All the hottest, gloppiest news!

Good morning everyone.

I just had a breakfast treat: a toasted sesame bagel positively glopping with scallion cream cheese. So wicked, so good.

Here's all the news fit to blog:

1) After a wonderful dinnner with my favorite ten-year-married couple and friends, a question comes up: when you think of the Dakota, do you think first of John Lennon's murder or Rosemary's Baby?

2) CELEBRITY SIGHTING! I saw Ryan Adams at the vet. He was
with an adorable dog, a bijon I think. He told the assistant her name is Daisy Posey (I assume it's Parker Posey's dog). Daisy looked pretty nervous and Ryan seemed nice. I did not say hi to him. He did not punch me.

3) This morning I realized that I read Gawker before the Times. Shame, shame.

That's all I can muster. I've been feeling like roadkill ever since the kitten started pawing my face at 6 every morning.

Tragedy averted

I won't go into too many gory details, but last night I had a rather distressing spill of coffee down the front of my trenchcoat.

I learned something helpful as a result. BAKING SODA mixed with WATER, if applied directly to a coffee spill while it's still fresh, will soak it up.

Whew! That saves me a nasty dry cleaning bill.

(Bonus factoid, courtesy of those in the know: the same paste will also serve as an effective deodorant.)

Have a good day.

Last night at yoga class I confronted again the spectre of what is often called the King of All Poses: the headstand. As long as I've been doing yoga, I have not been able to navigate this pose. Much like a pregnant woman who, upon going into labor, has second thoughts about the whole thing, I get into set-up position, try kicking up, and freak.

A long time ago my shrink asked me to identify my fear. I said I didn't like the pressure on my head. She asked me if I had ever seen anyone's head explode in yoga class. I replied that I hadn't. Still, the fears persisted.

Physically, it doesn't seem feasible to invert my torso over my head. Is this a balance or centering issue? I had trouble later in class, too, with shoulder stand. I couldn't tuck in my lower back strongly enough to stay vertical. Swinging too much forward, too far back. Splat.

I wonder if this is all about finding one's core, or center. In all senses of the term. I figure, best case scenario, I'm just a little disoriented that day. Worst case, my soul is a vacuum chamber and I'm flailing all around it.

Perhaps I shoud just hush myself and keep kicking up.

So

How was Beefstock? I missed you guys . . .

Style, part 4

I hope the depression lifts soon: I just bought 3 pair of black shoes.

One (1) sensible ballet flat (round toe).

One (1) T-strap low heel, very 40s.

One (1) smashing, yet comfy, black pump. (Finally replacing the trashed pair I used to wear to to Jr. High Chorus concerts. Score!)

These all came from the Price Slash Section of my local sensible-shoe store.

Blame it on the rain: last night I was showered with love and secondhand clothes (and taco salad and margarita and amaretto and s'mores . . . ugh, that sounds horrible, but it was good, really) by My Favorite Newlyweds. THANK YOU! I LOVE YOU KIDS!

The spring issue of The Imperial is up!

Although the tournament’s sponsors, regional newspapers, and a local printer are still disputing who bears the ultimate responsibility for the error, what is clear is this: a simple black-and-white print advertisement announcing the tournament initially appeared in several area newspapers and publications, including the Black Lake Banner, the Fisherman’s Times, the Alcott Angler, the Weekly Carp, Bass Bits, and the St. Lawrence Citizen. However, the copy for the advertisement, as it appeared in the papers, had been garbled, significantly altering the message imparted by the piece. Instead of heralding a “bass fishing tournament,” the published advertisement announced a “fish bashing tournament.”

Become Your Dream

You may or may not have heard that De La Vega was arrested. This article sums up what's happening, plus it has a gallery of a few of his murals. Anyone have more info?

Celebrity Weekend, Part Deux: Wander. Lust.

I continued to traipse through the West Village, hitting my favorite haunts: the 100-year-old coffee shop, the herbal apothecary. By the time I got to Soho, my mojo was rising. And just in time, too: I got an eyeful of Monica Lewinsky on Prince Street. I noticed her simply because she was pretty and not scary-thin. Good show, Monica!

It was all I could do to drag myself home after such excitement. Waving my arms like a scythe, I cut a swath through the rest of Soho and beat it back to the LES.

The absolute best part of Celebrity Weekend was Sunday, though. Passing the Living Room on Ludlow, I noticed a familiar name on the easel: Ron Sexsmith. Ron? At 10? Dude, a secret show! And you-know-who was right up there in the front row, snuffling through "Strawberry Blonde."

It's . . . Celebrity Weekend!

Wow, kids! This weekend was a wirlwhind of fun. A Truly. Heady. Experience.

First, energized by the warm breezes (and pine sol, from mopping my floor in an early a.m. frenzy), I sashayed off to hit the bake sales on the Lower East Side. I stepped up to the line of hipsters snaking down the block from Teany. Rumor had it that Al Franken was going to be selling muffins there, and dammit, I wanted to pinch his cheeks and tell him how much I enjoy having him as my steady lunch date.

A lot of young people were milling around in expensive sunglasses, perfectly unkempt hair, and t-shirts with clever slogans. My hair was unkempt, but in the bad way. However, I strengthened my resolve on the grounds that I am certain Bush must get flushed in November, and I'm happy to give my money to the cause. And boy, did it pay off! Unfortunately Señor Franken was taking a pee break when it was time for me to order. But who was sitting there in his stead but Reverend Al Sharpton! And wait, there's Moby! Vanilla with chocolate frosting, please!

I bought a bottle of water from the non-celebrity bake sale around the corner and ate and drank in the shade. Democracy never tasted so good -- or looked so fabulous.

Something Sweet

Don't forget that Subway is giving out free cookies today.

Bitter (and liking it)

I just saw an advert on a subway shelter featuring Joss Stone: "It was like soul found me."

My mind automatically superimposed: "It was like this pie found my face."

SPLAT!

Did anyone else catch this?

George W. called both Powell and Rumsfeld Secretary of State.

It's in the transcript.

Sorry = caving in to my inner nitpicker. On the whole, though, I thought the speech was fluid, albeit confused, since every discussion on Iraq seemed to end in a reference to 9/11. I finally tuned out during the Q & A, at a point when W stopped giving answers and started sounding like Rosie from the Jetsons, mid-short-circuit. "No inkling whatsoever . . . . boing boing . . . would have moved heaven and earth . . . brrrrrp . . . stay the course."

Wait, There's More

I'm really enjoying the articles on my Netscape homepage today.

• Thinnest People Eat This Food
• Think You're Clever? Take Test
• How to Look Great Naked
• How to Survive Being Fired
• Renters: Don't Be A Victim
• Want to Be Sexy? Don't Do This
• Oh My! Men Do WHAT in Private?


In case you're curious, the answert to the last one is . . . moisturize.

Talkin' About the Cat

Several of you have expressed interest in knowing more about the four-eared cat. No, I don't know her personally. You can read more about her here.

Good morning.

Another escargot episode on the bus. Each stop took 5 minutes to load. I really dislike these double buses. I have already gone on at length in these pages about how chronically annoying the behemoths are, simply by virtue their lateness and crowdedness. But wait, there's more.

* Imagine you're a motorist driving down east 14th street when a bus is pulled over to the right, picking up passengers. You're driving past the bus and suddenly it pulls out left, rearing its head out in front of you, craning like a blind seal. The driver doesn't see you (or doesn't care) and unless you swerve violently into the left lane, you're gonna smack him.

* It takes so long to walk down to the back of the bus to exit, sometimes the driver starts to pull away. Then you scream "back door!" The bus comes to a screeching halt, and if you don't hold on to something you will be thrown to the floor. (Although one should be used to the flinging by now. Especially if you're in the back of the bus, you're in a chronic state of vertigo. Last night I gave my seat to this poor little kid who was holding on to the back of a bench with both hands and still whipping around willy-nilly.)

And all of this happens if you're lucky. If you're unlucky, the driver didn't hear you, you've missed the back door exit, and have to get off at the next stop.

* My favorite is the spinny fundial in the center of the beast. It's like that carnival ride of the huge spinning barrels that Danny and Sandy skip-de-lou through at the end of "Grease." Only instead of cavorting with my honey, I'm trying to get home, carrying a purse, a bag full of gym clothes and library books, and -- my one concession to being an annoying New Yorker, relish it -- a latté. I'm very wary of crossing that dial, man. One false move and it's wipeout.

Any more tales from the darkside, friends?

This cat has 4 ears!

Style, part 3

I decided I can't wear ugly black clogs with everything. I would aspire to own something nicer, to wear with skirts.

I went shoe browsing, and was intoxicated by the parade of magenta, turquoise, orange, and fire engine red flats and pumps on display. The flats by Chinese Laundry were the most adorable in my estimation, and they run nice and wide.

I ended up sticking with black: a nice pair of flats by Bronx with a big honking flower on them. Pointy toe, yet again, nice and wide. Good with pants or skirts. Affordable.

I wore them to work yesterday to break them in. They ate my feet. I bought a pair of peds and they slid off my heel and bunched under the ball of my foot. I have a raw spot on my big toe fom where all the skin rubbed off. It hurts.

Today I'm back wearing my ugly black clogs.

Forgive my shallowness, but it seems futile to blog about what's really on my mind when others do so with much more panache.

This afternoon I was explaining to my (non-music-fan) officemate about the rules of music "buzz": most likely, in order to get some you'll either have to punch someone out or die.

Then, later this afternoon, this comes up on Gawker. (I didn't catch part one, but i guess it had much the same theme.)

Ah! Validation!

Put On Your Thinking Caps

Stereogum asks this question in honor of the anniversary of Kurt's death, and I think it's worth asking here: What were you doing 10 years ago?

Paula, please bring us up to speed on what happened in the months following that gig at Spiral.

Sorry I've been keeping a low profile lately.

I've been too consumed with the new radio station we have on at the office.

As their station ID says: "Air America Radio. Because life isn't fair."

Did anyone else wake up to a lightning storm at 6:30 am?

I've been reading a lot about the 9/11 hearings. Salon.com seems to be making its own cottage industry out of interviewing those who have been excommunicated from the Bush administration. These people may now officially qualify as "multitudes." They seem to have a lot on their mind. For the uninitiated, I'd recommend starting here.