wants followers then God better step it up. I want my miracles. Yes, plural. I want more than one miracle and none of which are "world peace." There are plenty of people hoping and praying for World Peace and I wish them the best of luck with that pipe dream. I have my own pipe dreams I want fullfilled and I want them fullfilled now!

People, I've tried helping myself. And I've tried not helping myself. The results have been the same--I'm not helped. It's time God stepped in and did something Godly, like making my life better. I am a mere mortal I can't do it. I tried.

Oh! And I don't want one of those small miracles that could easily be a happy coincidence. Like the time I was running late to meet Jesse for dinner. I reached the bowels of the 7th Ave station in Brooklyn in time to watch the B train fly past me. Usually, the B and Q trains alternate. That day the Q train would have done me no good. And then a small miracle occurred. Another B train arrived! I made my dinner appointment on time. I thought it a miracle. But it could have easily been an MTA fuck up that happened to work in my favor.

Serendipitious subway shenanigans is not going to cut it this time. I want my life altering happiness causing miracles. Basically, I want something that is too great for the MTA or even Amtrack to accomplish. I also don't want to have to be vulnerable to get my miracles. I do not want to state out loud to other people what it is I want. Nor do I want to have to post said wants on this blog. If God is Godly then God should know what I want and miraculously give it to me.

I know that there are other people out there far worse off than me. I wish them the best. I hope they get their miracles as long as their miracles don't get in the way of my miracles.

Alright good night and Godbless

Thursday, November 02, 2006

About Showering

It makes perfect sense why the shower is a homicidal maniac's favorite place to work. A shower victim is all sort of vulnerable.
1) You're barefoot and wet. Wet feet have no traction for fighting back in a slippery shower.
2) You're naked. Which means if you do have a bathmat and are able to fight back all the maniac has to say is, "Your ass sags." Next thing you know you instinctively stop punching the knife wielding intruder and use your hands to cover your sagging ass.
3) Your eyes are closed in an attempt to avoid soap in your eyes. Or, you have soap in your eyes. Either way you can't see some a homicidal maniac approaching.
4) The roar of the showerhead hitting the cast-iron (or whatever other material makes up your shower.) drowns out any other noises in the vacinity of the bathroom, such as approaching footsteps or music from "Psycho."
5)You're clean so germaphobe killers need not fear you.
6)Soap, shampoo, and conditioner smell good. People who smell good attract more people including violent, law-breaking types.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Choose: Your Heart or Your Liver

A report was released today stating that large quantities of red wine offset the negative effects of a fatty, gorgeful diet in mice. Where were these mice getting the wine? Mice don't live to 21 years of age. Who's selling the mice the wine? Or more likely who is buying the wine for the mice? I think we all know who. The Scientists. The god-loathing and now alcoholic enabling scientists. These scientists are elitists. Apparently, good old American beer isn't good enough for these scientists. They go out and buy that high falutent European wine. Or they get it from California, but those Californians aren't real Americans--what with their sourdough bread. Real Americans eat tasteless wonderbread.

If scientists are going to encourage underage drinking then they should do it with Budwieser.

God save this country.

All Saints Day Regret

Yesterday for Halloween I did not wear a costume. I have one. I have my father's old army uniform. I carried it in my bag incase I got a last minute invite to a party where the host forced its guests to get dressed up. The last minute invite never happened. I feel regret. I have this army uniform and now no place to wear it. I'm not cast in any Oliver Stone films this year. I have no plans to comandeer a landed a plane. Not that you need a military outfit to comandeer a landed plane but it helps set the mood, and the uniform isn't constricting which is necessary for pointless comandeering activities.

I guess I'll just have to wait until December when Christmas party season begins. The uniform is green so if I buy a red hat and scarf it can be festive. You can never start planning your holiday party outfits too soon.

Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Checkout Jesse's New Blog

Jesse Post, creator of the True Adventures in History comic book series, editor of Disney Adventures comic magazine and creator of All You Can Eat London zine, has started a brand new blog dedicated to NYC Eating.

All You Can Eat NYC is a blog dedicated to NYC eats. Unlike this blog, Jesse's blog contains very few if any typos. And like this blog it's engaging and entertaining. Unlike this blog his is also informative. Check it out click the blue above or click the link to the right under "people to read."

Cost Analysis

A recovering alcoholic once told me, "Just because the drink is bought doesn't mean you have to drink it." Yeah he might have had a drinking problem but I don't think he ever had a money problem. And it's just plain rude not to finish a drink someone bought for you. Rude rude rude.

Monday, October 30, 2006

Spinach: Food for Any Mood

Sometimes I too get depressed. I know faithful readers you are shocked. "Rachael, how could you get depressed? You're a comedic genius." You are right I am brilliant, but that doesn't stop me from wanting to end it all. Though, I have suffered greatly and have been betrayed by many I don't believe that this is the true cause of my depression. Rather, I think thoughts of hanging myself or stepping infront of a city bus are caused by a lack of nutrition. If my body is a temple then I am a skin-head in that temple. Or maybe my body is 3rd world bus station and I'm not a racist with a shitty hair-cut and lack of fashion sense. I find myself saddest when I have not eaten well, or slept enough or exercised enough or any combination of the three. And the god damn spinach scare has not helped my mental health. Before spinach started killing people I used to eat spinach almost every day. Then NPR told me my spinach was trying to murder me, so I stopped eating it. I really didn't appreciate the spinach's switch from nurishment to vehicle of death. I'm already paranoid, I don't sleep because I think my white hybrid bicycle is out to get me, not to mention all of you. We don't now need to add one of the few vegetables I actually enjoy.

A few weeks ago the news reported it's now safe to eat spinach again. Is it really that easy? Am I supposed to just forgive spinach for trying to kill me and go back to eating it? Spinach has done nothing to regain my trust. Spinach never called to say, "sorry, I scared you. I'm sorry I was killing people." Spinach just pretended that nothing happened. Though, the rest of the country took spinach back without an apology without an explanation for spinach's behaviour I was not ready to re-engage with spinach. Sure, I fantasized about the spinach burritos I used to eat at the mexican place on 3rd street and 1st avenue. I loved those burritos. So good. But I can't just go back and eat spinach after what spinach has done. Spinach should have held a press conference and said, "I'm going to try not to kill people any more. I'm really going to earnestly try."

But then, I began to sleep less and less. I began to ingest fewer and fewer calories and those calories were derived from fried foods that lacked vegetables. From there I just got sad. I didn't want to go on. I thought, "Well, I don't own a gun. I can't swallow pills, I don't know how to tie a noose and I'm too depressed to learn how, and I'm scared a cross town bus will only paralyze me. You know what? I'm eating the spinach. It's the only kind of self-inflicted death I have the skills for."

Today I made a spinach omlett. I'm not dead. I feel a bit better. I guess either way I would have won.

Friday, October 27, 2006

When in Doubt Post a Picture

My creative juices are tapped. I spent all of yesterday jogging to Oregon and climbing the above photographed Mt. Hood. I then slowly drudged back to Brooklyn. I'm tired. Monday we'll pick up blogging excitement.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

The Movies These Days

I saw the coming attraction for "Santa Clause III" last night. According to the trailer Jack Frost wants to destroy Santa. Is this film a propaganda to brainwash children into embracing global warming? Nothing is more anti-Christmas than global warming. Santa needs Jack Frost to keep Santa's property from melting. The whole Santa operation would be shut down if Jack Frost and the people he works with stopped being. Santa and Jack Frost are on the same team.

Perhaps the producers of "Santa Clause III" can retool their movie. Change the Jack Frost Santa relationship from nemisis to golfing buddies and then create a new antagonist, The South Beach Diet. The South Beach Diet is anti-cookies and anti-cookie is anti-Santa. Plus, South Beach is warm and the real-estate down there is through the roof. Santa would loose his shirt moving the elves and reigndeer down there. Granted the Florida tax code is pretty sweet, but I'm sure Santa is registered as a non-profit corporation.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

The Ham Saga Resolved

Original Ham Post
Previous Ham Post

If you feel lost by the succeeding post feel free to click on the above links to catch yourself up.

My best friend Anna once dated a fellow. They broke up twice--they each took a turn. On their second break-up Anna sent her fella a ham with a note reading, "reconsider." The problem was she never knew if he actually had recieved the ham. Well, now we know.

My best Friend Anna called me Monday night.
"Rachael, he got the fucking ham?"
"Really? How did you find out? Did you find video footage of the ham being delivered?"
"No. Though, that would have been a good idea. Too bad I didn't think of that before. You know Rachael, we are not free there are video cameras everywhere. Did you see End of Days?"
"Of course I did, Gabriel Byrne was in it."
"Right. Duh. No, I didn't commandeer video footage. I asked him if he got the ham?"
"You just asked him?"
"That's the craziest thing I've ever heard. You just asked. Who does that? Did you just call him up out of the blue and ask?"
"Yeah. I got on the phone and said. 'Did you get that ham a year and four months ago?' He said,'Who is this?' 'How many women do you have sending you Hams, asshole?' 'Oh it's you. Yeah, I got it. I was touched, actually. I kept it for awhile.'"
"Yeah, he put it in the freezer. He didn't know how to respond to my gesture, so he just put the ham in the freezer. Every morning he'd open up the the freezer, look at it, and shed a tear. He didn't feel right eating it. Eventually, the freezer frost enveloped the ham and he had to throw it out."
"We're done with this? You're done with him."
"Well, I did offer to teach him how to knit."
"He's out of work and needs warm clothes for the winter."
"Do what you want, Anna. But I wouldn't waste my time with some who didn't care about me at all."
"Rachael, yes you would."

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Ouch, Mom. & My New Tax Plan

The other day I was discussing a socially peripheral individual with my mother. I described him as self-centered, selfish, uncompromising, and unable to empathize. My mother asked, "His he an only child?"
"Mom, I'm an only child!"

I just got around to filing my taxes. Turns out I owe New York State money. I always only mark "1" on my W-2s. I live below the poverty line. How the hell can I owe taxes. My father said, "Someone has to pay for the war." God Damn it! I didn't vote for this war. I think only the people who voted for politicians who voted for this stupid war should have to pay for it. I also expect the people who didn't vote at all to shell out some cash--those folks need to pay for the apathy.

That would get Americans to turn out and vote. It would get them to vote for 3rd party canidates, as well. All of sudden the inablity to actually win looks real good. A vote for the Libertarians good save you hundreds of dollars. Ralph Nader is no longer the enemy of registered Democrats.

Monday, October 23, 2006

A Miracle on 60th Ave

this picture has nothing to do with the below post.

Due to varying circumstances I found myself riding my bike from Bayside, Queens (For non-new yorkers that is very far away from everywhere and yet is still considered New York City--which is kind of bullshit because the subway doesn't even go out there.) to Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

The 12 mile bike ride should have taken me about an hour. This did not happen. First off, I don't know Queens. Not only that I don't get Queens. Even though all the streets have an assigned number the logic of their order defies all known rules of math. You could travel down 73rd avenue and pass 73rd street which is not followed by 72nd street nor 74th, but by 73rd place which is then followed by 73rd road. What? Has time and reason ceased existing in the borough of Queens? And I don't know which direction any of these roads travel in. East? West? North? South? Maybe concentric circles? Who the fuck knows? On top of that the sun had set and I can't see in the dark. Needless to say I got lost. Several times.

I'm not going to lie to you. I've been lost before. Most of the time it's been in a car. Now, being lost in a car is indeed frustrating especially if I have to be somewhere. Usually I scream and punch the ceiling. But on a bike there is no ceiling to punch, and every wrong turn is just another pedal my legs have to push. I do not scream or punch the air. Who has the energy?

On my journey, I pulled off to the side of the road to check my bike map and try to figure out this David Bowie designed land mass known as Queens (That was a reference to the movie Labrynth.). Yes, that is correct I had a map. And still Queens bested me. At one point I knew I had to ride on Main street south, but I couldn't find Main street. (That's right they also have named streets randomly placed in between the illogically numbered streets.) I stopped and asked a gentleman on the street. He was actually somehwhat helpful. Then Main Street ended. Again I stood on a street corner my face buried in my map utterly baffled. Out of nowhere an angel appeared in a four door Sadan from 1979. This angel, a man driving his family home, pulled up to me and asked in broken English. "Where do you want to go?"

"Metropolitan Avenue." I said.

He started giving me directions. He gave up and said, "Follow me." So I did. I got back on my bike and proceeded to follow is car. Only thing--he drove his car at normal car speed. "AHH! "What is he doing?" I pedaled my little feet off. I somehow kept him in sight. When we got to Metropolitan Ave he stopped the car and waited for me. "Down that way. That's to Brooklyn. It's very far. Stay on Metropolitan the whole way. Don't get off." And then he drove off. I made it to Williamsburg. Sure the whole ordeal took me over 2 hours and by the time I got home I'd probably ridden 20 miles (not counting the 12 miles I had ridden earlier that morning--that's another story-more pleasant.), but if that man didn't stop and help, me, a complete stranger I could still be riding.

Why did he do it? Why did he take time from his evening to help some stranger? I didn't even ask for help. He just offered. His help and effort didn't reap him any benefit. Maybe because when you see someone lost you help them. That's the basic human thing to do. Even if it's inconvenient. Maybe other people's well-being matters. I guess my parents already taught me that. I just forgot for a second that helping another person doesn't make you a sucker it makes you human.

Just Pictures

Friday, October 20, 2006

Really They are Very Loving and Sane People

A friend of mine has just begun his journey toward becoming a liscenced driver. Our discussion about hands on the 10 and 3 (as if the steering wheel were a clock) and the difference between left and right turns flooded my mind with my own memories of learning to drive.

For the most part my uncle Dom taught me to drive--drive stick (aka manual). He is decidedly the worst driver on my Dad's side of the family (this includes my grandfather, who currently drives with a bottle of wine in him, an eye patch on his left eye, and uses both feet on an automatic.)My uncle stands about 5 feet 5 inches tall, thin and will beat you with a torch if you look at him wrong. I've heard stories of my uncle putting a man's head in a sandblaster and chasing another guy with a golf club, and yet he was extremely patient and full of courage while teaching me to drive. Never once did he yell at me. Despite my refusal to stop at red lights and stop signs. I preferred to slowly roll through them. I was learning to drive stick and dreaded having to put the car into first gear. Stopping inevitably lead to starting again which inevitably lead to me stalling the car, restarting the car, stalling again, and then impatient New Jersian's leaning on their horns.

Though, my Uncle Dom was my primary driving instructor my other relatives also volunteered their time so I could attain suburban freedom -- a driver's liscence. My aunt Sue took me out a few times. She is the most conscientious drivers of the Parenta clan. She doesn't speed. She doesn't get tickets. I'm nothing like her. My mom took me out a few times too. She didn't yell either, she bit her lip until it bled and kept a death grip on the passenger door handle. After 2o minutes she'd say, "OK. That's enough. Let's go back to the house now." Uncle Dom's wife took me out a couple of times as well. Even my little cousin Ashley helped me--she was ten years old at the time. She and I would borrow my grandfather's car and practice parrallel parking between two garbage cans. She was much better at it than I was. (Ah the joys of unsupervised youth) In fact the only time I ever parallel parked succesfully was on my driving test--lucky me.

My father never took me out driving. He has temper like Ghangis Kan, and he didn't want DYFUS taking me away, so he figured it best if I found other people to teach me to drive. Fair enough, I rarely am in the mood to listen to him inarticulately explain something and then yell at me for not understanding the nonesense he had just uttered. Here's a non-car related example of this. Once I had a sharp pain in my mid-rib section. My father told me it was due to a lack of vegetables in my diet. "Yeah, see right there where you're holding, that's where the colin makes the turn." WHAT? What does that even mean? My father blamed everything on diet. I'd get a C on geometry test he'd say I should have eaten fish the night before and more vegetables. The C in geomtry would explain the inabilty to parallel park.

The most carefree of all the people who took me driving was my Aunt Annette, my father's youngest sister. This was truly classic. When, you have a permit you can only drive when there is a liscenced driver in the car with you. My aunt had lost her liscence. Actually she had lost several liscences. Each time she had a liscence revoked she'd get another one under a different name--you got to love Jersey. Family folklore had Annette loosing seven different liscences. But when you're 16 you just want to drive. I turned a blind eye to the whole multiple liscence suspensions thing-- who was I to judge? I figured she must have had one of the seven re-instated. I mean, she did drive every day.

Now, a good story would have my aunt and I getting stopped by the cops and me ending up in county lock up while I waited for my parents to pick me up. But that never happened. Instead, my aunt had me drive to the liquor store. She'd run in for a "pack of cigarettes" and come out with tiny bottles of booze which she would drink as I drove us around town. It kept her mellow. As we drove I'd explain how I don't like looking over my shoulder to check my blind spot when switching lanes. She'd tell me, "Don't worry about it. You don't have to. My friend never looks. She doesn't even look in her mirrors. You look in your mirrors you're one step ahead. They'll get out of your way." I'd love to say and then we side swiped a tractor trailer, but no we made it to the movie theatre unscathed. My aunt Annette also had me drive her to the home of some dude who had the prescription pill hook up. I sat in the car in this man's driveway while she dalied in the house. All I could think as the minutes slowly passed, "When I get arrested my father is totally going to kill me. Oh God. Oh God." But I couldn't drive off, I didn't have a liscence. The cops never came. Which made me wonder how my aunt ever lost one liscence never mind seven. She seemed never to get caught.

And here's the thing, despite my aunt Annette's free wheeling life style my uncle Dom is still considered the worst driver in the family. And I can't even really tell you why.

Thursday, October 19, 2006

Fried Cake Too Good To Resist

I've eaten several of my roommate's donuts without permission today. In other words I stole a couple of donuts. I really wanted a donut and didn't want to ask if I could have one because I wanted more than one, but you can't ask for more than one donut. I rationalized my theft by telling myself, the idiot never buys toilet paper, paper towels, liquid hand soap, cleaning supplies (though that's not really fair. He shouldn't have to buy cleaning supplies as he never cleans.), saran wrap, etc. But here's the thing: In the end my eating his donuts makes me more likely to have a heart attack and because there are less donuts for him to eat he's less likely to have a coronary.


Tuesday, October 17, 2006


For the succeeding story you'll need to know that my parents have been married for over 34 years, and yet my mother is only 29. (Ah if only the catskills still had a comedy scene.) But truly my parents' have been together since high school and there seems to be no end in sight.

And now for the story.

My mother called me on the phone Monday, "Rachael you were right the play starts at 7pm so we'll have to meet earlier-- an hour earlier than I said."

"OK." I responded, and then continued, "Oh, yeah I just remembered I have to call Dad."
"Well, he's in the emergency room, so I don't know if he's going to pick up."
"Maybe, he'll pick up. I just talked to him."
"What happened to him?"
"Hmm? Oh. Um. I don't know. He's in some sort of excrutiating pain. You know your father."
"Were you going to tell me my father was in the hospital."
"I did tell you."
"Only because I brought up that I had to call him."
"Rachael, your father was never coming to the theatre with us anyway."
"Yeah, but he's in the emergency room."
"But we didn't have plans with him."
"Is he going to die?"
"I mean, in the emergency room. Today."
"I don't think you can die from a broken foot."
"He broke his foot?"
"Did he? Did he tell you he did? When I spoke to him he said they had to run tests."
"I didn't talk to him."
"You probably should call your father, he's in the hospital."
"Tomorrow at the theatre I'm going to stab you."
"That's not a very nice thing to say. No wonder you're single."
"I'm not single! When will you accept Jack?"
"I'll see you tomorrow around 6pm."

Monday, October 16, 2006

A Tale of Two Bikes and a Crazy Lady

I've never grown out of my childhood habit of anthropomorphizing inanimate objects. A five year old talking to the dishwasher is adorable. A 29 year old threatening the kitchen cabinet for hitting her in the head less adorable. Adorableness be damned! I continue talking to furniture and the like as if it were alive.

A couple of weeks ago I retrieved my speedy, sleek, aluminum, road-bike from my parents' house. The last two years I had been riding my 15 year old steel hybrid-bike around New York City. I immediately took the road-bike for a couple of laps around Prospect Park. What a magical ride I had. I brought the road-bike inside and placed next to my hybrid in my living room. I then began to gush about the fabulousness of the road-bike to my roommate. "I love riding that bike, it so light and the derailer shifts the gears seemlessly. The white hybrid is awkward and heavy. I am barely able to carry it up the stairs." All of sudden I realized I had been going on about the bikes infront of the bikes. Oops. I stopped in mid-sentence because I didn't want the hybrid to get a complex. I don't need to start a rivalry between the two bikes. The hybrid might become hostile and fall on the road-bike pinning it to the living room floor trying to puncture the road-bike's tires. I don't need the hybrid pissed at me getting all passive agressive the next time I ride the bike. You know, like I try making a left turn and the bike decides we're going right we both wind up sprawled on the street. The hybrid would say something bitchy like, "Oops. I guess I'm just old and senile. I don't remember my left from my right. I confuse easily these days. Good thing we weren't going fast. Well, how could I? What, with me being so fat and all."

I'd respond, "I never said fat. I said heavy. You're just big framed."

Truly concerned about the mental health of my hybrid I ceased my favorable talk regarding the road-bike. I walked over to both bikes patted them on their seats and said, "You guys are both awesome. I love you both equally." We know that's not true. I obviously favor my road-bike, but I just don't need the drama in my household. Luckily the bikes can't surf the net and read the blog.