Lucky

I found 20 dollars in a hidden fold of my wallety-thing yesterday, just before payday and just when I needed it most.

This isn't so very strange, because my wallety-thing is an old MAC pouch that used to contain lipgloss, and now contains: my cash, my bank card, my credit card, my healthcare card, 47 tattered bank receipts, various notes to myself and a mysterious piece of white lint.

Still, it doesn't take much to make me happy. When I found the twenty, I held it up to the people I was sitting with at the sidewalk cafe and said, "Twenty dollars! I feel like I won the lottery!"

Everyone just sort of shook their heads.

A Variety of Things

I would like to give you all an update, but I have very little to say. Or rather, I have a great deal to say, but none of it hangs together in any sort of a narrative way. This is why we have bullets. Say! Let's have some bullets:

• I am not the only one who is in love with House.
  
• I spent much of this evening either working or watching a show about the mythology of Star Wars. This means that I am officially a nerd.
  
• I require a haircut. I have required a haircut for so long now that I am beyond Crazy Homeless Lady Hair and well into Crazy Substitute Art Teacher Hair. Basically, I can either get a haircut or I can buy a lot of fimo jewelry.
  

Also, it was nice out today. I'm still sweating, though. This weekend, I had this conversation twelve times:

Me: Don't hug me. I'm super sweaty.
Person Who Isn't Me: Oh come here, you!
Me: I'm dead fuckin' serious, dude...
Person Who Isn't Me, and Me: (In unison.) Gaaaah!
Me: I told you!

Save Toby

I was at a party on Sunday night, when a particularly evil friend of mine told me about Save Toby, which I now believe to be the Best Website of All Time.

It's offline for various reasons, but you can still view it at the Internet Wayback Machine, and OMG, I need this person to be my friend.

A random quote, to help you understand the mission and thus, the awesomeness of this site:

"Toby is the cutest little bunny on the planet ... Unfortunately, on June 30th, 2005, Toby will die. I am going to eat him. I am going to take Toby to a butcher to have him slaughter this cute bunny. I will then prepare a midsummer feast ... I don't want to eat Toby, he is my friend, and he has always been the most loving, adorable pet. However, God as my witness, I will devour this little guy unless I receive 50,000$ USD into my account from donations or purchase of merchandise."

Really: You have to read the rest.

Note From Tom

I got an email this evening from my friend Tom. I'll share, because it's possible that you haven't had a good Rushmore reference recently:

Dear Max,
I am sorry to say that I have secretly found out that Mr. Blume is having an affair with Miss Cross. My first suspicions came when I saw them Frenching in front of our house. And then I knew for sure when they went skinny dipping in Mr. Blume's swimming pool, giving each other handjobs while you were taking a nap on the front porch.

PS: This is extra fun if you know about Tom's tendency to ask people who barely know each other if they've given each other handjobs.

With Much Love to the LOLCats

Happy long weekend, everybody!

Twue Wuv

My friend the Reverend and I hunkered down over beers this evening, as you do, and discussed true love. It is the Rev's feeling that one is not in love until one is loved back.

"Mutual trust," said the Rev. "Otherwise, is it even real?"

Now before you get all crazy, let me tell you: One of the two of us believes in Miracle Zombie Jesus, and it ain't the Rev. Of the two of us, I am way more Cosmica Rama Ding-dong. However:

"It seems to me that a person shouldn't lose credit, just because their feelings aren't reciprocated."

The Rev took a good swig of his beer. "Well, who said there was credit?"

I think we can agree that I need stupider and less spiritual friends.

Fair Warning

So, here's a thing about me: If you're my friend, at some point, you will receive a text from me that says, "You like big balls." This is regardless of gender or sexual preference. It's to keep me entertained, and I think we can all agree that that's safer.

Anyway: This weekend, my pal Cedric got his MBA, and the Mouse and I journeyed north to Lincoln Center for the ceremony. We stayed sober throughout and were rather quiet, but it was a long ceremony, and well, one gets bored.

About an hour in, I started texting the Mouse.

Me: You like big balls.

Mouse: Your mama likes big balls.

Pause.

Me: Your balls like big mamas.

Mouse: You are a bad person.

Return of the Mouse

The Mouse has a lady, so he's much better behaved these days. Still, you can't treat a drunken mouse sober tricks, or something, so it wasn't really a total surprise when we found ourselves out late on a school night, lurching toward a diner and singing while the Mouse kicked over trashcans.

"Hey," I said, after the fifth can or so. "Hey." I was having trouble focusing on the Mouse, who was cloning himself into many mice before my eyes, so I looked at the end of my finger instead. "You can' do that, y'know."

"Can too. Lookit." CRASH!

"Nuh, nuh, nuh, cuz listen. SHHHH. There are babies on this street."

"Oh!" He looked momentarily concerned.

"Yup."

"Babies! Shhh. Kay."

When we got to the next trashcan? He laid it gently on its side.

Tales From the Party

A boy bit my arm Saturday night. He staggered over to me at a party, slumped down in a chair, leaned over and bit my bare arm. And then he chewed it for a minute.

"Well, hello," I said. "Can I help you?"

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," he slurred, wiping off my arm. "I'm so drunk."

Rather obviously, wouldn't you agree? Still and all, I suppose I should try to take it as a compliment. Weight loss efforts have stalled at their usual point, rendering me able to fit into my pants but still sort of, uh, upholstered looking.

I'm thinking this is just my look. Cab drivers seem to like it. At least two of them in recent memory have thoughtfully pinched my thigh, as though testing a fruit. The last one pinched my thigh, and then announced, somewhat hilariously, "I am Egypt." Maybe that was the explanation? I don't know.

On the other hand, there have been some nice things lately. I'm reading a wonderful book by E.B. White, Here is New York. And here is a wonderful quote from the wonderful book:

On any person who desires such queer prizes, New York will bestow the gift of loneliness and the gift of privacy ... No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.

Right?

Even better, the gentleman who lent me the book said, while recommending it over the phone, "I was just going to open it, and the spine started to make that great cracking sound, so I didn't. You can crack it."

I love flowers, but an untouched E.B. White book about New York is definitely the way to my heart.

Isn't It Obvious?

Me to boy: Wait, I just realized something: You, like, hate women, don't you?

Boy to me: Of course. Don't you hate men?

Me to boy: No, see, the trouble is I looove them.

Jen Louise Veronica Hubley

This Friday, I went to a bar. Just, you know, for a change.

The bar was filled with jerkfaced jerks from over various bridges and through sundry tunnels, but the beer was good, and my friend who got there early scouted a mostly douche-free corner for us.

Unfortunately, one of the douches came in with us. You know, like those horror movies where the killer is in the house.

Here's what happened:

I sat down at the table, greeted everyone I knew and then introduced myself to the only person I didn't know, a guy we'll call Dick. Dick was very friendly at first, which is always lovely, although he did have a small staring problem, which is less so.

After a few beverages, we all started telling stories, as you do, mostly about men and women, because only one of us at the table was gay. (Out-of-towners: This is somewhat rare in New York.) At this point, Dick informed us that he sometimes uses prostitutes, which I thought was fascinating. I don't know anybody else who will admit to using prostitutes, and I was very curious to hear about the process of acquiring the services of such a person, and how this was arranged, and was it weird, and so on. I also wanted to know, of course, why such a thing was necessary or desirable.

"The thing is," Dick said. "I'm very shy. So it's hard for me to make the first move with girls."

"Unless you're paying them."

"Exactly."

I thought about this for a moment: "Well, you're talking to a bunch of strangers right now, and you seem fine. Is it just that you've been drinking, or what? What's the difference?"

"The difference is," he said, leaning over the table. "You're a little sexpot."

"Oh. Uh."

"I was just telling them all-" (sweeping gesture with the glass of beer) "-that you're really kind of sexy. A sexpot. Like this girl I knew in college."

"Yeah. Ha ha. Everybody knows someone who looks like me. Girl in college. Neighbor. Redheaded best friend on a sitcom-"

At this point, I was frankly babbling. It's supposed to be nice to be sex-ay, but I was mainly concerned that I'd wind up in pieces in the Dumpster out back. When I recovered sufficiently, I managed to ask him if he'd heard about the Madonna-Whore Complex.

"Oh, yeah!" he said. "Exactly!"

"So in this scenario, I am...?"

"The whore!" he said triumphantly.

And frankly, I felt bad for him. "Dick," I said, as gently as possible. "You will find that very few women will sleep with you if you call them whores. And if they do ... well, they'll probably take your wallet."

Geminis: Not Known for Patience

It's not that I believe in astrology. It's just that I can't really plan my month until my horoscope goes up.

Fortunately, I have friends who share my looney fascination:

Me: 'Scopes!

Donut: Where? I see nothing.

Me: I know. I'm complaining. No 'scopes! What am I to do?

(Five hours later.)

Donut: That lazy whore.

Me: I know. It's tragic.

(Three hours later.)

Me: Susan Miller and I are breaking up.

Donut: BITCH BETTER POST SOON.

I'm glad I'm not a public person.